24 Hours - Chapter 9: Tethered Like a Dog to a Tree

The banker and his wife chain Dave to a tree and wear him down before moving him back to the house for the final unveiling of his body.


24 Hours - Chapter 9: Tethered Like a Dog to a Tree
by Amalaric
Series: 24 Hours

An overpowering scent of magnolia blossoms hammered Dave’s senses with a waxy sweetness that reminded him of Cathy. Leaning against the rough bark of the old tree, scratchy texture and unyielding surface barely noticed; the exhausted young stud sagged in his bonds and quietly wept. If he had been alone it would have been different. His masculine soul begged for the relief promised by the deep-throated howl of outraged agony that clamored somewhere in his constricted throat; not only for the brand throbbing hotly on his inner thigh, but for battered pride, betrayal and (yeah, admit it) bullheaded stupidity. Hascombe was right- he was nothing more than a dumb animal. Worse; he was hopelessly naive, an overgrown boy scout outclassed and outsmarted by a clever madman.

He was so tired. Why couldn’t they have tethered him in a sitting position? But why should they? Pain was the game and Dave realized with an odd kind of clarity, strangely augmented by the fog engendered by exhaustion, that the day’s intent had never been an honest dollar for back breaking labor. He had bound himself to a contract of servitude and, though all of the signs were there, had never guessed at its nature. Oh, you stupid, dim sighted shit!! he thought. Well, now he knew and so he wept quietly, almost silently because, pride still intact, he knew what his captors expected and would deny the bastards some small measure of satisfaction. Dave’s efforts, born of the very naive strength that he presently cursed as the cause of his trouble were, of course, futile. The banker leaned back, fat ass planted on a bench attached to the picnic table munching the last bit of his second burger. Twenty feet behind his captive buck, unseen but seeing, Hascombe watched intently through a rich haze of fulfillment, a warm alcohol-infused glow augmenting the pure frisson of sexual excitement roiling in his damp groin. Sharp eyes roved in frenzied addiction over the minutiae of the bound stud’s muscular body and he sighed with contentment at the telltale signs of the captive’s humiliated tears. Rhythmic shuddering of broad back, head bent into a raised bicep; Dave kept no secrets from the experienced voyeur.

Roberta tittered at one of her own inconsequential remarks, ripe lips working in fevered anticipation of a different kind of feast. Lacking the finesse of her husband, she nibbled a warm bun with casual disinterest dreaming, not of hamburgers, but hot dogs. It had been more than two long weeks since she had been fucked and her nameless partner, a forty year old mid-management employee at the bank, paled in comparison to the lithe gold vision stripped and tethered to the old magnolia. She wiggled daintily, fanning herself with an unused paper plate, and surrendered to a surly tide of merlot-induced anger. All men were selfish, stupid animals, but…oh, what lovely specimens prowled the wild side of the planet; a place she longed to visit, but never did. Embracing the helpless, muscular power of the bound stud with a hungry imagination, she tossed the half-eaten bun on the grass and felt the bile of anger mix with jealous self-pity. The slave had a pretty girlfriend named Cathy and Hascombe’s wife had an overweight faggot seldom seen in the nude; and that was a mercy. Tears sprang to her jade green eyes as the clamoring thought recurred, I haven’t been fucked in two damn weeks!! Well, tethered to a tree twenty feet away a young buck waited for his mistress’ pleasure. Roberta thought bitterly of what Dave’s nights must have been like before his captivity; slow naked bangs with his cow-like bitch, an easy smile on his handsome face. What a waste. She glanced at her husband, lost in his own happy reverie, then back at Dave. ‘Darling,’ she lied, ‘it’s getting chilly out here. Let’s move back inside.’ Slowly licking a wine-reddened lower lip, her eyes twinkled, ‘Surely there’s something we can find for our boy to do indoors.’ Hascombe smiled, nodded assent and hoisted his bulk off the bench. It was twenty after six and the sun rolled lazily, still well above the horizon bathing the garden in deep golden light.


Brent Hascombe stepped up to his captive prize. Dave listened blindly to the soft whisk of the banker’s steps as he crossed the lawn and felt the caress of hot breath on his naked back. ‘You’re a sorry sight, boy.’ The jocular tone masked Hascombe’s child-like glee at what he saw- a young blond buck, mature in the mid-Spring of masculine prowess; long, well-proportioned limbs stripped for casual scrutiny. The big stud was dangerous and far from being broken, but helpless; bound doubly by strong rope and deep humiliation. ‘Well,’ Hascombe said as if considering some minor detail, ‘you did a credible job on that trench, but the little lady wants to move inside. Break time’s over.’ Dave shook his head in firm denial, the game had to end. He thought briefly of his small apartment and the impossible luxury of a hot shower, considering then re-considering an outraged phone call to the local cops. No, take things one step at a time, he just had to get out of here, to put the fucking nightmare as far away as possible and he wasn’t anyone’s boy; never had been. What Dave didn’t realize was that, in Hascombe’s mind, it had never been a game, and the nightmare was far from over. The banker laid a hand against the smooth skin of the buck’s rib cage and Dave twisted violently to the side evading the proprietary touch. He tried to sound firm but also reasonable, only dimly aware of the absurdity of this first, tentative tactic aimed at release, ‘Mr. Hascombe, that piece of paper back in your office wasn’t a real contract. I’m not your boy…or (his voice began to rise, self-control already fraying) a slave. My name is Dave McGuiness, I live at 231 Westbourne Drive and I think it’s time I was getting home.’ Dave didn’t know what to expect. He desperately tried not to see himself as he really was; stripped to his tattered briefs and tied to a tree. The throbbing brand on his thigh pulsed a steady interruption, reminding him of his predicament, contradicting the fantasy of reason. Silence. He pressed his forehead against the tree and waited for Hascombe’s reply or, better yet, freedom.

The faceless chuckle was dry and devoid of humor, ‘Clearly, boy, you don’t quite understand the situation.’ Dave winced as the leather strap snapped against his lower back. ‘You belong to me now,’ and he let the words hang in the still air, simple and unadorned, a stark epithet daring Dave to face an impossible reality, acknowledging where and what he now was. To his credit, and against all odds, the helpless young stud refused the dare. Twisting against the ropes in rage-induced frenzy he abandoned reason and screamed his outrage. ‘I said- LET ME GO!!!’ the bellow echoed though the late afternoon stillness followed by an articulate stream of expletives, pleading forgotten; Dave pulled on the rope binding his wrists heedless of the sticky blood slicking his wrists. If, by some miracle, the bonds had snapped, he would have killed Hascombe and damned the consequences. The rope held. Hascombe stepped back, savoring the show. He approved of his slave’s spirit and was wildly pleased by the outcome of his calculated provocation. He also knew that great caution was now required; that he was the master of a dangerous, wild young buck thrashing against its fate- inevitable, yes, but thrashing nevertheless. ‘Roberta!’ he called, ‘Looks like we need that gag again.’ ‘Ahhh, FUCK NO!!!’ Dave’s hoarse protest punctuated by his gleaming muscled body violently twisting back and forth, hips grinding against the bark of the tree, nearly drove the banker wild with lust. Pudgy hands trembled as he unbuttoned his Saville Row jacket, worn despite the heat, and peeled it slowly off. A delicate silk hanky fluttered unnoticed and draped itself over the toe of a patent leather shoe. The jacket was wadded up and Hascombe, in a gesture that would have frozen Dave’s blood if he had seen or understood the significance, wadded up the coat and tossed it on the lawn. Roberta sauntered up with the wet, tattered gag pinched distastefully between thumb and forefinger. Hascombe smiled brightly and, grabbing a handful of the stud’s blond hair, jerked his head roughly backwards. Dave continued to shout, ‘FILTHY BASTARD, I swear…I’ll KILL YOU, fuck, get off m…mmmphhh.’ He gagged on the sour rag stuffed in his mouth and the garden returned to an ominous tranquility, the only sounds an almost jazz-like discordance of birds chirping and a tall, angry stud mumbling his rage through a mouth full of bile soaked cotton.

‘Got to get this boy inside, and that might not be so easy now,’ Hascombe said to no one in particular. He considered, scratching behind an ear, then balled up his fist and slammed it into the side of Dave’s head with all of his strength. ‘Shit, that hurt!’ The flabby banker rubbed his knuckles, a stupid grin giving the lie to his discomfort. Dave was left for a moment with Roberta for company as Hascombe disappeared into the house. He squeaked in surprised pain when a fingernail scraped the suppurating scab already forming over the brand on his thigh, but that wasn’t the object of her probe. Dave shivered despite the late afternoon heat as a delicate hand insinuated itself into the leg opening of his briefs and grasped his balls. His nose filled with a nauseating blend of jasmine and stale merlot as she stood on tiptoe and leaned against his ear whispering, ‘These are mine, oh yes…they’re mine…’ Squeezing hard, her toy-like grip as firm as tempered steel, the long form of the bound stud towering over her tensed in helpless agony then gratefully relaxed as the pressure eased and sandpaper dry fingers settled down to dreamy fondling. Dave loosed a shuddering sigh, unconsciously spread his legs to accommodate her and leaned into the magnolia awaiting the return of the banker.

‘Having fun, darling?’ Hascombe materialized around the broad trunk of the tree lightly tapping a billy club against the meat of his palm. His wife grimaced, languidly withdrew her hand from the warm interior of the prisoner’s shorts, and retreated. Dave twisted around as far as possible trying to get a look at the banker. Hascombe was happy to oblige, moving slightly to the side of his captive. He nodded sagely as the buck’s eyes widened in shocked terror at sight of the billy club. Ignoring the frantic denial signaled by the stud’s body language- head shaking back and forth, naked muscles bunched and twisting sideways against the ropes- Hascombe returned an almost gentle affirmative; running his hand up the dark shaft of the club, for all the world like a man masturbating the stiff phallus of an enormous god. Perhaps conscious of that very thing, he touched the tip of the club to his lower lip, extended a wet tongue and began to lick the silky wood of the rim. Dave watched in stupefied revulsion trying desperately to prepare himself for what must inevitably follow. Still in a jocular mood, reminded of the recent picnic by the pleasant aftertaste of hamburgers and the lingering smell of charcoal smoke, and conscious (always) of that magic moment when Dave, strapped to the table, had arched in agony under the kiss of the brand, Hascombe recalled a tried and true metaphor; ‘I think this meat needs a little tenderizing,’ and, raising the billy, sent it thudding against the exposed expanse of the terrified buck’s smooth rib cage. He felt the bone take the blow, giving a little under the impact, and landed another slightly lower directly over the right kidney. Dave recoiled and nearly swallowed the gag as the first shock of blinding pain shot through his body. The third blow hit him directly across the dimples in the small of his back with spine jangling force followed by a quick upsweep, as the club whistled through the ravine of his spread legs and crashed into his balls. Dave shrieked fuzzily through the spit soaked cloth then bit down hard, eyes narrowed and streaming with tears. Hascombe paused, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and moved around to the other side.

Five minutes later Dave’s heavy form slumped against the rope, charlie horsed upper thighs and pummeled shoulder blades adding their voices to the chorus of pain. Hascombe delivered a last, light rap of the billy to the side of the dazed buck’s head and threw it down next to his jacket on the grass. He enjoyed the work, but also had a motive. Though he had never beaten a man before, the fat banker possessed an instinctive talent honed by years of dark dreaming. The seemingly random blows were actually calculated and as carefully applied as a master painter’s brush to canvas; he wanted his slave weakened and passive, but not damaged or seriously hurt. The change in Dave’s attitude was stunning. Slack against the rope, panting like a dog; the cocky anger, if not beaten out of him, was certainly dampened. Hascombe realized that utmost care was still necessary, but he was confident now that Dave could be safely manhandled into the house and would submit to the long anticipated humiliation as the tattered briefs were at last removed and the stud’s magnificent equipment examined and…savored. Lightly kneading the back of the buck’s warm neck, Hascombe leaned forward and addressed his exhausted captive in what, he hoped, were reasonable tones, ‘Like I said, boy- break time’s over. Now, we’re all going back inside for a while. How about it? You ready to cooperate?’ Dave groped through a shimmering sheet of agony searching for words in a mind cluttered by pain. He mumbled something, eyes riveted on the club waiting like a snake in the grass. Hascombe pretended not to understand and, fiddling briefly, removed the gag.

Dave inhaled a lungful of fresh air and stared at the ground, dully fantasizing the slow death of the banker. The question was repeated, non-verbally, with a fast open-handed slap that snapped Dave’s head sideways and shattered his dark reverie. He looked his master in the eye and forced the words from a dry mouth, ‘Yes, sir, I…uh…’ and trailed off. ‘That’s good, boy, real good!’ Hascombe said as manacles separated by eight inches of linked chain were produced and snapped around Dave’s ankles. The stud was suitably hobbled, but the next part was tricky. Hascombe took a deep breath and sliced through the rope binding Dave to the tree. The big stud slowly lowered his arms, still tied at the wrists, and painfully turned to face his tormentors. He realized that even in this state he was now in a position to make some trouble of his own. Hascombe was flabby and his wife more than half drunk and diminutive. His eyes darted to the lawn, searching for the billy club, but the banker was one step ahead; the club rested in his firm grip, tap tapping an impatient beat against a polyester thigh. Dave’s broad shoulders slumped in dismay, the recent memory of his brutal beating still fresh in pained movements and aching muscles. He stood passively as Roberta cut the ropes binding his hands. If his feet had been free he would have run, or at least tried to make a stand, but he was hobbled and the club tapped expectantly, alert for any anticipated move. Ten seconds of confused, bone weary freedom…until she slipped manacles around his wrists linked by a longer chain that looped behind his back, clanking softly against the high cotton rise of his ass. Though Dave didn’t realize it at the time, the true point of no return had, at last, been passed. Hascombe’s dark heart exulted and, laying a firm hand on the shoulder of his tall, impossibly handsome slave, he guided him, hobbling slowly, back toward the house. It was four minutes after seven in the early evening.


Leave a Reply