snobound : 01 - TUG Institute: Brandon's Initiation... (M+F+/M)

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snobound : 01 - TUG Institute: Brandon's Initiation... (M+F+/M)

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snobound's stories
01 - TUG Institute: Brandon's Initiation...
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By snobound


Sat Sep 11, 2010 11:51 am

Note: This is the first installment of what I expect to become an ongoing series. I am open to requests for the individual "sessions" to come!

Tug Institute: Brandon's Initiation, Part 1


A quick look at his web browsing history over the last few months would have proven that it wasn't a rash decision, but one that was the eventual, and highly anticipated culmination of months of research, deep introspection, and increasing desire. Regardless, Brandon's hands were literally shaking as the distance to destination read-out on the truck's navigation system rapidly ticked down below five miles.

This was a big mistake. He thought he'd find a place to turn around, but there were no turn offs, or even a shoulder, for that matter, on the long, forest-lined road. The day was dreary and cold, and the occasional snowflake drifted across the twisting, two-lane state highway outside of Bangor, Maine. He was sweating. It was a cold, nervous sweat.

The Dodge Ram pickup began to slow. "What the hell?" Brandon thought. The two year old truck had been flawless, what was this? It had only been a four hour ride. Just then, he came to the realization that he had completely removed his booted foot from the accelerator. "Jesus, even my body's conspiring against me," he mumbled aloud, his jugular thumping at the side of his neck.

...


"Hands down, the best experience of my life! Amazing, just amazing! Just don't let the setting scare you." That's what Jacob had said, wasn't it? That it was something he just had to do, and would certainly never forget- and, that he'd be back- as many times as he could afford.

As it turned out, he really couldn't afford it. But he had saved. Yes, scrupulously since making up his mind. A thousand bucks. And that was just to get in the door! An "initiation fee" is what Jacob had called it. Sort of like joining a golf course, he guessed. No golf course he had ever been to, however, had charged an additional five hundred for each round thereafter! But that's exactly how much Brandon's first session would cost- and there would be more, at least according to Jacob.

Brandon never would have believed him, had it not been for the card. A business card- Jacob had handed it to him after being told that he was full of shit for about the tenth time. Brandon's jaw had dropped. There it was. In sleek black lettering against a blood-red background was the name "TUG Institute". Below it was a phone number, and nothing more. Brandon flipped the card over. Affixed to the empty red backdrop was a small sticker with a ten digit number printed on it. Brandon remembered looking up at Jacob inquisitively. "Just call and give them that number. Otherwise, they won't even talk to you. New 'customers' are by client referral ONLY!" Jacob had explained.

No regrets. That's what Jacob kept saying. That I would have no regrets, and would become an instant promoter, just as he was, after only the first visit. Could he trust Jacob? The two had met at a bondage convention in Boston, had a few drinks, and wound up spending the remainder of the night together tying each other up. As the sun came up, lying on the hotel bed together, sweaty and spent, is when Jacob had first told him. Brandon noticed that he had a hard-on, once again, by the time Jacob had finished recounting his impossibly fantastic experiences.

...


It had taken a month to make the call, and he had hung up- twice- upon hearing the gruff male voice at the other end of the line. "The NUMBER! the voice would demand, saying noting more.

Finally, on the third try, Brandon stammered, "Uh... ah... my friend, Jacob said that...." Click. "SHIT!" Brandon screamed, angrily flipping his cell phone closed. "FUCK!" He flicked his phone back open and redialed the cursed numbed for the fourth time, plucking up every ounce of courage he could muster. Before the increasingly angry voice at the other end of the line could utter a syllable, Brandon spoke, forcibly. "Eight, four, eight, six, zero, zero, two, four, eight, zero!" The pit in his stomach was overwhelming.

From the other end of the line, slicing through the silence like a knife, came a deep, almost devious chuckle. The disturbing laugh, if you could call it that, ended as abruptly as it had begun. "Address!" the gruff voice bellowed.

"Don't... don't you want my name?" Brandon stammered, apprehensively.

"ADDRESS!" the man thundered. Brandon's address spilled from his mouth before he had even realized what he had done. The line went dead. Brandon closed his phone, looking ashen-faced. What the hell had just happened? This was bullshit.

...


Thump, thump, thump. Brandon woke with a start, squinting at his clock through the bright morning light. It was barely seven! He scrambled from his bed, wearing nothing but the boxers that he had slept in. Brandon undid the numerous locks and ripped open the door of his modest condo. An old man in an unfamiliar blue uniform was standing there holding a thick, manila envelope. The yellow patch on the uniform's breast pocket read: Bay State Document Couriers. "Sign here," the old man insisted, shoving an electronic device with a scribe at the befuddled Brandon. He signed, and the old man was already halfway down the stairway before Brandon could even mutter a thank you.

He looked at the envelope's markings. No return address. No mailing address, for that matter. Just a sticker, upon which was printed the same ten-digit number Brandon had recited over the phone to a seemingly maniacal stranger no more than fifteen hours ago.

Brandon slowly closed the door, his pulse racing. He ripped open the envelope with shaking hands. Brandon rifled through the contents without removing them. He noticed a number of very official looking forms, a small USB data stick, and a full-color, magazine-sized, glossy brochure. He realized he was rubbing a throbbing hard-on through his boxers after flipping through the brochure, transfixed, for no more than a mere five minutes.

...


He was certifiably nuts. That had to be it. He couldn't believe he was doing it, even as he handed the oversized envelope over to the postmaster behind the counter, not more than two days after receiving that package. Cash only, sent to a P.O. box in Bangor. No Pay-Pal, credit cards, or checks accepted- and no money trail, either, Brandon had thought. He exited the post office feeling as if he'd just pissed away fifteen hundred bucks. There goes a mortgage payment, he thought.

Cash wasn't all that was in the envelope. Brandon had been giddy with excitement as he filled out the detailed questionnaire about his BDSM "preferences". Some of the things contained in that questionnaire were well beyond anything he had ever experienced. The release forms had deflated a bit of Brandon's excitement, however. "I hereby agree to hold harmless the above designee in the event of my death, disfigurement, ..." It went on and on. What the hell was he getting into here? The confidentiality agreement, Brandon thought, was a little over the top..."Unless in a manner prescribed by The Institute, the signatory will refrain from any and all..."

Yet, in the end, and after watching that video on the data stick from the envelope (countless times), Brandon had signed each and every document. He was really going to go through with this.

...


Brandon took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, and pressed the accelerator. Three miles. Two. "What are you doooooiiiiiiinnnng!" he whined aloud. The road had been bounded by forested hillsides for the last ten miles, though a river valley now opened up before him. Perched on a snow-covered hillside, standing out starkly against the surrounding wilderness, sat an imposing concrete structure, vaguely resembling a modern fortress. Brandon recalled the promotional video- now etched into his mind: "Located on over 400 secluded acres, our state of the art facility occupies a former privately-owned, for-profit correctional institution..."

A prison is exactly what came to mind, contributing to Brandon's growing sense of unease, as he eyed the watch towers, two layers of razor wire-topped fence, and guarded entry gates lying no more than a quarter mile ahead. He slowed again, involuntarily. He momentarily considered pulling over, but knew that if he did, he'd manage to talk himself out of what could be an amazing opportunity.

Brandon took a deep, steadying breath and continued on to the gates. A solid, serious-looking man, maybe in his early thirties, was already out of the guard house ready to intercept Brandon's pickup even before the truck came to a stop. This man exuded that former military vibe, and was dressed in a black tactical uniform, reinforcing this perception. The guard motioned for Brandon to lower the window. A lump seemed to fill Brandon's throat. Before he could pluck up the courage to say anything, the no-nonsense guard barked, "What the fuck do you want, kid? I think you've got the wrong place."

With a shaky hand, Brandon lifted a thick envelope from the passenger seat. On it was the same ten-digit number he'd struggled to read to the equally grumpy man on the phone. Disturbingly, and just like that man on the phone, the guard chuckled deeply upon seeing the printed code on the label. "Welcome!" he laughed. Then, in a blur of motion that left Brandon both stunned and confused, the door to his truck was flung open. He was roughly dragged from the driver's seat, and led forcefully by the startlingly strong guard into the small, concrete building adjacent to the gate.

Another identically dressed brute was waiting inside, and the two men roughly stripped Brandon of both his belongings and clothing amid sporadic verbal protests. A heavy leather transport belt was being applied to Brandon's waist even before his boxer briefs had been fully removed. These men were pros. They worked fast. Heavy hinged handcuffs were fastened tightly around Brandon's wrists after having his arms wrenched behind his back. At the same time, leg irons with a six-inch chain hobble closed tightly around his ankles. The hinge of the rigid cuffs was somehow anchored to a ring at the back of the transport belt, along with one end of a short length of chain. This chain was barely long enough for the opposite end to be locked to the center of the six-inch chain hobbling Brandon's ankles. He was forced to bend his knees just slightly in order to prevent the thick transport belt from cutting into his sides.

Still wide-eyed, and with his mouth gaping open, Brandon continued to be manhandled by the guards. The younger of the two men, probably in his late twenties, roughly grabbed Brandon by the shoulders and held him firmly against his body. Brandon was surprised to feel the hot guard's growing excitement against his stomach, just above the transport belt. These guys were enjoying themselves! Now, so too was Brandon, having realized that this treatment was all part of the experience.

While practically being bear-hugged by the younger guard, his partner was busy encircling Brandon's upper arms with a heavy tan leather belt. He felt the guard cinch it tightly, leaving his elbows separated by only an inch or two. Another belt was fastened around both Brandon's gym-toned chest and arms, pressing them tightly against his back. The guard's face was a mere inches from Brandon's. He was carefully watching the expressions on his prisoner's face. "Having fun yet?" he asked, not really expecting a response.

"Awesome," whispered Brandon, just before a heavy, though simple, white canvas hood plunged him into darkness. It's collar was buckled tightly around his neck. The young guard released Brandon from his grasp and backed him into a chair. "I'll take care of the boy's truck, boss," said one of the men, whom Brandon assumed was the younger of the two guards.

Brandon listened as his truck was driven away. At this point, he didn't really care where it was being taken. After a brief moment of silence, Brandon heard the remaining guard's radio click on. "Unit seven to unit one. Do you copy? Over."

In seconds, the radio crackled back to life. A woman's voice responded. "Unit one to unit seven, what's your status? Over."

"Subject acquired and awaiting processing. Over," answered the guard.

Processing?! thought Brandon, with a stab of concern.

"Roger that, unit seven. You should expect arrival of the transport vehicle at any moment. Over." The radio fell silent.

Brandon felt the guard's hand around his forearm. "Get up, boy!" said the guard, gruffly. He stood, and was led from the building. Brandon shivered, still naked and shoeless under the expertly applied leather and steel. It couldn't be more than twenty-five degrees outside, and it was breezy to boot. Though he could hear its approach, Brandon was unable to see the modified ambulance making its way down the steep, twisting driveway leading from the hulking main building.

The ambulance, as starkly white as the snow-covered ground, came to a halt in front of the guard house's door. Both the passenger and driver side doors were opened and then slammed shut. Brandon listened as fast, smart boot falls made their way to the ambulance's back doors, which were thrust open. The two young women, also dressed in the same black tactical uniform as the guards, removed a stretcher from the rear of the vehicle.

It's wheeled legs were extended and locked into place. "Let's go, boy!" commanded the girl. Brandon was a little taken aback by the female voice. He felt the two girls' hands on his bound arms as they tugged him toward the waiting stretcher. With surprising strength, they bent Brandon over so that his chest was pressed against the black vinyl cushions of the stretcher. He knew what they were doing, and put up no resistance. The girls, neither a day over twenty, each grabbed for one of his bound legs, hefting his athletic body onto the stretcher.

They positioned Brandon's helpless body, face down, in the center of the cushions. He felt wide straps being draped over his torso and legs. Six of them? Yes, he counted as the girls fed the loose ends of each strap into ratcheting devices that were then cranked tightly. "This one's a cutie, isn't he? he heard one of the girls ask the guard, though he didn't hear an audible response. He did, however, feel the hands of the two girls exploring his taut body. They ran their fingers over his naked legs and butt. One of them actually gave his package a tight squeeze before they moved to wheel the stretcher back toward the rear of the ambulance.

Brandon was beginning to think about how grateful he was for Jacob's referral while listening to the clanking of steel as the stretcher and it's heavily immobilized occupant were loaded into the back of the ambulance. The rear doors were slammed shut, and Brandon both heard and felt the distinct pair of thumps from the front, as the girls climbed aboard, closing their doors. The ambulance lurched forward, and the helpless Brandon was driven to the Institute.

The facility's half-mile driveway was traversed quickly, and the ambulance was driven through an expansive overhead door, flanked by two additional guards, into a cavernous, mostly empty room. The rear door was flung open, and the stretcher quickly unloaded- this time, by the two male guards standing sentry near the open door. The girls drove from the room, leaving Brandon to his fate.

These guards- as muscle bound and brutish as the others- rolled the stretcher through a pair of swinging doors, and down a sterile-looking hallway that resembled a hospital corridor. He was finally wheeled into a small room containing a number of stainless steel tables, sinks, and other forbidding looking fixtures. The guards positioned the stretcher in the middle of the room, beneath a bank of bright examination lights, turned tail, and exited into the hallway.

Brandon began testing the effectiveness of his bonds. He found that he could lift his hooded head from the cushions a bit, and wiggle his fingers and toes. That was it. He had never experienced such nervous excitement. His heart pounded as his steady erection pressed into the black vinyl. After a half hour of isolation he began to wonder. Was this how he'd spend his day? If so, it was fine by him.

The doors to the room swung open just as thoughts of being forgotten in this room, helplessly bound, began to creep into Brandon's head. He heard the sounds of equipment being moved around the room. He was startled upon feeling a pair of hands on the hood's collar around his neck. The hood was unbuckled and jerked roughly from Brandon's head. He blinked momentarily, temporarily blinded by the brightness of his surroundings. The vague outline of a woman in a white lab coat appeared before him. He craned his neck in an attempt to get a better view of his captor, though there was little chance for his eyes to adjust to the lights.

A breathing mask had been forced over his mouth and nose. The squeak of a metallic valve pierced the silence, and a stale-smelling gas filled Brandon's lungs. He had no choice but to succumb to the nearly instantaneous effects of the nitrous oxide...

Part two coming soon!

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Post by Canuck100 »

Sun Sep 12, 2010 10:14 am

TUG Institute: Brandon's Initiation, Part 2


The dosage of nitrous oxide administered by the Institute's nurse was low, though enough to leave Brandon in that "twilight" state often used by dentists when sedating patients. Brandon remained helplessly trussed to the stretcher, his body cuffed, chained, and belted. His eyes were half open, and a steady stream of drool was accumulating in a puddle near the twenty year old's open mouth.

The room's double doors swung open, and in stepped a young man and woman, roughly the same age as Brandon. Both were wearing the same tactical black pants as the others, though the guy was shirtless, beautifully toned, with spiked black hair and piercing green eyes. His female companion wore a tight black sports bra, showing off her equally well-crafted physique. Brandon exhaled loudly from the stretcher, blowing a froth of bubbles into the pool of saliva collecting on the pad.

He lifted his head from the mat- slowly. It was almost creepy. He was conscious, but yet not really aware of the fact. Then, very unexpectedly, he spoke in an uncharacteristic sing-songy voice, "This is embarrrrrrraaaasssssinnnnng!"

Both newcomers were shocked. Their captive should have been more deeply sedated. "Get the nurse!" the young woman commanded to her shirtless companion. He bolted through the door.

"What's embarrassing?" the girl asked sweetly, turning her attention to the semi-lucid Brandon.

"They tied me UP!" squeaked Brandon, as if this fact wasn't immediately obvious.

"But I like my guys tied up," laughed the girl. She stepped forward and tussled Brandon's unruly brown hair.

"I like GETTING tied up!" he added, almost like a small child excitedly sharing his favorite toy with a new friend. "This place is AWESOME!"

"I'm really glad you like it," said the beautiful red head, giggling. "You're a cutie. I'm going to enjoy tying you!"

"Tied alllllreadyyyy..." Brandon sang.

"Oh, no honey. You haven't even gotten started." She gave Brandon a little slap on his left butt cheek, eliciting a squeak from he bound boy. Heather moved toward Brandon's bare feet and ran her index finger down his left arch. A shudder pulsed through his entire body.

"No, no, no!" Brandon giggled.

"I won't. Not now. It's just good to know," Heather reassured him, soothingly. She released the strap closest to the boy's feet. Brandon instinctively lifted his lower legs from the mat, tugging on the chain joining the ankle hobble with the transport belt.

Heather had opened one of the stainless steel cabinets lining the walls of the room, returning with a long, thick pair of white sweat socks. A ring of keys hung from the black leather belt around the girl's waist. Heather unlocked the leg irons with a strange looking stubby key. With another key she unlocked the connecting chain from the hobble, tossing the irons onto a nearby table. She took hold of Brandon's ankles one at a time, massaging where the cuffs had cut into his skin. "God, this one IS cute!" Heather thought.

Brandon moaned a bit as she worked the soreness from his ankles. When satisfied, Heather began slipping the thick white socks onto Brandon's feet, pulling them over most of his well-defined calves. With the socks applied, she grabbed hold of his right foot, keeping it still. She examined the foot for a few seconds, released it, and made her way to a storage area off the main room, the contents of which could have entertained Brandon for a lifetime.

Heather emerged carrying a pair of black leather boots with the soft, gummy rubber soles that made Doc Martens famous. The boots had twelve eyelets, and needed to be unlaced most of the way before she was able to pull the size elevens over Brandon's heels. She paused for a moment, smiled, and hefted herself onto the stretcher. Heather sat on the backs of the helpless Brandon's thighs, straddling him on her knees. He hardly seemed to notice, though Heather was certainly enjoying herself. One at a time, she pulled each booted foot toward her, leisurely lacing what would be a key piece of the unique tie-up challenge facing Brandon.

She was double knotting the bow on the second boot when the nurse returned with the shirtless boy, who now looked disappointed that Heather was having all the fun.

The nurse, a voluptuous brunette of no more than thirty-five, with the same proclivities as everyone else employed by the TUG Institute, shot Heather a reproachful look. "A little anxious, aren't you, Teaser." Teaser- that was her "TUG tag", which is how everyone at the facility referred to these nicknames that were ALWAWYS supposed to be used during client sessions, in lieu of their real names. "You know the protocol. No fewer than two TUG Masters must be present when ANY client is being restrained or untied in any way- regardless of how CUTE he may or may not be!" the nurse scolded.

Teaser hung her head. "Yes, Madam Nurse. It won't happen again."

"Let's see that it doesn't!" She winked and grinned slightly at the girl, still straddling Brandon's bound legs, though neither he nor the shirtless boy saw this.

Madam Nurse turned her attention toward their captive. "Well, I guess my dosing calculations were off." She grabbed Brandon's drool-moistened chin, directing his attention toward her. "You, young man, have quite a high tolerance for the NOX! We'll take care of that." She retrieved the breathing mask for the second time, placed it over his mouth and nose, and turned the valve. Satisfied that her subject would remain sedated for the necessary amount of time, Madam Nurse turned to leave Brandon to Teaser and Tightbound, her newly recruited male partner. "Carry on, then," Nurse advised, exiting through the swinging doors.

With Brandon snoring loudly, Teaser continued releasing the remaining five straps trussing the young man to the stretcher. Tightbound, eagerly anticipating the hours to come, began removing copious amounts of shiny, chrome chain from a cabinet against the back wall.


TBC...
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Post by Canuck100 »

Thu Sep 16, 2010 5:54 pm

TUG Institute: Brandon's Initiation, Part 3


Brandon's eyelids had begun to flutter, and his highly muffled mumbling was growing increasingly frequent. Tightbound moved rapidly, though carefully, toward the room's only door. He didn't want to risk jeopardizing any part of his carefully crafted plans. After all, the events of the next few hours would determine his future at the TUG Institute. The staff and directors had finally given him the nod- after twenty-five sessions as a paying client. A salaried position- fulfilling the fantasies of bondage-addicted deviants like himself. In fact, the phrase "I can't fucking believe I'm getting paid for this!" was running through the twenty-three year old's head on a fairly regular basis these days.

Well, he sort of had the job. It was he who had devised the challenging scenario to which Brandon was about to wake. Tightbound was afforded the opportunity to choose from a roster of numerous new and "experienced" clients for this crucial test of his abilities, and pored over their bios and questionnaire responses for hours before settling on Brandon's. Each of the young man's detailed responses suggested a strong inclination toward highly physical escape challenges and heavy endurance bondage. His preferences for chain, leather, and headgear also struck a chord with this budding TUG Master in training. It was as if Tightbound were reading responses to the very same questionnaire that he himself had filled out not more than three years ago. Memories of his first visit to the Institute still sent shivers down Tightbound's spine.

He wanted Brandon's experience to be every bit as memorable and expectation-shattering as his own. It had to be, or he would be out on his ass. Simple as that. The directors were watching Tightbound- carefully. Very carefully. Especially for the last thirty minutes, as he worked feverishly to immobilize the somewhat unconscious Brandon in the complex and precise manner the coming challenge would require.

Tightbound paused momentarily before opening the heavy steel door to the chamber, surveying the bizarre scene he had so carefully devised. Though more nervous than at any point in his entire life, he had nonetheless managed to thoroughly enjoy the time spent methodically wrapping Brandon's limbs and torso in leather and chain. Brandon had too, apparently, as he'd maintained a steady state of arousal throughout his trussing, despite having been kept in a twilight state by the NOX administered by Nurse.

Satisfied that nothing had been overlooked, Tightbound grinned as he slammed the steel door closed, realizing as he did that he was longing to be in Brandon's position. He made his way up the steel stairs toward the viewing gallery and control room.

...


Brandon had spent an uncertain amount of time gradually waking from a dream- a dream more vivid and surreal than any he'd had in the past. A dull metallic thud had seemingly cut through the haze muddling his thoughts. As if in response to some primal stimuli, every muscle in Brandon's taut body seemed to tense at once. The reaction could best be described as a full-body flex. Just as suddenly, Brandon's muscles seemed to collectively relax, though they flexed again only seconds later. The dry creak of cowhide and clink of chain could be heard in the otherwise noiseless chamber.

It had not been a dream! Brandon tensed the muscles of his arms and legs with every bit of strength he could muster. The only result being a slightly more audible creak and clink of leather and steel.

Along with Brandon's next attempt at testing the extent of his immobilization came a guttural growl, clearly audible in the control room above. This was made possible by the wireless microphone clipped to one of the straps of the muzzle head harness buckled securely against his face. He growled again into the muzzle. A chain locked to the D-ring at the top the harness wrenched Brandon's head back severely, though this was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Heavy duty, four inch wide manacles of natural tan cowhide, each bearing double roller buckles, had been affixed to Brandon's wrists. Boot restraints crafted of identical leather had been buckled over the black Doc Martens. Two tiny brass locks dangled from the gleaming hardware of each restraint. A uniquely thick, six inch wide leather belt had been wrapped around Brandon's waist. Twin two-inch straps, riveted to the entire length of the outside of the belt, held the massive locking buckles that cinched tightly across Brandon's toned midsection. This very unusual, purpose-built belt had been designed by Tightbound himself to include four rugged, rigid attachment points. The steel mounting plates, to which the attachment points had been welded, were securely riveted to the intimidating belt.

Much of what was likely the most intense bondage belt in existence was obscured by the obscene amounts of chain Tightbound had applied to Brandon's body. A single, very long chain, the center of which was draped across Brandon's shoulders, was used to wrap his arms closely together behind his back. The final few links of each end were locked together just above the sturdy wrist restraints. An equally long length of chain bound his already-trussed arms against his body, and was secured with a second padlock in roughly the same location as the first.

The center of yet another fifty feet of chain was locked around Brandon's waist, in back of and below the still unused belt. The two remaining ends were passed in opposite directions around his thighs- twice- before being locked together tightly at the backs of Brandon's knees. The roughly ten feet of chain remaining at each end was wrapped around the boy's lower legs, encircling them twice, before they too were joined together with a brass lock just above the natural tan leather boot restraints.

...


Tightbound gazed down upon the utterly bound Brandon from the control booth- almost in a trance. In his mind, the young man was reliving the experience of applying the finishing touches to Brandon's incredibly strict hogtie. Brandon's eyes had half-opened by the time Tightbound had finished chaining his legs. Brandon didn't speak, nor did his eyes seem to follow his captor as he worked, though Tightbound thought the look was one of pure contentment. It was.

Tightbound had only three short lengths of chain left to apply to Brandon's already helpless body. The D- rings of the leather boot manacles were locked together, along with a single end of one of the remaining lengths of chain. The same was done to his wrist restraints, though they were locked along with an end from the second length of chain. The final short piece of chain was locked to the top of the muzzle head harness. Tightbound had paused to glance at one of the four closed-circuit cameras staring down at him from high on the sterile room's wall- as if communicating to the Institute's directors that he was indeed up to this job.

The foot-long chain affixed to Brandon's wrist restraints was pulled tightly and attached, with yet another padlock, to the chain surrounding his knees. No more than a few inches of taut chain was left between the shackles of the two locks. Tightbound had climbed upon the rolling stretcher, still bearing Brandon's body, in order to fasten the remaining ends of the last two pieces of chain.

Perched on his knees near Brandon's muzzled head, Tightbound reached for the chain locked between his heavy black boots. This length of chain was two feet long at best, and Tightbound was forced to bear down hard on the remaining free end in order to fasten it to the mass of chain wrapped around Brandon's upper arms. This effectively forced Brandon's back into an uncomfortable arch.

Tightbound slid off the stretcher, clutching the final padlock in his hand. In what can only be described as adding insult to injury, Tightbound grabbed a hold of the free end of the chain leading to the head harness. Being careful not to put undue stress on his neck, Tightbound slowly took up the slack on the chain until Brandon's head was wrenched back in the severe manner that would soon leave him so utterly and completely confused- once his vision finally came back into focus, that is.


The conclusion of Brandon's first session should be posted this weekend....
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Post by Canuck100 »

Tue Sep 21, 2010 4:42 pm

TUG Institute: Brandon's Initiation, Part 4


"Dude! Snap out of it! The whole Institute is watching us!" Teaser, Tightbound's designated mentor, elbowed him sharply. He had been staring, transfixed, at the completely immobilized Brandon from behind the one way glass that lined the entire upper perimeter of the chamber, twenty feet below. Teaser had also noticed that her protégé had been absentmindedly rubbing the persistent bulge beneath his tight black tactical pants.

"You like him," the beautiful redhead smirked.

Tightbound blushed a bit. "Look at him! What's not to like?"

"Yeah, I get that. Just don't forget why you're here, okay?" Teaser cautioned.

"I won't. You know how badly I want this. It's pretty much up to him now, anyway."

"It's going to be fun to watch, I'll give you that much. Especially if he's got the stamina I think he does," said Teaser. "I've never seen anyone with so much resistance to the NOX.

"I know he...," but Tightbound was interrupted by yet another deep series of muffled growls as his subject continued to emerge from the nitrous-induced twilight state. Brandon's muzzled face was oriented in their direction, as well as wrenched upward toward the mirrored glass masking the control room. Though lying on the sealed concrete floor below, the chain wrenching his neck back in such an unnaturally severe manner would have allowed Brandon and Tightbound to make eye contact, if not for the barrier between them.

Instead of seeing his enthusiastic, young captors, Brandon's restored vision was forcibly focused on the mirrored upper reaches of the room. These mirrored windows weren't perpendicular to the floor, but angled downward. This afforded Tightbound and Teaser a clear, unobstructed view of their subject. It also, however, gave Brandon the first true impression of his predicament.

Brandon's field of vision between him and the mirrors was interrupted by a number of vertical orange ribbons. Brandon was unable to view their lower reaches because of his racked head, though he was able to see how each had been tied off to an anchor in the ceiling above. His competing feelings of confusion, excitement, and wonder were only augmented upon turning his attention toward the bizarre scene reflected in the chamber's mirrors.

Brandon only accepted that it was indeed him that he was seeing in the mirror because his heavily restricted motions were being reflected back to his wide, unbelieving eyes. In this reflection he could now see that the forest of dangling orange ribbons extended all around him, and that tiny brass weights hung from each. No. Not weights, but.... keys! At least two dozen. Small plastic tags, each labeled with a number, were attached at the base of the ribbons, just above each key. Except for the ribbon labeled with the number one, which hung immediately over the tightly hogtied boy, the remaining tags from one through fifteen had at least one duplicate located in a different position than the first.

More ominous than the hanging array of orange, key-adorned ribbons, was the curious rigging locked to the heavy duty belt around Brandon's waist. Four very thick cords, each ending with sturdy steel rings, were anchored with padlocks to the welded attachment points of the belt. These four cords looked a lot like the ropes used to enclose a boxing ring, though they were constructed of a highly elastic material that behaved more like a bungee cord- in fact, they were provided by the very same company famous for manufacturing bungee jumping rigs!

The opposite ends of these four hefty bungee cords were each anchored to the center of one of the chamber's four walls, roughly five feet from the ground. From above, Brandon appeared to lie at the center of a perverse compass rose- the bungees acting as the directional arrows. There was just enough slack in these four cords to allow the helpless Brandon to lie down in the very center of the chamber's concrete floor, amid the many dangling keys, without too much tension being applied to the wide leather belt encasing his waist.

Brandon gazed, incredulously, at his reflected form- the challenge before him was as ingenious as it was simplistic. It would be up to Brandon to free himself- utilizing a carefully arranged sequence of keys, laid out at ever increasing distances from his tightly hogtied body. However, he was sure that the retrieval of each and every key would be a battle unto itself as he fought against the elastic tension of the four thick bungees.

His clear realization of the task before him provided Brandon with a strong sense of purpose. This fact, combined with the effects of the most intense bondage he had ever experienced, sent adrenaline surging through the twenty year old's athletic body. This was just the sort of bondage challenge Brandon was built for- a challenge the young man was eager to meet.

"You're not going to get anywhere lying there like a slug, punk!" Tightbound's taunt thundered over the speakers mounted to the chamber's walls. The noises produced by Brandon in response were unintelligible due to the muzzle, though they still echoed through the much smaller speakers in the control room above- the wireless mic attached to the head harness was still in working order.

As if seeing the logic in Tightbound's advice, Brandon immediately began to thrash about, though only managing to rock slightly to the left and right. Racked out in such a strict hogtie, with his back arched as it was, it was near impossible to achieve any forward motion while slithering around on the front of the leather belt- for all intents and purposes, the only substantial portion of the boy making complete contact with the concrete floor.

Tightbound allowed him to thrash for a good five minutes before giving further instructions- it was wonderful to watch, but he didn't want Brandon working himself to exhaustion too soon in the game. "You'll never get anywhere without the sole's of those Docs against the floor!"

Brandon realized that this would mean having to roll from his current face-down position on to his back! He focused again on producing the same rocking motion he'd achieved just moments before, though with much greater tenacity. The steel hardware of the leather belt and restraints, as well as the dozens of feet of chain wrapped around his torso and limbs, clanged against the hard floor with each additional thrust as Brandon struggled to turn himself over. Panting wildly through his nose, with occasional exhalations puffing from beneath the muzzle, Brandon managed to roll himself onto his side.

With one final full-body thrust, Brandon felt his center of gravity make it past the tipping point that would allow him to roll on to his back, though a sharp moan, followed by an equally unsettling grunt from the struggling boy prompted Tightbound into action. Brandon had painfully discovered that he was unable to roll over fully due to the fact that his head was wrenched backward so severely by the chain locked to the top of the head harness.

"Oh, that sucks! Doesn't it?" laughed Tightbound.

"This son of a bitch is going to piss me off," thought Brandon, though he was beginning to realize that the invisible voice's advice was going to be critical if he was ever going to work his way out of this predicament.

"You're smarter than that. Take in your surroundings," said Tightbound, softening his tone. Brandon's right eye- the one angled toward the ceiling- focused on a single orange ribbon dangling almost directly above him. A white plastic tag with a black number one was affixed to the ribbon, just above a brass key. The key dragged along the chains binding the boy's right forearm, barely out of reach of his flailing fingers. Brandon knew what he had to do, and he didn't think he would need any more sarcastic instruction from the man behind the curtain- not yet, anyway. The edge of a gummy rubber sole of just one of Brandon's Doc Martens bit into the floor, providing a meager bracing point from which he could begin to slither- on his side- much like a snake.

Progress was slow and laborious, but after about five minutes of creeping along the floor, millimeters at a time, the tips of Brandon's fingers finally made their first contact with the closest ribbon. Number one. Brandon thought briefly about the fact that he'd recalled seeing numbers as high as fifteen reflected in the room's mirrors, planting tiny seeds of panic and fear in the back of the usually confident boy's mind.

After a couple good grunts, Brandon was able to seize the ribbon between his fingers. He rested for a moment, catching his breath. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his face; the salinity stinging his eyes. Brandon inched the ribbon between his fingers until the brass key was perched delicately between his thumb and forefinger. He angled his hand as far as the leather restraint would allow, making contact with a padlock between his chained wrists. After a great deal of fussing, throughout which both Tightbound and Teaser relished Brandon's muffled grunts and groans, the bound boy seemed to slump in defeat.

Tightbound thought the time was right to offer more assistance. "IF you retrieve keys in the correct order, they will always fit the next logical padlock."

"What the hell do you think I was doing!" Brandon thought, his temper rising. He took a few deep, calming breaths and began flailing the fingers of the hand not busy clutching the key. Not between the restraints, but actually below them, Brandon felt the outline of a more easily accessible padlock. It was affixed to the chain joining his wrist restraints to the chains at the backs of his knees. He groped for the key hole, and shakily guided the tiny piece of brass toward it with his sweaty fingers. This time the key mercifully slid into its home. Without hesitation, fearing he may drop it otherwise, he gave the key a sharp twist with his middle and forefinger. Success! The shackle popped open with a reassuring click.

However, this momentary victory failed to bring about the result Brandon had anticipated. His head remained in its original position- wrenched severely backward. He fingered the lock as best he could, changing its position. With a flood of relief, he managed to unhook the lock from the chain. Brandon's head sprung back to a mercifully comfortable position that allowed a rush of blood to pleasurably return to the muscles of his neck.

"I'll bet that feels good!" laughed the concealed source of Tightbound's voice.

"No shit, Sherlock," thought Brandon, scornfully. He now turned his attention toward the forgotten task of rolling himself onto his back. The next key- one of them, anyway- marked with a black number two, was a good three feet from his current position. There was no way he could retrieve it without having a bit of traction beneath his boots.

Brandon's rocking was now aided by the additional momentum gained by freeing his head, and he was quickly able to roll onto his back. In the control room, Teaser giggled. Brandon's clear arousal was now visible, waving helplessly below the belt. "I love to see a hot guy getting off on our creativity!" she laughed.

"Who's creativity?" questioned Tightbound, raising his eyebrows.

"Sorry. YOUR creativity," Teaser retorted, sarcastically.

"Don't you forget it!" replied Tightbound with a satisfied smirk. "I just hope the directors are happy."

"How can they not be? Honestly," said teaser encouragingly, gesturing toward their captive below. "Some of them are probably downright giddy!" This was exactly what Tightbound wanted to hear. Teaser knew the directors well, claiming them to be just as bondage-obsessed as the steadily growing ranks of their diverse client base, of which she was one of the first.

The Institute's "directors" consisted of a sizable group of bondage enthusiasts that had come together some years before on a bondage-themed message board- supposedly it was how the Institute had gotten its name. Teaser was one of a very select group of employees who could actually recognize the directors by sight- she had become a TUG Master before they had enacted the current protocol. It hadn't taken the directors long to see the clear benefits of such a secretive policy. The directors, though each a part owner in the TUG Institute, still enjoyed the services of the organization they themselves created, and didn't want their status to interfere with the experience.

"Trust me, there's not a single one among them that's not wishing to be in Brandon's position right now." Teaser was right. She returned her attention to their captive. "That certainly didn't take him long."

Creeping along like an injured snail, Brandon repeatedly lifted his chained torso from the floor, pushing with the heels of the black boots as he did. Each repetition would allow him to creep forward the half inch or so that the tight hogtie would allow. His elbows and shoulders scraped against the concrete, not benefiting from the lubricating trail of sweat he was leaving behind. The thick bungees had yet to be tested, as Brandon hadn't strayed far enough from his central position to take up the meager slack.

First the key brushed against the leather of the head harness, then against the muzzle itself. Brandon eyed the black number two as it crept past his eyes. Brandon continued this bizarre, painful method of locomotion until the key hung above where the twin buckling straps of the leather belt were cinched tightly across his abs. Satisfied with his positioning, Brandon slumped against the concrete in as relaxed a position as the unyielding chains would allow.

"Tick tock, punk!" Tightbound taunted. "Fourteen more to go! Move your ass!" Brandon bucked powerfully in response, pulling his knees and chin as close together as his considerable strength and flexibility would permit. He repeated this exertion five or six more times- not really in a sincere effort to free himself, but more in an attempt to fully experience and savor the totality of his helplessness. Each contraction of his muscles was accompanied by a grunt or moan. Brandon's freely waving hard-on was renewed, as was Tightbound's concealed one.

Brandon panted for another minute or two, then flung himself toward his left with every ounce of adrenaline-spiked strength he could muster. He managed to roll all the way over on to his stomach, bruising his knees and one elbow in the process. This time, as he rolled he made a wild grasp for the dangling key, but failed to be rewarded for his foresight. He succeeded in catching the key, though the ribbon stretched, then snapped, and Brandon felt its entire length fall in haphazard coils onto his head and chained arms. The slight elastic recoil of the severed ribbon plucked the key from Brandon's grasp. His disappointment was quite evident in his stifled groans.

As heavily restrained as he was, there was little chance of retrieving the key from the floor, though he quickly sighted a second black number two dangling from the end of a ribbon not more than five feet away. This ribbon, however, was located at a greater distance from his starting point, and was going to be more challenging to reach than the first. He was determined to avoid another smart-ass comment from Tightbound.

He was becoming good at using his body's inertia to roll over. Again, Brandon rocked in the direction of the target key- once, twice, and over, though his back never made it to the concrete. Having already rolled upon two of the bungees during his previous reversal, another attempt in the same direction wrapped the cords around Brandon's torso enough to leave him partially suspended, tipped on his side. He remained in the awkward position for a moment- the sensation was surreal.

Thinking that his knees could only take so much of this, Brandon flung his body back in the opposite direction. He maintained his momentum and continued the roll, finally coming to a rest upon his back, the weight of his body uncomfortably resting upon his chained arms and manacled hands. With the Docs in contact with the floor, he was once again able to resume the slow crawl toward the relatively distant key. After two feet of laborious progress in the opposite direction, two of the four bungee cords went taut. This time, there was no avoiding it.

Brandon continued his wretchedly slow journey as the bungees began to stretch. At this comparatively low level of tension, the bungees were adding little in the way of resistance to his forward motion. However, Brandon's boots were barely biting into the concrete with enough friction to inch him along, and it didn't take much to overcome this meager contact with the floor. He was forced to apply more downward pressure on his boots, and the only way to do so was to lift his back from the floor, placing great strain on his shoulders and neck.

Sweat poured from the athletic young man. It had to be over eighty degrees in the chamber, and Brandon had the sneaking suspicion that this had been done on purpose. Grunting with each new exertion, Brandon crept toward the key as he sensed the building tension on his waist belt. His calf muscles, as well as his hamstrings, were beginning to cramp from the combined stress of resisting the pull of the bungees and pushing himself along the floor while hogtied. Besides his continuous grunting, moaning, and groaning, which Brandon was unaware were being broadcast, he absolutely refused to give his captors the pleasure of seeing his growing discomfort.

And he wouldn't have to, he thought, as long as he cold put some of these damned keys to use. Just as with his first failed attempt at retrieving the number two key, Brandon allowed himself to pass beneath the dangling metallic glint until it hung in the general vicinity of his steady arousal. The bungees had been stretched by at least two full feet by the time Brandon reached his desired location. His calf muscles were shaking. He had to act now. Without utilizing his tested method of slowly building momentum through successive rocks, he gave one momentous heave, rolling onto his side. His fingers flailed in every direction, though Brandon failed to seize the key.

Remaining on his side, he groped blindly with his fingers, batting the key around as he did. Screaming into the muzzle, he fought the chain binding his wrist restraints to his legs with as much strength as he could muster. Cheering on his struggling captive from the control room, Tightbound shouted triumphantly, punching the air with his fist as he saw Brandon catch the swinging key between the tips of his middle and forefingers.

"Now hang on to the god damn thing!" Tightbound yelled emphatically into the control room's microphone.

"Uggfff oooo!" Brandon shouted into the amazingly secure muzzle. Both Tightbound and Teaser thought that this retort sounded remarkably like "fuck you." Tightbound laughed.

Brandon had indeed managed to hang on to the key. In fact, he was clutching it as if his very survival depended on it. He remembered Tightbound's earlier advice- that used in the correct succession, each key would unlock the next logical padlock. While maintaining a tight grip on the precious key in one hand, Brandon groped around for the closest lock with the other. Yes, there was that lock securing his wrist restraints together, though he considered how difficult it would be to maneuver the key into its slot with his arms pulled so severely toward the backs of his knees.

Brandon turned his attention toward his manacled boots, hovering just above his hands. He felt around for the lock joining the D-rings of his boot restraints to the taut chain pulling his legs toward his elbows. There it was! Not more than an inch or two from his outstretched fingertips. He couldn't reach it, but felt that his athletic prowess could enable him to do what most others could not.

After a few deep, preparatory breaths, Brandon forced his back into an even more pronounced arch than was necessitated by the hogtie. This amazing feat of youthful strength and flexibility enabled Brandon to snag one of the D-rings of the boot restraints with an extended finger. He knew that he could maintain this stress position for only a few seconds at most, and wasted no time slipping the key into the lock. He gave the key a twist a mere second before his finger, lubricated with sweat, finally slipped from the D-ring.

The shackle was unlocked, though undisturbed. Still lying on his side, his chest heaving with the exertion of the last few minutes, Brandon hung his muzzled head in a look of utter dejection. The muscles of his body contracted suddenly as he attempted to thrust the black leather of the Docs closer to his outstretched fingers, but fell short by a mere half inch. His next attempt was even further off the mark. Brandon whined, loudly, into the muzzle.

In the control room, Tightbound and Teaser turned toward each other simultaneously. Teaser gave her protégé a slight nod. He reached for the mic. "Come on, man! With that body, I KNOW you've got more endurance than that! Don't fuckin' disappoint me!

Whether it was Brandon's rage over the insinuation that he was weak, or the veiled suggestion that he may be close to giving up, Tightbound didn't know. Regardless, some aspect of his captor's criticism seemed to have touched a nerve with Brandon. With a fervor unmatched during his previous struggles, Brandon thrashed against the chain and leather binding him with what could only be called reckless abandon.

The sounds broadcast into the control room were those of a wild, rabid animal, not a twenty year old overgrown boy. Tightbound watched with his mouth agape. "He's gonna hurt himself," Teaser cautioned. Tightbound agreed, though before he could even reach for the mic, the control room echoed with a metallic clank, followed by the dull thud of the heavy soles of the Doc Martens collapsing against the floor. A moan of both relief and pleasure came immediately thereafter.

"YES, DUDE! YES! THAT WAS AWESOME!" Tightbound shouted gleefully into the mic. Teaser kicked his shin- hard.

"Compose yourself, you idiot!" she scolded. Tightbound smiled at her sheepishly. She only shook her head, incredulously. Did she really believe, as she had written in her evaluation of Tightbound, that the boy could actually put aside his baser urges to the extent necessary in order to be successful in this job? Time would tell, she thought.


The conclusion of Chapter 1 coming soon....
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Canuck100
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Post by Canuck100 »

Fri Oct 15, 2010 5:07 pm

Ouch... it's already forty pages!! BTW, this is mostly (m/m). BE FOREWARNED! On to chapter two...

Tug Institute: Brandon's Initiation, Part 5


Twenty feet below, Brandon chuckled as best he could beneath the muzzle. He agreed fully with Tightbound- that had been awesome! He lay there for a few minutes, alternating between fully extending and then drawing his still-bound legs toward his chest. With free reign over his substantial leg muscles, Brandon thought that gaining access to the remaining keys would be simple. He couldn't be more wrong.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Brandon put his well-toned abs to work, hefting himself up into a sitting position. Of course, there were no ribbons marked with a number three even remotely close to his current position. In fact, each of the two possible target keys Brandon could identify were at least ten feet from where he now sat, with his legs, arms, and torso still bound in dozens of feet of chain and heavy leather restraints. No sense in wasting time, he thought.

Brandon spun around on his naked butt, transferring the steady tension of the bungees from one side of his belt to the other. With his booted feet now facing the nearest wall, he began pushing his body along the floor toward the next key in Tightbound's diabolical sequence. Now that his incremental progress could be measured in inches, rather than mere fractions of an inch, the effects of friction on his shoulders, elbows, and hands had become more pronounced. Brandon emitted slight moans with each push forward. His body glistened with sweat in the brightness of the chamber's incandescent overhead lights.

Within only a few minutes, Brandon had traversed most of the distance to the third dangling key- a distance that would have been prohibitive had he not managed to release the chain drawing his legs toward his torso. However, with a mere three feet to go, the tension in the bungees seemed to grow exponentially with each new thrust forward. Unless the soles of his Docs were positioned flat against the floor, his feet would kick out rather than move him forward.

Brandon figured that he could reach his target with two additional thrusts of his powerful legs. The rubbery soles of the Docs squeaked like sneakers in a freshly waxed gymnasium as Brandon positioned himself for his next assault on the dangling key. Two of the heavy bungee cords were fully slack, though the two anchored to the more distant walls were stretched like guitar strings. Brandon pushed against the concrete floor with tremendous force- he likened the experience to doing squat thrusts with a weighted bar across his shoulders.

His thighs shook under the strain, though Brandon's body began to creep across the sweat-slicked floor. He extended his legs as far as he dare, then dragged them slowly back toward him, maintaining contact between the bottoms of his boots and the floor. The key now hung directly over Brandon's face. One final push ought to do it.

Brandon's strength, as it turned out, wasn't the cause of his brief setback. His fit body simply didn't have the mass necessary to maintain enough down force for the friction between his boots and the floor to overcome the increasing resistance of the bungees. Brandon frantically fought to remain in control as his boots produced numerous piercing squeaks of rubber against sealed concrete. In one fluid, almost comical motion, the elastic recoil of the bungees eliminated the last two feet of his hard-fought progress. The smooth chain encircling Brandon's arms and torso acted as a bearing between his body and the floor, aiding his rapid retreat from the key that had been nearly within his grasp.

The frustrated Brandon slammed the soles of his Docs into the concrete numerous times in quick succession. Tightbound and Teaser were encouraged by how quickly Brandon rallied from this temporary setback- their average client would have succumbed to exhaustion by this point. However, most of the TUG Institute's clientele weren't twenty year old athletes. Once again, Brandon focused his attention on the task at hand.

This time, as he had done when Tightbound's incredibly strict hogtie was still complete, Brandon chose to inch his way along the floor. By not extending his chained legs fully, Brandon was better able to ensure that his boots remained in contact with the floor.

Tightbound and Teaser held their breaths in anticipation. Brandon was coming up on two hours in the chamber- two out of the four allotted by the directors for Tightbound to successfully conclude his captive's first session at the TUG Institute. Tightbound couldn't help himself. He grabbed for the mic. "Okay, you're there!"

"Master of the obvious today, aren't we?" Teaser chided. "Just let the guy do what he needs to do."

"But once he..." Teaser raised a hand, silencing her over-exuberant student.

"Just give it a rest. He's doing fine," she reassured him. Tightbound refrained from communicating further instructions to his captive, though with difficulty. He couldn't be more emotionally invested in Brandon's eventual success or failure.

Tightbound, however, needn't have worried. Brandon had also been thinking two steps ahead. What Tightbound had wanted to bring to his captive's attention was the fact that rolling on to his stomach in order to grasp the key was going to be difficult, if not impossible. In order to do so, Brandon would have to lift the soles of his boots from the floor- the only thing bracing him against the relentless pull of the bungees. Brandon had indeed foreseen this complication.

He would, once again, need to tap into his considerable athletic prowess. Without warning, and with an almighty grunt that pierced the silence of both the chamber and the control room, Brandon flung his body into a sideways spin. Tightbound wasn't completely sure- he'd need to check the video footage later- but he thought Brandon's entire body had left the concrete floor, if only for a split second.

His body had been perfectly aligned with the ribbon above. He flailed his fingers madly at the apex of this rotation. He felt the ribbon brush against his palm, and he snapped his fingers shut with the rapidity and force of a sprung rat trap. He held on to the preciously perched key for dear life, though his jubilation was short lived. Brandon's knees and chest slammed into the concrete at the same time the ribbon snapped at its attachment point above. He had landed nearly three feet from his original position beneath the key, having been tugged backward by the bungees as he spun.

Brandon's captors winced at the muffled shriek that accompanied the impact. Both Tightbound and Teaser glanced guiltily at the open cardboard box between them. Tightbound looked up at his mentor and shrugged. "What's done is done," Teaser said with a sigh.

"Yeah, but Christ, how the hell did he do that?"

"Beats me, though I'm beginning to see why you're so infatuated with him."

Brandon had strained or pulled at least three muscles in his torso and legs with that explosive demonstration of his youthful strength. Blood was also trickling from both of his knees, though the adrenaline surging through his system had served to mask most of the pain he would have otherwise surely felt.

The ribbon was still clutched firmly between Brandon's fingers. He inched the slack from his hands until the key itself was positioned between his thumb and forefinger. This time, he added the extra precaution of holding on to the loose ribbon with his other hand.

Without giving it much consideration, Brandon manipulated his fingers in the direction of the lock joining his wrist restraints. The butt end of the lock was luckily oriented in the optimal direction for this delicate maneuvering. He fumbled clumsily for what seemed like a frustratingly long time. The lock, however, wouldn't even accept the tip of the key, never mind its whole length. "Fuggg!" Brandon shouted into the muzzle. Tightbound was unable to wipe the smirk from his face. Brandon craned his fingers upward even more severely in the direction of his leather-wrapped wrists- toward the two locks securing the chains around his torso and arms.

The second of these locks wasn't even remotely accessible, though the first lay just within reach of the tips of Brandon's fingers. He scraped and poked at the lock with the tiny brass key, but to no avail. "FUGGGG! SFITTT!" he bellowed pathetically.

Brandon rested his muzzled and harnessed head on the concrete floor, thinking. The invisible voice, he remembered, had said the keys would fit the next logical padlock, not necessarily the one closest to his grasp. He thought, still resting his tiring muscles.

An idea struck him. Tightbound and Teaser watched as Brandon drew the Doc Martens back toward his hands- as if the hogtie were still complete. Though the boot restraints were no longer locked together, the ends of the chain binding his lower legs were. The key slid into its slot with little effort. A wave of relief flooded through Brandon's body as the lock clicked open.

The opened padlock dropped to the floor as Brandon kicked his chained legs wildly. The freed ends of the chain whipped back and forth in response to Brandon's squirming, loosening their hold up to the next lock at the backs of his knees. In a continuous fluid motion, Brandon rolled on to his side, drawing his bound legs toward his chest. With one resonating grunt, he accelerated the roll until he came to rest on his knees.

Brandon glanced up at the mirrored glass between him and his captives, as if taunting Tightbound to challenge him further. Tightbound returned the gaze, with his mouth agape. Like a sprung jack-in-the-box or predatory cat in mid-pounce, Brandon explosively catapulted himself into a standing position.

"Who the hell ARE you?" Tightbound bellowed into the mic. Again, Brandon stared up at his reflection in the false mirrors.

Back in the control room, both Tightbound and Teaser were frantically donning what appeared to be a pair of very sophisticated black goggles. Tightbound cinched the strap of the night vision goggles tightly at the back of his head as his mentor did the same. Teaser was gathering up a number of items from the box at their feet. She looked up, staring intensely at her enthusiastic student. "Stay focused. Do only what we discussed," she commanded.

Tightbound nodded. "Now?" he asked. Teaser shrugged. He flipped two switches on the control panel.

Brandon was still gazing up at his reflection, savoring his newfound ability to stand, when the chamber went utterly and completely dark. He whipped around, but no light met his eyes. He failed to notice, however, the dim green L.E.D. on the ceiling, which cast just enough feeble light to enable the use of the night vision equipment.

Brandon had no time to ponder the sudden loss of light, as the chamber's heavy steel door- its only door- flung open with authority. Tightbound and Teaser bore down on their captive in seconds. Tightbound wrapped his arms around Brandon in an inescapable bear hug. Teaser went to work. She quickly removed the head harness, though Brandon had little opportunity to get a word in edgewise before she stuffed a thick rubber ball gag into his mouth. Teaser buckled the leather straps of the gag as Tightbound continued to grasp the chained boy from behind.

Next came the helmet- a brightly colored motocross helmet complete with visor. It was snug, but Teaser was anything but tentative about driving it home with surprising force. She cinched the helmet's straps tightly beneath Brandon's chin. Teaser could both smell and see the nervous sweat glistening on her captive's muscular body, glowing green through the lenses of the goggles. She could certainly see why Tightbound was so enamored with the boy.

Teaser then worked the buckling straps of heavy elbow pads between the chains wrapping Brandon's torso and arms. She knelt and buckled similar, though larger, pads around each of his knees- just as Brandon began to resist. He mmphed behind the ball gag, and Tightbound felt a trickle of drool make contact with his arm. Brandon attempted to take a step forward, away from the grasp of the bear hug restraining him. Tightbound enjoyed the struggle, and continued to embrace his captive snugly, even after Teaser began gesturing toward the chamber door. "Make me proud," he whispered before releasing Brandon.

Tightbound heard yet another muffled mmphing from Brandon as he silently sidestepped around both him and the thick bungees anchored to his belt. This was quickly followed by the metallic reverberation of the chamber's door slamming shut. Tightbound and Teaser trotted up the stairs to the control room as they removed the night vision equipment.

Both captors glanced curiously through the one way glass, though only blackness met their eyes. Tightbound flipped the same switches as before. The minute green L.E.D. on the ceiling blinked out, only to be replaced by the comparatively painful glare of the room's incandescent spotlights. Teaser laughed.

"What?" asked Tightbound.

"He looks like a perverted X-Games athlete!"

Tightbound smiled. "Yeah, he does!"

Brandon seemed to be busy contemplating the recent developments in his predicament. His arms were still wrapped in steel, then bound to his torso with yet more chain. The heavy leather wrist restraints were also still locked in place, as well as the chain wrapped tightly between his waist and knees.

"He still seems to be enjoying himself!" laughed Teaser, taking notice of Brandon's renewed hard-on. Her commentary was unnecessary- this fact certainly hadn't escaped Tightbound's attention.

Brandon's attention, however, was now focused on two different plastic tags, each bearing the number four. They hung on opposite sides of the chamber. Though one key hung a bit nearer to Brandon's original central position than the other, neither could be described as being within easy reach. Brandon recognized that the application of the helmet and pads was an ominous sign, and decided to test out the true resilience of the bungees and belt.

Brandon's boot restraints were no longer locked together, and his ankles no longer chained. However, he was still hobbled due to the fact that his thighs remained bound. He began to move across the concrete in a strange, almost dainty shuffle, building up the limited speed the chains would allow. Brandon "trotted" toward the dangling fourth key, no more than five feet away. He felt the slack disappear from the bungees anchored to the two more distant walls, and attempted to brace himself against the anticipated resistance.

Leaning forward slightly, Brandon continued his forward charge. The bungees went taut, then stretched. The toes of his Doc Martens bit desperately into the hard floor as Brandon continued to creep forward. However, instead of making contact with the concrete, the sole of one of the Docs came down upon one of the two trailing lengths of smooth, chrome chain that had been used to bind Brandon's ankles. The boy tried to compensate for the sudden loss of friction by taking one additional step, but it was too late- his forward momentum was gone.

The elastic tension of the bungees was no longer equaled by the countering force of Brandon's exertions, and he was yanked smartly off his feet. He fell backward onto his ass, rolling until the back of the motocross helmet slammed into the concrete floor. The sickening crunch of the impact, as well as Brandon's corresponding moans, were broadcast into the control room courtesy of yet another wireless microphone built into the helmet's chin guard. The moans seemed to be turning to whimpers.

Tightbound grabbed for his own mic. "Dude, are you hurt?" he blurted, genuinely concerned.

For a tense moment there was no response. Brandon seemed to be evaluating his physical state. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Well, then what the hell are you waiting for? Get your ass up!"

"Easy, tiger," Teaser cautioned. "That was quite a jolt he just took."

"Yeah, good call on the helmet and pads."

Down below, Brandon seemed to take Tightbound's comments to heart. Wasting no time, he easily rolled himself back onto his knees. The thick knee and elbow pads now made this task far less painful. He positioned the gummy toes of the Docs against the floor, inhaled deeply, and sprung upward and into a standing position once more. Brandon now thought that he had gained a reasonable "feel" for the elasticity of the heavy-duty bungees.

Surprisingly, with no hesitation whatsoever, Brandon took off in the opposite direction, trotting backwards toward the alternate fourth key. This way, he thought, the soles of his black leather boots would be able to remain in full contact with the floor. He gained as much speed as he could muster, leaning back- away from the stretching bungee. The second pair of red chords stretched this time, easily as first, but they soon began to rival the force of Brandon's advance.

He grunted and strained, gaining mere centimeters with each new exertion. Brandon might have given up out of exhaustion had he not sensed the target ribbon brushing against the back of the helmet. A few more inches would do it. His fingers were flailing; wrists craning away from the leather and steel binding them. He crept toward his goal another shuffling, backward step, and then another- this time, accompanied by the dry squeak of the boot soles as he fought for traction.

The considerable muscles of Brandon's legs were shaking under the incredible strain, then... success! He felt his probing index finger close around the ribbon; he grasped it tightly in the palm of his hand. Brandon exhaled deeply, reveling in his little victory. This momentary distraction, however, was all that it took for the bungees to gain the upper hand. Tightbound believed the resulting reaction to be worthy of a Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote cartoon.

Brandon had immediately recognized his mistake- you couldn't relent in resisting the recoil of the bungees, even for an instant. Only the chamber's numerous video cameras were in a position to see the "oh shit" look on Brandon's face before he was wrenched violently forward by the two taut bungees. Brandon, however, had refused to loosen the iron grip he had on his precious prize. The ribbon snapped near the ceiling as his padded knees bore the brunt of the fall, though it was the front of Brandon's helmet that impacted the concrete this time. Instead of a whimper or a moan, an angry growl echoed from the speakers of the control room.

Tightbound didn't have time to enquire about Brandon's safety. He had lifted his helmeted head from the floor and settled on his bruised knees, fumbling with the ribbon between his fingers. The small brass key was soon positioned between the thumb and forefinger of his dominant right hand. The most accessible lock was the one securing the chains wrapped around Brandon's legs, just above his knees. He made the attempt. "Fummph!" he bellowed into the ball gag.

"NEXT!!" barked Tightbound, being unnecessarily annoying.

Brandon glared up at the angled mirrors. "Fummph oo!!" he shouted behind the gag, finally realizing that he'd been bugged. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, which happened to be trembling as he angled the key upward toward one of the other accessible locks. There were actually four padlocks currently within his reach: one locked the ends of the chain wrapped around Brandon's waist, just below the thick leather belt; the next joined the wrist restraints, still bearing one end of a dangling chain; the final two locks were those used to secure the chains that bound the boy's arms together and against his back.

The wrist restrains were positioned too closely together for an easy go at the lock joining them, so Brandon focused his efforts on one of the two locks between his chained arms- the one nearest to the wrist restraints. The shiny key was perched precariously between Brandon's outstretched thumb and forefinger. His other hand gripped the slack of the ribbon as insurance against his adrenaline-induced shakiness. Brandon felt the tip of the key sliding clumsily against the base of the padlock. He managed to make contact with the key hole, but the pointed tip refused to penetrate the lock. The thought occurred to Brandon that the key may be upside down. Carefully, he twisted the key between his sweaty fingers and resumed his blind groping.

The unmistakable clack of the lock's shackle wasn't picked up by the sensitive microphone buried in Brandon's helmet, though his captors knew by his swift reaction that he'd been successful. He suddenly sprang to his feet, then did two celebratory hops. Teaser giggled.

"What?" questioned Tightbound, momentarily looking away from the captive that he was beginning to adore.

"It's cute, that's all."

"What's cute?" Tightbound asked, confused.

"Well, he must be bruised and scraped up all over. He's got to be in pain. Yet, I don't think I've seen pain juxtaposed so strongly against excitement and arousal. Just look at him!" Tightbound looked. Teaser was fully aware of the fact that her protégée was just as aroused as his captive. Tightbound was again rubbing the bulging crotch of his strappy, heavily pocketed tactical pants as he watched what appeared to be the beginnings of Brandon's "second wind".

The lock had clicked open, though its shackle was still hooked around both links of the long chain it secured. Brandon must have been fully aware of the problem. He began hopping madly- like a deranged, freakish bunny rabbit. The lock quickly let go of one of the chains, and the two ends immediately fell to his sides. Still standing, Brandon began thrashing around, twisting his torso back and forth forcefully- almost reminiscent of how one might attempt to shake off a straight jacket. The loose ends of the chain whipped back and forth ferociously, flogging his chest, sides, and arms. Finally, the full length of the chain fell from Brandon's body and sagged onto the four bungees still anchored to his belt.

"That was freakin' SWEET!" Tightbound cheered through the microphone. Brandon huffed and puffed through both his nose and mouth, spraying drool around the sides of the rubbery ball gag. He glanced up at the mirrored glass, through which he was now positive he was being watched. His arms were still chained together (though no longer tightly against his torso), but less trussing would allow for greater flexibility, he thought.

Brandon noticed that the closest key bearing a number five was distant indeed, and that the ribbon tagged with the number six might be easier to retrieve. It was on the opposite side of the chamber from his current position, and he began to trot once again- forward, this time- toward his selected target. He was building up a good head of steam when the chains that had fallen from his upper body became tangled around one of Brandon's legs. With his knees and thighs still tightly chained, Brandon had little maneuverability to compensate for the entanglement. He came crashing to the ground in a heap. Brandon's knees and helmeted head smacked against the concrete, though he seemed unfazed.

He remained on the ground, rolling back and forth in an attempt to shake the chains loose from the bungees. By rolling back to his knees, Brandon was able to coax the last few chrome links from around the thick red bungees. He was back on his feet in a flash, moving toward the sixth key with renewed vigor. '

Tightbound's voice sprang forth from the chamber's large speakers. "Can't you count? One, two, three, four.... FIVE. THEN six, meathead!"

While still advancing toward the chosen ribbon, without even looking up at the source of the taunt, Brandon shouted another "fummph oo!" from behind the gag. He managed to achieve his greatest speed yet with his upper legs still bound, and was rapidly nearing the keyed ribbon. The moment the bungees began their ever-increasing resistance, Brandon flung himself into a kind of half-twist, allowing his hand to grasp the ribbon before he crashed back to the unyielding concrete. "Ah hell, what's another bruise or two?" he thought, darkly.

Like last time, Brandon remained on his knees in order to experiment with the key. He immediately went for the last lock securing his chained arms. No fewer than five minutes of intense effort proved fruitless as he alternated between this first lock between his lower forearms, and the one joining his wrist restraints. Frustrated and panting, Brandon sat up on his knees and stretched his fingers toward the lock near his lower thighs. He could barely reach it, and needed to reposition the lock in order to access its key hole. The brass key slid in easily, but Brandon's heart sunk when the barrel failed to turn. "Fwwookk!" he barked angrily, though incomprehensibly.

Brandon's fists were clutched tightly; his right entombing the vexing key. His chest heaved as he sat there, silently- almost meditatively. Besides his breathing, Brandon's only other visible movement was the regular flexing of the muscles of his arms against the chains and leather restraints. Tightbound thought that Brandon seemed to be savoring the moment, though also mentally preparing himself for further struggling and abuse.

As if snapping out of a trance, Brandon suddenly tensed his arms and flexed his fingers. The leather creaked and the chains clanked- a realization struck him. He had forgotten about the lock just below the belt; one of the two still locking his legs together. The key remained clutched between Brandon's fingers, and it only took a moment for him to guide it into its home. The increasingly satisfying clack of the defeated lock was barely audible to Brandon through the thick padding of the helmet's interior.

The chains wrapped around Brandon's thighs immediately sagged to the floor, and the remaining lock near his knees was rendered useless. Brandon stepped over the ring of slack chain on the concrete, staring up at the mirrors with a look of defiance in his blue eyes. "Fuck your 'order'!" he thought. He did a few armless jumping jacks, enjoying the newfound freedom of his legs. The chains around Brandon's arms clinked loudly as he leapt into the air repeatedly.

It had been fortuitous indeed to thwart Tightbound's carefully orchestrated sequence of keys, but Brandon knew that he couldn't ignore the skipped fifth key- for all he knew, it would be necessary to free his arms. Now, however, with his full stride and strength unrestrained, Brandon would be able to reach the key's location with relative ease. He charged in its direction.

He built up an impressive head of steam in the short distance to the dangling ribbon, stretching the bungee with little difficulty. He snatched the key with another well-timed twist of his torso, snapping the ribbon. Nearly simultaneously, Brandon dropped onto his bottom, allowing himself to be flung backward by the recoil of the two taut bungees. He had dropped so much sweat on the sealed concrete floor that the abrasion against his skin was limited, and far less dangerous than being haphazardly slammed into the ground by the force of the bungees.

Brandon turned over, then crawled toward the center of the chamber where he'd left the previously discarded length of chain used to bind his legs. He had to be sure that the fifth key was actually as useless as he suspected. He rolled onto the chain with a grunt, ceasing it in his fist. Brandon knelt on his blessed knee pads, fumbling with the lock and key behind his back. The padlock that had secured the chain at the backs of his knees was still closed, though not for long. Its shackle complied the moment Brandon turned the key. He dropped lock, ribbon, and key. All that was left was to free his arms and deal with the cursed belt.

The major obstacle facing Brandon was not lack of mobility, but the sheer distance of the remaining keys. He ran, straight at the seventh ribbon, but bypassed it by at least a foot without even attempting a grab. He spun around before ceasing his forward motion, beginning a charge in the opposite direction even before the recoil of the bungees could begin to destabilize him. The bungees helped to propel him with even greater speed toward the opposite wall of the square chamber. This time he overshot one of the two ribbons tagged with the number eight. "This is going to be a piece of cake!" Brandon thought. Again, he spun back toward the other direction- faster than before!

Brandon once again overshot what should have been his seventh target key, though he seemed far too absorbed to care. That is, until his overzealousness caught up with him. He had propelled himself forward so quickly that his upper body continued its forward progression even though the bungee had reached the limit of its elasticity. The leather belt dug into Brandon's abdomen, his feet kicked out backward, and the boy fell to his chest with a hollow thud. This time, he paid a price for his recklessness.

Tightbound was alarmed at Brandon's rapid, rasping, desperate intakes of breath being broadcast into the control room. He darted toward the stairs, only to have Teaser grab him firmly by his bare arm. "Dude, I think he just had the wind knocked out of him. Give it a minute. I'm sure he won't try THAT again."

"But..." Tightbound began, though Teaser was already gesturing toward the scene below.

"He's god damn Superman!" laughed Tightbound in amazement.

"Yeah," Teaser agreed, "and you wish you were Lois Lane!"

"Bite me!" spat Tightbound, though with a smirk. Both mentor and student glanced down at their impressive captive.

Brandon had already regained his composure, and had managed to retrieve the seventh key. Having figured out how to remain in continuous motion in order to avoid being thrown to the ground, Brandon now stood (rather than knelt) as he worked to manipulate the key toward one of the two remaining locks helping to restrain his arms. His instinct was to focus on the lock securing the two ends of the chain wrapped from his shoulders to his wrists, rather than the one joining the wrist restraints.

This lock was a bit higher up between Brandon's forearms than the first, and it took a good deal of craning of his wrists in order to even get close to its base. In fact, Brandon had to pinch the key delicately between his fore and middle fingers just to insert it into the slot. He knew that if he relented in his efforts- even a second- that he might not be able to stretch his fingers and hands to this extent again. The heavy leather restraint around Brandon's right wrist cut into his skin as he strained to apply enough torque to the key.

He was on a roll, though he couldn't grasp enough of the lock to unhook it from the chain. Brandon obviously felt that this called for more armless jumping jacks, along with wild shaking of his torso- like a dog ridding its fir of water after a bath. The shackle let go, and the freed chains began flailing about, whipping Brandon's body. He winced through the pain, but continued these bizarre calisthenics until the numerous coils of chain sagged down along his arms.

Brandon was almost home free. He had nearly beaten one of the most arduous escape challenges ever devised- or so Tightbound hoped. Brandon's wrist restraints were still joined behind his back. The short length of chain used earlier to bind the restraints to his legs still hung from the lock. Aside from this hold-out, the massively thick leather belt was all that stood between Brandon and... what? Freedom? Stage two? Did he really want to rush this? Even after all this physical abuse, Brandon's hard-on still stood out prominently, craving release.

...

"Grrrr! I SO want to go down there and chain him back up. Or... have HIM chain ME up. Or, better yet, have YOU chain us BOTH up!" whined Tightbound, grinding his crotch into the front of the control panel lining the wall beneath the one way glass.

Teaser glanced at her overly randy trainee. She was sympathetic of his desires. Tightbound had spent much of the last few months working over fat, old men and pretentious pricks from the city. He had definitely enjoyed tying up a few VERY hot young women, though none had affected him nearly as profoundly as this overgrown boy from the suburbs of Boston. Unfortunately, unless approved by the directors, all physical contact with clients- sexual or otherwise- was strictly prohibited. Teaser had cautioned Tightbound on his first day as apprentice about the very fine line between fulfilling the bondage fantasies of clients and... well... prostitution.

Teaser, however, knew that something had to give, or Tightbound's raging hormones were going to get the best of him. "You do realize the locker rooms have no cameras?" she said casually.

"Huh? There's camera domes all over that room."

"Keep it to yourself, but those are just decoys... to discourage the very sort of thing that you're dreaming about right now." Teaser gave the spiky-haired young man a little shove, interrupting his absentminded dry-humping of the room's electronics.

"I won't... get in trouble?" he asked. Tightbound blushed, staring down at the floor.

"I'll keep my mouth shut, of course, and I can easily convince the security staff to look the other way. Just.... do me a favor, will ya?"

Tightbound looked giddy. "Yeah, anything!" he agreed.

Teaser's facial expression was suddenly serious. "Just don't do anything that I wouldn't do," she warned, just a little too solemnly.

Tightbound's face broke into a wide, shit-eating grin. "So, basically, my options are pretty much open then, ha?" he said laughingly. With a smirk, Teaser smacked her shirtless apprentice smartly on his back, leaving an instant red welt.

"Yeah, baby! That sure brings back some fond memories!

It was Teaser's turn to blush. "Bite me!" she spat, good naturedly. "Hey, look at your boy!"

Tightbound liked the sound of that- "your boy". He also knew that he was treading on thin ice, and couldn't afford to jeopardize his future at the Institute with temptations of the flesh. He had to focus, but the bulge beneath his pants wouldn't quit.

...

Brandon had managed to shake from his shoulders, and then untangle from the four bungees, the long chain that had bound his arms. He stood in the center of the chamber, gagged and helmeted, testing the resilience of the restraints. Slowly, this time, he began to walk toward the next ribbon in Tightbound's sequence. He leaned gradually into the increasing tension of the two bungees to his back, stopping only when they were able to take his weight. The key dangled five feet from Brandon's reach- if his arms were free, that is. He leaned there for a second, then growled behind the ball gag, dripping with saliva, and took off in the opposite direction.

He seemed to transition seamlessly to a full sprint- as brief as it was. He was moving so swiftly that the opposing bungees stretched taut with a twang of increasing pitch. Brandon achieved another instantaneous reversal, sprinting toward the eighth key with previously unequaled speed. The twang of taut elastic cording was reproduced as he charged past the key like an angry linesman blitzing the QB. The excess forward motion was by design, and executed perfectly. Brandon spun his body around as the ribbon grazed his shoulder, grabbing desperately with his flailing fingers. The ribbon snapped, and Brandon whooped behind the gag as he allowed the stored energy of the bungees to propel him back toward the center of the chamber. He was getting too good at this.

For some reason, Brandon was confident in his assumption that this key would fit the padlock joining the wrist restraints. The brass lock hung between his wrists, and was far more accessible now that his arms were no longer wrapped in dozens of feet of chain. It took little effort to position the key for an attempt. The key scratched repeatedly across the base of the lock, and Brandon turned it 180 degrees to ensure that it hadn't been backwards. He growled faintly, annoyed by his incorrect choice.

By process of elimination, the key had to be mated to one of the two locks used to secure the bungees at the rear of Brandon's belt. Brandon angled his arms toward the right- his fingers brushing against the hardware of the belt for the first time. Lock and key were soon flung across the floor with a reflexive flick of Brandon's wrist. Another whoop sounded from beneath the ball gag, and he was off.

...

That whoop had startled Tightbound out of his mesmerized state, setting off a flurry of activity. "He's... he's moving too fast!" he exclaimed to Teaser, somewhat panic-stricken. Teaser was already donning the sophisticated night vision equipment they had utilized earlier. Tightbound was following suit.

"About what I said earlier..." Teaser began, though her apprentice interrupted.

"What if they found out?" By "they", Tightbound meant the directors.

"Then you're out," Teaser answered matter-of-factly. "But that won't happen." She paused, staring intensely at him. "I wouldn't let it."

Tightbound began moving toward the stairs. "Hey!" Teaser spat. "So, what's the plan?"

He paused on the third step. "I don't know!" he snapped, instantly realizing the inappropriateness of his tone. Tightbound softened his expression. "If I follow him into the locker room, then..." He shrugged, then resumed his course to the hallway outside the chamber door as yet another whoop from Brandon sounded from the speakers of the control room.

Two heavily muscled men from the Institute's security staff, dressed in the same black tactical uniform as the others, met Tightbound at the bottom of the stairs. They too were wearing night vision equipment. As always, these guys were all business. "Is the subject ready?" barked the more imposing of the two men- Tightbound didn't know his name. He also didn't appreciate the wonderful boy, who had just endured his masterpiece of an escape challenge, being referred to as "the subject". He disliked the Institute's security detail, and thought of them as hired muscle- nothing more.

"No, Not yet. Just relax... you steroid freak." he answered curtly, choosing to leave out the last bit. He turned toward the single, tiny tempered glass window of the chamber door, just in time to watch Brandon slam into the concrete wall on the left side of the chamber- helmeted head first.

The twelfth key had hung mere inches from the wall. The wild charge necessary to stretch the last remaining bungee to what was its greatest extent yet had left him little chance of arresting his forward momentum before the inevitable collision. Brandon's now unrestrained arms were unable to cushion the blow, as they had been busy successfully grasping the final key that would require the boy to tap into his considerable athleticism.

Adding insult to injury, Brandon was then yanked onto his ass by the final bungee. The stored potential energy of the taut elastic cord had flashed to the kinetic so rapidly that his arms, once again, failed to respond in time to offer any sort of protection.

"Ohhhh, that's gonna leave a bruise!" Tightbound laughed, turning away from the window. Unbeknownst to Tightbound, the senior guard stood just over his shoulder, also watching the scene unfold. He, however, didn't seem to share any of Tightbound's enthusiasm for the proceedings. The wide grin disappeared immediately from his face, only to be replaced with a deep scowl. Tightbound turned his attention back toward the window, though not before taking note of the fact that Teaser was deep in conversation with the younger guard, and had been gesturing in his direction.

Brandon really was fast. He now stood in the center of the chamber, no longer tethered to any of the monstrous bungees. His toned body was naked, except for the helmet, gag, Docs, leather belt, and the wrist and boot restraints- miniature padlocks still dangling from each. Tightbound thought Brandon looked like a bondage warrior, ready for battle. His hard-on stood at attention, anyway.

From the other side of the door, Tightbound watched. Brandon seemed to stare at the remaining tagged locks with confusion. Yes, there were the remaining duplicates to locks that lay scattered on the concrete, long defeated. However, there were also tagged ribbons labeled with the numbers thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen. He strolled curiously toward the thirteenth key, realizing after a few steps that two locks were used to secure the buckling hardware at the front of the belt.

He snapped the ribbon with unnecessary ferocity, apparently taking out his previous frustrations on this single, easily accessible key. Brandon fitted it quickly into the first of the two locks. He whipped it across the chamber, much as one might skip a stone across a pond. He strolled casually toward the fourteenth lock, thrilled with his success, though also disappointed that the experience seemed to be drawing to an end. Brandon slid the key into the lock without even ripping it from the ribbon. It fell as easily as its twin, leaving Brandon free to remove the intense restraint.

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, Brandon unbuckled the two thick straps that had secured the six inch wide belt around his waist. The belt's absence revealed deep, red marks, complimenting those left by the chains on his arms, legs, chest, and back. He tossed the belt onto the floor, wondering briefly how one might obtain such a unique item. He thought, correctly, that it must have been costly, and custom-built.

The helmet and ball gag seemed to go unnoticed as Brandon strode confidently toward the fifteenth, and final, key. The fact seemed to escape Brandon that there was not other lock that this last brass key could fit- all the buckle locks of the restraints were far too small. He yanked on the ribbon mindlessly. Brandon had barely enough time to contemplate the resulting strange metallic snap from above before he was plunged into complete darkness.

The heavy steel door to the chamber flung open, through which Tightbound, Teaser, and the two muscled security goons spilled forth. The scoped intruders spread out along the perimeter of the room as Brandon whipped around in the utter blackness, experiencing a curious combination of excitement and sheer terror. Tightbound made his move, creeping up slowly on the boy until he was no more than three feet behind the now motionless Brandon. He leapt forward, grasping him from behind in another iron grip bear hug, taking Brandon to the floor at the same time.

Brandon mmphed loudly behind the gag as Tightbound fought to wrap his legs around those of his captive. He was successful after a minute of Brandon's half-hearted resistance. "NOW!" Tightbound called. Brandon now felt a number of hands on his body- what they were doing, he couldn't tell. He also felt the apparently vigorous erection of whomever was squeezing the hell out of him. Brandon was also vaguely aware that his neck and shoulder had been licked numerous times!

In no time at all, the untold number of hands had expertly removed the restraints, boots, pads, and helmet. The gag was left in place, and Brandon felt his hands being tied with rope- in front, this time. The darkness was total and complete, and Brandon wondered how the hell his captors could tell what they were doing.

Brandon's time to ponder, however, was short indeed, as he was soon hefted onto his feet with almost shocking force. He was then frog-marched through the chamber door and down an equally dark hallway. Brandon heard the sound of a heavy door being thrust open as he was led into a cold, damp, hollow-sounding room- also shrouded in mysterious blackness.

Brandon noticed that the floor beneath his feet was wet as his back was thrust against something cold and metallic. He heard a faint clanking, and his arms were wrenched suddenly upward, then pulled high above his head. The rope was pulled so taut that Brandon was nearly forced onto his tiptoes. Another rope was then wrapped around his waist and the pole, cinched, and knotted tightly. Brandon moaned into the gag. He heard retreating footfalls, followed by the thud of the room's door closing, though at least one set of hands remained on Brandon's body.

He felt those hands position his feet on either side and in back of the pole. Here, Brandon's ankles were tied thoroughly, both together and against the metallic column. This positioning placed greater stress on the boy's wrists, suspended high above his head. Suddenly, the warm, welcome hands of Brandon's captor were gone. He allowed a pang of fear to creep into the back of his mind.

A minute passed. Two. Five... Where the hell was he? The humidity, the damp floors... if he had to guess, he'd have said that he was near an indoor pool, or a... A disturbing metallic squeak pierced the silence, and an utterly terrifying sound grew steadily louder. Brandon screamed behind the gag as what felt like thousands of needles pierced his skin.

He screamed with increasing intensity while thrashing desperately against Tightbound's expertly applied ropes. Then, slowly, the screams were reduced to moans, which soon tapered off to mere whimpers as the water warmed. Yes, Tightbound liked this boy, but his masochistic streak ran deep. His face sat mere inches from Brandon's as he carefully and closely observed his captive's frantic reaction to the frigid reservoir water- stroking his own hard-on the whole time.

The water had finally reached a comfortable temperature, and Tightbound stepped forward into the stinging stream of the shower. The night vision equipment was completely waterproof (Teaser had assured him of this), and Tightbound, now as naked as his captive, leaned his body against Brandon's. He positioned his thigh against Brandon's hard-on, and the helplessly bound boy began to buck against his tormentor. Tightbound slowly and sensuously ran his fingers down Brandon's toned arms, through his sand-colored hair, over his chest and abs, and then... well... you know.

Brandon moaned into the ball gag, tensing every muscle in his racked-out body. Tightbound pleasured his captive for no more than a minute before withdrawing his hands, as well as his leg- still positioned to allow Brandon the friction point he so badly desired. Brandon moaned some more, then humped the air pathetically the meager amount that the ropes around his waist would permit.

Though Teaser had warned against such rashness, Tightbound longed for Brandon to finally get a good look at the mastermind of his first visit to the TUG Institute- the first of what he hoped would be many. He left Brandon hanging there in the dark, in a rather intense stress position, as he strode toward a drier section of the communal showers adjacent to the Institute's locker rooms. The showers had been part of the failed private correctional facility that had originally occupied the structure, though numerous modifications had made them "TUG friendly".

A chrome wire rack near the lockers contained an array of predictable, though useful products- shampoos, oils, lubes, soap, shaving cream, etc. He scanned the numerous labels in the eerie green light of the night vision scope, his fingers finally alighting on a bottle of AXE hair and body wash. "The AXE effect, eh" Tightbound thought with a wry grin. "Put THIS in your commercial!" He removed the scope and its associated headgear, and hung the expensive toy on a towel hook. From the adjacent hook- having made a mental note of its position before removing the scope- Tightbound retrieved a small button attached to a black lanyard.

With the body wash in one hand and the button in the other, Tightbound silently made his way back to his captive, who was waiting on tenterhooks. Brandon was panting, partly because of the brief bit of edge play that he and his captor had just engaged in, but also because of the strain of Tightbound's simple, though intense, bondage- he hadn't been assigned that "TUG tag" for nothing, you know.

He stood again in front of the immobile Brandon, holding his thumb just above the tiny plastic object. Tightbound made his choice, finally depressing the button. Instantly, the shower room was filled with bright incandescence. For what seemed like an eternity, though likely not more than a minute or two, the two like-minded young men stared at each other in silence. Brandon then looked his captor up and down. Tightbound had spent the better part of the last few hours doing the same to Brandon.

Brandon focused again on his captor's face, then gestured with his head toward the door that led back toward the chamber. His movements and facial expressions seemed to beg the question, "Did you do this?"

Tightbound answered. "Yeah, the set-up was my design, my creation. I tied you. I... chose you." Deep affection was visible in Brandon's eyes- in both their eyes. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Brandon. He gave the boy a peck on the cheek amidst the cascading waters of the shower, followed by a more lingering, passionate kiss on his lower lip, beside the protruding black ball gag. Tightbound reached up around and behind Brandon's racked arms, undoing the buckle securing the ball gag. The straps fell away, and Tightbound pulled it gently from his captive's mouth.

With one hand on the small of Brandon's back, and the other cupped around his neck, Tightbound moved in for another sustained kiss. They made out passionately, Brandon renewing the thrusting of his hard-on into his new companion's leg, though Tightbound knew just when to pull away- his masochistic streak yet again rearing its ugly head.

Brandon spoke for the first time since lying on the stretcher, in a semi-lucid state, in the prep-room with Teaser. "Uhhhh, you're such a fucking tease!" he groaned.

"Oh, no. That's actually my mentor. I'm Tightbound, by the way." Brandon grinned.

Tightbound bent over to retrieve the AXE hair and body wash, flipped open the cap, and squeezed an obscene amount of the red gel into the palm of his hand. He distributed the glob evenly between both palms, then slathered the stuff across Brandon's chest and abs. Brandon writhed in his bonds as Tightbound spread the body wash along his legs and midsection- every inch of it, lingering in the right places just long enough to work the boy into a humping, moaning frenzy.

"Uhhhhh, you're EVIL!" Brandon whined as Tightbound pulled away once more.

"You don't know the half of it!" Tightbound laughed. "You'll have to come back to see just how far my depravity goes." He kissed Brandon some more, though kept his legs out of reach of his bobbing erection. Tightbound kissed Brandon's neck, chest, and abs, crouching to reach the bottle of shower gel. He stood, turned the bottle upside down, and squeezed a generous amount of the body wash onto Brandon's shoulders and head. Tightbound ran his hands over the boy's athletic torso and through his unkempt hair, grinding his hard-on against Brandon's legs the whole time. Brandon was doing the same against Tightbound. Both boys were as aroused as they had ever been, or ever would be.

Tightbound was clutching both of Brandon's arms as the two boys enjoyed each other's bodies- kissing, grinding, and moaning. He reached down and pumped his own hard-on a few times, then followed suit with Brandon's. Soon after, Tightbound had his arms clamped around Brandon's torso, and his left leg wrapped around both Brandon's legs and the steel pole. He humped against his captive's helpless body with unmatched ferocity, pleasuring both himself and Brandon at the same time.

Tightbound emitted an odd squeak, thrust his head back, then moaned deeply, producing a shower gel of a different kind. It was unlikely that Brandon even realized the fact that his captor had just gotten off on his leg, as he was attempting to do the same with increasing desperation and intensity. Tightbound renewed his kissing, pulling himself against Brandon with a single arm around his back. With his other hand, Tightbound grabbed a hold of Brandon's hard-on, though made him do the rest of the work.

Brandon flexed against the ropes, grinding with as much intensity as he could muster into Tightbound's cupped palm. A tremor seemed to pass through Brandon's body in a wave, and Tightbound felt a flood of warmth against his hand, wrist, and leg. The two boys slumped into each other, both gasping for breath as the water of the shower fell upon them. "You were awesome in there," Tightbound whispered. "I like you... a lot."

"Then we'll..." Brandon began, though the door to the hallway burst forth with authority, revealing the same burly guards that had joined Tightbound and Teaser in subduing their captive at the end of his ordeal.

"I... think ..I've got... to go," Tightbound said slowly, releasing his grip on Brandon. Looking sheepish, he shuffled, still naked, toward the guards.

Brandon looked distressed. "Hey! Wait! When will I see you? Leave me your number!" he yelled.

"I can't! We can't! I'll loose my job!" Tightbound shouted back, nearly reduced to tears. The guards had grabbed him by the arms, and were shoving him, roughly, through the doorway. He resisted- for a few seconds, at least, calling back to the boy whom he now adored. "You HAVE to come back! Please! Request Tightbound!!" he screeched desperately. A powerful shove from the older of the two guards sent Tightbound staggering into the hallway, the door was slammed shut, and Brandon's new fixation was gone. Tightbound leaned up against the wall outside the door, an emotional wreck.

Back in the locker rooms, having closed the valve supplying water to the showers, the guards advanced on Brandon menacingly. "Leave me your number!" the muscle-bound guard mocked with a sneer. He laughed, deeply, studying the manner in which Brandon had been bound by their newest TUG Master.

"Fuck you, asshole!" Brandon spat. "Why did you have to do that? I paid a lot of..."

"Listen, boy. Did you pay to get your dick sucked, or whatever the hell that kid did to you, or did you pay to get tied up? the guard barked.

"Uh..." Brandon began, though the guard wasn't looking for an answer.

"THAT'S why I 'had to do that'! What I SHOULD do is report the punk to the directors," he threatened.

"Oh, please don't" Brandon pleaded, softening his tone.

The guards didn't respond. Instead, they began untying Brandon's utterly spent body from the pole. The very second the last rope was removed, Brandon found himself being frog-marched, again, toward a door on the opposite end of the locker room. The younger, kinder, guard kicked the door open with his black boot, and Brandon was flung into another room. A towel was then tossed through the doorway, slapping against his wet face and hair. "Go fuck yourself!" Brandon screamed at the door as it was slammed shut, as well as locked, he thought.

He was stunned, but quickly gathered his wits and surveyed the new surroundings. The room was concrete from top to bottom- much like the rest of the facility. Brandon would have described it as an extra large, though sparsely equipped, bathroom. Much as you would expect from a former prison, there was a stainless steel toilet, sink, and table. On the table, Brandon recognized, were the clothes that he had worn to the Institute, as well as his boots and wallet. He took a leak and got dressed, still in a mild state of shock in response to the events of the last five or six hours.

Brandon had barely finished tying his boots when the same door he'd just been rudely tossed through was flung open once more. Just one of the guards this time- the older one- charged at the startled boy. Brandon emitted an embarrassing shriek as the unstoppable brute sent him careening through a second door on the opposite wall.

Cold enveloped him. Fat snowflakes were swirling around Brandon's head. In fact, four fresh inches had fallen during his visit. A familiar rumble caused him to whirl around, facing away from the building. Brandon's pick-up was sitting not more than thirty feet away. The snow had been cleaned away, and it appeared to have been warmed up for him. A far cry from the treatment of the guards, he thought. Bewildered, exhausted, and utterly and completely satisfied, Brandon traipsed through the snow to his waiting truck.

Both the heater and defroster had been cranked to the max, for which his battered and bruised body was quite thankful. He clicked on his seatbelt, then reached for the shifter, but paused. Lying on the passenger seat were a few items that he hadn't arrived with. A plastic ID card bearing the TUG Institute logo- with HIS picture on it- was clipped to a small pile of roughly ten business cards. The very same red business card, each imprinted with a unique ten-digit number, that had started him on the journey to this incredible experience. Below the cards were a number of printed pieces of paper, which he was simply too exhausted to investigate, and... another USB flash drive.

Brandon took a deep breath, steadied himself, and shifted the Dodge into drive. He descended the long driveway, already considering a second visit. The very same man that had, hours earlier, ripped Brandon from his vehicle, reemerged from the guard house at the Institute's gate. He walked around to the driver's side of the pickup as Brandon lowered the window. He nodded, handing Brandon his cell phone- he had nearly forgotten about it. The guard smirked at the boy. "We'll see you soon, I suspect!"

The guard walked away, laughing heartily, not intending for Brandon to respond. He disappeared back into the gate house, and the reflective barriers rose in front of the truck. Brandon drove through the double layers of razor wire-topped fencing and onto the snow packed roadway. He was less than a mile down the road before searching the contacts on his phone for Jacob's number.
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