Lust in France (M/M) - *25.05.24 Part 2 added*

[Straitjacketed]

This is, again, a collaboration, originally a role-play between myself and another TUG member, reformatted slightly and published here with his permission. My character's narration is in default font, his is in red.

This isn't our first or last role-play together! The characters of Richard and Lance were fleshed out in 'Nine Circles', effectively their first date from - or rather IN - Hell. You might want to read it first.

The events of 'Lust in France' take place in the mid-2010s, over a year after 'Nine Circles'.


Lust in France - part 1

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
Tall, wide, heavily-muscled white man in his mid-forties. Impression of bulk. Celtic complexion, ginger hair and beard, blue eyes. Open features. Nose broken and crookedly reset.

Lance:
Tall, buff but lean Asian man in his mid-twenties. Short-but-messy dark hair in an undercut. Stubble. Resting scowl.

Richard:
24 hours in the French countryside was how you sold it to me although, in truth, it didn’t require much selling. The whole thing sounded near perfect: overnight in a rustic but comfortable lakeside gite; lost in France avec Lance. Ideally, I’d have liked longer but our schedules allowed what they allowed – and we’d make the time together count.

Hard to believe it was last May that we met in Berlin and spent that memorable night at Deubel’s (I spent rather longer in the venue than you did, as you never fail to remind me): even allowing for the subsequent Yellow Knight weirdness (which I’m not ready to talk about), that makes it almost 14 months since we connected in person.

We’ve kept in touch, obviously, by email, telephone and – my favourite means of communication – text. I was pleasantly surprised to discover, in addition to your talent for matching me, quote for pretentious quote, a sense of humour as dry and expansive as the Sahara. During the longer-than-intended fallow period that followed the end of my television role, you kept my spirits aloft with frequent laugh-out-loud rants about life as a bartender.

That ranting has, if anything, intensified since your move from Germany to France: you really haven’t appreciated the Parisian clientele, but I’ve been greatly entertained by the mental image of you trying to suppress that instinctive scowl of yours while serving ungrateful fashionistas.

Myself, I’ve mostly been living off Superintendent O'Halloran’s earnings – that role turned out to be the gift that kept on giving – plus a couple of limited runs in off-Broadway productions. Instinctively, I’d begun to sense a career crossroads and was thinking about refreshing my original therapist training… only for drama of a more familial nature to pull me back to London.

That’s what I’ve been dealing with for the last few weeks and, frankly, your suggestion of a little mini-jaunt across the Channel couldn’t have come at a better time. I needed a break, and it sounds like you did too. You were happy to do the planning and I was more than happy to let you.

The Eurostar was quiet, but I attracted a curious glance or two in full lederhosen a good three months early for Oktoberfest. Recalling your initial reaction to my police uniform back in Berlin, I anticipate much eye-rolling but hell, I had these made for me years ago, in Munich, and just don’t get enough opportunities to wear them. Traditionally, lederhosen consist of robust, snugly fitted, brown suede shorts and attached torso harness; these ones came from a fetish craftsman and are shiny black deerskin inside and out, intricately embroidered flaps concealing zips rather than buttons. A third, less conspicuous zip runs the length of the central seam at the rear.

The front embroidery appears suitably Bavarian so long as one doesn't look too closely.

As well as the integral harness, there are separate lockable waist and thigh straps. They're coiled in my pack but, recalling several hours sealed into a broadly similar chastity garment in Room 6 at Deubel’s – and not keen to give you that opportunity again – I’ve opted to leave padlocks at home.

In addition to two side pockets, there’s a knife pocket at the hip, containing my trusty Swiss Army penknife. The lederhosen are cut above the knee, high enough to show the blackwork of my newest tattoos, starting to curl down both legs.

Ever mindful of my Celtic heritage, I’m liberally slathered in high factor sunscreen that purports to double as insect repellent. Atop the sunscreen, I’ve matched the shorts with a plain black linen shirt – long-sleeved – black woollen socks and heavy hiking boots. My scalp is protected beneath a Tyrolean hat in dark felt, adorned with a truncated crow feather.

“Cast thy nighted colour off?” I declaim, “not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun!”

As I understand it, our trek to the rented cottage starts with a short hike through forest a little south of Paris. We could have driven but gambled on the weather allowing us a wander through some idyllic wooded countryside. Ever the sub, you sort out both booking and provisions, leaving me responsible only for my clothing and equipment.

(Because of course there had to be equipment…)

Everything is rolled, military style, inside my metal-framed, black oilskin backpack. Given the unpredictability of European weather, even in summer, I’m prepared for it to be unexpectedly wet. Assuming your own chosen attire would be selected to best show off your body and therefore wholly impractical for basic modesty let alone rain (I hate rain), I went OTT on waterproofs-for-two: my long, hooded foul-weather raincoat, raincape, dungarees and overmitts, all in heavy black PVC. In anticipation of mud at the cottage itself, I brought a pair of sturdy black rubber wellington boots and armpit-length heavy rubber gauntlets.

Although my old Scouting motto – Be Prepared – didn’t explicitly cover bondage play, I did gain a badge in knot-tying. I feel sure my patrol leaders would’ve approved of the various hanks of rope and rolls of wide black tape filling out the rest of the pack, along with one or two little surprises. Generally speaking, however, the bondage basics - plus confidence in my skills and experience - are all I'm going to need. Formidable you may be in hand-to-hand combat but Houdini you are not.

I tried not to hold my breath passing through Customs (well do I remember the occasion I had to explain why I was carrying a straitjacket in my hand luggage) but, this time, I'm lucky and they wave me through without issue.

The car from Paris is a final extravagance. The driver – swarthy, gruff – seems fascinated by my attire, throwing me glances in the rear-view mirror. On another day, I might’ve been tempted to chat, to explore that line of possibility but, today, my anticipation is wholly focused on you.

As we leave the suburbs behind us, I glance at the sky, gauging the cloud movement, the likelihood of rain.

Eventually, we reach our agreed destination, pleasantly green and rural.

“Merci,” I grunt, tipping the driver.

I hoist the backpack on my broad shoulders, settle the hat upon my head and – with an uncharacteristic jolt of giddiness – look around for the subject of my assignation.

Lance:
“Never meet your idols,” they say, and I don’t think the phrase applies to anywhere as well as Paris.

It’s not like the city is all bad, but the occasionally amazing food and some great art museums lose their glamour fast compared to the abrasive locals, exorbitant prices, and lack of free time to go somewhere more fun in the evenings.

At least I can’t complain about the money. Bartending brings in a decent wage but I can gain a lot of extra tips by wearing the tightest shirts I own and flirting with the customers in my so-so French. Ever since I met you, my control over how I come across got better and while I still can cause people to avoid me when I’m in a bad mood, I can now consistently smile and not look like I’m grinning wickedly.

Speaking of meeting… during the last year, I’ve hooked up with a couple of guys but none of them went anywhere and I quickly dropped the habit. Maybe you spoiled me but it’s hard to go back to superficial one-night stands when I subconsciously keep comparing men to a certain intellectually and physically challenging older ginger.

This is why I never stopped keeping in touch with you and even used some toys on myself during our rare phone calls (rare because of the differences in our schedules). Even though the least said the better about what happened after our first night at Deubel’s, I kept looking for opportunities to get together with you once more.

Of course, that didn’t make me come to London. Not quite yet. I still have a lot to see and even France was an afterthought between my subsequent travels. A thought that apparently had a lot of unforeseen downsides.

Even though venting to you about work and amusedly listening about your plethora of acting roles, I miss you and want to see you in the flesh… or in one of your hot black leather outfits.

Plus, my job introduced me to some patrons who dabble in BDSM workshops and sex shops, and I now have much more familiarity with concepts I was only introduced to before. I want you to see how much I learned and maybe use some of my learnings on you...

When my boss announced to close the bar for a long weekend for some refurnishing, I knew this was our chance. I called you, learned that you could make it, and promptly began planning.

After asking for some help from friends for a secluded date spot in nature and not far from Paris, I picked a suitable forest hiking route and went shopping.

There’s going to be a picnic along the way so I pack food, a camp stove and, most importantly, Lance’s Sexy Time Stash - including condoms, lube, and the new toys I collected through the few months I spent in Paris, such as a new leather harness that I tried it on and had a great time with and of course, the collar you gave me that day.

When the day of reunion finally comes, I have a small concern that things are going to be awkward between us. However, as soon as I take in your distinct figure, my worries disappear.

Not only do we quickly catch up, your ridiculous but charming ensemble gets genuine, fond laughter from me. “Lederhosen? Really?” I check you out, appreciating the way you fill those goofy shorts and the new tattoos you gained on your muscular legs when I was gone. Are there more in places I can’t see? “You never change, old man. With all that black, you’ll have a heatstroke before we get there.

Me? I’m dressed more lightly. A LOT more lightly.

Actually, despite your unusual clothes, there are just as many curious gazes on me. I’m dressed in red short shorts with drawstrings and mesh sides that do nothing to hide my tights or the curve of my buttocks. The muscle shirt I have on top of it is more akin to a white strip of fabric passing between my pectorals and with each step, a flash of my new barbell nipple piercings shows, the deep neckline not helping at all.

I’m barely fully clothed and I wouldn’t be surprised if the waistband of my underwear shows. The lengths I go to give you a warm welcome!

Even though my complexion is dark enough to protect me from the sun, a red ballcap is perched on my head, matching my shorts and hiking sneakers. The only fashion-conscious thing I have on is the string bracelet on my left wrist.

“If clouds still don’t hang on you,” I lead you to the beginning of our route with an arm around your broad shoulders, “we have places to go.”

I effortlessly haul my giant backpack back up and off we go. On our way, I tell you more about Paris and the people I met here.

“I should introduce you to my roommate Tariq sometime, he plays tabletop games and you two nerds would hit it off – look, here's the start!”

The surroundings make the long trip worthwhile. It’s rocky and full of evergreen and deciduous trees but also has a semi-hidden lakeside and a hill with a gentle slope. We walk away from the road and the path is thankfully free of any tourist traps or brick roads. It’s just us and nature here.

“I have everything planned,” I turn to you. “But I’d like to hear your opinion, as well. Do you want to rest first or are you good to get going?”

Richard:
The sight of you makes me ridiculously happy and I pull your lithely muscled form into a tight embrace that lasts just a little longer than intended - before drawing back to take in all the details of an ensemble that might as well be spun from distilled Essence of Lance.

“Lederhosen? Really?”

"Well, you can take the man out of Munich..." I grin, still giddy with a rush of genuine pleasure.

“You never change, old man. With all that black, you’ll have a heatstroke before we get there."

"Whereas you must've caused any number of actual strokes among the middle-aged population of the City of Love," I respond, "I know these are playing havoc with my blood pressure."

I reach out to rub a thumb over your left nipple, easily escaped from its blink-and-you'll-miss-it covering of white Lycra, and grunt approvingly at the piercing: barbells, as opposed to the thick titanium rings beneath my own shirt.

"Very nice," I murmur, "boy."

There it is. Old man, boy. We're back in the swing of things.

“If clouds still don’t hang on you, we have places to go.”

I realise why you seem younger: not just the outfit but the little frown-crease that used to linger between your brows is much less pronounced. Fewer clouds are hanging on you. The sunnier disposition suits you, but I catch myself wondering what else has changed: are we back in the swing of things? How does the push-and-pull dom/sub dynamic of two strangers meeting in a Berlin leather club translate to 24 hours in the Great Outdoors?

We'll find out.

"Lay on, Macduff."

I glance at the cloudless sky as we enter the trees, wondering whether the summery weather will hold.

I enjoy your chatter about the contacts you've established in Paris. It's a while since I gave full vent to the nerdiest of my pursuits. "Tariq sounds... Neutral Good,” I tease, “hopefully not too Good.”

My own roleplaying buddies are, God knows, a varied bunch. Hopefully, you’ll get to meet them.

“I have everything planned, but I’d like to hear your opinion, as well. Do you want to rest first or are you good to get going?”

Rest? I've been sitting down all day. However...

"You know me: the primrose path of dalliance, always. Give me the scenic route..."

I deliberately fall back half a step, the better to take aim at one of those buttocks, virtually laid bare in their scrap of red mesh. If an exhibitionist falls in the forest and there's no-one around to see, does he even make a sound?

I hit your arse-cheek a resounding slap.

"... and I don't just mean this."

To be continued...

[blackbound]

Well hello there, stranger(s)! Loved Nine Circles and I'm looking forward to what (tipping my hand here at my poll choice) Richard (and Tariq??) have in store for Lance.

I just returned from a week in Paris, incidentally, and found it vastly less dirty, crowded, rude and expensive than the stereotype - but then, I didn't bartend there.

[DeeperThanRed]

It's been a while since we started this so it's going to be nice to read everything from the beginning. @Straitjacketed, thanks again for being a great Richard!

[Straitjacketed]

It's been a while since we started this so it's going to be nice to read everything from the beginning.

Yeah, as sequels go, it feels like this took us longer than 'Dune 2'!

@Straitjacketed, thanks again for being a great Richard!

I don't think I'd even attempt lederhosen...

[Straitjacketed]

Well hello there, stranger(s)! Loved Nine Circles and I'm looking forward to what (tipping my hand here at my poll choice) Richard (and Tariq??) have in store for Lance.

Aww, thank you. Your feedback throughout 'Nine Circles' was much appreciated and I hope you like this one. It was a little counterintuitive taking them out of one setting and dumping them in a completely different one but interesting from a character exploration POV.

I just returned from a week in Paris, incidentally, and found it vastly less dirty, crowded, rude and expensive than the stereotype - but then, I didn't bartend there.

I was back there a couple of years before the pandemic (previous time - when I was 14) and loved Paris.

[gag1195]

Yay! More of these two! I wasn't sure if there'd be more after their intense night in Hell, but I'm so glad you two are gracing us with more of their exploits!

Of course, I must continue to champion the possibility of Lance being in charge, if only briefly, even if my choice already puts me in the minority! I'm sure we can all agree that Lance needs to silence Richard and his soliloquizing platitudes!

[Straitjacketed]

Of course, I must continue to champion the possibility of Lance being in charge, if only briefly, even if my choice already puts me in the minority! I'm sure we can all agree that Lance needs to silence Richard and his soliloquizing platitudes!

Absolutely nothing wrong with being in the minority!

[Guardianbound]

Loved reading the first story between these two and it looks like I'm going to enjoy this as well.

Seems like Richard could be packing for his own downfall, ropes and tape can be used by anyone, not just the person who brought it

[Straitjacketed]

Thanks to everyone who's commented so far: @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 2

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
To my endless annoyance, the sight of your tree trunk thighs and muscular ass in those blasted shorts as you climb the gentle slope is already arousing me. Thankfully, I can blame how much I missed you for that, but I still try to stay ahead and lead the way.

I saw you naked and in similar black leather but never in broad daylight. The air you give off is entirely different (less “naughty cop” and more “theater teacher on a field trip”) but still distinctly recognizable as you.

"Whereas you must've caused any number of actual strokes among the middle-aged population of the City of Love, I know these are playing havoc with my blood pressure.”

Well, it’s nice to learn that the attraction goes both ways. I was always a fan of light summer clothes and enjoy being able to feel the wind and sun on my skin. For the moment, I decide the withhold the more scandalous part of my choice of outfit: the underwear I picked is a pair of Jockmail briefs with a red waistline that has a large cut-out in the back, where my buttocks peek out outlined in shining white.

"Tariq sounds... Neutral Good, hopefully not too Good."

I chuckle to myself. “He’s more like Neutral Virgin. He’s fun but gets shy easily.” In retrospect, me walking around in our shared room in nothing but socks and undies probably doesn’t help. “But I like making friends now. It’s been a while since I had any serious ones.” Thanks to you, I think, for helping me to mellow out my approach to other people.

"You know me: the primrose path of dalliance, always. Give me the scenic route..."

“So we’ll reach the lake before too long, and we have to walk around it a bit before we get to the cottage” I point downward. “After we climb up to this hill. Our road will have its literal ups and downs, but we should have a nice view of both the water and the forest as we climb up.”

Too busy mentally mapping our surroundings, my thoughts are rudely interrupted by a sudden sharp sting on my ass. I immediately turn on my heel, bringing up my elbow, ready to deal a blow to whomever… oh, right. It’s you.

I manage to stop my arm millimeters away from your cheekbone.

It’s a good thing I’m calmer than usual these days.

“I’m gonna start charging you for touching the goods,” I rub my butt - it doesn’t even hurt, really - and grin at you. “If you can’t keep your hands off of me, I’ll have to restrain them until we arrive at our picnic spot.”

Making a “give me” motion, I say “Come on, I know you didn’t come here without any equipment on you. Rope, tape, it’s your choice. I’ll have your hot bear arms behind your back either way.”

Richard:
Some would argue that certain elements of what goes on in a Berlin leather club ought to stay in a Berlin leather club. I've been in the luxurious position of never really having to think about it.

Until now.

Now that I do give the matter due consideration, impromptu and unannounced arse-slapping mayyy be one of those elements.

Even if your reaction hadn't taken me by surprise, your reflexes are significantly quicker than mine: by the time I've begun to fall back into a defensive crouch, your arm is up by my face and I'm wincing in anticipation of a cheekbone-shattering blow...

... that never comes.

Gingerly, I raise my hands in mock-surrender. Inwardly, I thank the Fates that I was never foolish enough to start a fight with you when you’ve got all four of your limbs untethered.

“I’m gonna start charging you for touching the goods."

You're taking it in good humour, but I do get an infinitesimally tiny stab of the regret I feel when I know I've gone too far - like the time, with another partner, my staged game-playing resulted in an actual fracture to my nose. And how could I forget the night of our meeting, when I played a similar game with you, and-

"If you can’t keep your hands off of me, I’ll have to restrain them until we arrive at our picnic spot.”

"Oh-ho!" I exclaim. This I did not expect.

"Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase!"

You're no Daphne and God knows I'm no Apollo but it's all that comes to me as I fumble for a more authentic response.

“Come on, I know you didn’t come here without any equipment on you."

I pantomime an offended "who, me?" but, in truth, I’m taken aback and a little impressed. Either you’re a lucky guesser or you know me altogether too well.

"Rope, tape, it’s your choice. I’ll have your hot bear arms behind your back either way.”

"I plead the Second," I complain, "I have a right to bear arms! And if you do manage to truss those arms up, who's going to carry my rucksack?"

Did that 'manage to' come across as patronising? I dismiss the notion.

I'm stalling, I realise, because I'm curious. You've bound me up on two occasions - the first time was endearing, the second (after the first hour of dedicated but fruitless escape attempts) anything but - but I know your success, latterly, was more by luck than design: you happened to find yourself in a well-stocked den of inequity with access to leather mitts, custom-made bondage restraints designed specifically to incapacitate fingers.

Armed only with the basics - rope and tape – could you repeat that lucky strike? How would you fare?

In all your skimpy glory, can I really deny you this little moment of dom-play?

"O, reason not the need," I sigh, "go on, then."

You're asking me to select an option and provide materials, so I choose rope: I show you the side pocket of my rucksack wherein lies my stash of cords of differing lengths and types, all neatly coiled into hanks.

As you go to work with your chosen ligature, I fix you with the steely eye of an inscrutable appraiser during a particularly hard practical test. I'm not going to resist - I allow you to position my limbs as you wish - but neither am I going to indulge you.

I pay careful attention as you bind me, surreptitiously flexing my forearm muscles to see if you notice (are you even aware of that trick for gaining slack?).

"Happy," I ask when you're finally done, "boy?"

Lance:
"Apollo flies and Daphne holds the chase!"

Here you go again. “Not Hyacinthus?” I reply impishly. “So, I get to keep my skull intact.” Comparison to nymphs doesn’t bother me (I’m too confident in my masculinity for that) but I can’t help but get riled up a little at it - no doubt, your intention in the first place.

This playful ribbing and banter comes out on top during the verbal back and forth that precedes the knots and manacles… I missed it. Some guys I hooked up with in the past liked dirty talk and while I didn’t mind it, being called “jock slut” and such isn’t as interesting as trying to find comebacks to your eclectic collection of references and compliments veiled as jabs.

Still, no one can tell that I’m all talk and no bite (neither are you) and I fully intend to carry out my threat. Even if I’ll let you turn the tables on me later, I want to be the one holding on to your leash, so to speak, until we arrive at the picnic spot. I do lead us anyway.

"And if you do manage to truss those arms up, who's going to carry my rucksack?"

I frown. “You underestimate how much I can lift.” Well, this might be a bluff. I can lift both of our backpacks but not for the duration of a longish hike. “But I’m not going to take your precious bag - I’m sure you have some light reading in it.”

I take a careful look at your black backpack, which looks like it’s waterproof and has an external frame that might be aluminium.

To nobody’s surprise, of course, you have a nice selection of ropes in your person and after some deliberation, I pick a white coil of sturdy-looking, densely braided cotton rope. “This one will do.”

"Happy, boy?" The look of deliberate provocation you give me makes me waver between kissing you and yanking your arms behind you to make the smug expression go away… another reminder of how arousal and violence are so closely linked together for me.

“Delighted,” I grumble but I know I can’t hide the smile in my eyes.

Without being too harsh but also not trying to be gentle, I pull one of your wrists toward the frame of your backpack and tie it to the metal rail with a snug rope cuff. The rope goes through one of the rings so you can’t move it and as your palm faces away from your back (and the frame), it should not be easy for you to pick the knots. I repeat the same process with your other wrist - then wrap more rope between your elbows and upper arms, crisscrossing the bonds behind and over your bag.

As I tighten the ropes, I notice you flexing your muscles. I lean forward and press my lips against your neck - and my bulge against the back of your lederhosen. “Relax, old man,” I whisper to your ear. “You’re gonna pop a blood vessel.”

Cheesy? Maybe. Slick? Absolutely. But I’m not above dirty tricks to make sure you don’t embarrassingly get out of my ropework in minutes, and I also want to be sure I can get you hot and bothered just as easily as you can make me.

Richard:
All this talk of Apollo and his paramours reminds me that I am anything but a sunworshipper. The sunscreen is, however, sufficiently protective (and my application of it sufficiently complete) that I've been able to roll up my shirtsleeves in anticipation of whatever you're going to do next.

I start to unbuckle the heavy waist-belt of my backpack and the smaller connector linking the shoulder straps, but you stop me.

"... I’m not going to take your precious bag - I’m sure you have some light reading in it.”

"I do nothing lightly," I warn, but I refasten the backpack straps as instructed.

I maintain an air of slightly frowny inscrutability (only belatedly does it occur to me that this is not unlike your own vibe when we first locked eyes in Deubel's) as you select a hank of rope.

I note, silently, that the braided cotton is a good option for tying hands. Its tensile strength is easily enough to withstand brute force attempts to break free but narrow and supple enough to pull properly tight, with a surface that'll grip and hold knots.

Have you been - literally - learning the ropes? Nahh, you’re probably choosing by colour.

"Hnnff," I grunt as the first loop of rope is pulled around my wrist and, unexpectedly, the reinforced aluminium frame of my rucksack.

Mentally, I follow the progress of four or five coils stacked into a cuff that binds my hand, palm outward, to the lower corner of the rectangular frame. You're maintaining the tension with each turn, keeping everything snug, and I'm fairly sure you've included the securing ring in at least one rope loop.

"Someone's been practising," I mutter, as you move across to the other arm. I maintain a gentle degree of flexion, as I did with the first.

“Relax, old man," your voice is suddenly at my ear, your cock at my rear, "you’re gonna pop a blood vessel.”

I relax, instinctively, and in that moment, you pull ropes on both sides between wrists and frame, applying a sudden double cinch that tightens everything up quite considerably.

"No fair!" I laugh, wiggling my fingertips in an attempt to find and prod at your bulge, in retribution.

As you tie the cinches off with knots behind and above the range of my fingers, I'm forced to concede that you may have, probably accidentally, done an at least semi-credible job. Binding my elbows and upper arms - separately to the frame and also toward one another, with rope criss-crossing the bag itself - starts to seem gratuitous.

"The labouring spider," I quote darkly, "weaves tedious snares..."

When you finally step back, your expression verges on smug - and I have to acknowledge that smugness isn't 100% undeserved. From wrist to shoulder, each of my arms is firmly fixed to the corresponding aluminium upright; together with the straps over my shoulders and the horizontal belts at waist and chest level, I’m reasonably solidly melded with my backpack.

I grant you the satisfaction of a display of dramatic straining as I fight my newly created bonds with a show of power: I knit my brows in theatrical concentration and attempt, Houdini-style, to wrestle or tug a hand free. You've bound me, however, in such a way that I have little leverage and the rope neither breaks nor stretches. The frame creaks but holds.

Next, I explore the range of finger movement. The rope cuffs are tight enough that rotating my hands within them could friction-burn my wrists and, as I suspected, the corner rings of my backpack prevent me sliding them along the lower rail toward each other. None of the knots of the upper arm roping seem within reach.

I mean, I probably could still free myself if I really tried but why do that? Why upset the rope sophomore?

I spread my pinioned hands in a gesture of facetious acknowledgement.

"It appears you have me at a disadvantage," I say wryly, "forgive me if I don't applaud."

To be continued...

[blackbound]

And so it begins!

[Guardianbound]

Can't wait to see if Tariq really pans out to be so 'neutral'. The detailed descriptions are great as usual

[gag1195]

I wonder if it's too much to hope for a leash/lead for Richard? Oh and a gag! He definitely needs a gag!