Brock's Descent - The Fall of a Jock (M/M)

[BoundInk]

#NSFW #Nonconsensual #BDSM #EroticHumiliation #JockFantasy #MilitaryDominance #PG18

Chapter 1:

Brock slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, the familiar creak of the front porch steps welcoming him home. It had been eight months since he’d left for college, chasing a football scholarship and a life beyond the small town. The house looked the same—faded blue paint, the crooked mailbox—but it didn’t feel the same. His mom’s new husband, Ned, had moved in, and Brock could already sense the shift. At 21, Brock was a specimen—six feet of lean, athletic muscle honed from years on the gridiron. His broad shoulders filled out his letterman jacket, the bold varsity “B” stitched in gold across the back, a badge of his linebacker glory. Below, he wore gray athletic shorts that hugged his hips and ended mid-thigh, showing off his thick, powerful legs—tanned and sculpted from endless drills. On his feet, beat-up white sneakers over white ankle socks, scuffed from the field, completed the look of a college jock in his prime.

He pushed open the door, expecting his mom’s usual hug-and-sandwich routine. Instead, Ned stood in the living room, arms crossed, a strong man with old military muscle, his frame hardened by years of service rather than softened by age. His buzz cut gleamed under the light, and his stare could drill holes. “So, the big shot’s back,” Ned said, his voice gravelly, like he’d smoked one too many cigars. Brock’s mom, Lisa, fluttered out from the kitchen, all smiles.

“Brock! Oh, honey, you’re so tall now!” She hugged him tight, her hands brushing the wool of his jacket, but Brock’s eyes stayed on Ned, who didn’t budge.

“Sup, Ned,” Brock said, dropping his bag with a thud, the way he used to when he owned the place. He wasn’t about to shrink for anyone—not with his chiseled frame and the confidence of a star athlete.

Ned smirked. “That’s ‘sir’ to you, kid. This ain’t your playground anymore.”

Brock bristled, his toned forearms twitching under the jacket sleeves, but his mom cut in, oblivious. “Dinner’s almost ready. You two get along now!” She bustled back to the kitchen, leaving the two men in a silent standoff.

Dinner was a slow burn of tension. Brock cracked jokes like he used to, loud and brash, his deep voice filling the room as he leaned back in his chair, his muscled chest puffed out beneath the jacket. Ned didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned forward, fork stabbing his steak with precision, his sinewy arms flexing under his shirt. “You think you’re still king around here, huh? Things’ve changed, boy. I’m the man of this house now.”

Brock’s grip tightened on his glass, his knuckles whitening against his tanned skin. “Yeah? We’ll see about that.” His hazel eyes flashed, daring Ned to push further.

Lisa, oblivious to the brewing storm, chatted about her nursing shift starting after dinner. “It’s a long one tonight,” she said, clearing plates. “You two behave while I’m gone.” She grabbed her keys, kissed Brock’s forehead—his broad shoulders tensing under her touch—and headed out. “Be good,” she called, the door clicking shut behind her.

Brock sprawled on the couch, scrolling his phone, his powerful legs stretched out in his shorts, the fabric riding up slightly to reveal more of his sculpted thighs. His sneakers tapped the floor absently, the laces loose over his white ankle socks. The TV flickered in the background, some old western he wasn’t really watching.

He didn’t hear Ned coming.

“Get up,” Ned barked, looming over him, his shadow swallowing the light. Brock barely had time to sit up before Ned grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet with a grip like iron. “You need to learn some respect.”

“What the hell—” Brock started, his sculpted chest heaving under the jacket, but Ned’s strength was unrelenting, forged from years of military discipline. In a blur, Ned twisted Brock’s arm behind his back, shoving him toward the garage. Brock struggled, his athletic pride flaring, his biceps bulging as he resisted, but Ned had him pinned like a seasoned drill sergeant. The garage door slammed shut, and Brock heard the clank of metal—a toolbox opening.


“Sit,” Ned growled, forcing Brock into an old wooden chair, its chipped paint flaking under his weight. Brock’s muscled frame resisted, his thick thighs tensing in the shorts, but Ned shoved him down, grabbing a coil of rough rope. He yanked Brock’s powerful arms—still sleeved in the letterman jacket—behind the chair’s backrest, looping the rope around his wrists and cinching it tight, the fibers cutting into his tanned skin through the fabric. Then Ned knelt, seizing Brock’s strong ankles. He pulled them back sharply, forcing Brock’s sneaker-clad feet off the ground, and lashed each ankle to the chair’s rear legs. The angle strained his massive thighs, his body arched uncomfortably, the ropes biting deeper into his toned calves with every twitch.

Ned grabbed a roll of duct tape, ripping off a long strip with a harsh screech. He pressed it over Brock’s mouth, wrapping it around his head once, twice, three times, pulling it so tight Brock’s chiseled jawline distorted under the pressure, his muffled protests reduced to strained grunts. The tape clung like a vice, sealing his lips, the adhesive smell stinging his nose.

Ned stepped back, wiping his hands, and cracked open a beer from the mini fridge. “Look at you, big football star,” he sneered, taking a slow sip. “That scholarship don’t mean squat. You’re soft. I spent six years in the Marines—real men go military, not prancing around on some field chasing a ball. This is discipline, kid.” He slapped Brock’s face hard, the sting blooming across his cheek, then turned and left the garage, the door thudding shut.

Brock’s muscles bulged against the ropes, his biceps flexing uselessly under the jacket, his abs tightening as he fought the strain. The garage was cold, the concrete floor radiating a chill that seeped into his bones. His broad chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the tape gag making every inhale a struggle. He twisted his wrists, the ropes scraping his skin raw beneath the jacket cuffs, but they wouldn’t budge. His pride—forged on the field, in locker rooms, through every tackle—burned hotter than the pain.


An hour later, the door creaked open. Ned stepped in, no longer in his casual shirt but clad in his old military gear—camouflage pants, a faded green jacket, dog tags glinting at his neck. The outfit hung on his strong frame like a second skin, a reminder of his past. He strode over to Brock, boots thumping, and grabbed Brock’s chin with a calloused hand, forcing his head up. Brock’s hazel eyes met Ned’s, defiant despite the ropes, but Ned’s stare was intense, unyielding, like he was sizing up a recruit.

“You shouldn’t be here, kid,” Ned said, his voice low and deliberate, each word dripping with disdain. “I didn’t marry Lisa to inherit some overgrown son. I don’t need you strutting around like you own this place, flexing those pretty muscles you got from chasing a ball. This is my house now—mine. I earned it, not you. I fought for this country, bled for it, while you were playing games. We’re gonna come to an arrangement, you and me, because I’m not sharing this roof with a little football punk who thinks he’s hot shit.”

Brock tried to jerk his head away, his neck muscles straining, but Ned’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Brock’s jaw. “You’re gonna learn your place,” Ned continued, his breath smelling faintly of beer and tobacco. “I don’t care how big you think you are—you’re nothing next to me. You’ll figure that out soon enough.” He released Brock’s chin with a shove, slapping his face again, harder this time, the crack echoing in the garage. Then he turned and walked out, leaving Brock seething in the dark.

Time dragged. Ned returned again, hours later, pulling a rough fabric hood from his pocket—a coarse, black sack. He yanked it over Brock’s head without a word, plunging him into scratchy darkness, the fabric rubbing against his scraped cheek. Ned slapped him once more, the blow muffled but sharp through the hood, before leaving again. Brock’s world shrank to the sound of his own ragged breathing, the ache in his thick arms, the cramp in his powerful legs.

Ned checked in a final time near dawn, ripping the hood off briefly. Brock’s dark hair was matted, his broad chest heaving beneath the letterman jacket, his once-proud frame sagging under the ropes. Ned grinned, slapping his face a third time, the sting reigniting Brock’s fury. “You’ll learn, boy,” he said, then stepped back, eyeing Brock like a problem to be solved.

Ned knelt, untying the ropes from Brock’s ankles with quick, practiced motions, letting his legs drop to the floor. Brock’s thighs twitched in the shorts, relief mixing with dread, but the hood stayed on, blinding him. Ned grabbed Brock’s sneakers, yanking them off one by one, the laces catching briefly before they came free, leaving him in his white ankle socks, the fabric damp with sweat. Ned tossed the sneakers aside for now, then grabbed more rope. He yanked Brock’s wrists down and back, forcing his powerful arms to meet his thick legs. With ruthless precision, Ned bound Brock’s wrists and ankles together in a strict hogtie, looping the rope tightly around both, pulling until Brock’s body bowed backward into a severe arch. His broad shoulders strained under the jacket, his muscled back flexing painfully, his bare heels digging into the air as the ropes bit deep into his wrists and socked ankles, linking them in an unrelenting knot that left no slack. Brock’s muffled grunts grew sharper, his athletic frame trembling under the brutal restraint.

Ned hauled Brock up, his old military muscle flexing as he dragged the hogtied athlete across the garage floor, the shorts riding up higher on his thighs, exposing more of his sculpted legs. The tailgate of Ned’s pickup clanged open, and with a grunt, Ned heaved Brock into the bed, the cold metal jolting his bruised frame. Brock’s sneakers were thrown in next, bouncing off the metal with a dull thunk, followed by his duffel bag landing beside him just as Lisa’s car rumbled into the driveway. Ned leaned in close, his voice a menacing whisper, intense and venomous. “You’ve got nowhere to go, kid. This is my turf now. You’re done here.”

The tailgate slammed shut, but instead of climbing into the driver’s seat, Ned turned and strode back toward the house. Brock lay there, hooded and bound in the pickup bed, his body aching, his pride shattered. He heard the faint murmur of voices—Ned’s gruff tone greeting Lisa at the door. “Kid left again,” Ned said, his voice carrying just enough for Brock to catch it. “Said he had to get to training camp. Couldn’t stick around.”

Brock’s chest tightened, his muffled protests lost beneath the hood as Ned’s lie sank in, leaving him trapped and helpless in the cold, silent bed of the truck.

[gag1195]

An interesting start! Wonder what Ned has planned...

[Snozzberry]

Poor tough jock, BMOC little tied up BOI with his head in a sack at what once was his home.

🖐🖐

[ETBMichael]

A very exciting start, for a big jock Brock got taken down very easily. Look forward to seeing what happens to him next.

[BoundInk]

Chapter 2:

The cold metal of the pickup bed pressed against Brock’s hogtied frame, the ropes digging deeper into his wrists and ankles with every subtle shift. Hours ticked by in the dark, the coarse fabric hood muffling the world beyond his own ragged breathing. Exhaustion clawed at him—his thick muscles ached from the strain, his broad shoulders burned under the letterman jacket, and his powerful legs cramped in the unrelenting arch of the hogtie. His white ankle socks were damp with sweat, his bare heels uselessly flexing against the air. The adrenaline that had fueled his fury faded, leaving only bone-deep fatigue. After a couple of hours, Brock’s cocky defiance gave way to sleep, his chiseled jaw slackening beneath the duct tape as his body surrendered to the darkness.

A jolt snapped him awake—the truck’s engine roared to life, shaking the bed beneath him. Brock’s hazel eyes flared open under the hood, his muscled frame tensing as the vehicle lurched forward. A raw, electric heat surged through him, his cock stiffening hard against the tight fabric of his athletic shorts. The sensation hit like a linebacker’s tackle—confusing, intense, and undeniable. His breath hitched behind the tape, his broad chest heaving as arousal pulsed through his veins, mingling with the adrenaline of captivity. “What the hell’s wrong with me?” he thought, his mind reeling, but his body reveled in it, the ropes biting into his skin only fanning the flames. “Screw you, old man,” he snarled inwardly, his arrogance surging despite the helplessness. He thrashed against the restraints, his biceps bulging under the jacket, his thick thighs flexing as he tested the knots, the friction sending shivers of unwanted pleasure up his spine. No give. The truck rumbled on, the drive stretching for hours, each bump grinding his erection against the metal bed, stoking his resolve to fight back—and his shameful excitement.

Finally, the truck slowed, gravel crunching under the tires before it shuddered to a stop. Brock’s ears strained beneath the hood, catching the creak of the tailgate dropping. Ned’s rough hands seized him, one gripping the rope around his wrists, the other clamping under his armpit. With a grunt, Ned hauled Brock out of the bed like a sack of gear, his old military muscle flexing as he slung the hogtied jock over his shoulder. Brock’s broad chest pressed against Ned’s back, his thick legs dangling, the shorts riding up to expose more of his sculpted thighs. The heat of Ned’s body against his own sent a jolt through Brock, his erection throbbing harder, trapped against Ned’s shoulder as his bound wrists and ankles bobbed with each heavy step. The ropes chafed his socked ankles, the sensation sharp and intoxicating, a twisted mix of pain and pleasure that made his head swim.

Ned kicked the cabin door open, the hinges groaning, and stepped inside. Without ceremony, he dumped Brock onto the polished wood floor, the impact jarring his spine and sending a dull thud through the lavish hunting cabin. The sudden drop ground Brock’s pelvis into the floor, his cock pulsing against the hardwood, drawing a stifled groan from behind the tape. Deer heads stared down from the walls, a stone fireplace loomed in the corner, and plush leather furniture gleamed under dim lighting—rugged yet fancy, a stark contrast to the garage’s cold concrete. Ned yanked the sack off Brock’s head, and the sudden light stung his eyes. Brock blinked, taking in the opulent interior, his dark hair matted with sweat, his chest heaving beneath the jacket, his arousal a humiliating secret he couldn’t shake.

Ned didn’t even glance at him. He paced a few steps away, his strong frame still clad in military gear, dog tags clinking as he tapped at his cellphone. Brock glared up from the floor, his hazel eyes blazing with defiance—and something darker, a lust he refused to name. “You think this changes anything, huh?” he spat through the gag, the words garbled but dripping with bravado. “I’m still twice the man you’ll ever be, you washed-up grunt.” His toned arms flexed against the ropes, his cocky attitude flaring brighter as he rolled his hips slightly, the pressure against his erection sending a shiver through him. He kicked his thick legs despite the restraints, each movement tightening the ropes and amplifying the heat pooling in his groin.

Ned ignored him, finishing whatever he was doing on the phone before setting it down on a wooden table with a deliberate clack. Only then did he turn, his cold eyes locking onto Brock’s. He smirked, stepping closer, towering over the hogtied jock. “You’re a real tough guy, ain’t you, Brock?” he said, his voice thick with domination, each syllable a hammer. “All that mouthing off, and here you are—trussed up like a damn hog, whining on my floor.”

Brock’s jaw clenched under the tape, his hazel eyes burning with defiance and a flicker of twisted desire. He jerked his body harder, rolling onto his side, his thick legs bucking against the ropes. “Untie me, asshole, and we’ll see who’s whining,” he snarled, the words muffled but fierce. “I’ll snap you in half, military or not—I don’t break for nobody.” The strain of the hogtie pressed his erection tighter against his shorts, a maddening ache that fueled his resistance and his shame.

Ned chuckled, low and menacing, then kicked off his combat boots one by one, the heavy thuds echoing in the cabin. He peeled off his socks next, revealing feet calloused from years of marches, the sour, musky stench hitting the air like a punch. Crouching, he grabbed Brock’s head by the hair and shoved his stinky feet right under Brock’s nose. The pungent smell flooded his senses, raw and overpowering, and Brock gagged behind the tape—then moaned, low and involuntary, as his cock surged harder than ever. The scent was vile, humid with sweat and earth, a primal reek that clawed at his sanity and lit his nerves on fire. His broad chest heaved faster, arousal coiling tight in his gut as he twisted his head away—or tried to. Ned’s grip was iron, forcing Brock’s face back into place, the rough skin of Ned’s soles brushing his lips through the tape.

“Smell that, boy,” Ned growled, his tone dripping with control. “That’s what a real man’s made of—sweat, dirt, and grit. Not some pretty boy scholarship and a fancy jacket. You’re gonna breathe it in until you figure out who’s boss around here.”
Brock’s resistance exploded, his muscled frame thrashing wildly against the hogtie. His biceps strained, veins popping under his tanned skin, his powerful legs kicking harder despite the ropes biting into his socked ankles. Each movement ground his erection against the floor, sending waves of pleasure-pain through him, his shorts damp with pre-cum he couldn’t hide. “Screw—you—” he roared through the gag, the tape turning it into a furious, lust-choked hum. “You’re a sick bastard—I’ll rip your damn head off when I’m loose!” The humiliation of his arousal only sharpened his defiance, his body a battlefield of rage and desire.

Ned’s smirk widened, unfazed. He pressed his foot harder against Brock’s face, the stench overwhelming, a humiliating mark of dominance that pushed Brock to the edge. “Keep dreaming, punk,” he said, his voice a steel blade. “You’re mine now—my house, my rules, my game.” He pulled his feet back, standing abruptly, and rummaged in a nearby duffel bag. With a metallic clink, he produced a pair of steel handcuffs, their cold edges glinting in the cabin’s light. Kneeling again, he grabbed Brock’s wrists, still bound by rope, and snapped the cuffs on over the knots, the metal biting into his skin with a sharp click that sent a shiver of dark thrill through Brock’s core. “That’s extra insurance, boy,” Ned sneered. “You ain’t slipping out of this.”

Ned didn’t stop there. He reached for the duct tape on Brock’s face, peeling it off with a slow, deliberate rip, the adhesive tugging at his skin. Brock’s chiseled jaw flexed as the gag came free, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. “Yeah, that’s right, untie me, you coward—” he started, his voice hoarse but brimming with cocky venom. Before he could finish, Ned snatched one of his discarded socks—stiff with dried sweat, reeking of days-old musk and grime—and shoved it into Brock’s protesting mouth. The taste hit like a shockwave: sour, salty, and thick with the rancid tang of unwashed feet. It coated his tongue, clogging his throat with its filthy intensity, driving him wild with revulsion and a perverse, maddening arousal. His cock throbbed harder, a traitor to his pride, as Ned grabbed the duct tape again, wrapping it around Brock’s head six times now, each layer tighter than the last, sealing the sock in place. Brock’s cocky remarks dissolved into garbled, desperate sounds—muffled grunts and moans that betrayed his inner turmoil.

Ned stepped back, watching as Brock rolled onto his side, his thick legs kicking futilely. The movement exposed the bulging outline of his erection, straining against the gray shorts, the damp spot at the tip unmistakable. Ned’s eyes narrowed, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, look at that,” he taunted, his voice laced with mocking dominance. “Big tough jock’s getting off on this, huh? You’re hard as a rock, boy—pathetic. All that swagger, and you’re just a horny little punk under my boot.”

Brock’s confidence shattered, the teasing slicing through his bravado like a blade. His hazel eyes widened, then darted away, shame flooding his face as his erection pulsed helplessly. He thrashed harder, his muscled frame straining against the ropes and cuffs, but the garbled sounds from his stuffed mouth—half rage, half plea—only deepened his humiliation. “Mmmph—screw—you—” he tried, but the sock’s rancid taste and Ned’s words drowned his defiance, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and achingly aroused.

Ned loomed over him, his shadow swallowing Brock whole. “You’re gonna regret this, huh?” he mocked, echoing Brock’s earlier threat. “Looks to me like you’re enjoying it too much, boy. You ain’t going nowhere ‘til I’m done with you—and I’m just getting started.”

[Bradstick]

I read the first two chapters and man this awesome! I love the step dad that wants to teach this jock his place. Being left in the truck bed all night was so hot and the sock gag was amazing. I can’t wait to see what Ned does with his horny prisoner!

[BoundInk]

Thanks for reading @Bradstick @ETBMichael @Snozzberry @gag1195

Chapter 3:

The polished wood floor of the hunting cabin dug into Brock’s side, his hogtied body a tangle of ropes and cuffs, the steel biting into his wrists over the coarse knots. His letterman jacket was sweat-soaked, his gray athletic shorts clung to his thick thighs, and his white ankle socks were damp and grimy from the ordeal. The rancid taste of Ned’s sock lingered in his mouth, sealed in by six layers of duct tape, turning his cocky defiance into garbled, lust-choked grunts. His erection strained painfully against the shorts, a humiliating betrayal that Ned’s taunting had shattered his confidence over.

Above him, Ned paced, his strong frame casting a shadow as he tapped at his cellphone, the faint glow catching the edge of his smirk.

“Time to step it up, boy,” Ned growled, his voice thick with domination as he pocketed the phone and turned to Brock.
He knelt, pulling a knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the cabin’s dim light. Brock’s breath hitched, his broad chest heaving, but Ned didn’t cut the ropes. Instead, he sliced through the jacket, ripping it off Brock’s muscled torso in jagged strips, exposing his chiseled pecs and abs, slick with sweat. Next came the shorts, the knife shearing them away until they fell in tatters, leaving Brock naked except for his white ankle socks. His thick cock sprang free, hard and pulsing, a stark contrast to the vulnerability of his bound state. Brock’s face burned, his arrogance faltering as Ned smirked down at him.

“You’re a damn mess, punk,” Ned said, his tone icy and absolute. He grabbed a coil of rope from a nearby table and hauled Brock up, his old military muscle flexing as he dragged the jock across the room. Brock thrashed, his powerful legs kicking, his socked feet slipping on the floor. “Screw—you—asshole—” he tried to snarl through the gag, the words lost in a muffled groan, his erection bobbing with each movement. Ned ignored him, shoving him into a sturdy wooden chair by the fireplace. With ruthless precision, he untied the hogtie ropes, only to rebind Brock to the chair—arms yanked behind the backrest, wrists recuffed and roped tight, ankles lashed to the chair legs, spreading his thighs and leaving his cock exposed and twitching in the open air.

Ned stepped back, then grabbed a full-length mirror from the wall and propped it up in front of Brock. The reflection hit like a gut punch—Brock’s tanned, muscled body, naked and helpless, his broad shoulders straining, his thick legs splayed, and his erection standing proud despite his squirming. His hazel eyes widened in shock, then squeezed shut, the sight ripping through his bravado. Ned loomed closer, his voice a cruel lash. “Open your damn eyes, boy—look at yourself. Big bad jock, huh? Look at that pitiful dick, hard as a rock ‘cause you can’t handle a real man. You’re nothing—just a squirming little bitch who thinks he’s tough.”

Brock’s eyes snapped open, forced to face the mirror, his chest heaving as Ned’s words sank in. His abs flexed, his thick arms jerked against the ropes, the cuffs clanking against the chair. The image stared back—his muscled frame bound and exposed, his cock throbbing under his own gaze, pre-cum glistening at the tip. “Mmmph—f—ck—you—” he grunted, the sock’s sour, musky taste flooding his senses again, driving him wild with revulsion and a perverse thrill that made his erection pulse harder. Ned’s grin widened, his cold eyes boring into Brock’s reflection. “Yeah, keep flapping that mouth, punk—all I hear’s a whimper. You’re a joke, Brock—stripped bare and loving it, you disgusting little slut.”

Brock’s confidence crumbled, Ned’s verbal barrage shredding what was left of his swagger. He squirmed harder, his socked ankles tugging at the ropes, the mirror showing every twitch of his naked body, his erection a humiliating centerpiece he couldn’t escape. His face flushed red, shame mixing with the heat in his groin, his hazel eyes flickering with rage and despair. “Mmmph—gonna—kill—you—” he groaned, the garbled sounds pitiful against Ned’s relentless dominance, the sock’s rancid taste and smell pushing him to the edge of sanity.

Ned stepped away briefly, pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping at it absently, his focus drifting for a moment before he tucked it back. He rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a thick permanent marker, the cap popping off with a sharp snap. “One last touch, boy,” he sneered, stepping back to Brock. He pressed the marker’s tip to Brock’s chiseled chest, the cold ink scrawling across his skin in bold, black letters: NED’S TOY. The words stretched over his pecs, permanent and degrading, a brand that seared into Brock’s soul. He froze, staring at the mirror, the reflection now showing not just his bound, aroused body but this final mark of ownership. His hazel eyes dimmed, the last flicker of cockiness snuffed out, replaced by a hollow, broken glare.

Ned capped the marker and tossed it aside, then grabbed the coarse fabric hood from the floor. “You’ve seen enough,” he growled, his voice low and final. He yanked the sack over Brock’s head, plunging him back into scratchy darkness, the world reduced to the sound of his own ragged breathing and the lingering sting of ink on his chest. Brock’s chest heaved, the ropes biting deeper, his erection still throbbing despite—or because of—the total breakdown of his pride. “Mmmph—” he groaned, a weak, defeated sound swallowed by the hood and the sock gag.

Ned loomed over him, his shadow felt even through the blindness. “You’re mine ‘til I say otherwise, punk,” he said, his tone dripping with control. “And I ain’t even close to done with you.” He stepped back, his boots thudding on the floor, leaving Brock tied to the chair—naked, marked, blindfolded, and utterly broken, his body a traitor to the jock he once was

[Snozzberry]

I almost feel sorry for Brock but he's getting what he deserves for being a stuck-up self-centered BMOC in a real man's world being taught that he is a blubbering little twerp. Ned needs to play with Brock's Cock to really embarrass the little man, perhaps a very tight cock ring applied

🖐🖐

[Bradstick]

Awesome continuation! I love the full length mirror, that really added to the humiliation. I am excited to see what else Ned has planned for his toy and what he is doing on his phone.

[60Cancer]

Intriguing.

[gag1195]

Ned isn't giving Brock any breaks, is he? Great couple of chapters!

[BoundInk]

Thanks for reading! Brock is the boi...

Chapter 4:

The coarse hood scratched Brock’s sweat-soaked face, its rough weave clinging to his flushed cheeks and matted dark hair, plunging him into a suffocating void. His six-foot frame sat rigid in the wooden chair, naked save for the damp white ankle socks hugging his feet, the fabric stained with grime and stretched tight over his flexed arches. Ropes bit into his thick wrists, lashed behind the chair’s backrest, the cuffs over them grinding steel against raw skin, leaving red welts that pulsed with each futile tug. His broad shoulders strained, muscles bulging under tanned skin slick with perspiration, but the bonds held, forcing his chiseled chest forward, the black ink—NED’S TOY—scrawled across his pecs in bold, mocking letters, still tacky from the marker’s bite. His thick thighs, roped to the chair legs, trembled slightly, spread wide, exposing his rigid cock—hard, throbbing, a traitor glistening with pre-cum that dripped onto the polished floor below. The sock gag—Ned’s, sour and musky—stuffed his mouth, six layers of duct tape sealing it in, turning every ragged breath into a muffled grunt, the rancid taste coating his tongue like a second skin.

Brock’s body screamed exhaustion—his biceps twitched from hours of resistance, his abs clenched tight, a sheen of sweat pooling in the grooves of his sculpted torso. His hazel eyes, hidden beneath the hood, darted wildly in the dark, pupils dilated with panic and shame, though no one could see. His chest heaved, each breath a shallow rasp, the air hot and stale inside the sack, amplifying the stench of Ned’s sock—a filthy mix of sweat, dirt, and time that choked him with every inhale. His cock pulsed again, unbidden, the head swollen and sensitive, brushing the cool air, sending a shiver up his spine that clashed with the heat pooling in his gut. He was a wreck—strong, still, but unraveling, his jock physique a canvas for Ned’s control, his arousal a humiliating stain he couldn’t wipe away.

His mind churned, a storm of who he’d been and who he was now. He wasn’t supposed to be this—Brock, the linebacker king, six feet of alpha energy who owned the gridiron and locker room alike. Memories slashed through the haze, vivid and cutting. Senior year, state semis—he’d bulldozed a running back into the turf, his thick thighs driving the hit, his deep voice barking, “Stay down, punk,” as the crowd roared his name. Freshman year, hazing—he’d pinned a scrawny rookie to the locker room floor, wrists locked under his grip, laughing loud as the kid squirmed, a rush of power surging through him. But there’d been a heat then, too, a flicker he’d buried—those wrists under his hands, the press of bodies, a quickened pulse he’d called adrenaline and ignored.

Other flashes haunted him now, vulnerabilities he’d never named. Sophomore practice—he’d snatched Jaxon’s socks off the bench, damp and reeking, held them a beat too long, the sour musk hitting his nose. “You’re nasty, dude,” he’d grinned, tossing them back, but the smell had stuck, a pull he’d brushed off. After a win, Colt’s jockstrap in the pile—rank, humid, a whiff that made his gut tighten, masked by a shove and a “Get that shit outta here!” Freshman hazing flipped—he’d been the one pinned once, upperclassmen holding him down, wrists and ankles locked tight, their weight crushing him into the mat. He’d thrashed, roared, broke free, but the restrictive squeeze, the sweat-slick pressure, had sparked a flush he’d buried deep, blaming rage. Those moments lingered, ghosts he’d never faced, now clawing free under Ned’s hands.

This wasn’t the field, though—this was Ned’s cabin, and those ghosts were flesh. The ropes in the garage had shocked him, his biceps flexing as he’d snarled, “I’ll snap you in half,” but the truck bed cracked him—waking hard, confused, thinking, “What the hell’s wrong with me?” Ned’s shoulder, the foot stench, the sock gag—each hit dug up that buried heat, turned it against him. The mirror had gutted him—naked, bound, his cock weeping under his own gaze, Ned’s voice lashing: “squirming little bitch,” “disgusting little slut.” He’d roared—“gonna kill you”—but it was hollow, a boy’s cry. Now, hooded and marked, his body betrayed him fully—his nipples still tingled from the ropes’ drag, his cock throbbed with every shift, the sock’s taste drove him wild, a perverse thrill he hated but craved.

He’d been the alpha once—crushing opponents, leading the huddle, soaking in cheers. But those flickers—Jaxon’s socks, Colt’s jock, the hazing hold-down—had they always been there, waiting? Ned had found them, ripped them open—the part of Brock that got hard when he shouldn’t, that moaned when he wanted to curse. His chest heaved under the ink, his thick arms flexed against the cuffs, but it wasn’t strength—it was desperation, a strong jock body bending under a broken mind. The sock’s musk flooded him, an echo of those locker room whiffs, and he couldn’t shove it away—it lit him up, his cock surging as his thoughts fractured.

Brock’s mind twisted, a war of past and present. He hated Ned—hated the ropes, the hood, the taste—but his body didn’t. It craved the strain, the shame, the filth, like it had craved those buried moments he’d ignored. His cock pulsed again, a traitor’s beat, and he groaned into the gag, a sound of rage and need, his sweat-slick frame trembling in the chair. The question clawed up from the dark, sharp and shattering: Does he actually want to be Ned’s toy? It hung there, unanswered, as the hood swallowed him, leaving him teetering—a jock unmade, strong but lost, his physical power a cruel joke against the wreck within.

[Bradstick]

I loved getting to see the inter thoughts of Brock. Seeing him break down is amazing and the flashbacks were a nice touch. I’m excited to see how receptive he is next time Ned pays him a visit!

[Snozzberry]

Brock's mind hates this. Brock's body loves it, Brock's Cock stands at attention in front of the Ex-Marine as proof.

🖐🖐

[BoundInk]

We meet whoever Ned was texting in this part!

Chapter 5:

Ned’s boots thudded back into the room, heavy and deliberate, snapping Brock from his spiraling thoughts. “Had enough sitting pretty, boy?” Ned growled, voice thick with menace, his shadow looming as he stepped close. Brock’s hazel eyes darted beneath the hood, unseen but wide with dread, his chest rising faster.

Ned’s rough hands grabbed the hood first, yanking it off with a sharp tug, the coarse fabric dragging over Brock’s sweat-soaked face. The sudden light stung his eyes, his chiseled features blinking into view—sweat-streaked, jaw clenched around the gag, hazel irises flickering with rage and shame beneath dark, damp hair plastered to his forehead.

Ned smirked, lifting one combat boot and planting it between Brock’s spread thighs, the gritty sole pressing hard into his crotch. The pressure crushed against his cock and balls, a sharp ache flaring as the leather ground in, forcing a choked “Mmmph!” from his gagged mouth.

His thick thighs tensed, muscles bulging against the ropes, his half-hard shaft stiffening further under the boot’s weight, pre-cum smearing the sole.

“That’s right, toy,” Ned sneered, twisting his foot for a moment, “still eager down there, huh?” Brock’s abs clenched, sweat beading down his torso, shame and arousal warring as Ned pulled the boot back.

Ned’s hands moved to the gag next, ripping the tape off with a slow, deliberate tear—six layers peeling away, adhesive tugging at his skin, yanking the soaked sock free with a wet pop. Brock gasped, his chiseled jaw flexing as fresh air flooded his mouth.

Relief soured instantly—the cool rush swirled around the saliva pooled from hours of the sock, thick and slimy, amplifying the taste—a vile explosion of sour sweat, stale grime, and foot funk that coated his tongue worse than before, like Ned’s boot had festered anew in his throat. He gagged, a dry heave shaking his frame, his cock twitching despite the revulsion.

“Untie me, you bastard,” Brock rasped, voice hoarse but defiant, his hazel eyes blazing up at Ned through sweat-streaked lashes. “I’ll break your damn neck - game’s over.” The words were weak, a flicker of his old jock fire, but Ned’s cold laugh cut them down.

“Game’s just starting, punk,” he snarled, slamming a hand onto Brock’s shoulder, pinning him to the chair. “Mouth off again, and I’ll shove my boot down that throat instead.”

Brock’s lips parted—“Screw—you—” but Ned’s fist gripped his hair, yanking his head back hard, silencing him with a grunt as the fight drained out.

Ned pulled a knife from his belt, the blade glinting, and Brock tensed, biceps bulging against the ropes, the blade rested on gis vulnerable exposed throat. But Ned sliced through the chair’s bindings—ropes falling with a thud, leaving only the cuffs locked behind his back.

He hauled Brock up by the armpit, his muscled body swaying on cramped legs, sweat dripping down his abs, his cock swaying with the motion.

Ned grabbed a roll of duct tape from the table, ripping off a long strip with a sharp tear that sliced the air. “No more glaring, toy,” he barked, slapping the tape over Brock’s eyes, wrapping it tight around his head—two, three layers, sealing him into darkness, the adhesive sticking to his damp skin.

Brock stumbled, blind now, his breath hitching, wrists still cuffed tight behind him, the steel cold against his chafed flesh. Ned’s hand clamped his shoulder, shoving him down.

“On your knees,” he ordered, voice harsh as a whip.

Brock hit the floor hard, knees thudding on the wood, his broad chest heaving, the fresh air still swirling in his mouth, that rancid aftertaste clinging—sour, thick, a nauseating reminder of the sock that made his stomach churn and his tongue recoil.

Ned loomed over him, boots creaking as he paced a tight circle, his voice dropping into a low, monologuing growl. “You’re fucked, boy—real fucked. No one’s looking for you, not your mommy, not your little jock buddies. I told ‘em you’re off to training camp—got a few days ‘fore anyone even blinks. That ass of yours? Mine ‘til I say otherwise. You’re stuck here, toy—mine to break, mine to use, ‘til I get tired of you. And trust me, punk, I don’t tire easy.”

Brock’s chest tightened, his taped eyes hiding the panic flaring in his gut, his strong frame trembling as Ned’s words sank in—no escape, no rescue, just this.

Ned kicked one of his combat boots forward, the heavy sole scraping, stopping inches from Brock’s face. “Clean it,” he snarled, his tone absolute. “Lick it—make it shine, or I’ll tape that mouth shut ‘til you puke. Hands stay back, toy—use that tongue.”

Brock’s cuffed wrists strained uselessly behind him, thick fingers flexing but trapped, unable to reach. “You’re sick,” he muttered, voice low, a last spark of defiance, but Ned’s boot nudged his lips, cutting him off. “Now, punk—tongue out, or I’ll make you choke on it.”

Brock’s shame burned hotter than the welts on his wrists, but he bent forward, his strong frame folding awkwardly—shoulders hunched, back arching, thick thighs tensing as he strained to reach the boot with his face. His biceps bulged, veins popping under the effort, his abs contracted, sweat dripping onto the floor as he lowered his head, tongue darting out to lap at the leather. The taste hit like a punch—bitter dirt, salty sweat, a faint tang of oil—flooding his mouth, mixing with the sock’s lingering filth into a revolting brew that made him gag, his throat spasming. He licked harder, the boot’s ridges rough against his tongue, saliva smearing the grime, his breath ragged through flared nostrils. His knees ached, his taped eyes hid the tears he couldn’t stop—alpha jock reduced to this, bent over, muscles straining, licking boots with his hands bound, his physical strength a cruel mockery under Ned’s command. His cock pulsed again, a sick thrill surging as the taste overwhelmed him, his tongue dragging over the toe, polishing the leather with his own degradation.

The cabin door creaked open, hinges groaning, and lighter boots stepped in—Ray, Ned’s son, mid-20s, military-honed but with a softer stride, fresh from his own service.

Brock didn’t hear, blind and lost in his task, tongue working the boot’s sole as Ned’s voice cut the air. “Well, look who’s back—perfect timing, Ray,” Ned said, a proud smirk in his tone, stepping aside to gesture at Brock. “Take a gander at this—my latest catch. Broke him in good for you, son.”

Ray’s boots paused, his breath catching slightly as he took in the sight—Brock bent over, sweat-slicked and straining, tongue lapping at Ned’s boot. “Damn, Dad,” Ray said, voice gruff but tinged with awe, “you weren’t kidding about a toy. He’s a hell of a sight.”

Ned chuckled, chest puffing out. “Told you I’d deliver. Figured you’d like him—big, strong, just your type. I know those barracks assholes give you shit for being who you are, but me? I’m proud of you, Ray. This one’s proof—supporting my boy the best way I know how.”

Ray shifted, his tone softening but edged with frustration. “Yeah, barracks life’s a bitch—half those grunts still think ‘gay’ means weak. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to prove ‘em wrong. But this?” He let out a low whistle, stepping closer. “This is something else. Thanks, Dad—he’s perfect. Only one problem… says NED’S TOY on his chest, not mine.” His voice carried a playful jab, testing the waters.

Ned laughed, sharp and commanding, clapping Ray on the shoulder. “That’s ‘cause he’s mine, son—my meat, my rules. Wrote it clear as day, didn’t I? You can play, sure—have your fun, take what you want—but this piece belongs to me. Ain’t sharing ownership, just the perks.”

Brock’s head jerked up from the boot, saliva dripping from his lips, his taped eyes blind but his ears catching every word. “What the—screw that!” he rasped, voice raw, defiance flaring as he strained against the cuffs, his thick arms flexing uselessly behind him. “I’m no one’s damn toy—not yours, not his!” His strong frame shook, knees digging into the floor, but Ned’s boot nudged his face back down hard, Brocks head was trapped between the wood floorboards and Ned's boot sole.

“Shut it, punk,” Ned snapped, voice ice-cold. “You don’t get a say, keep licking, or I’ll make it worse.”

Ray chuckled, softer, stepping closer still. “Easy, Dad—he’s feisty. I like that. Plenty of fun to be had either way.” Brock’s tongue resumed, reluctant and ragged, the taste choking him as Ned and Ray’s words hung heavy—owned by Ned, shared with Ray, his jock pride a fading ember in the dark.

[Snozzberry]

Brock, the BoiToy is getting a little fiesty he still ain't totally broken.

🖐🖐

[Bradstick]

Well that was a hot chapter! I loved the inclusion of Ray. I was expecting Ned to be some right wing, homophobic asshole but instead he loved his son and even got him a little toy to play with. Man what a turn, can’t wait for the next chapter!

[BoundInk]

@Snozzberry @Bradstick thanks for reading.

I'm happy you are enjoying it.

Yeah Brock still has some semblance of the illusion of freedom. Let's see if Ned and Ray squash it or perhaps they want a toy with some fire in his belly...

I'm glad Ned managed to surprise you... after all any great villain has some redeeming qualities...

[KidBlink]

I'm excited to read more!

[BoundInk]

Let's continue... @KidBlink @Snozzberry @Bradstick
@gag1195 @60Cancer

Chapter 6

Brock knelt on the hardwood floor, knees aching from the unyielding surface, his sweat-slicked body trembling as his tongue dragged over Ned’s combat boot. The leather’s bitter taste—dirt, sweat, oil—mixed with the lingering sour filth of the sock gag, a revolting brew that choked his throat with every ragged lick. His thick wrists strained against the steel cuffs locked tight behind his back, fingers flexing uselessly, veins bulging under his tanned skin. Duct tape sealed his eyes, three layers clinging to his damp face, blinding him to the cabin’s dim light. His six-foot frame bent awkwardly—shoulders hunched, back arched, thick thighs tensing to hold the position—his broad chest heaving, the ink NED’S TOY stark across his pecs, sweat beading down his chiseled abs. His cock hung heavy between his legs, half-hard and twitching, a traitor pulsing with sick heat despite the shame burning in his gut.

Ned’s voice still echoed—“Mine to break, mine to use”—his proud presentation of Brock to Ray ringing in Brock’s ears.

Ray’s lighter boots creaked nearby, his mid-20s frame a softer shadow beside Ned’s towering bulk. “He’s feisty—I like that,” Ray had said, and Brock’s weak defiance—“I’m no one’s damn toy”—had crumbled under Ned’s boot nudge. Now, Ned stepped back, the sole scraping free of Brock’s tongue, leaving a slick trail of saliva. “Your turn, Ray,” Ned said, voice gruff with pride, a smirk tugging his lips. “Show him what you’ve got—let’s see how my boy handles a toy.”

Ray’s boots shuffled closer, the leather creaking as he crouched slightly, his breath warm and tinged with tobacco—different from Ned’s beer-and-sweat stink. “Alright, Dad,” Ray replied, his tone gruff but laced with a playful edge. “Let’s see what he’s made of.” His hand landed on Brock’s shoulder, firm but not cruel, fingers digging into the taut muscle. Brock flinched, his strong frame tensing, and rasped, “Get off me, asshole,” but the words lacked bite, his voice hoarse from the boot’s taste. Ray chuckled, low and teasing. “Oh, he’s still got some fight—cute.”

Ned snorted, pacing a step back. “Not for long. Clean his boots now, punk—same deal, tongue only, make ‘em shine.”

Ray’s boot slid forward, nudging Brock’s lips, the leather fresher but still gritty—dust from barracks floors, a faint musk of sweat. Brock’s chest tightened, shame flaring hotter, but he bent further, his body straining—shoulders rolling forward, biceps flexing against the cuffs, abs contracting as he lowered his face. His tongue flicked out, lapping at Ray’s boot, the taste sharp and earthy, a new layer of filth coating his mouth. He gagged, a low “Nngh,” his knees digging into the floor, sweat dripping as he worked.

Ray’s hand slid down Brock’s back, tracing the spine’s curve, his touch lighter than Ned’s iron grip. “Good boy,” Ray murmured, almost gentle, his fingers lingering on the cuff welts.

Brock’s cock twitched harder, a jolt of arousal clashing with his rage—he spat, “Screw you,” but it came out weak, drowned by a groan as Ray’s boot pressed firmer against his tongue. Ned laughed, cold and sharp. “Pathetic slut—look at him, Ray, squirming already. Told you he’s mine—breaks easy under a real man.”

Ray’s other hand found Brock’s chest, brushing the NED’S TOY ink, then pinching a nipple—sharp, sudden, twisting until Brock’s breath hitched, his thick thighs trembling.

“He likes it, Dad,” Ray teased, his voice warm with amusement. “Feel that—hard as a rock down there.” His hand dropped, stroking Brock’s cock once, twice, the friction wrenching a muffled “F—ck—” from Brock’s lips, pre-cum slicking Ray’s fingers. Brock’s body bucked, wrists straining against the cuffs, his defiance flickering—“Stop—damn it”—but his hips thrust weakly, betraying him.

Ned’s boot slammed onto Brock’s back, pinning him down, the weight forcing his chest closer to the floor, his face grinding into Ray’s boot. “Keep licking, toy,” Ned barked, his tone ruthless. “You’re ours to play with—Ray’s just warming you up.”

Brock’s tongue lapping grew frantic, the taste overwhelming—grit and sweat mixing with his own saliva, his throat spasming as Ned’s boot pressed harder. Ray’s hand kept stroking, slow and deliberate, his softer “Good boy” clashing with Ned’s “Disgusting little bitch,” a dual assault that drowned Brock’s senses. His strong frame shook, muscles straining—biceps bulging, thighs flexing, abs quivering—his cock throbbing under Ray’s touch, tears soaking the tape as shame and arousal swallowed him whole.

Ned’s voice cut through, proud and firm. “See, Ray? Built him for you—tough enough to take it, dumb enough to fold. Enjoy him, son—just don’t forget who owns this meat.” Ray’s chuckle vibrated close, his hand pausing on Brock’s shaft. “Oh, I won’t, Dad—plenty of fun either way.”

Brock’s head hung low, tongue still on Ray’s boot, his rasped “I’m—not—yours” a faint whisper, crushed under their boots, his jock pride a fading spark in the dark.

[Snozzberry]

WOW Brock, the Brick Head, still has some fight left in him. I've got a couple of pairs of boots i could donate to the "Break The Brock Boot Licking Marathon" if Ned and Ray are interested. The BMOC Jock is getting everything he deserves. To Dumb and to proud to admit deFEET by his betters.

🖐🖐

[KidnappedCowboy]

Just read these chapters, after reading your surfer's tale. Brock isn't Ned's first quarry? Did he bag another jock for his son, Ray?

[Bradstick]

Another fantastic chapter! Can’t wait to see what they have planned for him next!

[Tsuhaya]

Great story, seeing a muscular and handsome athlete tied up is always a good move. Ned is an excellent tormentor, though Brock might not think so

[BoundInk]

It's great we have some readers!

@Snozzberry bring in the boots - a whole truckload if you can.

@KidnappedCowboy ooooh. These stories were written as separate entities but I can see how it could be the same person behind it all - Ned! I might weave this in at some point - let's see

@Bradstick oh buddy - the plans are all laid out - just you wait and see

@Tsuhaya well before the story runs out let's see if we can convince Brock that Ned is indeed a great tormentor!