Stories of Tie Up Games

Straitjacketed wrote: 11 months ago

blackbound wrote: 11 months agoMust be nice to have a victim so soundly asleep.

Heh, I stole that character trait from myself. I've always had the ability to nap more or less anywhere and once slept through a massive gas explosion in a neighbouring house.

My brother is the same! He once slept through the worst hurricane to hit our city, and the resulting collapse of our next door neighbor's chimney! Never even budged!

But to the story... YES LANCE!!!! Always wonderful to see him get the upper hand! But I do find myself conflicted... I want to see Lance enjoying some dom-time, but I also want to see lance locked in that collar and harness and submitting (willfully or not).... and I'm not sure which Lance I want to see more...

Apologies for the fact that my plans went entirely awry: Life Stuff got in the way and only now am I back with the next instalment. Thanks again to everyone commenting - @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound - as well as everyone who's placed a vote.

I'm on holiday now, so will accelerate further instalments - famine then feast!


Lust in France - part 6

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
I feel kinda bad for waking you up. While it’s hard to say what you’re dreaming about, you seem to be enjoying this. But I’ll definitely enjoy your reaction more!

"What? What are you... what's happening?"

Grinning at your confusion, I have a better appreciation of your ropework skills. My amateurish knots simply don’t look as good as your intricate harnesses. Still, it seems to be doing its job just fine.

You toss and turn (or try to) where you lie down, without being able to sit up or switch facedown. I’m not complaining, as your struggles give me a great sight of your hardening dick flopping around and your muscles constricting nicely.

"You little sneak!"

“Guilty as charged!” I laugh and flick one of your nipples. “You should know better than to sleep in the middle of nowhere. What if I went away and it was a big bad hunter that caught this bear?”

While I’m talking, I keep working - I know you can escape but making your job a little more difficult wouldn’t hurt and maybe I’ll tire you enough so that you won’t try and punish me until tomorrow. Though, I’m actually curious how you can come back from this.

I put the leather mittens on you, this time without any substantial resistance. “You’re really obedient like this. That beauty sleep really worked.” My eyes point towards your crotch as I speak, rather than your face. Just like me, being helpless is a turn-on for you, like it or not.

"You are one sneaky. Little. Fuck."

“Hey, now.” I put a hand on your chest to stop you and straddle your hips. Without my briefs covering my ass, I can feel your erection poking me between my cheeks. “It’s your fault for being so damn oblivious. I was feeling generous and thought I might ride you for a change.”

I rub your cock with my ass until I feel it at its full mast. Then, I pull back. As you hump the air, I take the leather blindfold I keep at hand and cover your eyes before buckling it behind your head.

“Here’s a deal,” I watch you work up. Giving you these are always fun - a dilemma presented as an offer. “I might let you fuck me… but only if you prepare me beforehand.” I trace your mouth with my thumb. It’s obvious how you’ll do this without your hands and your hood baring your mouth.

“Or we can just blow each other as usual - but I’ll leave you to free yourself in that case.” We have sleeping sacks - I can just stuff you in one and make good on that promise. But I’m curious about which option you find more appealing.


Richard:
“You’re really obedient like this. That beauty sleep really worked.”

Those damn mitts again.

I snort in disgust but, this time, no matter how I twist and turn, I can't prevent you working the thick leather over my already taped-up fists and getting the straps tightly buckled around my already roped-up wrists.

"Urgh," I grunt, nonplussed at having my fingers rendered truly helpless. And you'll doubtless make use of the attached D-rings to increase the security of your roping.

I turn my leather-covered head slightly, against the slight resistance of the hood's collar, to glance wistfully over to where my lederhosen lie in the tangle where I left them before our swim. My knife is in the hip pocket but even if the escape tool were within reach, tape and now mitts would prevent me using it.

“Hey, now. It’s your fault for being so damn oblivious. I was feeling generous and thought I might ride you for a change.”

I can't resist thrusting between those arse cheeks, and my immobilised hands fight to grab and hold you in position. I can't hold back the groan of frustration when you pull back out of range again.

And then - grrrrreat - a blindfold.

"He that is strucken blind," I mutter through gritted teeth, "can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost."

The open-chinned hood I'm wearing evidently has some sort of loops at the sides, so the strap of the leather eye covering can be threaded through before you buckle it. That, I realise with chagrin, will prevent me shaking or rubbing it loose.

Sightless, I wrestle again at my tied arms, waggle my hands, infuriatingly snug and secure in their newly-installed prisons of plastic-and-leather, and attempt to gather my feet beneath me (did you tie my big toes together too?), the better to buck and throw you off me.

“Here’s a deal: I might let you fuck me… but only if you prepare me beforehand. Or we can just blow each other as usual - but I’ll leave you to free yourself in that case.”

Led by my hardon - which I haven't had a chance to relieve since freeing it from the lederhosen - I fail to notice that the first option also doesn't include any guarantee of assisted freedom, or even of fucking.

"I am going to fuck you," I growl with as much intimidation as I can muster (bound flat on my back), "so hard your fucking eyes change colour."

I'm awash with a heady emotional mix: turned on, frustrated and - the one that somehow always seems to take me by surprise - turned-on-by-being-frustrated. The end result is an escalation, a positive feedback loop whereby struggling and giving vent to my part-real, part-mock irritation gets me harder than ever.

Somewhere in that mix, also, is a soupçon of genuine humiliation - Leather Top, embarrassingly, captured and effectively trussed up by his sneaky sub - and that humiliation acts like vital seasoning, the hint of chilli that lends the dish fire and flavour.

I grind my hips upward, urgent cock meeting air.

"So yeah," I continue in the same gravelly, dangerously even tone, "this Bondage Master Lance shit is all very cute - and yeah, I'll 'prepare' you for a fucking - but I assure you nothing is going to prepare you for the multiple ways you are going to be ROYALLY FUCKED when I get out of all this. You have my word on that, boy."

I do my best to generate and radiate blind menace in your direction.

Ramping up the threat level gets me even more hot and bothered, and I yank furiously at my tethered, uselessly mitted hands, trying and failing to dislodge the blindfold buckled around my leather-hooded head. In the end, I'm forced to communicate dramatic ominousness via snarl alone.

However I might grimace and bluster, however, I'm moistening my lips and tongue in preparation for the task at hand. I love the way you taste - the way all of you tastes - but, as I'm coming to recognise and appreciate, at its most charged and entertaining, our erotic dynamic is fuelled and enhanced by (semi-)performative anger, a show of reluctance and resistance all the way.

In its own way, what we do with (and to) each other is its own form of theatre and if there's one thing I instinctively understand and will always commit to, it's theatre.

Lance:
Despite your threats and grunts, I know my seduction is working - you’re not very subtle when you hump my naked butt.

“...can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost."

“We’d make such a weird Romeo and Juliet.” Leave it to you to be poetic about a blindfold of all things. But now that your sights are dulled, I’m curious how many prodigies I have to do to get a raise out of your bound body.

You twist and shake under me, like the world’s hottest bull ride machine. “Bear ride machine,” is more fitting in your case.

I look behind me after a strong buck to see that you’re trying to lift yourself off the ground. I tsk. “We can’t have that, Richard.” I tape the roll of tape again and tie your big toes, then feet together. I then wrap the tape from under your soles to your ankles to prevent you from bending your feet. While doing so, I try to test whether you’re ticklish - you know, just in case I’ll need that information in the future.

"I am going to fuck you so hard your fucking eyes change color." Though you can’t see, my eyes glint at the assurance of some rough treatment and the violent edge of your voice. “Ooohhh! Promise?”

You’re now as erect as you can be and I’m too - in my jock-briefs so there’s no point in waiting.

Further intimidation only turns me on more and even though one part of me wants to untie you now and see what kind of plans you have in store for me, the smart side of me knows that I better take advantage of your state while I can.

“Deny it all you want,” I grin and position myself above your head, my feet at the two sides of you and one hand on your chest balancing me. “I know you like it when Lance the Sub rebels on you. It just makes me a bigger game to hunt.”

I lower my ass to your mouth, inviting you to rim me. True to my prediction, your tongue is way too eager, way too talented for a man who is forced to do this. Our performance is for an audience of two and my forceful demeanor is as much of an act as your venomous captive persona.

What isn’t an act though, is the way I almost buckle as your skillful mouth explores, delves into, and soaks my hole. I moan in delight, doing my best not to lose balance but it’s harder than I expected when you do such a good job at eating me out. Your beard scratching my tender buttocks doesn’t help in the slightest.

“I guess - oh, damn! That mouth… unhgh! Isn’t only for spouting theatre- FUCK ME!”

How the hell you manage to bring me to my knees with nothing but your mouth? Well, as much as I’d keep you there for long, I made a promise and a man doesn’t turn from them.

I force myself to stand up and kiss you on your cheek. “I should just stick a plug gag inside your mouth and fuck myself with it,” I muse, only to taunt you. “Just joking. Now, as I promised, you can fuck me.”

I sit on your hips again and laugh. “Come on, I’m waiting.”


To be continued...

So glad you're back! Looking forward to more of these hot hunks sparring.

It's always a wonderful delight when this collaboration gets updated! But ugh, to tease us (and Richard) with Lance's offer, and then making us wait until next update to see it come to fruition, along with whatever fantastic twists and turns these two pull on one another!

Here we go! Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 7

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
"Hnnff," I exhale as you tape my toes and feet.

I'm not especially ticklish, thank God, not on the soles of my feet, anyway. All that tape means I can't twist my legs individually to work at the ankle-bindings - they're braced together as one - or properly gather my legs beneath me.

“Deny it all you want, I know you like it when Lance the Sub rebels on you. It just makes me a bigger game to hunt.”

And the first rule of the game we're playing is, don't acknowledge it's a game. So I keep grunting, snarling and emitting general menace until you lower yourself onto me - and then I put my tongue to even better use.

“I guess - oh, damn! That mouth… unhgh! Isn’t only for spouting theatre- FUCK ME!”

“I should just stick a plug gag inside your mouth and fuck myself with it"

"Don't. You. Fucking. Dare." I growl, secretly impressed and a little alarmed at your new knowledge of gags.

“Just joking. Now, as I promised, you can fuck me.”

Even roped, taped, mitted, hooded and blindfolded, my instinct is to unbalance you and use my heavier body weight, wrestler-style, to pin you beneath me - while I fuck you on my own terms.

I'm not at all sure I have the leverage, trussed up as I am, and it's all going to hinge on knocking you off balance using just my own lunging and thrusting hips. Even if I take you by surprise - perhaps with a sudden jerk to one side or a determined roll in one direction, trapping your foot between the ground and my body so I literally steamroller you - I'm not even certain that, with my lower limbs now taped together, I have sufficient movement left to flip myself over to get my bound form atop you.

But, dammit, I'm going to try!

"Come on, I’m waiting."

I make a couple of writhing thrusts upward to lull you into a false sense of security then, when you're starting to relax into it, roll suddenly and sharply to the right. My hope is that I'll unseat you (I imagine you sprawling on the ground) and, before you can right yourself, trap your leg beneath my hips - then attempt to roll my full weight over onto your pelvis and torso. Hopefully you're facing downward but even if you're supine, it'll be satisfying demonstrating that even when you've immobilised me to this extent, I won't take it lying down...

Lance:
Despite your carefully (okay, maybe not so carefully) tied-up state, the nigh-primal defiance you show is nothing short of arousing. I was expecting to sit on your cock for a minute and then call it a joke before actually riding you but as always, you find a way to surprise me by using your entire weight to shift yourself sharply to your side, knocking me off balance - just when I was getting cocky.

Here’s why I never exactly got into being a dom, despite using Tariq as my guinea pig for ropes a few times: It’s simply not that fun without the element of suspense, keeping the reins of my steed (so to speak) in my hands only by exerting every ounce of strength I have. And, to be honest with myself, without eventually going back to being a sub.

So, even though I catch myself by resting a hand against the dirt floor at the last second, the second time you buck, my hand “slips” and I tumble to the ground, with your hairy, sweaty mass on top of me.

My dick is tightly sandwiched between the earth and myself, confined in its jock prison and squeezed by the ginger bear on top of me. “I think campers here missed the memo about not feeding the bears,” I joke with bated breath. Not that I mind the soft but muscular tummy and weight against my back.

My arms are by my sides and are not similarly trapped but I merely use them to lift myself and prevent my nipple piercings from rubbing to the ground. I can probably throw you off if I try but our positions pushed your erection inside me fully and I don’t want it to go away.

Still, if you’re gonna fuck me, you’ll have to work for it. So I rest myself on my elbows, face down, and give you the perfect opportunity to rest on my back and pump yourself into my ass. The control is all on you but the leather hood and ropes on my skin remind me that you’re still bound.

As you keep drilling me, I reach behind myself with one hand and clasp your nape to pull you toward me, so I can kiss your uncovered lips and tell you to go faster. “An amateur’s bondage isn’t going to stop you, is it?”

When you’re done, I can finally untie you - but without removing the hood around your head.

Richard:
Success!

Somehow, despite my sightlessness, I manage to flip you off me and roll my own body mass onto you in a highly bastardised approximation of a wrestling takedown.

Surprised and pleased that it worked, it nonetheless takes me a moment to work out I've got you face-down and - o fortune, fortune! - my enraged cock is not simply nestling between your bubble-buttocks but perfectly placed to thrust further into your rear... which is just as well, really, because my bound legs and hands lashed down to my thighs mean I have virtually no ability to change my position.

“I think campers here missed the memo about not feeding the bears."

Are the bear jibes an improvement on "old man"? I decide they are. For once, however, I don't react, too busy steadying myself on roped-together knees and repeatedly wiggle-thrusting into a target I can't see.

"This," I pant as I'm finally in the foothills of my own Mount Climax, "is a bloody core workout all. on. its. own."

Your hand around my neck surprises me (hell, hooded and blindfolded, everything surprises me) and I almost lose my balance before being pulled in to an unexpected kiss.

“An amateur’s bondage isn’t going to stop you, is it?”

As we part lips, I'm tempted to take yours between my teeth but do so only briefly, a little nip to remind you I still have power to hurt.

"Fuck NO."

A rush and a push and the land is mine! When I come, it's with a half-cry, half-grunt: every muscle tenses, involuntarily, and the discomfort of my restraints enhances and seems to prolong the orgasm.

My knees automatically give way and I slump fully onto you, letting my dead weight fall squarely on your back.

"Let's share that amateur bondage," I taunt, recovering just enough energy to grind my sweaty, sticky pelvis into the back of yours, so your cock is even more squashed into the earth than the rest of you.

I'm not at all sure what's coming next, when you manage to extricate yourself from my post-orgasmic mass - so, when you eventually get to untying knots and loosening rope, I'm around four parts relieved to one part... what? Surely not disappointed? Tinged with the faintest hint of anticlimax?

Surely not.

The moment a wrist is untied from its neighbouring thigh, it's up at my mouth.

"Oh, thank fuck!" I exclaim, through a mouthful of strap.

I'm practised enough to get the correct angle and direction to free the leather from the buckle; a few seconds of vigorous shaking and the thing is off my hand. I'm then feeling with tongue and teeth for an end of bondage tape to begin unwinding the stuff.

When - finally! - my digits are mobile once again, I use them to undo the wrist strap on the opposite mitt, remove it and start feeling for the end of the tape on that side.

This takes me a little longer - like the end of a roll of tape, it's defying my fingernails - so I reach up to unbuckle the blindfold so I can actually see what I'm doing, maybe start unlacing the scalp-prickling leather hood.

And if you don't want me doing that, what are you going to say or do to stop me?

Lance:
Even watching you untying yourself is a treat in itself. Unlike my usual attempts to do so - which involves a lot (more) of cursing, frustrated attempts to pick knots, and biting - your actions are a lot more calculated and practiced.

I make no attempt to help you and you free your fingers by yourself blindly. I think about stopping you before you take off the blindfold but I decide against it. Long-term bondage can wait for a while and even then, I prefer to be on the bound side this time. What can I say, I’m too used to this and this collar of mine is not just for show.

Before you can remove the hood, however, I stop you. “Wait,” I notice the confused explanation on your face and blush a little. “Uh, how about you keep it for longer? You know, you’re actually kinda hot in it - looking a little like a slasher villain, you know?”

A hapless jock stalked by a gimp bear bad guy in French mountainside would be one hell of a premise for a horror movie. “I know, I know, I sound a little crazy,” I admit. “But you know what they say, amantes amentes and all?”

With you freed of your bondage, I let you wear any clothes you want (even if meant the return of your lederhosen) while switching to clean underwear and sneaker myself. The collar stays on. “

Actually, we should make this a thing,” I offer only after that. “We still have time until dinner but it’s getting darker. Maybe we should actually act this out - you know: you ambush me and tie me up like a victim. You said you are an actor, right? It should be a piece of cake for you!”

The idea was a spur-of-the-moment thing but now that I’m thinking about it, it brings out my playful side. “But I’m game for anything,” I add, not wanting to force you to basically work on your holiday. “We can just spend the rest of the evening regularly or we can see if those sleeping bags can hold you if you didn’t get enough of me domming you.”

I emphasis the last part with a waggle of my brows.

“Seriously, Richard, it’s simply fun to do anything with you.”

To be continued...

Is this bottoming from the top or topping from the bottom or both? Whichever one it is, it's super hot!

And Gimp Bear, the sequel to Cocaine Bear? Hmmmm...

blackbound wrote: 9 months ago Is this bottoming from the top or topping from the bottom or both? Whichever one it is, it's super hot!

Hahah cheers! These two can never quiiite work that stuff out.

And Gimp Bear, the sequel to Cocaine Bear? Hmmmm...

That could work...

Oops, accidentally deleted this section and had to recreate it. Thanks to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote for actually sticking with me...


Lust in France - part 8

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
You don't try to prevent me removing the blindfold and, able to locate the edge of the bondage tape by sight, I soon have the second hand unwrapped. I flex my fingers, gratefully, then feel for the collar buckle and lacing at the back of the hood - only to be stopped by you.

“Uh, how about you keep it for longer? You know, you’re actually kinda hot in it - looking a little like a slasher villain, you know?”

I raise an eyebrow (which is, naturally, concealed behind leather), flashing back to the time I tried to get you in a hood too early on in our acquaintance and you argued - not unreasonably - that I'd miss out on seeing your face. What, then, am I to make of your apparent desire not to see mine?!

"Let me get this straight," I say, levelly, "you have a fantasy about being stalked, in the wilderness, by a murderer from a horror movie?"

“I know, I know, I sound a little crazy,” I notice you colour in apparent embarrassment, “but you know what they say, amantes amentes and all?”

I say nothing, unwinding rope and tape from my legs and feet and gently massaging the reddish marks on my wrists but making no further move to remove the hood. I know it renders much of my facial expression unreadable and I'm enjoying watching your apparent discomfort in describing your fantasy. Already, however, I'm thinking through the possibilities of such a scenario.

“Actually, we should make this a thing,” you continue, filling the conversational vacuum created by my silence, "we still have time until dinner but it’s getting darker. Maybe we should actually act this out - you know: you ambush me and tie me up like a victim. You said you are an actor, right? It should be a piece of cake for you!”

Obviously, I know what you're doing: your appeal to my actorly vanity. I don't need that, though; I don't have to be prodded into role play.

I pretend to consider it, offering no reassurance and marvelling in the fact that the simple act of me shutting up seems to prompt you to chatter and ramble. Perhaps I should try this more often.

Inwardly, I'm getting into role: a grimly efficient killer, quiet as a fox, inexorably closing in on you through the trees as the daylight fades. I'm emotionless, caught up in the hunt. You're nothing but prey to me, so much meat and bone.

“Seriously, Richard, it’s simply fun to do anything with you.”

The corner of my mouth twitches but I'm starting to move beyond verbal engagement.

I stand up and move toward my lederhosen on the ground. I don't put them on but I slip the penknife from its pocket. I take moment to push my feet into my hiking boots, stoop to pick up another object and finally hoist my backpack (somewhat lighter, now sleeping bag and other essentials are unpacked and stored in my tent) onto a bare shoulder.

"One hour," I tell you, and disappear, naked, into the woods.

Once sufficiently distanced from the camp site, I examine the woodland around me until I find what I'm looking for: a birch tree that's no longer a sapling - strong enough to bear the weight of a struggling muscle twink - but supple enough to be bent over without snapping.

I'm creating a human-sized snare. A Lance trap.

I remember this from scouting. We never made one quite this big but the basic principle is the same: using ropes from my pack, I haul the chosen tree until it's bent almost double and I'm having to use all my strength to keep it from whipping upright.

I've already constructed an arrangement of sturdy sticks, sharpened with my knife and hammered, with a rock, into the earth until they're stable enough to anchor the other end of my snare.

When I'm done, a loop of rope (I've chosen black, for maximum concealment) lies across the path. The trigger is a single branch which, when stepped upon, releases the tension of the bent-over tree and should - if I've calculated correctly - close around the ankle of my quarry, hoisting them off their feet to hang, upside down, from the straightened birch.

I bait the trap with the remnants of your jockstrap, the one I cut off you earlier, pinned to a nearby tree and almost startlingly white in the dimming light. You'll move towards the lure and, I hope, walk into my snare.

Stowing my pack in the undergrowth, I work quickly to camouflage myself. The black PVC dungarees - meant for heavy rain - will conceal much of me but I worry that the matching cape might limit my movement too much. I choose the more in-character option of scooping handfuls of soil and rubbing them into my arms and shoulders so my pallor is appropriately hidden.

Then, knife in hand, I find a suitable vantage point to conceal myself.

And wait.

Lance:
Even though the sight of you in just boots is quite hot, I hope you don’t traumatize an unlucky (or lucky!) hiker nearby… but I doubt it. We didn’t see anyone through the day and I’m starting to suspect that this place isn’t very popular - which is one of the reasons I offered this in the first place.

"One hour." That’s the only thing you say before leaving. Immediately, I start imagining possibilities. You ambushing me from behind, twisting my arm behind my back, and dragging me towards your cabin in the woods (or maybe cave in your situation) with a hand over my mouth.

Should I stay here? That’s just not interesting. But following you inside the woods has the danger of ending things too soon.

In the end, I decide to dress for the occasion (black booty shorts, and tennis shoes) before following you. This head start should give you some time to prepare. And maybe if I’m quiet enough, I can sneak past you and “get trapped” by you on my own accord.

After only fifteen minutes or so, I’m overcome with the urge to just yell your name and get this over with. I don’t know where you’ve hidden and… that’s the point, isn’t it?

“Man, I can’t believe I got lost and separated from my friends!” I talk out loud with an intentionally monotone voice, hoping that maybe my bad acting will make you leave your hiding spot. “I hope there are no jock-eating bears around this part of France!”

Speaking of jocks… I notice a flash of something white in the corner of my eye. Well, well. It looks like you dropped my underwear while making your way through the trees. Now that I know where you went, I can just follow your path quietly. There’s a good chance you didn’t hear me-

My thoughts are interrupted as I step on something brittle and I feel a snare around my ankle. Before I can realize what’s going on, I’m already pulled in at an ungodly speed and suspended upside down. “Wha- Richard?!” I’m lucky I didn’t hit my head or anything. I squirm and try to get a sense of my bearings.

Somehow, you made a noose trap of all things - something I only saw in cartoons before. It looks sturdy and no matter how much I kick or yell, I can’t get my ankle free. It might be for the better though - I don’t want to drop myself to the ground.

I try to grab onto something - anything to position myself upward but that’s not easy when I’m still swinging from the rope like a pendulum and with blood rushing towards my head.

“You just love having me upside down, don’t you?” I yell to the empty woods. Man, talk about an easy loss. If you’re around, I hope you take me down quickly.

Richard:
Hah!

I watch with something akin to a hunter's savage glee as you try, with limited success, to stabilise your wild oscillations. You're not high up in the treetops but the birch I chose has straightened enough to pull you well off the ground and your panicked face is bobbing at the same level as my own.

“You just love having me upside down, don’t you?”

We could enact a Spiderman kiss but that's not the genre we're in...

I haven't been idle: while waiting for you, I found a branch around six feet in length, sturdy but not too heavy and straight enough for my intended purpose. I've stripped it of bark and smaller branchlets but left nubs, here and there, to act as fixing points.

At one end, I've used the spike attachment on my Swiss Army knife to bore a hole, through which I've laced a strong black plastic cable tie from my backpack, fastening it tight. A second cable tie is threaded beneath this one and left open.

Shouldering my backpack, wooden pole in hand, I rise from my hiding place and approach your inverted form from the most dramatic angle, letting the last of the sun's rays hit me at an angle.

Now in my black PVC dungarees but barefoot, leather-hooded and liberally streaked with mud, I must look like some kind of fetish hillbilly - Leatherface goes Cruising - and I affect a neanderthal semi-hunch as I move with deliberate, menacing slowness in your direction.

I say nothing until I'm almost - but not quite - within range of your flailing arms, your fingers able to reach little but air and birch trunk.

"This," I hold up the end of my length of timber, making sure you see the open cable tie.

"Collar," I touch the cable tie, touch my neck then point to your collar.

It should be obvious: before I release you from my snare, you have to attach the cable tie to the D-ring on your collar.

I watch in silence, eyes narrowed through the holes in my hood. You can argue, threaten and attempt to bargain all you like; I am implacable. Only when I have you tethered at the end of my six-foot pole will I even begin to cut you down.

Lance:
I had an inkling that you’d never leave me alone for long unless you have a plan in mind - usually a part of your plays.

Still, I do a double take when I saw the hooded figure step in front of me. Your feral waddle makes me squirm harder against the rope keeping me upside down and my underwear to get tighter. This roleplay was a spur of the moment but I can’t complain about your performance! And as usual, the added helplessness makes the whole thing more thrilling than our regular tie-ups for me.

You hold out a long, straight branch almost as tall as me, fixed with cable ties at irregular intervals. I can think of a few situations where it can be used but you surprise me by pointing at the collar I still wear.

I reluctantly but curiously take the stick from you and test it in my hands. It can be used as a weapon but upside down as I am, you can easily step aside from its reach before I can even find proper leverage to swing it so that’s not an option.

Your expression is unreadable through the hood. I try to get into the mood for our setting. While I can be bratty towards a dom, a slasher villain is not going to let me be cute with him. Even if there’s unavoidable doom at the store for me, I have to follow your commands.

“I don’t know who you are but you’re gonna regret messing with me when I get out of this, you psycho!” I glare at you with as much anger as I can muster (it’s not that hard after I almost split my head with your dumb trap but hey, I can’t deny it was fun!) before threading the cable tie from the D-ring of my collar.

The added weight is definitely uncomfortable and I try balancing myself by holding onto it but that just makes me tug my neck. “Shit!” Now what? I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re planning to do with this stick but I’m determined to put up more fight once I get down.

Not that I need an excuse to grapple with you while you’re all naked and muddy.

Richard:
“I don’t know who you are but you’re gonna regret messing with me when I get out of this, you psycho!”

I want to smirk at the bravado of the man hanging upside down, collared and on a kind of literal leash, but I stare at you impassively and silently, not breaking character.

"Shit!"

I lean in and grab the pole. Now I'm taking its weight so it isn't tugging at your neck but I can use it to control you.

The rope securing you to the birch tree is still (just) within reach and I shortened it with a knot I can now release, giving me enough slack to lower you - none too gracefully but with enough care to avoid you banging your head or breaking your neck - to the forest floor.

You're going to reach the ground head-first and, with the guiding pole in my other arm, I can keep you there, collar rotated so you're face-down. I demonstrate my ability to hold you there, pinned like a specimen butterfly, with only a little pressure.

Your ankle is still held in the rope of my trap and I cut it at the furthest point, so there's a nice long length attached.

"Down!" I grunt, in response to your attempts to get up, grapple or even turn over.

While you're getting intimate with soil and pine needles, I suddenly lower the pole so it's lying longitudinally down your back and am immediately astride it and you, body weight on your lower back and buttocks (with timber running the length of your arse-crack), facing your feet.

Now, with my heavy black PVC dungarees protecting my own knees and my mass holding you down, I can grab the rope already dangling from one ankle and take my time securing it to the other over the pole. I work slowly and methodically, savouring your struggling and cursing.

When I'm done, your ankles are crossed and bound, and there's still a significant length left over. No prizes for guessing what I'm going to do with that.

I shift and turn, so I'm facing up toward your head. Your arms are doubtless flailing and your fingers trying to snatch at me but the smooth PVC I'm wearing won't give you much purchase. Besides, you're limited by that pole, holding your spine straight and pushing your face into the earth.

I use the pole to control you: if you're not cooperating, I let all my weight fall on it so it's squeezing you flat; if you're behaving yourself, I ease up and give you a little more space.

The remainder of the rope from your ankle passes beneath my and up to your waist, where I'm securing your wrists. You aren't going to like this but a combination of the pole and a little judicious arm-twisting should be sufficient to show you you really don't have a choice.

It may take me some time but, eventually, your ankles are going to be secured just the same as your ankles, crossed and tied around the pole, knots located out of reach of your fingers.

You're now, effectively, in a sort of pole-tethered hogtie. I've added a loop here and there to secure you to one of the smaller branch-nubs I left for this purpose: to stop you slipping along the pole or trying to manoeuvre it out with your hands. I also pass a couple of loops of rope under you at chest and waist level, to distribute pressure more evenly.

When I'm done, I use my knife to cut the cable-tie securing your collar and stand up to admire my handiwork and let you breathe.

I enjoy your reaction for a minute or two then draw the last short piece of rope between your teeth, knotting it behind the back of the pole. Not efficient as a gag but enough to tangle your words and annoy you.

Finally, I'm able to grasp the pole at the head end and, in a one-handed deadlift, raise it enough that you're not trailing on the ground. You're not as heavy as I imagined, but I'm going to have to pause, from time to time, to change sides so I exercise both right and left arms and shoulders.

I trudge back in the direction of our camp, dragging my prize alongside me.


To be continued...

Ok, I didn't think I'd be getting the movie right there and then! I wonder if that type of trap would actually work in real life.

Now to try and not be influenced by this tale as I continue to write my own, both of which involve the woods...

blackbound wrote: 9 months ago Ok, I didn't think I'd be getting the movie right there and then! I wonder if that type of trap would actually work in real life.

Apparently so! I actually did some research on this one.

The story, like Richard, lumbers on... Thanks again to everyone commenting - @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound - as well as everyone who's placed a vote.

I'm on holiday now, so will continue to accelerate further instalments.


Lust in France - part 9

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
At first, I thought that the branch attached to my collar was a way for you to restrict my movement using the limited materials at hand. Then I remembered about stocks which you can create an improvised one using zip ties.

However, an additional use that I wasn’t able to foresee is how I’m basically on a solid leash. I growl when you pull the stick just enough to keep me in place while you get me closer to the forest floor.

You toe the line between your role and reality so well that I barely notice the care you take to restrain me without hurting me - something a real slasher wouldn’t do. However, the enjoyment you take from giving me as little slack as possible while you literally pull my strings is transparent.

Admittedly, looking directly at the hard ground is not so much fun when you’re suspended from a single strand of rope but I trust you enough to let the thrill wash over me like a rollercoaster (which actually never strikes me as scary) as I’m brought down. I try to reach my neck with my hands to remove my collar.

You speak once more in the same guttural, single-syllable style to stop me but when did I ever listen to what you have to say?

Of course, being dropped into the middle of dirt in my skivvies makes this easier said than done. I try to keep my underwear free from pine needles while you use this distraction to sit on me - your weight pressing the stick between my round buttocks - a risk I hadn’t considered when picking these jockbriefs.

“Get off me!” I yell, trying to reach behind me and throw you off but the strict rod going over the length of my body makes it surprisingly hard to move with your weight added.

“You can’t do this! Stop!”

My acting may not be as good as yours but I’m hoping that my very real frustration shows in my voice.

I don’t voice to stay in character but I can tell you’re enjoying this, taking your sweet time tying my ankles through the pole and to each other, all the while I curse you and try to wriggle away to no avail.

When you turn to me, I try to spit in your face - not that it’ll do much good with that hood or that I can even get a good angle. “Bastard! I said let me go!” My further attempts to push you away are similarly fruitless as your upper body is beyond my range of motion.

Even with the rod digging into my back, I refuse to comply and be an obedient captive. I feel the rope around my ankles getting tauter at the same time that you tie my hands. This hog-tie doesn’t even give me any room to toss and turn!

I yank my hands away mid-knotting but that only gets me a push on the back and a twist in the arm that gets you what you want. I feel a painful friction between my clothes bulge and the ground. Your no-nonsense, methodical binding like I’m a captured prey gets me hard.

Here’s hoping the roleplay prevents you from seeing it when you turn me over and make fun of me!

Before I even check, I know all bonds are tied to perfection, keeping me secure in place and away from my reach, but you still keep adding knots until I start to suspect you’re stashing some extra rope in one of the tree hollows.

Thankfully, you add more rope that goes around my body to make my back and shoulders not scream that much… or to grope my pecs, not that you can’t multitask.

“Are you about done, you fu-ggghnnn!”

I grunt as you loop a piece of rope to gag me, pulling my head back. “Unnng hmmm pphhhrrphh?” The gag does nothing to muffle my voice but I can’t form coherent words with the rope digging at the corners of my mouth and keeping my mouth open.

“Gggghhhrrruuunn!”

You ignore me (the silence starts to unnerve me) and lift me. No, lift the pole I’m tied to! My stomach lurches as I shake a few feet away from the ground but you seem to be doing fine. Of course, that does nothing to me feeling like an animal carried on a stick by cavemen.

I wonder where you’re carrying me. It has to be back to our camp, right? It’d just like you to find somewhere weird to stash me. Until then, I keep my objections to grumbles that make me drool and try not to squirm much lest you drop me.

Richard:
It's a lot to carry - the backpack I walked here with and a Lance-sized mass of squirming muscle on a stick - but I visualise myself doing an extra-long series of reps with an especially high number of plates loaded on to the landmine pole at my gym.

I need to pause several times to change sides and I try to time these for when I'm traversing soft loamy forest floor, so I can drop you, unceremoniously face-first, into it while I pad around to the other side, hefting you up again with my other hand.

The muscles of my shoulders and forearms are getting a good workout. I find my mind drifting to New York and the gym I used to walk a couple of blocks to use in preference to the one nearer my building. Not the fanciest but I liked the vibe and I seemed to encounter interesting men there - like Bartosz, the burly, ostensibly heterosexual construction worker and amateur boxer who became my literal sparring partner.

Bartosz was similar to you in the sense that he'd taunt, goad and escalate until I had to take him in hand - at which point he'd chafe and complain but, clear as morning roses, love the takedown itself. I remember the time we got permission to spar in the ring after hours and I deliberately laced and tied his boxing gloves tight enough that he couldn't remove them - then laughed in his face when he got angry. Bartosz retaliated by cornering and pummelling me but ended up spending much of the night bound tightly to one of the corner posts, boxing gum-shield fixed between his teeth with athletic tape, head- and groin-guards muffling and impeding him further but proving impossible to shake loose.

He gurgled and swore at me through his gag but, the following week, came back for more. You remind me of Bartosz and I'm fairly sure you'd like him: you both enjoy a fight and you both like to up the ante, consequences be damned!

And, I concede, I am not averse to providing those consequences.

Nearing the camp, I emerge from my reverie. You selected a clearing by the lakeside and I pause to catch the last remnants of sunset over trees and water - only for a moment, though, lest visible appreciation of the site's natural beauty undermine my current persona.

I glance around in the darkening twilight until I spy what I'm looking for: a thick-trunked oak with sturdy limbs extending laterally into the clearing.

Everyone loves a rope swing!

You're left unattended, hogtied to your pole, for a matter of minutes while I select two hanks of strong hemp from my backpack and focus on pitching each over the horizontal bough, securing it with a slip knot that I can work upward to tighten against the branch itself.

It's the work of ten more minutes to lash the other ends of the ropes to your pole, one at the head end, one near your feet. I make use of the branch-nubs to ensure my fixings won't slip off the ends.

When I'm done, your pole is suspended parallel with the oak branch itself. From the pole hangs your hogtied form, face downwards with your head at exactly the level of my waist.

Convenient.

You're doubtless envisaging my next move but, while my look may be Fetish Hillbilly, we're not going the sucking 'n' fucking route. Horror in the Woods is what you wanted and I'm not yet done with the genre. There's still time to instil a healthy jolt of fear.

Let's see how much you imagine I can lose myself in character...

Maintaining my shambling lope, I make several forays into the undergrowth for dead wood, smaller branches and twigs which I haul out and dump directly beneath your suspended form, assembling them into a neatly stacked pile.

At no point do I acknowledge or even look at you.

Finally, I use my knife to push handfuls of dry grass and bracken into the centre of the miniature woodpile.

Kindling.

One more unhurried trip to the tents and I amble back, lighter visible in my hand. With my thumb, I flick the flame on and off.

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

Lance:
To your credit: you never let me slip once during our long haul back to camp. And while I’m less grateful about your breaks prolonging our trip where I’m dropped facedown, I literally asked for this so there’s not much room for me to complain here. The sound of your effortful grunts and a first-row seat to your sweaty, broad back don’t hurt, either.

So, when we arrive at our tents, we are both tired and filthy for different reasons. I’m in no position to stop and gawk at the sunset but I have a feeling that you do. I’ll admit, I’m not the biggest fan of natural beauty but there’s something nice about being able to sit in silence at such a pretty national park, forced as my silence may be.

But if I hoped that you’ll let me go to better enjoy this fresh evening air, I’m in for a surprise. Instead, you leave me on the ground to go fiddle with some ropes. I complain about the rope between my teeth and make another failed attempt to gnaw it off. I’m starting to get hungry and even if I enjoy the cruel hogtie to an extent, being tied up is a lot less fun without having someone’s attention on you.

I feel like a piece of meat forgotten in the cellar.

However, when you get back at me, it’s to tie those ropes (now hanging from a branch) to my post and I finally understand what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull. “Hmmmnn! Nnnnnpphh! Mmmmmggnnn!” I shake my head and protest but you don’t even react. Oh, come on! Didn’t I spend enough time hanging from sticks?

It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of height, I think as I grumble as respond to being lifted up. Of fucking course, your contraption is perfect and I dangle without an issue. I’m not too high, either, certainly not enough to protect me against bears.

One of which currently stands in front of me.

However, rather than making me worship your crotch as I expect, you begin to collect wood. I roll my eyes as a pile of burnable stuff is collected under me. Can’t you really do this another time?

The annoyance turns into anxiety as you take a lighter and I finally realize that I’m in the perfect position to be roasted over a campfire.

I gulp, trying not to look at the wood as my drool drips over them. You’re not going to cook or even accidentally burn me. I know you enough to know that much. This isn’t going to stop the involuntary trembles in my muscles but I fight against them and look at you defiantly - even struggling against the ropes that suspend me over the kindling.

I know a stand-off when I see one and I’m not going to back down. This game took long enough and if you intend to keep playing, I’m changing my role to the “defiant-to-the-end captive.”

Still, I carefully check the lighter, praying that you don’t accidentally drop it.

To be continued...

Let's see how far this goes! My own boys had no problem with some light roasting... I assume this was written before you read that (if you did, I don't recall) so it's another case of devious minds thinking alike...

My goodness! Three amazing updates waiting for me! Love the movie roleplay, the snare trap straight out of the cartoons (and who on this forum hasn't had at least one fantasy about that snare trap around the ankle!), and now the very intense kindling gathering!

These two are so creative and always upping the ante!

A temporary conclusion? Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 10

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
I see a little anxiety in your eyes but it's clear that, for the most part, you're not buying my "overly caught up in his method-acting" schtick - and, having experienced my original Big Reveal at Deubel's, I can't blame you.

Nonetheless, I maintain the cannibal shamble until I'm almost upon you then, with a carefully placed kick, scatter the assembled wood and kindling.

"Ahh, Lance," I say, ruffling your hair and stepping closer so my crotch, hot behind the black PVC of my dungarees, is in your rope-gagged face, "you're not fool enough to be burned twice, literally or otherwise".

I pocket the lighter and, putting a hand on each shoulder, push you gently backwards then let go, so you swing, on your suspending ropes, back into my groin. I thrust back at you with my pelvis and, for a few seconds, enjoy playing with your back-and-forth momentum, like you were a fancy executive toy on the desk of some CEO.

After a few minutes, I squat down so my face is level with yours.

"I'm afraid, my little captive, that your punishment is worse than dying in a fire. You're going to have to watch me cook. And eat."

I straighten up and make a few adjustments to the ropes holding you to the pole. I release the hogtie - the cord holding your wrists to your ankles - but keep the rest of your bonds in place. You can straighten out a little but you remain tied, your weight distributed more or less evenly across a number of supporting ropes.

All of significant bonds, including those securing hands, feet and the long length of hemp attaching you in place, end in quick-release knots. You have no way of knowing but I could, by yanking sharply on three or four rope-ends, release you from the pole.

That's not on my agenda, though. Not yet.

Reassembling the woodpile, safely downwind of you, is easy enough, and soon I have a small fire crackling away. I rummage through your provisions, curious to see what you've brought, but eventually reach for my own backpack. I didn't bring much of sustenance - that was to be your role - but, perhaps nostalgic for Berlin, I brought a small selection of sausages and a four-pack of beer.

"Thou art a scholar, let us therefore eat and drink!" I toast you with an open bottle, "of course, when I say ‘us’, I mean ‘me’…"

I take a swig of the foamy alcohol.

I am not, it must be said, the best cook in the world, but sausages need only be pricked, impaled on sticks of green wood and held over the flames. Between gulps of beer and mouthfuls of sausage, I pay relatively little attention to my trussed prisoner (but, predictably, I hold one at crotch level, pelvis-nudging it at your gagged mouth before forking it up to my own).

Whether it’s my own fresh air-induced appetite or something of a hangover of my sociopath method acting, I’ve eaten all the sausages and drunk almost all the beer before it occurs to me that I could’ve offered you some. Oh well, I shrug, you already had your mouth full. And besides, you’ll be cooking for both of us soon enough anyway.

With a satisfied little burp, I turn back to my captive.

"Y'know, I think I finally understand the expression 'sex on a stick'."

Finally, when the fire has died to a smoulder, I return to the ropes suspending you. I'm not releasing them, though, merely adjusting them so you hang a couple of inches lower.

"It's a pleasant enough night to lie out under the stars," I muse, spreading the groundsheet beneath you.

"You, Lance, are a star and I merely an underling."

I strip off the PVC dungarees and unfasten the black leather half-hood. It feels good to be naked, to have all my sense open to the velvety forest night.

I stretch out on the cool vinyl, luxuriating in its touch against my skin and exaggerating my freedom of movement in contrast to your own, spit-roasted confinement.

You're almost within touching distance - I could reach up and embrace you - but not quiiite close enough to reach me through your own efforts. Looking up, directly into your eyes, I start to stroke and massage my cock into full tumescence.

I sense that you're ready to be untied, ready for freedom, and it isn't, let's face it, difficult to turn myself on watching your futile struggles and listening to your defiant protestations. Hell, if you spat in my face right now, it would only enhance my pleasure.

I take my time, only occasionally reaching my free hand up to touch your straining muscles, to run my fingers over your tight ropes.

After I finally come (spattering your own shorts and thighs), I close my eyes and pretend to snooze. I try not to grin at your angry realisation that you could spend the night hanging from a tree.

After a few minutes of savouring your frustration, I open my eyes and twist up around you to tug at the quick-release knots. If I've got this right, you should literally fall into my arms.

"Well," I murmur, enfolding your rope-marked body in my nakedness, "I couldn't leave you just... hanging."

Lance:
Usually, I try to limit my alcohol intake to keep in shape but now that I’m thirsty and sweaty, with a rumble in my own belly, I can only envy the lukewarm beer that drips from your lips and covet those unhealthy but delicious sausages. I think back to the shared flat in Paris.

Helpless as I may be, I possibly deserved being your bondage swing after the state I left Tariq in.

Yesterday, when I was preparing for our mountain trip, Tariq sheepishly asked me if I was going to meet with the guy I’d been practicing my roping skills for all along. We chatted about my plans for a while and I realized that all that talk about being tied up and helpless was getting him excited.

Now, I tied him a few times before and he was always interested in it but I never left him in bondage for long. He might be older than me but the nerdy side of him makes me want to tease him a little (like another guy I know). So I proposed something a bit more lasting.

Therefore, this morning I left him in a tank top, a jockstrap, and white socks - barely dressed enough to answer the door for deliveries - and with his hands and feet tied with leather cuffs. He looked hesitant but to my surprise, was okay with wearing a cock ring that I could vibrate by sending him messages from my phone.

“Are you going to miss me?” I asked before leaving, putting a hand over Tariq's bearded face, causing him to nod and grunt affirmatively. I laughed and ruffled his hair. “Tenez-vous bien,” I said. “I expect gagged selfies from you if you want me to use that ring sparingly.”

I knew it was a little dangerous to leave him like that but the normally-milquetoast Tariq seemed so stoked about sharing this hobby of mine with me. He even made a few attempts to take a photo of himself with my socks in his mouth while his hands were tied behind him. Yet, I vibed him with my messages a few more times than necessary.

My stupor evaporates when you fiddle with the ropes holding me so I’m a bit closer to the ground and open the sleeping bag under me.

"You, Lance, are a star and I am merely an underling."

Now that’s a feeling I can’t find with anyone else. I’m glad I got other people to experience bondage with so that I know it’s not merely your dom side that attracts me. It’s your goofy references, dramatic personality, bombastic ploys, your everything.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Richard,” I chuckle, deciding to use your real name instead of ‘old man’. “Stars mean jackshit if nobody is there to see them.” And, food and drink aside, I am for one, glad that you are here to appreciate me for the rope-encased form I am, like a Christmas decoration.

And the edging that follows and the fake snoozing are just minor inconveniences (though I definitely don’t act like it, gotta play my part) compared to spending this night in your arms.

To be continued...

blackbound wrote: 9 months ago Let's see how far this goes! My own boys had no problem with some light roasting... I assume this was written before you read that (if you did, I don't recall) so it's another case of devious minds thinking alike...

Hah, yeah! We originally wrote that bit of Lust in France well over a year ago, so I suspect it is, as you say, bondage-devious synchronicity.

The saga continues. Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 11

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
Ugh, rain stops play.

I’ve never been a cricket fan but that’s the best summation of the situation, of our canoodling rudely interrupted by a sudden change in the weather.

I’m also not a fan of getting caught in the rain (hence my backpack full of waterproofs) and it’s a relief when, just as the first heavy drops begin to fall, the gite – the place we’ll be staying tonight – looms into view, stark against the darkly lowering clouds.

Someone seeing it for the first time might described it as “rustic” but, despite its small size and classic whitewashed stone walls, the term doesn’t do the one-floor cottage justice. Rustic gites, in my experience, don’t tend to be situated backing onto a lake, with big picture windows and their own little wooden jetty.

You lead us around the front of the building and, while you locate the key, I take the opportunity to look around. A narrow dirt road opens up into a garden - tiny but neat - cleared from the surrounding woodland. A mature apple tree has been spared, a charming centrepiece within the space. Its slender-but-sturdy trunk and fruit-heavy limbs provide relatively little protection from the worsening weather, however, and I’m relieved when you finally push the door open.

Inside, it’s dim but smells clean, not musty or unused. Before you put the lights on, I enfold you in a bearhug, pressing my rain-and-mud-streaked PVC dungarees against your body, hooking a finger under your locked collar and pulling you in for a kiss – but, at the last moment, wiping my rain-damp beard over your face.

(Maybe a good thing we didn’t kiss. The hug is tight enough to squeeze a little beer-and-bratwurst exhalation from me.)

“This is a lot nicer than I expected,” I say, when we break apart, you get the place illuminated and we start to explore, “where did you say you found it again?”

Lance:
I languidly saunter inside the cabin and invite you in with a flourish. I saw enough pictures of here to know what it’s like but it’s still an impressive summer house. Despite my parents being relatively well-off, they are also far from being outdoorsy types and this is my first time staying in such an isolated place - away from city lights and noise.

While I was busy appreciating the simple yet tasteful woodsy decoration, I felt a certain wet bear hugging me from behind. And wasn’t that nice? You and I were certainly more than just fuck buddies at this point but neither of us put his foot down and wanted clarification.

I figured we’d figure things out at our own pace but either way, I want to keep you around. And well, you kiss amazingly and the collar is hot around my neck and I already kinda want you inside me but if we’re going to do this regularly, I want to set some boundaries, emphasis on “bound”.

So, when we explore the house, I discreetly look for the places where Tariq would store his secret stash - his parents use here so they won’t be placed too obviously but I know him well enough to predict that he’d probably chosen somewhere obvious like under his bed.

“It belongs to my roommate,” I make a mental note to send Tariq’s plug some nice vibrations when I have some free time. I still didn’t get that gagged selfie he promised. “He’s a real geek so a cabin in the woods is not his idea of fun. He’s also a bit tied up at the moment.”

I guide us towards the kitchen where some comfortable-looking chairs are placed around a kitchen island that looks inappropriately modern. “How about this - let’s change in turns while one of us takes care of the dinner.”

Judging by how our little kiss didn’t turn into making out at the very least, I’m taking that you’re not interested in tying me up further. Which is fine by me - all the more chance to get the drop on you for a little payback. I still want revenge for those clothes and I’m sure this place has some surprises hidden for me to use…

Richard:
The combined kitchen, living and dining room make up the largest space, running the full length of the cottage. On one side, big leather sofas flank a picture window giving a great view of jetty and lake; at the kitchen/dining end, a smaller window overlooks the garden and central apple tree.

If it weren’t for the oppressively black storm clouds outside and the bursts of rain peppering the glass, it’d feel light and airy.

“How about this - let’s change in turns while one of us takes care of the dinner.”

I’m already eyeing one comfortable-looking leather settee but realise I can’t sit down until I’ve washed all the grime of the forest off myself and my clothing.

“Ah, I’m going to have to use the shower, babe,” I say, gesturing at the mud streaking my face, torso and dungarees, “I still look like ‘Richard: Portrait of a Serial Killer’.”

Babe. Where did that come from?

“Also, heating up sausage is pretty much the peak of my culinary skills: my wurst is my best.”

Having excused myself from cooking, I take the opportunity to have a closer look at the rest of the gite.

The bedroom is mostly taken up with a king-size bed, and I look forward to collapsing into it but cringe internally at the thought of going anywhere near pristine white bed linen in my current filthy state. All the more reason to hit the shower.

The next door I open is not the bathroom but a large utility/storage closet, housing the boiler with shelves and cupboards doubtless full of household and garden clutter.

There is no bath but a pleasant, white-tiled room includes a perfectly decent shower. I strip off mud-soiled black PVC, hanging my dungarees in the shower itself. Might as well hose those down too. The lederhosen takes longer to remove but I unzip the front flap, undo the little strap around the base of my testes and extract myself from what you charmingly referred to as the “dick window”.

The shorts smell very much of me but are free of actual dirt – successfully protected by my dungarees – so I hang them outside the range of the shower. I retrieve the extra straps from my backpack to thread through the keepers at waist and legs – might as well get assemble the whole thing for tomorrow’s travels.

Your buttplug rolls out of a side pocket and I regard thoughtfully.

Stepping into the steamy spray, I savour the feeling of hot water on well-used muscle and the dark rivulets cascading from both myself and my PVC dungarees, onto the white tiles. The shower gel is an exotic mix of peppermint, cypress and ylang-ylang – fancier than I’d choose for myself but great against the skin. I lather it up, savouring the contrast of white foam against tattoo blackwork and red furring. I take extra care around the thick titanium nipple-rings and rinse well below, front and rear.

When, finally, the water runs clear of mud and soap, I turn the water off and step out to towel myself dry, I feel like a rugby player emerging from a post-match Turkish bath: everything feels clean, refreshed and relaxed, all the detritus of the day washed from me.

“Put your shorts back on,” you call through, “in case someone passes that big-ass window!”

It almost seems a shame to climb back into my lederhosen but the alternative is a towel skirt and I’d feel underdressed in that, what with you at the stove. My cock starts to stir as I push it and my testes through the internal hole – the equivalent of a cock ring – and I hurry to get balls strapped down at the front.

I pause before pulling the zips up and, on impulse, reach for the plug – your plug. We may be done with the bondage play for today but why not enjoy a little bit of Lance-in-my-pants?

It takes a few minutes of experimental positioning, with conscious relaxation, but eventually the plug is in and seated. I’m able to pull the zips up so the leather flap covers my junk, and I buckle the straps at waist and legs. No padlocks: this isn’t chastity, just a nice feeling of security, everything sealed, zipped and strapped up tight, front and back.

On bare feet, I pad back to the living area to see how dinner’s coming along.

To be continued...

Well, I'm sure they'll find stuff to do inside as well.

A quiet evening indoors... Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 12

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
I chuckle at your terrible joke about sausages - though how come a grown, single man like you doesn’t know how to cook?! Truly, a mystery for the ages. I’m not a culinary genius myself but I can at least handle my high-protein low-carb diet enough to sustain myself.

Shaking my head, I remind myself that I am not charmed by your attempts at being cute. You are cute, I’m just not gonna let you use it as an excuse for selfishness, for cooking your own woodland snack (which you didn’t share!) then dumping all the proper food preparation work on me while you guzzle beer.

At the very least, I want to teach you a lesson…

But let’s not set the cart before the horse - I need to make sure I have everything I need at my disposal first: After waiting for you to get in the shower, I enter the single bedroom and start rummaging around. Before long, my search is rewarded with a not-so-secret crate under the bed.

Unfortunately, there are no handcuffs or muzzles - but some interesting sets of outfits, including what appears to be a modified maid costume and a much more appealing latex uniform. I knew my friend had a thing for cosplay but I never thought he’d use his family’s cottage, of all places, to store his outfits.

If I need to put any clothes on, I should keep this in mind. Speaking of Tariq, I check my phone for any messages. Oh, there’s an update: a picture of him, with a sleeping mask and sock gag covering most of his face. Cute. I inform him that we arrived at the cabin and there’s no need to worry for us.

Then, I make a stop at the storage room and it’s considerably more useful for what I have in mind for you. There are fish nets, fishing clothing, stacks of oilcloth, fabric bandages and even some strong-looking straps. I quickly skim through and put aside some stuff I can use along the way.

What next? …oh, right, the dinner! Your shower got quiet and I should whip up something quick if I don’t want you to get suspicious. I make a beeline towards the kitchen and change my own clothes, or strip out of them, rather.

I change into an innocent pair of white calf socks and then throw up a grey and white striped apron on top of that, tightening the strings as much as I can. The apron comes up to the top of my thighs and if my member wasn’t pressed against my abs, it would easily be seen.

Instead, it displays a perky, smooth ass and firm pecs that apron’s neckline is low enough to show.

But I’m not here to (just) show off. I have a meal to prepare.

With mostly cans to work with, I don’t have the luxury to make something fancy. I just boil pasta in a pan while mixing up olive oil, some canned tomatoes, red chilli and garlic in a saucepan.

Hearing you approach, I keep my attention on the stove to not splatter hot oil on myself. “You smell nice,” I hum when you get close. “Dinner’s going to be ready in a while. No wine, unfortunately.” I gave my hips a little shake. “But we have plenty of cake after dinner,” I look over my shoulder and wink.

Richard:
"Mmm," I say, moving in for a sneaky buttock-grope, "looks like my favourite: beefcake."

Not too much nuzzling, though, not when you're dealing with literal hot stuff.

"Tell your roommate it's against French law not to have wine in the house. I think there might be a beer left, though."

I hunt through my hefty backpack. There's just the one bottle left; it's worked its way right to the bottom, so I have to haul everything else out to get at it. Out come the tall rubber boots, the electrician-style shoulder-length rubber gauntlets and all the heavy black PVC: long hooded raincoat, armless (but hooded) raincape, even the weird overmitt things.

"What can I say?" I shrug in response to your quizzical expression, "I hate the rain; rain is the enemy of leather. Also, I assumed you'd bring precisely no practical foul-weather gear."

I dump all the raingear atop one of the big sofas. Last out of my bag is the red and black one-piece suit, in thinner PVC, that you left in the Sixth Circle of Deubel's.

"I kept it," I say lamely, not wanting to admit the reason (because it smelled of you), "but thought you might want it back."

The beer tastes good after my shower and I kick back on the free sofa, enjoying the view in two directions: developing storm outside; smooth, apron-accentuated buttocks inside.

“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage!”

I toast the tempest and inhale the delicious odours of food preparation. My one-man sausage-fest back there in the forest was tasty but I’m effortlessly reviving an appetite.

"Seems like you really have a talent there." I say, settling myself into the comfortable leather upholstery. The buttplug I inserted tickles my prostate, pleasingly.

I take another swig of the last beer and chuckle.

"Better than your roping skills, anyway."

Lance:
I take a quick peek at the obscene amount of rain gear that you pull out of your backpack - which now I understand why it looked like it was about to burst in the first place.

“There can also be beef on the menu if you’re lucky,” I joke, trying not to moan at having your big, rough hand on my butt - it’s always been a sensitive spot for me and I’m still more than a bit hot under the (leather) collar from my exhibitionist attire.

You’re right about my rain clothes, though. My collection starts and ends with a clear rain jacket. “It is just as useful as it’s practical,” I explain. “As I can wear next to nothing under it and still be protected.”

Speaking of gear… that suit is also a nice surprise. I try to think up a way to thank you for dragging it all the way here, maybe bury our hatchets after a good dinner but then –

You just have to push my buttons.

It’s no secret that I can’t tie a knot as expertly as you and need to get a little help from dedicated bondage gear to subdue you. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy you holding this against me! Especially when you scoffed all the beer and sausage yourself and now I’m cooking for both of us.

You’re asking for a good ass whooping - no, a challenge! Resisting the urge to hit you on the head with a pan full of boiling sauce, I turn down the heat and face you, crossing my arms under my mostly bare pecs.

“Oh yeah? If my roping skills are sooo inadequate, how about we have a bet?” I walk towards you. “Let me test my skills on you. We don’t have any actual bondage gear here so it will be pure skill.”

I sit on your lap, straddling your hips. Hah, these leather shorts really hide nothing about how excited you are. “If you can’t manage to escape under half an hour, I win and take the bed tonight.” I offer, leaving out where he will sleep. “And if you win, eh, you can take both the bed and me.”

I wait for a short while for your brain to come up with all the ideas you can do to me on a nice bed. “What do you say, old man?” I flash a brazen grin. “You’re up for it?”

To be continued...

Oooh, what's he planning?? Are we getting some classic @Straitjacketed rain gear ultrabondage?

These chapters are coming fast and furious! I love it!

And I'm so conflicted on how I want this bet to end up...

Galloping to the end! Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 13

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
I roll my eyes. After a long day of playing slightly different roles according to situational requirements - Brutal Top, Serial Killer - a sizeable part of me isn't keen on playing Houdini and just yearns for gentler, simpler basics: food, fucking, feather-pillowed slumber.

Buuuut.

There's always another part that perks up at the prospect of bondage, especially in the form of a challenge. Okay, maybe not the most exacting of challenges - I know you can't tie a knot I can't untie or slip - but, even so, can I definitely free myself in 30 minutes?

That's probably plenty of time. Even if it isn't and it takes me longer, when I do escape, I'm going to come for the bed and you anyway. What are you going to do? Barricade the bedroom?

I stall for time a little.

"Hey, I'm not saying you do a bad job - some of your roping is perfectly serviceable - but you're still an amateur; at least some of the time I'm humouring you.”

A little beer-disinhibited, I wave the bottle for emphasis.

“If I was truly going all-out to escape, and you didn't have a load of specialist lockable gear, well, there's no way you could stop me."

You won't drop the challenge idea and I'm coming around to it. If nothing else, it'll be a chance to demonstrate my technical superiority with grace.

Or maybe grace is off the menu.

"You seriously want a challenge? Okay. Let's say you get to tie me up using anything - so long as it doesn't lock and it isn't actually designed for restraint. Seriously, bust a gut, give me everything you've got, your best shot at a no-escape tie-up. I swear you will not - cannot - hold me. You’re an amateur.”

I fold my arms.

Lance:
Hearing that you were going easy on me didn’t cheer me up - neither attributing any wins I have over you to equipment. “Then you have no reason to chicken out,” I tease, getting up from your lap and giving you another view of my bare buttocks.

You’re not unattractive when boasting… but I won’t go easy on you just because of that!

“Deal. I promise I won’t lock you nor use any fancy toys I brought.” That much is not a lie. Not only do I not have anything that would make or break this bet for me, I don’t want them to be exposed to… moisture.

I turn my back to hide the wicked grin creeping up to my face. “Give me a few minutes, I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Of course, I already gathered the stuff I was planning to use on you: a shiny nylon cycling suit of Tariq’s, a large sponge, bandage, duct tape, tent straps, your own rubber gloves, rain boots, the PVC overmitts, dungarees, coat and cape and even a bright yellow oilskin rain hat I found in the storage room! Admittedly, the last one is to embarrass you more than anything.

But since I don’t need to waste time collecting these, I instead use my time to dress in one of the costumes Tariq has stashed. So, when I walk back with a duffel bag full of improvised bondage goodies, I’m fully dressed in a cop uniform.

At least, an appropriation of a cop uniform. A black rubber version: I have knee-high boots, tight pants with white stripes on the sides and a short-sleeved shirt. A chunky belt and fingerless gloves complete my assemble, along with aviator glasses and a classic Muir cap.

“No handcuffs, as promised,” I leave the bag on the floor. “So, we’re doing this the hard way. Give me your hands.”

Richard:
While you're away, I relax, swallow another mouthful of beer and watch the drifts of rain buffet the window. It's nasty out there.

You're back quicker than I expect and what you're wearing makes my jaw drop. Quite literally: it takes me a moment to realise I'm gaping, open-mouthed.

"What did... where did you...?"

I like it. I like it a lot.

My mouth is dry and my shorts are suddenly uncomfortably constricting, shower-fresh cock straining in its folded-up, strapped-down, zipped-up leather prison. Immediately, I regret adding the waist and leg straps and fastening everything up so tightly; one hand instinctively drops to my belt, fingers itching to release myself in every sense.

"You wear that... well."

It comes out sounding backhanded – the alcohol has eroded my wit – but the compliment is genuine. I'm just surprised because I've genuinely never envisaged you looking so... toppy.

I don't even register the bag you're carrying.

“No handcuffs, as promised - so we’re doing this the hard way. Give me your hands.”

"My...?"

So seriously hot are you in that outfit that I've temporarily forgotten our context: the challenge. Oh yeah. I shake my head, trying to clear the visual distraction.

Get a grip, Richard, I remind myself, Lance may look the part, but he lacks the skill set; this won't take long.

Yeah. This is basically you indulging in a little pre-dinner foreplay. Cosplay foreplay.

And a little light bondage. Not a problem. Whatever you tie me in I'll be out in time to eat. Then we can jump into that gorgeous bed, and I can more fully enjoy this new and exciting incarnation: Latex Lance.

"Fine, fine. Have at it."

I take a final slug of beer, put the empty bottle aside and, still sitting, offer you my hands. As you reach to take them, I dodge your grip and make a sudden grab for both pecs. They bulge amazingly under the taut rubber of your police shirt, piercings looking particularly fine, and I can’t help but go for the grope.

"Hahah," I grin, hands up in mock-surrender, "only joking."

I stop teasing and, this time, present my wrists for real… but I can't resist a final little taunt that I know gets to you.

"Let's get this done, boy."

Lance:
I smirk, knowing fully well that my attire would do it for you. Not that I don’t enjoy it but your dumbfounded expression definitely makes it easier to forget about the too-tight pants.

Also, it’s a great bonus if it helps you to drop your guard and makes you more easily go along with being my bondage mannequin.

I bite back a moan when you fondle my firm, latex-clad pecs, stimulating my nipples. With my manhood already hard and ready to blow in my pants, that’s a dangerous move. Even willingly submitting to me, I shouldn’t underestimate your effect on me. One part of me wants to intentionally do a sloppy job, haphazardly tape your arms and mouth with tape so that you can free yourself in minutes, starting a “captured cop” roleplay on me…

But I’m not going to offer myself on a silver platter. You’re going to have to earn this bad cop. And that “boy” is pushing my buttons.

So, I begin with thick rubber gloves, fastening them with press studs around your wrists. Then, I have you wear waterproofs mittens - those are fastened with both straps and a generous amount of thick PVC tape.

“Don’t give me that look,” I complain. “This isn’t bondage tape - it’s not made for restraining people.” As I crouch and make you wear your own rain boots, I comment with a slap on your pale thighs. “Though, with how you’re built, it’s fitting for you. You’re more of a brick house than a man.” As they say: flattery gets you anywhere.

“It’s a shame to cover these babies,” I tape your pecs as a comeback. “But put this on now, please.” I pass you a nylon cycling suit from Tariq’s stash, pitch black and with full coverage from neck to ankles. “Or do you need my help now that your fingers are out of commission?”

Richard:
My tongue is still hanging out like a Looney Tunes character, and I barely even notice what you're doing with my hands until the long rubber gauntlets are on and you're pushing them right up my arms.

"Hey, these are mine!" I exclaim, as if my previous 'anything so long as it doesn't lock and isn't designed for restraint' excluded my own equipment. Of course it didn't, and I accept that with a grunt.

"These are electricians' gloves," I tell you, going stream-of-consciousness as I try to yank my alcohol-intensified gaze back from your own highly distracting appearance, "thick enough to protect against shocks".

Not quite on a par with your own shiny covering.

"Better use electrical tape on them, then," you smirk, picking up my roll of thin, super-sticky, waterproof insulating tape and winding several rounds at wrist level so the long gloves are a tighter fit, tight enough that they won’t come off, "this isn't bondage tape - it's not made for restraining people".

I wiggle my fingers, satisfying myself that there are no problems with circulation.

You then add the peculiar black PVC mitten things that I'd planned to make you wear with the cape.

"I got these from a Swedish rainwear company," I ramble, attention still in freefall (I mean, I can smell that latex uniform on you, mixed with your own pheromones and it's occupying all my headspace), "I don't know what they're for". You fasten the wrist-straps up tightly.

When you take up a larger roll of wider PVC tape and begin winding that around my now-mitted wrists, I finally start managing to focus on something other than LATEX UNIFORM LANCE and throw you a "heyyy WTF?!" look.

You remind me that this tape, too, is designed for heavy-duty jobs around the house - and therefore legitimate in our challenge. Hmph.

"It looks like I should be doing the cooking, at least some baking," I grumble, miming taking a cake out of the oven with what now look like a set of fetish-themed oven gloves. I suppose I should be grateful you haven't extended the tape right up onto the skin and hair of my arms and shoulders. Small mercies.

"Or maybe I'm a lobster now, which means... WATCH OUT FOR NIPS!"

I start to make another grab for your latex-wrapped nipples but you're in there first, slapping tape over mine.

"Ughh," I grunt, having to squeeze my chin against my chest so I can look downward. Behind the straps of my lederhosen, my titanium rings are now covered in black duct tape.

I don’t have much of chance to contemplate this. The black rubber boots are mine and although they're a snug fit, it isn't hard to get my feet into the tall shafts and properly seated. They have thick, corrugated rubber soles, so one doesn't slip on wet surfaces.

“Put this on now, please - or do you need my help now that our fingers are out of commission?”

I beam you an "O RLY" glance. Of course I can fucking dress myself - I still have working thumbs and my fingers, while muffled by rubber and now PVC, can still be used to pincer-grab - (my LATEXUNIFORMLANCE-befuddled mind hasn't yet begun to apply all of this to the prospect of a serious escape challenge).

"I suppose this must be your roommate’s," I say, examining the thin garment, somehow both credibly sporty and fetishy, "is it going to fit? At least it's my colour".

It's harder than I think getting the leg-openings of the suit over my rubber boots and the nylon fits a little closely over my "brick house" thighs but the fabric is stronger than it looks; it isn't going to rip or burst.

I manage to get my arms into it and shrug my shoulders inside but do end up needing your help with the zip. As you go to fasten it, I dodge away for a second, out of your reach.

"Just humouring you," I say, “amateur.” I know this winds you up.

"So," I say when the glossy nylon suit is zipped up to my neck and the cuffs hide the tape over the wrists of my oven-glove pincers, "the challenge is to escape from... this?"

To be continued...

blackbound wrote: 9 months ago Oooh, what's he planning?? Are we getting some classic @Straitjacketed rain gear ultrabondage?

*innocent face*

More indoor fun... Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 14

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
“If you don’t want me to play with your toys, don’t leave them lying around,” I say, channelling the best impression of my dad.

Since I circumvent my own rules by my choice of tape, I take particular enjoyment from taping your nipples - that’s what you get for playing with my chest before I ask you to! Still, the cycling suit is not a bad look on you. Sure, it covers you but it does very little to hide your bulk and it’s actually hot how the glossy material wraps around your muscles.

Sighing, I pull down the brim of my cap to hide my blush. Great. Now I think shiny waterproofing is hot. I’m turning into you.

“I can arrest you for attempted assault of an officer, you know,” I say while zipping you up. Breaking the role for a minute, I add. “I found a load of useful stuff in the storage room. As you can see…” I peek out from the window where the trees are barely visible from the heavy rainfall. “… it can get wet around these parts.”

“This is just your bondage base suit,” I explain in response to your question about the escape challenge, “I’m barely starting.”

Before continuing, I reinforce where Tariq’s cycle suit meets with your gloves and boots with more sticky black electrical tape, along with taping over your neck zipper. At least, as much as I can without actually winding tape around your neck - I’m enraged but I’m not trying to kill you. Though, I might if you keep up the verbal jabs.

Better fix this.

“Alright old man, I’m revoking your ‘yapping your mouth’ privileges.” I show you the lozenge-shaped sponge, free of noxious cleaning fluids (I checked) but big enough to clean a family car – and certainly big enough to fill your maw. “Open up. And if you resist, I’m using Gorilla Tape all around your lower face so keep still.”

If you comply, I’ll just stuff the sponge between your lips. If you don’t, I’m fully prepared to tackle you down and do it by force.

Either way, after you’re silenced for good, I seal the sponge inside by wrapping no less than 15 rounds of tape around your head. It’s thick, wide and has a shiny black colour. As I gag you well, I explain that this is a silicone adhesive tape that sticks to itself. It’s for repairing leaking pipes so no breaking rules here. It also doesn’t stick to hair, meaning your gorgeous red beard is not only safe but completely waterproof.

“Almost done,” I take out some heavy-duty, adjustable canopy straps. “You can sit with this one.”

Richard:
The glistening nylon suit is much thinner than my heavy PVC raingear; it seems like something a bicyclist or sportsman might wear on a wet day, as opposed to my own deep sea trawlerman attire. It's clearly intended to fit a less bulky frame and the fabric feels slippery against my skin but I'm pleased that it's not as restrictive as my industrial-weight waterproofs. This suit is tight, sure, but otherwise it’s almost like wearing pyjamas.

When you stick sleeves to mitts and trouser legs to boots, a part of my brain registers that the tape you're using isn't mine and apparently not yours either. Is it some kind of heavy-duty stuff, meant for gardening/boating repairs?

A yet more distant part of my brain registers that if it covers me entirely, even a thin onesie-like suit will be enough to prevent me getting at the penknife in the side pocket of my lederhosen…

The revoking of "yapping mouth privileges" is a curve ball. I haven't been in any kind of headspace for a serious tie-up but if I had been, I'd have been counting on my teeth to find an edge of tape on my now gloved-and-mitted-up hands so I could start the process of unwinding it all and freeing myself.

I'm starting to pay a liiittle more attention to the warning signs but there's still a significant short-circuit of my higher functions, with much cerebral activity bypassing my neocortex and heading straight for my cock.

If I were in a fit state for self-analysis, I might reason that it isn't simply a modicum of alcohol or the sensory delight of your athletic form highlighted in shiny, glossy black but also the revelation of you in uniformed authoritarian garb... and (whisper it) me not.

So, yes. I consider dodging that sponge and making another grapple for you. The thought flickers across my eyes and I see it reflected in yours (enhanced by that sexy-as-Hell rubberised Muir cap pulled low): I know you're fully prepared for whatever resistance I might offer.

Do I really want to be on the receiving end of your suddenly semi-convincing toppiness?

Fuck it, I don't want to break the mood - I still don't take Lance-as-dom entirely seriously but the image before me is almost hypnotically hot - so I merely fix your stare with a defiant glare of my own, a battle of eye contact.

"You know you're going to pay for all this, don’t you? Boy."

A last lick of the lips (moving stray moustache hairs aside) and I do open up, continuing to give you concentrated stink-eye as you pack the enormous sponge into my mouth. It looks too big but compresses in your gloved grip. You pack it sideways so it fills cheeks as well as oral cavity and, to my surprise, you're able to get it all in. I grunt-growl in what I hope is a threatening manner and it comes out more muffled than intended; the mouth-stuffer is effective in absorbing sound as well as saliva.

You mutter something while you're wrapping a mile of some other tape around my lower face. Silicone? Leaking pipes? My pipe is leaking, down there in my lederhosen, beneath my glossy black nylon "fetish pyjamas"...

When did you learn so much about sodding tape?!

I'd make some "Master Lance, Deadly Duct-Tape Dom" crack at this point, if I could.

The circling of my lower face seems to go on forever and the little nugget of my mind keeping track of such things notes that you're varying the direction of the taping, so as well as wrapping horizontally, you're going diagonally upward on either side of my nose. It occurs to me that that might make it harder to push the mouth-stuffing out over the top edge of the tape or work the whole thing downwards by pushing my jaws apart.

"Hnnnmggh nhh nnghh," I say experimentally, when you're finally done.

Instinctively, my hands go up to check out the gag - to see what kind of a job you did, to find a loose end or weakness at the back, to check how easily I might push it out or it down the way - but my covered-up fingers aren't feeding me tactile information the way they ought to.

I roll my eyes again when you produce some kind of strapping and make a quizzical "hhnhh?!" noise.

Where did those come from?

Lance:
“Yeah, yeah.” I dismiss your threat, though I actually wouldn’t mind seeing what you’ll have in mind. If it’s something harsh, I can’t imagine what kind of death plans you’ll conduct once I’m done with you. Though, you don’t need to know that just yet.

Despite my outfit, it’s obvious that you’re still seeing me as a sub dressing up as a bondage master. Well, a bondage master I am not but I still have confidence that you won’t be going anywhere if I can successfully tie you up with the advantage of being underestimated on my side (and an equivalent overestimation of your own abilities).

I approach you with the straps but then I stop. “Oh wait, I can’t use these.” Waiting for relief to show on your face, I make my way to your bag and pull out your rain gear. “I still haven’t finished dressing you up.”

This time, I do most of the work when manhandling you inside PVC dungarees and matching knee-length raincoat. I rather push my luck with these after you’re not in a position to resist but then I won’t be able to guide your limbs inside the sleeves/legs at all. And hey, maybe you won’t mind wearing them now that you’re already on your way to becoming a raingear model.

After you’re fully dressed, I kneel on the ground and look up. “Come on, sit by me. I don’t want you to fall flat on your face while I’m tying your legs.” A legitimate security concern that my 15 minutes of googling BDSM info online provided me, you have to be sitting for my designated position.

Of course, you wouldn’t budge if I tried to push you down but I have a feeling that you’ll comply more easily if my face is on your crotch level.

There, I use the straps to start tying you up. First, I take care of your ankles. With ratchets to cinch the straps after I’m finished with them. Then, I tie the excess straps around your thighs. After that, it’s only a matter of pulling the straps until your boots are touching the back of your thighs and you’re sitting on the floor with your knees pulled up to your chest. Of course, I add another strap under and above your knees to tie your legs to each other.

“How are you? All this padding should make the floor easier to sit on.” I chuckle when you naturally only answer in the form of a muffled grunt.

“Now it’s about time I tie up your hands. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you and bind them in front of you.”

Richard:
"Oh wait, I can't use these."

Great. As I thought. Now let's get this game of dress-up over and done with: I wait for you to pick up the rope, do a decent-ish job with that - let's give it an advance score of 6/10 - then I'll do a bit of wrestling in your tie (some of it genuine, some of it not), escape (probably in 30 minutes, possibly not) and we can get on with our evening.

"I still haven't finished dressing you up."

I grunt-growl into my mouthful of sponge and roll my eyes like they've never rolled before - buuut you're still on the right side of 'anything so long as it doesn't lock and isn't designed for restraint'. Obviously, I hadn't expected this much messing around with surprise fetish outfits produced from God Knows Where... but okay, I'm going to humour you.

This particular outfit, however, is very much my own doing. It’s the aforementioned industrial-weight waterproofs.

I sigh, inwardly.

My own dungarees (not long drip-dried) have trousers wide enough to fit over my rubber boots and the looser PVC slides easily over my figure-hugging nylon cycle suit. You're at hand to fasten the clasps of the over-the-shoulder braces then you hold my raincoat open like a matador, to enable me to thrust my mitted arms into the sleeves.

You sort of take over and, well, I sort of let you. You obviously reckon making me wear a load of heavy rain clothing is going to stop me struggling out of your rope. In fact, you're going to be the one struggling to get rope to "grip" the smooth, slippery surface of my raincoat... so yes, I'm happy to play along with Amateur Hour.

When you've got the front of my raincoat snap-fastened up to my neck and the drawstring hood sitting back on my shoulders, it occurs to me that pretty much all of the taping of gloves, mitts and boots is hidden and to any casual onlooker - especially if we passed one another in the storm currently raging outside – it’d just seem like I was excessively well prepared for the French summer.

Even where my face is concerned, it would take only a small adjustment of the raincoat's high collar to conceal your mouth-taping – and if the hood were fully up and pulled tight, the only thing visible would be my eyes.

Let's just store all of that away, mentally, for a future scene, when our positions are reversed and I'm making you sweat it out in public. Yeah, I think, I'll pick a sunny hike and watch you literally lose your cool...

“Come on, sit by me. I don’t want you to fall flat on your face while I’m tying your legs.”

You're doing legs first? Weird, but okay. Sitting pushes the plug further into me and I have to resist the impulse to cry out or to smack you with an oven-mitt.

Those straps, ratcheting shut. Having never clapped eyes on these before the past half hour, I don't know how they open and close. I hope there isn't some locking mechanism... I envisage dragging myself to the knife drawer, having to cut the damn things off.

"Hnnffff!" I grunt, when you force my ankles against my backside and my knees up against my chest. I’m pretty flexible, given my build, but feel weirdly folded-up this way – and your crack about "padding" is not appreciated.

“Now it’s about time I tie up your hands. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you and bind them in front of you.”

Hmm, if were going to resist, now would be the time... but your promise of hands-in-front makes me relax. It is, when all is said and done, still Amateur Hour where your bondage skills are concerned.

My hands are key to getting out of all this. I'm pretty confident that if I can get them to my mouth, then I can find a tape-end, either on my wrists or in the round-the-mouth taping. Even if the tape-ends aren't easy to locate, I'm going to be able to paw at my face enough to dislodge something and then, well, it's a matter of time.

In a show of mock-obedience, I hold my mitted hands in front of my face, crossed with a hidden gap between. This means you won't manage to get the ropes properly tight, and slack will be created.

Then, I plan to slip the binding, get one or both wrists to my head and paw/chew until something gives. Either I'll push the gag-tape far enough down my face to spit the sponge out or I'll scratch at the wrist-taping until I have enough of an end to wedge between boot sole and floor so I can unwind enough to get the gloves and mitts off.

Hell, maybe I can just wrench hard enough at the wrist tape to break it. It's fair to say I have a muscle or two.

Okay, so even with my level of experience in getting free, I now think it could take me longer than 30 minutes to escape (maybe that's your strategy: wrapping me up like Pass The Parcel isn’t meant to be Houdini-proof but so much as time-consuming) but escape I will - and when I do, I am coming for you, ready or not...

To be continued...

Pride, or overconfidence, goeth before a fall (and phall)...

I'll see myself out.

I love how flustered both of them get looking at each other in their outfits! And Richard's mild condescension about Lance's bondage skills, getting cut off by the impressive gag- perfect!