GayBondageFiction

A young lad becomes a hunky captain’s “monkey” in this classic story by Lance illustrated by Cavelo.

Captain’s Monkey
by Lance
Art by Cavelo

What follows is described as a “journal.” Where and when it was […]

The Emperor devises a fiendish way to torture a pair of captured soldier brothers in this anonymously written story illustrated by Amalaric.

The Emperor’s Toys
by Anonymous
Art by Amalaric

During the […]

The public’s acceptance of torture as acceptable means of extracting information leads to the explosion of a new industry in this anonymously written story with art by Amalaric.

Growth Industries
by […]

The Musketeers fall under the control of the sadistic De Sade in this classic series by artist Cavelo.

De Sade and the Musketeers – Conclusion
by Cavelo
Series: De Sade and the Musketeers

Sold into […]

A sexy, young drifter stumbles on to the wrong farm while for work in this hot short story from Amalaric!

Looking for Work
by Amalaric

The high plains possessed a stark, lonely kind of beauty and Donald Rand was one of the rare ones that could appreciate that. Times were hard, as they had been before and would, without doubt, be again…but he had managed to weather the worst of it out on the family ranch that, thank God, hadn’t had any attached mortgage for many years. A lover of solitude, he generally spent the days by himself, living frugally off of the meager produce of the land and an occasional ten mile trip into the nearest town for necessary supplies. All in all, Don seemed a normal sort; a little flinty to be sure and definitely not one to over-socialize but harmless in his way and now, already in his middle forties, most folks had long since stopped speculating on what reasons Don might have had for never getting hitched and raising up a family.

Don caught sight of the drifter long before the younger man was aware anyone else was around. The homestead looked deserted and, turning the corner of an old barn, Don had given the boy the shock of his life; materializing out of nowhere with a loaded shotgun cocked and pointed straight at the intruder. ‘What the hell are you doing on my property, boy?’ The kid’s hands shot into the air even as he stammered his apologies and when he had finished Don understood that the drifter had travelled hundreds of miles- hitchhiking, hopping trains, and by foot- was tired and hungry, without a friend in the world…and desperate for work. ‘Not much extra to do around here.’ But was there something in the rancher’s tone that invited just a ray of hope? ‘What’s your name, boy?’ ‘John Travis, sir.’ ‘You can put your hands down, I ain’t gonna shoot you…just yet.’ He cracked the merest twitch of a smile. The kid’s sigh of relief was heartfelt as was the broad grin and quick acceptance when Don offered him the opportunity of a bath and dinner and, an hour and a half later- scrubbed clean and with a belly full of home cooked beef stew- the middle aged rancher seemed to re-consider; maybe there was some work around the place that a younger man could do.

‘How old are you, John?’ The weary traveler could hardly believe his luck; homeless one minute and employed with a place to lay his head the next. The mellow atmosphere of yellow lamplight and fusty, bachelor’s pad vibe in the narrow living room lent an air of safe respectability to the scene. ‘Twenty two, sir…a couple of months ago.’ Though John Travis was completely unaware of the fact, he and Donald Rand had actually met quite a while ago. But that was in Don’s fantasies as he had imagined young men with all of John’s…ah…qualifications. Many times during the course of the day; while performing any number of prosaic tasks, perhaps some slick fun in the bath tub, but especially before drifting off to sleep at night, Don would imagine things to do with a young man like John. At five feet eleven inches tall, the twenty two year old seemed to have the lean yet tightly defined muscular build of the hard scrabbler and casual laborer that had become his lot in life. On top of that, his face was uncommonly handsome with a quality of boyish likeability framed by dark hair that would have curled if allowed to grow longer than the crew cut that convenience dictated. And, as Don surreptitiously noted, the high swell of John’s denim clad backside and soft bulge at the crotch of his faded levis fairly shouted a promise begging to be kept. After sharing a couple of shots of whisky, Don remarked in a voice suddenly a little husky, ‘Guess you can bed down in the barn since the nights have been pretty warm lately. Tomorrow I’ll show you around the place and we’ll see what work might need doing.’ ‘Thanks, boss.’ John’s wide smile was pure gratitude and, grabbing his back pack with sleeping roll, he rose from the sofa in a lithe, fluid motion and, opening the front door, headed into the gathering shadows of the early evening and a dreamless sleep in Don Rand’s old barn.

First light brought both men back together. Don had always been an early riser and John Travis wanted to make a good impression. ‘Been thinking,’ Don said with just a hint of speculative worry in his tone, ‘sure, there’s a lot to be done around here…but I’ve managed by myself all of these years and, well, times being hard and all…’ he trailed off. Nearly gagging on a bitter tide of panic, John blurted out, ‘That may be true, boss, but there’s got to be things you’re, uh, getting tired of…like, maybe could use a young buck like me with a lot of muscle and not much else on his mind to take care of?’ He had silently hoped for a decent wage, something to stand by when he moved on, but the overwhelming need to lay down a root, however shallow, to eat a regular meal, and sleep in the same place for more than a few nights in a row…trumped everything. Near tears but damned if he would show it, John Travis was desperate and the soft glow of the previous night’s warm memories didn’t help; hot water, a solid meal, fuck…even whisky! ‘I swear, boss…I can help around this place, really…’ And the earnestness in his voice, solid stance; uncompromisingly honest, oddly innocent, yet every bit his twenty two years and utterly sure of himself, added up to Don’s hot dreams of masculine beauty and sealed the young drifter’s fate. ‘OK,’ the rancher muttered, ‘let’s have a look around.’

Don gave the kid a tour of the ranch that lasted around an hour and they both pointed out several jobs that desperately needed doing. ‘Fence posts over here are rotten, boss. I could dig them out and pound some new ones back in if you give the go-ahead’ Or, ‘Damn, boy! Looks like that irrigation ditch is near silted up- how long would it take you to clear it out?’ When they returned to the house for a bite of breakfast, both men knew that young John Travis wasn’t going anywhere soon. Afterward, draining a last cup of coffee, Don rose from the table and addressed his new ranch hand, ‘Right, time to get started.’ John followed him out the back door and noted that the day was sure to be a hot one with the temperature already climbing fast at nine thirty in the morning and the sun bright in a cloudless sky. Hell, by this time tomorrow I’ll most likely already have a full day of work under my belt! He wanted to whoop for pure joy but refrained. Though just a twenty two year old country boy, John Travis still possessed a measure of dignity and definitely knew his place.

Behind the barn there was a kind of lean-to with scattered posts, rings for hanging things, maybe tethering animals… The rancher cleared his throat, ‘Time to make sure that you’re the man to work for me, John.’ Hiding his confusion, young Travis merely nodded assent. ‘Strip off your shirt and let’s have a look at your muscles.’ John was wearing a long sleeved tan chino over a white cotton tee and, misunderstanding, reckoned the strange request had something to do with the strength in his biceps- they had been talking about pounding posts and all- so he wordlessly unbuttoned both cuffs and rolled up the sleeves exposing the hard muscular length of both of his arms. ‘Got more than enough strength for any jobs you throw at me, boss.’ Rand shook his head, exhaling sharply, ‘There’s consequences for willfulness and even more so for outright disobedience, boy. We’ll talk some more about that later. On this ranch, when I give an order…you don’t question it, you don’t ignore it…you OBEY. Is that clear?’ ‘Yes, boss.’ The new ranch hand desperately wanted to please. ‘OK, so let’s start again.’ Don Rand’s voice crackled with feigned exasperation, ‘I didn’t tell you to roll up your sleeves and flex like some cocky stud trying to impress his babe at the county fair.’ John slowly nodded, swallowing the insult. ‘What I said was to strip off your shirt so I could have a look at you- buck bare down to the waist. I can see you got a pair of broad shoulders, boy…’ the rancher’s tone had somehow become conciliatory but remained firm, ‘but I also want to…ah…examine your chest, back, check for any flab at your waistline and, yeah, have a look at the muscles in the arms you’ve already kindly bared. A ranch hand is kind of like a high-end stock animal, and a rancher’s got every right to insure he’s fit for service. Now, get to it- STRIP.’ Trying to control the trembling of his hands, John Travis did as he was told, slowly unbuttoning the tan chino and shrugging it off then pulling the tee up the long length of his torso and over his head where it joined his shirt draped over one of the rails. Naked to the waist, he blushed at the rancher’s interested scrutiny and visibly flinched when Don ran a calloused hand over the rounded muscle of his left shoulder. ‘Just like a skittish colt,’ Rand smiled and, testing the quality of John’s well-defined pecs, fingered the fine hairs sprouting in the cleft, and lightly pelting the hard expanse of upper chest. ‘You can understand, now, why I wanted you to take off your shirt?’ His roving hand dipped lower, over a well-padded rib to the curly short hairs that peppered John Travis’ six pack abs. ‘I…I…guess so,’ but the answer lacked any conviction as John willed himself to endure the humiliating examination. Suddenly, however, he was galvanized as Don casually unbuckled the old leather belt John was wearing as well as the top steel button of his levis. ‘What are you doing, man!?’ Opening the zipper of the fly about half way, Don watched as the baggy levis immediately began a precipitous sag. Travis shoved his hands into his pockets to arrest the descent but in the process also levered the fly further open and jacked the loose waistband forward affording the rancher a full view of his lower torso. Don noted that the boy wore no undershorts, revealing, instead, a full bush of pubic hair directly below the wiry fur dusting his abs and nestling around the thick base of the ranch hand’s penis. Everything else remained hidden and under the control of John’s shaking hands which, thrust deep inside his pockets, prevented the faded pair of levis from descending any further. ‘This just ain’t right…’ John felt disoriented, unsure of how to react or what to do. ‘Shut your mouth, boy, unless I ask you a question…or give you an order.’ Don lightly cuffed the side of John’s short cropped head. ‘Is that understood?’ And to John Travis’ credit he did think, for a few brief seconds, about getting the fuck outta there and maybe doing some damage to the creepy rancher in the process…but times were hard and the memory of what it was like to be cold and hungry too damn recent. Hard working and self-reliant, his habits had always inclined him toward endurance, obedience, and respect for authority. He even, as the last split second of decision ticked by, considered the previous evening; food in his belly and a place to sleep, the promise of some money in his pocket, fuck, even whisky… ‘Yes, boss,’ in tones that, though subdued, were nevertheless honest. ‘That’s good John,’ Don Rand’s voice dripped with self-satisfaction, ‘now, get your hands out of your pockets.’

John Travis slowly complied and, as expected, his baggy levis immediately drooped exposing a good portion of the long shaft of his cock and the pale expanse of narrow hips. The rancher did what John expected, probing the exposed areas of hip and groin- ‘Not an ounce of spare fat here, boy…no ‘love handles’, just a young man’s honed muscle…well done!’- before grasping the faded denim waistband and pulling his levis completely down. Effectively nude, John felt the incongruity of a morning breeze tickling the short hairs on his dangling balls even as Don Rand ordered him to remove boots, socks, and pooled jeans and spread his legs. He did so with sickening reluctance, acutely aware of the older man’s keen appraisal and, far worse, palpable expectation. When the last of his clothing was discarded the ranch hand steeled himself to spread his legs, with full knowledge of what was certain to follow, and found that he just wasn’t able. ‘Can’t do it, boss.’ He was near tears, hating himself and Don Rand in equal measure. Glancing at the pile of discarded clothing the handsome drifter made his decision. ‘I would’ve given you more than an honest day’s work for however long you needed me, boss…with all the respect and gratitude I could muster,’ he sighed, shuffling in place, ‘but all of this…you making me strip down, pawing at me, treating me like some kind of animal, just ain’t right, not right at all.’ Don observed the naked young stud in silence, seeming impassive, but actually actively appraising (far from concerned and certainly not disappointed). ‘Maybe there are one or two things you don’t understand, John.’ Don smiled tightly but there was no humor in his ice blue eyes, ‘like, if and when I go to the cops…oh, I know just about all of them for what seems a hundred miles in every direction, we’re a tight knit bunch out here…and tell them about all of the mayhem a young stranger (that fits your description down to the cow shit on the soles of your boots) caused after he trespassed on my property. Whew!’ He wiped his forehead, though the skin was paper-dry. ‘And, fark me; the threats, the wanton destruction as he rampaged around the place…could’ve gave this harmless old redneck a coronary or something!’ The tight smile remained but the humor had, at last, reached the rancher’s mirth-filled eyes. John Travis’ broad shoulders slumped in hopelessness as he absorbed the threat like a body blow; head bowed in bitter consternation, long fingered hands fidgeting at his side. He had taken a step toward his discarded clothing but the rancher’s remarks stopped him in his tracks. ‘Yep, I reckon there might be some horrible consequences if that came to pass. Don’t you agree, John?’ ‘Yeah…I guess so,’ whispered as soft as the late morning breeze. ‘So, here’s the deal.’ Suddenly all business, Don Rand laid out his terms, ‘You ain’t going nowhere for three months. I reckon there’s that much that needs doing around this place and you’ve convinced me that you’re the man for the job…and (he winked) I like what I see.’ He paused and John nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘During that time you will abide by my rules- ALL of them. You will also obey all orders without questions or hesitation. When you leave my ranch after your time is finished I guarantee a cash payment of $175.00 and I will personally drive you to the county line; this is a promise and I am a man of my word. Is all of that understood?’ ‘Yes, boss,’ the young ranch hand’s head remained bowed, unable to look Don Rand in the eye. ‘You can sleep out in the barn, though if the weather turns too cold there are also a couple of spare rooms in the house. Three solid meals to keep you fueled up is, naturally, part of the bargain…and don’t you just feel like the luckiest young man in the world?’ John didn’t bother to reply. ‘Any infractions will be punished at my discretion and I am a firm believer in the value of corporal punishment. Did your daddy ever bend you over his knee, boy?’ ‘Yes sir, he did when I deserved it…’ John trailed off feeling as if he was being led into a trap. ‘Well, in my experience, young men like you are always deserving…and for that reason on Friday afternoons promptly at half past four you and I will keep an appointment in the old barn for a taste of the strap, or maybe the paddle, and sometimes- if I feel you’re especially deserving- the old horse whip passed down from my daddy.’ Horrified into a stunned silence, John suddenly felt nauseous as the breeze brushed pricks of cold sweat on his back and chest. ‘Don’t think that you can avoid your Friday whipping just by behaving yourself because that has nothing to do with it. No sir, nothing at all. I just reckon that a boy like you needs a regular reminder of the way things are and, in my experience, a steady dose of discipline never did a buck any harm.’ Don paused and laid a proprietary hand on John’s naked shoulder, ‘Of course, when you do screw up…and I know that you will because that’s just in a young man’s nature…well, what happens on Friday afternoons can also happen anytime at all. That and some other things I’ve tried out on occasion as well. OK, what did I tell you? Hands behind your back!’ Swallowing hard, John complied. ‘Now, SPREAD YOUR LEGS!’

At twenty two and in peak physical condition John Travis presented a fine sight. Boyishly handsome with dark hair cut short, a straight nose and wide, full-lipped mouth; his blue eyes, now averted, would under other circumstances have been expressive and more than a little sexy (though he was unaware of that) due to their striking color, size, and the slight downturn of the heavy lids. John’s hands were clenched firmly behind his back giving Don Rand an unobstructed view of his long, muscular torso. The boy’s broad shoulders, thickly padded with rounded muscle, spoke of a lifetime of hard manual work as did the flexed biceps under the smooth skin of his upper arms. By contrast, John’s lower arms, though also corded with agile muscle, were peppered with dark, curly hair. His chest was deep and well-defined with each swelling pectoral crowned by a rosy nipple and dusted with a fine, short pelt that also offered a contrast to the smooth beauty of upper abs, where the first ridges of John’s hard ‘six pack’ were visible under a thin sheen of nervous sweat. The ‘six pack’ gained even greater definition in the area of the buck’s flat belly but, like John’s chest, was slightly furry with a nominally thicker dark treasure trail running from the shadowed depths of his navel to the thick bush of dark pubic hair accenting the pale skin of hip and groin. With his muscular legs spread wide, the young ranch hand’s manhood hung on full display; his pendulous balls swinging slightly in the still air. Don drank in the sight for several seconds, truly impressed. While he held his unzipped levis up, the only part of John’s penis to be seen was the base, but Don could tell by its thickness that the subsequent full revelation wouldn’t be a disappointment. ‘Let’s get some measurements,’ he casually remarked and, reaching into a pocket, extracted an old fashioned tape measure. Anchoring one end firmly at the hairy root of John’s cock, he pulled the tape forward to the tip of the head and read the results, ‘Four and half inches soft. Looks like you’re quite the stud, boy!’ Measurements of the width of the shaft, the head, and then of John’s testicles followed with similar impressive results. Finally, Don took firm hold of the sweating ranch hand’s cock and began a light, rhythmic stroke. ‘Let yourself get hard, boy,’ and feeling a hot tear splash the back of his hand, the rancher glanced up and sighed at the look of pure anguish on John Travis’ face. ‘Just relax…and let yourself get hard.’ The stroking continued without a pause. ‘What do you say when I give you an order?’ ‘Yes, boss,’ as he closed both eyes, squeezing out a last tear. It took several minutes, but John Travis eventually managed to obey the all important command and achieved an erection. Measurements followed and, deciding on the spur of the moment to save the deeper humiliation of jacking the young drifter completely off for another day, Don Rand merely stepped back and, after a last caress of the boy’s hot, rigid cock, watched and waited as John stood quietly sobbing and his manhood shrank to its flaccid state.

‘Can I put my clothes back on, boss?’ John had been ordered to turn around and his muscular backside was thoroughly examined but finally Don signaled he had seen enough and that his new ranch hand seemed fit for hard work. ‘Of course, but not just yet,’ he mused, gathering up jeans, shirt, socks, tee, and even John’s boots and socks, depositing everything in a burlap bag. ‘First, though, there’s the matter of several direct orders you have either willfully disobeyed or tried to evade. I think it may be high time you had a taste of the strap.’ ‘Please,’ John mumbled as he was marched buck naked across a wide yard to where the old barn stood, ‘I…I swear, sir…it won’t happen again.’ ‘That’s exactly what I like to hear, boy,’ was the smug reply but Don Rand made no gesture of mercy as the pair entered the dimly lit interior.

At first sight the old barn appeared to be entirely normal; littered with all of the paraphernalia associated with a ranch. Closer inspection, however, revealed some other things. ‘I think for starters we’ll get you situated on the ‘horse’. Ain’t gonna use the whip on you today, boy…and you can thank me for that.’ Stony silence greeted the rancher’s remark, but Don was unconcerned as he sensed John struggling against a black tide of confusion and fear. The ‘horse’ turned out to be a padded bench with wide wooden ‘fenders’. John was instructed to kneel at one end of the platform then position himself with his belly and chest resting on the padded bench with arms, bent at the elbow, on the same level as his knees. Straps were then attached to his ankles and wrists effectively immobilizing the tall buck in an ‘all fours’ position. Due to the width of the bench his legs were lightly spread affording Don Rand with a fine backside view of John’s cock and balls beneath the levered crack of his muscular ass. Completely helpless, John was acutely conscious of his vulnerability; round, furry ass thrust high, broad back also fairly inviting a taste of leather and tender cock and balls swinging freely between his spread legs. Don underscored the perception by administering an impromptu oil massage in order to tenderize the skin and muscle as he quaintly put it and, naturally, he was unable to resist the temptation to apply a slick sheen to John’s perfectly presented manhood. When all was ready he selected a supple leather strap about two and a half feet in length, a few inches wide and, perhaps, a quarter of an inch thick. As John Travis would painfully learn over the coming months, Don had some much ‘bigger guns’ in his toy chest…but, for starters, he reckoned the light strap would suffice.

The first blow landed squarely across the prone buck’s ass cheeks immediately raising an angry pink welt that soon enough- and vastly aided by a rhythmic rain of steady blows- deepened to a blistered red. After six or seven direct hits, landed with all of the force that Don Rand could muster, John began to involuntarily cry out and, as his arms were only immobilized at the wrists and not also at the elbows, to rear up; revealing a sweat streaked chest of straining muscle, bulging biceps, and frantically swinging genitals as he twisted back and forth on the bench. Don carefully reddened the lad’s hairy thighs; intentionally bringing one or two bites of stinging leather against John’s exposed testicles. The ranch hand’s scream of pure anguish and great spray of sweat as he jerked sideways was strong enough to make the floor boards of the barn, to which the ‘horse’ was bolted, creak with protest. That also served as a signal to the rancher who, after a cursory work over of John Travis’ broad, muscular back, put the strap away and, releasing his hired hand, ordered him to stand up straight. Tossing the burlap bag filled with John’s clothing at the trembling buck’s feet, Don issued another of what already seemed like an endless stream of orders, ‘Get yourself dressed, boy, there’s plenty of daylight left and a shit load of work waiting to be done.’ As John wearily complied, pulling on the baggy levis and buckling the belt, Don scratched the stubble on his chin and added, ‘But leave the shirt. Weather’s fine, in fact, I believe today’s gonna be a scorcher. Besides, I like to watch a man work when he’s stripped to the waist.’ ‘Yes, boss,’ John mumbled and stuffed his shirt and tee back into the sack. He’s learning fast, Don thought in silent tones of pure satisfaction…and in three farking months so much can be accomplished.

The Musketeers fall under the control of the sadistic De Sade in this classic series by artist Cavelo.

De Sade and the Musketeers – Page 3
by Cavelo
Series: De Sade and the Musketeers

Mid-voyage on a […]

Two police officers are captured and sold into sexual slavery but only after their captors have some fun with them in this new series by Horny Old Fag.

This Little Piggy Went to the Market – Chapters 1 & 2
by […]

The helpless cops are spanked & sodomized with their own nightsticks.

This Little Piggy Went to the Market – Chapters 3 & 4
by Horny Old Fag
Series: This Little Piggy Went to the Market

Chapter […]

The captured cops begin the journey to the next chapter of their lives….

This Little Piggy Went to the Market – Chapters 5 & 6
by Horny Old Fag
Series: This Little Piggy Went to the Market

Chapter […]

The Musketeers fall under the control of the sadistic De Sade in this classic series by artist Cavelo.

De Sade and the Musketeers – Page 2
by Cavelo
Series: De Sade and the Musketeers

On the musketeers […]

After the auction, the demonstrations begin including greased piglets and a bull attached to a fancy new milking machine….

Rodeo Roundup – Part 3: Demonstrations
by Amalaric
Series: Rodeo […]

The main events occur near the end of the rodeo including the shearing of lambs, a gelding and riding bucking broncos before a winner is declared who enjoys the rewards of his efforts….

Rodeo Roundup – […]

Vote for your favorite stories from May & June. You may vote for up to FOUR different stories. After placing your vote, enjoy this month’s bonus story. Just follow the link below the results after you vote to […]

A short dark scenario from the mind of Amalaric……

From the Depths
by Amalaric

Not one of them knew how they had gotten there, but that was the least of it…none of the men knew where ‘there’ might […]

The Musketeers fall under the control of the sadistic De Sade in this classic series by artist Cavelo.

De Sade and the Musketeers – Page 1
by Cavelo
Series: De Sade and the Musketeers

In the dungeon […]

Super Slut Tortured
by VaultAndrew

SuperSlut is tortured by a sadistic enemy in this video from author/performer Vault Andrew.

Bobby gets a taste of Dave’s straight cock then violates the struggling man’s asshole.

24 Hours – Chapter 17: Bobby Forms a Plan
by Amalaric
Series: 24 Hours

Hascombe rose from the oiled embrace of the […]

Bobby locks Dave in a diabolical position and uses electrodes to persuade the humiliated but stoic stud to give in.

24 Hours – Chapter 18: Two’s Company, Three’s an Orgy
by Amalaric
Series: 24 Hours

Bobby lectured Hascombe as if he were a schoolboy, ‘You’ve been too easy on him, Brent. And, what is all this crap about indentured servants, now a slave…and having him dig a farking trench out back??? Oh man, buddy, what a waste of time!’ Hascombe looked indignant but kept his mouth shut as Bobby continued, ‘OK, I’d be the first to admit that the stalking and capture of a healthy young buck like this one takes some careful effort and, yeah, it can even be fun.’ He hooked a palm around Dave’s warm neck then ruffled the hair on the back of his head. Dave listened to the patter with a growing sense of sickening incredulity, only just realizing the extent of the premeditated set up that had led to his predicament. He cursed himself (not for the first time) as a fool. Bobby looked at him appraisingly and, still lecturing the humbled banker, also addressed his remarks to Dave, ‘He’s given you nothing but trouble, Brent, and, really, who can blame him? Wouldn’t you if your positions were reversed? No, that’s not his fault and, to tell you the truth, I can appreciate a big spirited stud with an honest sense of resistance.’ He laid a hand on Dave’s deep chest and measured the pounding of his heart. ‘Trouble is, there comes a time when he needs to be reeled in; to be, finally, ah…mastered. I mean, shit, Brent, you want this big marine to suck your cock but aren’t you just a little bit afraid that he might bite???’ Dave figured that would be it; that Hascombe would explode. Instead, the prissy older man carefully took a seat, folded his hands in his lap and said in measured tones, ‘You’re the expert, my friend. What would you suggest?’ ‘Well,’ Bobby giggled, ‘I’m so glad you asked.’

Moving behind the perplexed and very frightened captive, Bobby placed a hand firmly on the small of his back and guided him, hobbling against the stretcher bar, toward the green sofa. He turned toward the sound of a grandfather clock in a corner of the room. A truncated gong marked the time- half past twelve. Bobby hissed and licked his lips. ‘It’s the witching hour, Dave. Time to get down to some real business.’ The velvet seat cushions of the long sofa brushed the fine gold hairs of the stud’s legs just above the knees. Dave halted, able to proceed no further, filled with a strange sense of dejá vù, knowing and dreading what was coming next. He had been forced to lean over this sofa from the other direction hours ago. ‘Down on your knees, boy, and bend over.’ Bobby’s tone was matter of fact and Dave noted with a growing sense of horror that he had already fumbled the buckle of his belt open. ‘Why?’ he asked uselessly, stalling for time, ‘What are you going to do to me?’ Bobby grunted and unzipped his trousers. Hascombe, electrified, leaned forward in his chair. Wishing he had a fresh drink, he thought about mixing one then reconsidered, unwilling to miss a single detail of the unfolding drama. Bobby playfully cuffed the stud on the side of his head. ‘I think you already have a pretty good idea but, if you insist, I can make it perfectly clear- I’m going to fuck you, Dave. Yep. A long, hard bang straight up your tight muscled ass and…you know what?’ It was a rhetorical question- Dave stood, rock still, in stunned silence, ‘My friend over there asked you real nice to do him the simple favor of sucking his poor, under-used dick…and you denied him. You, Dave! A slave refusing the simple request of his master!! Well, boy, the tables are turned. I’m only Brent’s guest (he winked at Hascombe), not your master, so instead of requesting the pleasure of your warm manhole I will refrain until (he paused for effect)…you ask me to fuck you.’ He continued, breathless, anxious for the shocked stud’s delayed reaction, ‘And after that, well, maybe we can pick up the thread of unfinished business. I think that by then, if you put your request really politely, your master will allow you to suck his cock. Does that answer all of your questions?’ Dave had vowed to himself that he would die before giving Hascombe a blowjob. The pair of whacked perverts could play their deadly games and call him anything they wanted, but he was no man’s slave; that crazy fantasy had died under the brand in the back garden several hours ago. Dave leveled his blue gaze on the geek and replied with deceptive calm, ‘You can go fuck yourself, Bobby, but I think I’ll pass on both counts.’ His voice rose with uncorked anger, ‘In fact, you can go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on, boy. But I swear if you touch me again I’ll find a way to kill you…I swear it, Bobby, I’ll snap your fat neck…BUT ONLY AFTER YOU BEG ME TO DO IT!!!!’ His desperate shout echoed off the walls of the living room and Hascombe looked toward the front door nervously. Bobby exhaled in mock dismay and turned toward the banker. ‘See what I mean, Brent? You’ve got yourself a feisty slave but haven’t disciplined him properly. All of this high falutin creative play hasn’t done jack for his attitude.’ He stared at Dave for a few seconds and, without warning, slammed a balled fist straight into his abdomen. The contact boomed with a wet sounding smack and Dave, unprepared and unable to shield himself from the blow, doubled over in agony. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ Bobby said, ‘Now I want to show you a little invention of mine.’

‘Hey, Dave, I know you might find this hard to believe, but I did some time once in prison. Quite a lot of time, actually.’ Dave didn’t find it hard to believe at all. Bobby continued, all the while fishing around in the canvas bag he had brought with him, ‘Yeah (a shadow passed over his expressive face), it was mostly a drag being in a place like that, but not always…and there was plenty of time for thinking…day dreaming, if you know what I mean? I imagined you, Dave, just like you are now.’ The tall stud was bent over and winded but hadn’t dropped, as commanded, to his knees. ‘I figured a big, strong dude like you wouldn’t take kindly to getting back ended (Bobby hadn’t ‘taken it kindly’ in prison and he wasn’t even a ‘big, strong dude’)…so I invented these little babies to make sure you held the position.’ Dave looked up and squinted, sickly curious, at a pair of nylon filaments about five inches long with stainless steel hooks tied to each end. ‘Simple, but effective,’ Bobby boasted and, nodding at Hascombe, said, ‘OK Brent, I’m going to need some help getting him into position. Our buck won’t appreciate the procedure. Would you fetch the club, please?’ Hascombe jumped to obey and took up his position at Dave’s side. He tapped the club lightly against one knee as Bobby twirled a filament around a thick finger and, pointing at the sofa, ordered the big stud to lie on his back. Dave, of course, refused but resistance was futile. He was manhandled, struggling, onto his back; long body guided into position by thudding whacks from the club and finally subdued to stillness by the banker’s meaty knee planted on his throat. Bobby ran a hungry hand over the twitching muscles of the prone captive’s heaving chest, testing the density of ridged pecs still slick with sweat. ‘Ever think about getting your nipples pierced?’ he said. ‘I hear it really drives the chicks wild.’ Dave, fully aware now of what was coming, twisted violently but was held in place by Hascombe’s weight on his throat and steadied by Bobby’s free hand. The other held an inch-long stainless steel hook pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger. Bobby casually fondled the soft, rosy circle of Dave’s left nipple teasing the nub to hard erection. ‘This might hurt just a tad, boy…so, suck it up!’ Straddling the stud’s squirming torso, he deftly aligned the hook and slowly pierced the base of the nub. Dave gasped at the sharp pain, choking as he strained against the pressure of Hascombe’s knee on his windpipe while Bobby repeated the operation on his other nipple. ‘OK, time to get him flipped over.’ The bound captive’s long body was levered over lying on his belly, legs pulled off the sofa and forced to a squatting position on the floor. He tried to rise but it was a simple matter for Hascombe to hold him in position with a hand well placed, now on the back of his neck, pressing his torso from the waist up into the soft green velvet of the sofa. Bobby wriggled a hand between Dave’s chest and the cushions and attached the free hooks at the other ends of the filaments to the fabric effectively tethering the thrashing prisoner by twin five-inch leashes to his squatting position bent over the sofa. Dave couldn’t rise without ripping the hooks from his pierced nipples.

It was a simple matter to re-position the terrified prisoner’s wrists, fastened now by thick strands of rope on either side of his quivering thighs. Dave’s broad, calloused hands flopped uselessly just below the creamy swell of jutting, lightly parted buttocks awaiting the command to spread them wide. The stretcher bar was left in place, attached to his ankles, as the tall buck squatted before the sofa, bent over at the waist, shifting uncomfortably against the hooked tethers that kept him from rising. The bar kept his heavily muscled thighs spread affording Bobby and Hascombe an unobstructed rear view of Dave’s dangling cock and pendulous, swinging balls. The two satisfied partners stood back and admired their work. Dave was bound, helpless and humiliated, in the ultimate submissive position, utterly unable to resist Bobby’s threatened invasion of his manly ass.

‘Say, Brent, keep an eye on things for a minute, ok? I need to get some stuff out of my car.’ Hascombe nodded happy approval and Bobby exited for a few minutes but soon returned hefting a couple of cardboard boxes. Dave’s head, laid flat on the green sofa cushion, twisted sideways in order to get a better view of what might be heading his way. Bobby sliced open the boxes with a pocket knife, removing a portable generator and several cords along with a pronged metal rod attached to a trigger mechanism and a strange device that looked something like an enormous, wired dildo. ‘Pleasure and…pain…pleasure and…pain,’ he muttered the words dreamily, like a mantra, fiddling all the while with tangled wire. Finally, everything seemed to be in order and Bobby leaned forward and grasped the big stud’s cock dangling helplessly between spread thighs. ‘Dave, you’ve had a hell of a day and probably wish that it was over. Well, boy, as Janis Joplin once said, ‘Tomorrow never comes, it’s all the same fucking day,’ and, with that, provoked a surprised yelp from the trussed up construction worker as a large alligator clamp was fastened to the sensitive shaft of his penis, just below the head. ‘Please,’ Dave mouthed the inarticulate whisper into the green cushion so no one would hear, ‘don’t do this, not this…’ and another clamp was attached to his ball sack, right between the firm, slippery nuts, pushing them slightly apart. Bobby hissed his satisfaction and lightly toyed with the incandescent blond hairs dusting Dave’s scrotum, running his finger along the seam to the first tentative cleft of his half-spread ass. Dave winced, as much from confused embarrassment as from pain. Other clamps were attached to his toes and, finally, to the damp hair in the musty recess of sweat soaked armpits. ‘Boy, you look like the DC Christmas tree on the White House lawn,’ Bobby chirped…and threw a switch on the generator. An electric charge jumped from the clamps attached to Dave’s toes and his thighs jacked six inches wider as the shock coursed like raging fire along the nerve synapses of squatting legs. ‘Not bad!!!’ Bobby shouted and threw another switch. Dave’s armpits registered a sudden outpouring of molten lead, dribbling in flaming sheets down his ribcage and pooling in his groin. He jerked five inches upright, but was stopped by the hooks that threatened to rip through the bloody nubs of tender nipples, ass jutting in stupefied surprise straight toward the delighted spectators. ‘Fuck!!!’ Bobby shouted, turning toward the beaming banker, ‘This is fun! Let’s try another one, but maybe a little more juice this time,’ and threw a third switch. Dave’s big balls jumped in horror as an invisible sledge hammer slammed between them and raced straight up his solar plexus trailing a burning tail of mixed nausea and tingling agony that seemed to explode through the pores of his thrashing torso. He screamed a heartfelt wish that begged for release even if it meant death; anything at all to quench the spreading fire.

Dave McGuiness, former marine, present grunt on a downtown construction site, blond heart throb, dutiful son and lover of a girl named Cathy lay, bent over and panting, on the sweat soaked velvet cushion of the banker’s living room sofa. He wished he was dead. Everything he had endured in that endless day (tomorrow never comes…) paled in comparison to the frantic agony of Bobby’s pyrotechnics. The insatiable, yet strangely patient, nerd continued to toy with various switches, his touch feather-light, and Dave’s long body jerked as random shocks animated twitching muscles with a ‘low-cal’ version of the full blown treatment. ‘What do you think, Dave?’ Bobby’s voice was low and full of mock concern. ‘Ready to pop that special question? Just spread those cheeks and say the word, boy…’ ‘Go to hell,’ Dave said, but his voice lacked conviction. He wanted to die but, instead, merely wept into the taunting softness of the green sofa. ‘See what I mean, Bobby?’ Hascombe interrupted. ‘This big son of a bitch has a core of pure steel. He’s like a wild horse; a raging bull… Not so easy to break, so don’t blame me or my methods.’ He wielded the three-foot prod and jabbed the pronged end into the massed muscle of Dave’s taut ass. Taking a deep breath, Hascomb pulled the trigger. The exhausted stud shot forward under the surging impact into the back of the sofa with a force that would have snapped a lesser man’s neck. Dave sobbed in desperation, humiliated beyond endurance and nearly mouthed the fateful words: Yeah, fuck me and get it over with. Don’t care anymore. Got nothing left to lose… Instead, he bit his tongue and bright blood pooled on the green velvet already streaked by pierced nipples. Hascombe scowled, an angry smirk on his pasty face, but his young friend seemed thoughtful. ‘Patience, Brent,’ stroking the demoralized buck’s broad back with one hand, fondling his balls with the other. A thoughtful look glazed Bobby’s black eyes and he blinked slowly. ‘A raging bull, you say?’ His mouth quirked with slow inspiration and he turned from the prod in Hascombe’s shaking hand to the oddly shaped dildo. ‘You know,’ Bobby’s voice still had that dreamy quality and Dave shivered, testing his bonds for the thousandth time, ‘that gives me an idea.’

CONTINUE THE STORY:PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

Dave finally meets Bobby and Bobby takes in every detail of Dave’s captive body.

24 Hours – Chapter 16: A Casual Exploration
by Amalaric
Series: 24 Hours

Dave’s rounded biceps flexed nervously as Bobby thoughtfully squeezed and he winced as the deep recess of damp hairy armpits endured the sharp probe of eager fingers. The buck’s broad chest rose and fell rapidly as coursing adrenaline screamed its defiance at the ticklish tracing of defined pecs. The master playfully flicked the erect nub of his captive’s left nipple with a practiced forefinger and sighed with approval. Fine, nearly invisible gold hairs dusting the stud’s naked torso pricked in anticipation as a pudgy hand stroked him like a dog. Heading due south at a leisurely pace, the smooth corrugation of Dave’s unyielding solar plexus was roughly kneaded as if testing its suitability for a rapid series of gut punches. All in good time, Bobby thought, his creative mind working through a dozen possibilities. Dave shook his head in ritual denial, blue eyes screwed shut, as the hand descended, following the well-marked treasure trail spilling from his deep navel, to the forest of dark gold hair at his groin. Bobby wandered there for a while dancing deliriously in the wiry bracken like a camp extra in the ‘Sound of Music’. He giggled, savoring the analogy, and hummed a few incoherent lines from one of the famous tunes: Kittens with whiskers…brown paper wrappings…oh! These are the things… Testing the frantic pulse of the horrified stud’s femoral artery, marveling at the pounding tide produced by mixed fear and rage, Bobby reveled in his dominance and, grasping the other man’s narrow hips with both hands, seemed to contradict it all by squatting, almost on his knees, before the towering form of his sweating captive.

Dave’s wary penis wasn’t about to be fooled again. Muscular legs jerked against the stretcher bar in reflexive anxiety as Bobby ran his fingernail up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, pausing to pick lightly at the tacky scab formed over the branded ‘H’, but unerringly toward the stripped-down buck’s dangling cock and balls. Hascombe watched, breathless, squirming in the comfortable depths of the easy chair, his own cock running a slick stream of precum into the sticky confines of the sodden silk thong beneath his polyester trousers. The captive construction worker submitted because he had no choice, knotted muscles of calves and thighs straining, frantic to close the gap forced by the iron bar, bound wrists chaffed and bloody, twisting against the rope. A damp hand closed around his slack scrotum, clammy-hot as it swung freely in the air, and his large balls were carefully fingered and squeezed- gently at first then with increasing pressure. Dave voiced a silent plea, Oh shit, please! This can’t be happening!! He thought, weirdly, of waking that morning and casually soaping up in the shower, handling himself without a thought…well, almost…just like any other day; nothing special, nothing unusual. Stepping out onto a terry cloth mat, drying off and pulling on his clothes, locking the door behind him as he left for work just like any other day. This day!!!! Dave’s desperate gaze was riveted, now, on the humiliating procedure; staring down at the hunched shoulders and greasy black hair of his handler, horrified by the sight of his manhood groped, fondled then held slack, like a votive offering, in the other man’s pudgy palm. Bobby sighed and let Dave’s testicles drop, swinging back and forth between spread legs. He paused for a few seconds as if considering and reached for the stud’s scandalized dick. ‘You got quite the tool, boy!’ Bobby’s admiration was unfeigned. ‘Hey, what’s your name?’ He looked up and met the buck’s perplexed gaze, a bright smile plastered on his flushed face. Dave’s blond eyebrows arched quizzically and he shook his head in disbelief. The casual question un-nerved him, somehow making the invasive exam far more personal, deepening a nearly overwhelming sense of vulnerable shame. Bobby paused, lightly gripping the root of the captive’s thick cock between thumb and forefinger, then, bored by the surprised silence, gave his captive’s dangling nuts a hard thump. ‘Answer me, boy!’ Not a request, but a command. ‘My name’s Dave McGuiness,’ he mumbled the words reluctantly as if sacrificing some precious, secret knowledge; an unwilling gift of power to the calculated cruelty of the other man. Skilled fingers pinched and probed the sensitive head of Dave’s warm dick, teasing a response as frictive pressure caressed flared rims and tickled the inner shaft. The naked stud kept no secrets as Bobby played with his cock like a kid born on Christmas Day and he nearly screamed when Bobby’s wet mouth opened, shark-like, and, gripping the length of his penis, seemed to swallow it whole.

Dave’s battered mind staggered backward as impossible sensations coursed upwards from his groin. The sickening familiarity of the act only served to augment his shock; skittering sideways to Cathy’s delicate mouth, first kissing his unzipped cock to pulsing eagerness then sliding forward to engulf him, busy tongue coaxing slowly toward explosive ecstasy. It was a rare treat, shared on special lazy or hurried occasions, usually parked in some secluded spot in the front seat of the car. On those odd, wonderful excursions Dave reveled in the passive role allowing his woman to fumble his pants open, dig deep in the soft confines of warm cotton briefs and handle his hot manhood as she saw fit. He trusted her and would lay back, shirt unbuttoned to a cool breeze on his naked torso, as she worked her magic below his unbuckled belt. He frantically tried to banish these thoughts now, terrified of desecration and wary of his dumb manhood’s propensity for casual betrayal, as Bobby sucked noisily up and down the stiffening shaft of his spit-slick cock. Dave’s fears, however, were, in this case, unfounded. The portly geek managed a skillful blowjob, dexterous tongue probably more talented, even, than Cathy’s and it was true that the big stud’s flaccid cock packed some mighty potential; thickening noticeably in the hungry confines of Bobby’s ravenous mouth, but then it stalled, now wiser by far than it had been mere hours ago. No, Dave’s beleaguered dick wouldn’t be fooled again. Bobby enjoyed himself anyway, completely unconcerned, perhaps even gratified, by the unfulfilled response. Straightforward sex was hardly his forté and this was really only a warm up; a casual exploration; a thoughtful exercise in subtle humiliation.

Bobby relished a last lingering slurp and rose to his feet, oddly relieved that the beaten stud could marshal some resistance at this late hour. He draped a comradely arm over Dave’s wide shoulder and leaned into his chest, breathing the pungent scent of manly sweat produced by good old-fashioned exertion but spiced with an underlying aroma of fear and desperate anger. No, Bobby would never, given the choice, settle for anything vanilla. He possessed far more exotic tastes and was almost grateful to the big, hulking buck for making it so easy to do what he did best. If Dave had liked having his cock rammed down a greasy nerd’s throat it would have spoiled everything. And so, that special time had come and Bobby shook with excited anticipation relishing each second as it ticked slowly by.
CONTINUE THE STORY:
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

As Bobby finally arrives, Roberta enjoys some alone time with the handsome captive. But she is soon shooed away as Hascombe and Bobby prepare to get down to business.

24 Hours – Chapter 15: The Futility of Resistance
by Amalaric
Series: 24 Hours

How do you feel, boy? All nice and comfy?’ Dave stared into his nemesis’ merry eyes and Hascombe’s racing heart nearly derailed at the depth of pathos and silent entreaty brimming in the deep blue gaze. He waited, patiently sizing up myriad details of the naked buck’s lush, masculine landscape, watching all the while as Dave’s mind grappled with its horrifying predicament. ‘Answer me, boy!’ Patience had its limits. ‘It hurts, man…’ the deep baritone trailed off, embarrassed by the absurdity of stating the obvious. The sense of incongruity flattened to pointless paradox as Dave attempted to reason with his captor without, however, a shred of hope. He couldn’t help himself; it was in his nature. ‘Mr. Hascombe,’ he paused, tears welling in his beautiful eyes, willing himself not to drop his gaze. Damn! Should have said ‘sir’. ‘This isn’t right, what you’re doing to me…sir.’ His strong, generous mouth, suited to a heart-melting grin or firm line of concentration hammering dry wall gaped slightly open, sensuous lips lightly parted over even white teeth. Hascombe’s rigid dick screamed its outrage at the sight, impatiently demanding pent up release, wanting more than anything to ram its way home; all the way down the big stud’s throat. The banker frantically grabbed his crotch, massaging the twitching monster that held him in thrall as Dave watched, mesmerized by the pantomime. Deeply scandalized in spite of all that he had endured, the bound man dropped any pretense of reason, knowing full well what his captor wanted. He would die first. As expected, the gambit wasn’t long in coming, ‘I imagine right about now your muscles feel like a thousand hot, tiny fish hooks are slowly tearing their random way to God knows where, eh?’ Dave looked away, tears of unabashed agony streaming down his face, and shifted in the ropes. Hascombe reached out and grasped his slave’s cock, lightly massaging the velvety rims of the engorged head, and Dave shuddered as the dark (and desperately denied) energy of the rope buried deeply in his ass- all the while rubbing away at his clenched hole- channeled itself into an unwilling erection. Hascombe sighed appreciatively at the size of the stud’s bobbing hard-on, looking back and forth from his victim’s mortified blush to the stiff evidence of his unwilling shame. He stroked the long shaft with a pudgy finger and repeated his demand, ‘Tell me you’ll get down on your knees, boy, and open that big, beautiful mouth of yours…and all this will end; I’ll cut the ropes.’ ‘FUCK YOU!!!’ Dave screamed, just as the doorbell rang.

‘Must be your pudgy young fuck-friend, better let him in,’ Roberta stood, hands on rounded hips, glaring at her husband. Hascombe wrenched himself from the sight of Dave’s bobbing cock and abruptly turned away, mildly concerned at what his unpredictable spouse might do in his absence. He had good reason, and Roberta watched with a cat-like gaze of mischievous inscrutability as he reluctantly left and closed the door. She turned to the bound captive, fluttering heart ripped in a thousand directions by the sight of the tall, helpless man completely at her mercy. Dave’s cock was drooping but still half stiff; confused by the fading memory of the banker’s fondling. Roberta smiled and taunted the buck. Reaching out, she lightly fingered Dave’s sweat-drenched balls. Noting his stiff dick, she laughed and said, ‘I never would have pegged you for one of those fairy boys! So, you liked the feel of Brent’s hand on your big rod? I’m so disappointed. What would Cathy think if she knew?’ Dave wearily raised his head and locked a steely gaze on his diminutive mistress. Gathering tatters of shredded pride, he refuted the taunt in a wordless rebuke; narrowed eyes, set jaw, and firm mouth asserting a masculinity so profound that Roberta flinched then shuddered as an involuntary orgasm wracked her body. It’s been two damn weeks since I’ve been fucked!!! The hell with Brent’s silly games, she thought, I want this man inside of me…NOW. She stepped back, singed by the heat radiating from Dave’s naked body and, fumbling in the drawer of an exquisitely carved table, withdrew a knife and impulsively cut the rope attached to the hook in the ceiling. An agony that surpassed all others, except, perhaps, the branding, exploded in Dave’s body as the tension in nearly dislocated shoulders and arms abruptly relaxed. He shrieked, balanced precariously for a split second on one foot, and crashed sideways to the lacquered floor. Roberta, caught unaware by the captive’s reaction, knelt by his side and, alternately stroking the hard contours of the twitching muscles of his torso and fumbling with the maze of ropes, frantically sliced the hemp around the young stud’s tortured groin. She had one thing in mind and Dave’s packed balls were no use whatsoever constricted by a rough piece of twine. He lay on his side, panting with mixed relief and ebbing pain, face pressed to the cool surface of waxed wood and submitted in an odd, disassociated kind of way to the woman’s starved caresses, only groaning slightly as she levered him on to his back. Dave’s hands were still bound, but considering his release from the torment of Shibari, the slave dared to hope and his broad chest swelled as he inhaled the illusive wind of freedom. Part of his mind chattered a guilty accusation, remembering all that he had endured so far at the hands of the woman and her sadist husband, even as his body surrendered in stupid gratitude to the hypnotic stroking of nimble feminine fingers. If Roberta had cut the ropes binding Dave’s wrists he probably would have fucked her right there on the floor…before calling the cops…or snapping her neck. The delirium of release and unaccustomed tenderness wove a powerful spell and the buck responded, like an animal, unfettered cock throbbing its own ten inch rock hard hunger, glistening head slicked with lubricant. Saved for Cathy…saved for…

‘What the hell is going on in here!!?’ Hascombe stood in the doorway, shocked dismay working overtime on his flushed face. His wife flashed him a wicked smile and straddled the prone buck, grinding her pelvis against his electrified dick in a burlesque parody of sexual domination. ‘What does it look like, Brent?’ she purred, ‘I thought I’d take what you never offered…or never could. Poor little man.’ The banker, accustomed to deference, flinched at the insult then huffed with anger. Beginning with a sarcastic riposte, ‘Well, maybe not for you, baby, but…’ he paused, lost control, and rushed into the room. Roberta hissed and, rolling off of Dave, skittered like a delicate spider across the floor. Backing into a corner she crouched, all bristle and frustrated spite, suddenly-dark eyes flashing a lifetime of bored frustration and thwarted appetite. Hascombe advanced, anger unabated, and, turning his back on Dave, nearly made a fatal mistake. He stood before the crouching woman wrestling with, what to him, was the ultimate affront; his careful scenario lay in ruins. Fists clenched at his sides, he stood stiff as a marionette and sputtered, ‘How dare you?’ Roberta shrieked, mouth twisted to one side impossibly wide, brandishing the half empty bottle of Chablis like a loaded gun, ‘The boy belongs to me too, you selfish bastard!!! You’ve been having all the fun, you always have all the fun…you…’ she trailed off, took a deep breath, and spit the acid of self-pity straight into her uncaring husband’s face, ‘I HAVEN’T BEEN FUCKED IN TWO WEEKS, BRENT!!!!!!!’

Dave snapped out of his sexual trance as soon as the banker entered the room. The last few seconds of Roberta’s slow grind rubbed against a cock gone soft with renewed terror. He watched with amazement as his two adversaries squared off, head twisted sideways, quick mind working frantically, looking for any advantage in the unexpected splitting of the ranks. The seconds ticked slowly by, for once stacked in the young stud’s favor as he sidled toward the discarded knife on the floor. ‘Ah, shit, please, please! If I can only get my hands free,’ Dave felt a delicious rush of fresh adrenaline and jerked sideways, eyes riveted on his captors at the far end of the room, reaching for the knife…and was blinded by explosive pain as the metal-shod toe of a booted foot landed on his rib cage. The force of the kick flipped him over on his belly and the boot planted itself triumphantly on the high rise of his naked ass pinning him to the floor. ‘Hey! Look what we got here!’ Bobby chortled, ‘Seems like your boy’s still got a lot of spirit left in him Brent. He was all set on staging a get-away while you two love birds had it out.’ The burly computer geek grinned slyly, winked, and added, ‘Hi Roberta! How’s life been treating you lately?’

+++

Roberta disappeared, sulking in one of her hideaway rooms in the labyrinthine house. Bobby disgusted her and, outnumbered now, she retreated to consider a more creative strategy. The little lady was down but not out. Dave was left alone with the ‘boys’ and the return of sickening fear was only tempered by the depthless measure of his rage as he considered how close he had come to escape. Despite the inevitable outcome, with hands still tightly bound behind his back, the agile buck put up a good fight. Swearing as only a former marine could, Dave twisted away from his captors, kicking out with bare feet as he was wrestled into position by the two panting men and finally subdued with sharp blows of the billy club on chest and abs. He stood once again, breathless, head bowed in pain and bitter resignation expecting a resumption of the Shibari bondage. The sight of the leering newcomer terrified Dave and, delving deep into instincts honed by ten agonized hours, he sensed that Hascombe was a mere acolyte in the presence of the stocky younger man. Bobby sucked up the stud’s anxiety like a rare elixir, marveling at his long-deferred thirst; delirious with joy, he intended to drink deeply.

For the banker, Shibari had lost its charm and Dave was hustled from the tea room back toward the center of the house; goaded along by a rain of blows from a leather strap. Hascombe let out a whoop as he drove the stud before him at a brisk trot, strap cracking in his clenched hand, snapping off the knotted muscles of the buck’s exposed back and buttocks. His tall victim jogged ahead, bone weary but at the same time galvanized by sick anxiety, under no illusion that fresh pain and deeper humiliation awaited him. Finally, he was ordered to halt and stood shaking, breath ragged in pumping lungs. His tawny head bowed in submission, Dave stoically waited for the next phase of his torment. Resistance was futile, but he had fought anyway- at many points in the ten hour descent into hell- and the piper always demanded a steeper price for each infraction. This time would be no exception and, besides, there was always Hascombe’s unfulfilled demand to be considered. The ex-soldier had his pride; he would die before dropping to his knees before the master’s loathsome cock.

Hascombe sat back in an easy chair, fresh drink balanced in one hand, tapping a small whip on his knee. He gloated with a combination of proprietary ownership and satiated voyeurism observing Bobby’s first leisurely examination of the captive stud. The ‘center of attention’ was a sight to behold. Dave stood in the middle of the spacious room, freshly manacled with arms raised and hands clenched behind his handsome head, ankles cuffed in similar fashion and legs lightly spread by a stretcher bar. Stripped completely naked, the tall blond construction worker resembled a tragic god impossibly restrained, about to suffer horrendous consequences; not because of any crime, but as payment rendered for unreasoning beauty and effortless nobility. Bobby savored every detail and marveled at the similarity between his and Hascombe’s taste in men. He, of course, had seen it all before but this one was a rare catch and ranked among the finest. His mind whirred with a thousand possibilities, devising complex games and scenarios as trembling hands examined the ‘goods’. Dave stood impassive, grinding his teeth in dull humiliation. He had been through this before and mentally compared the various gropes of three sets of hungry hands as the naked muscles of his young body were thoroughly explored by yet another curious tourist. Curious, yes, but also experienced. Dave noted, in a way he would have been horrified to put into words, the subtle difference between Hascombe’s and Bobby’s probing; the one hasty, frantic, eager in a dizzy, drunken sort of way, while Bobby’s touch was far more disturbing. The dark-haired, burly young geek communicated a focused lust so intense that it sizzled on the silky skin beneath his roving fingers. It didn’t help that Bobby was Dave’s peer, nearly his age, vastly augmenting the sense of violated shame that the confident, macho construction worker felt. Hascombe was bad enough, but the rich, faintly effeminate banker seemed like the inhabitant of another universe and that ‘otherness’ somehow helped as Dave endured his scrutiny. Roberta, though a wicked, dangerous bitch, was at least a woman. Her frazzled heterosexuality was horrifying but comprehensible. And then there was this new guy- what was his name? Bobby??- someone he might have passed on the street or nodded to in the supermarket, both fully clothed, freely pursuing various pastimes and (ok, let’s face it) gently patronized or even pitied by a guy like Dave. He was suddenly conscious as never before of his lithe musculature, six foot three inch frame and casual, self-assured masculinity. Worse was the realization that the other man understood everything but in inverse proportion; Bobby was the master perusing a naked buck, bound and helpless, and pity was not part of his vocabulary.

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