MARK AND KEITH (2)
Mark knew that anticipation was half of the torment through which he was going to put his friend so he thought he’d get his book and just read for a while. Every so often he’d put the book to one side and approach the intermittently twitching and struggling Keith. He could see his friend tense as he sensed him approaching so he would wait and let him worry about where the next attack would be targeted. All Keith’s head motions were in vain, all he could see was light passing through the orange bag that he stood no chance of displacing. He couldn’t even draw his knees away from where he knew his tormentor was waiting.
Mark crouched and gently drew the fingers of both hands up the insides of Keith’s thighs towards his most delicate parts, causing him to jerk as much as was possible, before digging in for a concerted attack on Keith’s chiselled abs and his waist in general. He kept the assault up until you’d have sworn that there was an entire family of Forest pigs snorting as they were let out for the pannage season. Eventually, the sound subsided to a pathetic whining noise and Mark gave his prisoner a sharp back-hander in the belly. “You alright, Mate?” Keith yelped, snorted again and the orange tent bag nodded backwards and forwards. Mark returned to his book. Keith waited until he’d recovered a bit before vainly trying out his ropes once more.
Being summer, it was still light but was certainly getting on a bit by now so Mark thought he’d just give his friend a little more personal attention before diverting that attention to dinner. He approached Keith, rather more noisily than necessary, and stood behind him. Why Keith started the vain attempt to turn and face the direction of the imminent onslaught, I don’t know. There must have been some primeval drive to face the danger. Mark knelt and Keith felt his chest being tickled, his nipples being massaged and then manipulated quite roughly but, with his muscular friend’s arms trapping his body, there was no way he could avoid the inevitable. After very few minutes, Keith knew that he was in severe danger of wetting himself but, between the girly giggling, snorting and squealing, he would have been unable to beg for relief from his torture even without the stifling gag in place.
Mark knew his friend’s limits (Let’s face it: they had each tested, and sometimes exceeded, one another’s limits many times over the past few years.) and stopped his assault before even giving Keith’s armpits the attention that he thought they deserved. There was always later. Keith wobbled from one knee to another to the full extent of which he was capable. He kept nodding his hooded head downwards and trying ineffectually to scrunch up his midriff while trying to say something. Mark recognised the pathetic whining and asked, “Need a piss?”
“Ehhh,” and Keith’s nodding became more rapid.
“OK. Hang on a minute, I’ll let you down.”
The tall youth released the dark boy’s ankles from the long rope that was holding them off the ground and Keith’s feet hit the ground but he was still held in place by the knots near his wrists. Once Mark had released them, Keith slumped to a kneeling position sitting on his heels with a pronounced grunt. His bound wrists flew immediately to the front of his black Speedos. Mark removed the tent bag from Keith’s head and Keith noticed that he’d changed into his favourite baggy jeans, the ones with the garish American Eagle belt. “Need that gag removed?”
Keith had to admit that his jaws ached and that he really could do with relief from having them forced so widely open. Or, at least, he probably would have admitted it if only he could! Actually, Keith simply nodded.
“OK. Beg!”
“-u—Ogg!”
“Sorry, Boy: no beg – no bog”
“-un’!” Keith didn’t mean it. He knew that he would do exactly the same if the roles were reversed. He bowed his body until his still-gagged lips made contact with the tops Mark’s flip-flop clad feet and gag kissed them until Mark was satisfied.
“OK. I suppose that’ll do. Get up.” Keith lifted his torso and looked into his best friend’s face. Mark took his knife and carefully slit the layers of Elastoplast holding the over-large ball into his prisoner’s mouth.
“Aa uung!!!” He didn’t remove the tape quite so carefully. With the soggy tennis ball removed, Keith waggled his jaw in relief and eventually managed a, “Thanks, Mate.”
“Don’t you mean, ‘Thank you, Sir?’” Keith looked. It was unlike him to think twice. There was a short pause. “Oh, well, looks like no bog break. I’ll just pass this rope under your crutch and secure your wrists again.”
“No. No. Please . . . .Sir!” Keith was desperate. He was also already planning for the next time it was his turn to tie Mark up.
Mark put on his best smug look, shoved his friend onto his side and knelt to untie Keith’s knees. “Come on, untie my hands, then I can help.”
“No. You didn’t beg nicely enough.”
“Whaa . . .?”
Leaving him bound at his ankles and his wrists, Mark lifted Keith to his feet. Keith started protesting. “A’ a’ a’, only quiet boys get to go for a pee.” This time Keith probably did mean it when he said that word. Mark smiled. “Just hop over there, get it out, have a pee and put yourself away again. I’m going to get dinner on.”
Keith resigned himself to the inevitable. Meeting his needs with his wrists crossed like that was far from easy but, once he had adjusted himself again afterwards, he bunny hopped over to where Mark was at the stove emptying a large tin of chilli con carne into a pan for heating through prior to re-constituting some Smash with onions. OK, so it WAS dog-food but at least it was nearly edible.
“You going to untie me now?”
“Nah, It’s getting a bit late so thought I’d just feed you with a spoon.” That humiliation was to be expected but Keith was suddenly reminded about what he’d done to his mate the last time he’d fed Mark his pudding. After not too long, dinner was ready and Keith was kneeling with Mark sitting cross-legged and facing him. Even though Keith’s hands were tied in front of him, he couldn’t twist them so that he could use the spoon himself and, if he tried to impede Mark’s efforts, he was certain to spill the food down his person. After some time, accompanied by giggling from both boys, “feeding baby” talk from Mark and, often food-curtailed, obscenities from Keith, the messy procedure of feeding Keith his main course was finished with Keith inevitably wearing more of it than Mark.
Keith had time to think: would Mark remember Keith’s “creativity” last time, could he make a break for it while Mark went to the trough to wipe himself down, what was the point of trying? On his return, Mark, who had slipped out of his jeans leaving him in only a pair of loose white boxers with tiny grey spots on them, had to work quickly. He pushed Keith over onto his back, dragged him over to his rucksack and sat himself on his protesting, crop-headed friend trapping his arms and hands. He produced a tin of peaches and a can opener from the rucksack; so far, so good. Mark positioned himself “more comfortably” thus trapping Keith’s head between his well-sculpted legs. It was obvious to Keith that Mark was going to return the compliment from last time as he twisted his torso to get something more form the rucksack.
“OK. Hold still now. Wouldn’t want to get any in your eyes, would we?” Keith’s reply was stifled by the first mouthful of squirty cream. It also went generously up his nose before Mark released the lever. Keith made his best attempt to lick the stuff from round his mouth in between attempts to expel it from his nose. “I never think you can have enough squirty cream, do you?” Keith’s imprecations did nothing to stop Mark as he applied eyebrows and a beard to Keith’s face (and, to a certain extent, to his own thighs). Keith frantically tried wiping it off onto his friend and tormentor’s legs but Mark’s grip was vice-like as he started force-feeding the spluttering victim with peach slices from the tin.
“OK, dinner’s over.” announced the waiter as he jumped off his diner as quickly as he could before Keith could clean himself off too much on his legs. He went, laughing, over to the trough again to rinse himself off as Keith did his best to wipe as much of the white foam off his face and out of his hair as possible. Keith’s problem was that, as soon as he’d managed to wipe some of the aerated cream onto the grass, he immediately rubbed the back of his head into it again when he lowered it to the ground. Mark returned by which time Keith was also laughing but in a rather breathless way in between telling his best friend how much he loved him (not).
“Bedtime, mate?”
“Bedtime.” confirmed Keith who had managed to sit up. Mark untied his ankles and Keith presented his wrists for release.
“Not tonight. Too dangerous.” said Mark. Keith had anticipated that situation and, with only a very mild insult, raised himself to his feet and stumbled over to the trough where he showered his head and chest under the tap. Mark approached him and helped out before also helping him to towel down and towelling himself down as well. Both boys had been quite comfortable with this for a long time but, dressed as they were, it is probably a good thing that the site was private.
The boys returned to the tent where Keith dropped to his knees and crawled awkwardly inside, followed quickly by Mark after he had hung out the towel and flannels to dry. After this time, it is probably best if what happened in the tent stays in the tent.
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Very early next morning found Keith unfettered, in a clean swimming costume and starting breakfast while Mark retrieved his own black Speedos from the fence where he had hung them to dry the previous day having first rinsed them out. He preferred a rather briefer, more “racy” style than Keith’s rather retro choice but the main criterion was that they should display his assets to their best advantage. Attired once more in his black briefs, Mark found a convenient branch of a tree and completed numerous chin-ups whilst conversing easily with the breakfast chef. Following breakfast, Mark began striking camp while Keith did the washing up. Once they had packed, except for their boots, clean socks, sun hats and sun-block, the lads spent about an hour throwing Keith’s small American football over considerable distances for each other to catch.
At about ten o’clock, the pair departed for a “Naked Hike” to Dymchurch followed by the long train journey home. During the hike, plans for the exercise circuit that Keith was going to build at the Log Cabin were discussed in detail. That circuit is still in use and, although he has moved away from the area, Keith still visits and maintains it whenever he and Donna visit their old friends.
Keith, as has been said, moved away to follow construction work. Shortly after the events in this story, it was obvious that Donna and he were becoming “an item”. She moved away to join him and is still looking after him and keeping him under control in just the way he likes. Mark is unlikely to marry but his underwear modelling paid for him to have a very comfortable time at university and the opportunity to visit some very exotic locations. Both men still take an interest in their old Sea-Scout Troop and do seem to have been largely responsible for instigating the tie-up games that continue today.
The two boys are now young men and they do feature in another story although it might not be suitable for this site.
THE END
