Stories of Tie Up Games

That was hot and unrelenting. Wonder if he'll be back! (He'll be back)

Chapter 11

The alley air is cold and sharp as you stumble out of my apartment, your shirt and pants barely clinging to your bruised, battered body.

The marks of my ropes, my spit, and my belt are still raw on your skin, your legs shaky from the ordeal. You’re barely a block away, the city’s hum drowning out your uneven steps, when a black van screeches to a stop beside you.

Before you can react, three beefy men in black ski masks leap out, their muscular frames looming like shadows. One grabs your arms, wrenching them behind you with a grip like iron, while another slaps a chloroform-soaked rag over your face, the chemical burn flooding your senses. You struggle, but your weakened body gives out, and everything goes black.

You wake in a cold, damp basement, the air thick with the smell of mold and motor oil. The floor is rough concrete, stained with dark patches. You’re stripped naked, your body shivering, and you realize you’re bound tight.

They’ve used heavy-duty plastic wrap, wound around your torso and arms, pinning them to your sides like a mummy, the material sticking to your skin, restricting every breath.

A metal rod gag is jammed in your mouth, the cold steel pressing against your tongue, drool pooling as they’ve buckled it painfully tight.

The three men—let’s call them Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie—circle you, their masks hiding their faces, but their eyes gleam with sadistic intent.

Alpha, the biggest, with a barrel chest and tree-trunk arms, steps forward, his voice muffled but cruel. “Ian says you’re a tough little bitch. Let’s test that.”

You are not sure if Ian told them your preferences, or if they care.

Alpha grabs a sandpaper block, rough and gritty, and drags it across your feet, the abrasive surface scraping your skin raw, tiny cuts blooming. You jerk against the restraint, but the plastic wrap holds you like a vice.
Bravo, leaner but just as mean, pulls out a handheld stun gun, its crackle loud in the quiet. He jabs it into your side, the electric jolt searing through you, your muscles seizing as you scream into the gag.
Charlie laughs and puts his fingers down your throat.

They take turns, each one escalating, torturing you for hours. You don't even remember all the details. At one point, Alpha ties a thin cord around your cock, pulling it tight, the pressure agonizing, then flicks it with his fingers, each snap making you buck.

They leave you like that for hours, shivering, bound, and raw, the basement’s silence broken only by your muffled groans and their occasional laughter.

The next day, you wake to a kick in the ribs, Alpha’s boot leaving a dull ache.
They unwrapped the plastic wrap from you, but they’ve rebound you in a new setup. They’ve strung you up by your wrists with thick manila rope, hoisted to a ceiling hook, your toes barely touching the ground, your shoulders screaming. Your legs are spread, each ankle tied to a concrete block with coarse twine, the fibers cutting into your skin, the weight making every shift painful.

They’ve swapped the bit gag for a ring gag, forcing your mouth open, your jaw aching, drool dripping onto your chest.

“Day two, fucker,” Bravo growls. “Let’s see how you hold up.”

They start with a new torture: Alpha grabs a bundle of nettles, fresh and stinging, and brushes them across your back, the tiny barbs sinking into your skin, each touch a fiery itch that spreads like wildfire.

You thrash, the ropes and twine cutting deeper, but there’s no escape.
Charlie pulls out pumps, attaching it to your nipples, the suction brutal, stretching them until they’re swollen and throbbing. Bravo, meanwhile, grabs a skewer, and hits your inner thigh with it, the pain searing.

You scream through the ring gag, your voice hoarse.

The morning of the third day in the basement is cold, the air heavy with the stench of mold, chemicals, and your own sweat. You’re asleep with your hands zip tied to your back, aching from hours in the position.

Alpha and Bravo are nowhere to be seen, but Charlie, stocky and broad with his black ski mask, looms in front of you, his muscular frame filling the space, his camo pants and tight black shirt reeking of sweat.

He kneels, his eyes glinting through the mask’s holes. He slaps your face and you gasp. He doesn’t remove the zip ties, keeping you helpless, but his touch shifts—less brutal, more deliberate.

He cups your chin, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle, and leans in close, his breath warm and slightly sour. “Fuck, you’re still gorgeous, even like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost tender. He presses his lips to yours, the kiss warm and slow, his tongue slipping into your mouth, exploring with a hunger that’s both possessive and careful.

It’s intense, his lips soft but firm, tasting faintly of tobacco, and you can’t help but lean into it, your bound body trembling under his touch. He pulls back, his thumb brushing your cheek, smearing a streak of dirt. “Let’s talk, pretty boy. I wanna know what makes you tick.”

He sits cross-legged in front of you, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh, the contact electric against your bruised skin. “Tell me what you’re into,” he says, his tone curious but edged with that sadistic glint. “Ian didn’t give us shit to work with, so I’m guessing here.”

You’re hesitant, your jaw aching from the ring gag they used yesterday, but his gaze is steady, almost coaxing. You admit, voice hoarse, that you’re not really into the heavy degradation they’ve been piling on. “It’s not my thing,” you say, shifting against the zip ties, the plastic cutting deeper. “I’m more of a brat. I like fighting back, being forced. The lack of control, getting overpowered—that’s what gets me going.”
You feel exposed, admitting it while bound and vulnerable, but Charlie’s eyes light up, a slow grin spreading under his mask.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he says, leaning closer, his hand resting on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you flinch. “A brat, huh? I can work with that.”
He pauses, his gaze raking over your body, lingering on the welts and burns. “Me? I’m a sadist through and through. I love breaking guys like you—watching you squirm, hearing you scream, knowing I’m the one making you feel it all. But you…”
He trails his fingers up your chest, brushing a welt on your shoulder, making you hiss. “You’re something else. So fucking pretty, so tough. I’m into you, man. Been hard as a rock since we grabbed you.” His voice is raw, obsessive, and his hand slides to your neck, squeezing lightly, not enough to choke but enough to remind you he’s in control.

He leans in again, kissing you deeper this time, his tongue possessive, claiming your mouth as his hand tightens on your neck. The kiss is hot, messy, his stubble scraping your lips, his breath mixing with yours. He pulls back, panting slightly, and smirks. “You’re gonna hate me for this, but you’re gonna love it too, brat.”

Charlie stands, his movements deliberate, and grabs a coil of thin steel wire from a nearby crate, its surface glinting. He doesn’t untie the zip ties but adds to them, wrapping the wire around your biceps, pulling it tight until it bites into your skin, forcing your arms even closer together behind your back.

The pain is sharp, the wire unyielding, and you squirm, your bratty instincts kicking in. He kneels again, his hands roaming your chest, fingers tracing the marks, pressing just hard enough to reignite the pain. “Fuck, you look good like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, and he kisses you again, slower, his lips lingering, his tongue teasing yours, a strange mix of care and cruelty.

He pulls back, grabbing a new tool—a set of small metal clamps, each with tiny teeth, designed for precision pain. He attaches them to your inner thighs, close to your cock, the teeth sinking in, the pressure sharp and relentless.
You gasp, your body jerking, but he strokes your cheek, almost soothing, his touch obsessive. “Take it for me,” he whispers, his eyes locked on yours, and he clamps another onto your nipple, the pain searing, your cry making his grin widen.

He leans down, licking the clamped nipple, his tongue warm and wet, the contrast driving you wild, your body torn between pain and unwanted arousal.

He stands, undoing his pants, his cock hard and thick, already leaking. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, and kisses you again, his lips bruising, his tongue forcing its way in, claiming you.

Then he moves behind you, his hands gripping your hips, digging into your bruised skin. “Gonna fuck you so good,” he growls, his voice dripping with obsession, and he spits on his hand, smearing it over your ass, the act both degrading and intimate.

He pushes into you, slow at first, savoring your resistance, your bratty squirming making him groan. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, his hands sliding up your back, pressing on the wire, making it cut deeper as he thrusts harder, his cock filling you, the intrusion raw and overwhelming.

He’s sadistic but careful, his movements controlled, each thrust deliberate, hitting deep, his hands roaming your body, groping your chest, pinching the clamps to make you scream when he kisses your back, his lips warm and possessive.

He pulls back, panting, and grabs a small whip—thin leather strips, designed to sting. He flicks it across your chest, the lashes biting, reigniting every burn.

“Fight me, brat,” he taunts, his voice low and hot, and you do, struggling against the wire and zip ties, the pain amplifying your defiance, which only makes him harder.

He goes back to your back, thrusts faster, his hands gripping your shoulders, nails carving crescents into your skin, his breath ragged against your neck as he bites you, not hard enough to break skin but enough to mark you as his.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice obsessive, his thrusts brutal yet laced with that strange care, like he’s savoring every reaction, every shudder. He finishes inside you, his grip tightening, a low moan escaping him as he presses his forehead to your back, his hands stroking your sides almost tenderly.

He pulls out, still panting, and kneels in front of you again, his mask slightly askew, revealing a glimpse of his flushed, stubbled jaw. He kisses you once more, soft and lingering, his fingers brushing your cheek, the clamps still biting into your skin.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs, his tone obsessive, almost reverent. He doesn’t untie you, leaving the wire, zip ties, the clamps still pinching.

“Don’t tell Ian I got soft on you,” he says, his voice half-joking, half-threatening, as he adjusts his mask and stands. He leaves you there, your body throbbing from the mix of pain and his possessive touch, the basement silent except for your labored breathing.

Hours later, Alpha and Bravo return, and the ordeal continues. They’ve rebound you again, this time in a kneeling position on the concrete, your knees grinding into the rough surface. They use industrial zip ties, cinching your wrists and elbows behind your back, the plastic so tight it feels like it’s slicing through you. Your ankles are bound to a spreader bar, forcing your legs apart, the metal bar heavy and unyielding.

Alpha kneels in front of you, removes your gag, and forces his cock in, rough and unrelenting, his hands gripping your head, thrusting deep as you choke. Bravo and Charlie take turns, each one violating you, their hands groping your bruised body, pinching and twisting your skin, leaving fresh marks.

The rest of the day is a blur of pain—Alpha uses a leather strap, whipping your back until it’s raw, each hit a dull, crushing blow. They also attach a shock collar around your neck, zapping you randomly, the jolts making you convulse against the ties. Charlie forces you to endure a final assault, tying a cord around your balls, pulling it tight, and using a small wooden mallet to tap your balls, the impacts precise and excruciating.

By the third night, you’re barely holing up, your body trembling, the zip ties and spreader bar keeping you locked in place. They cut you free, the plastic snapping, and drag you back to the van, tossing you inside like a sack.

They drive you to your street, dumping you in an alley, your naked body bruised and burned. “Tell anyone, and we’ll find you again,” Alpha growls, his mask still on. “Ian won’t save you next time.” They speed off, leaving you shivering in the dark.

Unbeknownst to you, I arranged it all—those three were my boys, hired to break you further, to make you feel utterly helpless, their methods deliberately ignoring your preferences to amplify your suffering. I’m back at my apartment, smirking, knowing you’ll carry the marks of their work, my control over you absolute, even in your “freedom.”

Chapter 12

It’s a chilly evening, a week after your release from the basement ordeal. Life has been usual, nothing too exciting.

Your phone buzzes on your nightstand, and you see a text from an unknown number: “Hey, it’s Charlie. Got a free night. Come over, we’ll chill, watch a movie. We can do some light bondage. No funny business unless you want it. Address below.”

Your pulse quickens, memories of his masked face, his sadistic yet strangely tender touch in the basement flooding back. Despite the lingering bruises, you agree, texting back a quick “Sure, I’m in.”

You head to his place, a rundown apartment in a sketchy part of town, the air outside thick with the scent of rain and asphalt.

Charlie opens the door, no mask this time, his shaved head gleaming under the dim porch light, his stocky, muscular frame filling a tight black tank top and faded jeans.
His grin is wolfish but warm, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of cruelty and obsession.

“Fuck, you showed,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. His apartment is a mess—empty beer cans, a sagging couch, a coffee table, and a faint smell of sweat and leather. A small TV sits in the corner, already queued up with some gritty action flick.
“Sit,” he says, pointing to the couch, his voice low but inviting. You hesitate, your bratty side itching to push him, but you comply, sitting on the worn cushions.

“Hands behind your back,” Charlie orders, grabbing a coil of soft cotton rope from a nearby chair, its fibers smooth but strong. You smirk, playing the brat, and cross your arms instead. “Make me,” you say, your voice teasing.

His eyes darken, and he’s on you in a second, grabbing your wrists with a grip like steel, wrenching them behind you. “Fucking brat,” he growls, but there’s a hint of a smile as he ties the rope, looping it tightly around your wrists, the knots precise, digging just enough to remind you he’s in charge.

He adds another layer, binding your elbows, forcing your shoulders back, the strain making your chest arch slightly. The rope’s soft but unyielding, a perfect mix of comfort and control, and you squirm, testing it, knowing you can’t break free.

He pushes you back onto the couch, sitting close, his thigh pressed against yours, the heat of his body intense. “Movie time,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fingers grazing your neck, possessive but gentle.

He hits play, the TV blaring with explosions and gunfire, but his attention’s on you, his hand sliding down to rest on your chest, thumb brushing your nipple through your shirt, teasingly light. “You look good tied up,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, and he leans in, kissing you softly at first, his lips warm and tasting faintly of beer. The kiss deepens, his tongue slipping into your mouth, slow and claiming, his hand tightening on your neck, not choking but enough to make you feel owned.

The movie plays on, ignored, as Charlie’s kisses grow hungrier, his stubble scraping your jaw. “You’re such a fucking tease,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes burning with that sadistic glint. “Pushing me like that. You know what that does to me.”
You grin, leaning into your bratty side, and mutter, “What’re you gonna do about it?” His laugh is low, dangerous, and he’s off the couch in a flash, grabbing a roll of black duct tape from the coffee table.

He kneels in front of you, ripping off a strip with his teeth, and slaps it over your mouth, pressing hard, the adhesive sticking tight. “Keep that smart mouth shut,” he says, but his fingers linger on your cheek, stroking softly, a tender contrast to the tape’s roughness.

He doesn’t stop there. He grabs more rope, binding your ankles together, the cotton digging into your skin as he knots it tight, then ties them to the couch leg, forcing your legs to stay put.

He straddles you, his weight heavy, pinning you to the cushions, and rips your shirt open, buttons popping. His hands roam your chest, groping hard, his nails digging into your skin, leaving faint red marks.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, his voice thick with obsession, and he leans down, licking a slow stripe up your neck, his tongue hot and deliberate, pausing to bite your earlobe, the sting sharp but thrilling.

He grabs a pair of small metal clips from his pocket—tiny, toothed, and cruel—and attaches them to your nipples, the bite making you jerk against the ropes, your muffled moan vibrating through the tape. He flicks the clips, the pain sharp and electric, but he soothes it with his tongue, licking around them, his touch both cruel and caring, his eyes locked on yours, drinking in your reactions.

Charlie’s breathing grows ragged, his cock hard through his jeans as he grinds against you, the friction rough and teasing. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he growls, his hand sliding to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your pulse race, his thumb stroking your jaw like you’re something precious.

He undoes his pants, freeing his thick cock, already leaking, and rips the tape off your mouth, the sting making you gasp. He kisses you again, hard and possessive, his tongue dominating yours, his hand gripping your hair to hold you in place. “Gonna fuck you now,” he says, his voice low and obsessive, “and you’re gonna take it like the brat you are.”

He cuts the rope on your ankles, turns you around, forces your legs apart, binding each one to a couch leg with more duct tape, the adhesive pulling at your skin.
Your wrists and elbows stay tied, the ropes biting as you squirm, your bratty defiance fueling his hunger.

He spits on his fingers, smearing it over your ass, the act filthy yet intimate, and pushes into you, slow at first, savoring your tightness, his groan low and guttural. “Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs.

He thrusts harder, each movement deliberate, hitting deep, the couch creaking under you. His touch is sadistic but obsessive—he pauses to kiss the back of your neck, his lips soft, his tongue teasing, even as he pounds into you, the mix of pain and care overwhelming.

He grabs a leather paddle from the table, its surface studded with small rivets, and brings it down on your thigh, the impact sharp, the rivets leaving tiny red marks.

“Fight me,” he taunts, and you do, bucking against the ropes, your defiance making him grin. He paddles you again, harder, the sting blooming, but he follows it with a gentle stroke of his hand, soothing the pain, his eyes soft with obsession. “You’re mine,” he whispers, biting your shoulder, his teeth sinking in, marking you as he thrusts faster, his cock relentless, his hands groping your chest, tugging the clips to make you scream. He finishes inside you, his moan raw and possessive, his body shuddering as he presses himself close, his lips brushing your neck, tender even in the aftermath of his cruelty.

Charlie pulls out, panting, and unties the ropes and tape, his hands surprisingly gentle as he massages your wrists, soothing the red marks. He leaves the nipple clips on, though, smirking as you wince.

“You’re too fucking perfect,” he says, his voice soft but obsessive, pulling you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. He kisses you again, slow and warm, his stubble grazing your cheek, his hands stroking your back, careful not to press the paddle marks.

“I could keep you here forever,” he murmurs, his tone half-joking, half-serious, his fingers tracing your jaw. “Love breaking you, but fuck, I love this too—just you, here, with me.” The movie’s long over, the TV looping static, but he doesn’t care, holding you close, his touch a mix of possessiveness and care.

He grabs a blanket from the couch, draping it over you, and lets you lean against him, your body still trembling from the intensity. “Stay the night,” he says, not a question, his hand resting on your thigh, heavy and claiming. “We’ll watch another movie tomorrow… or do this again.”
His grin is sadistic but warm, his obsession clear in the way he watches you, like you’re his and his alone, the night sealing you in his world of twisted affection and control.

Chapter 13

Charlie lifts you off his lap, setting you on the couch with a rough push, your bound wrists making you stumble slightly. “Stay put, brat,” he says.

He heads to the kitchen, a cramped corner with a greasy stove and a sink piled with dishes. He grabs a can of ravioli from a shelf, popping it open with a knife, the metallic clang echoing. He dumps the cold, congealed mess into a chipped bowl, spitting into it for good measure, the glob mixing with the tomato sauce.

He grabs a spoon and stalks back to you, his boots thudding on the floor.
He sits beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours, and rips a strip of duct tape from a roll on the coffee table. “Open,” he orders, but you clamp your mouth shut, playing the brat.

His eyes darken, and he grabs your jaw, squeezing until your lips part, then shoves the spoon in, the cold ravioli and his spit hitting your tongue, the taste metallic and sour.

“Swallow, or I’ll make you choke on it,” he growls, his fingers digging into your cheeks, his other hand tugging the nipple clips to make you wince. You swallow, gagging slightly, and he laughs, feeding you another spoonful, smearing sauce on your lips when you resist.

Your hands, tied behind you, strain against the ropes, the fibers burning your wrists as you squirm, but he’s relentless, forcing every bite down, his touch both cruel and intimate, his eyes locked on yours, drinking in your defiance.

When the bowl’s empty, he wipes the spoon on your face, leaving a streak of sauce, and leans in, licking it off slowly, his tongue hot and deliberate, making you shiver.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, kissing you hard, his lips bruising, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting of ravioli and his own spit. He tapes your mouth shut again, the duct tape sticking tight, sealing in the lingering taste, and pats your cheek, the sting sharp but his fingers lingering, almost tender.

Charlie stands, hauling you to your feet by your bound arms, the ropes cutting deeper as he drags you to the bathroom. He removes the nipple clamps, and you almost tear up.

It’s a grimy closet of a room, the tiles cracked, the showerhead dripping rusty water. He doesn’t untie your wrists, the cotton ropes soaked with sweat, and pushes you into the stall, your bare feet on the slick floor.

“Gotta clean you up, filthy brat,” he says, turning on the water—ice-cold, hitting your bruised skin like needles. You flinch, but he pins you against the wall, his body heavy, his tank top soaking through as he presses against you.

He grabs a bar of soap and scrubs you roughly, his hands roaming your chest, thighs, and crotch, the soap stinging clip welts. His touch is invasive, groping your ass, pinching your raw nipples, but he pauses to kiss your neck, his lips soft, his stubble scraping, a twisted mix of care and cruelty.

He washes your hair, his fingers tangling in it, yanking your head back to rinse it under the cold spray, the water burning your scalp.
“Look at you, all helpless,” he whispers, his voice thick with obsession, and he bites your shoulder, his teeth sinking in, leaving a fresh mark. Your bound hands press against the tiles, unable to fight back, your bratty squirming only making him grin. He shuts off the water, leaving you dripping and shivering, and doesn’t bother with a towel, dragging you back to the living room, your wet skin sticking to the ropes, the cold air raising goosebumps.

Back on the couch, Charlie’s demeanor shifts, the tenderness fading into something darker, more unforgiving. “Time to break you, brat,” he growls, grabbing a black leather bag from under the coffee table. He pulls out a set of steel cuffs, heavier than the ropes, and unlocks them with a menacing click.

He cuts the ropes from your wrists, only to snap the cuffs on, locking them so tight they bite into your raw skin, chaining them to a hook bolted into the ceiling, forcing you to stand, your arms stretched painfully overhead.

He grabs more rope, coarse and splintery this time, and binds your ankles to a spreader bar, spreading your legs wide, the fibers scraping your skin. For a gag, he stuffs a pair of his used socks—rank with days of sweat—into your mouth, the taste bitter and choking, and wraps duct tape around your head, layer after layer, sealing it tight.

He starts with a new toy: a set of small, spiked rollers, like miniature torture wheels. He runs them over your chest, the spikes pricking your skin, each roll leaving a trail of tiny, stinging punctures, especially brutal over the clip marks.

You thrash, the cuffs and spreader bar holding you fast, your muffled screams vibrating through the gag. “Fucking take it,” he snarls, his eyes wild, but he pauses to stroke your cheek, his thumb gentle, his obsession clear in the way he watches you suffer.

He moves the rollers to your inner thighs, the spikes biting deeper, the pain sharp and unrelenting, and you buck, your body trembling, your defiance only fueling his sadism.

Next, he grabs a Taser, its low hum menacing. He presses it to your side, the jolt ripping through you, your muscles seizing, the cuffs cutting into your wrists as you convulse. He does it again, higher, near your ribs, the shock making your vision blur, your screams muffled by the sock and tape. “Love watching you squirm,” he says, his voice low and hot, and he kisses your taped mouth, his lips pressing hard, the precum on his jeans smearing against your thigh as he grinds against you.

He drops the Taser, grabbing a leather whip with knotted ends, and lashes it across your back, each strike a heavy thud, the knots digging into your skin, leaving red welts. He’s unforgiving, each hit precise, but he follows it with a soft touch, his hand soothing the marks, his fingers tracing them like they’re art.

He kneels, undoing his pants, his cock hard and leaking, and dropping lube on his hand, smearing it over your ass. “Gonna fuck you till you break,” he growls, his voice dripping with sadistic lust, but his hand cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as he pushes into you, rough and brutal, his cock filling you, the intrusion raw and overwhelming.

He thrusts hard, the spreader bar keeping you open, the cuffs rattling with each movement. His hands grip your hips, nails carving into your skin, but he leans in, kissing your neck, his lips soft, murmuring, “You’re so fucking perfect,” his obsession bleeding through the cruelty. He whips you again mid-thrust, the pain searing, your body jerking, but he holds you close, his chest pressed to your back, his breath ragged against your ear.

He keeps going, hours blurring into a haze of pain and violation. He gropes you constantly, his hands rough, pinching your raw skin, tugging the nipple clips until you’re trembling.
He fucks you again, this time bending you over the coffee table, your cuffed wrists chained to the legs, your ankles still spread, his thrusts relentless, each one shaking the table. He bites your shoulder, hard, leaving teeth marks, his hands roaming, possessive and cruel, but he whispers,

“You’re mine.” his voice soft, obsessive, his touch a twisted mix of sadism and care.

By 3 AM, you’re a wreck—bruised, welted, your body shaking, the cuffs and tape cutting into you, his cum and spit marking you as his.

Charlie finally stops, his chest heaving, his tank top soaked with sweat.
He’s still hard, his eyes burning with that obsessive glint, but he softens, just a fraction. He unlocks the cuffs, your arms falling limp, and cuts the tape from your mouth, pulling out the sock, your jaw aching, the taste lingering.

He unties the spreader bar, his hands gentle now, massaging your wrists and ankles, soothing the cuts. “Fuck, you took it so well,” he murmurs, pulling you into his lap on the couch, his arms wrapping around you, strong and possessive.

He kisses you, slow and deep, his tongue soft, his stubble grazing your lips, the tenderness a stark contrast to the hours of abuse. He drapes the blanket over you, his hand stroking your back, careful of the welts, and pulls you close, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“You’re staying here,” he says, not a question, his voice low and commanding, but his fingers trace your jaw, soft and reverent. He doesn’t bind you again, trusting you’re too exhausted to fight, but his grip is firm, keeping you pinned to him. You both drift off, the TV still buzzing static, the apartment quiet except for his soft snores and your ragged breathing.
The blanket traps the heat of his body, his scent—sweat, whiskey, and leather—enveloping you, his arm heavy across your chest, a reminder of his control even in sleep.

When morning comes, the light creeps through the blinds, and you wake still in his lap, your body aching, the welts and clip marks throbbing.

Charlie stirs, his eyes heavy but warm, and he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering. “Morning, bro,” he says, his voice hoarse, his hand sliding to your thigh, possessive but gentle. He doesn’t let you go right away, holding you there, his touch a mix of obsession and care, the night’s sadism etched into your skin, his control absolute even in the quiet dawn.




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This is where I vision the story to end. But I will check comments often and feel free to let me know if you have any thoughts or critiques. Thanks for reading my first stories here. I was inspired by so many amazing writers here

Great story and a great ending! Perhaps amusingly, the cold ravioli were the worst thing for me to read about...

blackbound wrote: 3 weeks ago Great story and a great ending! Perhaps amusingly, the cold ravioli were the worst thing for me to read about...

Hahaha, that’s very funny bro. Out of curiosity what’s your favorite part?

Gaybondage wrote: 3 weeks ago

blackbound wrote: 3 weeks ago Great story and a great ending! Perhaps amusingly, the cold ravioli were the worst thing for me to read about...

Hahaha, that’s very funny bro. Out of curiosity what’s your favorite part?

The entire Rex treatment, from the contest to the end.