03 - In the Pale Moonlight: Outmatched Operatives
Story index at the bottom
By Chris
IN THE PALE MOONLIGHT
It was a warm summer evening as I lay on a wicker couch on the back porch of Sean's house. A constant mild breeze rolled off the Pacific Ocean, drifting off the sandy California shore, travelling fifty miles to wisp gently against my bare toes. It was a soothing, pleasant scene.
But I was impatient as hell.
Sean had told me some very good news and some very bad news earlier. First, that it was possible that enough neighborhood boys could get together for a game. Because the football field at the school was being re-sodded, it was extremely likely that the game would be Operatives (it had been a while since we'd played, and I almost burst a blood vessel when it was suggested. Luckily I didn't develop a nosebleed!). Then there was the bad news: Mike (or "Big Mike", as we called him) and his brother Tommy had been dragged-off to a play or something by their parents; when they would be freed from the thespian nightmare was unclear, and if they were held too late we wouldn't have enough boys to play the game.
Briefly recapping the rules of that wonderful game, "searchers" attempt to capture "operatives", whose goal is to reach a certain "home" point after being left deep in enemy territory. Captive operatives (who, if you read my first story, usually get the full bondage treatment) can be freed by friendly searchers. Being short, skinny and swift as a rabbit, I was always an operative on the few occasions that we played, but that didn't mean that I was completely content with being bound myself: once I suggested to Sean that, for a "change of pace", I should be a searcher during one of the games. That way, I wouldn't end up lying trussed on the ground, staring up at my captor with a gag in my mouth (unfortunately!) but the change of roles would satisfy a few other urges: for one, I would actually be able to tie other boys up, which I wouldn't mind trying my hand at (I would have preferred getting the upper hand with Lisa (see previous story), but trussing a boy would do nicely). And two, I could fulfill those heroic fantasies of mine (say, rescuing captive hostages) while still getting my "tie-up fix", as I called it, since the image of every boy's bound and gagged body that I came across would be fully etched into my mind before I freed them (with my 12-year-old heart's enjoyment at seeing helplessly bound bodies, I made little distinction between the sight of captive women, girls or boys).
Sean shot down that idea pretty quickly. He pointed out that I would be a waste as a searcher, as I had already gained a reputation for being a pretty sharp operative. Also, not that it was a requirement for being a searcher, but I didn't really have the physical prowess to ensure that my captives didn't try anything. It was in the rules that captive operatives HAVE to do what their captors tell them, but being nabbed by a short, blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with thin arms and, as he put it, "biceps of jell-o", well, that might be more than some of the guys could stand. Also not on my side was the fact that most of the boys involved were a year older than me. He said he wouldn't be surprised to see ME get tied up by my supposed captive just as a funny joke.
It was a good point, and I certainly wasn't going to respond to him with what I was thinking at the time: "in that case, I win either way!"
That game remained one of the great paradoxes for my young mind: when I played it as an operative I was keenly intent on one thing: winning the game and actually AVOIDING capture. When caught, it was like a whole other part of me took over, and for a moment, reaching "home" became less important than hoping that my wrists were being secured tight enough - and that something would end up in my mouth soon!
I was distracted by my thoughts as I heard the soft, rubbery patter of kids' tennies running over asphalt. I heard Big Mike's voice in the growing darkness of the evening: "God, what the heck was with that? Do people actually like sitting around watching that kinda stuff?" His brother Tommy was with him. Tommy was actually several months younger than me; he was 11 about to go on 12, but he shared his big brother's athletic spirit and it was obvious that he worked-out to at least some degree.
"It was a stupid waste of time." He agreed as they mounted the porch.
"Hey, Christopher," Mike acknowledged me, "what's the good word?"
Trying to suppress an intense smile I simply replied: "Operatives".
We now had enough boys to play our game. Sean and Mike (both of them were 14, Mike was the better searcher of the two) decided to pair up to be searchers for one team. Matt, a 14-year-old who was a good friend of Mike, and Steven, who was 13, paired up as searchers for the other team. Tommy was designated an operative and, since he wasn't particularly adept at this game, he was paired with Seth, a squirrelly 13-year-old and the best operative of all of us. That left me and James, a serious-minded, quick-footed 12-year-old who was quite good at the game, but wasn't above getting himself snatched. We would be the other operatives.
James and I got along fairly well together; we were friends but I always thought he was at times too somber. He struck me as the kind of boy who, if his parents asked him to take out the trash, not only would he do it immediately when asked (a rarity among 12-year-olds) but he would likely sort paper from plastics to boot. He was pencil-thin and taller than me. His hazel eyes were cloudy, but could be quite expressive and dynamic depending on his mood. His head was topped with a freestyle crop of spiky black hair (I always thought it made him look like a juvenile raven). The two of us were placed on Sean and Mike's team: so those two would rescue us if we were captured, while Matt and Steven were our would-be captors.
I had faced Matt as an opponent before in the game; he was a pretty good searcher. He was at least good enough to snatch James during the first game I ever played with them; he had forced the bound and gagged boy to lie prone behind a little kid's sandbox while James' potential rescuer searched for him on the other side of the yard. He ended-up being saved and, freed of his bonds, eventually made it home (during this entire time I was occupied with my own bonds and gag inside a stuffy old shed, but I never made it home
Later on during that same visit I asked James about that event (in a totally casual, nonchalant way!)He replied: "Well, there's not much to tell: Matt pounced on me and decided to tie me up right where we were. Even though the five-minute rule was still on (the rule making captive operatives stay quiet for the first five-minutes of their capture) he saved some time by stuffing some cloth in my mouth and slapping some duct-tape over it (I later learned that Matt had broken a big rule on that one: no duct tape gags, since it hurts like hell coming off!). Then I heard Sean coming around and Matt shoves me down onto my stomach behind a sandbox. He held me down hard, he was almost totally on top of me and I could barely breathe. Luckily Sean came around to our side and I was freed."
Needless to say, I played that scenario over in my head a few times!
With all players revved and ready to go, we drew the regular rectangular boundaries around the neighborhood and decided on our home point (a street sign at the back of our territory) and the home territory for Seth and Tommy (the outer fence of the neighborhood football field). While all the nitty-gritty was ironed out, I overheard Tommy taking to Matt about the god-awful play that he and Mike had been subjected to.
"It lasted forever; it was terrible! My mom and dad are into that kind of thing, though. In fact, they actually dropped us off at home and went on to some kind of cast party they were invited to". If the right people had been listening-in on that innocent little conversation it would have later saved two very unlucky 12-year-olds from a lot of struggling, sweating and mmmmph-ing!
Matt and Steven escorted James and me into their territory as Mike and Sean escorted Seth and Tommy into ours. James and I then ran back deep into enemy territory. From the twilight darkness I heard Sean's whistle rising in the night. In the sky above us a voyeuristic, full moon leered down at me from behind a thin sheet of clouds.
The game had begun.
James and I split up as we ran back into enemy territory: it was our usual tactic, to ensure that we both couldn't be captured at once.
"Try not to get snatched, Christopher," he told me the obvious, and then he grinned, flashing a slightly chipped front tooth (a casualty of his skateboarding), "but even if we are caught, the noise we'll make can carry really far since it's such a quiet night!"
"Yeah," I agreed, already panting as I ran: "it's not as easy to hide someone when there's no other noises to drown us out!"
One minute I looked over to see his serious face looking forward and that pair of intent, hazel eyes flashing in the moonlight as he ran. The next minute he was gone, having swung off to the right to prepare for his own advancement back into our territory. I did the same, sidewinding to the left side.
There's something pretty eerie about running through a dark and deserted suburb in the evening, especially one with as much flora and fauna as this one: the dense cover should have comforted me, but I had an intense feeling of danger, like I was surrounded by a foreboding and treacherous jungle where anyone could jump out right in front of me!
We had played the game once before during the night; that time there had been no moon, and the going was pretty tough with the thick blanket of darkness. Of course, that made it almost impossible to get caught, and reaching home was a very simple matter.
But now the new moon was ridiculously bright, bathing everything in an ethereal glow. I was dripping sweat as I darted through the night, moving from backyard shrubberies to unlit street corners and behind darkened garages. With much reminiscing, I passed the house of Mr. McCree (whose woodshed I had become acquainted with once)
"Step, step, step, step, step!" My tennis shoes made little noise on the soft dewy grass. I moved with stealth and (I thought) finesse. With caution I proceeded, "Step, step, step, step!" and stopped.
My blood froze within me, and my face grew deathly pale in the twilight: that last step wasn't my own - and it had come from behind me!
My limbs trembled; my pale skin was drenched with sweat, and I licked my dry lips. I had never actually been stalked before, it brought back those thoughts of a dark jungle to my mind: a defenseless boy chased by a ravenous tiger. Of course I knew that my stalker was no tiger, but simply another boy; another boy with black nylon cords in his shorts pocket. I'd never been stalked before, but I had an idea of what to do.
I ran like almighty hell.
Immediately the light "step, step" behind me turned into a deafeningly loud "stomp, stomp, stomp". I thought about yelling as I ran, but I needed that oxygen to power my skinny legs and get me the hell out of there. I dashed behind a house and through a well-landscaped backyard that threw weird shadows into the night, and then suddenly, without warning:
WHACK!
I blinked, stunned, lying on my back as I looked up at the starlit sky. The tree I'd knocked into shook violently.
"Jesus Christ, Christopher: are you okay?!" Steven's voice was filled with concern and puffing with exhaustion.
I sat up, my pupils alternately contracting and dilating as I shook my head. I could see clearly almost immediately. "I'm not bleeding or anything - yeah, sure, I think I'm fine!" I said.
Steven was relieved, but his voice also contained subtle triumph. He put two hands on my shoulders from behind and said: "well, THAT'S a matter of opinion, 'cause right now, you can consider yourself captured."
I groaned warily as I got to my feet: I was hoping I'd get some kind of a sympathy head-start, but my kidnapping would be a big feather in Steven's cap: I was considered a slightly better operative than James, and anyone who caught me got a lot of props.
I wiped the cool sweat from my brow and said, resignedly, "alright: where to?" Despite having stopped all the running and panting, my heart rate was beginning to rise once again (being kidnapped had that effect on me
)"Hey, quiet, Christopher!" Steven chided. He had what I would describe as a very unhealthy grin on his face that made me a little uncomfortable. "This way" he roughly shoved me back into his territory.
We walked for several minutes in silence; Steven kept me in the shadows, on the lookout for searchers from my team who could save me. As we started to pass Mike and Tommy's house Steven stopped me. He eyed the house's backyard, then me. He said to me: "Remember that sunglass polishing cloth in your back pocket?"
"Yeah!?" I replied: Steven had borrowed it earlier that day to wipe his reading glasses. The cloth had come with a semi-expensive pair of sunglasses I had gotten for my birthday.
"Take it out and put it in your mouth." He ordered.
He wanted me to gag myself? That was a new one; I'd never actually gagged myself before (although the experience lead me to a few interesting late-night experiments in my bathroom - but that's another story).
“You know," I said as I took out the cleaning cloth from the pocket of my shorts, "the five-minute rule is still in effect-"
Steven was impatient: "put the damn cloth in your mouth or I'll do it for you." With that elegant persuasion, I wadded-up the cleaning cloth and stuffed it between my own teeth. Steven quickly untied a bandanna from around his neck and wrapped it over my mouth very tightly, knotting it behind my head.
"That's a good look for you," he smirked, "now let's go."
He pushed me into the lead, and we walked behind Mike and Tommy's house, circling their garage and kitchen, then he stopped me next to the outdoor air conditioning unit. I assumed that he would somehow tie me to the AC, perhaps with the cords looped around the pipes and my ankles and wrists. It was a good idea: the humming unit would partially drown-out my gagged cries, but Steven had a much better, more devious idea in mind...
Click! My eyes widened in the moonlight as I heard the small rear-door to Mike and Tommy's house unlock and open. Matt poked his head out of the door and looked first at me (and my gagged lips) and then at Steven. I did a double-take: Matt was inside Mike and Tommy's house - he was waiting for me to be brought there!
"something about a cast-party came into my mind"
"he was waiting inside an empty house for me"
"I've got a package here: signed, sealed and delivered!" Steven joked as he pushed me forward into the warm, cozy house of Mike and Tommy.
Into a house without parents, a house where a tied and gagged boy could be stored indefinitely, with four solid walls to encase his muffled moans and with no one the wiser...
I was livid: this was completely against the rules! At least, it HAD to be, I thought. Houses were against the rules, no question. As it had been explained to me, garages were generally considered OK, but NOT homes in general, and this wasn't even Matt or Steven's house! They were going to hold me, a kidnapped hostage, in the home of one of my potential rescuers!
The house rule was primarily in effect to prevent our moms and dads from knowing just what we were doing when we played "Operatives", after all: it only took one parent to see their son or another boy being led through the house in bonds and a gag and start nagging about "safety-issues" or "rough-play" to ensure that the game was permanently banned. But even if parents weren't home, the second reason for the rule still stands: it was f***ing unfair!
I was not having any of this: as soon as I was shoved into the back door I resisted, pushing back for the door and clawing at my gag to voice my protests.
Steven grabbed my arms and held them to my side. "Easy there, Christopher, we need to get you all settled before anyone comes looking for you!" I struggled and bucked around violently. I guess I should have been more "interested" in the moment: this was playing out to be more like an actual kidnapping than anything I'd experienced before. I was being HELD down and dragged into a house against my will with a gag in my mouth (I'd entertained similar fantasy-scenarios in my mind before; the only real difference between them and this moment is that Steven and Matt weren't wearing robber's masks). But at the time I was overwhelmed with anger and adrenaline: they were breaking the rules, and I wasn't going to stand for it! Unfortunately my small frame ensured that I would be unable to break free of Steven's grasp: he held me in a big bear-hug, his arms circling my elbows and his hands clasped together tightly over my waist just beneath my bellybutton. "Urf! Moo fufid forvons!" I desperately yelled into my gag.
"Calm down, will ya!" Matt said as he opened another door for Steven to hustle me through. It was a door containing concrete stairs. Stairs that went down.
They were taking me into the basement.
"Rrrrrrrrgh!" I voiced my protests as I was taken down the stairs and into the basement.
The first thing I noticed was the small window against the wall: it was pretty high-up, and sat on-level with the house's backyard lawn. There was only a small light bulb on a cord in the middle of the basement. The rest of the concrete dungeon consisted of waterlogged cardboard boxes and some steel storage drums (thin cylindrical barrels designed to hold stuff and keep it dry and moisture-free). It was fairly clean for a basement, no mice, no rats, no insects. In fact, the only living occupant of the basement I saw was lying against one wall, on his side, staring up at us with sharp, wide eyes. They were hazel eyes.
"Maims!" I said in shock, forgetting my gag for the moment. The boy was lying on a spread-out blanket, his wrists behind his back and his bare ankles cinched tightly together. A length of nylon cord was attached to the bonds on his wrists and ran to a cement block in the corner (several loose blocks were tidily stacked up). It was looped through the holes in the block, ensuring that James couldn't stand and "bunny-hop" too far away from his blanket. He was barefoot, his tennies and socks had been stripped off and sat right beside his head.
Part of me did not like the looks of this at all. We would NEVER win the game if both of us were held hostage in here. But then there was that OTHER part of me who, upon seeing the helpless 12-year-old writhing and struggling, lying prone on the blanket in this dark basement, powerless, with a gag in his mouth - well, it wasn't all bad!
I was still struggling, so Matt said: "Oh, quit it, Christopher! Look!" He went to a door on the other side of the basement and opened it. I could see into the house's garage. "The house is on a slope, so the garage and basement are technically right next to each other."
"Which means," Steven whispered into my ear as he held me, "that we can hold both of you right in here: so calm down." I did, and for two reasons: one was that they were possibly right about that little loophole in the rules: we were technically in the garage "area", and two: they were bigger than me, and I was getting tied-up in this basement whether I liked it or not.
And, as I darn well knew: I was going to like it!
They took me over to the other side of the basement, opposite where James lay, silently watching over his gag as I was made as helpless as him. I was instructed to sit down on a waiting blanket in front of a metal drum. "No, no, scoot your butt back: make sure you're up against the drum." I had a pretty good idea of what they had in mind, and I was right: after they bound my wrists behind me and held my body close against the drum, they tied my chest and waist to the steel container, the cords pressed tightly against my chest just above my nipples and around my waist just under my bellybutton. Steven yanked off my tennis shoes and my socks and spread my bare feet apart; he slid a cheese-wedge-shaped ramp between my legs (I later learned that it was a "pet-ramp" to help Tommy's dog get into bed when it was a puppy, but when lain on its side it was quite good at keeping someone's legs apart.). There were some Velcro straps on the far end of the ramp where an additional pad could be attached to the pet ramp: they were wrapped around my ankles on either side. None of us kids knew what a "leg-spreader" actually was: this was Steven's crude attempt at one, and it worked for its purpose: I couldn't put my legs together and gain sufficient traction on the ground to move the heavy barrel I was bound to.
Therefore James was prevented from bunny-hopping because he was tied to a concrete block and I was unable to scoot myself around because my legs were forced apart.
Matt yanked the bandanna gag off of me and pulled the cleaning cloth from my mouth. "You guys are 'friggin cheating and you know it!" I said, not in a yell, but not in a whisper, either. Honestly my mouth was so dry from the bondage experience (and there was so little blood actually in my brain) that any other thoughts or outrages were too difficult to express at the moment.
Steven simply said: "we're not cheating, you know, and besides, we've got you both grouped in one place, so if you're discovered you'll both be freed at once."
"No one's gonna find us here, and you know it!" I said.
"Get him gagged like James." Matt told Steven. I didn't resist as I was given the same gag as James had been given: Steven stuffed my mouth with a cotton kerchief from out of a box in the basement (actually pretty similar to my sunglass-cleaning cloth) and then he wrapped a very long and thick shawl over my mouth (these were courtesy of Mike and Tommy's mother, who was apparently storing some old clothes in the basement before donating them to Goodwill en masse) The neatly-folded shawl went around my mouth three whole times before it was triple-knotted behind my head.
The OTM was very tight. I played with the gag-wad in my mouth, shoving it to and fro with my tongue, but it was not coming out any time soon, and my test-grunts proved that the silky muzzle would ensure my silence.
Matt and Steven considered both me and James critically. The two boys seemed satisfied that we wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. Matt clicked-off the basement light to James and my gagged protests. We both started squirming and grunting as Steven smirked: "oh, come on you two: just because you're both little 12-year-olds doesn't mean you have to be afraid of the dark!"
Matt added: "And don't worry, I don't think this game's going to last too much longer, especially now that we can both go and help Seth and Tommy get home! We'll tell the other searchers where to find you two sorry little boys after we've won!"
I lividly struggled and thrashed about as Matt and Steven left us. I kept grunting and thrusting my chest from side-to-side, bucking my waist up and down, and struggling to push away the wedge that kept my bare legs spread wide apart.
After a few moments, with sweat and defeat oozing out of my body I rested my head against the metal barrel, feeling the triple-knot of the gag press between the barrel and my neck. I was breathing hard and, to tell the truth, feeling pretty scared to be all tied and gagged in a pitch-black basement.
But as I calmed-down and let my eyes adjust to the darkness I realized it wasn't too dark, really. From the small dusty window above us moonlight streamed down, lighting the entire basement in a pale glow. It was comforting, and my fear subsided.
The most fortunate thing that could have happened for me did. I looked back to my left, and happily I noticed that the light from the window was falling directly on James. I got a very good look at his plight, and it was certainly something for me to savor. He played with his bonds in a methodical manner; he was sitting-up on his haunches in his shorts and tee, squatting and fumbling with the knots on his bound wrists. I saw his gag bulge and recede several times as he tongued at the mouth-stuffing cloth between his teeth. Soon he learned what I already knew: the muzzles were there to stay.
I gave a good buck of my waist again, to see if the cords that bound my midsection to the barrel were coming loose. All I managed to do was shove my crotch against the prominence of the ramp that spread my legs. That little self-racking move put tears in my eyes, though luckily James wouldn't have noticed: I was too far in the shadows for him to see, though he certainly heard the muffled cursing coming from my obstructed mouth.
I hung my head dejectedly with a sigh: this was by far the "best" I had ever been bound, and far from being exhilarating, it actually frustrated me greatly. When I'd been a captive in the shed I had the ability to roll around, scoot across the room on my backside, even get to my feet and bunny-hop around, if I chose. Now I was just... bound. I WAS aroused by the feeling (most of those emotions came from the nice, tight gag I was wearing), but I was mostly very, very (very!) annoyed.
After about ten minutes or so I gave up all pretenses of struggling and squirming and focused all my attention on James. Though helpless, he was definitely less restrained than I was and therefore still held-out hope for earning his freedom. He was now lying on his stomach, still fumbling with his wrist-bonds. From all his struggles his tee was being hitched-up in the rear, bearing the twitching muscles of his lower back. The moonlight bounced off the gaily-colored shawl wrapped around his mouth; the big, thick gag nearly glowed in the dark basement. Beads of sweat rolled down his spiky black hair and landed on his cheeks, which were beet-red from his exertions and the pressure that the ultra-tight wrap-gag had on his face (those of you who've tied a really TIGHT over-the-mouth gag on yourselves or someone else should know the look!) His eyes were still serious, every so often they'd sparkle and widen as he thought that he'd gotten the impossibly tight knot on his wrists free, then his face would droop and he'd lie his head on his blanket as he realized that the knot was still binding him tight.
This was blessedly good stuff for me. I watched James in wonder as he struggled and fought for his freedom. That time I'd been tied in the shed the one thing I'd wanted most was not scissors, but a mirror to see myself. Well, James was being just that, really. My mind began with its many fantasy scenarios. I burned his image in my mind: here was the kidnapped boy, dragged from his bed in the middle of the night by armed intruders and left tied and stifled in his family's basement, clad only in shorts and a tee while the house is ransacked. Here was a young baseball-playing 12-year-old, snatched from his neighbor's yard as he looked for his lost ball, dragged into the kidnapper's house and made helpless: his bound and gagged butt tossed into the neighbor's dreary basement: he is so close to his home and his parents, but gagged into silence and unable to plead for rescue from anyone (I thought of that one since James had been on a little-league team, it then occurred to me that he would look even better if he was tied-down like that in his uniform - that train of thought also lead to some experiments on myself in my bathroom late at night - which is another story!)
I thought about James' bondage plight in terms of one of my newer school daydreams: the latest little fantasy to grace my mind had come when I was riding the bus home one day. I thought about how interesting it would be for a couple of armed goons to simply get on the bus and hijack it. Everyone would be kidnapped. In my mind I played out the scenario: the children in front would be the first ones to be tied and gagged. The men would work their way back, binding and gagging everyone; I looked at a redheaded 7th grader sitting next to me and imagined her being lain down under the seats so no one outside the bus could see her writhing in her bonds and gag, and me, staring at her helplessly from under my seat, chewing on my own gag, as the bus is driven away, to all motorists and observers outside simply an empty bus, but really a holding-pen for a bunch of kidnapped children!
Now James was one of those captives, the first kid taken off the bus as it reaches the kidnappers' safehouse in the dead of night. He lies in helpless bondage in the basement, waiting for the goons to bring all the other hostage schoolchildren down into the basement to join him...
Thinking about that red-headed 7th grader suddenly made me remember Lisa: that blond-headed, green-eyed girl who'd humiliated me just a few weeks earlier. I imagined her being dumped into this basement with James and me, how she'd look at us with frightened, tearful eyes as she fought her gag and writhed in her bonds. How her body would wiggle and buck as she struggled to free herself, with sweat dripping from her trembling body...
I thought about how I would try to comfort her, wiggling myself over to her and pressing my gagged cheek against hers, how she would cry against my shoulder with anger and fear. Then James would struggle to crawl over to us so we could all work on freeing our bound bodies together. James, Lisa and myself: three kidnapped children squirming and struggling in one frantic heap as we fight to undo each other's knots and desperately work to free our mouths and chew through each other's bonds!
THAT series of thoughts was more than enough to excite me, and (not surprisingly) I soon realized that the arousal was physical. Now it was indeed a blessing to be concealed in shadows: if James caught sight of my present state I could never live it down. I cooled myself off thinking about how rotten Steven and Matt had been. I was damned eager to get back at those two. I shimmied my legs until I felt the loose Velcro straps come off of my ankles. I bucked my rear end in a short, measured rhythm: within a minute I had managed to move the barrel I was bound to just a little bit back, at least far enough for me to swing my legs over the ramp that had spread them apart. My legs had gotten sore from being parted for so long, and I moaned gratefully at their reunion.
With my legs now working together I started scooting myself, barrel and all, along the floor. James watched with curiosity as I emerged from the shadows and appeared in the pale moonlight falling from the window.
I inched myself ever-so-slowly over to my fellow captive, cursing under my breath that my tennies had been removed: it would have been much quicker work if I'd had them on. As it was my shorts started slipping down my thighs with every push I gave. By the time I'd reached James most of my whitey-tighties were visible and my shorts were on my knees, but that was not a concern: I wasn't the type of boy who feared the locker room after PE nor was I too modest now when the stakes were our very freedom (If Lisa really HAD been in the room with us my thought process might have differed!).
James's facial expression at my progress would best be characterized as joy (an interesting emotion to see in such a somber guy). He looked positively elated as I scooted into view, and he in turn "wormed" his way over to meet me, undulating his body and alternatively raising his head and chest, then his legs and midsection. He moved the length that his nylon coffle would allow; I closed the remaining distance by myself. Then it was a question of "what now?" despite having gained my legs' freedom I was still helpless: tied to a metal drum with hands behind my back. I was no help to anyone. So it would rest on James to find a way to free me.
It wasn't hard. The knots that held my chest and waist to the cylinder were tight, but BOW-TIED! That meant that just one tug from James' bound hands and the knot was undone (either the boy who'd tied my body to the barrel didn't know a lot about knots, or he'd assumed that James and I would never be able to make contact with each other). Then I was freed from the barrel, only my gag and the bonds on my wrists remained. I stood-up slowly (I had REALLY wanted to do that for awhile) and my knees gave a grateful "pop". My shorts then slid all the way down to my ankles, but I didn't care at that point; I sat on the ground back-to-back with James and he worked the knots on my wrists until I was completely free.
I pulled my shorts back up and pulled the knots off James' wrist-bonds; we un-gagged ourselves and, for a few minutes, just sat there enjoying the feeling of cool air in our mouths as we rubbed our chaffed extremities. Both of us were left with attractive "gag-lines" on our faces just below our noses and along our chins.
"Friggin awesome!" James exclaimed with a cheshire-cat grin, punching me in the arm. "Time to get even with those freaks: let's get the heck back home, Christopher. Think you can do it all on a full-sprint?" He asked.
I laughed. "After sitting on my butt for so long like that, I'm ready to run a marathon!" I assured him.
How's this for justice: we won that game! James and I made it home striding in synch, at full speed, without Matt or Steven in pursuit. It turns out that Seth, of all people, had been caught by our side, and was so well-hidden that Matt and Steven spent the rest of the game searching for him after leaving James and me to rot in our basement dungeon.
"How the heck did Mike catch Seth?" I asked Sean after the game: no one usually caught Seth.
Sean replied: "Well, Mike spotted Seth walking through someone's front yard. He really took off when Mike saw him, but I think he slipped and fell or something like that. How about that? Did you ever hear of such luck?"
I blushed, and for a moment kept my blue eyes down. "That kinda stuff does happen, sometimes..." I said, simply, my face growing beet-red.
It was easily 11:00 by the time the game had ended. Mike and Tommy's parents returned from the cast party shortly after the game concluded, and Sean got a good lecture from his parents on getting home at a reasonable hour. As I lay on the bottom bunk in Sean's room that night, staring out at the moon, I remembered every detail of our ordeal: every squirm, every knot, every moan...
And most of all (and this was REALLY funny) I remember Sean's lame excuse for us getting home so late (he blamed me, in an inside-joke kind of way):
"Sorry, mom, but Christopher was a little tied-up with something."
Grinning in my bed, I thought: "not really tied-up with something, but this time, tied-up with someONE..."
That was a very silent joke, and only the falling moon shared it with me as I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my lips and some very nice memories now etched into my young mind.
Chris
darkcheshiregrin@hotmail.com
http://cheshirecatgrinner.tripod.com
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Chris' stories
- 01 - Outmatched Operative (m+/m+)
- 02 - Challenging Lisa (f/m)
- 03 - In the Pale Moonlight: Outmatched Operatives (mm/mm)
Index of all stories in the "Archive for Everyone" section