You're fucked, asshole

Posted on 29 February 2012

Because Vagabondage was looking for it, and I'm not sure where I got it from. Info on who wrote it would be appreciated, so I can properly attribute it!!

ST. LOUIS, MO. My partner and I met in Chicago because I saw him ask for a copy of Bound & Gagged. I was fascinated with bondage but never had the nerve to connect with anyone. I was so excited to see a beautiful, virile man from home with my interest that I had the guts to meet him. It turned out that underneath the clean-cut exterior is the body of a god and the imagination of a demon. I've put both to good use.

Sometimes our sessions are as simple as an ambush settled with rope and socks, others are as complicated as our relationship and involve lots of equipment and ingenuity. I thought I'd tell you about one of the most complicated ones.

We usually meet at Greg's place. He's rehabbed an old commercial building near downtown, an area usually deserted at night. The first floor houses his office and the second his loft. The third and forth haven't been remodeled: we use the third for a gym and the fourth is still a big, empty industrial space, with rough wooden floors and beams and thick brick walls. The sense of isolation and aloneness is terrific.

Our relationship isn't settled: we both like all aspects of a bondage relationship and we fight for position. In our formal sessions over the past two years we've developed complex and careful game rules and regulations. Greg is a perfectionist who'll plan and experiment secretly for months to make certain things go as he wants. I can get sloppy when things get hot, but not Greg: everything looks like he imagined, never a rope or chain out of place. Equipment fits exactly and does just what he wants. I've had to hold still for measurements most men never dream they have, never knowing how he'll use them against me.

Greg has a fetish for subjecting me to a kind of remote-control torment. He likes the thought of me alone and helpless, as some diabolical plan of his is carried out on my body by his weird "machines." As an engineer he's very good at this, and adapts all kinds of innocent things to torment me (toy and hardware stores are now erotic places to me). I've spent many an hour stretched taut as strange clockwork or battery-powered devices do unspeakable things to me.

Sometimes he's there to observe his handiwork, others he leaves altogether, to enjoy the thought of me fighting hopelessly against gadgets that won't stop until they've carried out his wishes mercilessly. Often he sets up videocams and all I have for company are the red recording lights, observing my torment emotionlessly. Greg may be watching on monitors in his quarters or only VCRs may be watching, recording for his pleasure later. He has walked to a local bar with a walkie-talkie fed to an earplug. As I was fighting to beg into a microphone fastened inches from my sealed lips, he was calmly enjoying a beer with rednecks, listening to my struggles and telling anyone who asked what game he was listening to, "My own, and I'm winning."

This night I reported to Greg at nine. He had won the last session and was top this night, which means he has to wear a special piece of gear we've perfected together. It's too complicated to describe here, but it's a small, effective chastity belt, which locks the cock into a small, flexible metal basket, sealed in turn under a leather jock. Locked with small padlocks, it makes an erection agony and doing anything with it impossible. The key becomes the bottom's property and its possession is the object of the game. If the top forces the bottom to give them up, he stays in control. If the bottom resists, or gets the top so hot he begs for the key for release, he gains the top position next time. It keeps things interesting.

Tonight I strip Greg down and lock him up to my satisfaction, while he stands at attention, feet spread and arms held high. I take time to enjoy my work, hands lingering over the job, hoping to make things painful for him and enjoying the only control I'll have this evening. Then he goes upstairs, so I can hide the key (in a beer can in the trash). Then my ass is his.

When he comes down he's looking hot and dangerous in tight black shirt, jeans and boots, the basket bulging clearly under the fly. In a second I'm slammed against the wall, hands braced overhead, feet forced far apart by the booted legs. He moves in close and I feel the muscles of his thighs flexing against mine under our jeans. He gives me a slow, thorough body search with loving hands through my clothes (I've been known to hide keys in interesting places). The bastard is showing off his control.

When he's satisfied, I'm stripped to the waist and blindfolded. My arms are forced behind me and I ;earn it's to be a leather evening as leather cuffs are strapped to my wrists. These must be new: very heavy and wide, they seem to be padded and reinforced. They wrap firmly around and are complex to fasten, involving several straps and buckles. An even larger pair is strapped onto my arms, fitting into the natural crook of my biceps. A heavy leather collar follows quickly, and when I jerk in surprise I find the top edge is lined with teeth, which bite into my neck when I move. This is fastened by a belt threaded all the way around, buckled under my chin. Next comes a massive belt around my waist., which feels four inches wide and jingles softly with hardware. It's complex to fasten too, involving a series of buckles in front, just above my fly.

When it's time to fasten all this I hear the clink of chains. Rings on the wrist cuffs are locked together behind my back. This is fastened to a length of chain, which is fed through a D-ring in the belt and then stretched along my spine, to be fastened to a ring in the back of my collar. My hands are now tightly bound, held close to the small of my back, and any struggle passes through the chain and pulls at my neck. My elbows are thrust out, but in a moment another chain joins the straps on my biceps behind my back. When a lock joins the two chains where they cross at the center of my back, my hands and arms are held tight and helpless.

I guess what's coming next. Greg has custom-made a gag that has to be experienced to be believed. A giant block rubber cock, shaped and veined like the real thing, is fastened to an oversized face plate, which is stiffened and molded to fit my face over my cheeks. I brace myself, but it's always a shock as my jaws are forced wide and the cock thrust between my lips and deep into my mouth, filling it completely and pressing my tongue down firmly. The wide straps fasten at the back of my neck with double buckles, and as they are cinched tight, my face is pressed tightly into the front plate, which is padded and completely seals my spread lips. It's the most effective gag I've ever experienced, and the only sound I can make is a grunt deep in my throat. Even that is mostly muffled by the face plate.

My jeans are peeled down, and wearing only leather and chain I feel Greg kneel before me. I flinch as the cock ring is buckled on. Then I fight to control myself as what feels like a heavy mesh cock sheath or jewel case is fitted over my cock. It feels like it's made of small leather straps, joined by studs. A ball cage made of the same mesh comes next, squeezing tight and locked on by a medium-sized ball stretcher. A ball spreader separates them and wedges them more tightly into the mesh bag. A series of clicks and the whole thing is locked together, confining and uncomfortable where the studs bite into tender flesh, but it seems a breeze to me. I've been locked in worse.

Then something new: I feel prickly metal spurs, or large burrs, being forced under my bound arms into my armpits. A strap runs through these, and the ends are brought over the front and back of my shoulders and fastened tightly to the sides of the collar, pulling the burrs firmly into my armpits, and making them shift and catch when I move my head or arms. They aren't exactly painful, but on the uncomfortable side of ticklish.

A pause and then Greg hooks off the blindfold, and when I'm used to the light I see him leaning casually against the far wall, with a half-smile on his face, and his favorite crop in his hand. I know to keep my eyes on his as he enjoys the sight of me, stripped, bound and humiliated. I risk a glimpse down and see that the straps on my arms are deep black and strongly reinforced. What I can see of the cock cage turns me on despite myself. Through the open mesh of black leather I see flesh straining at its bondage, and suddenly I'm introduced to the discipline of the device. The straps give my swelling cock no place to go, and the bite of the studs around both cock and balls quickly gets serious. More, the swelling, tender head is forced into a cap lined with serious studs, and I instinctively flex my knees and bite down on the gag. Greg smiles with amusement.

A flick of the crop sends me stumbling on the embarrassing trip through his loft and up the echoing concrete staircase, arms straining and walking awkwardly bowlegged to avoid painful jolts to my privates, dangling heavily in their cage. Up past the abandoned third floor to the fourth floor landing, where hanging beside the closed door is another familiar piece of equipment: a leather hood. As heavy-duty as everything else, it's made of heavy outer leather with a layer of padding between it and the glove leather lining. There are eye slits, now covered by a leather strap, and a nose opening, but where the mouth should be is smooth, unbroken leather. It fits me tightly, and as I'm laced in, I feel it sealing the tight gag even tighter, and forcing my chin up, jamming my teeth and tongue into the soft rubber cock. A zippered flap covers the lacing, and is in turn locked to the hood's own collar. I feel Greg lacing a thin chain through loops in both the hood collar and the larger collar already fastened on me, locking the two together. I'm blind, mouth stuffed tight, lips sealed over, and my entire head encased in layers of tight leather. Sound comes to me dimly, and as Greg unlocks the door and shoves me in, I could give a last scream with all my might and not be heard at the foot of the stairs.

Inside things happen fast. Toward the center of the empty space I run into a bench, covered with leather and about navel height. Forced to bend over it, I find it's very small: my neck and head hang over the top, ass and dick dangle over the bottom. It's also narrow, and my bound arms and sides of my chest extend over the sides. Very solid and attached firmly to the floor, I'm lying on it from my pecs to my abdomen.

In moments I'm fastened tightly down. Heavy straps run under my arms and over my back, fastening to the bench beneath me. Another strap is fed through rings on the cuffs binding my biceps, and pulled tight beneath the bench, drawing my arms forward and pulling my wrists tight.

So far my legs have been free, resting on the floor. Now two more of the incredibly heavy cuffs are being strapped on my ankles. I fight a little as Greg drags my legs apart, but the effort is laughable and with a click both ankles are chained to the floor, spread wide behind me. Next my legs are buckled into restraints, and these are incredibly heavy too: they must be eight inches wide, and circle my legs from the bottom of my thighs to my knees. They take four buckles each to close! Chains are fastened to the front of these and pulled taut to the floor under my chest. Bending my knees until my ankles are pulled tight, I'm now in a kind of crouching position over the bench, which is supporting my weight. Feet barely touch the floor, head dangles free until the teeth of the collar bite, ass stretched and exposed, cock and balls hang down toward the floor. Two more straps are pulled up over the front of the bench and each of my shoulders, like suspenders. But they're passed separately down the sides of my back, pulled under my forearms, and instead of fastening to the belt at my waist, they're pulled tight between the cheeks of my ass, passing down past each side of my cock's root and buckled to each side of the bench. Jerked taut, they prevent any movement up and down the bench, and force my ass cheeks wide apart. I quickly realize the surfaces touching this tender area are studded.

More to come: a chain is locked to the collar beneath my chin, pulled straight down and fastened to the floor. This makes my head almost immobile, but keeps the collar from biting into my neck. Strong clamps are clipped to each nipple, and the chain connecting them fastened under the bench and attached to a weight, which swings freely and sends electric sensations through my stiff nipples.

Gently something is fastened to the straps that hold my balls in thrall, and drawn forward until my balls are pulled taut from my body. I do what protesting I can through the gag and hood, but Greg is concentrating, making tiny adjustments and working so closely I feel his warm breath on my tender flesh, causing painful stirrings inside the cock sheath.

I sense he's finished, and is simply admiring his work, running a hand over my exposed flank like a rancher admiring his tied bull. After a moment the strap that covers the eye slits is pulled away, and I see Greg crouching on his haunches in front of me. He moves in close and cups my leathered chin in his hand, pulling it forward until our eyes are inches apart, his blue and amused, mine nearly invisible in the hood. I'd think he was going to kiss me if he didn't have my lips strained around a rubber cock and sealed beneath several layers of leather. He smiles and whispers his only words of the evening: "You're fucked, asshole."

He disappears behind me, and I strain to hear him bolt the door and his boots descend the stairs: down, down, down, gone I take a while to test the situation. My assessment is that even if I was unlocked from the floor the sheer weight of the leather and chains strapped to me would keep me harmless. I feel the air on my exposed asshole, but what I need to scratch that itch is locked in a cage of its own, and probably on its way out for a drink with the boys.

The area is dimly lit, and I strain to see what I can through the hood's eyeslits. I can glimpse an ankle and a knee on both sides. The chains are as huge and oversized as the cuffs: what kind of struggle is he expecting, anyway? Until the collar stops me, I can bend to look under myself and the bench to glimpse my poor cock, aching in its cage, balls pulled tight in their sack by a cord which runs to a ring in the floor, then doubles back to disappear behind me. I can't move an inch.

I have plenty of time to contemplate the weirdness of this. I am stripped, bound, silenced and spread in this obscene position, so a man who loves me can enjoy my abasement and torment. I am angry, humiliated and hurting, and my cock is as hard as granite, burrowing into the painful nest of studs placed to receive it. The burrs are digging into my armpits, clamps punishing my nipples, studs tormenting my ass and balls, and all I can do is suck on the rubber cock stuffing my mouth and dream of revenge, listening to the leather strain and squeak.

Then another sound penetrates the hood: the trickle of water. I know this means trouble, so I strain to survey the room, digging the burrs into my armpits and the collar into my neck for my trouble. But I locate the sound: about 20 feet in front of me, a five gallon bucket is hanging from a pulley in the ceiling. The rope holding it passes through guides attached to the ceiling over my body, and disappears as well. I can barely make out the tiny stream of water falling from a hose in the ceiling into the bucket. A chart on the wall behind the bucket marks off stages of the coming descent: two bright red Xs mark the points I can expect something painful to happen, telling not what but when. The bucket is descending slowly, and the first X is about two feet down.

It takes a long time, and when the bucket reaches the first X I am sweating and tense. Greg has measured exactly, and when they meet I feel the jolt of an object pressing against the lips of my ass. His careful aim scored a bullseye. I squirmed and fought, trying to resist the invader with my sphincter muscles, but as the bucket filled, the ropes and pulleys somehow transmitted the weight to whatever was trying to fuck me. It felt like a damn baseball bat! It was vibrating a little, as if eager to get on with it, and all at once the pressure was too much and my ass swallowed the head of the thing.

It was just the beginning. As the bucket continued inexorably down, head after head along the shaft of this bastard roughly spread my asshole and penetrated. I actually was forced to work to accommodate this mindless rapist, straining against the leather that held my ass and balls, to work the shaft into my ass without it tearing me apart. Sweat is running down my eyes, pouring off my back, running down the crack of my ass to meet the thing boring into my ass. Each convulsive jerk I gave, trying mindlessly to free myself from the attentions of this monster, strained my legs and shoulders, dug the studs in the strap into my ass, twisted the burrs in my sopping armpits, and damn near pulled my balls off. But I couldn't help myself. Greg loves this point, when I lose control. I've spent several evenings tied to chairs while he shows tapes of his greatest hits, pointing out the exact moment I lost control and he conquered. I jerked, fought, and sweated uselessly, screaming soundlessly into the gag, helpless and foolish.

I thought I would lose my mind. My ass was ravaged and still the thing came on, each head seeming larger and rougher than the last. About the time I thought the artificial cock ramming its way up my ass was going to meet the artificial cock rammed down my throat, the bucket reached the second X and phase two began. The base of the rapist reached my ass and started to press against me. My ass lips were spread wider than ever-there was no last narrow neck on the shaft to give me relief. All across the cheeks of my ass something was pressing in, as though the mechanical rapist had hips like a man. It wasn't smooth, but covered with what felt like very stiff, wiry hair: the rapist has a bush too, and the whole weight of the bucket is pressing it into me.

I know what's coming before my ass lights up like a switchboard: the "hair" is copper wool, wired for my pleasure. If I wasn't gagged by a pro, they would hear the scream across the block. The tender lips of my gaping ass have been given particularly close attention, and are going off like fireworks. The more I fight, the more the sweat pours down me and the worse the jolts get. Now my cock and balls light up, the studs in the leather mesh electrified as well. The voltage travels randomly; now in my ass, now my balls, now making the head of my cock feel like it's plugged into a cigarette lighter. Now everything lights up at once, making me nearly bite off the cock in my mouth, until there is a sudden respite, leaving me limp and moaning as the breath whistles through my nose and I brace myself for the next shock. Bound, furious, fucked and electrified, I scream and scream, never making a sound.

I have no concept of how long this lasts when I notice Greg in front of me, calm and unhurried. He remains a sightseer for a while, then crouches and gently cups my tortured balls in his warm hand. "Think how wonderful it would feel to be out of all this," he whispers. "Anything you want to tell me?" I want to kill him, but I waggle my head frantically. I'll do anything to stop it-take out the gag and I'll promise anything; plead, beg, debase myself. Not his plan, though. We begin a long, tortured game of bigger-than-a-breadbox, him asking questions about the hidden key, me nodding yes or no and trying uselessly to make him understand the words "beer can". "Is it above the kitchen counter or below?" "Inside a cabinet or out?" If I hesitate, hoping to make him take out the gag, he walks away and lets his machine torture me alone for a while, then comes back and says "Ready to talk now?" Let me, you bastard.

I thought it would take all night, but at last he is before me, key in hand, stripping off his clothes and uncovering the chiseled chest, tight beautiful ass, muscled legs. He unlocks the chastity belt carefully, and the beautiful cock springs free at last. Sauntering to the wall, he unhooks the bucket from the rope and sets it down, easing the terrible pressure on my ass. Stepping behind me, he does something that stops the electrical current, and thankyou god, slowly draws the rapist out of me, head by head, agony and ecstacy. I am crying with relief.

He is behind me, between my spread legs. He slowly lowers himself onto me, cushioning his cock and balls on my spread ass, chest weighing down my bound arms, powerful legs moving against mine. Stretching until his mouth is resting next to the side of my head, he says softly, "Make this good and you're a free man." Out of pure meanness he reaches down and picks up the leather jock where he let it drop. He positions the basket over the nose opening in the hood, and buckles the waistband behind my head. Every breath pulls in the deep, strong smell of his manhood.

Greg is an accomplished cocksman, and I did what I could to make it memorable for him. I wanted to see him, but the best I could do was bend down to watch the muscles in his legs working, flexing, straining. He worked me over long and hard, as long and hard as his fucking machine,but it was human flesh working against mine, real balls pressing into my ass. He came with a roar and a rush, feeling like he would blow my head off. He lay prone on top of me for a long time, relaxing and listening to me grunt and beg into the gag.

He pulled on his jeans and boots before me, lingering and teasing because he knew I wanted his body bad. I heard him cross and pick up the bucket, and in an incredible rush empty it over my back. After the shock it felt almost good, washing off the sweat, pouring down my ravaged ass, dripping cool from my tortured cock. I was concentrating on keeping the water out of my nose and dreaming of what it would be like to be free, and I didn't see him rehang the bucket on the rope, now high on the wall again.

He crouched before me once again, cool and detached except for the sweat gleaming on his chest. Again he bent close and took my chin in his hand. Looking me in the eye, he says quietly, "Not good enough." I hear him cross the floor and bolt the door behind him. After the sound of his boots on the stairs dies away, I'm alone with the sound of water, trickling into the bucket.

© 1997 The Outbound Press, Inc.

Related tags: anal, cbt, chastity, interrogation

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