Stories of Tie Up Games

Wrapping up... Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 15

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
I have to give it to you, I don’t know many guys who can be so tightly gagged and still have a look of smug superiority on their faces. But as I add more and more straps, I begin to see flickers of doubt appearing. Better take care of this quickly, then.

With your current position, I doubt you can escape without me wrestling you into a more secure tie-up but without your cooperation, it’ll surely be a sloppy job (and not the kind I like to give…).

Before getting to your hands, I bring out my leather H-harness and strap in on you. It’s normally a snug fit and with your large chest swathed in bulky raingear, it’s even harder to put on, but it’ll give me a much-needed handhold to work with. Then, I use the D-ring in front of the harness to thread the ratchet straps and connect to the strapping around your legs, effectively attaching your legs to your chest.

From there, I only need to strap your hands in front of you - using the same technique I used on your legs. Here, I know I have to be a lot more careful. I didn’t use any locks so one mistake and you can easily undo all my hard work.

Hence, I make sure to tighten makeshift cuffs around your wrists as much as possible before wrapping your arms to the elbows with the same ratchet strapping.

And here comes my secret plan. Leaving you sitting there for a minute, I bring out a sturdy metal tent pole from the storage. It’s not too long – maybe a little over two feet – but just thick enough to help me achieve my goal.

Hugging you from behind, I check your position. You’re sitting with your legs inadvertently pulled against your chest. Your hands are connected in front of your shins while your elbows are on the two opposing sides of your legs.

“You look really nice like this.” I nibble your ear. “A big guy like you, unable to speak, move around and even get up… it’s a pretty big turn-on. Maybe we should stick with this role… heh, ‘stick’.”

I place the pole under your knees and above your elbows, meticulously strapping and taping it in place. Its two ends are fixed to your chest harness to prevent you from sliding it to one side, using the tethering holes already drilled on both sides.

I don’t actually plan to be the dominant one in our relationship all the time, but I’m damn determined to show you it’s not from being unable to do so.

When I’m done, you should, in theory, be completely unable to reach anywhere with your hands or shift your position. After that, it’s only a matter of wrapping you up in your own tent-like PVC raincape and tying a banana-coloured rain hat on top of your hat, taping any loose ends.

“I’m sure you’ve been wondering why I’m putting so much waterproof stuff on you.” I get up and stretch, giving you a nice view of my muscles. “The answer is, old guy, you’ve been getting on my nerves. And I think you should have a cold shower and cool off.” I gesture the door leading outside, leaving very little question about my intention.

Richard:
To my surprise, you ignore my crossed-in-front-of-my-face wrists and, instead of rope, produce the bulldog harness you wore earlier – except rather than your naked chest, smooth and muscled, it’s buckled over my bulked-out torso, already layered in nylon and PVC.

The H-shaped arrangement seemed sturdy enough when I strapped it on you earlier and even with the straps fastened on what must be their final holes, it doesn’t feel lightweight on my chest.

When you lean in to link the middle D-ring to the knee-binding, I give you a sudden “HHRRR!!” through the sponge (just starting to feel annoyingly expansive in my mouth) and jerk my head forward – largely to see if I can jump-scare you – but when you connect harness and knees with a metal clip, I find I can’t properly straighten up.

Where the fuck did you find all these straps? Where did you find any of this stuff?

Was your roommate part of all this? Was it planned?!

My inner cogs start to turn...

As you do the ratchet thing around and between my wrists – not crossed handily near my face but pushed down over my knees, as far as they can reach around my shins (which is, frankly, not very far) – I find that everything is just a bit more constricting than anticipated. My own chunkiness of limb means my bagged-up fingers can’t even begin to touch: they’re connected across the front of my legs with whatever webbing you’ve used but there’s too much me in the way for them to reach one another.

No matter. First thing I’ll do is raise my arms upwards, over my knees and get them to where I can see to start working on the straps.

I up my grumbled complaining to theatrical intensity when you move in to nibble my ear, but the sudden whiff of warm latex from your outfit is still sufficient to disarm me. I close my eyes to savour it…

… and am entirely taken by surprise when a length of metal tubing is pushed under knees and over elbows and everything suddenly snugs up tight.

“HHHHNNNYYYY!!” I complain, immediately shifting position in an attempt to dislodge the unwelcome addition.

I’ve heard of this tie-up position – it’s called “bucking” and it goes back to the days of the American Civil War – but I’m staggered that you know it. I recognise immediately that it’s going to throw a literal spoke in my escape strategy: with that fucker in the way, I won’t be able to get my hands back up over my knees – they’re stuck out in front of me, clamped around my legs, not meeting and therefore effectively isolated from each other.

I grunt with exertion, surprise and displeasure but you’re already using the drill-holes at either end of the metal stick to anchor it to my bulldog harness. Now I can’t slide it out.

FUCK!

You’re adding a load of other straps – and even tape – around the ends of the pole, securing it to my arms and legs. I know that reinforcement isn’t even necessary; the pole alone, if I can’t shift it, will seriously screw my chances of escape.

Can I bend it? I test the pole’s strength against my own but, in my pretzel-like state, can’t get anywhere near the right amount of leverage in the right place.

Fuck you, you sneaky little shit!

Keen to voice this sentiment, I switch focus to the tape wrapping my lower face, leaning forward to rub it against my knees or maybe snag it on the metal clip at the front of the harness. Come onnn! Just one edge!

Suddenly, you’re pulling up the hood of my PVC raincoat, grabbing a drawstring in each hand and yanking tight. In combination with the high collar, the waterproof fabric swallows up my head and almost my entire face. When only my furious gaze is visible, through an oval opening at eye level, you tie the strings in a double knot.

I can breathe easily enough but realise this simple measure is enough to stymie my attempts at rubbing my gag loose. Now protected by a layer of PVC, I can’t even get at the tape, much less find an end to unravel.

Then you’re pulling the raincape over my head and smoothing it down over my shoulders and bound body. Adding this further layer is just overkill, you’re blatantly taking the piss. I communicate this as best I can through the medium of snarls, growls and ocular evils, but you go ahead and fasten up that second heavy PVC hood over the first, knotting it just as securely. The outer hood is even more enclosing, the eye-slot even smaller: it covers my nose too, so all I can smell is PVC, silicone and the sponge packing my mouth.

I realise – with a sudden shock of OH NO HE DIDN’T – that not only does that second layer of PVC waterproofing stop me getting at the mouth-taping to rub it loose, it stops me using external objects to get anything loose. The previous fantasy of dragging myself to the knife drawer to cut through my bindings just got further away: there could be a knife right in front of me but, with all the straps, rope and tape sealed away beneath the outer raincape, it would be useless to me.

You're treating me a bit like an object now, rolling me forward, backward and side-to-side to allow you to fold and tuck the long PVC skirts of my armless cape more carefully around my crouched form. I close my eyes and try to ignore the repeated nudging of plug against prostate. Again, I hear the rip of tape and feel, suddenly, like a hapless fly being wrapped into a bundle of spider-silk.

I’m feeling a mix of emotions, mainly a kind of annoyed disbelief: how, in the space of less than an hour, did I go from freshly showered, swigging a beer and looking forward to food, sex and bed to this, strapped and wrapped up like an arachnid's lunch?!

My annoyance skyrockets when, for no reason at all, you jam a stupid yellow rainhat over my already twice-hooded head.

You’re doing this purely for the humiliation value, you little bastard! I squirm, screw up my eyes and “HHHNNGGHHH!” as threateningly as I can muster but, even as I do, I know the effect is being undermined by the sou’wester itself. It has yellow oilskin earflaps with attached strings, which you pull down and tie under my chin – and then, apparently undeterred by my show of irritation, use tape to reinforce everything further.

Now I can’t even shake off the ridiculous teddybear monstrosity!

With several layers of squeaky, rustly oilskin now covering my ears, I only catch a little of what you’re saying but when you open the door and a gust of rain blasts in, I suddenly realise the extent of your fiendishness.

Really?! REALLY?!!

I shake my (banana-coloured) head and beam you my best DON’T

YOU

FUCKING

DARE.

Lance:
“You should save your breath, old man, I have no idea what you are trying to say.” At least I know you’re not offering me your heartfelt compliments. It was a good idea to gag you before I revealed my real intentions.

I lean down to look into your eyes and flick your nose. “Yes, you’re spending the night outside. And no, it’s not negotiable.” Not that you’re in any position to negotiate. “You’ve been dismissive to me as the day’s gone on and, well, a little bit selfish. It’s hot when a dude shows a little bravado but I’m not putting up with being your boy toy.”

You’re also extremely arousing when bound and gagged. You should probably work on that. Hmm, maybe it’s a good thing I wrapped you up so well, otherwise, I may have been tempted to drag you into the bedroom instead of outside.

In the tarpaulin-like raincape and plenty of waterproof tape, you’re neatly wrapped up, your bound-up limbs smoothed into a shapeless, black blob, leaving only a small opening for you to peek outside. Then, I manoeuvre you in a thick net made of soft nylon cords. This part requires me to roll you around on the floor a bit but you’re far past the point where you can resist.

“I could just ship you back to home like this,” I muse. “Probably would be cheaper, too. What do you think? I reckon it beats trying to send a bear through cargo.”

Leaving you to fume on the floor, squirming and grunting, I make another trip to the storage room for my masterstroke: a small square cart that is little more than a platform on wheels; I reckon it must be used for shifting garden debris. I use the gathered netting to heave your shiny packaged form onto it.

Oh, my clear rain jacket? I put it on, too. I’m not sure whether the cop suit I’m wearing can get water-damaged but I don’t want to risk it.

Using the ramp leading outside, I wheel you to the apple tree. The rain is slowing down a little but it’s obviously going to pick up pace again soon, with the way the wind is blowing.

One part of me feels sorry about leaving you like this overnight, but I know you’re a big boy. And besides, it’d be criminal for you to come all the way and never have a chance to test out all of your waterproof kit.

I look for sturdy branches. To my luck, there’s already one with hooks driven in, possibly the remains of an old swing. Using the last remaining straps, I tie the net in which you’re trapped to the bough.

Now that’s the hard part. As strong as I am, you’re still a bigger man packed with muscle so it takes me at least ten minutes of heaving and hauling to securely suspend you. You’re only a foot or so above ground but it’s enough to protect you from the mud.

And to make you feel extra helpless.

I give you a tentative push. The branch bows under your weight but doesn’t break; you swing slowly but there’s no sign that you’re in a danger of falling.

I doubt you can hear me through all those hoods and the rain, but I still assure you. “Don’t worry, I’ll check up on you from the window. In the meantime, you can hang tight and consider how you want to treat me from now on.”

With that, I make my way back inside - just as thunder crashes. Looks like the weather’s going to get even worse. Looking out, I can see your tightly packaged silhouette but it's hard to tell whether you're making an active effort to escape or just resigned to your fate.

Now, I can reheat the pasta and change into something comfortable. Take a hot shower. Check up on the poor roommate I left behind. After all, one of us has to enjoy the cottage he so graciously borrowed. And maybe when I get you down tomorrow, you'll behave more nicely.

To be continued...

Goddamn, I need Lance to come visit my boys sometime. Your overkill bondage descriptions are among the very hottest things on this site.

Well done for making it to the end, folks! Thanks as ever to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote - your input has been very much appreciated.


Lust in France - part 16 FINALE

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
Well, fuckity fuck fuck.

The distracting hotness of Latex Lance, Dom of Duct Tape has passed, and I’m not laughing or sneering anymore. No, that condescension is almost entirely replaced with a sudden sense of frantic helplessness. Even as I’m rolled in all directions, the better for you to gift-wrap me in PVC fabric, tape and now netting, even as you're treating me like second-class bearmail, I’m making genuine, systematic attempts to escape - and finding myself unbelievably frustrated that those attempts get me nowhere.

It's fair to say you did not come to play (it’s taken me wayyy too long to realise that).

My original plan involved slipping or breaking or untying one or both hands, using my strong, dextrous fingers. Those fingers are currently gloved in rubber and mitted in heavy PVC. Okay, I’ve still got use of my thumbs, but those thumbs are waggling helplessly around my legs (legs that are strapped together and clipped to my chest via your harness). My hands can’t move down (booted feet are in the way), up (metal tent-pole is in the way) or to either side (they’re cuffed in webbing straps, linked across my shins and ratcheted up tight).

I flex my arm muscles, alternately pulling and pushing, but I can’t even dream of reaching the ratchet trigger of the wrist straps – if that even releases their grip – and if I could, the gloves and mitts would prevent me even grasping it properly. I yank hard, trying to break the strapping, but get nowhere.

I’d assumed you couldn’t gag me for long – I’d either get my fingers up to my mouth or be able to rub my jaw against a corner – but my hands are stuck out front and, try as I might to position my face against something that might dislodge the tape, two thicknesses of heavy PVC protect it from my best efforts.

Houdini used to use his feet to untie knots. I can’t do that and, even if I could, my feet are not only strapped to my backside but trapped inside heavy rubber boots that are literally taped to my dungarees to they can’t be removed – and, of course, all of that is under my various PVC wrappings.

Other senses? Well, my hearing is seriously muffled by hoods and hat (and the artillery-like raindrops pelting both) and my eyesight is sod-all use to me. All I can see is you putting on a clear plastic rain jacket (strapped up in lederhosen it might be but my traitorous cock betrays me, still finding you sexy despite everything) before you haul me outside, into the rainstorm, to be hoisted up from a branch of that centrepiece apple tree.

Now I’m the centrepiece - and, for once, I am not appreciating that.

I swing a little when you push me but, wrapped up, netted up and strung up from two lengths of webbing strappery I’m not spinning. You arrange the folds of netting so I’m facing the window of the gite: warm, inviting, only a couple of metres away.

You pulled the hoods and sou’wester far enough forward that my face is rain-free but the branches of the tree above are scant protection from the heavy raindrops, which beat a steady tattoo on the back of my PVC carapace. None of the moisture is penetrating my outer layer but neither am I in any danger of being able to escape or fully relax.

“… consider how you want to treat me from now on.”

I caught that bit.

Lightning flashes on your face and, despite my massive spike of irritation with you (YOU LITTLE SHIT is the thought I can't put into words – damn those 15 layers of mouth-taping!), I can’t help feel a little… respect? Maybe even faint pride (can I take any credit for your sudden, expert ability to turn the tables?). Certainly – and my poor, contrary, folded-up cock, buried down there in my tightly-strapped lederhosen confirms it – some part of this situation turns me on.

Fucking hell, Richard! You’re turned on by THIS?!!

If it weren't for the cooling effect of the rain (I imagine fat cartoon raindrops turning to steam as they hit the warmed-up PVC), my strained body would be suffused in sweat. My cheeks burn not just from heat but from the embarrassment of being excited by my humiliating defeat.

I squirm to get at my cock, to relieve some of the pressure, but the way you used the pole means I can't get anywhere near my own groin.

Thunder, lightning and bullet-like raindrops provide a deafening backdrop to my endless failed attempts at emulating Houdini. The lighted window – tantalisingly, SO CLOSE – shows me what I’m missing as you, unhurriedly, eat pasta, check your ‘phone, give me a smile and a little wave, go off for a shower and return in something clearly calculated to hike up my frustration level tenfold.

“MNNGOO HHGNHH HGH!!” I bellow, in my HULK SMASH moments, into sponge and tape. Despite my best efforts, all the gag layers stay where you put them. Hell, I stay where you put me.

In the lulls when the storm allows me to focus, I do think about what you said. I think about how I acted toward you today, especially latterly, and how – assuming we continue to see each other – I can course-correct.

(Perhaps bizarrely, given your having reduced me to a fully rainproof human pendulum, it doesn’t occur to me that we might not continue seeing one another)

Eventually, even in my cramped position, I doze. I pass a fitful night, short periods of sleep interspersed with sudden bursts of lightning, thunder or rainwater (or, lest we forget, the intermittent stimulation of your buttplug) jarring me awake to kick and tug fruitlessly at my prison of net and ratcheted webbing, curse into my mouthful of sponge or fume inside my shell of PVC.

Fine! You have my respect but, damn it, the first opportunity I get, I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE...

Morning, oddly, surprises me. I wake to gentle pre-noon sunlight – blessed relief from the rain and not yet enough to heat me up in my unwanted layers of waterproof fabric – which dances off puddles in deep ruts of the road and filters through the apple branches to what little of my face is exposed to the fresh air. I inhale, drawing fresh petrichor past PVC and into my lungs.

Okay, I decide. The night has been long, but I survived it. You’ll arrive any minute now to cut me down, peel all this crap off me, let me stretch my cramped and aching limbs.

I’m fully prepared to display contrition. In the sobering light of day, I do feel genuinely sorry for how yesterday evening went down – and if I have to ham things up a little for the right effect, fine. I’m an actor.

Finally, the door opens, and I crane forward, eyes squinted against the brightness of the morning – net swaying as I try to shift position but I know I’m not going to fall – to see what minimalist Lance Outfit you’ve chosen to compound my torment.

Lance:
I wake up late, nice and refreshed.

After a nice dinner and shower, I got a good sleep last night. It’s nice to have an entire bed to myself, especially without anyone getting bothered by me sleeping in the nude.

I take a look outside, to confirm you’re doing alright and haven’t been eaten by a bear or anything. I guess it’s about time I bring you down. As fun as it was chuckling at your predicament from the comfort of a warm cottage, I think I got my vindication. Mostly.

Though, before I go out, I better find myself something to wear.

Socks, sneakers, jock, check.

I exchange my previous shorts with daisy dukes that are just as short and revealing. Hmm, I still need a shirt. Since you ruined mine in yesterday’s play, it’s only fair I get to wear yours.

I find your discarded shirt - a nice, plain black linen thing - and make a few adjustments with kitchen scissors: it’s a lot more fitting to my style after I get rid of the sleeves and shorten it enough to tie the two sides under my pecs rather than buttoning it. The perfect fit for a summer day.

Only then, I leisurely walk out of the cabin and walk up to you. The weather’s already sunny and your watertight cocoon seems to have done a good job of keeping you dry. I make short work of the hoods, unwind the tape from around your head and fish out the sponge from your mouth.

“Did you have a good sleep?” I pat your cheek. “Here, have some water. Looks like today’s going to be a scorcher.”

I crouch nearer your level. “So, I thought about it long and hard yesterday and I decided I’m not angry at you anymore. Hence, I don’t need an apology. I’m sure you learned your lesson.”

It takes a bit a bit more time to let you down from where you’ve been hanging and I may or may not have intentionally dropped you on your butt. The ground’s still soft, you’ll live.

I remove the pole from and unclip your harness but before you can get up and start working on your bonds, I take advantage of your weakened state: I take hold of your hands, grappling them behind the tree and securing them to each other with a couple of zip ties over your still-mittened wrists. Then, using the spare ratchet straps, I go over the tree at your ankle level, fastening them far from your reach.

When I’m done, you’re out of some of your imprisonment, standing upright and unfolded from the cramped overnight position – but you’re still tied to a tree.

I pick this moment to stuff the sponge back inside your mouth, keeping a hand over your lips.

“But just because I’ve cut you down doesn’t mean I’ll untie you. You can take care of that yourself. After all, you’re the master of knots, right?”

Okay, I may still be just a bit salty. Sue me.

Sponge back inside, I tape over it again. This time, I add a length of bandage over your eyes. Sightless, you don’t see the leather hood – the fully enclosing one I found in your backpack, eye and mouth covers snapped shut – descending over your already gagged and blindfolded face. The escape challenge is over, so I figure it’s okay to use this stuff again. And it’s not like you can put up much resistance, even when I work your tiny luggage padlock through the buckle of the neck-strap securing the leather hood.

“Fair’s fair,” I say brattily, “I keep the collar, you keep the lock.”

It closes with a click.

The rainsuit hood and hat go back in place, too. You struggle as I tighten and knot the drawstrings again and especially when I put you back in the oilskin sou’wester but that leather helmet of yours is pretty effective. Over tape and under PVC, it really does silence whatever you’re trying to say – and, from the sound of your angry grunting, it’s a safe bet you’re not quoting Shakespeare at me.

More cowhide: this time the mitts – the pouches you love so much – are a snugger fit over your already-incapacitated hands but I eventually get them on, even against your wriggling, and the wrist straps done up as tight as they’ll go.

“There.” I smirk, “I know you’re happiest when you’re wearing leather.”

Not that much leather is visible, now you’re trussed up in your raingear again. The yellow rainhat – which you’re trying and failing to dislodge – makes you look like a seagoing teddybear.

On impulse, I pick up the ankle-length PVC cape you were packaged in overnight, marvelling at its heaviness. It fastens with a full-length front zip and press-studded flap and I realise it’s sufficiently voluminous – just – to fit around your strapped and roped body and the tree-trunk at your back.

Done up to the neck and smoothed down , the impermeable fabric conceals both my roping and strapping and your writhing against it. The impression is an odd one: a figure cloaked in glossy black, topped with yellow, standing erect and oddly still against the apple tree.

“Now, I’m going back to meet with Tariq. I’m sure he had an interesting day, too.”

Before I return to clean after myself, pack (the red-and-black PVC suit is coming with me) and leave, I add: “If you’re planning to free yourself, be quick about it. Tariq’s parents should be here by lunchtime, so you've got until then to get free.”

(When you do get free, what’s going to be your look for travelling back to London now I’ve cannibalised your only shirt? Lederhosen, boots and nipple-rings? Deadliest Catch waterproofs? Shoehorned into one of Tariq’s cosplay outfits? Whatever, it’s your problem not mine.)

“Exit, pursued by a bear.” I quote, with one last boop where I figure your nose to be. I don’t think I’m in any danger of being pursued by this bear, not today.

Soon though, I hope…

I leave you to struggle and emit muffled curses. This should get us more than even: I’m sure I just earned myself a hell of a tie-up once you get free and get your hands on me. And the idea of that is just as exciting as getting you restrained was for me.

We should definitely go on trips more often.

Richard:
On seeing you, I exhale a sigh of relief – and I’m even more relieved when you start unsticking tape so you can remove the ridiculous rainhat and untie then ease the two PVC hoods back and off my head.

Just feeling air again on my sweat-damp scalp is a joy and when the sponge is extracted, I work my aching jaw.

“Ohh thank you,” I say, “I-“

“Did you have a good sleep?” you interrupt and, much as I want to respond with bitter sarcasm, I hold back.

“Not really, no.”

I frown, suddenly recognising your navel-skimming DIY crop-top. “Hey, is that my-“

“Here, have some water,” you interrupt again, shoving the nozzle of a water bottle between my lips. It’s deliciously cold and I swallow gratefully as you explain that you’ve thought “long and hard”, are no longer pissed off with me and no apology is needed.

“Well,” I begin, feeling cheated of my prepared (and suitably dramatic) apology, “that’s good.”

If in doubt, quote the Bard.

“If after every tempest come such calms, may the winds blow till… OOF!”

My buttocks hit mud (and the sudden impact shudders through the plug and into my prostate, making me gasp) but I bite back any rebuke, just happy at being having the netting unfastened and more tape stripped away. You unwrap the all-enclosing raincape, and pull it off me.

“Phew!” I exclaim. The removal of even just that one layer is positively liberating.

The apple tree is at my back and, when you release the metal clip from my chest-harness I’m able to lean back against it. Extending my neck and upper back feels divine.

When the pole, too, is separated from my harness and slid out, I immediately lift my hands up over my knees, wincing in relief as muscles stiff from being stuck in one cramped position for hours are finally able to flex and shift.

“Ohhh, that feels so gooood,” I breathe, straightening aching legs and raising my liberated arms upward to allow you to unfasten the ratchet-straps connecting them. Once the wrist-bindings are undone, I close my eyes and indulge in a blissful morning-stretch…

… and, suddenly, before I can even think to muster resistance, you’ve jerked my weakened arms behind me and I hear the characteristic zzzip of one plastic tie then another.

“What are you doing?!”

I jerk hard but you’ve not only bound me afresh, you’re reinforcing my bonds: my hands, still gloved and mitted, are now connected behind the tree; wrists crossed and held tight together but loosely enough around the trunk that I’m able to scramble to my feet.

I do so, knees protesting at finally being unbent.

“You sneaky little shit!” I snarl, craning to see behind me, to see what you’ve done. I tug at my newly recaptured arms, stung by the tantalising closeness then sudden snatching away of freedom.

I wrench harder, trying to snap the zip-ties. It doesn’t work.

“… After all, you’re the master of knots, right?”

“But you’re not even using knots,” I shout, frustrated, “it’s all zip-ties and straps and… gnNGHH!”

The sponge is back in my mouth and, despite my resistance (I do not want to be re-gagged), you secure it there with numerous rounds of tape and wind a bandage blindfold over my eyes. I howl in muffled exasperation as, too late, I recognise the familiar scent of leather in my nostrils and the feel of laces being tightened, compression around my head and face, a collar being fastened… and was that the click of a padlock?

Now, laced, strapped and locked into my own hood, no matter how much I rub my head against the bark of the tree-trunk, I won’t be able to ungag myself.

Even worse, the hood of my raincoat is back up, swathing me again in stifling PVC. I feel drawstrings being knotted, ensuring I can’t shake it off. And then, if I’m not mistaken, the ridiculous sou’wester is being tugged onto my already double-hooded head and tied under my chin.

“Knots?” you ponder aloud, “you want knots?”

“HHKKK HHNOOO!!” I gurgle.

When you finally step back, I surely cut an incongruous figure: a fully rainproofed deep-sea fisherman transposed to the French countryside, head-to-toe in glistening oilskins despite the growing warmth of the day.

I stand ramrod-straight against the apple tree, bound in place with a motley selection of zip-ties, ratchet-straps and yes, rope: every single hank I brought with me has been uncoiled, looped, criss-crossed, yanked tight and knotted around my shiny-packaged form, securing me by harness, arms, shoulders, chest, waist, thighs, knees and booted ankles.

You’ve even managed to thread cord from my waist-roping through my leather-and-plastic-covered crotch and yank my pelvis back again the tree, so that wretched plug of yours is driven even further into me.

“I know you took it,” I can hear the smirk in your voice, “you might as well enjoy it.”

Ignoring my growls of protest (and yelps of prostatic stimulation), you strap my already gloved, taped and PVC-incapacitated fingers into the padded leather mitts I know I can’t remove, all the while explaining, to my squirming displeasure, the potent humiliation that awaits me if I can’t get myself free by lunchtime.

And finally, adding insult to injury, my own heavy raincape tops things off, a final heat-trapping addition to my multi-layered prison.

“Exit, pursued by a bear.”

“GNNGHGNAAAAAAAAAGHH!!”

My roar is, ironically, ursine but to no avail, effortlessly absorbed by sponge, tape and leather. I writhe in darkness, frustrated to be back in my sweaty, stifling prison of nylon and PVC but helpless to do anything about it.

Dreams of revenge are already starting to bloom but, for now, they will have to wait. I grimace beneath my locked and lightproof layers and redouble my struggles.


The End

Damn, what an ending. Hell hath no fury like a supposed sub scorned, I guess.

Hope Richard makes it out ok, if only to see what revenge he will wreak upon Lance...

Like I said before, I love your overkill bondage stories, and this one delivered in spades.

I love these two so much! Though I gotta say, Lance was particularly cruel leaving Richard out in the rain all night! Could have a least used him as a pillow or footrest, but I guess I can't argue with the results!

I sincerely hope this isn't the last we see of Lance and Richard! @Straitjacketed @DeeperThanRed once again, amazing work with this collaborative story!

blackbound wrote: 9 months ago Damn, what an ending. Hell hath no fury like a supposed sub scorned, I guess.

Hope Richard makes it out ok, if only to see what revenge he will wreak upon Lance...

There will be more...

Like I said before, I love your overkill bondage stories, and this one delivered in spades.

Hahah, very glad you like - and thanks for your support throughout.

gag1195 wrote: 9 months agoI sincerely hope this isn't the last we see of Lance and Richard!

They'll be back - we're not done with them yet.