Stories of Tie Up Games

#nonconsensual #kidnap #NSFW #pg18 #servitude #identitylost


Chapter One: The Wave Breaks

It’s a warm April afternoon in 2025, sun hanging lazy over the SoCal coast. Kai’s just clocked out from his lifeguard shift, rocking his signature red Speedo—small, snug, the way he likes it. He’s lean and strong, all sun-kissed skin and messy blonde hair, sea-green eyes glinting with that reckless spark. His surfboard’s tucked under his arm as he strolls to the bus, easy swagger in every step. The ride’s a mess—grumbles about the board jabbing the aisle, mutters about the Speedo’s indecent cut—but he just grins, shrugs it off. “Live a little, yeah?” he says, voice smooth and unbothered, disarming half the crowd while the rest stare harder.

He hops off at a remote beach, the kind with big waves and no one around. From his backpack, he pulls a thin wetsuit—black, sleeveless, simple—and slips it on, the fabric hugging him close. It’s not flashy, just fits right, showing off his frame without trying too hard. Board in hand, he wades into the surf, water cool against his legs, hair falling loose as he floats, eyes on the horizon for the next swell.

He’s waiting for a wave when something catches his eye—a figure on the beach, all black leather, standing out sharp against the sand. Kai squints, shakes his head with a half-laugh. “Leather on the beach? Dude’s lost,” he mutters, letting it slide.

He paddles, catches a wave, rides it smooth and easy, the rush humming through him. Then another, body moving like it’s part of the water. Mid-paddle, he feels a ripple too close. He turns—there’s a guy in the waves with him, tanned and dark-haired, Latino, cutting through like he belongs. Kai blinks, wipes saltwater from his eyes.

The guy flashes a quick grin. “Hey, I’m your replacement,” he says, voice carrying over the crash. Kai tilts his head, confused but chill. “Replacement? What’s that mean, bro?” He glances back—the leather figure’s not alone now; two more have joined, watching from the shore. His stomach flips, but he smirks. “You guys throwing a party or what?”

The stranger makes his move—no warning, just a lunge, hands slamming Kai’s chest. He’s flipped off his board, a yelp cut short as he hits the water, the ankle leash sliced clean with a flick of the guy’s knife. “What the hell, dude?!” Kai sputters, surfacing, but the surfer’s paddling back, leaving him stranded. His board drifts off, and Kai swims, arms cutting through, heart kicking up.

He hits the shore, wetsuit dripping, sand sticking to his legs. The leather crew’s closing in—three of them, moving fast. He looks around—miles of nothing, no one to hear. Fear flickers; his chill cracks. He bolts, bare feet pounding, hair whipping back. Thirty feet, maybe, legs pumping—then a shadow looms. The surfer’s on him, silent and swift, tackling him hard. Kai goes down, face-first into the sand, a grunt punched out as the guy’s weight pins him.

The leather trio’s there in seconds, boots crunching. Kai thrashes, but they’re on him—hands yanking his wrists back, zipties snapping tight, biting his skin. His ankles get bound too, quick and rough. He’s stuck, chest heaving, sand in his mouth. “Help! Somebody!” he yells, voice raw, echoing over the empty beach. No answer, just waves and wind.

The surfer crouches beside him, smirking, barefoot and sandy. “Scream all you want, bro. Ain’t nobody coming.” He nudges Kai’s cheek with a gritty foot, smearing sand. Kai jerks away, spitting, eyes blazing—scared, but pissed too.

The leather crew steps back, giving the surfer space. He inspects Kai, hands sliding under the wetsuit’s edges, probing his sides, squeezing his ass, then cupping his bulge, slow and firm. Kai keeps screaming, “Help! Please!”—voice lost to the crash of waves and silent miles.

The surfer grins. “Keep it up, pretty boy. Ocean don’t care.” He leans closer, hands still roaming. “Name’s Mateo, by the way. Welcome to your new life. You’re property now—Kingdom of the Sun’s got dibs. We’re gonna clean you up, groom you nice, then ship you off to Brazil. Prince of the Sun’s waiting, and you’re his shiny new toy.”

Kai’s eyes widen, panic spiking. “What the fuck—let me go!” He twists, zipties cutting as he squirms, inching across the sand. The leather studs shift closer, but Mateo holds up a hand—chill, lazy. “Nah, let him go.” They back off, circling, watching Kai drag himself forward, grunting, sand caking his wetsuit.

Ten feet, twenty, over forty minutes of slow, desperate effort. Mateo finally chimes up, crouched nearby. “You done? That got you, what, twenty feet? Cute.” Kai’s sprawled, panting, glaring through sweaty strands, defiance flickering.

Mateo and the leather crew switch to Portuguese, voices low, tossing words like Kai’s not there. “Ele vai dar trabalho,” one mutters—he’s gonna be trouble—and Mateo snorts, shrugging.

Kai rolls, grunts, gets his knees under him. With a clumsy hop, he’s up—wobbling, bound ankles making it a joke, but he’s hopping away, ten feet, fifteen, before his legs give out. He crashes back into the sand, a growl muffled against the grit.

Mateo strolls over, chill gone, something harder in its place. He flips Kai onto his back, plants a foot on his chest, pressing down—not crushing, but firm. “Try that again,” he says, voice low, “and you’ll regret it. Consequences, bro—real ones.” Kai’s not listening—he squirms, flops, twists, dragging himself a few more feet, sand everywhere.

Mateo’s done. He steps back, snaps in Portuguese—“Pega ele, agora”—and the leather crew moves. One guy, broad and quick, kneels behind Kai, yanking his ankles up to his wrists.

A fresh ziptie loops through, cinching tight, hogtying him in a helpless arc. Kai thrashes, but he’s stuck. Another pulls out a thick neoprene hood—black, heavy—and forces it over Kai’s head. It’s snug, muffling his yells to a hum, the world shrinking to heat and darkness. He bucks once, twice, then slumps, breath ragged through the fabric.

A new author. New possibilities

Nice beginning!

This is a really good start!

@adams.keeper @KidnappedCowboy @60Cancer THANKS FOR READING AND COMMENTING


Chapter Two: The Warehouse

The leather crew doesn’t waste time after the hood’s on. Kai’s still hogtied, zipties biting, breath huffing through the neoprene as Mateo gives a sharp nod.

One of the studs—tall, buzzcut, all muscle—hoists Kai over his shoulder like a sack, his wetsuit slick against the guy’s leather. Kai squirms, muffled curses buzzing inside the hood, but the grip’s iron. Mateo grabs the loose end of Kai’s surfboard leash, still dangling from the cut, and loops it around his own wrist like a trophy.

The other two leather guys fall in step, boots crunching sand as they head up the beach.

A black van’s waiting just past the dunes, engine idling low. The back doors creak open, and Kai’s tossed inside, landing hard on a rubber mat that smells like oil and salt. He rolls, thumping against the wall, a groan leaking out. The surfboard gets chucked in after him, clattering beside his head, and the doors slam shut. Mateo slides into the passenger seat, muttering something in Portuguese—“Rápido, antes que alguém veja”—while the buzzcut guy takes the wheel. The third stud climbs in back, kneeling beside Kai, securing his zipties to a metal ring bolted to the floor. The van lurches forward, tires spinning sand, then gravel, then pavement, rattling Kai with every bump.

The ride’s a blur—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour, hard to tell with the hood blocking everything but the hum of the engine and the ache in his shoulders. The van slows, turns sharp, and stops. Doors open, humid air seeps in, thick with rust and dust.

Kai’s unclipped from the floor, hauled out, and carried again—Buzzcut’s got him this time, grunting as he adjusts the weight. Footsteps echo on concrete, a metal door screeches, and Kai’s dropped, hitting the ground with a thud that jars his spine. Sand from the beach grinds under him, now mixed with the cold, gritty floor. The crew’s voices fade, Portuguese snippets bouncing off walls—“Deixa ele aí, ele não vai a lugar nenhum”—and then silence. The door clangs shut, locks snap, and he’s alone.

Hours drag. Kai’s in a void—hooded, hogtied, sprawled on the concrete of what feels like an abandoned warehouse. He twists, testing the zipties, but they only dig deeper, wrists raw, ankles numb. The sand’s everywhere, a gritty layer between him and the floor, scraping his skin as he shifts. He tries to roll, maybe find a wall, but every move’s a flop—muscles screaming, joints locking.

The wetsuit’s damp still, sticking to him, and the hood traps his breath, hot and stale. “Replacement?” he thinks, the word looping in his head. “What the hell does that even mean?” His mind spins—Kingdom of the Sun, Brazil, Prince—none of it makes sense, and the fear’s real now, gnawing at his gut. He yells into the hood, a muffled “Help!” that dies against the neoprene, pointless but stubborn.

Time stretches, slow and cruel. His shoulder’s cramping, a sharp stab with every twitch. He bucks once, hard, trying to snap something—anything—but the zipties hold, and he just flops back, panting, sand grinding louder under him.

The concrete’s unyielding, cold seeping through the wetsuit, and the silence presses in, heavy as the dark. He loses track—two hours? Four? His throat’s dry, voice gone from shouting, and the grit’s a constant now, a second skin he can’t shake. He’s hurting himself, he knows it—wrists chafed bloody, legs trembling—but stopping feels like giving up, and Kai’s not there yet.

Finally, a sound—metal scraping, distant at first, then closer. The door bangs open, footsteps thudding in. Hands grab him, rough but not careless, dragging him across the floor. Sand scrapes under his back, a harsh rasp, and he flinches as someone snaps in English, “Careful with the merchandise, you know how he gets when we damage them.” The voice is new—gruff, clipped, not Mateo’s.

Kai’s chest lifts—someone cares, sort of—but “merchandise” lands like a punch, souring the relief. They cut the hogtie ziptie, then the one at his ankles, legs flopping free, stiff and tingling. His wrists stay bound, though, zipties still tight. Rough hands guide him, shoving him forward, his bare feet stumbling on concrete, then metal, then something slick—steps echoing wide.

They stop, and a blast hits him—high-pressure water, icy and brutal, slamming his chest. He gasps, the hood soaking through, wetsuit peeling back under the force. It’s a firehose, relentless, stripping sand and sweat, stinging his skin raw. Hands spin him, jet hitting his back, his legs, blasting every inch until he’s dripping, shivering, clean but battered. The water cuts off, and he’s shoved forward, knees buckling, guided to a chair. Metal clanks as they sit him down—hard, cold, unyielding.

They work fast, precise. His wrists are cut free, but only for a second—rope loops around them, lashing each hand to the chair’s armrests, tight enough to pinch. His feet get the same, ankles roped to the front legs, locking them in place. More rope winds around his torso, cinching him to the chair back, pulling his shoulders straight. Then his knees—cords bite into them, tying them to the armrests, spreading his thighs wide, wetsuit taut across his hips. He’s pinned, exposed, every tug of the rope a quiet promise he’s not going anywhere.

The hood’s yanked off, and light floods in—harsh, flickering. Kai blinks, squinting. He’s in an open warehouse, concrete sprawled out, rusted beams overhead, a single bulb swinging above. A new guy stands over him—short, wiry, with a buzzcut and a calm, blank face. “I’m the barber,” he says, voice flat, like he’s clocking in.

Kai’s still catching his breath, sea-green eyes darting, when the guy pulls out scissors. Snip—blonde strands hit the floor, Kai’s shaggy mop falling away. “Hey, wait—let me go, man, please,” Kai says, voice shaky but firm. The barber doesn’t flinch, just keeps cutting, shearing it short, precise. Kai tries again, louder, “You don’t have to do this, c’mon—” Nothing. Silence, just the snip-snip.

Next comes dye—black, thick, smeared into what’s left of his hair. The barber works it in, hands steady, turning Kai’s sun-bleached locks into a stark, unfamiliar matte. It dries quick, and he moves on—clippers buzz, trimming Kai’s nails, then a file, smoothing them down. A pedicure follows, rough feet scraped clean, polished up.

Kai’s squirming now, chair creaking. “Help! Somebody, get me outta here!” he yells, voice bouncing off the walls. The barber doesn’t blink, but a leather thug steps up—tall, scarred, all business. He’s got an inflatable gag, rubber and black, and he forces it into Kai’s mouth mid-shout. A pump squeezes, and it swells, filling his jaw, muffling him to a low hum. Kai’s eyes widen, head jerking, but he’s stuck.

The barber keeps going, unfazed. He tilts Kai’s head back, pulls out a case—colored contacts, two shades, one blue, one brown. “Hold still,” he mutters, first words since the intro. He pries Kai’s lids open, slipping them in—left eye blue, right eye brown, a jarring mismatch. Kai blinks hard, vision blurring, then clearing, the world off-kilter. The barber steps back, surveys him—short black hair, mismatched eyes, nails neat, gag bulging.

Kai’s not Kai anymore, not the surfer bum. He’s something else, something they’re shaping.

@BoundInk First Brock now Kai, it seems that everyone you know gets kidnapped eventually. Since Kai appears to be a swimming/surfing Jock Dork I guess he deserves it.

🖐🖐

Chapter Three: The Crate

Kai sat strapped to the chair in the warehouse, his body aching from the ropes, the inflatable gag stretching his jaw.

His mismatched eyes—blue and brown now, no longer his own—darted nervously under the flickering bulb. The barber had vanished, but the leather crew returned, their boots echoing on the concrete. The one with the buzzcut, who’d carried him from the beach, stepped forward and sliced through the ropes with a quick flick of a blade.

Kai’s limbs sagged, weak from hours of restraint, but before he could even think of moving, two of the men grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. His legs trembled, barely holding him up as they steered him toward a corner of the warehouse where a wooden crate stood waiting—narrow, sturdy, lined with dark foam that seemed to swallow the light.


They stripped off his wetsuit, leaving him in just his red Speedo, the fabric snug against his skin. Kai shivered in the damp, musty air, his breath catching as one of the men produced a roll of silver duct tape. “Please, don’t,” Kai mumbled through the gag, his voice muffled, but they ignored him.

The tape started at his ankles, the sticky pull loud in the silence as they wrapped it tightly, each layer binding his legs closer together. It crept upward—calves, thighs—sealing him into a rigid cocoon. His arms were next, pressed firmly to his sides, the tape circling his torso, his chest, his shoulders, until only his head remained free. Every wrap felt heavier, tighter, stealing his ability to move, to fight. They worked methodically, the tape’s grip unyielding, and Kai’s heart pounded as he realized how completely they were taking away his control.

He thought of surfing—those dawn mornings when he’d paddle out, the ocean stretching endless around him. The board would glide under his feet, waves lifting him, his body free to twist, to balance, to chase the rush. That freedom was everything—wind in his hair, salt on his skin, the world his to ride. Now, encased in tape, he couldn’t even wiggle a finger. His chest tightened, not just from the binding but from the loss of that open, wild feeling.

He was trapped, utterly helpless, his strength useless against the layers holding him still. The men lifted him carefully, almost reverently, and lowered him into the crate.

The foam cushioned his back, but the walls pressed close, barely an inch from his shoulders.

A thick blindfold covered his eyes, plunging him into darkness, and the lid closed with a heavy thud.

Nails hammered in, sharp and final, sealing him inside.

The crate shifted as it was lifted, carried, then loaded into what Kai guessed was a truck. The engine growled to life, and the vibrations rattled through the wood, jarring his bound body. He lay there, immobile, the tape squeezing with every breath, the gag forcing air through his nose in short, shallow bursts. The darkness was total, his world reduced to the creak of the crate and the hum of tires. Hours passed—three, maybe four—his muscles cramping, his mind looping.

Kingdom of the Sun. Brazil. Replacement. The words spun, meaningless yet terrifying. Surfing felt like a dream now, a memory of motion he couldn’t reach. He’d always trusted the ocean to carry him, but this—being packed like cargo—was a cage he didn’t know how to escape.

The truck stopped, and the crate was moved again, tilted slightly, then set down with a jolt. Silence followed, stretching long enough to make Kai wonder if he’d been forgotten. Then wood splintered as the lid was pried open. Hands reached in, lifting him out with care, setting him on a soft surface—carpet, he thought. The tape began to come off, a slow, tedious rip that stung his skin as it peeled away from his legs, his arms, his chest. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the air cool against his freed limbs. The blindfold came last, and he blinked, vision blurry, the gag still in place. Before he could focus, a door clicked shut, a lock snapped, and footsteps faded. He was alone.

Kai yanked the gag out, gasping, his jaw aching. He stood, shaky, and took in his surroundings: a luxury hotel room, all sleek furniture, plush carpet, and floor-to-ceiling windows.

His first instinct was escape. He rushed to the door, tugging the handle—locked, solid. He banged on it, shouting, “Hey! Let me out!” No response.

He ran to the window, heart racing, and pulled back the curtain. A city skyline glittered below, towers stretching into the night, impossibly far down. He was hundreds of floors up, the glass thick and unyielding. His shoulders slumped. “No way,” he muttered, pressing a hand to the pane, the height dizzying.

Defeated for now, he turned back to the room. A tray of food sat on a table—fruit, sandwiches, a bottle of water, condensation beading on the glass. His stomach growled, and he gave in, sitting on the edge of the bed. He ate quickly, tearing into the bread, the fruit’s juice sweet on his tongue. It grounded him, gave him a moment to think. What’s next? Who’s doing this? He drained the water, still chewing, his eyes flicking to the locked door.

He needed to clean up, he still had sand and sweat clinging to him, a reminder of the beach, the crate. He wandered to the bathroom, marble cool under his feet, and froze at the mirror.

His reflection was wrong.

Short black hair, one blue eye, one brown.

The red Speedo hugged him tight, outlining every curve, and despite everything—fear, confusion—a flicker of arousal hit him.

He looked good, sharp, like a stranger he’d check out.

He shook his head, embarrassed, and turned away, stripping off the Speedo. The shower was huge, glass-walled, and he stepped in, hot water pouring over him. It eased the cramps, washed away the grit, but his mind kept racing.

Prince of the Sun. What happens when that door opens? He stayed under the spray longer than he needed, letting the steam blur his thoughts.

Whatever will happen to Kai? Only the Author knows for sure but I suspect the men hiding behind the 2 way mirror might also know something. Only time, and a new chapter, can tell.