Bound in Byzantine Bonds: A Simon DuWright Adventure (MMM/MMM) Updated with Chapter XVIII 12/31/22

[KidnappedCowboy]

Hi All: Thank you to all for the comments on my stories so far! And thanks also to all who have sent words of encouragement.

This is a long series. It follows Simon DuWright from the Vancouver Branch of the RCMP, as he investigates the disappearances of world-class male athletes from around the world. I introduced Simon DuWright in "The Mounties Always Get Their Man," as he went undercover to foil the planned abduction of Johnny Trudeau, a Canadian Olympic Bobsledder. Simon found out that the organization behind Johnny's kidnapping -- The Order of the Black Rope -- was devious in its skills in tying men up securely and gagging them effectively. But Simon (and Johnny) outwitted the machinations of the Slobbobian branch of the odious Order.

In "Byzantine Bonds," Simon once more engages in a battle of wits, ropes, tape, and cloth with The Order of the Black Rope, but this time this branch of the odious Order is far more evil in its plot. The malevolent Mastermind and his heinous henchmen have specific plans in store for the male world-class athletes and other assorted muscular, athletic men they lay their nefarious hands upon!

I hope you enjoy it! As usual, comments are most welcome.

For A List Of All My Written Work Click Here:
https://tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?p=66696#p66696

[KidnappedCowboy]

Bound in Byzantine Bonds: Chapter One

One Thursday morning in late April some months after saving Johnny Trudeau and himself from certain doom at the hands of Ivan Whiplashtski and his Slobobian stooges, and then going on to help the Canadians win Gold, Simon DuWright was back at the RCMP headquarters in Vancouver. He was fitter than ever, since he had picked up some training pointers from the Canadian Bobsleigh squad, when he was undercover with them. He continued training like a triathlete six days a week, but now he had shaved off a few seconds in each of his swimming, biking, and running bests. He hovered still around 185 lbs. But his 6’1” frame was truly shredded. And thanks to the bobsleigh fitness regimen, Simon DuWright never skipped leg day. His muscular hindquarters had developed so much more, that he needed to find a tailor to adjust all his trousers to accommodate his amply sized derriere. Finding jeans to fit was nearly impossible!

Simon was also dating Johnny. They made a cute couple. Johnny was about two years younger than Simon. Despite his last name, Johnny took after his Irish-born mother. He had a red, curly mophead of hair and twinkly blue-green eyes to match. He stood an inch shorter than Simon, but heavier at 216 lbs. But he was just as fit, competitive, and muscular as the RCMP inspector he was starting to fall hard for. Johnny Trudeau was not out of the closet at the time of the Olympics and his kidnapping. After going through that ordeal and with Simon’s support afterwards, Johnny made the decision to live as his true self. He now saw himself as a proudly out, gay Olympian, who could be a role model for younger gay, lesbian, and transgendered athletes who still struggled to come to terms with their sexuality. It was a long-distance relationship, however, since Johnny continued to train and participate on the international Bobsleigh circuit. Currently, he was in Lake Placid with his team.

That morning as Simon wound his way through traffic in Vancouver on his Honda CBR600F4i to headquarters to meet his superior officer Superintendent John Cabot for details on his latest assignment, he felt good to be alive. The weather was still crisp, but spring was in the air. The purr of the engine felt good, as he grasped the chassis with his meaty thighs. And he was falling in love with Johnny Trudeau. Just the thought of the other man left Simon filled with joy. Before leaving his apartment, he read some emails and texts from Johnny, and Simon grinned ear to ear at the thought of the next time they’d see each other. They were planning a weekend together in Montreal in three weeks. Life was good.

He soon arrived at division headquarters and parked his Honda bike in the underground garage before going up to Superintendent Cabot’s office. Along the way he greeted fellow inspectors and other personnel. As he was raised, Simon greeted one and all with equal and eager regard. Soon, he stood outside his superior’s office bidding a hearty “Good Morning” to Mrs. Grayson, Superintendent Cabot’s administrative assistant, who stood a watchful guard outside his office. She did not suffer fools easily, but she had a soft spot for Simon. Partly, it was the young inspector’s good looks and easy charm. But it was more because Maggie Grayson had known his parents. They tragically lost their lives in a plane crash, when Simon was only 6 years old. The boy’s only living relative was his grandfather, Prescott “Doodles” DuWright, who took Simon back to his Alberta farm to raise after the death of his son and daughter-in-law. Maggie remembered “Doodles” from the beginning of her career with the Mounties. “Doodles” was a legend around the Vancouver office. Before retiring to his family’s farm, “Doodles” was a well decorated hero of WWII and the RCMP, tracking down Nazis, criminals, and other assorted riffraff. There were many times when “Doodles” became ensnared in traps laid by those villains. Each time he (oftentimes with his partner Pierre de Ravir) escaped from peril in the nick of time. Sadly, “Doodles” passed away right after his grandson graduated university. Simon so idolized the man that he decided then to follow in the footsteps of his “Gramps” by embarking on a career with the RCMP. Maggie’s best friend Laura Sinclair had married “Doodles’” son Nick, who had a promising career as a federal prosecutor before him when the couple perished. Maggie knew that the couple would be as pleased as punch to know that their son had grown into such a fine young man under the watchful eye of “Doodles” DuWright. And the old man would have burned with pride to see how quickly Simon was progressing through the ranks.

“Morning, Mrs. G.” Simon greeted the woman with his easy air.

“Good Morning, Inspector DuWright,” replied Mrs. Grayson, maintaining an official tone, though her ever so slight smile betrayed her fondness of the nickname Simon called her. “Superintendent Cabot said you were to go right in to see him as soon as you arrived. And as always you arrived on time.” Mrs. Grayson couldn’t help herself. Her smile grew bigger, as she spoke to the strapping lad.

After knocking and a moment’s pause, Simon DuWright entered Superintendent Cabot’s office. Superintendent Cabot stood before a desk with a highbacked chair in front of a window with views of Vancouver. A small conference table with four chairs around it and two bookcases were the only other furniture in the office. There were a few family photographs on the desk, but visitors had to look hard to see the Victoria Cross Superintendent Cabot had been awarded for exceptional valor and heroism. It was nestled amongst the books in place of pride, but a modest place, since it was Cabot’s habit to give more credit to the men and women who served with and under him than to himself. Although he was close to 50 and not in the field much anymore, John Cabot still cut a dashing figure. Just under 6’ tall, he was still fit. A barely visible paunch had begun around his middle, but you could still tell that under either a suit or his RCMP uniform, John Cabot had the strength of an ox. He was a handsome man with dark hair mixed with a sprinkling of gray that he kept cut short. Lately he had taken to wearing reading glances. Rather than making him look older than he was, the spectacles highlighted his perceptive brown eyes and added more to his aura of authority.

“Good Morning, Sir.” Simon saluted his superior.

“Good Morning, DuWright.” Cabot returned the salute. “Come, sit down at the table with me. I need to get you up and running for your next assignment. How’s your tennis game these days?”

Simon waited for his superior officer to sit before he, too, sat down at the small conference table. Looking a tad puzzled, Simon answered, “A tad scratchy these days, Sir.”

“Well, you need to get it up to scratch in the next two weeks,” the Superintendent replied, while handing Simon a dossier. Simon opened the file. It contained photographs and a report from the RCMP Office in Ottawa.

Cabot waited to speak, while Simon went through the dossier. The photos were of two male tennis players, obviously identical twins in their early twenties. The report identified them as Hank and Chase Leicester, 23 years of age. They were Canadian citizens, but had graduated from an American university, where they were stars on the tennis team. Two days ago, together they had left a college friend’s home in upstate New York to return to Ottawa to finish training for the Montreal Open, which was at the beginning of June. The Leicester Twins had gotten home to Ottawa. Their Jeep Wrangler was parked in the garage of the house they had recently rented. Their unpacked luggage, wallets, and all personal belongings were in the bedrooms of the house. The Ottawa police had gone over the house with a fine-toothed comb. No fingerprints other than those of the Leicester brothers, their coach, and a cleaning lady were found. But there was no sign of the young men. The Leicester Twins simply vanished without a trace.

After Simon finished reading the report, Cabot handed him a second dossier. Inside was another report, but more extensive than the first one. This report had a title stamped on top… “Byzantine Exports.” Clipped to it was a photograph of a man about the same age as Superintendent Cabot. He appeared to be a well-dressed businessman with olive complexion, dark eyes, and a slightly aquiline nose. His hair was jet black and thick. And he wore a Van Dyck beard. Before Simon began to read, Superintendent Cabot spoke up.

“That’s Michael Palaiologos. He is an “international businessman,”” Cabot said using his fingers to air quote the man’s occupation. He went on. “From his accent and features Palaiologos appears Eastern European in origin, although we don’t know exact details of his background…birthplace, marital status and personal details are a mystery. His business is called “Byzantine Exports.” It supposedly deals in all types of trading: technology, goods, services. In the past few years, the company has entered sports marketing and the sale of sports equipment across the globe. We believe it’s a front for a criminal syndicate and Palaiologos is the head of it. You can read through the report on the company’s activities after our meeting.”

“And the connection to the missing Leicester Twins?” Simon asked.

“The Leicester brothers’ coach first reported their disappearance, when he went to their home after they failed to show up for a training session the morning after their arrival back from New York. The twins are alone in the world. Their parents died when they were young. Their coach acts as a guardian to them. After filing a missing persons’ report with the police and returning to his own home, the coach received a plain white envelope addressed to him in the mail. It had been postmarked from Montreal with no return address. It contained this…

Cabot handed Simon an ivory-colored business card. Embossed in gold letters was the name “Michael Palaiologos” with “Byzantine Exports” below also embossed in gold letters. Underneath the company name was a small logo in black. Simon felt a pit in his stomach. He immediately recognized the logo. It was two crossed wrists tied with black rope…

The symbol of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope!

Simon looked up at his superior officer in stunned silence.

“By your expression, DuWright, I see you understand the connection. We believe Michael Palaiologos is behind the disappearance of Hank and Chase Leicester. And he is connected to the Brotherhood of the Black Rope. Why the twins have been kidnapped is unknown. No one is aware yet of their disappearance but their coach. They are scheduled to play in the Montreal Open. Hank and Chase Leicester are rising prospects for Canadian Tennis. The Prime Minister wants to showcase Canadian talent like these twins at this tournament, where they will face rising international seeds. We’ve got to get them back. You are the only man in the RCMP today who has confronted this Brotherhood. We need your expertise to find those young men. We don’t want Palaiologos to know we’re onto him just yet. We cannot put you into the tournament undercover since you are a known man to these fiendish foragers. But we can list you as a member of the RCMP tennis team that is to compete at the Open to throw some scent of suspicion off your presence in Montreal. Your mission, Simon DuWright, is to find Hank and Chase Leicester, and make sure they are ready to play the Montreal Open. Canada needs you, Inspector DuWright.”

Simon stood to attention. He replied, “Sir, Yes, Sir!” as he saluted Superintendent John Cabot. Simon left the meeting to prepare for a mission where he would face once again the evil machinations of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope! Whatever the Brotherhood wrapped and muzzled the Leicester Twins with and wherever they stashed the brothers away, Simon DuWright girded himself in firm resolution of finding and rescuing them from the clutches of Michael Palaiologos and his fearsome fraternity of roping ruffians!

To Be Continued in the Next Chapter of Bound in Byzantine Bonds entitled…
The Paste of Palaiologos!

[KidnappedCowboy]

Chapter II: The Paste of Palaiologos (Part One)

Vancouver, British Columbia
As Simon DuWright left his meeting with Superintendent Cabot, Mrs. Grayson handed him his portfolio containing plane tickets, information on contacts with the RCMP in Montreal, his identification card as a member of the RCMP’s tennis team, and such other material as he might require on his mission.

Mrs. Grayson gave Simon a rundown of his schedule in her official tone. “You’re booked on the 9:05 AM Air Canada flight to Montreal tomorrow morning. It’s scheduled to arrive at 4:42 PM. In Montreal the tennis team representatives will meet you. They’ll take you to the hotel near the IGA Stadium where the Montreal Open is scheduled. The tennis team will train at courts and gym facilities at a nearby university.” Handing him a small key, she continued, “All intelligence of your mission should remain in this valise, Inspector DuWright. Keep it locked at all times and securely stored.”

Simon nodded his head to signal he understood. Simon opened the valise to put the dossier on Michael Palaiologos and Byzantine Exports inside, so he could read it when he got home. He then locked the valise. He reached inside his shirt and took out a silver chain and pendant he always wore around his neck. The pendant was a silver Celtic Cross. It had belonged to his “Gramps,” Doodles DuWright. Wearing it gave Simon comfort that “Gramps” was always with him. Simon took the chain from his neck. Clicking open the clasp of the chain, he attached the key before fastening the chain and returning it once again to around his neck. Then he took the valise and placed it inside his brown leather Harper Backpack.

Mrs. Grayson said to him in parting, “Good Luck, Inspector DuWright.”

With a quick flick of his head, a blink of his eye, and his butter-melting smile Simon replied, “Luck’s always on my side, Mrs. G!”

Reaching out to grab his arm as he began to leave and disregarding her usual gravitas, Mrs. Grayson cautioned. “I know, Simon. Still my boy…be careful.”

Simon turned to face the woman. Resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder, he answered, “I will take care, Mrs. G.” He bent down and kissed her cheek, and then he bounded from the outer office. Simon made his way to his own small office in Division Headquarters to grab his new bomber jacket. He still had the Canadian RAF bomber jacket that his “Gramps” had worn in the Big One. Simon, however, added a lot of muscle to his frame in the past year, and he did not want to risk tearing the seams of a garment that “Gramps” had given him when he turned 17. Doodles had said to him that day, “A man needs to be always upright, Simon. And he needs to care more for people than possessions. Still, there are times when some things make a man stand taller. I wore this jacket proudly in the defense of my country. Now I pass it on to you, Simon, as a reminder to serve your country proudly when your country calls on you.” Simon took those words to heart, and he kept Doodles’ jacket in his bedroom closet. It reminded him each day as he dressed to remain true to himself, to keep people close to his heart, and to always serve Canada when the country needed him.

After donning his new bomber jacket and securing his knapsack with the valise safely inside on his back, Simon took the elevator down to the underground garage. As the doors opened, Simon nearly collided walking out with the man waiting to enter the elevator. He was a visiting British law enforcement officer, Inspector Reginald Percy. He had arrived a week after Simon’s last mission to take courses and participate in field training with Vancouver’s RCMP in an exchange program of international law enforcement agencies. Simon had participated in some counterterrorist training classes and drills with Percy. Percy was aged about 30 or so. He handled himself well in class and in the field. He was intelligent and athletic. Percy stood at 6’3’’ tall. He had a blond, receding hairline, blue eyes, ears that stood at an angle just a bit from his head. His angular features suited him well. He was a nice-looking fellow. Whereas Simon was muscular, Percy was more of the lanky sort, although very fit. He was friendly. He always stayed after a class or drill to chat with Simon. Still, Simon couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but he picked up a strange vibe from the British policeman. He asked Simon a lot of questions about his life. Percy took great interest in what Simon had been up to on the weekends, if he was seeing anyone...that sort of thing. Simon shook off that nagging feeling about Percy, thinking that the man was far from home, perhaps lonely, and just wanted to talk.

After class one day, he invited Percy out for dinner with him and Johnny. Percy readily accepted. The three men enjoyed a sushi dinner at a new place on Granville Square. Percy listened intently to Johnny’s life story and Olympic exploits, leaning into the eager young athlete so as not to miss a single detail. Momentarily, Simon thought Percy was listening a little too intently. Percy then turned to Simon to ask more about his grandfather Doodles. Afterward, Simon asked Johnny his thoughts on the man. Johnny thought Percy was charming, “Don’t you think so?” He asked. Simon pondered for a moment before answering, “He’s charming…maybe too charming. Funny, all this time asking about our backgrounds, we don’t know much about him.” Johnny cuffed his boyfriend playfully on his chin. “Maybe you’re just jealous,” he laughed. Simon laughed too. “Maybe you’re right!” Simon grabbed Johnny in an embrace and kissed him softly on his lips. “Come back to my place tonight, Cubby Bear,” Simon suggested calling his boyfriend the nickname he had recently started to use. “Yes Sir, Inspector.” Johnny all too eagerly replied. With that they went back to Simon’s apartment hand in hand, and Simon was soon lost in the moment, and his concerns about Inspector Reginald Percy of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch faded from memory.

Now Inspector Percy stood before him. “Well, old chap, I need to mind my way. You’re off in a rush.”

“Sorry, Reginald,” Simon replied while stepping to the side of the Englishman. Simon knew that he needed to remain discreet about his mission even to a fellow law enforcement officer, but good manners dictated that he could not give the brush off to the man, so he paused momentarily with Percy to exchange pleasantries. The elevator doors closed. The two men stood alone in the garage.

“How are you coming along, Reginald?” Simon inquired.

“Getting sorted. You know how it is, Simon. I’m glad we bumped into each other. Gives me a chance to thank you again for inviting me to dinner with you and your ‘Olympian lover.’”

Simon did not like the way he had referred to Johnny as his “Olympian lover,” but he quickly swallowed his resentment. “Glad we could show you one of Vancouver’s new restaurants.”

Percy stepped closer to Simon and reached into him. Reflexively, Simon drew back from this invasion of his space. He thought the man was about to kiss him. Percy simply reached up with his hand and flicked something from his left shoulder.

“Just a bit of fluff on your bomber, Simon. We wouldn’t want Vancouver’s “Star” Mountie to be anything but his sartorial best.” Percy’s voice dripped with sarcasm, as he stepped back from Simon. Assuming a more inquisitive line, he continued. “Tell me, Simon, Johnny said at dinner that evening that he was soon leaving for spring training with his team. Has he? Left, that is. Lake Placid, wasn’t that his destination? Now, where did he say he was staying? Was the team renting a Lodge? I hope nothing keeps him tied up and away from train...”

Not wanting to waste any more time as he needed to get ready for his mission, Simon interrupted Percy and didn’t catch what he last said. He replied quickly in general terms, “Yes, Johnny’s fine. And yes, he’s off with his team in Lake Placid. Well, I must be off. Good-bye, Reginald. Hope to see you soon.” Simon began to walk determinedly away to his Honda bike.

“Yes, Good-Bye, Simon.” Percy called after Simon and continued watching him as he got to his motorcycle. He observed Simon don his helmet and straddle the bike. Simon started the engine and slowly rode up a ramp and out of Percy’s view. Before pushing the button of the elevator and being on his way, Percy took out his cellphone and began texting rapidly and adroitly. Just as the elevator doors opened once more, Percy finished texting, hit send, and entered the elevator.

Montreal, Québec
At an estate in Westmount surrounded from prying eyes by a high fence, tall trees, and security cameras, a young, well-built man dressed in a fitted black turtleneck shirt, fitted black trousers, and black military tactical boots walked softly down the highly polished parquet floors toward Mahogany doors, which led to the study of the estate’s owner. The young man carried a silver tray, as any manservant of a wealthy man would. On it was a slip of ivory-colored paper folded in half. Stopping at the doors, he knocked softly and waited.

“Enter.”

The manservant walked into the study. It was a spacious room with large picture windows overlooking the gardens of the estate. Mahogany walls with built-in bookcases bordered the room. A large mahogany desk stood in one corner of the room. Antique chairs, settees, and tables with ginger jar lamps on them accented the study. Leather bound books lined the bookcases. Old Masters as well as more modern pieces hung on the walls. In another corner stood a rather large globe of the world. The manservant found his master seated on the side of the fireplace, which had been set. The manservant presented the tray to him and stood back, awaiting his master’s order. The master of the estate wore a bespoke black business suit, a crisp white shirt, and dark Hermès tie. He had an olive complexion, dark eyes, and a slightly aquiline nose. His hair was jet black and thick. And he sported a Van Dyck beard. He was sipping tea from a Herend teacup with a Silver Tea Service set on a table nearby. The service was engraved, but not with a family crest. The logo of Byzantine Exports engraved the silver service. Two crossed wrists tied with black rope blazed across each piece of the service…the emblem of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope.

Michael Palaiologos unfolded the paper and read the message. It stated:
“Get ready the hounds/The fox is on the move/The hare will be easy to snare in the mountain warren/The chase has begun”

After reading the note, he refolded it and placed it on the tray the manservant once more held before him. “Tell Dr. Richelieu that I will be down to the laboratory in a few hours. I trust he is prepared to begin. I will first present myself to our guests. That is all.”
“Yes, Master.” The manservant replied before making a short bow to Palaiologos and departing the room to prepare Dr. Richelieu, the guests, and the other staff.
Palaiologos took a cellphone from the table beside him. Dialing a pre-set number, he waited. When he was connected, Palaiologos spoke, “Our plans are falling quickly into place. The bait has been taken. To make the trap more enticing for our quarry, I will add another to my collection. It should be a nice addition. A mixture of winter and summer athletes.” He paused, listening to whomever he was talking to. Palaiologos retorted, “Yes, I know. The Brotherhood cannot allow any man who escapes our ropes to remain free. He must feel the sting of our twine on his flesh once more. He must watch tightly bound and cruelly gagged while we slowly torment his beloved sportsman with our techniques. This time Inspector Simon DuWright of the RCMP and his lover the Canadian Bobsledder Johnny Trudeau will remain fettered for eternity.” Palaiologos ended the call. He left his study and walked the length of the hall outside to an elevator at its end. Boarding the lift, he descended to the depths below the estate to greet his guests.

The Depths Below the Estate
Two floors down from the estate a long corridor greeted anyone who exited the elevator. The floor was of cold, grey concrete reinforced with steel. Fluorescent lights brightened the long corridor. A series of sliding, detention, steel-grid doors leading to cells lined the corridor. Outside each cell stood a guard. Like the manservant above, the guards were all young men who were very well built and similarly dressed in fitted black turtleneck shirts, fitted black trousers, and military tactical black boots. Their hair was uniformly and militarily cut short. Not all the cells were filled. Currently, Michael Palaiologos had four guests in three cells. The guards stood silent, but barely audible whimpers, moaning, grunts, groans, and muted cries emanated from within the three cells.

When the elevator doors opened and Michael Palaiologos emerged, the guards stood to attention. The manservant followed his master close behind. Palaiologos stopped at the first cell on his left. Nodding a silent order, the attendant guard pressed a code into a panel on the side of the doors to the cell. The steel grid doors slid open, and Palaiologos entered the cell, bidding welcome to his first guest.

Looking up with pleading eyes was a man of 32 years of age, wearing only compression shorts and matching tee. He “sat” crossed legged on the floor of the cell. A ball-gag sealed tight with clear plastic wrapping tape prevented him from greeting his host in anything but a low moan. He had been bound in the Hojojutsu style, that is the ancient Japanese warrior art of the rope. The ropes intricately weaved their way across and around his upper torso. More rope crisscrossed his ankles. The ends were tied to the rope binding his wrists behind him. He was delicately balanced. If he attempted to rise, he might fall face forward. Hence, he trembled.

He was Tommy Neville an American of European descent, 6’3” tall, and he weighed 255 lbs. with little if any fat. He had a stellar start as the star quarterback for his university team. He went on to a professional career as quarterback. His good looks, popularity, and easy manner brought him many endorsements, including Brand Spokesmodel for a men’s underwear company. Unfortunately, his talents as a quarterback were not equal to the best. An all-around athlete, Neville decided to pursue a baseball career instead. He had been playing quite well in the minors for the past couple of years, hoping to earn a spot with the Major League.

Palaiologos considered it an honor to have him as a guest. “Mr. Neville you are the embodiment of the best of the American spirit. If you fail at one project, you try another until you succeed. Your essence will make a fine contribution to my team.” Turning to his manservant, Palaiologos requested him to recount Tommy Neville’s abduction. The manservant complied.

“Mr. Neville arrived in Florida some weeks before to begin spring training as an outfielder. Our agent with his team alerted us to his habits and routine. He is entirely devoted to training, and he abstains from alcohol. He has also pledged to abstain from sex until he marries. This factor has led to speculation that Mr. Neville may be gay, but we found no proof of that. Ironically, his clean lifestyle helped us to net him. Last Friday, as his teammates left the training facilities to taste the delights of the nightlife, Mr. Neville drove back to their dormitories alone. Along the way one of our female operatives posed as motorist beside a disabled van. We made sure the van could be easily fixed by anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of the workings of automobile engines. Being the altruistic man that he is, Tom Neville pulled over to help our damsel in distress. He easily fixed the sparkplug that had become loose. Chaste as he is, Mr. Neville would not accept a kiss from the lips of the woman in thanks for his good deed. If he had accepted a kiss, our female operative wore a lipstick laced with a strong sedative. Dr. Richelieu prepared an alternative in his laboratory. He transformed the sedative to a gas. Placed inside a seemingly harmless object, such as a hollowed-out book, the gas would activate once opened, rendering the holder unconscious. When Mr. Neville refused the kiss from our “grateful” operative, she offered him a Bible from her collection in the back of the van. Tommy Neville could not resist the Good Book! Standing before the opened doors in the back of the van, Mr. Neville held the Bible close up. Our female operative asked him to recite his favorite biblical verse from it. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Neville complied. He opened the Bible to find the verse. Instead, he breathed in a lavender-scented sedative that knocked him out very quickly. He crumbled to the back of the van. An accomplice, a novice in the Brotherhood who hid behind nearby shrubbery, then appeared and dragged the unconscious Mr. Neville further into the van, while our female operative drove to a Safehouse to prepare Tom Neville for transportation here.

“At the safehouse with the aid of two more novices they brought the still unconscious Tom Neville inside to prepare him. Our female accomplice was paid for her services and left. Her discretion is assured. She belongs to our sister order…The Handmaids of the Chains. Once she was gone, our novices went to work. And allow me to say, Master…”

“Yes, proceed, you may say what?” Palaiologos inquired.

‘This was the first use of Dr. Richelieu’s latest invention, which he devised at your suggestion, Master. To insure he was securely and safely packaged for transportation, Tommy Neville was encased in the Paste of Palaiologos.”

All the while the tale of his abduction was recounted, Tommy Neville pleaded futilely to his host and the manservant. The ball-gag filled his mouth and pressed down on his tongue. The clear plastic wrapping taped prevented him from attempting to dislodge the ball-gag from his mouth. And even though he had developed his arms into powerful guns to throw footballs, catch flyballs, and hit homeruns, those arms ached from the black rope that encircled them in that Japanese style. He sat on the cold stone-floored cell – truly a prisoner before wicked warriors. His skills on the Grid Iron and the Baseball Diamond could not serve him now. The man who introduced himself as his “Host” circled him, as he listened to his manservant detail his kidnapping. When the manservant began to speak of the Paste of Palaiologos, the memory of experiencing its breath-taking and spine-tingling grip made poor Tommy Neville tremble more!

To Be Continued in Part Two of The Paste Of Palaiologos!

[george_bound]

Hahaha... I knew the "Mountie would get his man"... boom-chicka-bow-wow

Love all the weaving of Canadiana into this and its preceding tale, many of the non-Canadian readers may not get the references but they add a fun element to the story... just wondering when Tim Hortons will finally be spoken of The light-hearted narrative is also very Canadian as anyone who has watched a Canadian TV comedy would pick up on...And clearly the cartoonish nature harkens back to Dudley Do-Right, a cherished Mountie cartoon figure.

This is gonna be a really hot tale if it involves a wide assortment of studly jocks in addition to our Mountie and his "Olympic lover". The unveiling of the first captive gives a clear picture of what's in store but certainly so many scenarios and tangents are possible. Can't wait to learn about this Paste!

[privateandrews]

WOW , your hitting so many of my buttons, great descriptions of the men and love how this story is developing. more please.

[KidnappedCowboy]

Chapter II: Part Two


Westmount, Montreal, Quebec: The Depths Below the Estate of Michael Palaiologos

“Ah! Yes! Please proceed…I look forward to hearing how the paste works,” Michael Palaiologos urged his manservant on, as he leered down at the poor, helplessly bound and severely gagged American baseball player. Beads of sweat dripped down Tommy Neville’s forehead. “MMMPPHHHH!! MMPPHH!! MMMPPPHHH!!” He pleaded for mercy, as the memories flooded back to him of being sealed in that diabolical substance until just days before. Palaiologos and his manservant relished those pleas for mercy, but they paid no heed to Neville’s muffled entreaties. Bound according to the Hojojutsu tradition, Neville was forced to hear the cruel saga of his seizure and sealing…an experience tortuous to him and most pleasing to his “host.”

The manservant continued.

“The novices had outfitted a room of the safehouse to prepare Mr. Neville for wrapping and packaging in preparation for his transportation. It contained a long, metal table, the equipment necessary for the preparation of the Paste of Palaiologos, its application, and the various paraphernalia needed to ensure our guest was properly sustained and cleansed during his journey. The container in which Mr. Neville would be crated had been outfitted to ensure he had plenty of oxygen and sustenance for his journey once he was sealed inside. Arrangements were made to dispose of his bodily functions during his ‘journey’.” The manservant paused, as he noticed Tommy Neville appear to recall the discomfort and humiliation of his “journey.” muffled cries suddenly grew louder… “MMMMMPPPPHHHH!!! MMMMMPPPPHHHH!!!!!!”

“Please, Mr. Neville,” Palaiologos admonished his guest, bending down and twisting Tommy’s right nipple through the tight fabric of his sleeveless tee-shirt. “Be still, or you may have to feel the sting of the wand your attendant carries.” As an athlete, Tommy Neville had long ago learned to handle pain, but the experience of the last few days and the ignominy of his present state…bound as he was… the pinching and twisting of his nipple was all the more excruciating to the super jock.

“MMMMMMPPPPHHHHEEEEEEOOOOWWWWWW!” Tommy Neville wailed to no relief. He quieted, when he saw his “attendant” appear with a baton in hand. With a silent nod from Tommy’s “Host,” the guard pushed a button at the bottom of the baton and it crackled with electricity, warning the prostrate and pinioned jock that worse awaited him should he continue his struggles against the black strands and muzzle that embraced him in their cruel clasp and smothering snuggle. Tommy Neville’s stifled wails soon subsided.

Adding insult to injury, it was slowly dawning on the outfielder that Palaiologos took great delight in referring to the guards outside as “attendants,” the cell in which he was kept as a “room”…Palaiologos referred to himself as Tommy’s “Host” and call Tommy Neville a “guest!!!” The cruelty of it all…the winner of the Heisman Trophy, an NFL quarterback and then an outfielder in the farm system of an MLB team…to have risen so far – only to be so sinisterly shanghaied at the behest of such a depraved gangster! Tommy Neville hung his head down in despair, as the manservant pressed on with the account of his abduction.

“The sedative that Dr. Richelieu devised would render Mr. Neville unconscious through most of the phases of his preparation. In case he did wake up in the initial phases, the novices were prepared to administer another sedative, while they restrained him. The dosage of the sedative hidden in the Bible needed to be quite strong, since a man of Mr. Neville’s size and his peak physical condition might have withstood weaker doses of the tranquilizers. His dedication to his workouts worked to our advantage, however. The rigors of spring training had already tired Mr. Neville by late Friday afternoon. That helped the sedative along, and Mr. Neville remained knocked out until the final phase of preparation before shipment.”

“Ah! Olağanüstü!” (‘Wonderful’) Palaiologos expressed his delight in Turkish at the news.

“Mr. Neville was first stripped of his clothes. As per your orders for all your “guests,” Master, whatever undergarments they are wearing when we extract them are placed in the containers with them, so they may be suitably dressed when they first experience the “hospitality” of such a worthy Grand Prior of the Brotherhood as you are, Master.” Tommy Neville blushed at the thought of his kidnappers stripping him of his clothes. The manservant took pernicious pleasure in seeing this. Tommy averted his gaze from both men.

Palaiologos noticed his manservant’s sneer. “You serve me well, deVere. I see you’ve learned much under my stewardship. I will bring news of the good progress of your novitiate to the Grand Abbott of the Brotherhood when we next meet in Grand Council.” It was seldom that Michael Palaiologos referred to his manservant by his surname. When he did, deVere knew he had earned much. His master’s compliment filled him with pride.

“Thank you, Master. To serve the Brotherhood of the Black Rope is my life’s goal.”

“As it should be. Now get on with the details of Mr. Neville’s packaging.” Tommy’s merciless “Host” ordered deVere, while continuing to walk around Tommy Neville admiring the intricate artwork (as it were) of his trussed-up state. Palaiologos paused in front of his “guest,” lifted his right foot ever so gently and slightly. He then tapped the tied-up athlete with his tasseled loafer, which caused the poor, tied-up jock to teeter. Exacting torment on his ‘guests” was second nature to Michael Palaiologos, as the snatched sportsman was becoming increasingly and agonizingly aware of.

“Once stripped of his clothes, the novices cleansed him inside and out. They then applied an antiseptic rub from Mr. Neville’s head to his toes to prevent any adverse reaction to the new adhesive wrap. Dr. Richelieu had taught our novices well in the application of the wrapping made from the Paste of Palaiologos. They worked as if they were priests and embalmers of ancient Egypt mummifying a great Pharaoh of an ancient dynasty,” deVere claimed proudly.

“And if my plans work accordingly, Mr. Neville’s essence will provide the basis of a new dynasty, and he himself be preserved for all eternity like an ancient Pharaoh!” Palaiologos envisaged heartedly to himself and ominously to the young man fettered before him. Poor Tommy Neville gasped as best he could behind the merciless muzzle gagging him at his abductor’s drop of a hint of what might await him yet!

“Once Mr. Neville was suitably purified, the novices carefully began wrapping him from the soles of his feet to the base of his neck. Knowing the hypnotic and stimulating potency of the toxins of the paste that adhered to the wrappings, the novices protected themselves with masks, latex gloves, and assorted protective clothing, lest they fall under its narcotic influence as Mr. Neville would soon experience. Our novices worked methodically yet efficiently, as you, Master, awaited the arrival of your first “guest.” Before sealing Mr. Neville’s majestic manhood and his firm fundament, the novices applied suitable tubing for his journey to you here.” The manservant paused, so that his Master could appreciate both the work of the extractors/novices and Tommy Neville’s attributes.

“Yes, the novices worked well. As I can see Mr. Neville arrived undamaged. The way he is able to balance himself while entwined in hojojutsu is testimony to my “guest’s” muscular hindquarters. As for the majesty of his manhood…well I’ll judge that later.” Michael Palaiologos chuckled, while poor Tommy blushed deeply red as he was appraised like a prized bull!

“When the novices concluded mummifying Mr. Neville to his neck, he began to stir to consciousness. As you know, Master, the toxins begin to work their way into the system of the host body with movement in the area of contact. Movement causes the venomous substance to seep into the pores of the skin increasing its vise-like hold, trance-inducing effects and stimulating powers on its victim all at once. The more agitation on the part of the victim results in a greater attack of the invading contagion. As the sedative that had brought Mr. Neville down wore off, he would still be in a weakened state. His mobility would be slight at first. The memory of how he had been knocked out and the gradual realization of his mummified state would shock him into greater movement. And so, it did…”

“Ah! The moment has arrived. I wait with bated breath to hear of Mr. Neville’s reaction to his predicament and the paste’s response.” Palaiologos cravingly relished what deVere was about to relate, while the captive Tommy shuddered at their feet.

“The novices first noticed Mr. Neville moan, as if waking with a slight headache, and his blues eyes fluttered open. He was clearly disoriented. He attempted to raise his right hand as if he wished to massage his temple. Swaddled as he was, he could not. As a result, the paste-coated wrapping constricted him more, the tentacles of the breathing venom digging into his system and drawing the tape closer to his skin in an ever-tighter embrace! It then jolted him to full consciousness, and he thrashed on the metal table and roared in agony. One of the attending novices, quickly forced a ball-gag into Mr. Neville’s mouth to muffle his cries. And, of course, the poisonous paste poured into Mr. Neville more to begin its hypnotic effect on him. The winching adhesive would continue to afflict Mr. Neville, but he would be rendered into a stupor unable to fathom a reaction. At that point too, the stimulating properties of the sticky substance would cause more pleasurable reactions from Mr. Neville. The attendant novices observed the tape over Mr. Neville’s Johnson move slightly upward. The moment it did, the paste clamped the tape tighter to his body. As the rush of this powerful drug in the Paste of Palaiologos came over him, Mr. Neville found himself in a suspended state between penetrating pain and placid pleasure. His face was soon a mask of daze and confusion. The attendants removed the ball-gag as he quieted.”

“So, no one explained the workings of the paste to Mr. Neville?” Palaiologos queried.

“No, Master. Under the spell of the pestilent paste, Mr. Neville would not have understood its wonders. Nonetheless, I gave the novices strict orders that no one was to reveal its mysteries to him. That, Master, is your privilege as the inspiration behind the substance and your prerogative as Mr. Neville’s “Host.”” The manservant responded.

“Of course. You demonstrated great discretion, deVere. It will not go unrewarded.”

“Thank you again, Master. Do I have your permission to continue?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as Mr. Neville’s shifting subsided to a quiver, the novice appointed to lead his abduction and extraction stepped forward. He fastidiously inspected the now bundled-up jock. Mr. Neville had grown listless, transfixed in his torpor, and his breathing was beginning to slow. This would make it easier to pack him in the container for shipment and make sure he remained undamaged until we unpacked him here at the estate. Pressing on with his inspection…” deVere paused. Turning to the attendant/guard at the door of the cell, deVere bid him to draw closer. “It was Conyers here, Master, whom I tasked as lead novice for the abduction and extraction of Mr. Neville. Perhaps, Master, you would prefer him to finish?”

Looking over at the 6’4” tall, black and curly-haired, brown-eyed, short-bearded, hulking man, Michael Palaiologos nodded his assent.

Bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment to his immediate superior and the Grand Prior, Conyers took up the saga. “Master, beads of sweat had begun to appear on his forehead, and his lustrous, dark brown hair and trimmed beard which we had cleansed with antiseptic oils started to dampen, and Mr. Neville continued to tremble under the mesmeric waves of anguish and titillation as the Paste of Palaiologos increased its hold on him. Even so, we stood in amazement as the drugged plaits began to transform him before our eyes. He is a towering man with a magnificent physique. And the squeeze of the spellbinding, balm-applicated braids brought that forth decisively. The black strands of tape began to clinch around and pinch his body, causing his muscle to perform more to perfect purview. It was fast becoming like a second skin to him, highlighting his tremendous dimensions. We had individually wrapped each of Mr. Neville’s arms with their 16.5inch (42cm) biceps before swathing them to the sides of his body. The bulge of those biceps basked beautifully under the somnolent strips. The breadth of Mr. Neville’s 50.5inch (128cm) chest stood out handsomely, as his nipples tried to pierce the layers of the sinisterly soothing, gelled tape. And the tautness of Mr. Neville’s 37inch (94cm) waist radiated forth as his fabled six-pack abs and belly button revealed themselves against the somniferously linimented, black bands. Looking down, I observed the stimulating properties of the paste. The hardness of his manhood strained against the lewdly- laced, black laces restraining its release. And, Master, it was clearly visible as is usual amongst American men, Mr. Neville has no foreskin…”

“MMMMPPPHHH!!! MMMPPPHHH!!!PUHMMMMLLEEZZSEEMMPPHH!”

The attendant/guard Conyers was interrupted by the dull but determined moans from the gagged, kinbaku-bound jock himself, listening to the narration of his shameful seizure and the mortifying description of the details of his wood! Tommy Neville mixed with anger and shame and threw all caution to the wind. He fought fiercely once again against his fetters in a futile attempt to free himself. The knots of the hojojutso were unyielding, but the bound athlete used his great strength in an attempt to break free of the harsh hitches that lashed him at the feet of these sadistic kidnappers. Ineffectually, he tried to loosen the tortuous black cords that traced his massive arms and braided their way across his manly chest. His feet tensed, crisscrossed and lassoed as they were, pulled to slacken the cruel cables holding him down.

Tommy Neville only succeeded in tightening his tethers and he teetered over to end up face down at the tassel-loafered feet of Michael Palaiologos. Disconsolate in the face of doom, his doleful sobs echoed across the confines of his cell.

“MMMMMPPPPHHHHHUUUGGGHGHHHHHHHHHMMMPPPHHHH!!!!!!”

Conyers stepped forward in readiness to let poor Tommy Neville taste his taser, and deVere reached down to peel him from their Master’s feet.

“Tsk! Tsk! Such insolence, Master!” de Vere complained, “Conyers teach our “guest” how to show proper respect to his “Host.”

Conyers was just about to zap the super-jock with his baton…

“Wait!” Their Master barked. “I want to chasten the impudence of Mr. Neville’s contempt of our hospitality by other means. Such naked violence makes me uneasy. And it is far too crude. Violent punishment better suits my Brother Prior Ivan Whiplashtski and his Slobobian branch of the Brotherhood. No. I prefer punishments that produce psychological torment…Yes! I have it. It’s time for a small demonstration before me of the rapturous and bewildering bewitchment of my paste…Just a small application of it once again to Mr. Neville.” Turning to his manservant, the capricious Palaiologos ordered him to retrieve a roll of the malevolent plaster to apply once more on the hapless hunk.

“This time, we will only gag our guest with the paste. Sheathed across his mouth and swaddled around his head, he will bewilder once more between stimulus and inertia.” He explained to the guard/attendant Conyers, as they waited for deVere to return. Tommy Neville sat hunched before these profligate poachers…resigned to remain bound and once more gagged with stifling strips of that noxious compound!

The manservant soon returned with another novice. Both men were suitably attired in protection against the toxins, so they could administer the elixir-laced strips of tape to the severely secured stud. They awaited Palaiologos’ order. Before he allowed them to proceed, Palaiologos turned to Conyers to ask if the man carried a handkerchief on him. Conyers said that he did. Then the Chief Executive of Byzantine Exports and Grand Prior of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope commanded the attendant/guard and lead novice in Tommy Neville’s kidnapping to remove his fitted, black turtleneck. Conyers did so, revealing a well-toned chest matted with the dark hair that was so similar in color to the curly locks on his head. The chest hair trailed down to disappear below his belt.

“Take your handkerchief out and rub it around your face and neck as if it were a washcloth. Then do the same to your torso, making sure to “wash” your entire upper body. Let the linen become scented with your sweat and pheromones.”

Conyers did as he was told, as his master and colleagues watched him as if he were showering. Tommy Neville did as well, wracking his addled brain to discover what diabolical and devious deal his hellish “Host” now designed! Little could the poor, winced wretch envision what would come next!

After Conyers had finished, the Grand Prior took it from him. Palaiologos held the cloth to his nose and sniffed the bouquet. “HHHHMMMM…Yes, your handkerchief is spiced with your aroma…a heady mixture of male pheromones and assorted scents. And I see you have monogrammed the cloth with the crossed wrists tied with black rope…the emblem of our ancient Brotherhood. Good.” Palaiologos handed the kerchief back to Conyers and told him to repeat his “washing” once more. Once that was done, he was ordered to fold the material in half, in quarters, and so on. Soon the handkerchief was a ball in the guard’s hand.

“Squeeze it hard in your hand, so that the sweat of your palm will keep the linen scented with your aroma.” The Grand Prior directed. Turning to deVere he directed, “Remove Mr. Neville’s gag.”

The manservant complied. With his latex-gloved hands, deVere methodically unwrapped the clear plastic from around Neville’s head and mouth. The subdued stud put up no resistance, as the layers of adhesive were removed. As deVere peeled the last layers off, Tommy grimaced as the adhesive clung to his skin and the hairs of his meticulously maintained beard. Next, deVere unstrapped the ball-gag and took it from the sportsman’s mouth.

Tommy Neville coughed in relief. His relief would be momentary. “You monstrous fiends,” he gasped, “have merc…”

His words were cut off as, as deVere had already taken the balled-up cloth from Conyers, and he thrust the manfully odorous clump into the defeated jock’s mouth. Tommy tasted the pungent material. The other attendant novice worked quickly to seal poor Tommy’s lips shut with a strip of the poisoned plaster to keep him from spitting the bundle out. He then wrapped layer after layer of more strips around his mouth and head.

Before the Grand Prior’s eyes, the enchanting elixir worked swiftly on the abducted athlete. Tommy Neville rapidly fell into a befuddled state. The Grand Prior witnessed Tommy become entranced…floating between pleasure and pain. Palaiologos also viewed the potion’s other effects on its victims. Confined against the tight fabric of his compression shorts as it was, Tommy’s “Host” still clearly observed the aroused state of the baseball hopeful and former quarterback.

“Yes!!” Palaiologos clapped in triumph. “Dr. Richelieu’s research and experiments are a success. My trussed-up and muzzled “guest” before me speaks to the scientist’s achievement!” Circling the dazed, confused, yet stimulated jock, he pursued his point in glee. “Tommy Neville the All-American athlete, winner of prestigious trophies for his prowess on the Grid Iron, easily switching sports to climb the heights of success on the Baseball Diamond, awarded lucrative deals as a spokesmodel for an international men’s underwear company, the darling of American parents as the ideal spouse to their chaste daughters, with what would have been a promising career as a sportscaster when he hung up his jockstrap in retirement…the American stud reduced to a mesmerized and manacled mass of muscle! And Hard Muscle at that!” Palaiologos laughed lasciviously! “My brother Priors may seethe with jealously when I present my report at the next session of the Grand Council of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope. The Grand Abbott himself will be greatly pleased with our success!” Turning to his novices, he complimented them. “Well done, gentlemen.” The manservant deVere, the guard/attendant Conyers, and the other novice bowed low before their Grand Prior in gratitude.

“Now, Conyers, pray…finish your tale of my “guest’s” entanglement at your hands. Stand before him. I wish to gauge his reaction to you now that he tastes the mixture of the narcotic paste and your manful musk. Dr. Richelieu is working on a theory that the piquant flavor of a man’s aroma combined with the laudanum of the paste will drive the victim to desire the man whose essence it is. The good doctor theorizes my opiate can be modified into a very specifically directed aphrodisiac. So, Mr. Neville may fall for you, Conyers! Mr. Neville’s dossier states that out of conviction to his beliefs and out of dedication to his sports career, he is a virgin and eschews alcohol. He has publicly declared that he will save himself until marriage, when the right woman comes along. But…Mr. Neville does not date according to his dossier…there are no women in his personal life. Isn’t that strange? You may not have found evidence that my tied-up and gagged “guest” is gay, but I strongly suspect Tom Neville the All-American Hero prefers men. Let us observe how the paste can double as a ‘Love Potion’!!!!”

“It is my pleasure, Master.” Conyers answered. While facing his Grand Prior, he positioned himself before the restrained and now tape-muffled minor leaguer and concluded his report.

“Before Mr. Neville interrupted me, I had described how the toxin had triggered his arousal, and the tape clung so crushingly to him that we could tell the characteristics and details of his Johnson and Cahonas. Mr. Neville’s member and bollocks are commensurate in size and proportion to his height and weight. The paste-plastered tape began to envelop his genitalia and developed a codpiece or cage to confine his privy parts and suspend them between release and restriction.”

The helpless hero of the Grid Iron at first remained stunned and stumped, before Conyers voice slowly drew his attention. Tethered and taped as he was and in his suspended state, Tommy Neville haltingly began to fix his gaze on Conyers, the man who had overseen his abduction and extraction and was now his guard/attendant! His “Host” was watching Tommy intently and noticed the change in him. Tommy’s manhood had stiffened more and more as he looked upon his abductor. The celibate Tommy Neville, who proclaimed to the world that he would save himself for marriage to the right woman, haltingly but surely grew desirous of his kidnapper. To the Grand Prior’s joy, his eponymous elixir could also bind its hostages to their captors in an erotic twist of the Stockholm Syndrome!

Conyers, too, noticed Tommy Neville’s gaze, but paid him no heed as he finished his relation of the packaging of the massively muscled and mummified man and his subsequent shipment. “I and the other novices carefully slid Mr. Neville from the table and stood him upright. We could now see how the Paste of Palaiologos adhesive had formed to his shoulders, his back, and his muscular hindquarters. Our black tape embraced him, cherishing the shape and lines of his athletic frame. The glutinous grip of the tape folded over the contours and crevices of Mr. Neville’s buttocks, as if he wore the tights of the danseur noble of the world’s finest Ballet Company. Master, the paste that so worthily bears your name truly emphasized Mr. Neville’s bubble butt. And although encased together as they were, the plastered strips made Mr. Neville’s finely muscled thighs and calves “pop,” as bodybuilders are wont to say.”

The Grand Prior nodded approvingly to Conyers, and the tied-up Tommy Neville looked longingly at him, while Conyers finished his narration.

“ We then carefully moved Mr. Neville over to the crate, which we had stood on its end, so we could more easily navigate him inside it. A cushioned cavity designed to Mr. Neville’s dimensions would contain him. A similarly designed and cushioned cover would conceal him from view within the container should curious Customs or an inquisitive inspector open the chest along his journey here. Once he was cocooned in his crevice, we attended to the final details of Mr. Neville’s parceling. We first gagged Mr. Neville with a “Mouth Stuffer with Breather Tubes,” which we had modified to attach to his sustenance packs with him in the case. In his hypnotic state, it was pointless to explain the workings of the tubes to him. As Dr. Richelieu briefed us before our mission: whether conscious, unconscious, or in his present state of suspension between the two, Mr. Neville would reflexively take in the vitamin-enriched mixture of mush and water. We then placed an oxygen mask over his entire face so he could breath easily, whether he was comatose or cognizant in the confined contours of the carton. The requisite number of tanks were in the trunk. Should any of the apparatus fail or if Mr. Neville fell into serious distress, sensors within the container would signal me and the novices accompanying him in transportation here. Once encased. Mr. Neville looked every inch a modern, mummified Pharaoh! We then placed the cover over Mr. Neville’s chamber and delicately shifted the whole container down. Before sealing the container, we placed baseball and American football uniforms and apparel in it over the inner lid. We then closed the container. Mr. Neville would arrive in Canada contained in a crate bearing the trademarked kits of the sports he excels in. That trademark belongs to Byzantine Exports! The sports uniforms made in your manufactories, Master, concealed the true nature of its enterprise…the abduction and extraction of one of American football’s and American baseball’s star players.”


“Thank you. Your mission was a success.” Michael Palaiologos acknowledged Conyers’ performance of the hijacking of the super-jock. Tommy Neville himself remained bewitched…in thrall to the seductive sedative. He sat cross-legged on the floor of the cell with his ankles cabled at crisscrosses with the Black Rope of the beastly Brotherhood. The black strands were secured to the cordage of his crisscrossed wrists behind his back. Like a lethal lanyard, the black rope threaded its way around and across his brawny and burly upper body. So cruelly corded and tasting the pheromone-soaked handkerchief of his lead abductor/attendant/guard in his mouth, as the baleful balm of his monstrous emcee cemented it shut, the once fearless and valiant warrior of the playing field could not lift a finger to help himself . Like a defeated warrior taken prisoner and hogtied at the feet of his conqueror, Tommy Neville was now a corralled, semi-conscious spoil of war, who awaited the captor who would lay claim to him.

“Come,” Michael Palaiologos addressed deVere, “To my next “guest.” In knowledge that you took a personal interest in his abduction and extraction, I anticipate with great eagerness your narration of the hijacking of one of the foremost ice hockey players of Canada.”

With that, the Grand Prior Palaiologos in the company of his manservant deVere left Tommy Neville’s cell. Conyers left the cell too, but he suddenly turned to face his prized prey once more just outside the chamber. Conyers could see that his essence working together with the powerful paste yoked Tommy ever more to him. Conyers sadistically and coquettishly teased the bound and gagged jock with a wistful wink and a sensual smile, as he entered the code to trigger the steel-barred door to slide shut, leaving Tommy with no relief.

To Be Continued…

[privateandrews]

well that chapter had me getting very hot under the collar, great writing look forward to reading more.

[george_bound]

Oh well well... my oh my that is one powerful paste with so many effects, discomfort and pleasure all wrapped into one plastery maché... let's see who's gonna be joining our hunky football turned baseball stud, really can't wait! And of course I'm assuming our bobsleigh boys will be joining soon too

[KidnappedCowboy]

Chapter III: At A Crossroad

Thursday, Late April: Vancouver, British Columbia: Division Headquarters, RCMP

Shortly after 10:00 am Reginald Percy made his way off the elevator from the underground garage of RCMP Division Headquarters to the office with which the Force had provided him, as he took part in the counter-terrorism tactics course in Vancouver. Once seated at his temporary desk, he texted a series of messages on his cell phone. Just under an hour later, he printed out a letter to Superintendent John Cabot from the immediate superior officer of Inspector Reginald Percy of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch, London, United Kingdom, Chief Inspector Clive FitzJames. FitzJames thanked Superintendent Cabot and the Vancouver RCMP for hosting Inspector Percy in the counter-terrorism tactics course of the past few weeks, but Inspector Reginald Percy’s time in Vancouver had to be cut short. He was needed back in London to give testimony in a major criminal case. Percy also printed out confirmation for a ticket on that afternoon’s Air Canada 2:05 pm flight from Vancouver to Montreal with a connecting flight to London.

With the various documents in hand, Reginald Percy went to Superintendent Cabot’s office. Mrs. Grayson was directing some members of staff in business, when he entered. Not waiting for her to finish her directions, he interjected, “Good Morning, I need to see the Superintendent right away.” Momentarily glancing over with no betrayal of annoyance at him for his interruption, Maggie Grayson soon returned her attention to her staff to finish their business. Percy stood there impatiently. Once she had done with her staff, she turned to face him.

“Good Morning, Inspector Percy. How may I help you?”

“I need to see the Superintendent, as I have been recalled home to London.”

“Yes, Inspector. I’ll see if the Inspector can see you now.”

“It’s very urgent.” Percy spat out.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure it is. Just one moment, I’ll see if Superintendent Cabot can see you now. Why don’t you take a seat?” Percy did not. He remained standing over her desk, as Mrs. Grayson picked up the interoffice telephone.

”Inspector Percy would like to see you, sir…yes. Very well, sir.”

Hanging up, Mrs. Grayson told Percy to go right into Superintendent Cabot’s office. Without saying another word to the woman, Percy did.

John Cabot was at his desk. Rising and coming around the desk to greet the visiting Inspector, he directed Percy to a seat at the conference table where Cabot had briefed Simon DuWright on his next mission earlier that morning. Before the Superintendent had even seated himself, Percy explained, “I must cut my visit to Vancouver short, Superintendent. My commander has called me home on urgent business.”

“Well, on such short notice, Inspector Percy, I’m sorry that you will be unable to finish the course.” Jahn Cabot said in reply.

“As am I, sir. It is has been a true learning experience for me with the Force here. The tactics I’ve learned from your instructors will serve me and serve my Branch well. It’s has been an honor for me also, sir, to have worked alongside some of the finest men and women in law enforcement here in Vancouver.”

“Thank you, Inspector. We here on the Force consider it of vital importance to have exchanges such as the one you have been a participant to increase cooperation between law enforcement agencies around the globe in our fight against international terrorism and organized crime.”

“And may I add, sir, one of your own inspectors has made my stay here in Vancouver particularly welcoming…”

“Oh...”

“Yes, sir. Inspector Simon DuWright has shown me particular kindness, and he is an excellent asset to your Force. His expertise in subversive international associations makes him very valuable. We wish we could lasso such an Inspector for ourselves.”

Assuming the Englishman meant the Mounted Unit, Cabot responded, “It’s always good to hear that other law enforcement agencies value us here.”
“Yes, Superintendent, we would love to snatch Simon DuWright up.” Percy commented suggestively. After a moment’s pause, he continued, “Well, Superintendent, I don’t wish to take up more of your valuable time. Thank you. I have learned much here. That intelligence will be put to good use.” Yes, Percy thought…very good use.

“You’re welcome, Inspector. Can we help with your travel arrangements?”

“No, Superintendent Cabot, it’s not necessary. I leave on a flight this afternoon to Montreal with a connecting flight there later to London. I had an inkling that I might be called home on short notice, so my duffle is in the trunk of the car I rented. I travel lightly, so I should breeze through Inspections, especially since I travel also as a law enforcement officer.”

As both men rose from their chairs, Cabot offered his hand to Percy. “Goodbye, Inspector. We at the Force look forward to continued cooperation with your unit.”

“Yes, Superintendent, our branch hopes to secure our bonds further around your men. Goodbye, sir.” Cabot walked him to the door, opened it, and stood there as Percy left. Percy barely nodded to Mrs. Grayson as he walked by her. Cabot returned to his work, but Mrs. Grayson watched the British inspector walk down the hallway, thinking it rather peculiar that the once so effusive man left so quickly with so few words. The very observant woman filed her thought away to return to her own work.



Thursday Late April: That Afternoon

Simon had finished packing his duffle bag in the early afternoon. He had learned to pack just the bare essentials on his missions, so he prepared conservatively for just under a week’s worth of clothing. Simon didn’t need to take his racket with him, since the Force’s tennis team would equip and outfit him in Montreal. He would carry his duffel on board the plane with him to stow overhead while he kept his Harper rucksack with the locked valise inside on or about him at all times. Simon retrieved the valise from his rucksack, unlocked it, took the dossier on Michael Palaiologos out, and sat down at the desk by the window in the living area of his apartment. He looked out at the view of English Bay, as he sat down to read it.

Simon had a one-bedroom apartment in a high rise in the West End neighborhood of Vancouver. It was small, and he was lucky to find it. Simon’s income as an inspector with the RCMP was modest. But his “Gramps” left him a little nest egg, when he died. Simon had also kept the Alberta farm after his grandfather’s death, and he hoped to retire there after a long career with the Force. Johnny Trudeau now figured more and more in his dreams for the future, and Simon hoped to share the beautiful Canadian prairie on which he was raised with the man he was beginning to fall in love with. A young couple with three young children now rented the farm from him. Simon didn’t charge them much. After the horror of his parents’ tragic deaths, life on that spread with his “Gramps” came to envelop him in loving and protective comfort. So, Simon wanted to make sure that the environment in which he was raised also provided a place for others to raise their children. Simon delighted in the knowledge that his “Gramps’” farm now provided comfort for a young, growing family. The income from the rent was enough to pay expenses. And the land was in good hands.

West End had a pricey real estate market, but his combined income provided Simon with enough money to put a down payment on the small, one-bedroom apartment. As soon as he saw the views from the window before which he now sat, he fell in love with the place. It overlooked English Bay, and it had a balcony running the length of the flat. The views of the water had a calming effect on Simon, and he knew right then that this was the place for him. The apartment was also in close proximity to Stanley Park and a Gym/Aquatics Centre nearby. The coast below and the trails of Stanley Park were ideal for triathlon training, and in the colder months he swam at the Aquatics Centre. The layout of the apartment was open planned. He cooked his own meals in the small kitchen and the island there also served as an eating bar. He had a sofa, coffee table, two stools at the island, some standing lamps, a bookcase, and a small flat-screen TV. The desk and chair completed the furniture he had in this open space. The bedroom was off to the right of the door as you entered the apartment. It contained a Queen-sized bed, a nightstand, and a high wardrobe that had belonged to his “Gramps.” The bedroom couldn’t contain much more.

Simon had a few framed photographs on the nightstand. One was of his parents; another was one of Simon at about three years of age in his Dad’s arms with his Mom at their side. Two other photos were of “Gramps” and Simon aged eighteen arm-in-arm with “Gramps.” He had recently added a fifth, framed photo to the small collection. It was of Johnny. Simon had snapped it one day, as they walked along Beach Avenue. His curly, red hair hung foppish down his forehead and ears, his blue-green eyes shone with laughter, and the big goof was smiling from ear to ear. Simon had just called him his “Cubby Bear” for the first time. Simon had also recently moved his things from one drawer of the wardrobe and pulled clothes from one side of the bedroom closet to make room for some of Johnny’s belongings, as they started to spend more and more nights together. The apartment as a whole was tight with two beefy and brawny men, and the bedroom even tighter. Neither Simon nor Johnny seemed to mind the closeness, though. It gave them room to cuddle and hold each other tighter, whether on the sofa watching a movie or a sporting event or in bed entangled in sheets and comforters. It was cramped, but they could even squeeze together into the small bathroom with the walk-in shower and the stacked washer/dryer. After a short run up to and around Stanley Park one Saturday afternoon, Simon and Johnny returned to shower together. Although water was splashed on the floor of the bathroom and they laughed heartily washing and exploring each other’s bodies, the neighbors below never complained of leaks in their ceiling or overly noisy neighbors upstairs!!!

Before he opened the dossier to read it, Simon took out his cellphone to text Johnny. They both knew that once Simon left the apartment tomorrow morning for the airport, they could not communicate until the completion of Simon’s mission. Johnny well understood the seriousness of his boyfriend’s work, and it made him love him all the more. Simon texted the nickname for the bobsledder, “Hey CB,” before texting a prearranged code that would alert Johnny that he would be incommunicado on mission for a bit, “Keep a place next 2 u warm 4 me”…and then signed off, “Ruv Roo, SdW” a short time later, he received an answer, “OK, Insp! Will do so! Ruv Roo 2, CB” He smiled, seeing that Johnny signed off as “Cubby Bear,” and saluted him as “Insp.” Simon said a silent prayer that Johnny would remain safe while he was away. After that he opened the dossier to read the intelligence the Force had gathered on Michael Palaiologos and “Byzantine Exports.”

Apart from his physical characteristics and a vaguely Eastern European accent, not much was known about the owner and chief executive officer of “Byzantine Exports.” His accent, too, might not even be Eastern European. One report suggested Palaiologos’ origins could be in either Turkey or Egypt. What was clear was that “Byzantine Exports” had started around 1990, after the fall of the Berlin Wall. The company dealt in all types of trading in the import/export business: technology, goods, services. Recently, the company had interests in sporting goods and apparel, manufacturing and shipping equipment and uniforms for teams across the globe.

“Byzantine Exports” also had corporate offices in major cities in Europe, North America, and Asia. Recently, they had opened smaller branches in Cape Town, South Africa and Buenos Aires, Argentina. The final report in the dossier suggested a link between the location of certain offices of “Byzantine Exports” in various cities and the contemporaneous disappearance of young men from the countries where the offices were situated. The first disappearance occurred in the early 1990s.“Byzantine Exports” set up offices in Oslo, Norway in early 1992 two years after the Winter Olympics in Lillehammer. A Norwegian speedskater who won gold at those games disappeared in late 1992. He had just turned 25 years old at the time. A truly remarkable young man, Arvid Christian Olsen was aghast that the world paid more attention to his feats on skating tracks, than to the horrible human rights abuses around the globe. After winning several gold medals, he announced that he would eschew endorsement deals for himself, hang up his skates, and he would devote the rest of his life to fight for human rights. Olsen also said he would do this from behind the scenes, therefore in effect disappearing from the world’s view. No one has seen or heard from Arvid Christian Olsen since 1992. There was the possibility that he continued his work anonymously somewhere in the world, but that possibility was remote. Simon calculated that Olsen would be 51 years old today.

Similar disappearances occurred in other parts of the world since 1992 near where the company had set up shop. A rash of disappearances has occurred within the last year. Two Welsh rugby players, Gruffyd “Griff” Davies and Osian “The Warrior” Williams each aged 26, disappeared while travelling in Thailand last summer in 2019, at about the same time as the opening of a “Byzantine Exports” office in Bangkok. A 27-year-old Italian skier Piero “Ballerino” Visconti disappeared somewhere in Pakistan in November 2019, after an office opened in Islamabad. Gabriel “Gabie” Desclaux, a French rugby player aged 28 vanished also in 2019 while on holiday at Christmas in New Zealand, just after “Byzantine Exports” began there in Christchurch. The most recent disappearances were of two Irish rugby players. Dermot “Mucker” Kennedy and Cillian “Murph” Murphy, both 25, dropped out of sight in the UAE in late March. They were last seen leaving their club’s training complex to return to the hotel the squad was staying at. They never arrived back to the hotel. “Byzantine Exports” had recently raised the curtain on a venture in Ajman.

Finishing the last report that chronicled the most recent disappearances, Simon sat back and began to sort through what leapt out at him. All the men who disappeared…from the Norwegian in 1992 (even though he’d be middle-aged now) to the Irishmen about a month ago were world-class athletes, ranging in age from the youngest at 25 to the oldest at 28 when they went missing. The Italian skier went off the grid in a dangerous part of the world, while the French rugger left no trace of himself in a part of the world that is remarkably safe. The Irish ruggers vanished in the UAE, which welcomes tourists and rugby tournaments, but is a very conservative society. The Welsh ruggers melted away in a locale that could be risky at times with the military so influential in that conservative nation, often popular with western, party-seeking tourists.

Simon thought it significant that out of the six recent missing cases, five of the men played rugby, while the sixth was a Gold Medal-winning Olympic skier. He couldn’t explain the significance of what that was, though. Taking up pictures of each man, Simon noted that the men were all very good-looking. All were in top physical condition. Each had a university degree. And each man was at the top of their sport. While the disappearance of young men travelling alone or in pairs to foreign countries could be the result of risky behavior or accidents…the more Simon thought the more he came to weave the threads together. No, he firmly believed, “Byzantine Exports” was the common denominator. And the company was a front for the activities of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope! The disappearance of the Leicester Twins is connected to these other cases…he just knew it! For what nefarious purpose these men were taken…and there might be others too in the grasping hands of that bloody brotherhood…Simon did not know as yet! But he did know that those poor fellows…no matter their physical strength, skill, and stamina…could not grapple long with the heinous hitches, flagrant fetters, repulsive ropes, calamitous chains, monstrous muffles, and infamous gags that this cravenly flagitious fraternity of bondage boosters would use to bind the young, buff, burly, and brawny bucks! Simon’s own experience tied up in their cinches with Johnny knew that these athletes now called out behind their muted mouths for his help!

Putting the reports away, he stowed the dossier once more in the valise which he then locked and returned to his Harper rucksack. It was after 3:00 pm, and he decided to go for a run and a swim to clear his head. He had lifted earlier, as he often hit the gym before work. He went into the bedroom to get ready. He stripped off his khaki trousers, dress shirt , and 2xist briefs and geared up in a fitted lycra-blend tee, tackle trunks (a speedo-like racer that doubled as a jock) and then donned long lycra-tights. After lacing up his Asics, he rolled up a pair of track pants and put them in a lightweight, nylon back-sack. Knowing that the air was still cool in the late April weather, Simon put on a lightweight runner’s jacket and then the back-sack. Locking his apartment behind him, Simon was off along Beach Avenue to Stanley Park. After running 3 miles north working up a good sweat, he looped back another 3 miles to the Gym/Aquatics Centre near his place. In the locker-room there, he stripped down to his tackle trunks to shower before entering the pool.

Ever since Simon swam competitively in high school, he wore Speedos, Budgy Smugglers, and now tackle trunks. They were efficient in the water. And Simon was not modest about his body. Playing sports in high school and at university, as well a regular regimen in the gym, made Simon easy about being seen in kits that left little to the imagination or naked amongst other men in locker-rooms. Simon DuWright was a modest man, but not in this regard. And Johnny was just like Simon. Nonetheless, Simon was completely oblivious to the admiring side glances, backward gazes, and outright stares of women and men as he ran, worked out, and swam. He walked confidently from the shower into the pool that late afternoon in his tackle trunks not noticing various men and women turn to steal a peek and ogle Simon’s chiseled good looks, broad shoulders and chest, rippling six-pack abs, and muscular and sinewy legs. The rather skimpy material of his tackle trunks neatly packaged his Johnson&Cajones. And as Simon passed a group of men and two women in the pool area, several looked back to appreciate the sight of his muscular hindquarters not-so-easily enveloped by the tight, green polyester of the tackle trunks emblazoned with the name of Simon’s favorite rugby team, Connacht. Simon remained too focused on his workout to notice the approving looks of the fellow swimmers and others. After 50 minutes of laps in the pool he emerged from the water, and he needed discreetly to dislodge some of the racer’s material that had ridden up the crevice of his butt. This prodded Simon to consider buying another pair of tackle trunks one or two sizes up. Leg Day and his time with Johnny’s bobsled team certainly resulted in more toned but still beefier buns. “Hope they have a bigger size…it’s a killer buying jeans,” Simon chuckled to himself. Drying off, Simon slipped on the track pants and put on the running jacket that had dried somewhat once more.

He walked the short distance home, where he showered and threw on a pair of fleece sweatpants and a UBC hoodie that was Johnny’s . He made a dinner of grilled chicken breasts, broccoli, a baked sweet potato, and a salad. At 8:30, he went through his email, made a final check of the gear in his Yukon duffle and Harper rucksack with the locked valise inside. Placing them at the foot of his bed with his wallet, tickets, keys, and phone, he took care of business in the loo, ready to perform his evening ritual of calming and centering meditation. Sitting lotus style on a small carpet beside his bed, he began to mediate. Soon Simon was adrift in his thoughts and prayers. He thought of his parents, “Gramps,” the men and women he served with on the Force, Superintendent Cabot and Mrs. G. Simon prayed the spirit of his loved ones now gone would watch over him during the dangerous mission he was about to begin. He prayed that all would be safe from harm. Simon’s meditation soon focused on one man…Johnny Trudeau. The goofy, smart, funny, caring oaf had become his lodestar. What Simon now realized was love would guide him through what might be troubled times ahead to a safe return home. Simon prayed Johnny would stay safe, and no harm would come to him because of Simon’s work. This centered and focused Simon on what truly mattered more than anything in the world to him…Johnny Trudeau. At 9:30, after setting his alarm for 5:00 am, Simon stripped down to his 2xist briefs and slipped under the comforter. Within moments, he was fast asleep.

Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport: 10:30 pm EST

While Simon prepared and ate his dinner in his Vancouver apartment, that afternoon’s Air Canada 2:05 pm flight landed on time in Montreal at 9:52 pm, and its passengers were disembarking. Inspector Reginald Percy debarked with his black leather duffle in tow and made his way down the terminal. At the end of the long corridor, he paused. To his left was the terminus to the Gates for International Flights where his flight to London had already begun boarding. Percy turned right. He continued his way along the passage until it reached the escalators to the lower level. Boarding one, as he descended he saw a young, well-built man in a compact short black leather jacket, fitted black trousers, and black military tactical boots standing to the side of the center exit of the terminal. When they locked eyes, Percy gave a slight sign of acknowledgment.

At the bottom of the escalator, Percy walked not quickly but with purpose over to him. The young man turned without saying anything to Percy. Percy followed him outside to a nearby short-term parking area. They made their way over to a late-model black Ford Navigator. There was another fellow of similar age, build, and dress as the first man in the driver’s seat. The first man held open the backseat door for Percy. Percy threw his black leather duffel onto the seat beside him as he slid into the vehicle. His escort closed the door and got into the front passenger seat. Percy settled himself into the backseat.

The driver turned around and greeted Percy. “Welcome to Montréal, Brother.”

“Thank you.” Percy said simply.

The young man in the passenger seat also turned around to speak to Percy. “The Grand Prior has put us at your disposal, Brother. How may we serve you? What is our destination?”

Percy replied, “We’re off to ensnare a hare once more. We have no time to waste. Did you bring the necessary equipment for our hunt?”

“Yes, Brother. All is stored in back. There is also a compact container to secure our catch and keep it from view until we return home.”

“Good.” Percy asserted.

“And our destination, Brother?”

As the driver made his way from the parking area, Percy answered, “To Lake Placid. Once the hare has fallen into our net, it will be easy to lure the fox into our trap.”
To Be Continued…

[notreallyme06]

Loving this so far. Great concept. One of my favorite series ever on the site!

[george_bound]

Ah, such a great building-up chapter...you don't miss a detail, mate

I have a very strong feeling that our Olympic lovers are on the cusp of getting ensnared...I'm wondering if Percy will get to give Simon his own special treatment, haha.

Hmmm, and who are all these rugby players? I'm gonna guess they've been sent to the Hypnotron to be reconditioned as the henchmen...big bulky rugby guys would be good in that role. But as for Andres, the Norwegian, I'm stumped...but I don't think he's as noble and altruistic as everyone things

Looking forward to the next installment!

[KidnappedCowboy]

Bound in Byzantine Bonds: A Simon DuWright of the RCMP Adventure
Chapter IV: The Abduction of the Biscuit-Blasting Beautician



Westmount, Montreal, Quebec: The Depths Below the Estate of Michael Palaiologos

Michael Palaiologos and deVere turned to the next cell along the corridor. As they approached, the guard/attendant entered the code on the side panel to let the steel grid door slide open. A rather narrow standing cage positioned in the center of the cell and bolted to the cold, concrete floor greeted the men as they entered. It was approximately 76” in height, 23” wide, and 14½” in depth. Barely contained within the cage stood a man naked except for his black and white hockey cup jockstrap. He was 6’2” tall and 202lbs in weight. He was bound in the signature black rope of the Brotherhood from his feet to his shoulders. His ankles were lashed together tightly. A coil of rope cinched his knees jointly and then led to more rope around his big thighs just below his perforated cup. Additional rope was coiled around his narrow waist and secured the man to the sides of the cage. An elaborate rope harness hitched his upper arms close to his sides and crisscrossed his noble chest and up around his shoulders over his broad back. Palaiologos walked around the cage to take in the backside of the cage and its yardbird. The rope over the man’s shoulders leashed his arms one over the other together from his wrist up along his forearms. The ends of the ropes were then entwined around the bars of the very cramped cage. A leather head-harness with a muzzle masked the man and prevented him from speaking in anything but garbled grunts. The man squirmed steadily within the confines of his imprisonment. He also seethed in anger!

Peter deVere stepped forward, and the man writhed more in the encumbered hamper in which he stood imprisoned. His eyes glowered in a storming stare at the manservant, who turned to Palaiologos and introduced the irate occupant of the cell within a cell. “Master, may I present Edouard Marbot, known to friend and foe alike as Eddie.”

Michael Palaiologos was still inspecting the rear of the cage, noting the size of Marbot’s magnificently muscular hindquarters and marveling how the man’s colossal can confined in the straps of his jock-cup strained against the steel bars of his clink. Marbot’s “host” cupped his right hand and goosed his guest in greeting! "Enchanté, Monsieur Marbot. Bienvenu chez moi!" (“Enchanted, sir. Welcome to my home!”)

Eddie Marbot winced forward at the pinch bumping the front of his cage only to be rattled in reverse since he was tethered to the bars of his lockup. And he fumbled a four-letter-word in a garbled grumble as a return to his “host’s” salutation!

“HHRRUUUMPPHHH…MMMPPHHUUMMMKKKUUU!”

Understanding the muffled mumblings all too well, Peter deVere grabbed Eddie’s honeycombed supporter and squeezed it. “How dare you hurl invectives at your “host” in reply to his warm welcome. I should crush your Tiny Tim along with your Tweedledee & Tweedledum to teach you a lesson in civility, you denizen of the discipline den!” Peter deVere snarled in defense of his master, calling out Eddie for his insolence.

Attempting to escape the squirrel grip, Marbot groused a gagged, gnarled gripe at deVere.
“GGGRRRRGGGRRRRRILLGGRREETTTUZZUZU!!!”

“Enough,” cried Palaiologos, “It is apparent the accommodations we have prepared for Monsieur Marbot do not meet his exacting standards. We could upgrade him to a more congenial crib.” Palaiologos confided to his manservant, who loosened his grip on Eddie’s cupped hard drive and nuts.

Palaiologos stepped closer to deVere and warned the detainee. “Monsieur Marbot, you will stew in your shackles in this stockade until I decide a more draconian enclosure of tighter dimensions than your present slammer is necessary to accommodate you.” Palaiologos continued firmly, “Be still, while my manservant tells me about your passage here.”

Chastised as he was, Eddie Marbot’s ceased his writhing and quieted his muzzled moaning for now. The Grand Prior turned to his chief novice to listen to his account. And so, Peter deVere plunged into the book of this Biscuit-Blasting Beautician’s abduction.

A Different Perspective

“Our research was extensive into Mr. Marbot’s background and routine. And I myself, Master, personally oversaw his rendition here, becoming very well acquainted with him. He plays hockey as a Wing for a professional team in Toronto. He’s a popular player among all, especially among his teammates. Eddie Marbot is known as a “Beauty” Or “Beautician, ” that is in the lingo of his game, a term his mates call a talented player on the ice who plays at an exceptional level: getting the puck or “biscuit” into the net, often scoring the winning goal, and working well with his team. Mr. Marbot has won the respect of the men he skates with and his opponents. Off the ice his mates greedily admire his romancing ways with so-called “puck bunnies,” the groupies who follow hockey players so intently and not always for the enjoyment of the sport itself. Few would suspect, however, that it is the bucks and not the does who catch Mr. Marbot’s eye…”

As deVere droned on, Eddie Marbot stared intently at him, knowing it was deVere who snared him...a man whom Eddie thought was so different from the others. His limbs were now pinned tightly to his athletic build, and a malignant muzzle and mask sadistically smothered his mouth. The proud Winger had been squeezed and strapped into some accursed, iron-barred coop. While deVere divulged his version of the abduction, Eddie himself began to recall the circumstances that led him to this hellish hole...

A “Puck Buck” Bamboozles Eddie

There I was at the end of February walking along the tunnel from the locker-room to the exit of the arena. I try to be the last one out, after all the other guys have showered, changed, and go out to celebrate. It’s getting old to me…lot of stuff is getting old to me! It’s hard keeping up this façade…Would it really hurt my career, if I did? Would the guys turn their backs on me? Would they hesitate to come to my defense when some Yahoos on another team decide to really check me on the ice? I dunno…Eddie, old boy, keep it up for a few more years. You’re getting paid a pile load of moolah for chasing pucks. You don’t need the heat…I don’t need to be some hero to some kid…just look out for Number One!

Yeah, the guys should be gone now from signing autographs and high-fivin’ kids…the puck bunnies ought to be gone too! I’m sure some of the guys…Malloy for sure…have gone off to show some hat tricks to them. Just hope that one guy’s there again…yeah, I hope he is. He’s been outside sometime now…just a little way down and across the street near the parking garage…standing away from the flood of fans waiting for us to emerge. First noticed him at the beginning of January, after that disaster of a game with Chicago. Frack! What a disaster…Couldn’t block that move and we lost Big Time! When I emerged from the tunnel, there he was leaning against the wall of a building across the street. I would have missed him completely, if he hadn’t clicked the heel of his boot against the brick of the building. I had walked just past him. When I heard the click, I turned around to see him looking at me.

“Sorry about the game,” He said, “You’ll get him next game!”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah…Cowley should have come to assist you. Didn’t make it in time. No reason why the crowd booed you! He screwed up” He was right. Cowley screwed up, but we’re mates, so I wasn’t going to razz on him to a stranger. As he spoke, he stepped into the light of the streetlamp. He was a looker. Could tell right off the bat. I wanted to get a closer look.

I glanced around to see if anyone was around before I answered him. No one was.

I complimented him on his eagle-eyed observation. “You’re sharp-eyed, but I still screwed up.” He was just shy of my height, but he had a muscular, imposing body…a tad beefier than mine. He had a strong jaw…nice dark brown hair. As he stepped closer, I noticed his green eyes…yeah, a real looker.

“I used to play a bit myself growing up and in school. You’re doing okay this season. Looks to me like you want to improve your record from last season…appearing in 81 games…25 goals…36 points. That’s your career high.”

I was impressed. “Thanks – you want an autograph or somethin’?”

“No. Just enjoy watching a good player. See you around.” He turned and walked away. I watched him for a moment admiring the view…Yeah…what a view! He had played hockey…he wasn’t jivin’ me. He had the build…big quads, big thighs, and a big butt. I went to get my car and drove home. Most nights after a game, I get myself off to relieve the stress of the game. I did it that night before bed. I pictured the guy that night as I cuffed my carrot.

He was there every night for each home game after that. I even noticed him from the ice in the seats near top of the lower level center ice once or twice. Those nights he critiqued my game. When I worked up the courage to ask him his name, he said his name was Pete. He razzed me one night for a minor penalty that sent me to the sin bin.

“Looks like the penalty box makes you squirm.”

“The ref was wrong…and yes, you’re right…never could stand close, confined spaces. They make my skin crawl”

“I’ll remember that,” he teased.

After two months of this back and forth banter and his image in my head giving me a hand each night before bed, I worked up enough courage to ask him to come home with me one night. So… after a game one night in late February, he was standing near the parking garage as usual.

“Would you like to see my place, Pete.”

“Sure,” he agreed, but he seemed reluctant to come with me into the parking garage. “I’ll wait here while you get your car.” Didn’t think much of it. As I drove out of the garage he was in the exact spot where we first talked...just down from the entrance of the garage. I pulled over and opened the door from the inside of the car to let him in.

“Nice car,” he said, as he climbed into the passenger side of my Porsche 911 Carrera S.

“Well, Toronto pays me the Big Bucks…got to spend it on somethin’.” I answered and drove home.

Those Big Bucks also made it possible for me purchase other luxuries, like a penthouse with certain advantages…two advantages being underground parking and a private elevator. And the two add up to privacy…I don’t have to be seen by anyone when I come or go. I like it that way. I want to make sure my secret doesn’t get out. Once I drove the Porsche into the garage, I guided Pete over to the elevator that went straight to the penthouse. We didn’t say much on the ride up. Once inside the apartment, though, with its stunning views of the Toronto skyline, harbor and lake in the distance, he let out a soft whistle, as I guided him to the sunken living-room. He sat on the sofa with the great expansive views before him.

“Nice place” was all he said.

“Would you like a drink?” I offered. He said a seltzer would be fine. I poured him and myself one. After I gave him the glass, I sat down on an easy chair angled next to the sofa.

“The view’s better from the sofa,” Pete was tempting me. I gave into his bait and moved to the sofa. We soon forgot the views of the Toronto skyline at night…

That first night we were all over each other. Pete knew I was scared, so he went easy. But he took charge. After making out on the sofa, he led me to my own bedroom, knowing the way to it as if by instinct. He rocked me all over that night, and he was careful. I told him that I kept rubbers and lube in the nightstand. After grabbing them, he pulled my legs over his shoulders, lubed me up, sheathed himself, and made love to me. Yes…love to me. He didn’t shag me…he made love to me…sweet, tender love.

I awoke in his arms the next morning.

Looking around my bedroom, Pete remarked on all the books in the bookcases built into the walls.

“It’s the way I escape.” I told him.

“Escape what?” Pete asked.

I told him my life’s story. My mother died, when I was five. It was just me and my father growing up in a small town in rural Ontario. My Old Man was a mean, nasty drunk. When I was thirteen, he caught me looking at pictures of men in a magazine. He ripped it from me and swore if he ever caught me looking at men like that again, he’d throw me out of the house. He said I was dirty…a pervert. People would laugh at me and I’d go to hell. He scared me out of my wits. And he made me scared of him too. So, I devoted myself to hockey and to studying, so I could get the hell out of that house and not look back. And I eventually did. I exceled in hockey in high school and I immersed myself in books when I wasn’t on the ice. And I stayed out of that bastard’s way. I won a scholarship to McGill and then got an offer to play professionally.

“And your old Man?”

He was still holding me. Without emotion I replied, “Drunk himself to death.”

I went on. “Books are an escape into another world for me. Dickens, Tolstoy, John Irving…they get to me. Then there were the authors who helped me to accept who I am…David Leavitt, Alan Hollinghurst, and this guy…” I sat up ad reached over him to pick up City of a Hundred Fires. Leafing through the pages until I found the poem Hola. Nestling back into Pete’s arms, I read it to him. “A saving quarter from a linted pocket…I have little defense against all this paradox. I could easily finish drowning tonight in the throat of waves, let their foamy mouths seal me in a sepulcher of coral. Or I could fuse with the fine quartz descending your green eyes, become a small dune in your palm and drown instead in the hola of your greeting…” Pete listened intently… stroking my hair, until I finished. We reclined in silence for a few minutes.

“Neither of us are of Spanish descent.” He whispered. “Who’s the poet.”

“But you have green eyes,” I laughed, “He’s Cuban-American from Miami…Richard Blanco…he speaks to my heart.”

And so began an affair of great intensity. Pete was at every home game then on, watching me from his lower level seat on center ice, and waiting every evening, leaning against the wall of the building next to the garage. Every Sunday night for the next seven weeks or so he came home with me to the penthouse, and we made love all night. Monday mornings we lay in bed together, me wrapped in his arms, and talked. I did most of it. To the first man in my life, I confessed that I was scared to come out of the closet…even now at the top of my career. Pete listened…never judging. He never talked about himself, and I didn’t ask. Just figured that since I was closeted and wanted to stay that way for the foreseeable future, I should let him have his secrets too. And I was so wrapped up in my own concerns to press him for details about himself. He did tell me his surname was deVere. Early on, I asked him about the small tattoo on his left pec…it was all black…two wrists crisscrossed and bound together with rope.

“It’s a fraternity I belong to,” he explained, “I’ll reveal its meaning to you someday.” He paused and added, “soon perhaps.”

Last Sunday night, he had a black leather duffle with him, when he got into the Porsche.

“Moving some stuff into my place?” I ribbed Pete, half hoping it might be true.

“Just my bag of tricks. You’ll find out,” he playfully answered me back.

I was awfully frisky, when we finally got to the penthouse. We went straight to the bedroom. He brought his black leather bag with him. Pete said he wanted to take charge, and he said I was to do whatever he told me to do.

Again, I was awfully frisky…

“Strip.”

“Yes, Sir” I quickly disrobed, getting friskier as I threw off each article of clothing. I tore my Toronto sweater off and tossed it aside, unbuckled, unzipped and shucked my trousers, until I stood there facing Pete in my CK boxer-briefs and ankle socks.

“I meant everything.”

I whipped off the underwear and socks. They landed by the bedside.

I stood there in all my glory. Pete then peeled off his clothes until he stood opposite me in black bikini briefs. He walked over to my dresser. As he walked over, I noticed his briefs rode up the crack of his beefy butt. Boy, was I ever ready to burp my worm! He rummaged around my underwear drawer. After an-ever-more electrifying moment or two for me, he found what he was looking for. Turning around to face me, he dangled from the fingers of his right hand one of my hockey cup style jockstraps. He threw it at me. I caught it.

“Put that on.”

I did. When I pulled it on, I adjusted it to fit right…smoothing the straps alongside my butt cheeks and fixing the perforated cup over my Johnson & Cojones.

“Good. Go lie down in the middle of the bed. Put your legs together.”

I did, as he told me to. Pete came over to the end of the bed with his duffle. He crouched down and opened it. He took out some black rope and tied my ankles together and then bound them to the footboard of my bed.

“Oh! This is getting interesting…” I commented, “and tight.” I thought to myself.

“Ssshhh! Stay quiet. Do as you’re told.”

Liking this too much, I shut up.

Pete took more rope from the bag and climbed onto the bed. He straddled me.

“Cross your wrists and put your arms over your head against the headboard.”

He lashed my wrists with the black rope and then cinched them to the headboard. I tested the bonds. Pete knew what he was doing. I was fastened solidly at my ankles and wrists to the bed. Still straddling me, Pete scooted down. I could feel his hardness against the perforated cup of my jock. Jeez Louise…my Johnson wanted release from that cup!

Pete started kissing and nuzzling me on my neck and face before our lips locked.

“Like this, Eddie?” He asked between smooches. Before I answered, he reached down from the bed and picked up my discarded ankle socks.

“Yeah,” I moaned, “What are you going to do with those?” I asked.

He balled them up together and ran the bundle across my lips and face, as I shook my head back and forth to prevent him from stuffing the socks in my mouth.

“Come on, Eddie, open up…nice and wide…Come On…”

With his left hand, Pete twisted my left nipple hard. I let out a gasp, and that was enough for him to jam the clump in my mouth.

He suddenly stopped. He climbed off me.

“GGGRGGGRRRWha…” I did not know what had happened. Pete got off the bed.

“Come Back,” I tried to say, but it came out gurgled and garbled because of the socks. I tried to spit them out, but the wad was too big, and Pete had really lodged it in my mouth. The socks wouldn’t budge.

Pete ignored my gagged puzzlement. He walked back to his duffle. He retrieved a small black case from it. He walked over to the nightstand and opened the kit. I turned my head towards him, trying to figure out what he was doing. By this time, I kept on grunting and squawking for him to let me go. He completely ignored me. Growing worried now, I tried to break free from the bonds, but the knots were too tight. I thrashed up and down on the bed, and I then saw what he had taken out of the kit.

A rubber band, a syringe and hypothermic needle, a small vial, some cotton swabs, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol…all which he neatly laid out side by side on the nightstand.

I was desperate now, tugging at my bonds to wrench free, bucking up and down on the bed, and screaming through the gag...

“GGGRRRLETHMEGMMMPPHHHH!!!”

Like clockwork, he grabbed my outstretched right arm, tapped it a few times to find a vein, then tied the rubber band tight at my elbow. Pete wet the swab with the alcohol rub and applied it to an area of my bicep. He filled the syringe and needle with whatever was in the vial. He stuck me with the needle and pressed down on the syringe.

I stopped struggling immediately. My breathing slowed. I stopped grunting. I could feel nothing. I could move nothing…I was completely paralyzed, yet still completely conscious. Pete stared down at me, and he took the balled up socks out of my mouth. Drool slid down both sides of my mouth. I could see him, follow him with my eyes. I could hear him breathing. And then he spoke.

“Well, Eddie, I did promise you that one day soon I would explain my tattoo and the significance of the fraternity it represents. That day has arrived.”

Pete crouched down until he was eye level to me. Pointing to the tattoo over his heart, he explained it to me. “This represents my complete devotion to the Brotherhood of the Black Rope. We are an ancient fraternity…how ancient…well only a trusted few know how truly far back in history our brotherhood goes. My Brothers and I are devoted to the art of bondage. We are well skilled from the time we become young men until we are very old men in the intricate expertise of binding men in inescapable subjugation to the Black Rope. We are also experts in subduing men into muffled submission to us. To that purpose the Priors and Abbot of our order require a steady supply of young men at the height of their strength, stamina, and endurance. These men are at the peak of physical condition…Men like you, Eddie”

I stared right at him, as he spoke. I heard the words…but couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. I was confused…scared…in shock. The man who so tenderly held me, stroked my hair, listened to me, comforted me. He wasn’t before me now. Pete was gone. This man was so cold, so clinical, so sinister. And I couldn’t do anything. What did he mean? Bondage? Muffled submission? Men like me? This man before me was cold-blooded.

“I must prepare you for transportation, Eddie. You are going on a journey to my Master’s home in Montreal. Tomorrow you will receive a new console for your living room. Two men will deliver it and unload it here in your penthouse. The crate in which it arrives will not be empty when the men remove it. You’ll be in it.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and I was screaming in my mind against him.

“Your secrecy around your true sexuality worked to our advantage. You wanted to make sure no one saw me with you. Well, I wanted the same thing. You were hiding in the closet, but I was hiding my true purpose. I made sure to remain just out of range of surveillance cameras at all times. The value the management of your high-rise places on the privacy its occupant so jealously guard ensures that all deliveries and deliverymen are coordinated by electronics remotely with no interaction with the staff of the building, if the occupants do not wish so. Once the truck arrives to deliver your new console, you…actually I in your place…will buzz them up from your laptop. I’ve carefully observed over the past weeks how you accept deliveries. And I’ve spied on you, when you entered your passcodes. Technology is a wonderful invention! But they always say to switch up your passcodes and don’t make them so obvious, Eddie. Tsk! Tsk! Using last season’s record of goals, assists, points, and penalties as a code was not a good idea. Still, the number of penalties you spent in the sin bin will come in handy later on for the purposes of the Brotherhood.”

I now cursed myself for my damned devotion to seclusion and to my record!

“Well, I must get to work to prepare you. The sedative will keep you paralyzed for the next eight hours. When it wears off, the delivery will have been made, and you will be ready for shipment tomorrow. And when it wears off, I will inject another dose to sedate you until you arrive at your final destination. Do not worry. It is a powerful sedative, but it has no lasting effects after it wears off.”

His words were cold comfort to me, as he went to work. He began by extracting more rope from the bag, then a leather mask, and finally a neoprene suit of sorts. He showed them to me as he took them out of that leather duffle of his, before placing each beside me on the bed. Still only dressed in his black bikini briefs, he went to work. This deceiver undid the ropes that held my wrists to the headboard and placed my still bound wrists on my belly with my hands cupping my perforated cup. He then undid the binds binding my ankles to the footboard of my bed. Pete made sure I was well secured at my ankles. He added more rope around my shins, my knees and then around my thighs just below my cup, that my Johnson still strangely strained against! He pinioned my bound wrists to my waist, and then tethered my upper arms to my sides. Next he unfurled the neoprene suit beside me. It looked like a very slim sleeping bag or a very tight sausage casing. Rolling me to my side, he positioned the sack under me, so he could slide me into it. And he did, maneuvering me into the dark hollow. He held it so…to bend, push, and twist my legs below my knees into the bottom portion, and then adjusted the material so the rest of my body slithered into the folds of the material. Once enveloped within its flaps, he turned me once more to one side and zipped up this sleazy sleeping bag from the back before laying me on my back once more. I was now tightly bound within a neoprene cocoon from my feet to my neck. When he finished, my creepy captor crawled next to me into bed. He picked up the collection of poems I had shared with him over the past few weeks. After reading for a time, he lay the book aside, and turned the switch of the lights in my bedroom off. In the darkness, I could sense him looking at me. Swathed as I was in that sick surfer’s sack, he drew me closer to him in a bear hug and similarly entwined his legs around my enfettered ones and promptly fell asleep. I lay there bound, bearhugged, and befuddled until sleep mercifully overcame me too.

At 8:00 am there were two other men in the bedroom, who were dressed in white overalls. I noticed that both men were almost identical in appearance of average height with muscular, compact bodies. Pete had dressed. He was wearing a black, tight-fitting turtleneck, fitted black trousers, and black military style tactical boots...the same the two other men had on. He ordered the men to bring the crate into the bedroom. Once the other men departed my bedroom to retrieve the crate, Pete turned his attention to me. I was still solidly shackled within the secured sleep socket, but the sedative was beginning to wear off. I couldn’t move tightly tied as I was, but sensation was slowly returning to my body, I could feel my toes at the bottom of the skintight sack. I noticed the black leather duffel which contained the instruments of my incarceration had been repacked with gear and other stuff. Curiously, my collection of Richard Blanco poems lay atop the pile in the still open haversack.

“Good Morning, Eddie.” Pete stood over me. “Permit me to explain what will next happen. You’re suited and ready for removal. I will shortly inject you with another dose of the sedative I administered to you last night. It will render you easier to transport. Once sedated, you will be placed in a crate. Do not worry. We will place an oxygen mask over you so that you may breathe easily until we have evacuated you from the penthouse and have you firmly fastened in the hold of the truck that will transport you to my Master’s estate in Montreal.”

“Uuuuhhh…” I was beginning to feel my voice return. My head lolled to the side, and I watched up at the man whom I believed could have been the one. Anguish, anger, betrayal, disgust all ran through me.

“I see the first paralysis is beginning to wear off on you, Eddie. I’ll finish explaining, before administering the tranquilizer again. You may wonder how we might get away with kidnapping a star hockey player like you. Well, we have made various arrangements to account for your disappearance. They are similar to accounts that we compose for other athletes we abduct. For instance, you will shortly meet a fellow fettered like you will permanently be at my Master’s home. He is Tommy Neville…perhaps you know him already…well the world will soon learn that the chaste and devout Mr. Neville has decided to give up his sports career to pursue souls for his Maker in remote corners of the world. The world too will soon learn that you, Eddie, have turned your back on your hockey career to travel the world…in your case in order to find yourself. You see, Eddie, your life in the closet provides the Brotherhood with the perfect alibi to cover your abduction as a journey of self-discovery. Your sports agent will receive a detailed letter tomorrow explaining your decision. Your team’s owners will be outraged. The return of a portion of your multi-million-dollar contract will assuage that anger. Your fans will be disappointed, but we have created a social media presence for you, which will comfort them. Your social media will picture you travelling the world, becoming more attuned to yourself and teasing your fans with a flicker of hope that you might one day make a comeback. Technology, again, is a marvelous design. All those images of you in various parts of the world…so easy to create…Fake News! People are so gullible, as you yourself may be realizing. And as for the penthouse…well you’ve rented it to a gay couple. The men are members of the Brotherhood, and they will use it as a base of operations here in Toronto. We already have our eyes on 24-year-old scrum-half playing rugby here…”

“Uuuggghhh…wh…” I could start to form words, but Pete placed a finger to my lips to silence me.

“Be quiet, Eddie.”

With all my strength, I pushed my head down to escape his finger and gasped, “Why…you…us?”

“I am completely devoted to the Brotherhood of the Black Rope, Eddie. I cannot let my emotions for others interfere with the mission of our fraternity.”

After his coldly, clinical explanation of the last few moments, Pete did something next which blindsided me. He poured a glass of water, held my head up, and helped me take a drink. He then returned the glass to the nightstand and turned once more to gaze down on me. Pete bent over and cupped my chin in his hand. For the barest flash of a moment I saw something in his green eyes that gave a lie to his cunning. He kissed me softly on my lips, before standing upright.

I was thoroughly confused, but before I could form any more words to speak, Pete picked up the mask on the bed at my side. It was a leather head-harness with a muzzle. He quickly strapped it stiffly around my face and over my head. A rubber knob behind the muzzle filled my mouth and prevented me from speaking further. Pete next prepared that crafty concoction to freeze me. I watched hopelessly, as he tapped a vein in my neck, swathed my skin smoothly with the rubbing alcohol, and injected me again as he had the night before. I was instantly incapacitated and became a silent witness to the extinction of the life I knew, while a tear fell down my cheek behind the mask.

To Be Continued…

[privateandrews]

wow , this just keeps getting better and better..

[KidnappedCowboy]

wow , this just keeps getting better and better..

Thank you for the compliment,

It's awfully nice of you to take the time to post some feedback, [mention]privateandrews[/mention]



I wish I'd hear from more.

[george_bound]

Hmmm... how did I miss this update!!

Eddie seems like a very hot hockey jock, for sure
I do really really enjoy how we're given the details of the captives' restrained conditions in the Estate AND then the henchmen are required to recount, in full detail, how the captives were abducted and transported. I think the scheme to abduct Eddie is soooo hot!

Looking forward to finding out more about future captured jocks... and of course the taking of our Olympic Lovers

[KidnappedCowboy]

Chapter V: Flights and Arrivals


Westmount, Montreal, Quebec: The Depths Below the Estate of Michael Palaiologos


Peter deVere was winding down his relation of the abduction and removal of Edouard “Eddie” Marbot from his penthouse apartment in Toronto to the depths below the Montreal estate of Michael Palaiologos…

“Once I sedated Mr. Marbot, I affixed a breathing apparatus over his face. The two novices and I then placed him in the crate and took him from his penthouse apartment to the truck waiting in the garage below. I travelled in the hold of the truck with Mr. Marbot. When we were well out of the city limits, I opened the container and removed the oxygen mask from him. Although the paralyzing sedative slows breathing and a leather head-harness with a muzzle gagged him, Mr. Marbot’s could breathe without difficulty. If we were stopped on the journey here by law enforcement, I could easily and quickly reapply the oxygen mask to him and reseal the container. We carefully maintained the speed limit at all times to avoid any entanglements with law enforcement, and we arrived in Montreal just over five hours after we left. Mr. Marbot was still immobilized from the drug.

“As is usual with all your “guests,” Master, who arrive here at the estate, we prepared Mr. Marbot for his quarters. We removed him from the neoprene sleep sack, untied him, and took his hockey cup jockstrap off to clean the garment. We then shackled Mr. Marbot naked to an examination table to allow Dr. Richelieu to examine him. Leather straps held his ankles and wrists to the sides of the table, while more leather bands held his chest and thighs down. We left the harness gag on him, until the doctor was ready to examine his mouth, teeth, eyes, and ears. Once the paralytic inoculation wore off completely, Dr. Richelieu began his examination. Mr. Marbot grew agitated during the exam, and I and the two novices held him down further, until the doctor completed his scrutiny. When the doctor was ready to inspect Mr. Marbot’s head area, I removed the harnessed muzzle. As Dr. Richelieu moved in close to examine his eyes, Mr. Marbot spat at him.

“You may regret having done that,” Dr. Richelieu told the hockey player, wiping the spittle from his face.

Turning to me, the doctor ordered Mr. Marbot to be stifled with a spider, open-mouthed gag to preserve access to his mouth, but to prevent him from spewing forth spittle again. As I applied the gag, I informed Mr. Marbot that we would punish his incivility to Dr. Richelieu much as a referee would penalize him for his infractions on the ice.

“Our penalty box is much more restrictive than any sin bin on the side of the ice-rink that you have yet experienced,” I warned him. I then ordered the novices to prepare the standing cage for Mr. Marbot’s quarters.”

“Ah…” Michael Palaiologos interjected, “Now I understand why Mr. Marbot is thus confined. How resourcefully ingenious of you.”

“Thank you, Master,” deVere acknowledged and then continued…

“The doctor determined that Mr. Marbot was in excellent health and the paralytic drug had no lasting effects on him. When he had finished his examination, we un-manacled Mr. Marbot from the table, put leg restraints around his ankles to hobble him, pulled him to a seated position, and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. We frog-marched him to the Shower Room, where I personally bathed him. Exhaustion had begun to set into Mr. Marbot from the ordeal of his abduction followed by the probing and poking of his examination. He was showing less and less resistance. When I finished cleansing him, his hockey cup jockstrap had been laundered. Removing the ankle restraints. I put the protective cup on him once more…”

“Yes, deVere, he looks so macho in it,” the Grand Prior commented, as he cupped and gently squeezed the cupped jockstrap containing Eddie’s family jewels. Eddie mewled nervously into his gag as Palaiologos manhandled him so.

“We then bound Mr. Marbot’s upper body in the intricate webbing that now binds him. We replaced the spider, open-mouth gag with the original leather head harness muzzle. I took Mr. Marbot by his left elbow and escorted him to his “room,” Sir. Once we arrived just outside the door here, I let Mr. Marbot take in his surroundings as the novices finished bolting his penalty box to floor. He began to struggle and pull away. I motioned another novice to hold him on his right side in the event Mr. Marbot decided to bolt. I explained to him that his expectoration on Dr. Richelieu demanded punishment, and hence we were consigning him to a sin bin of sorts. I reminded Mr. Marbot that he once told me that close, confined quarters gave him the heebie-jeebies. I further explained that we could place him under tighter constraints, if he misbehaved again. Even though he was bound, gagged, and held between me and the novice, Mr. Marbot remained defiantly silent and still. Once the novices had completed their work, we walked Mr. Marbot to just outside the narrow, standing cage. We needed to turn him around to get him into the pen. While I held his head down to prevent injury, the novices packed him into the enclosure. Before locking him in, the novices tied up his lower body in the manner you see, and we then fastened Mr. Marbot at the waist and by his bound hands to the iron bars. I then locked the door, and we left Mr. Marbot in contemplation of his new surroundings.”

“Well done, deVere,” Michael Palaiologos praised his manservant, “Your mission has been a complete success. I hope Mr. Marbot appreciates your attention to his details and your personal involvement in bringing him here.”

“Thank you, Master.” deVere expressed his gratitude.

Eddie Marbot finished his own recollection of his fateful meeting of Pete deVere and the circumstances that brought him here, as the man who had deceived him so finished his account of Eddie’s kidnapping. But appreciation was not the reaction he felt towards this man. Anger boiled within him – but so many other emotions did as well – amongst them confusion and hopelessness.

“What did these fiends want with me and the other athletes?” Eddie wondered.

His attention was drawn once more to his backstabber and the man who referred to himself as Eddie’s “host.”

“Before we leave Mr. Marbot, I think his gag should be changed,” Palaiologos said to deVere, “Yes…Mr. Marbot should experience the seal of our newly fashioned sticky tape.”

Reaching into his pocket, Eddie’s “host” took out a spongey object in the form of a small hockey puck. “And he should chew on this behind his sealed lips.” Nodding to the attendant novices, deVere took the spongey puck from his Master’s hand and gave it to one, while another novice went to retrieve the Paste of Palaiologos.

While they waited, Palaiologos explained his plans for the rest of that day to deVere. “After this, I will visit Dr. Richelieu in his laboratory. I’ll welcome our most recent guests, the twins, later. I’ll also receive our other guests then and in the next few days.”

The novices returned and prepared to execute their Master’s wishes. The cage was unlocked, and they removed the leather harness from Eddie’s head. Before the novices inserted the “biscuit” into his mouth and tape-gagged him with the infernal plaster, Eddie drew in some belabored breaths.

“Come, deVere…the novices will oversee the rest of this.” Palaiologos commanded his manservant. Both men turned and were just outside the door of the cell.
“You were different from the others,” Eddie called hoarsely from behind.

Peter deVere turned his head back to look at Eddie. He looked at the soundly secured man captive within the dimensions of that diabolic den. For a split second, a look of anguish crossed over deVere’s face. Palaiologos turned to study his manservant’s reaction and to appraise deVere’s response to Eddie’s plea. Peter deVere quickly recovered his detached demeanor and turned to his Master.

“Dr. Richelieu awaits you, Sir.”

With that, both men left the novices to muffle Eddie with the morbid mucilage in his cell within a cell. Eddie’s appeal to the man he once revealed his soul to went unanswered.

In the corridor outside the cells of the kidnapped men, Palaiologos parted company with deVere to consult with Dr. Richelieu. Peter deVere waited for the novices to finish gagging Eddie. Once they were finished, deVere entered the code on the side panel closing the steel-doors of the cell and sealed the hockey player inside for the night. Novices would monitor him, as well as Tommy Neville, the Leicester twins, and other “guests” throughout the night. Early in the morning, they would be fed, their bodily functions attended to, and exercised, before they were once again restrained, shackled and wrapped in silenced imprisonment. Peter deVere boarded the elevator from this dungeon to ascend to his own quarters. His leather duffel had been placed there earlier after his arrival. He unpacked the valise, and he placed the collection of books he took from Eddie’s penthouse apartment on his own nightstand. Tired from the mission, deVere stripped down to his black bikini briefs and climbed into bed. He picked up one of the books, leafing through the volume until he found what he was looking for. Lying against the headboard of his bed, deVere recited the poem “Hola”…the poem Eddie had once read to him…

“Tonight Gemini is two fireflies hovering about my fingertip and I could be Polaris, a moon, a grain of sand just the same. I have little defense against this paradox. I could easily finish drowning tonight in the throat of waves, let their foamy mouths seal me in a sepulcher of coral. Or I could fuse with the fine quartz descending in your green eyes, become a small dune in your palm and drown instead in the hola of your greeting…Tonight I sleep with the taste of your salt, with a grit in my teeth.”


Peter deVere put the book down back on the nightstand. He turned the lights off in the bedroom, and he turned on his side under the covers. Peter always slept well, after a successful mission in the knowledge that his prey had been trapped successfully. Tonight was different. Peter was troubled throughout the night with unsettling dreams, and he awoke toward dawn, sensing an empty pit growing in his core.

Friday Morning: Vancouver International Airport Air Canada Flight

Simon DuWright arrived at Vancouver Airport by 6:45 am for his 9:05 am flight to Montreal. He dressed in business casual for the flight…white button-down shirt under a fitted navy merino wool V-neck sweater, fitted khaki, flat-front trousers, and brown military style tactical boots. He wore his new leather bomber. He boarded with his Yukon duffel and Harper rucksack with the valise safely tucked away inside in tow, so he would not have to wait for his luggage in Montreal. Due to his powerful build, handsome face and ever-charming smile, the boarding agent assigned him a seat next to the Emergency Exit. Simon was grateful for the extra leg room. And the middle seat remained vacant next to him. After stowing his duffel in the overhead bin, exchanging pleasantries with the man seated on the aisle, and tucking his rucksack under the seat in front of him, Simon settled in for the five-hour flight with that morning’s newspapers.

The RCMP in Ottawa had advised the Leicester twins’ tennis coach not to speak to the press about the young men’s disappearance, and so far, the coach had followed that guidance. There were no stories in the papers about the rising tennis players. The Sports Page, however, was filled with stories and columns on two professional athletes who had abruptly decided to end their careers in pursuit of other, more personal goals. Simon read about the American “Phenom” in both football and baseball – Tommy Neville – who decided to leave it all to become a missionary in remote corners of the world. The Canadian hockey player – Eddie Marbot – had also suddenly resolved to hang up his stick and skates to travel the globe in pursuit of a deeper understanding of himself. The teammates of both men were gob-smacked at their decisions. Neither had talked of making such momentous moves with them, and they could offer no reason for the men’s actions to the press. Sports columnists were divided in their opinions on the wisdom of Neville’s and Marbot’s choices with some calling them selfish for leaving mates and fans alike in the lurch and others applauding them for seeking higher purposes in life. The agents of both men had announced their respective clients’ decisions, and social media accounts already recorded the movements of the men in rather obscure areas of the world. One intrepid reporter, however, noted that the social media accounts for both Tommy Neville and Eddie Marbot had been recently set up and suggesting the players had made hasty decisions.
Simon sat back in his seat taking all this in. He found it curious that neither athlete had spoken beforehand to any friends, family, agents, team owners, management, their mates, or the press about their decisions. Neville was devoted to reaching the top of a sports career in baseball. To leave it all behind as the season was about to begin…And Marbot doing the same, but in the midst of the hockey season. And this reporter who discovered that their social media presence was of such recent vintage. No –the more Simon thought – the more he suspected that the Brotherhood of the Black Rope was connected to these stories.

“Ye gods,” Simon intuited, “this feral fraternity has its tenacious tentacles spread everywhere! If they’ve gotten their clutches into these poor men – We’ll free them, if that beastly brotherhood has bushwhacked them, as they have the Leicester twins!” Simon was now more than ready to put the fix on the fettering fanatics!

Friday Afternoon, Lake Placid, New York

Johnny Trudeau and his team finished their training at the Mt. Van Hoevenberg Olympic Bobsled Run Friday afternoon, and he was looking forward to a quiet weekend ahead. His teammates were heading off to New York City, and they had asked him to accompany them. Johnny begged off on the offer, preferring to catch up on his sleep. His only other activities besides slumber that he planned were an easy run tomorrow morning, his Kindle with the latest Josh Lanyon mystery downloaded to his Kindle and catching up with some Netflix shows. The Lodge would be his alone, until the lads came back late Sunday night.

During the Canadian team’s afternoon training, there was the usual crowd of tourists observing their runs. Included in the crowd (unbeknownst to Johnny) were the two men who collected Reginald Percy at Montreal International Airport. They had driven straight from the airport to Lake Placid, and their contacts had provided a safehouse to plan their operation. Not wanting to arouse the suspicions of Simon DuWright’s sexy, slider boyfriend, Percy stayed there, while his underlings surveilled Johnny’s movements. Off to the side of a crowd of youngsters wanting the Olympic hero’s autograph, the two overheard Johnny’s teammates finalize their plans.

“Johnny, you sure you don’t want to come with us to the Big Apple this weekend, eh?”

“No thanks, man! I’m looking forward to catching up with my Z’s and some good reads and shows. I plan nothing harder than a run tomorrow morning!”

“Okay. Well, we’ll drop you off at the Lodge, pick up our stuff, and then you’re all by lonesome until Sunday night!”

The two manhunting minions of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope looked at each other, pleasantly surprised at their good fortune. They returned to the safehouse to report to Percy.

“What luck! The ginger-haired bobsledder could not have made our work easier for us. Johnny Trudeau told me all about his training the night I accompanied him and DuWright to dinner in Vancouver. If he’s true to form – and these Olympic athletes always are steadfast in their devotion to training – he will start his run at 6 tomorrow morning. We’ll follow him in the SUV from a safe distance out of sight until the right opportunity to snare him. Do you have the Ultranet-HDs…the net guns?

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Prepare them. We hunt tomorrow morning. When we return from trapping, we will have netted ourselves a very large animal…a large, red-haired Canadian, who in turn we will use to bait more prized game.”

Friday Evening: Montreal

Simon’s flight from Vancouver arrived on time in Montreal at 4:42 pm, around the same time as Johnny was finishing his afternoon training in Lake Placid. Representatives from the RCMP’s Tennis Team met him, as Simon exited the terminal and took him to the hotel where the team would be staying. There he met the five other members of the team, including Hugh Warwick who was to be Simon’s roommate during training before the tournament. At the hotel there was an orientation meeting and dinner over which Simon got acquainted with the man he’d bunk with. Hugh Warwick was a beefy man for a tennis player at 6’2” tall and about 220lbs. Warwick was an Inspector on the Force in Winnipeg, Manitoba. He was also a strikingly handsome man with light brown hair and brown eyes. Warwick had a firm handshake and warm smile.

“So, we’ll be roomies for the next two weeks,” he said to Simon in greeting.

“Yes. I don’t snore,” Simon replied, before adding after a beat, “too loudly.” Simon sensed that he was going to like Hugh Warwick, but he had to maintain a certain distance due to the mission.

During the orientation and over dinner afterwards, Simon and Hugh got to know each other, discussing their early training with the Force, their tennis experiences, and they found that they shared a common interest in Irish Rugby. Sadly, Simon discovered that Hugh did not share his support of Connacht. Hugh was a member of The Red Army…a Munster supporter!

“But we both stand tall with Ireland against England!” Hugh exclaimed, patting Simon on the back.

As the orientation dinner wound down, one of the team’s managers rose to make an announcement. “We have received word that one of the tournament’s biggest sponsors has invited us to a reception at the home of the owner of the company on Monday evening. Byzantine Exports has provided much of the backing for this year’s tournament and the owner of the company lives in a rather exclusive suburb of Montreal. And he wants to personally greet all six members of the team. It should be a splendid affair.”

Simon looked around at his other mates on the Force’s tennis team to gauge their reaction to this news. They were all fit, young men, similar in build to Simon and Hugh Warwick. They turned to each other and expressed gratitude at the invitation and high hopes of success at the tournament. After dinner they went up to their hotel rooms, since the weekend would be devoted to training. Simon and Hugh’s room had two, large, double beds, a console with a TV and clothes drawers, a small dinette with a mini-fridge, and a small sitting area. Simon asked Hugh, if he minded if Simon took the bed at the far side of the room. Hugh replied that it mattered not to him. Simon placed his duffel and rucksack on the side of the bed next to the window.

“I am going to shower before bed, Hugh. It’s been a long day.” Displaying his usual nonchalance about undressing in front of other men, Simon shucked his clothes off to his 2xist briefs and walked to the bathroom.

Hugh Warwick was lying on his bed idly switching the channels on the TV control. He heard Simon turn the shower on in the bathroom. After waiting a moment more, Hugh quietly arose from the bed and walked over to the other side of the room, where Simon had stored his duffel and rucksack. Carefully listening to make sure the water was still running in the shower, Hugh crouched down and opened Simon’s rucksack. Seeing the valise, Simon carefully took it out and saw that it was locked. He looked on the nightstand, but there was no key to be found. Hearing Simon turn the water off in the shower, Hugh quickly returned the valise to the rucksack, and made his way back to his bed. Toweling the hair on his head dry, Simon shortly thereafter emerged from the bathroom to find Hugh still channel-surfing.

“Anything worth watching, Hugh?”

“No, Simon. Since you’re done, I’ll head in to take care of things.”

When Hugh finished, he found Simon already asleep. Hugh quietly got into his own bed and turned the light off on the nightstand between the two beds. Hugh had troubled sleeping that night. He always considered himself a virtuous man of character, who would never break the law, let alone betray a fellow officer of the Force. But his kid brother Danny was in danger, and he was about to put everything on the line to bring his kid brother home safe.

Saturday Morning, Lake Placid

Johnny woke up at 5:30 am to get ready for his run. After his morning ablutions, Johnny threw on a runner’s jock, then Under-Armour long tights, a UA compression shirt with a runner’s surge, and a warm full zip over it. After putting some no-show socks on, he laced up his Asics. To keep his red-haired head warm, Johnny capped himself with a red and white runner’s beanie emblazoned with the Maple Leaf. By 5:50 am he was outside the Lodge stretching to warm up. And by 6:05 am he was off on his run. Trailing behind him just out of his sight was a late-model black Ford Navigator.

It was a glorious Adirondack morning. The temperature was about 36°F, but the sun had just risen, and it shone through evergreens and birch trees as Johnny got into his run. He was following a trail out by Adirondack Loj Road and was soon lost in his thoughts gazing out at the High Peaks in the distance. Johnny prayed that Simon would be safe on whatever mission took him away this time. But Johnny knew that what Simon did was important – Boy! Did he know that firsthand. Simon had saved him from the crafty clutches of Ivan Whiplashtski and his Slobobian sidekicks. Shivers still ran down Johnny’s spine thinking just how close he and Simon came from getting slashed apart by the sawmill’s blade. A smile though soon came to Johnny’s face, as he thought that afterwards they had gotten to know each other. Simon stayed at Johnny’s side, as he came out of the closet to the world. And now, Johnny was falling in love with that oversized Boy Scout. Johnny got all tingly, whenever Simon called him his “Cuddly Bear.” And he enjoyed calling Simon “Inspector,” in return.

So lost was Johnny in his thoughts that he did not notice the Ford Navigator pass him on the road and slow down to wait until Johnny caught up. The SUV came to a halt on the side of the road. The window on the front passenger side slid down, as the Canadian bobsledder trotted up.

“Excuse me, Sir…we’re a bit lost.”

Johnny stopped and caught his breath. He looked over to see two men in the front seats, and there appeared to be a third man in the backseat behind the front-seat passenger. Johnny couldn’t really see much of him, because the windows were tinted very dark and raised in the back. After a moment, he responded, “How may I help you?”

“We’re on our way to Averyville. Do we follow this road?
“Well you can,” Johnny started to explain and walked towards the passenger side. “You just have to drive…” As he explained, Johnny had leaned onto the passenger door and glanced into the backseat.

“We just have to drive…? You were saying.” The man in the passenger seat said.

Johnny recognized the man in the backseat.

He suddenly called out, “Reginald? What are you doing…” Wait…something wasn’t right. Reginald Percy couldn’t be in the backseat. And – all of a sudden – Simon’s suspicions about Percy flooded back to Johnny. He needed to get out of here – Fast! Johnny immediately started running away as quickly as he could from the SUV into an adjacent field. His adrenaline was in overdrive.

The men had exited the vehicle. Percy and the driver each had an Ultranet HD rifle in their hands.

“I’ll fire first, and then you.” Percy ordered the driver.

As Johnny ran for his life, Percy took careful aim and fired the gun. After a moment or two, the diver fired his weapon. They launched weighted nets at the fleeing bobsledder, and those nets quickly found their target. The first net enveloped Johnny in its mesh and the weights catching him by its heaviness. As he began to slow and stumble, the second net came down, further entangling him. This time the weights brought him down completely. As he fell, he spun around and around on the earth trammeling him in the nylon netting.

By then, Percy and the other two men had caught up to him. Johnny struggled to free himself from the snare, but he couldn’t. He looked up aghast at the sight of the man who greeted him. Percy climbed on top of him. Johnny thrashed about to get Percy off. He couldn’t. The last thing Johnny saw was Percy taking a soaked cloth and smothering Johnny’s netted nose and mouth with it. It smelled something slightly sweet, and Johnny knew he wouldn’t be able to fight Percy much more. He tried not to breath, but it was useless. As he grew dizzy from the chloroform, Johnny’s thoughts turned to Simon.

“Keep him safe, God – Oh! Please keep Simon safe!”

“Sweet Dreams, Johnny,” Simon cooed, as Johnny lost all consciousness.

Working quickly before anyone came upon them, Percy and the two men picked up their netted and comatose prey. Bundling him into the cargo-hold of the Ford Navigator, they drove back to the safehouse and into the attached garage. They closed the garage door before removing the knocked-out bobsledder. Once inside their hideout, the men untangled Johnny from the meshing and laid him out on his stomach on a table. Using long lengths of the signature bonds of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope, the men bound Johnny’s wrists, and then spun the strands around his arms and across his back and then over his chest to meet at his roped wrists once more. Using more tresses of that terrible twine and starting around Johnny’s narrow waist, they entwined his toned tush and crocheted his crotch before threading his herculean thighs together tightly. Gathering up more of those foul fetters, the men knotted Johnny’s legs together above and below his knees and anchored his ankles side by side. When they finished tying the muscular, ginger-headed Olympian up, Percy and his partners turned the man over.

They now prepared to gag Johnny. Percy had received instructions on how to gag the bobsledder the night before from Michael Palaiologos himself. While his underlings prepared the duct-tape laced with the Paste of Palaiologos, Percy removed his shirt. He had worked up quite a sweat that morning. Percy now took a cloth and “washed” his upper body with it, meticulously moistening the material with his musk. He then carefully balled the cloth up in his hands. The Grand Prior had explained that the abducted ballplayer Tommy Neville had become enthralled to his guard/attendant Martin Conyers, after a rag soaked similarly – but with Conyers’s scent –stifled him behind the seal of the peculiarly paralyzing adhesive. Working together with the elements of the Paste of Palaiologos, the man-scented fabric had the effect of binding captive to captor intimately. The Grand Prior hoped that Johnny Trudeau would become submissively and erotically attached to Reginald Percy and draw his affections away from Simon DuWright!

Percy did not wish to waste time with idle chitchat, let alone a detailed explanation of why he had been kidnapped, once Johnny began to stir from his forced slumber. Slowly Johnny came to, and he began to remember what had happened. He found himself in inexpiable bondage, and he began to thrash about on the table.

“Percy! Let me…MMMPPPPHHH!!!!”

Percy stuffed the balled-up cloth into Johnny’s mouth. His two assistants then wrapped the putridly pasted tape over his mouth and around his head. For a moment, Johnny glared in anger at his captors, before settling into a drugged stupor. Somnolent once more, the trussed-up and muffled athlete was picked up by the three members of that infernal association and nestled into a cushioned cavity in the cargo-hold of the SUV. Before closing the hidden pocket, Percy oversaw the other men apply an appropriate breathing apparatus to Johnny. Once Johnny was hidden from view, Percy and his subordinates made ready to depart Lake Placid. By 10:00 am they were on their way back to Montreal. They crossed the border without incident, and by that afternoon Johnny Trudeau was at the estate of Michael Palaiologos, a colleague of Ivan Whiplashtski. This man may have been more subtle in his methods of mayhem than his Slobobian counterpart, but Johnny would soon realize Michael Palaiologos was no less merciless!

To Be Continued…

[george_bound]

Well well well, Johnny has been kidnapped so the "fun" can begin! And by Percy, haha, I like the use of his sweat-soaked shirt and its significance. Now just to get Simon to join him

Looking forward to more

[KidnappedCowboy]

Wrangler Lassoed Part II: Out of The Frying Pan and Into the Fire
And
Chapter VI: Bound in Byzantine Bonds: A Cowboy for The Collection
A Crossover Story to a Simon DuWright of the RCMP Adventure

I decided to have an earlier tale of abduction cross over to this tale. To catch up, you may want to read Wrangler Lassoed

Waylaid Wrangler

Tied up in a ball and on the floor bed of a pickup truck, Bucky Johnson could not see where the men who had kidnapped him were headed, but he suspected it was up into the mountain country above Cactus Springs. All he could do was stare up at the starry night, as he shifted his gaze from the short man keeping watch over him. Bucky tried to scoot away from his captor, but the short guy would have none of that. Every time Bucky tried to squirm further from the man’s reach, the short fella would grab Bucky by the waist of his wranglers and pull him in closer. For a short guy, Bucky’s captor was powerfully built.

“No use there, Cowboy, lassoed as we’ve got you, you’re not going anywhere. Relax and enjoy the ride! I certainly will, except I’ll enjoy the scenery right here…next to me in the truck.” As he said this, the short guy patted Bucky’s muscular hindquarters encased in the denim of his tight jeans.

“Jeez Louise! You sure have a cute caboose, cowboy! Can’t wait to hook it to my engine later.”

“MMMPPPHHHGITMMPPHHWAYMMPPHHHFRMMMPPPHHME!”

“Not quite sure what you’re telling me, cowboy, but no I’m not going to get away from you!”

Despite his muffled protests, Bucky had to endure the lascivious groping of his butt. After about a two-hour drive into the mountains, the truck stopped. Bucky heard the cab door open and his other abductor walk around to the back of the truck, where he opened the tailgate door. Bucky saw another man next to the driver. He had four horses with him, one of which carried what looked like supplies on its back. The short man got out and then pulled Bucky close to the edge of the truck bed. Taking a knife out, he cut the rope tying Bucky loose from the balled-up position. He also cut the rope that pinioned Bucky’s arms to his chest. Bucky’s wrists and ankles remained firmly tethered together, but he felt relief from being scrunched up as he had been for the last few hours. Both men then pulled Bucky into a seated position on the tailgate door. Worn out, Bucky could offer no resistance. The taller of the men spoke up.

“Okay, Johnson. Here’s what’s going to happen. We can’t go any further in the truck. My colleague Carlsen and I are going to take you the rest of the way on horseback. Once we get to where we’re going, Mr. Romanov wants you to stay put until he decides what to do with you. You’re a young, strong buck, so we know you could resist, but…” the man pointed to the revolver in his shoulder holster, “you won’t. Understand?”

Bucky slowly nodded that he did.

“Good Boy. You’ll be riding Jigsaw the pinto gelding. Any tricks from you, Johnson, you might end up like him. Entiendes?”

Again, Bucky slowly nodded. He knew now was not the chance to put up a fight. With him tied up and gagged against three armed men…Bucky didn’t like those odds. He’d wait for a chance later. Plus, itching as he was to get away from these hombres and thwart Romanov’s plans, Bucky did not want to lose his cojones.

Patting Bucky’s cheek, the taller man responded, “Good Boy. By the way, I’m Ramirez.”

“NTMMMMPPPHHHPLUZMMMPPPHHTOMMMPPHHEETU!”

“Not sure what you said, Cowboy, but I reckon it wasn’t ‘Pleased to meet you,’” Ramirez laughed in response. The third man gave Ramirez a goose-down bomber jacket. “Johnson, it gets cold up here at night, and we have a couple hours’ ride ahead of us. Mr. Romanov want you to remain healthy. We’re going to untie your wrists, so you can put this jacket on. No tricks. Our colleague will keep his revolver aimed at you. Okay, Carlsen, slice the ropes from his wrists.”

Carlsen sliced the ropes. Bucky massaged his wrists, before slowly putting the bomber on. It was tight, but he managed to zip it up part way.

“Carlsen, tie his hands up again and pinion his arms to his side.” Carlsen roughly grabbed Bucky’s wrists together and wound the rope firmly around his wrists. He took the zipper to the bomber and zipped the jacket all the way shut.

Winking at Bucky, Carlsen whispered, “Don’t want you catching cold, sugar!”

“Knock it off, Carlsen! Finish ropin’ him, then get our buck here bound in the saddle.”

Carlsen laced the rope around Bucky’s upper arms and across his upper torso. As Carlsen cinched the rope tight across his manly chest, Bucky could feel the ropes squeeze his pectoral muscles in a vice-like grip between the bands. It felt like his nipples would slice through the nylon material of the bomber! Once he had secured Bucky’s upper body, Carlsen sliced the ropes around Bucky’s ankles and escorted him to the horse. With a nudge of the revolver from the third man and a push from Carlsen, Bucky mounted Jigsaw. His bound wrists were then tethered to the horn of the saddle. Carlsen then mounted the gelding, adjusting himself and Bucky in the same the saddle, so that Carlsen was pressed up against the bound and gagged rancher. Carlsen rubbed his scruffy cheeks up against Bucky’s neck and murmured, “This should be enjoyable.”

Ramirez and the third man mounted their horses. Ramirez led the way on a trail northward further into the mountains. Carlsen and Bucky followed. Tied as he was in the saddle, Bucky could offer no resistance as Carlsen pressed tightly against him. Bucky was a strapping, muscular, and well-built man. Carlsen was stocky and brawny. The saddle barely accommodated the two. The third man brought up the rear leading the packhorse. They travelled in silence. Despite the cold, Bucky had started to sweat under the puffer jacket. He hated to admit it, but he was scared. Carlsen had wrapped his arms around Bucky, as he held the reins of Jigsaw. Carlsen held the abducted rancher so close, that Bucky felt the man’s hardness pressing up against his butt in the saddle. It sent shivers down Bucky’s back, and his captor sensed Bucky’s fear.

“Enjoying that, cowboy?” Carlsen whispered into the captive cowboy’s ear, “Just wait until we’re at our final destination later. If I have my way, I’ll brand you tonight.”

Bucky replied by trying to shove his elbows into Carlsen. Lassoed as he was, all he accomplished was to wobble in the saddle. This, in turn, only provoked Carlsen to squeeze Bucky tighter between his arms.

“You’re a feisty one, cowboy. It will make it that much sweeter when I break you in.”

“MMMPHUKHHHUUUPPPHHMM!!” Bucky attempted to curse his lecherous captor.

Carlsen laughed softly and nuzzled up close to Bucky’s right ear. “That’s what I hope to do to you, buckaroo.” He then grabbed a hold of Bucky’s business with his left hand. “I’ll take the fight out of you, once I bust your Rocky Mountain oysters, wrangler.”

Bucky shook with rage as he was manhandled by this varmint, but there was little he could do…cinched up tightly, snared securely to this saddle, and forcibly silenced into submission as he was. Bucky would bide his time for the moment. Attempting to ignore the debauched burrowing of his body by this blackguard, Bucky concentrated on paying attention to his surroundings, as his rustlers herded him deeper into the mountains. He recognized the area, and he realized they were ascending Krueger’s Peak and no doubt on their way to Sauron’s Pass. It had been state property, but the papers Bucky had obtained about Nick Romanov showed that he had been buying up that land at below market value. Those papers that Bucky was going to reveal at the town meeting also showed that Nick Romanov was a major contributor to the campaign of Governor Beau Armstrong. Now, Bucky began to piece the puzzle together. Romanov was buying up suddenly foreclosed ranches around Cactus Springs. He was getting sweetheart deals on state land above Cactus Springs in the surrounding mountains from a governor, whom Bucky suspected received more than campaign financing from Romanov. Bucky had stumbled onto the shady deals of a deplorable real estate developer, a corrupt governor, and Lord knows what else! Bucky was dealing with a crew that stank higher than a pile of buffalo chips.

Now this – kidnapped, bound, gagged, and molested – Bucky reckoned he was in a heap of trouble. He wracked his brain for a sliver of hope to get him out of this mess. When he was a quarterback in high school and college, Bucky had been sacked before, but he always got up to win the game. Sacked as he was now, he was determined to get out of this situation and thwart Nick Romanov’s plans. It would take a Hail Mary pass to do it, but Bucky had thrown enough of those to win games when his team was behind many times before. By Golly, Bucky was determined that he would do it!!

Some hours later, the kidnap party and the roped wrangler had made their way over Krueger’s Peak into Sauron’s Pass and headed to Potter’s Plateau. Sometime later they arrived at a cabin. Taken hostage, tied up, gagged, groped, and shanghaied into the mountains, all of it left Bucky exhausted. So, when this peccant posse began to dismount, the captive cattleman hardly noticed that the surrounding area on Potter’s Plateau had been recently cleared for an airfield. Ramirez and the third henchman alighted first from their horses. They approached Bucky and Carlsen still mounted on Jigsaw. The henchman took his revolver from his holster and levelled it at Bucky.

Ramirez spoke. “Okay, Johnson. We’re at our destination. My colleague will keep his gun on you, while Carlsen dismounts, and unties you from the saddle. Carlsen will then take you into the cabin here. It’s a task I think he’ll enjoy. No funny business from you? Entiendes?”

Bucky slowly nodded his ascent. Carlsen dismounted. He then took out a knife and sliced the ropes securing Bucky’s bound wrists to the horn of the saddle. He reached up and grabbed Bucky and pulled him from Jigsaw’s left side. Once he did so, Carlsen pulled Bucky onto his shoulders in a Fireman’s Carry. Disabled and distressed as he was, Bucky still registered surprise at the brawny strength of the short, stocky man. With Bucky’s still bound wrists cradled in his right arm and cupping Bucky’s bodaciously burly butt in his left hand, Carlsen steadied himself.

“Okay, Carlsen. Bring him into the cabin and deposit him in the back room and secure him on one of the beds there,” Ramirez ordered.

Carlsen adroitly balanced Bucky on his shoulders and brought him into the cabin. He walked across an open plan room through to the backroom, which had twin iron beds in it. He set Bucky down none too gently on one of the beds. The other henchman had followed them, and he still had his revolver aimed at Bucky. With his accomplice covering him, Carlsen undid the ropes around Bucky’s upper arms and torso. He then took Bucky’s still bound wrists and pulled them up and secured them to iron of the headboard. As he did so, the puffer jacket inched up revealing the smooth muscles of Bucky’s lower abdomen, a peek at the gently sloping ridges of the top of his thighs, and the trail of hair leading down to Bucky’s privates. Carlsen let his gaze drift down to linger a spell on that treasure, as he finished leashing Bucky to the heard of the iron bed. Bucky now felt more exposed than if he were buck naked!

Carlsen next turned his attention to Bucky’s booted feet. He removed one boot and then the other. He quickly lashed his socked feet together and hitched them to the iron of the footboard. He also bound Bucky above and below his knees. When Carlsen finished binding Bucky to the bed, his associate holstered his revolver. By then, Ramirez entered the back bedroom. He checked Bucky’s bonds and appeared to be satisfied with Carlsen’s roping.

“Okay, Carlsen. You and Harper get some rest. I’ll stay back here with Johnson. He won’t be too much trouble for the next few hours. He’s tied up and from the looks of it – the fight’s been taken out of him.”

“Boss, are you sure?” Carlsen replied, “I could stay back here with him.”

“I’m sure you want that, Carlsen,” Ramirez chortled, “You’ll get your chance tomorrow to …” Ramirez hesitated before replying and looked over to the restrained rancher, who blearily stared back at him. He turned back to Carlsen. “To…”guard” him. I just communicated with Mr. Romanov. He’s heading up tomorrow. He’s bringing some guests with him. Mr. Romanov wants our courageous cowboy here to disappear for a lot longer than a few days. He’s arranged for his guests to take Bucky Johnson off our hands.”

Carlsen looked mighty disappointed at the change of plan. “Damn, Boss. I sure had hoped I could break this broncobuster in.”

“Well, Carlsen…such is life! Maybe I’ll let you enjoy some wranglin’ with our wrangler tomorrow morning, just as long as you don’t damage his goods.”

“It’s not damage I want to do with his goods,” Carlsen chuckled and stared hungrily at Bucky like he was a bundled piece of roast beef. “Ah well! I’ll whet my appetite tomorrow,” he sighed and winked at Bucky. Then he and Harper left the room. Ramirez closed the door. He went over to the bed where Bucky lay bound and gagged. The helpless cowboy looked defiantly up to the man standing over him. Swirling through his mind were thoughts that he might not get up from this sack to throw a Hail Mary pass to win the game this time. What did Ramirez mean that Romanov’s guests would take him off Romanov’s hands and make him disappear for more than a few days? And that lustful lecher Carlsen was going to have a poke at him…!!

As if reading Bucky’s mind, Ramirez “assured” him, “Don’t worry, Johnson, Mr. Romanov doesn’t want you damaged. Carlsen won’t be able to brand you too badly.” He then reclined on the other bed with his back up against the iron headboard. He pulled his hat down low. “I’m a light sleeper, Johnson, so don’t get any ideas of getting loose. I’ll hear you before you can unhitch one knot. I suggest you get some rest. You’ll be travelling again later tomorrow afternoon.”

Ramirez turned the lamp off on the nightstand between the beds. Bucky lay there in the dark feeling defeated and dejected. And indeed, the situation looked hopeless. Solidly secured to the frame of an iron bed in a cabin high up in the mountains, he had little – if any – prospects of getting away from this cabal of criminal kidnappers. Bucky could do nothing but slowly drift off into a restless slumber.

Black Rope Rustlers

Bucky awoke to the sound of the zipper of his puffer jacket being slowly pulled down. Greeting him was Carlsen grinning close to Bucky’s face.

“MMMPPHHWHTTHSMHLLMMPPPHHHHH!” He grunted, while attempting to wriggle out of Carlsen’s reach.

“Well, Good Morning, cowboy! The Boss wants you cleaned up before Mr. Romanov and his guests arrive to collect you. I have the honors of getting you bathed.”

As he pulled the zipper down, Carlsen let his fingers trace the trail down from Bucky’s finely matted chest down the ridges of his abdominal muscles to his belly button where his hair fanned out to his nether regions.

“Hhhmmm…Cowboy, you have a sweet chest finely furred right down to your flat belly!”

“Jeez Louise, Carlsen. You need some release.” Bucky looked over Carlsen’s shoulder and saw the third man, Harper, standing in the corner of the room, chuckling at Carlsen’s barely concealed lust. He had his revolver at the ready.

“Well, Mr. Ramirez said I could have some fun this morning with him before the Big Boss arrives. You can join in the fun, Harper, if you care to help me brand Bucky Johnson.”

Harper replied, “Nah! You have your fun with him, Carlsen. I’m more into does than bucks, if you catch my drift.”

“Okay, Harper. But you don’t know what you’re missing. From the looks of him, I can’t wait to get a taste of his Rocky Mountain Oysters and roast his robust rump!”

Even though he was lashed to the iron bed, Bucky began to buck up and down in protest and tried to fight off the manhandling of him by this brawny brute.

“MMMPPPPHHHGITTURRBLOODIEHNDSOFFMMHHME…” He swore at Carlsen.

“Easy there, cowboy! Your floundering will get you nowhere. Harper, show our roped rancher your hardware.” Harper cocked the revolver in his hand and aimed it at Bucky.

Once again, Bucky settled down. He didn’t think these two would shoot him on purpose, but they looked stupid enough – what with their back and forth with each other – to pull the trigger accidently.

“Good Boy. Now, I’m going to untie your hands from the headboard, so I can remove the bomber. Harper’s going to make sure you don’t try anything funny. Once the jacket’s off, we will put these bracelets on you.” Carlsen dangled a pair of handcuffs before Bucky. Harper stepped closer to the bed. Working quickly, Carlsen unknotted the ropes holding Bucky’s wrists to the headboard and lowered his arms to his body. He then unhitched the lashes from Bucky’s wrists. While Harper covered him, Carlsen stripped the jacket from Bucky. Bucky massaged his wrists to get some circulation going, but his relief was momentary. Carlsen quickly snapped the handcuffs around his wrists and locked them in place. Harper still did not ease his hold on the trigger. Carlsen next undid the bonds holding Bucky’s knees and ankles together and released him from the footboard. He stripped off Bucky’s socks, held one to his nose, and sniffed it.

“Mm-mm Good, cowboy!” Carlsen put the sock in his back pocket, “A souvenir of our time together.”

“Jeez, Carlsen, you sure are weird!” Harper snickered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“To each his own, my friend!” Carlsen answered back to him. He turned to the cuffed and still gagged Bucky. “Time to reveal the pièce de résistance!” Carlsen undid the button of Bucky’s Wranglers, and slowly unzipped him. Bucky stared at him with barely contained rage at this humiliation. Carlsen slid the jeans down past his hips. Bucky’s turkey neck and dumplings nestled amidst his brown-haired, short & curly manscape was on full display. Bucky desperately tried to hide the indignity of it all by cupping his cuffed hands over his business. Carlsen allowed him that small mercy. He moved to the end of the bed and pulled the britches completely off Bucky.

“Well, well, well, wrangler! Looks as if Mr. Bojangles is a tad stiff this morning. I reckon it’s not because he has stood up to greet me, but to see a man about a horse. Let’s get you up…Ha! Ha! I mean standing on your two feet.” He pulled Bucky to a seated position on the bed. Having been lassoed since the previous night, Bucky gingerly and feebly stood up from the bed. With both men on either side of him, Bucky was guided out of the backroom.

Carlsen and Harper led Bucky across the open-planned front room to the bathroom. Bucky noticed that Ramirez was not around. Harper remained outside the bathroom, while Carlsen went in with Bucky and locked the door behind them. There was a toilet, a pedestal sink, a large standing shower, but only a small window in the room. The only way out was through the door from which they entered.

Carlsen leaned against the pedestal of the sink. “Don’t mind me, cowboy. Take care of your business. I’ll enjoy the show, but don’t be stupid. Harper’s right outside.”

As a high school and college athlete, Bucky was used to being in the buff around other men, but this was different. He never had another man so obscenely ogle him like Carlsen leered at him now. It took a moment or two before his full bladder roused him from his reserve, and soon a steady stream was hitting the inside of the porcelain god. Carlsen warbled wantonly.

“Your ba-donka-donk sure is sight to behold, Johnson.”

Bucky finished his business and turned to face his captor.

“Time to get showered. I’m going to uncuff you, and you can then remove your gag, before you bathe. Don’t get any ideas! I will warn you only once. Ramirez and Mr. Romanov will not be pleased.”

Carlsen uncuffed him. Bucky massaged his wrists before moving to untie the gags. He loosened the blue kerchief that was his over the mouth gag, before undoing the red neckerchief that cleave-gagged him. He then took the bundled-up bandana from his mouth, and he placed the hankies on top of the toilet. He moved his jaw around and up and down to relieve the ache before speaking in a low, husky voice to Carlsen.

“I don’t know how…but I’ll stop your gang…and make sure Romanov is exposed.”

Well, exposed as you are right now, Johnson, you’ll need Captain Brittles and the cavalry to ride in to save you. But John Wayne’s not coming.” Throwing a bar of soap at Bucky, Carlsen pointed to the shower. “Shut your trap and get cleaned. Mr. Romanov wants you presentable to his guests.”

Bucky complied, and while Carlsen watched he turned the water on and let it wash over him. It felt good, and it gave him some strength. He soaped himself up and began to think of a way out of this. Carlsen never took his eyes off Bucky, so Bucky decided to use Carlsen’s hardly hidden horniness to his advantage. Bucky put on quite a show soaping himself up to lull Carlsen to distraction. He guided the soap over his broad shoulders, across his strapping chest, and down his six-pack abs, allowing the soapy bubbles and residue to glisten over his body hair and muscles. He washed his face gently caressing the scruffiness of a day-old growth of beard, before taking a squirt of shampoo from a small bottle and washing his hair. Glancing over at Carlsen, Bucky could tell his ablutions were beginning to drive Carlsen to distraction. The man shifted against the pedestal and adjusted the business in his britches

To complete his performance, Bucky tuned his attention to washing the lower half of his body. He took the soap and lathered up his man carpet, turkey neck, and dumplings, before turning around in the shower so Carlsen could see him use the soap to foam up his muscular hindquarters and let the sudsy water cascade down the crevice between his athletic cheeks. Bucky’s final act in his program was bending down to wash his toned thighs, calves, and feet before standing upright to let the water wash off the foam and suds. Carlsen – Bucky could tell – was at full attention.

Bucky turned the water off and faced Carlsen, who threw him a towel. Without taking his eyes off his captor, Bucky beguilingly pressed the cloth against his wet skin and patted himself dry. He then wrapped the towel around his midsection and stepped out of the shower.

Carlsen was breathing hard. He stepped away from the sink. “Better brush your teeth, cowboy.” Bucky stepped in front of the sink, while Carlsen backed away. Bucky uncapped a small tube of toothpaste and squeezed a dollop of paste on a brush and began brushing his teeth. With his free hand, he swept the steamed moisture from the mirror and noticed Carlsen behind him…staring hungrily at his beefy buns. Now was Bucky’s chance. Bucky wriggled ever so slightly to allow the bath towel to slip from his hips. Carlsen moved in closer and was about to grab Bucky’s butt, when the cowboy spun round and hit Carlsen with an upper cut to his chin. Carlsen slumped, out cold, into Bucky. He held the unconscious man for a moment, listening intently to hear if Harper had heard the commotion. Luck was on Bucky’s side. There was nothing but quiet from the other side of the bathroom door. Only the running water of the sink interrupted the stillness. Bucky turned the water off and dragged Carlsen into the shower, laying him flat on his stomach on the still wet floor. Working quickly, Bucky cuffed Carlsen’s hands behind his back and used the bandanas that had gagged him to stifle the man.

Once he was done, Bucky moved to the door and slowly turned the lock. Preparing himself to sack Harper, Bucky slowly opened the door a crack and surveilled the room. Harper was nowhere in sight. Bucky dashed naked across the room to the door of the cabin. He threw the door open and ran faster than he ever had in his life, not knowing where he was going, but intent on escaping his captivity. Bucky bolted barefoot across an open field toward the forest on the other side. He was almost at the trees, when he heard shots and felt the bullets whizz close by him from either side, expertly hitting the bark of the tree right in front of him.

Bucky froze in his tracks. He couldn’t outrun whoever shot those rifles and hit that tree with such expert precision. It was over. Bucky raised his hands in surrender, and he turned to face his pursuers. Facing him in the distance was Nick Romanov, flanked by two men with high powered rifles. The sharpshooters were dressed in fitted, black trousers and fitted, black turtleneck sweaters. They also wore military-style, black tactical boots. All three men walked slowly but steadily towards Bucky, who fell to his knees in crushed submission. As they came closer, Bucky noticed the emblematic patches sewn on the sweaters of the sharpshooters above their hearts. The emblems were crossed wrists bound with black rope.

Cowboy Bound Off into the Sunset

“I underestimated your resourcefulness, Johnson, and overestimated the abilities of Ramirez’s crew,” Nick Romanov said as he and the two black-clad men reached Bucky. The sharpshooters holstered their rifles on their shoulders, as each man stood on either side of Bucky. Each grabbed Bucky under one of his shoulders and began to frog-march him back to the cabin. Romanov followed behind them. Bucky remained quiet. His Hail Mary pass had come up short. It looked like he wouldn’t get up from this sack to win the game.

“You’re a thorn in my side, Johnson. You will remain one unless I find a permanent way to remove you from it. Luckily, I found a solution. You will be going on a trip with these men and their associates. You won’t escape them so easily as you almost escaped the bungling boobs in my employ.”

They reached the cabin. Bucky saw Ramirez in the distance next to a twin-engine Beechcraft Baron G58 with two men dressed similarly to the men holding him. Harper emerged from the cabin.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Romanov. I heard you flying in, and I went to greet you. I thought Carlsen was on top of things here with Johnson. We never thoug…”

“Keep quiet, Harper,” Romanov cut him off, “It’s obvious neither you nor Carlsen could handle “Billy Bollocks” here!” He motioned Harper to step aside and allow the others into the cabin. Harper did so, hanging his head in shame.

The two ninja-style snipers brought Bucky right back into the bathroom, where Carlsen still lay out-cold, cuffed, and gagged on the floor of the shower. Bucky couldn’t help but smile at this pyrrhic victory. Nick Romanov was right behind him.

“Harper, get in here and get this Bozo outta here.”

Harper came in and dragged the unconscious Carlsen out of the room. Bucky was then placed in the stall and told to quickly shower off the sweat and grime that he had gathered from his escape attempt. He did so, and when he was finished, one of the snipers dried him off with a towel. The two marksmen then led him back to the backroom, while Nick Romanov waited in the living area of the cabin.

Once they closed the door, the men sat Bucky on one bed. On the other bed lay a black, nylon duffel bag. One of the men unzipped it and took out a fresh pair of gray-colored boot socks. Handing them to Bucky, he told the rancher to put them on. Once he had done so, the man next handed a white cotton union-suit to him. Without prodding, Bucky donned it. It was one size too small for the 6’ 3” tall, 210 lb. wrangler and ex-quarterback.

“It’s too small,” Bucky muttered, as he squeezed his burly, well-built body into the underwear and proceeded to button it up.

“You need not worry about that,” came the answer to his complaint.

Bucky could only button the union-suit so far, leaving his brawny chest partially exposed. One man then told Bucky to stand straight up with his hands clasped behind his back, as his partner dumped the rest of the contents of the duffel bag onto the bed. There were coils of black rope, several black bandanas, and a clear Tupperware-type container with a roll of black tape therein. One of the men threw a coil of the black rope to his colleague, and with one starting from Bucky’s shoulders and the other commencing from his ankles they went to work tying the kidnapped cattleman up once again.

Twenty minutes later Bucky stood entrammeled in a well-calculated constriction of webbing of dark material that contrasted with the whiteness of the tight-fitting union-suit. Bucky had been bound by a kinbakushi – a master of the art of Japanese bondage techniques – and his apprentice. Bucky was bound in hishi-kikkou – a restrictive and tightening harness encased him. Rope encircled the wiry muscle of his limbs and torso. His wrists were bound behind his back and his arms cinched upward and pinioned. More rope encompassed his powerful glutes and crawled up the crevice of those well-built buns. Coils of those black fibers surrounded his Private Johnson and cojones, confined already under the tight contours of the one-piece underwear. From the angle of his back and from the angle of Bucky’s front, the Japanese-style bondage master and his apprentice highlighted the cowboy’s assets in a most obscene manner.

Finishing their task, the man whom Bucky judged the apprentice stood behind him, while the master gathered Bucky’s discarded clothing from earlier that day. The man took Bucky’s boots, his Wranglers, and the puffer bomber jacket he had been given, and placed them all into the duffel bag. All that remained was one sock on the floor, the pair of which Carlsen had earlier claimed as a trophy. He placed the two, high-powered rifles into the duffel before zipping it shut. He then settled the bag over his shoulders like a rucksack and turned to face Bucky. Without a word, the bondage master gently pushed the bound Bucky backwards. As Bucky fell backwards into the waiting arms of the man’s apprentice, the bondage master grabbed hold of Bucky’s fettered feet and hoisted them up. The two carried Bucky into the living room and sat him down on a sturdy, straight-backed chair. Nick Romanov sat opposite him on the sofa.

“You’re so well-packaged and outfitted for your journey, Johnson,” Romanov boasted.

“You won’t get away with this, Romanov,” Bucky fought back at him.

“Ah! Not a word out of you from the time we recaptured you, and the first sentence is a tired, old cliché…spoken like a truly hapless hero. You’re reverting to type, rancher.”

“And you’ll revert to the scum you are, when I get out of this!” Bucky retorted, “I don’t know where you’re shipping me off to, Romanov, but I promise you this. I will make my way back to Cactus Springs, and I’ll see you sent off in stripes to the federal penitentiary. You’re up to your neck in criminal activity…extortion and bribery are just two of your crimes. Kidnapping me makes sure you will spend the rest of your life in prison.” Although Bucky had been raised as a gentleman and always honored his upbringing, he could not hold back what he did next. With the only weapon left to him, he worked up some expectorant in his mouth. Bucky lifted his tongue upwards in his mouth, thrust it forward, and spewed a clump of clammy spittle at Romanov. With perfect aim, the shot landed on its mark – Romanov’s left eye.

Romanov reared back in disgust. Rising from the sofa, he searched vainly for a handkerchief to wipe Bucky’s muck from his eye. Ramirez, who had been standing in the background, rushed forward to hand a cloth to his boss.

“That’s the last shot you’ll ever take that lands on me, rancher. I hope you enjoyed it.” Turning to the two black-clad men, Romanov nodded, “Finish your ritual, gentleman. Gag him – tightly! As you proceed, I’ll give Bucky Johnson an introduction to you and the organization into whose hands I gladly offer him.”

The men stepped forward. While the master twirled a black bandana around, the apprentice folded another black kerchief into a neat bundle. With a nod from his master, the apprentice pressed it against Bucky’s mouth to stuff it in. Bucky clamped his mouth shut in a desperate act of defiance. The apprentice took Bucky’s right nipple between his thumb and index finger and squeezed down and twisted it in ever-increasing pain. Bucky still adamantly refused to open his mouth. The bondage master stepped forward and began to twist a knot that leashed rope around Bucky’s balls. The pain was too much for the broncobuster to bear. He let out a cry of agony. The apprentice quickly thrust the bundled kerchief into his mouth, took the twirled bandana from his master, and cleave-gagged Bucky, securing the bundled cloth in place. Bucky grunted in disgust. The pair next donned latex surgical gloves and removed the roll of black tape from the Tupperware-type container. They unrolled the adhesive and first plastered it against Bucky’s lips over the cleave-gag. Next they wound it around Buck’s head. It had a sweet aroma, and Bucky began to fall under its heady spell. He could taste the stickiness of the plaster. As he breathed in the intoxicating odor and savored the temptations of the plaster, Bucky found himself entranced, yet still conscious. Romanov began to speak to him, and his words were amplified tenfold. Fear began to overtake Bucky as he slowly comprehended the evil trap that ensnared him.

“My business, Johnson, affords me the opportunity to encounter men in similarly-minded enterprises. There are times when I encounter glitches in my business, as other men encounter related glitches in theirs. We find ways to help each other out of our problems. You have become a problem in my latest enterprise, Johnson, and a business associate has offered to have a go at you – my glitch.” Pointing to the men gagging Bucky, Romanov continued, “These men work for that business associate. Their business is the import/export trade...all sorts of goods...rare good and commodities for instance. Lately, they’ve expanded into importing and exporting sports equipment and apparel. I discovered some time ago, however, that this business is a front for a more sinister specialty of import and export. My friend “imports” men and “exports” them to parts unknown. Men like you Bucky Johnson…young, good-looking, fit, and athletic. Right now, I understand he’s collecting a cadre of herculean hunks from various sports fields and even hopes to add a bothersome Royal Canadian Mounted Policemen to the assembled abductees. When I shared with him my concerns about your interference with my plans for Cactus Springs, he offered to “import” you. He confessed that adding a strapping young buck who declined an NFL quarterback career to ride the open range would enhance his stockpile of stunningly good-looking studs. It seems that the image of the U.S. Marshall stripped to his union-suited skivvies, bound, gagged, and at the mercy of rustlers is something my friend has carried with him from his childhood spent watching American westerns. That explains your attire, Johnson. What my business associate intends to do with you, I have no idea. Except – And I can assure you of this – you will be kept bound and gagged for a very long time.”

The words reverberated through Bucky’s head, as he took in their meaning in his befuddled state. As Romanov finished speaking, the bondage master approached Bucky with a final gag. It was a folded, black paisley-patterned bandana. He muffled Bucky with it over the layers of black tape. It covered Bucky from the bottom of his nose to the tip of his chin. The man tied it tightly behind Bucky’s head – so tightly that it pressed the tape further against his mouth and skin. Bucky could only whimper in a soft whisper. The hypnotic trance claimed him, like a dark veil over his eyes distorting reality. Bucky saw Romanov shake hands with the bondage master. The master and his apprentice then lifted Bucky up from the chair. Like before, the apprentice stood behind Bucky to catch him, as the master gently pushed him back and then hoisted his bound legs aloft. They carried him to the waiting twin-engine Beechcraft Baron G58 with Romanov and Ramirez trailing behind. The pilot and co-pilot – associates of the bondage master and apprentice – were in position ready for take-off with the doors open to the four-seated compartment behind them. Romanov and Ramirez watch the men deposit Bucky in the starboard stern seat. Once he was strapped in and after the two men took their seats opposite him, Romanov stepped forward for some parting words before the cabin doors were shut.

“Good-bye, cowboy. You’ll be riding off into the sunset – well not so much as the cowboy who saved the day rode off into the sunset. He – You – won’t come to the rescue of your fellow ranchers this time. This plane is going up north to Canada. And as for the happy ending…it will be mine not yours. You’ll land at a very private airstrip. From there you’ll be transferred to a waiting vehicle for shipment to Montreal, where you will meet my business associate. His name is Michael Palaiologos. Give him my regards.”

The doors of the cabin were shut, and Romanov and Ramirez walked away from the plane. The plane was soon aloft in the air with Bucky Johnson barbarously bound and grimly gagged as its unwilling passenger destined to remain in the grasp of ghastly gangsters!

To Be Continued…

[privateandrews]

That was pure magic, i love a good cowboy kidnap and that was just fantastic. His horse ride whilst being groped was so horny... Trying to seduce his captor whilst showering was very hot. then to cap it all of being made to wear the union underwear that is to small and the revealing rope work and gag. master piece .

[KidnappedCowboy]

Thanks for the feedback, [mention] privateandrews [/mention]

I am working on the chapter a few ahead of the latest here.

You'll see more of Bucky tangling with the varmints.

[george_bound]

Well that was a hell of a lot of fun, well not so for Bucky but definitely for the rest of us! Can't wait to see how Bucky fits into the equation with the kidnapped jocks and our Olympic lovers...always good to diversify your portfolio, even in the business of hostage taking

[KidnappedCowboy]

Tank you to all for the comments thus far!

Chapter VII: A Game of Doubles



Friday Morning: Westmount, Montreal, Quebec: The Depths Below the Estate of Michael Palaiologos

Hank and Chase Leicester were in a cell across from the one that held Eddie Marbot, but they could not see him from their vantage point. Like the cells in which Eddie Marbot and Tommy Neville lay bound and gagged in tortuous trammels, steel grid doors obscured any view the Leicester Twins might see from within their pen to the cages of their fellow abducted athletes. Even if the fledgling tennis champs had wished to see outside their cell door, the manner in which they were moored and muzzled prevented each twin from seeing anything but the cold, grey stone walls before him. Clad only in their underwear, Hank and Chase Leicester were tied up back to back with the baleful black rope of that noxious order. Each brother had his hands bound behind him and further bound at his ankles, knees, and thighs. They could not move their bound hands, because they were tethered to their backs and torsos. Each brother’s arms were fettered to the sides of his torso at the elbows. Coils of that calamitous cordage connected each young man to his twin at their ankles, knees, thighs, waists, arms, and upper bodies. Hank and Chase Leicester had been tape-gagged individually around their heads, while strips of that horrendous sealant harnessed their heads in a shared, supplementary silencer.

The twins had been standing there in their pinioned predicament for close to an hour, since they were brought to this cell after undergoing the harrowing experience of the last few days. First, they were kidnapped from their home in Ottawa on Tuesday night, followed by transportation fettered together as if they were spooning in a fetal position and concealed in the cargo hold of an SUV here to Montreal. On arrival, the tennis twins underwent medical examinations from that dastardly Dr. Richelieu, all the while pinned down, restrained, tied up together, and muted with poisonous paste. A mild dosage of the pernicious paste now held each twin spellbound, standing erect, and bound back-to-back to his brother. The shock of their kidnapping, their passage here, the forced inspection of their bodies, and the experience of being leashed and linked as they now were had given way to a somewhat sluggish stupor, which made the matched mates malleable to submission. Neither Hank nor Chase could fathom what had befallen them, and the pair did not suspect what awaited them that Friday morning!

At precisely 10:00 am Michael Palaiologos arrived in the subterranean stockade beneath his estate, accompanied once again by his manservant Peter deVere. There were two guard attendants standing watch in the corridor outside the cell incarcerating the tennis-playing twins. As their Master with his aide-de-camp approached, one of the guard attendants turned to the side-panel, entered the access code, and the steel grid door slid open to reveal the tied-up twins to their host.

“Good Morning, Gentleman! Welcome to my home!” Palaiologos bellowed, as he entered the cell and stood beside the twins, who were bound at perpendicular angles to their kidnapper and “host.” Neither Hank nor Chase could turn their heads to him, as each was tape-tethered to the other. They could only see Palaiologos by looking out the corners of their eyes. Notwithstanding the noxious narcotic laced through their tape-gags, the young men whimpered worthlessly for release.

“”MMMPUHLEAZ…MMMPPPHHHH….MMPPHHHLETHUTHMMPPHH MMPPHHHGO!” Each brother pleaded.

“Ah! Tsk! Tsk! You’ve only just arrived! You certainly do not wish to leave before I have revealed what I have planned for you and my other “guests.” Turning to deVere, the Grand Prior inquired who oversaw the abduction of the Leicester twins.

“Master, John Courtenay and John Clifford had the honors of acing the abduction of these brothers. As is your wish, they now attend the young men.”

“My compliments to you both,” the Grand Prior nodded to each guard attendant as he walked around the Leicester twins, sizing the men up. “Shanghaiing a set is very difficult to achieve.”

“Thank you, Master,” Courtenay and Clifford replied in unison.

“Such a magnificently matching pair,” their Master continued, “Such beauty in one man replicated in another. They have beautiful brown eyes and hair to match. Such handsome features, and so lean and muscular. The same height, although if I’m not mistaken…one brother appears to be ever so more slightly muscular than his brother. Imperceptible to the uninitiated.”

Peter deVere spoke up. “Master, you are indeed correct. One brother is slightly more muscular than his twin. Charles Leicester…Chase as he is more commonly called…is the younger of the two, and as you so perceptively observed is somewhat more strapping than his brother Henry…called Hank.”

Turning to the novice attendants, Michael Palaiologos made plain, “Gentleman, as you proceed in your novitiate, it will become second nature to you to observe the qualities that mark each man, not only an attribute such as his beauty, but his overall physical condition – musculature, strength, and stamina for instance – in order to appraise what type of bondage to subject him to. Our methods of tying men up and gagging them must proceed from an intimate knowledge of their athletic abilities and their anatomical measurements.” Turning back to Peter deVere, Palaiologos asked whether there were other differences between the twins, perhaps in their habits.

“Yes, Master. In their choice of underwear. Both eschew boxers. As you may see, one prefers briefs, while the other brother is inclined to wear boxer briefs.”

Palaiologos went towards the brother who wore Calvin Klein hip briefs, and he cupped the right glute of the lassoed lad in his hand.

“Chase, I take it, is the brief-sporting bloke?”

“Master, the novices and I bow to your discerning abilities. Yes, Chase Leicester always wears briefs, and when he plays, he has the same problem as that Spanish pro tennis player. His briefs ride up the crevice between his butt cheeks, although he remains oblivious to the women and men who enjoy watching him adjust himself throughout his matches.”

Carressing the poor, pinioned lad’s right glute, Palaiologos purred, “We’ll see if we can hitch some more lanyard between those cheeks to secure him further.”

Chase moaned in muffled misery at the thought of suffering further humiliation than what he was already experiencing!

Although he was older only by mere minutes, Hank in his drugged state grumbled gaudily behind the layers of tape that gagged him to draw Michael Palaiologos’ attention away from his brother in a futile attempt to protect his poor brother. And, indeed, Palaiologos turned his attention to the boxer brief-wearing twin by giving a pinch to his left butt cheek.

“Ah…is one brother trying to defend the other? How touching! I have not forgotten you, Mr. Leicester.” Palaiologos addressed Hank.

“MMMLUVHHPPPP…MMMMHUMMMPPHH….MMMPPPHHHAHLUNMMNMMPPHH!!”

“What’s that? Leave him alone? Oh no, Mr. Leicester. We shan’t do that. Nor will we leave you alone. You, your brother, and my other guests with whom you shall soon be gathered are all part of a grand experiment my colleague Dr. Richelieu and I have been working on for many years. We have perfected it now, and we needed only to collect a suitable team to put our experiment into execution.”

Palaiologos ran his fingers along Hank’s taut torso, as he spoke. The tied-up twin tried vainly to pull away from the manhandling, but as he did so the knots of his binds drew tighter around him and drew him more securely to his brother. Each could feel the despair of his brother in the quivering muscles of their conjointly bridled backs and butts.

The Grand Prior warned the twins, “The more you struggle, gentleman, the tighter our black rope will braid around you. Your attempt to test your entanglement will only bring suffering to your brother in turn, as the strands will spiral around him in a stranglehold…Take care to remain still lest you afflict torture on your own brother.”

Even in their slightly drugged state, Hank and Chase understood. Not wishing to cause torment to his brother or himself, each tied-up twin grew still.

Turning to the twins’ guard attendants, Palaiologos requested the details of their kidnapping. John Courtenay did the honors. As he began to tell the tale of the tennis twins’ entrapment, Peter deVere took a step back from his Master and turned briefly to look past the steel grid door of the cell of the Leicester twins toward the cell across the corridor that confined Eddie Marbot. It was a glance that did not escape the notice of Michael Palaiologos, as he listened to Courtenay’s narration of the abduction.


The Takedown of the Twins (As Narrated by John Courtenay)
We carefully observed the movements of Hank and Chase Leicester for some months, and we knew that they would be arriving home from visiting college friends Tuesday night, so we prepared to seize them once they returned home but not before they were lulled into a sense of security. Their rented home is located in a quiet neighborhood and is situated back from the road. Tall trees surround the property. We could not ask for a more ideal location from prying eyes. John Clifford and I remained hidden behind trees and shrubbery with our equipment in the backyard of the home. To blend further into the darkness and to ensure our dexterity in the execution of our mission, Clifford and I wore black, lycra, form-fitting, compression leggings and shirts with black balaclavas to shield our faces. We each carried small drawstring black nylon backpacks for our rope, tape, and bandanas. We also armed ourselves with Beretta M9s. Although the Brotherhood trains us to subdue our quarries with physical strength and rarely to use firearms, the revolvers would make the young men more cooperative.

The twins arrived late at night. After driving their Jeep Wrangler into the unattached garage, we observed the young men remove some pieces of luggage from the jeep and enter their home from a backdoor leading into the kitchen. One of them switched on lights illuminating the way to the center of the house. We then observed lights going on in the bedrooms upstairs. Within an hour the lights were turned off across the home. Clifford and I waited twenty minutes more before entering. It was now close to 1:00 am.

Both Clifford and I have been well-schooled by the Brotherhood in lock-picking and disabling alarm systems. Our earlier surveillance of the home revealed no alarm system. The absentmindedness of young college-aged men worked to our advantage that night, making our mission easier to accomplish. Neither brother had bothered to lock the backdoor after them. We quickly entered the kitchen and made our way to the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs. Stealthily we climbed the steps and paused in the hallway. The two bedrooms were on opposite sides of the passage with a shared bathroom at the end of the hall. The doors to both bedrooms were slightly ajar, and we could hear gentle snoring from each. We silently entered the bedroom on the left, where we observed Chase Leicester asleep on his stomach. The covers had been pulled down, and he was clad in his CK hip briefs, which had ridden up the cleft between his beefy buns. He continued to sleep peacefully as Clifford and I positioned ourselves on either side of the double bed. I picked up a sock discarded on the floor and balled it up. It was clammy from sweat. I surmised that Mr. Leicester had worn it for quite a while. On a silent count of three to Clifford, I shook Mr. Leicester on his right shoulder. And simultaneously straddled him on the bed.

“What is it…wha…” Chase Leicester began to say, before I cupped my hand over his mouth to silence him. He began to thrash about to dislodge me, so Clifford pointed his Beretta M9 at him.

“Not another word,” I whispered to him. He struggled for a moment longer, but Clifford gave him a nudge from the Beretta to his left temple, which stilled him. I was ready to stuff the balled-up sock into his mouth, as soon as I removed my hand from his lips. A raspy and soft “Hel..” was all he could utter before his own damp sock muffled his cry for help. Now working very quickly, I pulled Mr. Leicester’s arms behind his back, crossed his wrists together, and lashed them with the black rope of our Brotherhood. Once Mr. Leicester’s hands were tied behind his back, Clifford relaxed his hold on his weapon. He then pulled a black neckerchief from his backpack, and he twirled it around before handing it to me. I cleave-gagged Mr. Leicester with it, thus making sure he could not spit his worn, sweaty sock from his mouth. Taking a roll of black tape from my own backpack, I wrapped several layers around Mr. Leicester’s head and sealed the clammy sock and cleave-gag in place. While I remained straddling Mr. Leicester, Clifford worked to strap his ankles down and fasten his knees together above his caps.

Once Clifford had accomplished this task, I climbed off Mr. Leicester. Taking more rope, Clifford cinched Mr. Leicester’s elbows together. He then bent his legs toward his bound wrists and proceeded to hogtie him. Once accomplished, together we took Mr. Leicester from his bed and placed him on the floor. I quickly made his bed, while Clifford tidied the room, so that it would appear just as it was when Mr. Leicester placed his luggage down and his personal accoutrements (wallet, keys, mobile phone) on his bureau over an hour ago. All the while, Mr. Leicester remained silent and still, owing to his restraints and gags. When we were done, we returned the hogtied Mr. Leicester to his bed, but this time he faced towards the door.

We then proceeded to snatch the second brother from his sleep. We left Mr. Leicester’s door open, so that he could witness his twin’s takedown. Clifford and I were certain that his stifled sobs were so still that he would not raise a tocsin to warn his brother. For the bundling of Hank Leicester, Clifford and I exchanged roles. He would get astride him and awaken him, while I held my Beretta on him to guarantee his cooperation. As we entered his bedroom, we noticed Mr. Leicester – like his brother – slept without covers and on his stomach. Unlike his twin, he wore tight, CK boxer briefs. As we did with the first Leicester twin, Clifford and I positioned ourselves on either side of his double bed. Just like Chase, Hank Leicester was rather slovenly in regard to where he left worn items of clothing. Rather than a discarded sock on the floor, however, he left a discarded jockstrap there, which Clifford balled up in the palm of his hand to use to gag him. Once more after a silent count of three, Clifford shook Hank Leicester on the shoulder and mounted him on the bed at the same time.

“Hey…mmmpppphhh!” Hank began to say, but he was cut off from finishing by Clifford cramming the crumpled jockstrap into his mouth. At first, he thrashed about as his brother had, but I jabbed Mr. Leicester with my Beretta on his temple. Hank Leicester quieted soon thereafter. Clifford bound his wrists behind his back with some ease. Handing my colleague a twirled, black bandana, I watched as Clifford expertly cleave-gagged this Leicester twin. Clifford next removed a roll of black tape and proceeded to wrap several layers of it around this Mr. Leicester’s head, effectively sealing the jockstrap and cleave-gag which already muffled him. I tied his ankles together and then his legs above his kneecaps. I finished by hogtying Mr. Leicester, as we had similarly tied his brother up. When we were finished, Clifford and I carried Hank Leicester to the doorway of his bedroom and faced him toward his brother’s bedroom. We went back to Chase Leicester’s bedroom, took him from his bed, and placed him in a similar position in his bedroom’s doorway, face to face to his brother. Both Leicester’s whimpered ineffectually to each other. They were tied up in such a way that they were truly identical. It was as if each stared into a mirror, as he looked on his similarly shackled and stifled sibling. The uninitiated could only tell them apart from their choice of undershorts.

We left them to contemplate their captivity, and we attended to straightening Hank Leicester’s bedroom. Once we were finished, it looked as if the tennis twins had arrived home, put their luggage, wallets, keys, and mobiles down, and then simply vanished. Clifford then went to retrieve the SUV from where we had parked it. I remained behind to guard our “quarry.” They gave me no trouble, as it was obvious that both young men had grown frightened. Chase Leicester quivered ever so slightly more in his hogtied state, while looking hopelessly for help from his brother Hank, who could minister nothing but muted misery in answer.

Clifford was not long. He drove the SUV to the back of the house and returned upstairs. We decided that it was best if we freed the twins from the hogties and carry them one at a time to the rear quarter of the vehicle. Since Chase Leicester looked to his brother Hank to provide succor we decided to remove Hank first to add to Chase Leicester’s discomfort. Clifford squatted sown to slice the ropes binding his ankles to his wrists. Hank Leicester’s bound legs fell back to the floor with a dull thud. Then Clifford expertly pulled the shackled young man up and onto his left shoulder. Clifford’s adherence to the strict training regimen of the Brotherhood was clearly on display, as he stood up, steadied himself, then carried the tied-up elder twin down the stairs.

As he watched his brother hoisted aloft like a sack of potatoes and carried away, Chase Leicester writhed desperately in his bonds and from behind his gags cried muffled pleas out to him. He appeared demoralized, not knowing where his brother was being taken, and why he was left behind. Moments later, Clifford returned to take care of the remaining brother. I followed behind Clifford, after he detached Chase Leicester from his hogtie and carried him downstairs to reunite him with his brother in the back of the SUV.

When Clifford with Chase Leicester over his shoulder and I close behind arrived at the back of the SUV, I noticed a tear drop from Chase Leicester’s face, as he saw his brother restrained in the cargo hold with his back against the back of the rear seat. Whether that was a tear of relief or desolation, I could not tell. We nestled Chase Leicester into his brother’s body, as if they were stacked chairs on their sides. We quickly secured the brothers to each other in preparation for the journey. Once that was completed, I injected each with a sedative strong enough to keep them unconscious until we reached Montreal. After a last check in the house, Clifford and I got into the SUV. I drove, while Clifford remained in the rear seat, so he could monitor the entwined twins throughout the drive. We arrived in Montreal a little over two hours later without incident.

A Secret Revealed
John Courtenay finished the tale of the tennis twins’ abduction, and he stood back alongside John Clifford and Peter deVere to allow their Master room to inspect the pinioned pair more closely. Palaiologos slowly circled the bound and gagged young men, stopping in front of one and then the other to trace his fingers down the taut musculature of their abdomens. He then moved to their sides and caressed their wiry external oblique muscles, as a lover might do. The Grand Prior moved in closer to stroke the bound biceps and triceps of each brother. As he walked around and around the fettered fellows, Palaiologos allowed his fingers to trail lower down the twins’ bodies. He was careful to avoid touching their bait and tackle, but he gave particular attention to the men’s powerful glutes.

Hank and Chase Leicester followed Michael Palaiologos with their eyes, as he circumnavigated and manhandled them. Hank could sense his brother’s unease, and while he too shuddered with fear at the thought at what had befallen them, he did his level best to contain that fear for the sake of his brother. Years of training had honed his mental acuity to work through adversity, now he relied on those skills to maintain his focus on getting himself and his brother out of this. Chase had the same mental toughness as Hank did on the tennis court, but off the court was another matter. The brothers might have been identical in their looks, but their temperaments were very different from each other. Hank had a harder edge to him. He used his aggression to be a better player on the tennis court, but his aggression had often gotten the better of him off the court when the brothers were younger. Now at 23, Hank had learned to control his anger. Chase was quieter and more sensitive. Off the court, Chase withdrew into himself and into books. Both brothers had taken the deaths of their parents very hard, coming as they did when they were just 12-year-old lads. Until their deaths, Chase had been boisterous and a cut-up at times. Since then, he had grown less spontaneous and more serious. Hank had assumed the role of an older brother, even though he was just minutes older. Hank grew more protective of his brother Chase. Hank would lay down his life for Chase, and he protected him throughout their lives. They had no blood relatives but each other. The brothers had found a wonderful father-figure in their coach, but Chase shared a special bond with Hank. Their talent on the tennis court drew them closer, and the experience of their parents’ deaths made them rely upon each other even more. When they were younger, the brothers encountered bullies who thought that tennis was an effete sport. Hank and Chase faced teasing and sometimes worse, and Hank stood up to the bullies often with blows to protect his brother. Chase could handle himself, but Hank always stepped in to confront their tormentors. So now that they were confronted by bullies that they never imagined existed, all Hank wanted to do was make sure Chase stayed safe!

As Palaiologos touched them, Hank tried to give some sign of assurance to his brother that they’d get out of this. Tied up and gagged back to back as they were, Hank couldn’t do much. Then, he remembered what their parents had taught them…sometimes it was just a simple touch that could convey great love. Hank recalled just days before…before this nightmarish ordeal…he had grabbed hold of Chase’s hand to let him know he loved him, after Chase had revealed a secret he had kept far too long about himself from his brother. So, all Hank wanted to do now was to let Chase know he loved him and would protect him. Since they were tied up back to back, Hank did that by hooking his index fingers to his brother’s index fingers. And they held on to each other tightly with those digits.

Chase felt his brother’s fingers hook onto his own, and it gave him strength. He had never been more frightened in his life. His parents’ deaths had left a deep scar, but Hank helped that scar to heal. Hank was always there for him. He had Chase’s back. Chase could remember times being taunted by guys in school…especially high school. They called him “Sissy Boy” and much worse. One time after practice, one guy cornered Chase and told him that tennis was perfect for him, since it was a “sissy sport.” The guy grabbed Chase’s racquet and was just about to smash it over his head, when Hank arrived – seemingly out of nowhere – to take the racquet out of the ruffian’s hands and deck him. It wasn’t as if Chase couldn’t defend himself. No – when those taunts began, Chase took refuge in perfecting his game and hitting the gym. No – those bullies had detected Chase’s secret, and Chase thought that Hank would leave him, if he ever learned his secret. Hank would leave him, just as their parents did!

Chase slowly realized how crazy his thoughts were. Their parents did not leave them by choice – they died! But sometimes his younger self couldn’t help himself thinking that it was his fault that they died. At twelve, Chase had begun to realize he was different – different from his brother and different from other guys. So, he stupidly blamed himself for his parents’ death. Hank could never know, or he’d leave him too. It wasn’t until they went to college that Chase began to get past this. Although the brothers were still together, each began to explore life on his own. Hank started to date. With his charm, good looks, and talent, Hank was a magnet for all the young women on campus. And he got serious with one by the end of college. M’Liz was sweet, and she took Chase under her wing, helping him to realize that Hank would never abandon him – no matter what the circumstances. Chase also met someone – a fellow student-athlete who had hopes to make the Canadian Olympic Swim team. That swimmer helped Chase come to terms with himself. Chase’s swimmer had a brother too, not a twin but several years older. Their parents had died while they were young, just like the Leicesters had. The swimmer’s brother was a Royal Canadian Mounted Police Inspector, who played tennis for the Force. With the help of M’Liz, Hank’s girlfriend, and the swimmer, Chase had worked up the courage to tell Hank his secret. Chase remembered how it went. It was just the other day – before their kidnapping – on the way home in the Jeep Wrangler – just the two of them. Chase confessed that he had felt guilty over their parents’ death. Hank told him he should never have been that foolish. Then Chase told him about the feelings he was beginning to experience around the time of their deaths. Chase tried everything to get rid of those feelings – pray them away or suppress them deep down – he was scared that Hank would leave him, if he ever found out. As he was telling his brother this, Chase started to cry. When he saw this, Hank pulled the Wrangler to the side of the road, turned the engine off, and faced him.

Chase recalled Hank’s words. “You’re my brother, Chase. I love you. No matter what – I would never leave you. Always got your back, bro!” Right after that Chase let Hank in on his secret – that one part of himself that Chase had experienced so much guilt and anxiety over. The one part of himself that he feared would drive his brother away. He uttered those simple words about himself to Hank, and for the briefest moment he was scared more than he had ever felt in his life – more scared even than when they heard about the death of their parents. Hank, though, did not take a moment to hesitate. He pulled Chase into him in a tight embrace, brushed his back, and told him everything would be okay. They each were crying. Breaking the hug, Hank cupped his brother’s chin in his hand and guided his head up, so Chase could look at Hank as he spoke. Through tears, Hank said once more, “You’re my brother, Chase, I love you. Nothing could drive me away from you.” Hank pulled Chase into a hug again and whispered in his brother’s ear, “I promise you, Chase Leicester. I will always protect you, because I love you – Always got your back, bro.” After what seemed like the most blissful of eternities, the brothers let go of each other and continued home to Ottawa – and throughout the drive Hank clasped his right hand over Chase’s left hand and never let go.

The brothers now hooked their fingers together tightly – perhaps even more firmly than the rotten ropes binding them in their pinching clasp. Their fraternal bond would prove stronger than those bonds that tied them to each other. And their hooked fingers would signal their fortitude to endure the carnal caressing from the fingers of this man circling them now. Chase now had the courage – even though his mind was clouded – to follow that man’s movements with his eyes, as he traced his fingers slowly down the front and the sides of his body. And Hank – his mind too in a foggy state – looked defiantly at their so-called “host” to make known to him that if did anything to his little brother, Hank would thrash him.

Michael Palaiologos kept on drawing his fingers over the bodies of the captive tennis players, and he enjoyed the discomfort he sensed from the young men at this unwelcome invasion. But wait – he began to perceive that one brother – try as he might to fight it – showed a reaction to his touches while the other did not. Michael Palaiologos looked over at his underlings, and no doubt deVere had figured out why he kept circling the tied-up twins and probed the fine details of their well-built physiques, but the apprentices who had trapped them failed to note another detail – in addition to their underwear of choice – that made one brother different from his twin. Palaiologos concentrated at coddling the hard curves of the bubble butts of the Leicester twins, and one twin could no longer hide his reaction to this tactile torture, yet his brother was failing to rise to Palaiologos’ invasion.

The Grand Prior stepped back from the harnessed pair. Turning to his flunkies, he calmly remarked, “There is another detail, Brother Courtenay and Brother Clifford, that makes one twin different from his brother. I am surprised that you failed to notice it.”

Courtenay and Clifford bowed their heads in penance. Without raising his voice, Palaiologos had just delivered a very subtle but markedly effective tongue lashing to them. As they raised their heads, they looked pleadingly to Peter deVere for guidance. Palaiologos nodded to his major domo. “Please, Brother de Vere, enlighten them,” Palaiologos instructed.

“Hank Leicester is straight. Chase Leicester is gay.”

Courtenay and Clifford both then looked over at the toggled twins and marveled at the revelation of Chase Leicester’s state of arousal, as his shaft strained against the fabric of his CK hip briefs for release. As much as he fought against it, the young man could not help but be stimulated by the unceasing fondling, even though it was unwelcome.

Peter deVere proceeded to explain to the chastened pair who had kidnapped the Leicester twins. “Gentlemen, young men are often easily brought to full mast…at times even without much prodding whether it comes from a welcome or unwelcome hand. But most straight men do not “pitch a tent” – as it were – if another man is doing the pitching. Master Palaiologos has discovered what you two should have uncovered during your surveillance of the twins and in the run-up to their kidnapping.”

“Forgive us, Master.” Courtenay and Clifford implored.

Sneering down at both men, Palaiologos corrected them. “Take this lesson to heart. You executed the abduction of these brothers very well. For that, the Order will take note. But you failed to notice an important detail in researching the backgrounds of your intended prey. We must learn every detail – no matter how trivial – of their lives. Sexuality is not a trivial detail. Do not overlook such an aspect of the life of a planned quarry again – that is if I and the Order ever again charge you with an abduction mission.”

“Yes, Master…Thank you, Master,” Courtenay and Clifford replied, bowed their heads and moved aside, as Michael Palaiologos with Peter deVere behind him strode from the cell into the corridor outside.

Hank and Chase Leicester continued holding each other by their hooked fingers. Hank gripped hard, so he could convey his concern and love to Chase. Chase held tightly to that concern and love. It enabled him to hold his head high, despite the humiliation that he felt at growing aroused from the maniacal manipulations of that accursed man. Individually bound and gagged and then sutured and silenced together in such diabolical double hitches, their interlocking fingers fastened fraternal bonds more enduring than any Gordian knot that might gird them. Out of the corners of their eyes, they watched as their remaining two kidnappers now exited the cell in which they were held. While one turned in the corridor to face the brothers, his cohort pressed codes into a panel, causing the steel grid door to slide shut, and locking the tragic and tied-up twins inside, yet still keeping faith with and in each other.


Bait and Switch
When Courtenay and Clifford exited the Leicester twins’ cell, Michael Palaiologos and Peter deVere had already moved down the corridor and paused in front of the next cell, whose occupants they intended to welcome. But Palaiologos wanted to have a word with his major domo before they did.

“It is too bad those two made that serious bungle in their mission. Keep an eye on them. If I discover they have made other mistakes, they will end up within one of these cells instead of outside guarding them.” The Grand Prior said to deVere.

“Yes, Master.” Peter deVere nodded his assent.

“I noticed Brother deVere, your attention wandered as Brother Courtenay reported the details of the twins’ kidnapping. What other pressing matter took your attention away?”

“It was nothing, Sir. I looked over at Eddie Marbot’s cell to see if he were still penned and pinioned.”

“Ah…the hockey player whose abduction you oversaw. Was that all? Concern that he remained fettered and caged? Or were you concerned more for his well-being? Be careful, deVere. You are well on your way to becoming a Prior of the Order. I would not want to see you throw it all away for the sake of an emotional attachment to a “guest.””

“No, Master. Be assured that my devotion to the Order is unswerving.”

“Make sure of it, deVere. Or else you may end up in the same predicament as your hockey player.” Palaiologos did not wait for a reply, but simply motioned with a flick of his hand for deVere to open the steel grid door of the cell before them. Peter deVere did so, and he stepped aside to allow the Grand Prior to enter first.

Inside the cell were two men bound in decommissioned and refitted electric chairs side by side. One was an older man in his early thirties, and he was dressed only in a sleeveless tee-shirt and tighty whiteys. The other man was younger – of similar age to the Leicester twins. He was clad only in a speedo-style swimsuit. The arms of both men were strapped to the arms of the sturdy wooden chairs. Their ankles were similarly strapped to the bottom of the legs of the chairs. Leather Straps across their chests secured them to the backs of the chairs, while other leather straps across their foreheads restricted movement of their heads. The black Paste of Palaiologos tape-gagged each man over their mouths and around their heads. The older man stared at Palaiologos and deVere as they entered, but the younger man remained senseless to their presence, because he was blindfolded with a black leather mask and a black gooey substance filled his earlobes, preventing him from hearing a sound.

Michael Palaiologos ignored the older man and approached the younger one. He twisted the young man’s nipple with his thumb and index finger, enjoying the sight of the lad surprised at the touch and wincing in pain. Watching this small act of cruelty, the younger man’s cellmate so shook with rage, that it seemed the bolted chair in which he was lashed would break. Peter deVere barked at him, “Quiet, you.” He fell silent, but his rage still registered in the hard breathing through his nostrils. Palaiologos continued to pay no heed to him. He merely stepped back to take in the details of the sense-deprived stripling. Turning his head to deVere, he inquired, “And this is…?”

“Danny Warwick, Master. He is a competitive swimmer, aged 24,” deVere answered.

“Ah, yes. The RCMP Inspector’s younger brother – taken to ensure his brother’s co-operation with us. And the brother? Any news from that front?”

“Not yet, Sir. Hugh Warwick – the brother – is due in Montreal today. Our operatives have arranged for him to share a hotel room with our prized prey. He is to gather any intelligence that he might to see how much our targeted officer knows about you and your business, Sir. Warwick is to befriend him, gain his confidence, and lure him to our trap. Warwick’s younger brother here served as the bait to hook Hugh Warwick.”

“Bait to hook bait to net our nettlesome law enforcement officer from Vancouver – Simon DuWright,” Palaiologos marveled at the idea of several enticements in the quest to trap a man. “That pesky policemen proved too much to handle for the Slobobians. I will show them the proper way to chase, capture, stuff, and mount that Royal Canadian Mounted Police Inspector.”

Turning his attention back to Danny Warwick, the Grand Prior admired the shape of the young man’s body. Danny stood 6’ tall and weighed 194lbs. He had reddish brown hair cropped short and tight on his head. Years of training in the pool supplemented with a strict diet and gym regimen had given Danny a 44” chest, 15”biceps, and a 34” waist. As he had done with the Leicester twins, Michael Palaiologos stroked the fine musculature of the bound, young man. Every time he was touched, Danny Warwick startled under the straps holding him to the chair. He could not hear or see anyone or anything, and he had no idea where he was or what had happened to him. The last thing he remembered was finishing laps at the Aquatic Center at home in Winnipeg, then heading to the locker-room to strip out of his speedo, shower, change, and head out to meet his brother Hugh for a late supper – his cheat meal for the week. Once he got to his locker – everything since then was a complete blank to him. He couldn’t move or speak. Danny could not hear a sound. He sensed that he still wore his speedo, and he was in a strong chair – wooden from the feel of it – all else remained in darkness to him. “Oh, Hugh,” Danny earnestly prayed, “Help me!”

Palaiologos continued to squeeze and prod Danny’s muscles. As a swimmer, Danny shave his body hair, but Palaiologos caught a glimpse of what lay underneath the young man’s speedo, as some tufts of his reddish brown manscape peaked out from behind the tiny racing suit. Palaiologos could also judge the dimensions of Danny’s bits and pieces, which were not just any bits and pieces! He paused to inquire more about the circumstances of Danny’s abduction from Peter deVere.

The major domo opened a dossier which the guard attendant in the cell had handed him when he first entered. Peter deVere began to summarize it for his Master. “Our mission was to turn a fellow RCMP tennis player, once our source in Vancouver informed us that Inspector Simon DuWright would participate in the upcoming tournament here in Montreal. We needed someone on the inside to keep tabs on that meddlesome Mountie. We decided upon Hugh Warwick. Hugh and Danny Warwick were orphaned at a young age. Hugh is five years older than Danny, and he became a father-figure to his brother after their parents’ deaths. They were subsequently raised by an unmarried aunt in Manitoba, but she passed away two years ago. They have no other relatives but each other. Both excelled at sports and academics in school, winning scholarships to American universities. Hugh played tennis. Danny swam. Although he was an excellent tennis player, Hugh Warwick was not an elite athlete, who could turn pro. After university, he joined the RCMP. He is honest, possesses great integrity, but he has one weakness – his absolute devotion to the welfare of his younger brother. We have used that to our advantage in turning him.”

“Every man has his price, Brother deVere. Continue.”

“Danny Warwick is at the elite level of swimming. After university…Oh!” deVere paused and expressed a measure of small surprise. Looking from the shackled swimmer to Palaiologos, deVere revealed, “Danny Warwick attended the same university as the Leicester twins, Master.”

Michael Palaiologos concealed his anger well. “That is yet one more detail that Brother Courtenay and Brother Clifford overlooked. The odds are very good that Mr. Warwick knew Messrs. Leicester at university, even if they did not play the same sports. As student-athletes, they may have shared academic or sports-related advisors. And Mr. Warwick’s brother played tennis, so I am sure the younger Warwick had more than a passing interest in that sport. His path very likely crossed the paths of at least one of the Leicester twins. I am deeply disappointed in Courtenay and Clifford. After we finish here, deVere, inform them both that I wish to meet with them later in my study above. To use a sports analogy, this is the second yellow card I will present to them today. There will not be a third. If I discover one more error of their making, they will receive the red card to a sin bin, the likes of which neither man could ever imagine.”

“As you command, Master. May I continue?” deVere requested.

“Pray, do so.”

“After graduating from his American university, Danny Warwick returned to Winnipeg to live with his brother and to train full time to qualify for the Canadian Olympic Swim Team. He swims and works out at an Aquatic Center and an affiliated gym six days a week often twice a day. Our agents observed his movements and those of his RCMP brother carefully, and they decided to kidnap him from the Aquatic Center on a particular night when the Center would be nearly empty, after he finished his training and prepared to return home to his brother. Our agents discovered there is a high turnover rate of attendants – who are often itinerant workers – in the locker-rooms of the facility, so it was easy for two of our operatives to obtain jobs there. With such a high turnover in employment, no one would likely question their sudden departure afterwards.”

“I am pleased that our factors in Manitoba pay stricter attention to detail than Courtenay and Clifford,” the Grand Prior interjected.

“Yes, Sir. On the night in question, Danny Warwick entered the locker-room, still dripping water from his laps in the pool. Like many swimmers in training, he wore a drag suit over his speedo-like racing suit. Swimmers wear these drag suits – a poly-mesh training suit worn over their racers – to increase their times. The drag suits add resistance in the water and cause the swimmer to train harder and – ideally – faster. Our handlers made sure that the area of changing room that Danny Warwick used would be empty of others by cordoning it off as an area “in repair.” Danny Warwick would not have noticed this, as he entered the locker-room from the pool area. Our men needed only to lock that entrance from the pool area after him to prevent anyone interrupting them while they subdued him, and then unlock it once they had executed their plans for his extraction. Danny Warwick walked nonchalantly to his locker, carrying nothing but a small chamois cloth over his right shoulder. One agent stood close by to that locker, appearing occupied with folding towels.”

“Danny smiled and said hello to him, as he passed our man. He had stowed his clothes and gear in a lower locker. He entered the code to open it, and he then stepped away a tad from the locker to remove his drag suit and racer. Danny Warwick’s back was to our operative, so he did not notice the man stealthily walk up behind him. He bent down to peel the drag suit off. As he slid the wet suit down his legs, Danny’s pert, pumped-up rump with the wet nylon of his racer clinging to his bruising buns presented itself to our agent. The agent quickly stabbed a hypodermic needle and pumped a sedative-filled syringe into the right cheek of Danny Warwick’s buttocks. He lurched straight up for a moment before slumping into unconsciousness in the waiting arms of our operative. By then the other operative had come around with a laundry cart filled with towels. The two men quickly dumped Danny Warwick, his gear, and the contents of his locker into the cart and concealed their cargo with more towels. The men retained possession of Danny’s mobile phone. Like many young men, so careless with security, Danny Warwick had no passcode set for the phone. The men quickly found Hugh Warwick’s number and texted “rl8 cul8r” to him. Hugh Warwick would assume that it was Danny texting that he was running late and would see him later. And since there are no surveillance cameras in locker rooms, there would be no record of our agents using his phone. Very shortly later “ok cul8r” came back in reply. Then one man pushed the cart through the locker-room to an exit, where two more operatives waited in a van. After loading the cart in the back of the van, the other agents drove off, leaving their colleagues to wipe the area clean, return it to its condition before their operation, and finish their shifts. The two agents did not return for their shifts the next day.”

Peter deVere looked over at his Master and saw that he was very pleased, and so he continued. “After completing their tasks at the Aquatic Center, the first two operatives rendezvoused with their compatriots and the van at a prearranged spot, and together the four men continued to the airport. While in the van, they began to prepare Danny Warwick for his flight to Montreal. In consideration of time, they did not bind him elaborately, but rather simply – although nonetheless still effectively. With the black rope of the Order, they bound Danny’s wrists behind his back and similarly tied his ankles and knees above their caps together. Once he was tied up, they placed him into a very tight, latex sleep-sack. They left him ungagged and without a blindfold. At each stage of Danny Warwick’s binding, the operatives carefully recorded him in pictures and videos, as instructed. Our contact at the airport made sure that the van would not be inspected by officials. They arrived without incident at a private hangar with the Order’s chartered airplane ready for immediate flight. The men took the still unconscious Danny Warwick onboard and strapped him into a seat. One of the four operatives took a few more recordings of him before they departed the plane. The flight crew – members of the Order – then took charge of him. Danny Warwick remained unconscious throughout the 2-hour 40-minute flight. He awakened here in Dr. Richelieu’s laboratory to find himself without the ability to speak, see, hear, or move. For all intents and purposes, Danny Warwick has no idea what has happened to him, who is holding him captive, where he is, and why he is experiencing this.”

Peter deVere finished the summary of the report, and he waited for his Master to speak. Michael Palaiologos remained silently observing Danny Warwick. He reached out again to trail his finger from Danny’s Adam’s Apple down his chest strapped to the heavy wooden chair, over the contours of his ripped abdominal muscles to rest below his belly button atop his fluffy, reddish brown tufts of manscape peeking out of his speedo. Palaiologos felt Danny tremble at his touch. He sensed the young man’s fear at his fingertips. And Michael Palaiologos depravedly reveled at causing the young man distress.

“Wonderful.” He finally broke the silence. Palaiologos addressed deVere. “Hugh Warwick will lure Simon DuWright to us. To snare him, however, I have sweetened the pot. I have arranged to kidnap his boyfriend – Johnny Trudeau – and bring him here to us. The Order discovered the pair have become a couple, after DuWright demonstrated what incompetents our Slobobian brethren are, when he rescued Trudeau from their clutches. Trudeau arrives tomorrow. Also arriving tomorrow is another “guest” – this one has been recommended to me by an American business associate. He’s a cowboy who gave up the prospect of a lucrative career as an NFL Quarterback to go back to ranching. However, the cowboy – Bucky Johnson by name – snooped too much into the affairs of my business associate. As a favor, I offered the services of the Order to rid my friend of the too curious cowboy.”

“When each man arrives after Dr. Richelieu inspects and prepares them, I would like them to join Danny Warwick and our other guest here in this cell. All four men will become most welcome additions to my collection. Bucky Johnson will make an excellent part of my shackled stock, because since childhood the independent spirit of the American Cowboy has fascinated me. Taking that independence from him and breaking his spirit – much as a cowboy breaks in a horse – will give me so much pleasure. Young Warwick makes a welcome addition to my captured congregation, because he is the decoy to make sure his brother entices Simon DuWright our way. Little does Hugh Warwick understand that his brother is a permanent fixture in my collection, and that he, too, will soon join him. After all, I do so enjoy matching sets. And, of course, the true bait that will trap Simon DuWright is Johnny Trudeau. Once DuWright is reunited with Trudeau in an embrace that we entangle them in, my abducted assembly of elite athletes and law enforcement officers will be complete. We can then begin the experiment Dr. Richelieu and I have long researched and developed.”

“Master, you have forgotten to account for this man – the other “guest” here.” Peter DeVere said and pointed to the man shackled and silenced in the former electric chair next to the one that held Danny Warwick in its miserable manacles.

Palaiologos looked over at his other “guest.” He smiled slyly at him, before answering Peter deVere. “No. I have not forgotten him. As you know, Brother deVere, our plans have been long in the making, ever since Simon DuWright and Johnny Trudeau escaped the Slobobians. We needed to gather vital intelligence from within Simon DuWright’s world. We needed to infiltrate the offices of the Vancouver branch of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. And we did so. Our double agent provided much needed information on that bothersome boy scout and his bobsledding boyfriend.”

“And, Master, where is this double agent now?”

“In Lake Placid to oversee Johnny Trudeau’s abduction.”

“And this man, Sir?”

Michael Palaiologos approached the other man, who just barely concealed his rage and glared gutsily back at him. The man was 6’ tall and weighed 192lbs. He was very handsome with dark brown eyes and short, black hair in very tight curls – cut in a line-up fashion. Palaiologos pawed the man’s brawny 44” chest strapped to the back of that contraption, and he then stroked the strapping man’s eight-pack abs under his sleeveless tee, before lifting the vest to fondle the black, short and very curly hairs of his man-bush underneath. The Grand Prior was soon distracted by the man’s 16” biceps pumped up under the leather straps holding him, and he began squeezing those muscular arms. Never taking his eyes from the man, Michael Palaiologos at last answered his manservant’s question.

“Brother deVere, allow me to introduce Inspector Reginald Percy of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch of London, The United Kingdom.”

To Be Continued…

[george_bound]

Well I've stated on many occasions that I love two hot guys tied together to each other so the captivity of the tennis studs is a very welcomed sight indeed! And a heart-warming story of the older brother supporting his younger brother's sexual orientation.

And just when that upveiling was finished, we learn of the capture of Danny Warwick and... Reginard Percy... what a plot twist! Can't wait to see where it leads

BTW, my only critique is the length of the chapters. While I love getting all this interconnectedness of the various guys' capture and captivity in one sitting, I often find myself waiting to read the chapter for when I have a chuck of time to give it as opposed to other tales where I can read and comment in a more timely fashion. A very minor point and not a problem for me at all but one I thought I'd share nevertheless.

Keep up the amazing storytelling here, the detail and interconnectedness of the characters are quite rich ... and the restraint methods are diabolical

TKT

[KidnappedCowboy]

Thank you, [mention]george_bound[/mention]! I will take your critiques to heart, as I write more chapters. My aim is to provide as much detail as possible in creating the characters of the story. I want the reader to understand the freedom these young man have taken away from them. It adds, I hope, to the suspense I wish to build in the tale. I want to convey their sense of loss.

This next chapter is lengthy. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope to hear your comments!

Cheers!

[KidnappedCowboy]

Chapter VIII: Pinched and Pinioned Policeman


Friday 12:00 P.M.: Westmount, Montreal, Quebec: The Depths Below the Estate of Michael Palaiologos

“Ah! Inspector Reginald Percy of the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch in London – so it was he – or rather a Brother of our Order who assumed his identity – who infiltrated the offices of the Vancouver Royal Canadian Mounted Police to gather intelligence on Inspector Simon DuWright and Johnny Trudeau.” Peter deVere mulled over Michael Palaiologos’s revelation of the identity of the very well-built man strapped into the decommissioned and repurposed electric chair next to its pair with Canada’s Olympic swimming dynamo Danny Warwick strappled similarly therein.

“Yes,” deVere’s Master replied, “That phase of our mission has worked well. The Force in Vancouver did not suspect the switch, even though our operative is somewhat different in appearance from the real Inspector Percy here. For instance, our agent is a few inches taller, and he is leaner than the brawny copper here. And there is the obvious…” Palaiologos paused for a moment. He stroked the muffled Mounted Policeman’s cheek before continuing, “difference in their complexions – but even that escaped notice, since no one in Vancouver had ever met Inspector Percy in person. We took a gamble – a game of craps if you will – but we calculated the odds, rolled the dice, and came up with boxcars!”

“My compliments, Sir.” deVere saluted his Master.

“Well – our mission is not yet complete, Brother deVere, but Simon DuWright will all too shortly fall into our trap alongside his studly swain Johnny Trudeau. The busybody bronco-buster Bucky Johnson will join them here, as will young Warwick’s brother.” Palaiologos stared over at Percy’s correspondingly constrained companion. The poor lad – deafened with silencing sludge in his ears and destitute of vision with a mask over his eyes – sat senseless to the scrutiny from the sinister swami. Palaiologos carried on. “The Mountie from Manitoba does our bidding now in hope that we release his kid brother once he hands over his fellow constable to us. Little does Inspector Hugh Warwick know that we have no intention of delivering Danny Warwick back to him. No – we will drag the incredulous cop into our dragnet as well. It is far too dangerous to the success of our mission to leave loose ends untied. After all, Brother deVere, as members of the Order of the Black Rope, we know that loose ends must always be clinched and knotted around dapper dudes such as these manly men.”

The Grand Prior stepped back from the chained cellmates for a last look for now. “Come, Brother deVere. We still have much to prepare. We will leave Inspector Reginald Percy once more to contemplate the karma that led him here. And we will let Danny Warwick remain blindfolded and dumbfounded to his destiny.” With that Michael Palaiologos and Peter deVere left the cell. The guard attendant activated the mechanism that moved the steel grid door shut, and the two men were left in that confounded cage to brood over their abductions.

Reggie Percy let his boiling anger cool, and he focused instead on a way to bring the law down on his capricious captors. His anger had already almost loosened his grip on his sanity – he had barely hung onto it earlier in his captivity during a harrowing time confined within a cruel cage. Over the past several weeks, there were other times when he despaired of release. Reggie dug deeper and deeper into himself to hold on to hope. But he knew that he could not only rely on the hope of rescue. He needed to plan an escape from this hellhole he was incarcerated in. Reggie had been held captive there since mid-March, but he had little understanding of time now. His gaolers released him from the most restrictive bondage a few times each day – for nourishment, loo visits, exercise, and at times during the examinations of that wicked quack Dr. Richelieu – but he always remained in some fetters and always “collared” when free from the most confining bondage such as he found himself in now. “The Collar” – Reggie grimaced at the thought of the electric shock it delivered. The first time the guard attendants freed him from being bound and gagged, they placed “The Collar” around his neck before undoing any knots. It was similar in looks and design to shock-collars used on dogs to train them. Reggie had always thought such methods to train animals cruel. He never used pain to train and discipline his pet dogs or the horses he road as a Mounted Police Inspector in London. His kidnappers and gaolers were no gentlemen, though. They took such joy in inflicting pain, whenever they hitched knots when tying Reggie back up, pulled the tape over his mouth to gag him, or activating the juice that sent pain through his body from “The Collar.”

When the guard attendants brought Reggie’s meals each day, they would put “The Collar” around his neck and lock it in place, before they ungagged him and unbound his hands. They first demonstrated “The Collar’s” shock – or “kiss” as they sadistically called it – by adjusting its level of pain not to its “low” setting – no – that they considered unnecessarily kind. The guard attendants regarded “medium-high” to be the lowest level to set that nefarious necklace! After administering the first couple of shocks to him, Reggie soon learned obedience to their rules. It was only during meals or when they shaved him that Reggie was ungagged. During meals he remained handcuffed. As for the meals themselves, his gaolers fed him a tasteless gruel – concocted and cooked under Dr. Richelieu’s direction. It was a mixture of necessary protein, carbohydrates and fats to provide the nutrients and supplements for nourishment. After the meals, he would be led to the loo to relieve himself. Reggie couldn’t bring himself to detail that humiliation. His ablutions were an even worse degradation.

For two hours each day, six days a week, Reggie—wearing only a jockstrap – used a gym on a lower level below the cells. Four guard attendants – each armed with a remote control for “The Collar” – accompanied him there, remained with him during exercise, and escorted him back to his cell when done. They surrounded him as he weight-trained and did cardio, following a regimen again devised by Dr. Richelieu – an hour of weights for specific body parts followed by 30 to 45 minutes of cardio on a treadmill, spinning bike, or the Stairmaster. Reggie remain in shackles when pumping iron and during his cardio routine. The shackles were of such length to allow him full movement only for the particular exercise. And he remained gagged during the duration of his workouts – always with a perforated-ball-gag to facilitate the type of breathing caused from strenuous activity. During one gym session early in his captivity, Reggie attempted a breakout. He tried to clobber one of the guard attendants with a 45lb. dumbbell. He immediately crumbled to floor of the gym writhing in agony from the “kiss” of “The Collar.” Further punishment was promptly administered. The guard attendants bundled him back to his cell, where a very narrow standing, iron-barred cage awaited him. Reggie was stripped nude, bound in a web of that black rope that further constricted him when he fought to break free of it. They poured that gooey substance into his ears that prevented him for hearing a sound, stuffed the jockstrap that he had worn while working out into his mouth, tape-gagged it in place, and then plastered a mask over his eye – sending him into utter silence and darkness. The brutal binders then shoved him into that cramped cage and locked him in.

Reggie had no idea how long he remained in that pernicious pen. He lost all sense of time and space. Such nightmares it produced! Reggie came close to a complete breakdown. All he could see in his mind’s eye were those black-clad guard attendants tying and untying him in every conceivable manner – gagging and ungagging him with black tape or black bandanas – stripping his Bonds briefs and singlets from him or dressing him back in the same underwear – taking a jockstrap off him or putting it on him – Reggie thought he’d go mad in that cage. Yet – he survived. He did so by calling upon what strength and spirit he could muster to focus on freedom, who he was, and his dedication to law enforcement. During those dark, long, silent hours that he spent hobbled, suppressed from speaking, and kept in that close-confining cage, he initially thought of revenge. Reggie dismissed those dark thoughts by remembering who he was – the son of Winston and Anna Percy whose parents had immigrated to Britain from Jamaica after the Second World War. Reggie’s family had faced great prejudice, but his grandparents, his parents, and he all built successful lives in Britain.

Reggie hailed from Lewisham in South London. He won an academic scholarship to Ampleforth College, where he also played in the Back Row on the rugby pitch. The toffs he encountered there at first turned their noses up at him, but his excellence in academics and on the playing-field soon commanded their respect. A kindly Benedictine monk reinforced the values instilled by his own family – hard work, kindness, empathy, charity, knowing the difference between right and wrong, and giving back. From Ampleforth, Reggie went on to Kings College, Cambridge again on scholarship, where he read history, continued chasing eggs on the rugby pitch, graduated with the highest honors, and won the Thirlwall Prize.

After Cambridge, Reggie Percy embarked on the career that he had dreamed of since childhood in South London. On Saturdays or Sunday afternoon, Reggie’s Pops and Dad often took him to Hyde Park, where he’d see the King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery and the Life Guards, training and exercising on horseback. For a special treat, his father once brought him to Surrey to see the Metropolitan Mounted Police Training Center there, and Reggie was drawn to them almost naturally. He fell in love with horses and the police from that young age. His Pops persuaded his Dad and his Mum to allow him to take horseback riding lessons. Of course, Reggie was expected to help pay for the lessons from his earnings doing part-time work, such as odd-jobs and small home repairs around the neighborhood. That money was well spent. Reggie Percy became an expert rider, and his dedication to horsemanship grew from those early childhood lessons. After Ampleforth and Cambridge, he wanted to combine his love of horses with a commitment of service to his country and community. He therefore joined the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch, where he quickly made a name for himself, receiving accolades from colleagues and superiors alike.

Reggie Percy overcame the tortuous time in that cold, iron crate by concentrating on the values that made him into the man he was. He vowed to himself that he would get free from the calamitous clutches of this criminal cabal. He would expose their petty plots to put men in peril. And Reggie would see to it that these devilish delinquents faced justice. His anger still rose at times, but now he refocused that anger on his objectives.

Once they were alone in that cell, belted in like manner to those “hot seats” side by side, and silenced, Reggie wracked his brain for a way to reach out to comfort Danny Warwick, who in all probability had no idea that Reggie shared the cell with him. Their chairs were bolted to the floor adjacent to each other, but a space of just over a half centimeter was between them. Reggie began to stretch his harnessed left arm towards Danny’s right arm strapped in like manner to his chair. Reggie fought against the leather bindings holding his arm in place, and he tried not to grunt through his tape-gag to avoid the attention of the guard attendants outside their cell. After much effort, Reggie succeeded. His left lower arm brushed against Danny’s right lower arm. Danny winced at first, no doubt thinking that Palaiologos had returned to torment him. But Reggie – concentrating his strength against the strong leather straps binding his left arm in place – kept his arm touching Danny’s. And Reggie prayed with all his might that the young man would come to realize Reggie’s touch was meant to comfort and not to afflict him. As he continued pressing against Danny’s strapped arm, their time wore on in that cell. Reggie Percy’s thoughts turned once more to the events leading up to his kidnapping and imprisonment within this lockup.

Mid-March Some Weeks Before: Montreal, Canada
Reggie Percy stepped off the flight from London, and he was so happy to be here in Canada. Apart from a holiday to France once when he was a boy with his family, he had never been outside the United Kingdom. Now, here he was in Montreal before flying on to Vancouver. Reggie had taken some holiday leave time to stay a few days in the city. Arriving in the late afternoon on Thursday, Reggie had two full days to sightsee before leaving Sunday evening for Vancouver, so he could get settled before reporting Tuesday morning for the orientation of the program, which was the purpose of his trip.

Counter Terrorism Command had contacted Reggie’s superior officers in the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch about a counter-terrorism educational and training program under the direction of the Vancouver Division of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Since the Mounted Branch often dealt with crowd control at large events around London and the recent rise in terrorist activity there and at other cities of the UK, the higher ups decided to send an Inspector from the Branch to complete the eight-week program. Reggie was their natural choice. He had experience in the investigations of several cases of suspected terrorism, and he had begun preparation work in researching several terrorist organizations. Reggie’s superior officers had pegged him as an inspector with great promise.

Reggie wanted the few days in Montreal to enjoy pleasure before getting down to business in Vancouver. He was sure that he would have plenty of opportunities in Vancouver to enjoy what that western city could offer, but Jerry, a friend from his Cambridge days, told him that he would find a particular neighborhood of Montreal worth visiting. That was “Le Village” – the Gay Village of the city. Reggie Percy realized he was gay while at Ampleforth. He first confided that knowledge to the Benedictine monk there who had taken Reggie under his wing. Reggie was from a very religious family, and he feared they might not accept him. The monk – Dom Columba – told Reggie that we must see ourselves and each other as God sees us. God sees us with love, he said. He went on to quote St. John, “Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.” That kindly man told Reggie to live his life proudly and never be ashamed of who he was. With his help, Reggie broke the news to his family, and they embraced him as a gay man, because it was the content of his character that mattered most to them; and they knew he was a good man. His family was gone now. Dom Columba was still alive. Reggie wrote to him often, but he worried that he could not visit that wonderful man more often. Recalling his words still brought a tear to Reggie’s eyes.

Reggie had dated very little at Cambridge, and even less so after joining the Met. He used his studies first and then his work as excuses. His friends told him to stop with the excuses. Maybe, it was, he thought, because he was shy and thought that he wouldn’t measure up to another man’s expectations. A good friend, a fellow inspector – Sylvia Townsend by name – told him he was a fool to think that. “You’d be like catnip in a gay bar, Reg,” she laughed, “you’d have guys all over you. The fact that you don’t know how attractive you are, makes you all the more desirable.” Sylvia told him that he bore a striking resemblance to the actor who played that superhero in a movie a couple of years ago. She had taken to calling him “T'Challa” after the character in the movie, and she enjoyed needling him, “Cool it with the rugby, Reg. You don’t want to break your nose or get cauliflower ears. Although I’d suspect anything broken on you would just add to your charm.” Reggie blushed, whenever she teased him like that.

So, Reggie decided to do some exploring while away from home, and he looked forward to seeing what “Le Village” had to offer. He booked a room in a moderately priced hotel in the neighborhood. He would spend the two full days sightseeing around Montreal and eat out at night at one of the trendy restaurants in the area around his hotel. Reggie might even find the courage to overcome his shyness and go to one of the nightclubs in the Gay Village. Before he left on his flight from London, he made sure that his Borough Operational Command Unit (BOCU) was aware of his planned stopover in Montreal ahead of his Vancouver commission and knew his itinerary whilst there. Little did Reggie suspect, however, that someone in that BOCU would use that information and send it on to those planning to kidnap him.

When the Shuttle Service from Montréal–Trudeau dropped him at the hotel after 7 Thursday evening, Reggie grabbed his luggage and walked into the hotel towards the Reception Desk. At the same time another man entered the hotel with identical luggage. Like Reggie, he wore business casual – well-fitted, no break chinos, an athletic-fit dress shirt, and a blazer. Reggie preferred a rugged Chelsea boot, while the man had loafers on. Reggie’s chinos were a dark blue. The other man wore neutral-colored, slim trousers. That day Reggie had a sharp, white athletic-fit dress shirt with blue accents on, and it still looked crisp after the transatlantic flight. He wore a gray wool blazer and with a nod to the climes of Canada – a whaleback waterproof jacket. The man had an extra slim comfort knit dress shirt in a classic plaid. A classic navy blazer completed the man’s look, and he carried a dark gray mid-length winter coat with him.

Even on his salary with the Met, Reggie was aware that looking sharp mattered, so he spent wisely on his wardrobe. A well-built man like he had a hard time finding trousers to accommodate his slim waist, meaty thighs, and beefy bum, but he found a good tailor to take material in and out where needed to fit over his muscular frame. Reggie had brought along jeans, sport-shirts, tees, trainers, underwear, socks, and the various other essentials with him. And of course, he had packed his uniform in his luggage – his “dress blues” for the ceremonial dinner to be held at the completion of the course in Vancouver. Representing the Met, he needed always to be professional, clean and neat. And he was – his clothes complimented his good-looks and athletic build well.

Reggie and the other man reached the Reception Desk at the same time and waited for the clerk to finish attending to other guests. Standing side by side, Reggie glanced over to observe his companion discreetly. He was a good-looking man. He was a few inches taller than Reggie – about 6’3” Reggie reckoned. He was lean and fit. He had blond hair, that had begun to recede. He wore it tapered and conformed to the overall shape of his head. Reggie noticed that his ears stood at an angle just a bit from his head. Reggie thought that that feature added rather than detracted from his overall good looks. The man noticed Reggie, and he nodded and smiled at him. The man had a nice smile.

“May I help you, Sir?”

“And may I help you, Sir?”

Reggie and the man walked up to the two clerks and stood at the reception desk with their luggage between them. The luggage was so identical that one needed to look at the travel tags to tell which piece belonged to whom. Reggie introduced himself to the clerk and presented his passport and credit card for identification and confirmation. He noticed the blond-haired man present a British passport to the other desk clerk, but Reggie was soon occupied with getting the pass cards to his hotel room that he turned his attention away from anything else.

“Here you are, Mr. Percy. Room 425. Shall I call for a bell hop to help with your luggage, sir?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you. If you could direct me to the lifts?”

“To the left and around the corner, sir. Your room is on the fourth floor. Enjoy your stay with us here in Montreal, Mr. Percy.”

Reggie thanked the clerk, took the luggage at his feet, and headed to the lifts. He left the other man still getting sorted. He entered a lift and proceeded up to his room. Reggie found the room easily enough. Once he entered it, he took in its details. The hotel was an older one that had undergone renovation recently. The bathroom was on the right as you entered. It was small, but the facilities were all upgraded. There was a closet opposite the bathroom. As an older hotel, it had been designed for function over space. Reggie didn’t need the space. Next to the closet was another door – apparently it connected to the adjoining room. Reggie checked whether it was locked. It was. Then he took in the rest of his quarters. The queen-sized bed dominated the room with two end tables on each side of it. Opposite the bed was a console/dresser/desk combo with a flat-screen television mounted over it. A small round table and two easy chairs in front of the window completed the furnishings. He could see the lights of the city beckoning from behind the sheer curtains.

Reggie had no intention of exploring the nightlife that night. He was exhausted from the flight here and the jetlag. All he intended was to take a hot shower and slip between the sheets of the bed for a good night’s sleep to be refreshed for an early start in the morning. He threw his gear on the bed, took his jacket off and hung it and his winter coat in the closet. He next took his shirt and trousers off and carefully hung them up too. Stripping his white Bonds briefs and under-tank off, he went into the bathroom for a quick shower and was soon under the soothing spray of the water. After briskly soaping himself up and rinsing off, he grabbed a towel to dry himself off, and then wrapped the towel around his waist. The material was luxurious, but the maker skimped on the size. It wrapped around Reggie’s slim waist, but it covered only to just about the middle of his thighs. No matter, he thought. Reggie went out to open his bag. He then discovered that he had picked up the wrong piece of luggage. “Bollocks!” Reggie thought – he must have grabbed the blond-haired man’s gear, and he must be in possession of Reggie’s. He went to the telephone on one of the end tables to call Reception to sort out the mix-up.

He was just about to punch the number in, when he heard a knock at the door. Reggie put the receiver down, went to the door, and looked through the peephole to see who it was. It was the blond-haired fellow guest with Reggie’s gear in tow. Reggie looked down at his state of dress – or undress as it were.

“Oh! Bugger it!” Reggie opened the door.

The man stood for a moment without speaking, looking Reggie up and down – like he wanted to devour him on the spot.

Reggie broke the silence. “I’m sorry. I took your luggage by mistake. Come in.” Without a thought, he opened the door wider to allow the man in.

“I’m Patrick Penrith,” the man said as he came into the room and turned to face Reggie in the somewhat narrow space between the bathroom and the closet. He glanced down at Reggie’s chest still glistening wet from the shower. “Here’s yours. I suppose you’re wondering how I found you. I overheard the clerk at Reception tell you your room number. Hope you don’t mind? Thought I’d pop around and not bother the lot downstairs.”

Reggie stood there for a moment and looked at Patrick Penrith. He had blue eyes, Reggie thought, before answering, “Oh…no. Of course not. It was all my fault. I’m Reggie Percy.” Reggie moved to retrieve Penrith’s own bag from the bed. As he did so Reggie brushed against Penrith, loosening the towel around Reggie’s waist, and it fell to the floor. Patrick Penrith got a full view of Reggie’s full moon.

“Well…Hello, Reggie Percy!!” Penrith replied in flirtatious surprise.

Reggie blushed and cupped his basket with both hands before turning to face Patrick Penrith.
“No need to shake hands, old man,” Penrith chortled, as he bent down to retrieve the fallen towel. He handed the towel back to Reggie. Reggie slipped it around him, but not before Penrith got a glimpse of the Percy Family Jewels.

Reggie stammered a bit, “Err…mmm…How do you do,” he finally got it out.

“Well, I’ll just take my bag, leave you yours, and say Good Night.” Penrith put Reggie’s bag on the bed and took his. “I’ll see you around, Reggie Percy.” He gave Reggie the once over again, before turning to leave and headed towards the door.

Reggie roused himself from his fluster and moved towards the door too. “Yes. Good Night. Again…my apologies for the mix-up.”

Penrith opened the door. He turned to face Reggie once more before leaving. “Maybe I’ll see you again. Good Night.”

Reggie looked the door after him. He shook his head and thought, “Brilliant…What a botch up job you’ve done, Inspector Percy!” He walked back towards the bed to open his gear, thinking about what had just occurred, recalling how blue Patrick Penrith’s eyes were. Reggie looked down and was a tad surprised to see the towel around his waist had tented.

Friday Montreal
Reggie rose early to catch the buffet-style breakfast in the restaurant off the lobby downstairs. After showering and shaving, he dressed in jeans, white tee, a tight-fitting, merino wool V-necked jumper over it, and his Chelsea boots for the day of touring. As he was returning to his table from the buffet with a plate of assorted fresh fruit, fat-free, plain yogurt, and muesli, Reggie spotted Patrick Penrith in a business suit waiting for the hostess to seat him. Penrith saw Reggie, and he walked towards him. Reggie rose from the table to greet him.

“Good Morning. Glad to see you dressed in some clothes for a change,” he chuckled.

Reggie flushed a shade or two of red. “Good Morning. Sorry about that.”

“Please, I’m only giving you the business…And do call me Patrick. Mind if I join you?”

Reggie looked at him and saw those blue eyes again. “Please…Patrick…by all means. And I’m Reggie,” as he offered his hand. They shook. He motioned Penrith to take the seat opposite. Reggie asked a waiter to bring another place setting. The server did so. He also brought them coffee, while Penrith went to see what the buffet had to offer. He returned with a western omelet, fruit, and two blueberry muffins. He offered one to Reggie.

“Thank you…but no. Even on holiday, I try to maintain my diet.”

“Well done you, Reggie. So…you’re here on holiday?”

“A short one – I fly on to Vancouver on Sunday evening. My work takes me there.”

“What type of work are you in?”

“I’m in law enforcement…I’m an Inspector with the Metropolitan Police Mounted Branch in London.”

“Off to Vancouver to thwart a crime, Inspector?” Penrith leaned in closer.

Reggie laughed. “No. A few weeks in a training program there. Thought I’d spend a few days enjoying myself here before the program begins. How about you, Patrick? What line of work are you in?”

“I work in the import/export business. I’m here in town on business.” Penrith reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, took out a business card, and handed it to Reggie.

Reggie read it. “Patrick Penrith, Byzantine Imports, V. P., Procurement” And he noticed the company logo of two crossed wrists bound in black rope.

“What do you procure for import and export?”

Penrith gave Reggie the same look that greeted him when he opened his door wearing only a towel the night before – as if he would grab a hold of him and never let go. It made Reggie a tad uneasy…yet intrigued all the same.

“I source and acquire goods to service the company. We’re engaged in various operations – sports apparel and equipment for instance – I’m here in town to gauge the desirability of some goods the CEO of the company has recently shown an interest in. I need to size them up and seize them for him.”

“And these…goods…you’re inspecting them today?” Reggie asked, and he grew somewhat nervous as Penrith kept staring at him intently.

Penrith thought back to what he had seen of Reggie the previous night and answered, “I’ve done some inspections already. From what I’ve seen the goods are very promising – very promising indeed!”

“And that’s a rather curious logo. What does it represent?”

“Byzantine Bonds create links around men that are unbreakable.”

Patrick gauged Reggie’s reaction to see if he understood the underlying meaning of those words. Reggie appeared unfazed, merely interpreting him to mean the company was unswervingly loyal to the pacts into which they entered. He never suspected that Patrick had another meaning of links in mind.

“Well – enough about me. What do you intend to see today in Montreal?”

“I thought I’d explore Old Montréal, Notre Dame Basilica, the Fine Arts Museum, and walk around the campus of McGill University.”

“That should keep you busy. And tonight?”

“After that, I’ll head back here. I was going to ask the Concierge to recommend a restaurant in the Gay Village and take it from there.”

Penrith leaned in very close over the table to Reggie. “May I make a suggestion?” He inquired.

“Of course.” Reggie politely answered him.

“Have dinner with me. I know a delightful bistro nearby. And we can hit a nightclub – Club Renegade perhaps – afterwards, if you’re up for it.”

Reggie thought for a moment. He remembered his friend Sylvia’s encouragement to get out and explore a romantic life. And then he agreed, “Sure. I’d like that.”

“Good. I’ll be in meetings all day, but I should be done by 6…6:30. Let’s plan on meeting downstairs in the Lobby here at 7:45 tonight. Don’t worry about how to dress. You look great as it is. You don’t have to change. Sound good to you?”

“Yes. I look forward to it, Patrick.”

With that, Reggie and Patrick finished eating, settled their respective bills, and parted ways for now – Reggie for a day of touring and Patrick to attend to his business.

Reggie thoroughly enjoyed Montreal’s Old Quarter and the sights it offered. He thought he’d be exhausted by the end of the day, but the prospect of dinner with Patrick Penrith – and looking into those beautiful blue eyes – kept him energized all day. He made it back to the hotel just after 6 – which left him enough time for a brief lie down and to freshen himself up before meeting Patrick in the lobby at 7:45. Reggie listened for the most part to Patrick’s advice about dressing for the night. After waking from his nap, Reggie showered and changed to a fresh white tee before donning the tight-fitting navy blue, Merino Wool jumper and jeans once more. Before leaving his room to go downstairs, Reggie took a look at himself in the full-length mirror at the back of the bathroom door. Once again, he recalled Sylvia’s words, and he thought, “Okay…T’Challa – yeah, there might be a resemblance.” Curling his arms and doing a bit of flexing, he spoke to the man staring back at him in the mirror, “My suit is good…Wakanda Forever!” He laughed, then grabbed his winter coat and headed out of his hotel room to meet Patrick in the lobby.

Patrick was there waiting for Reggie. He had dressed in grey, slim trousers and an extra-slim, blue dress shirt unbuttoned just so to reveal his very smooth chest and rolled up a bit on his arms. He flashed a smile, as he rose to greet Reggie. Patrick had made reservations at a local joint. “I hope you like Spanish?” Reggie responded that he was up for any food, as long as it was good. “Good…they make a mean paella,” Patrick assured him.

The restaurant was close to the hotel, so they walked the short distance. The maître d'hôtel greeted Patrick as he might a valued customer, and he seated the pair in a quiet alcove. Patrick asked Reggie, if he could order a bottle of wine. He ordered a Bodegas Muga Reserva 2016 – a tempranillo from Spain. Reggie complimented him on the choice, and they decided to share a traditional Spanish paella. Once they ordered and were enjoying the wine, Patrick wanted to know about Reggie’s background. As he had at breakfast that morning, Patrick leaned in, as if he did not want to miss a word Reggie said. Whenever Reggie asked a question about Patrick, the man answered in general terms. He grew up in the north of England, and still carried a British passport. He started working for “Byzantine Imports” straight out of university. Apart from those few details, Patrick remained vague about himself. He had a way of turning the conversation back around to Reggie’s life. As an inspector with the Met, Reggie remained discreet, but he overcame his natural reserve and modesty, and he opened up about his romantic life.

“You’ve never had a long-term relationship? A man to bring home to meet the family?” Patrick appeared incredulous.

Reggie reddened a tad. “Never more than a few dates, and no one serious enough to meet the family…” He looked off as if into the distance before continuing. He turned and faced Patrick. “My family’s gone now…”

“I’m sorry, all alone in the world…” Patrick replied in comfort, but he already knew that detail of Reggie’s life.

“Apart from good friends from my schooldays and the Met.” Reggie thought of Sylvia, Jerry from Cambridge who had recommended the Gay Village, and Dom Columba at Ampleforth.

“And your first time outside the UK? Do you know anyone in Canada?”

“One holiday trip to France, when I was much younger. And no, I don’t know any Canadians.”

Patrick sat back in his chair and took a good look at Reggie. “So – no one here in Canada has met you?”

For a moment Reggie thought that was an odd way to phrase a question. Patrick saw his puzzled look and acted quickly to steer Reggie away from any suspicions. “Well, I mean I’ll have you all to myself…at least while you’re here in Montreal,” he remarked suggestively with a wink. “Are you up for dessert or are you sticking to your diet again?”

“I’ll pass on the dessert.”

“Well, are you up for clubbing, then?”

“It’s been a long day, and there so much I want to see tomorrow. Do you mind if we pass on clubbing?”

“Certainly not.” Patrick looked for the waiter, found him, and motioned him over. He was a nice-looking, young man, probably working there to pay his way through school.

“Did you enjoy the paella, gentlemen?”

“Excellent,” Patrick said.

“Delicious,” offered Reggie.

“Our chef is from València, the paella is his signature dish.”

“Our compliments to him, then. The check, please.”

“Very good, sir.” The waiter walked off. Penrith watched him, examining the young man’s bubble butt in the tight, black trousers of his uniform. He would file a memory of the server away for potential procurement at a later date.

“He does have a nice bum,” Reggie observed Patrick following the waiter with his eyes, as he left them.

Patrick turned back to Reggie, “But not as nice as the one I saw last evening!”

Reggie reddened once more. “That was a bit awkward.”

“Not at all. You have nothing to be ashamed of – our waiter cannot hold a candle to you…in any department!”

The waiter returned with the bill of fare. Reggie reached for his billfold.

“Put that away,” Penrith protested, “Allow me…besides I can justify it as a business expense.

Reggie tried to give Patrick his credit card, but he wouldn’t take it. In the end, Patrick gave in. “I don’t know how you might justify dinner with me as a business expense?”

“Well, I will validate it as procuring stock for the company!”

“Stock?” Reggie chuckled. “What type of stock am I?”

“The kind we most value at Byzantine Bonds – like a precious jewel that we want to keep under wraps. Or I’ll write our dinner up as sizing you up as a recruit whom I wish to entice into Byzantine Bonds!”

“Recruit me? I am happy as a clam at high water with the Met. There’s no chance you’ll lure me away.” Reggie avowed.

Taking Reggie’s analogy further, Penrith replied, “Well, as with clam-digging, I’ll just have to wait until low tide to harvest you!” Penrith paid, and he and Reggie walked back to the hotel together.

“Look, tomorrow’s Saturday and I have no plans. May I join you sightseeing. Since I’ve been to Montreal many times, I could lead you to some real treasures.”

Remembering his friends’ advice to take chances, Reggie only took a moment before replying. “I’d enjoy your company, as long as you’re up for an early start. I want to hit the hotel gym about 5, then breakfast and be off by 8.”

“I’ll be in the lobby by 8 am sharp.”

By then, they had arrived back at the hotel. Reggie thanked Patrick for dinner. “I’ll see tomorrow down here at 8. Good Night, Patrick, I had a great time.” They hugged and parted, Reggie to head straight up to his room. Penrith held back, claiming that he needed to talk to the Reception clerk about a matter.

After Reggie had left, Penrith made a call on his mobile. “We’ll make the switch Sunday morning…No…He doesn’t suspect a thing, and he has no idea I’m in the next room to his…I’ll call you once I have him well secured, packaged, and ready for transport.” Penrith ended the conversation and retired for the night.


Saturday
Reggie had a great workout early the next morning. The gym was well equipped for a hotel, but – then again – it was a hotel that catered to a gay clientele. Afterwards, he stripped down to his tackle trunks for laps in the swimming pool on the same floor of the gym. He had the water to himself apart from the lifeguard, and he mulled over his dinner with Patrick Penrith the night before, as he swam back and forth the length of the Olympic-sized pool (a highlight that was a marketing feature of the older hotel). Reggie had had such little experience with dating, he didn’t know whether he had followed the correct etiquette or rules of the game. But he had enjoyed Patrick’s company, and he looked forward to spending the day with him. Finishing up, he put on the bathrobe the hotel provided over his swimming racer, collected his other belongings, and headed back to his room to shower and dress. He had the western omelet and fruit that day for breakfast, and he was waiting in the lobby, when Patrick met him precisely at 8.

The two spent the day exploring various points of interest around the city – McCord Museum , the underground network – Patrick insisted that Reggie had to forget his diet for the time being and try the provincial specialty. Reggie enjoyed the poutine – the hearty mixture of chips, cheese curds, and brown gravy. Reggie enjoyed the company of another man. And even though, it might be just a fleeting, travel romance – he still wondered where it might lead. Little did he deduce that it would to lead to his detention!

Returning to the hotel after a busy day close to 7 pm, Reggie made plans to meet Patrick in the lobby once more at 8:30 for sushi at a local place and then head to Club Renegade to spend Reggie’s last night in Montreal dancing it away. He decided to wear a V-Neck, slim-fitted, blue Henley tee-shirt. It fit snugly over Reggie’s muscular shoulders and chests, but it showed off his guns really well. He wore a pair of Levi’s 541 jeans. Reggie had found that this style was best for his meaty thighs. And the denim conformed over his bountiful booty very nicely. And, of course, his Chelsea boots. Checking himself out one more time in the mirror before grabbing his coat and leaving to meet Patrick by 8:30, Reggie thought that Black Panther was ready to make his move!

Patrick was just finishing a phone call, when Reggie met up with him in the hotel lobby.
“Business?” Reggie asked.

“Just confirming a pickup of some goods for Byzantine Imports tomorrow morning,” Patrick explained.

“Business on a Sunday morning? Those goods must be worth a pretty penny.”

Looking at Reggie from head to toe, Patrick declared, “I’d say so.” He quickly added, “You look great. Business will wait. I want to make sure you enjoy a memorable time on your last night…”

“In Montreal!” Reggie finished Patrick’s sentence.

“Yes, of course” Patrick smiled back at Reggie, while he thought to himself, “…of freedom.”

The sushi joint was, like the restaurant the night before within walking distance of the hotel, and despite the late winter chill they decided to hoof it. It was a busy night for the eatery. After checking their coats, the host directed them to their table. Patrick led the way, and Reggie took the opportunity to check him out. Like Reggie, Patrick wore jeans that fit well but not too tightly on him. He may not have had a bubble bum like Reggie, but it was nice all the same. He had on a slim-fitting, pink shirt tapered at the ends to be worn untucked. He had rolled the sleeves up to reveal his wiry arms dusted with fine blond hair. Once they were seated, Reggie noticed that Patrick’s s shirt was unbuttoned just so to reveal the smooth plane between his finely chiseled pectoral muscles.

They shared a mixture of Shrimp Tempura, Boston, Dragon, and Spicy Tuna Rolls, washed down with a bottle of Provençal Rosé. Patrick steered the conversation, asking Reggie about his school days and his love of horses. Under the spell of Patrick’s blue eyes, Reggie did not notice that Patrick still remained a bit of a mystery, when it came to details about himself. Enthralled with letting himself relax in the company of an attractive man, Reggie pushed aside his policeman’s almost natural inquisitiveness – something he would have much time to regret later on. Soon, it was 10:30, and Patrick reminded Reggie that they were headed to Club Renegade. Reggie excused himself from the table to visit the lavatory. When he returned, Patrick had already settled the bill.

“That’s not fair, Patrick. You’re making me feel like a kept man.”

“Well…maybe I’d like to keep you, Reggie. Again, I can write it off as a business expense. I’m reeling you in for Byzantine Imports.”

“But still…” Reggie started.

“How about it we call it even, if it is your signature on the breakfast tab tomorrow?”

“You’re a very optimistic businessman. So, you think you will have reeled me in by morning?” Reggie answered provocatively – surprising himself at his forwardness.

“Oh! I have no doubt that I will have caught you by morning, Reggie,” Patrick retorted seductively. “Come on, let’s go dancing.”

From the sushi joint, they made it to Club Renegade. The bouncer apparently recognized Patrick, and they entered the club ahead of a group of men waiting to gain admittance. And the manager comped the “membership” fees after greeting Patrick like an old friend. “I’ve often recruited for Byzantine Imports here before…some wonderful acquisitions,” he offered Reggie as an explanation.

“Recruited in a nightclub? Acquisitions?” Reggie’s curiosity had begun to awaken.

“I meant I have brought clients here before. To show them a good time.” He fibbed, as they were escorted to a table.

Reggie unwittingly accepted the fib, and he was soon seated alongside Patrick on a bench with a cushioned back against one wall of the club opposite the dance floor. They ordered drinks – seltzer with a twist for Reggie, a Tito’s and tonic for Patrick. Reggie took in the surroundings. Like all dance clubs, the lighting was dark except on the floor, where strobe lights and a disco ball illuminated the dancers. The deejay was in a booth above the crowd “spinning” a mix of music from disco, New Wave, punk, tech, house, to contemporary tunes. After a few sips of their drinks, Patrick rose and offered Reggie his hand. Reggie accepted it, and Patrick led him through to the dance floor.

Reggie swayed to the beat of the music, and Patrick slid easily into the rhythm. They danced to several songs, before the deejay switched to Rihanna -- This is What You Came For. Patrick grabbed the arse-cheeks of Reggie’s muscular hindquarters and pulled him in tight. Reggie was soon grinding back to Patrick’s own rubbing into him. Reggie began to get aroused, and he felt the same reaction from Patrick. Patrick worked his arms under Reggie’s Henley, and Reggie’s hands were also exploring Patrick’s torso. Their swaying had slowed when the song ended, but their exploring of each other kept up. Above the din of the next song, Reggie heard Patrick suggest in his ear,

“Had enough?”

Reggie looked into those blue eyes and nodded his assent. They made their way back to the table, and Reggie left enough cash to cover the drinks and a generous tip. The men collected their coats; and with Patrick again leading Reggie by the hand, they made their way to the exit, grabbed one of the taxis outside, and headed back to the hotel. Once back in the lobby, Reggie now led Patrick by the hand to the lifts. Entering the first open one, Patrick grabbed Reggie in an embrace and pushed him against a side wall. He pressed his lips into Reggie’s in a kiss, as the doors closed. Somehow through all the fumbling, Reggie hit the button for his floor.

Once the lift brought them to Reggie’s floor, Reggie again led Patrick by the hand to his room. After shutting the door, Patrick resumed charge. They let their winter coats fall to floor by the door, but not before Patrick removed some packets of protection from his coat’s pockets and left them on the credenza within easy reach. Standing at the end of the bed, Patrick and Reggie began pressing their lips together in ever deepening kisses, as they explored each other’s mouths, necks, and ears. Reggie began to remove his Henley, when Patrick put his hands on his chest and told him to stop. “Let’s go slow. And l want to undress you. And you can take my clothes of me?”

Reggie whispered, “Okay.”

Patrick grabbed hold of the bottom of Reggie’s Henley, and peeled it up with Reggie reaching his arms upward with it. He let it drop to the floor. Taking in the sight of Reggie’s broad shoulders, muscular chest with the tight, very curly, black hair spread across his mocha-colored skin and trailing downward over his well-defined abdominal muscles, Patrick nuzzled Reggie’s neck with love bites and pinched his nipples between his thumb and forefingers. “You’re exquisite – such valuable goods,” he murmured.

Reggie let out a small laugh in reply. “So, you’re continuing to assess me as an acquisition for your company – you don’t give up!” He took the buttons of Patrick’s shirt in his own fingers and slowly undid them, then pushed the shirt off him. Patrick was well-muscled, but wiry and lean, as opposed to his own bulk and brawn. Apart from blond tufts of hair in his armpits and the fine hair of his forearms, Patrick’s torso was hairless until the light brown manscape teased out from his 501’s. Reggie smothered Patrick’s own neck with kisses and nibbles.

“Byzantine Imports won’t give up until you’re ours, Reggie,” Patrick seemingly teased. He reached down to unclasp Reggie’s belt, opened the top of his jeans, pulled his zipper down, and then slowly nudged the blue jeans down. Reggie’s hardness strained against his tighty whiteys. Reggie returned the favor, unhooking Patrick’s belt, unbuttoned his 501’s and slid them down his slim hips. Patrick wore no underwear – his Johnson popped straight up as it was freed from the denim. Patrick tugged at Reggie’s underwear and freed his thunder junk.

Somehow the two men extracted themselves from their trousers, pants, and socks, all the while still standing close and exploring each other’s bodies with lips, tongues, and fingers. Patrick pushed Reggie down on the bed, and he reached back for a packet of protection on the credenza. Reggie reached over to a nightstand where a bottle of lube stood ready…

Sunday Morning
Reggie awoke first. Patrick was asleep next to him, nestled into his left side. Reggie’s left arm cradled the sleeping, blond-haired man. Reggie reached for his watch on the nightstand. It was 7:30. He gently laid back into the pillows and thought about the past few hours of love-making and drifting off to sleep in another man’s arms. The discarded packets of protection spoke to the longevity of the session, whereas a gentle soreness in his matako attested to its intensity. Before they drifted off to sleep, Reggie – as an attentive lover – retrieved face flannels and used one to carefully cleanse his spilled man-seed from Patrick’s body. When he was done, Patrick took the other cloth and washed his jizz from Reggie. Reggie smiled as he thought back at his time with Patrick. He decided to leave his number and particulars with Patrick before he departed for Vancouver. Reggie hoped this would be more than a one-night stand.

“Good Morning.” Patrick was looking over at Reggie with those beautifully blue eyes. He reached in for a kiss. Reggie made it more than only a morning peck.

Breaking the kiss, Reggie returned the salutation. “Good Morning back at you.” He held Patrick tightly in his arms. “I’d like to lie here all day holding you in my arms. Shall we? Or shall we dress and head downstairs for breakfast. Today’s my cheat day. I usually have a stack of blueberry pancakes, maple syrup, a side of bacon, and OJ on Sunday mornings as a cheat meal to balance my attention to diet at other times.”

Patrick sat up on the bed and looked at Reggie. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we order room service and have breakfast here?” He saw the menu on the nightstand and grabbed it. “Look, you can order your blueberry pancakes from room service. After it arrives, I can clasp onto you. You said that you wanted to pay for breakfast. Your signature will be on the bill here.” Patrick smirked salaciously at Reggie.

Reggie thought for a moment. “Okay,” he agreed. Patrick picked up the receiver of the phone and “dialed” for Room Service. He ordered for them – Reggie’s cheat meal, a western omelet and sausage for him, coffee and two OJs.

“I’ll shower, and then you,” Patrick suggested, “I don’t think that shower is big enough for the two of us. By the time you’re done, the breakfast will have arrived.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Reggie sat back into the pillows and watched as Patrick got up and walked towards the bathroom. He took time to admire the man’s dapper duff. Reggie was glad Jerry had suggested taking the weekend here in Montreal before heading to Vancouver. He was leaving later this afternoon, but perhaps he could spend the next few hours with Patrick. Patrick soon emerged from the bathroom, toweling himself off. Reggie rose from the bed to jump into the shower after him. As they passed each other, Patrick goosed Reggie on one cheek of his magnificently muscular hindquarters.

“Cheeky Bugger!” Reggie slapped his hand away.

“Well – those are cheeks I’d love to bugger again,” Patrick cooed.

Reggie shut the bathroom door, relieved his bladder, and stepped into the shower. As the water cascaded over him, he quickly soaped up – eager to return to Patrick’s company. Freshly showered, he brushed his teeth and applied dabs of his “stink stick under his arms. While still in the bathroom, he heard Patrick answer the door for the room service waiter. The man wheeled the breakfast cart in, set it by the window, and thanked Patrick.

“Thank you very much, Inspector Percy. Enjoy your meal.”

Reggie waited until the server had closed the room door behind him, before exiting the bathroom. He was still naked and using the towel to dry the dark, tightly curled hair of his head, as he walked towards the table by the window with their breakfast laid upon it. He did not notice that the lock on the door to the room next door was unbolted. Patrick had put on his 501’s, but he remained shirtless. Reggie stopped at the low bureau. He gathered a clean pair of Bonds briefs and fresh singlet from his gear bag, and he slipped into his underwear.

“Did I hear the waiter thank you, thinking you were I?” Reggie asked. Patrick was standing by the table at the chair nearest the nightstand. He had draped a napkin over one forearm, holding the chair out for Reggie, as if he were about to serve him.

“Since it was I who answered, I expect he thought it was I who was the guest of this room. And since it’s registered to Inspector Reginald Percy, I expect he believed I was Inspector Reginal Percy.”

“I see,” Reggie accepted the explanation, as he took the seat Patrick offered him. Patrick sat down opposite him. Reggie noticed Patrick had placed his mobile next to him on the table. Patrick picked up his glass of orange juice and raised it in a toast. He waited for Reggie to do the same.

“To the bonds that tie men close!” Patrick acclaimed and drank the juice down.

Somewhat puzzled at the meaning of the salute, Reggie nevertheless followed suit - he downed the libation and put the empty glass down. Patrick stared at Reggie in silence for a few moments, before he picked up his mobile and keyed in a pre-set number.

“I’ve acquired the goods. In a short while, I’ll package him. He’ll be ready for pick-up in ninety minutes. Yes – Room 425. I’ll be waiting with him.”

Reggie didn’t understand. He stood up from the table. He then saw the bill of fare for the breakfast. It had been signed “Inspector Reginald Percy,” but the signature was not his. Patrick ended the call.

Picking up the bill, Reggie held it out to Patrick. “Patrick, what’s the meaning of this? And what was that phone call about?”

“You will be briefed soon enough. But may I strongly suggest you sit back down. You are about to lose control of your body.”

Before he could say anything more, Reggie felt his legs grow weak, and he collapsed backwards into the chair. He soon lost sensation in his arms, and they dangled over the sides of the chair. Reggie began to slump in the chair. Before he slid completely from it, Patrick came over and boosted him up in the seat. Reggie’s head lolled back, but Patrick made sure that Reggie didn’t hit anything. Soon Reggie was completely unable to move a muscle of his body. He couldn’t speak. Yet he remained conscious. Making sure Reggie was settled in the chair once more, Patrick then resumed his own seat.

“I promised you, Reggie, that your signature would be on the breakfast tab, and indeed you signed…I’m sorry…I signed it…as you. I’m assuming your identity, Reggie. And Byzantine Imports has acquisitioned you. We’re a branch of the Brotherhood of the Black Rope. And you will shortly feel our rope’s embrace.” Rising from his seat, Patrick continued, “I’ll be right back, Reggie. Stay right where you are.” He laughed at his own joke.

Reggie watched Reggie walk to the door that was the access to the adjacent hotel room. He gazed in silent wonder, as Patrick opened it and opened the door on the other side to the other room. Patrick disappeared into the other room. With every fiber of his being, Reggie tried to get out of the chair. He couldn’t. Reggie was paralyzed.

Patrick soon returned with a rather large black, nylon haversack, which he placed at the foot of the bed. He went over and stood over Reggie. “Glad to see you’re still here.” He sneered down at the poor man. Patrick squatted down and grabbed hold of Reggie under his arms. He lifted himself up with Reggie along with him. He pivoted Reggie over to the side of the bed and softly laid him onto the bed – resting Reggie’s head onto the mattress after removing the pillows and then pulling the incapacitated inspector’s legs up onto the bed. Patrick straddled Reggie and maneuvered him away from the edge but not quite to the center of the bed. Patrick next adjusted Reggie – crossing his wrists one over the other to rest atop his bo-jangle and placing his legs side by side.

Patrick climbed off him and went to retrieve the duffel from the floor, which he then placed on the bed at Reggie’s feet. He unzipped the bag, and began to extract coils of black rope, black bandanas, a roll of black duct-tape, and rolls of clear cling-wrap. Reggie mutely observed Patrick deposit each item onto the bed. Patrick uncoiled lengths of rope and began to tie Reggie up. First, he bound Reggie’s crossed wrists, ankles, knees, and thighs together, before he pinioned his arms to his sides by knitting the rope around Reggie’s chest and back, carefully threading the fibers around each bicep. He next crocheted the bundled areas together with more strands of the black fiber. He pulled Reggie to one side and then the other, as he weaved him into a well-woven web. As he did so, Patrick began to explain the predicament that had caught Reggie off guard.

“After the server left earlier and before you had come out of the bathroom, I slipped a few drops of a narcotic – a derivative of curare – into your orange juice. It’s very powerful and acts within minutes of its application. As you now know it cripples its victim. It’s very effective, but not long-lasting. As you might be soon experiencing, movement returns within a short period of time. The dosage I added to your OJ was just powerful enough to keep you prostrate until my packaging of you is complete. But you will not regain your full strength for at least 24 hours. By then, though, you will be completely enmeshed within Byzantine Import’s bonds.”

Indeed, Reggie had begun to fell a tingling sensation returning to his toes. He listened as Patrick went on. “You may slowly be realizing that Byzantine Bonds does not acquire just any old goods. No, Reggie old boy, we amass a very special breed of goods – men – like yourself – young, athletic, and good-looking. You should consider yourself lucky, Reggie. You’re becoming part of a very special breed of men. You’re joining world-class athletes, who are the specimens in an experiment that will set my Brotherhood upon a course of world domination.”

Patrick stepped back to take in the now netted Reggie, checking a knot there and a braided cable here for its security. Satisfied with the malicious mesh he had knitted Reggie into, he picked up a roll of cling-wrap and started to swaddle Reggie up in the very sticky cellophane.
He laid out the plan for him to replace Reggie. “The key member of our breed of men is an inspector like yourself. His name is Simon DuWright. He is an inspector with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Vancouver.” He looked up at Reggie to register a reaction from him. The sedative still kept him somnolent. He went on. “You might be beginning to surmise things now, Inspector. Our Brotherhood needed a mole to infiltrate the RCMP – the Force – in Vancouver to gather information on what Inspector DuWright and the Force know about our operations. When we learned about the Interagency Counter-Terrorism Program, we discovered the perfect opportunity to place such a mole within DuWright’s field of work – someone we could remove easily once we gathered the necessary intelligence. That would be me. An operative of ours within the Metropolitan Police in London – the tentacles of our Brotherhood reach everywhere, Reggie – learned about your participation in the Program. So, we learned everything we could about you, and we decided to replace you with me before the start of the Program. Your attractiveness – you do look like that actor by the way who played Black Panther – your intelligence, your athleticism – all those attributes made you an ideal candidate for our Brotherhood’s program too. So, we decided not only to replace you but to keep you.”

Patrick had unfurled several rolls of cling-wrap by now and rolled Reggie up in the clear, sticky film up to his shoulders. He used more of the wrap to envelop him further across his shoulders and around his torso. “That was no accident that you took my luggage and not yours the other day at the Reception Desk. The clerk who registered me in the hotel is a member of our Order. He arranged the room adjacent to yours for me. And Club Renegade belongs to our Order too. We often use it to procure goods for Byzantine Bonds. We already intend to procure the waiter there from the restaurant the other night – you remember him, don’t you Reggie? He had such a cute bubble butt! We’ll send him a complimentary “membership” pass one evening. Young, attractive men can never pass up a good time at a popular nightspot for free. Once we’ve baited and hooked him, he’ll remain reeled up, as you find yourself reeled up now.”

“Our original plan was to abduct you from the Club last night. However, after I saw you in all your glory that first night, we changed plans. I am a Prior of our Order. I must answer for my decisions to my Grand Prior – the CEO of Byzantine Imports – but I may still alter plans, if I wish to sample the goods – the men – we want to collect. You are an extremely handsome man, Reggie. You take care of yourself , and it shows. You’re well-muscled from your shoulders to your toes. Your man cakes have few rivals. And your meat and potatoes cook to perfection. I needed to sample your wares. And I am well-satiated. Thank you for indulging me.”

“You dirty bastard.” Reggie feebly mumbled, but Patrick heard it all too audibly.

“Ah! You are recovering your ability to speak. It’s almost time for us to part, Reggie. Yes – I’ve been called a bastard by many men – most of whom find themselves in the position you’re in now. But let me warn you. As you regain the movement of your muscles, you will struggle to free yourself from this bondage. As you strain against the ropes, they will tighten around you. The cling-wrap that mummifies you has an adhesive that constricts as it is subject to the exertion you employ to break out of it. Take my word, Reggie – all that your struggles will produce is ever-tightening knots around your limbs and envelop you hidebound to the wrapping – even more than you are at present. Ours is an Order going back to ancient times. My chapter of the Order of the Black Rope dates to the early Middle Ages. An ancestor of mine – from northern England as I told you I hailed from – found himself in service to a powerful family of the Byzantine Empire. That family – the Palaiologos – produced several emperors. Another branch produced artists of the highest order. They were skilled in the art of bondage – binding men in inescapable bonds. Every few generations, my family is called upon once again to serve the Palaiologos, as I now serve Michael Palailogos. You will meet that great Master of Subjugation soon. But do not strain against the Byzantine Bonds that chain you, Reggie. Your efforts are futile.”

“You’ll never get away with this, Patrick.” Reggie’s voice sounded stronger and some movement in his mummified state hinted at his testing of Patrick’s heeding. As if it were alive, the clear wrapping shriveled around his body.

“Ah! Reggie, if I had a penny every time a man said that platitude to me!” He patted Reggie’s cheek as he told him that.

“They’ll come looking for me! There’s the obvious difference between us…”

“But Reggie, you will be away for several weeks in Vancouver, where no one knows you. By the time your London Mounted Unit discovers you missing, you will have long disappeared from the radar. And – yes – you are a Black man, and I am not. The Brotherhood risks much, but we expect a big pay off with our program, so the gamble is worth the risk. But enough talk – my associates will soon be here for you.” Patrick bent over Reggie to kiss him on the lips. Reggie attempted but could not move his head away from him. Patrick kissed him softly. “You will see me again, Reggie, after my mission in Vancouver – taking your place there – is complete.”
“To complete your bondage, I must gag you with this.” Patrick showed Reggie a clumped-up bundle of black cloth. “It is scented with my essence, Reggie. Now open up like a good man.”

Reggie again attempted resistance. Weak from the sedative as he still was, Reggie could do little. Patrick simply held his jaw open and pushed the cloth in. Reggie tasted Patrick’s musk – a potent potpourri of pheromones and sticky protein. Patrick then cleave-gagged Reggie, sealing that bundle in place, and added another black bandana over his entire mouth. Patrick picked up a roll of black duct-tape and swathed Reggie’s already gagged lips and head with several strips.

“There now -- You’re all set for crating.” There was a knock on the door of the adjacent room. Patrick left to answer it. Reggie tried to move on the bed, but it was a vain attempt. His fate was as sealed as his body was under the cling-wrap. Patrick returned with two men dressed in casual attire. Taking Reggie by his shoulders and feet, the two carried him to the room next door. The room was a mirrored reflection of his. A crate, much as one that holds equipment lay open there. The men settled Reggie within the cushioned hollow of the box. Patrick appeared above him with a diver’s mask and breathing apparatus.

“It’s farewell for now, Reggie. This will allow you to breathe while crated in this trunk. It’s an ordinary trunk – much like those that roadies use to transport band equipment. As a matter of fact, that is how you will be leaving the hotel – with band equipment from the group that played here in the hotel last night. You won’t be travelling to the band’s next gig, though. A roadie in our employ will detour to deposit you at my Master’s residence nearby. I will now assume your identity and fly out later today to Vancouver to begin our mission against our prized target, Inspector Simon DuWright, under the guise of you, Inspector Reginald Percy of the London Mounted Unit of the Metropolitan Police. No one will suspect that I am not you.” With that, Patrick placed the mask over Reggie’s face, and he stepped out of Reggie’s sight. Reggie saw one of Patrick’s associates shut the lid closed, and Reggie was cocooned in darkness.

Friday: Westmount, Montreal, Quebec: The Depths Below the Estate of Michael Palaiologos

Reggie had replayed these events over and over again, ever since he was unlocked from that trunk, and he saw the lights of this prison to which his kidnappers had taken him that day. Reggie went over every detail of the time he spent with Patrick Penrith. He now recognized what that malevolent man’s actions and words held in store for him. Penrith lured him into a snare and then tightened the trap around him. Penrith’s spoke in riddles, whose meanings should have alerted Reggie to his intentions. Reggie continued to kick himself at his naivete to fall for Penrith’s appeal. But now he vowed to maintain his focus on breaking free of this prison and bring Penrith and his pernicious posse down.

Shackled and silenced to a former electric chair alongside a blindfolded and deafened younger man in an identical chair – similarly shackled and silenced – Reggie continued to strain against the leather straps to hold his arm against the strapped arm of his cohort captive within this cell. The lad’s arm remained against Reggie’s arm. Reggie realized that Danny Warwick understood that Reggie was there to support him and help him past the suffering. How they would ultimately escape that servile suffering, Reggie hadn’t quite yet figured out.

To Be Continued…