Weekend Kidnap M/M (Chapter 4, Aug 19 2025)

[Gaybondage]

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My first story here, hope it entertains you.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION ALL PARTIES ARE OVER 18YRS OLD.
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Chapter 1

It’s Friday night, and the gym is quiet, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint clank of weights in the distance. You’re finishing your last set, sweat dripping down your face, when I spot you—perfect for what I’ve got planned. I’ve been watching you for weeks, timing your routine. You’re alone, the parking lot’s dark, and I’m ready.

I wait by your car, a black van parked close, engine idling. When you step out, keys in hand, I move fast. A thick arm wraps around your neck, my bicep crushing your throat in a chokehold. You thrash, but I’m stronger, dragging you backward.

“Don’t fucking scream,” I growl, my voice low and gravelly. My free hand clamps over your mouth, rough fingers digging into your jaw. You’re kicking, but I slam you against the van’s side, the metal cold against your back.

A quick zip-tie cinches your wrists tight, the plastic biting into your skin as I yank it hard. I shove a balled-up pair of my dirty gym socks—rank from a week’s worth of sweat—into your mouth, sealing it with strips of duct tape wrapped tight around your head. Your muffled protests are pathetic as I bind your ankles with more zip-ties, hogtying you on the van’s floor. The door slams shut, and we’re gone.

The drive’s short, but I take the long way, letting you stew in the dark, the van reeking of motor oil and my unwashed gear. We pull into my place—a rundown apartment on the edge of town, the kind of spot no one asks questions about.

The air inside is stale, thick with the smell of old beer cans, cigarette butts, and my unwashed sheets. I drag you out, your bound body scraping the floor, and haul you to a wooden chair in the center of the room.

I cut the zip-ties, but only to retie you properly.
I grab a coil of coarse rope from a duffel bag, the kind used for hauling cargo, rough and splintery. I force your arms behind the chair, looping the rope around your wrists, pulling it tight until your shoulders strain. Each knot is deliberate, cinching your forearms together, then anchoring them to the chair’s back.
Your chest gets bound next, ropes crisscrossing your pecs, digging into your skin as I yank them taut. Your ankles are spread, each tied to a chair leg with more rope, the coarse fibers scraping your skin raw. I add a steel cuff to one wrist, just for the weight, letting it clang against the wood.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I snarl, stepping back to admire my work. Your muffled grunts through the sock gag make my pulse quicken.

I rip the tape off, pulling the socks out only to replace them with my used underwear, still damp from my last workout. The taste of my sweat and musk fills your mouth as I slap fresh tape over it, wrapping it around your head twice.
“That’s better,” I mutter, grabbing your chin and spitting in your face. The glob lands on your cheek, dripping slow. I laugh, low and cruel, as I pinch your nose shut, cutting off your air. Your eyes widen, chest heaving against the ropes, but I hold tight for a good 30 seconds before letting go.
“Breathe when I say,” I growl.

The night’s just starting. I grab a leather paddle from my bag, the kind that stings like hell, and bring it down hard on your abs. The smack echoes in the room, your body jerking against the restraints. I hit again, harder, watching red welts bloom on your skin. “Look at you, tough guy,” I taunt, landing another blow. “Not so tough now.” I switch to my hands, pinching your nipples until you squirm.

I left you there for 2 hours in your ropes.

Then I untie you, unwrap the tape on your mouth and take out the soaked underwear. I flip you onto the floor, face down, and hogtie you again—this time with military-grade paracord, the kind that doesn’t give an inch. I loop it around your wrists and ankles, pulling your limbs back until your spine arches painfully. Your face is pressed into the grimy carpet, and I step on your back, my bare foot grinding into your spine. “Lick it,” I order, shoving my other foot under your nose. The smell’s rancid—sweat and dirt. When you hesitate, I grab your hair, yanking your head back, and spit into your open mouth before shoving my underwear back in.

By midnight, I’m bored of the floor. I drag you to a corner, cuffing your wrist to a radiator pipe. The metal’s cold, unyielding, and I leave you in a stress position—knees bent, arms stretched, body trembling. I tape one of my sneakers—ripe from months of gym sessions—over your face, the laces tied tight to keep it there. “Breathe deep,” I say, kicking your side lightly. I leave you like that for an hour, sipping a beer and watching you struggle.

[WhereAmI]

Drinking beer in front of your tied up, gagged, brow beaten, hungry wiggle worm hostagee.

[bondagefreak]

Brutal and vividly depicted, @Gaybondage
I wonder who the victim is and what the captor's motivations for kidnapping him are.
This seems to have been premeditated and planned ahead of time. Old acquaintances, or a stalking victim perhaps? Either way, interesting start.

* Only suggestion would be to correct the gender tagging. Small letters mean underage. Since this story is in the adult section, a lot of readers are going to skip this if they think the characters are teens.

[Gaybondage]

Brutal and vividly depicted, @Gaybondage
I wonder who the victim is and what the captor's motivations for kidnapping him are.
This seems to have been premeditated and planned ahead of time. Old acquaintances, or a stalking victim perhaps? Either way, interesting start.

* Only suggestion would be to correct the gender tagging. Small letters mean underage. Since this story is in the adult section, a lot of readers are going to skip this if they think the characters are teens.

Thanks man! Corrected the tag. Yes the details will come later

[ChairBoy]

Really liking the vibe of this story

[dwild]

Good start, looking forward to more.

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 2

It’s a humid summer night, and I’m slouched in a creaky chair in my messy apartment, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and my unwashed gym clothes. The glow of my laptop screen cuts through the dim light, casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

I’m scrolling through a dark corner of the internet—a private, invite-only forum, a hidden space where people like me, with twisted tastes, find others who share them. The forum’s raw, no bullshit: kidnappers looking for willing victims, victims craving the rush of surrender.

Then I see your post, a detailed list that makes my pulse quicken. You also want it rough, non-consensual in vibe, but consensual in reality, with a kidnapper who’ll push you to the edge. Your words are confident but raw, like you’ve been craving this for years, and I can almost feel your desperation through the screen.

I lean forward, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, and fire off a message: “Ian here. Saw your post. You sound like you can handle what I dish out. Tell me more—how far you wanna go, and what gets you shaking.”

You reply within hours, your message sharp and direct. You describe your fantasies in vivid detail: being snatched from a gym or street, bound with ropes and cuffs, gagged with a kidnapper’s sweaty gear, tortured with slaps, bites, and forced submission. You list your hard limits but everything else is fair game. You want the fear to feel real, the restraints inescapable, the degradation humiliating.

I’m hooked, my mind already spinning with ways to make you squirm. Our messages fly back and forth over days, each one hotter, more intense. We negotiate specifics, you pushing for tight hogties and stress positions, me adding creative twists like forced workouts or piss-soaked meals. You admit you’ve done lighter scenes but never this deep, and I promise to make it unforgettable, my words dripping with dominance: “You’ll be mine, prisoner. No escape, no mercy.” You respond with a single line: “Fuck, I’m ready.”

The connection grows fast, not just sexual but personal. You open up about your life—a corporate job, gym obsession, the itch for something darker you’ve never fully scratched. I share scraps of mine—ex-military, bouncing between odd jobs, living for the thrill of control. We trade banter, you teasing my “redneck” apartment, me mocking your “fancy” city life. There’s a spark, a trust forming through the raw honesty.

You send a shirtless gym selfie, your lean muscles glistening, and I reply with a shot of my arm, flexing, a rope dangling in the frame. “This’ll be around your wrists soon,” I write. You fire back: “Make it tight.” It’s electric, the anticipation building, our kinks aligning like puzzle pieces.

The night before, we message one last time. You’re jittery, excited, asking if I’m as brutal as I claim. I send a final tease: “You’ll be begging for air by midnight, prisoner. Sleep tight.” You reply with an emoji— a winking face—and I know we’re locked in, not just for the scene. I close my laptop, my pulse racing, already picturing you bound, helpless, mine.

[Gaybondage]

Glad you like it!

Good start, looking forward to more.

[Gaybondage]

Thanks, hope you like the rest of it too. Definitely more to come!

Really liking the vibe of this story

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 3

Saturday morning, I’m back. The apartment’s even stuffier now, the air heavy with my stench. I untie you, only to force you into a new setup. I spread-eagle you on my mattress, wrists and ankles bound to the bedframe with steel cuffs and more paracord. The mattress is lumpy, stained, and smells like me. I straddle your chest, my weight pinning you, and start biting—hard—along your neck and shoulders, leaving marks. “You’re mine,” I whisper, my breath hot against your ear. “Forever.”

Food’s next. I chew a mouthful of stale cereal, letting it mix with my spit, then spit it into a bowl. “Breakfast,” I say, holding it to your taped mouth after ripping the gag off. When you resist, I pinch your nose again, forcing you to open up, and pour the mess in. “Swallow, or I’ll make it worse.”

The day drags on with more—flogging your thighs with a belt, spanking your ass until it’s raw, forcing you to worship my armpits and crotch, your face buried in my unwashed skin. I tape your mouth shut again, this time with a strip of duct tape over a pair of my crusty briefs. By nightfall, I’ve got you back in the chair, ropes tighter than ever, a fresh round of abs hitting and face-slapping keeping you dazed. I lean in close, my voice a low growl. “You’re not leaving. Ever.”

...

It’s Saturday night, and the apartment’s air is thick, heavy with the stench of sweat, piss, and the lingering musk of my unwashed gear. You’re chained to the radiator, my rancid sneaker taped over your face, the laces knotted tight to keep it pressed against your nose.
Your body’s trembling from the stress position—knees bent, arms stretched high, the steel cuff biting into your wrist.

The flickering bulb overhead casts jagged shadows on the grimy walls, and I’m sprawled on the couch, a half-empty beer in hand, watching you struggle. Your muffled groans through the tape and my crusty briefs stuffed in your mouth make me grin. “Tired yet?” I taunt, kicking an empty bottle across the floor. “Too fucking bad. We’re just getting started.”

I get up, my boots thudding on the hardwood, and rip the sneaker off your face, tearing the tape with it. The briefs come out next, soaked with your spit and my stink. You gasp, but before you can speak, I grab a handful of your hair and yank your head back, spitting a thick glob right into your open mouth. “Swallow it,” I growl, pinching your nose shut until you do.

Your eyes are wide, panicked, but that just fuels me. I unchained you from the radiator, dragging you by the arm to the center of the room. Your legs are shaky, but I don’t care—I shove you face-down onto the filthy carpet, the fibers reeking of spilled beer and cigarette ash.

Time for a new tie. I grab a bundle of black paracord, military-grade, tough as hell, and start binding you. I force your wrists together behind your back, looping the cord tight, each wrap deliberate, pulling until the rope digs into your skin.

I cross your ankles next, tying them so tight your feet are pinned together, then run a line from your wrists to your ankles, hogtying you in a brutal arch. The cord’s so taut your shoulders and thighs strain, and I add a twist—wrapping more paracord around your biceps, pulling them together until your chest juts out.

For good measure, I grab a roll of duct tape and wrap it over the ropes, reinforcing the bind, the sticky adhesive catching on your skin. “Try moving now,” I sneer, stepping back to admire how the ropes cut into your flesh.

I kneel beside you, grabbing a pair of my dirty socks—stiff from days of sweat—and cram them into your mouth. The taste hits you hard, and I seal it with a strip of duct tape, wrapping it around your head three times, pulling it so tight it stretches your lips.

I stand up, planting my bare foot on your back, grinding my heel into your spine. “Sniff it hard,” I order, dragging my foot to your face, the calloused sole reeking of sweat and grime. When you hesitate, I slap your face, the sting echoing in the room, then force your nose into my toes, holding it there until you choke out a muffled whimper.

[WhereAmI]

Great ideas to use on a captured slave boi to keep him in line.

Great shorter chapters.

[jammer212]

Love all this stinky sock and foot action you've got going o

[owenlewisgrey]

Can't wait to see how it unfolds further!

[harveygasson]

Great stuff!

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 4

The night’s about pain now. I grab a leather flogger from my duffel, the tails heavy and worn. I start on your ass, each swing landing with a sharp crack, your body jerking against the ropes. Red welts bloom fast, and I don’t stop, moving to your thighs, then your back, each hit harder than the last.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” I growl, my voice a low, guttural rumble that echoes off the damp walls. I lean in, my stubbled jaw brushing close enough for you to feel the heat of my breath. Slowly, deliberately, I let a thick glob of spit fall from my lips, watching it land on your flushed cheek. It clings there, warm and slick, before sliding down in a humiliating trail. Your body tenses, but the ropes hold you fast, your toned muscles straining uselessly against the restraints.

I step back, my combat boots thudding heavily on the concrete, and crouch to meet your dark, defiant eyes. My calloused hand reaches out, gripping your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to mine. “Look at you,” I sneer, my thumb smearing the spit across your face, the texture of my rough skin scraping against your smooth face. “Squirming like a worm. You’re nothing.”

I release your chin and shift my attention lower, my hands moving with cruel precision to your already reddened ass, the skin raw from earlier blows. I draw back, delivering a sharp, deliberate spank, the crack of my palm against your flesh ringing out in the small room. The sting lingers, and I watch your body jolt, a muffled whimper escaping the dirty sock stuffed in your mouth.

My fingers trail up your torso, slow and teasing, brushing over the faint ridges of your abs, now slick with sweat. I pause at your chest, my rough hands finding your nipples. I pinch them hard, twisting slowly, savoring the way your body arches in agony, the ropes creaking as you writhe beneath me. Your muffled groans vibrate against the gag, and I smirk, leaning closer to let my hot breath graze your ear. “You like that, don’t you, slut?”

Rising, I swing one leg over your bound form, straddling your back, my full weight pressing you into the cold, hard floor. The coarse fabric of my uniform scrapes against your skin, and I can feel the heat radiating from your body beneath me. My broad shoulders block out the light as I lean down, my lips hovering over your shoulder.

Without warning, I sink my teeth into the tender flesh, hard enough to leave a constellation of marks, my tongue grazing the faint salt of your skin as I pull back. The bite is possessive, deliberate, and I linger there, letting you feel the sharp edge of my control. My voice drops to a whisper, low and menacing, as I press my lips close to your ear. “You’re mine forever, prisoner,” I hiss, my words curling around you like a chain. “No one’s coming for you. No one even knows you’re here.”

For food, your favorite arrangement. I chew up a stale protein bar, letting it mix with my spit, then spit it into a chipped bowl. I rip the tape off your mouth, pulling the socks out, and hold your jaw open, forcing the mess in. “Eat,” I snap, pinching your nose again to make you swallow. Then I grab a bottle I pissed in earlier—warm, acrid—and tilt your head back, pouring it slow. You gag, but I don’t let up, making sure every drop goes down. “Good boy,” I mock, slapping your face lightly.

By midnight, I’m not done. I untie the hogtie. I drag you to a metal chair, its frame rusted and cold. I spread your legs, tying each ankle to a chair leg with more paracord, the rope so tight it cuts into your skin. Your wrists get cuffed behind the chair with steel cuffs, the metal clicking shut with a heavy finality. I wrap duct tape around your chest, pinning you to the backrest, then add a rope around your neck, tying it to the chair so any movement chokes you.

I gag you again with the same pair of socks, now soaked in your saliva, and tape it in place. I step back, grabbing a belt, and start whipping your abs, each hit making your body jolt.

Without warning, I pinch your nose shut, my grip firm and unrelenting, cutting off your air entirely. Your body jerking slightly as your lungs fight for oxygen. I count slowly, deliberately, in my head—one, two, three—watching your smooth chest heave, the defined lines of your abs contracting as you struggle against the ropes. Your eyes widen, dark pools of panic and pleading, locked on mine as I lean closer, my stubbled jaw grazing your cheek, my breath hot against your ear. “You breathe when I let you, slut,” I murmur, my voice low and cruel, laced with a sadistic edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

Forty seconds pass, each one stretching into an eternity as your face flushes deeper, the veins in your neck pulsing faintly under your smooth skin. I release your nose, and you gasp desperately through your nostrils, the sound wet and frantic, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. I smirk, my fingers lingering near your face, brushing against the damp skin of your cheek as I watch you recover, only to clamp down again without warning. This time, I hold for a beat longer, fifty seconds, my eyes never leaving yours, taking in every twitch, every silent plea. Your body writhes, the ropes creaking, your toned thighs flexing uselessly against the restraints as you fight the growing burn in your lungs.

I lean in even closer, my lips brushing your ear, the faint scratch of my stubble grazing your skin. “Look at you, prisoner,” I whisper, my voice dripping with mocking arousal, “so fucking helpless, squirming like a worm under my control.” My free hand trails down your chest, my rough palm grazing your sensitive nipples, giving one a sharp pinch that makes you jolt, a muffled whimper vibrating against the gag.

I release your nose again, letting you suck in air greedily, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as relief floods your body. But I’m not done. My fingers return to your nose, teasing this time, lightly brushing the tip before pinching it shut once more, prolonging the torment, drawing out every second of your submission.

“You exist for me,” I growl, straddling your waist now, my weight pressing you harder. My muscular thighs lock around you, pinning you in place as I control your breath again, holding for another fifty seconds, my eyes glinting with dark satisfaction as your body trembles beneath me. When I finally let go, I spit on your face, the warm glob landing on your cheek and sliding down, mingling with the sweat and desperation there. “You’re mine, and you’ll never forget it,” I say.

I leave you like that for hours, the chair creaking under your weight, your body trembling from the strain. The apartment’s quiet except for your muffled groans and the occasional drip of a leaky faucet. I crash on the couch, leaving you to suffer, the ropes and cuffs ensuring you’re not going anywhere.

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Sunday morning, the door bangs open, and my buddy Jake strolls in. He’s ex-military, built like a tank, with a shaved head and a manly grin that matches mine.

His boots are caked with mud, his camo pants stained with sweat. He is a man of very few words.

“This the guy?” he asks, his voice gruff, eyeing you like prey. I nod, kicking the chair to make you flinch. “All yours, man. Sharing is caring.”

Jake wastes no time. He cuts the ropes off, only to manhandle you to the floor. He’s rougher than me, his hands like vice grips as he forces your arms behind you, binding them with zip-ties so tight they cut into your wrists.

He flips you onto your back, straddling your chest, and starts slapping your face, alternating cheeks, each hit harder than the last. “Look at this pretty boy,” he sneers, grabbing your jaw and pinching in your face.

I join in, grabbing a paddle and working your thighs while Jake focuses on your chest, pinching and twisting your nipples until you’re writhing. He unzips his camo pants, pulling out his sweaty briefs and stuffing them in your mouth, taping them in place. “Taste that,” he growls, then forces you to your knees, your face shoved into his armpit, the hair matted with sweat. I hold your head there, making you inhale.

For lunch, Jake’s got an idea. He pisses into a bowl, soaking some stale bread in it, and we take turns forcing it into your mouth, holding your nose to make you swallow. “Eat up,” I say, laughing as you choke.

By Sunday night, we’ve got you spread-eagle on the mattress again, wrists and ankles cuffed to the bedframe. Jake’s biting your neck while I flog your thighs, and we take turns licking your face, cutting off your breath and calling you worthless, a toy, a prisoner.

“You’re never leaving,” I tell you, my voice cold as I tighten the cuffs. Jake adds a final touch—taping a pair of his filthy socks over your face, the smell inescapable. We leave you there, chained and gagged, the apartment dark and stinking, as we crack open beers and watch Ocean's Eleven, and then we both pass out. You are left there, trembling, broken, and ours.

[blackbound]

This is pretty hardcore and vividly detailed. I almost feel bad for the captive, but I suspect this is an agreed-upon scenario. If not, then I do feel slightly bad

[owenlewisgrey]

ooh, the plot thickens. Curious to see what the next plans are...

[dwild]

What an intense story this is turning out to be - keep going!