Weekend Kidnap M/M (Chapter 13, Sept 15 2025)

[Gaybondage]

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My first story here, hope it entertains you.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION ALL PARTIES ARE OVER 18YRS OLD.
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Chapter 1

It’s Friday night, and the gym is quiet, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint clank of weights in the distance. You’re finishing your last set, sweat dripping down your face, when I spot you—perfect for what I’ve got planned. I’ve been watching you for weeks, timing your routine. You’re alone, the parking lot’s dark, and I’m ready.

I wait by your car, a black van parked close, engine idling. When you step out, keys in hand, I move fast. A thick arm wraps around your neck, my bicep crushing your throat in a chokehold. You thrash, but I’m stronger, dragging you backward.

“Don’t fucking scream,” I growl, my voice low and gravelly. My free hand clamps over your mouth, rough fingers digging into your jaw. You’re kicking, but I slam you against the van’s side, the metal cold against your back.

A quick zip-tie cinches your wrists tight, the plastic biting into your skin as I yank it hard. I shove a balled-up pair of my dirty gym socks—rank from a week’s worth of sweat—into your mouth, sealing it with strips of duct tape wrapped tight around your head. Your muffled protests are pathetic as I bind your ankles with more zip-ties, hogtying you on the van’s floor. The door slams shut, and we’re gone.

The drive’s short, but I take the long way, letting you stew in the dark, the van reeking of motor oil and my unwashed gear. We pull into my place—a rundown apartment on the edge of town, the kind of spot no one asks questions about.

The air inside is stale, thick with the smell of old beer cans, cigarette butts, and my unwashed sheets. I drag you out, your bound body scraping the floor, and haul you to a wooden chair in the center of the room.

I cut the zip-ties, but only to retie you properly.
I grab a coil of coarse rope from a duffel bag, the kind used for hauling cargo, rough and splintery. I force your arms behind the chair, looping the rope around your wrists, pulling it tight until your shoulders strain. Each knot is deliberate, cinching your forearms together, then anchoring them to the chair’s back.
Your chest gets bound next, ropes crisscrossing your pecs, digging into your skin as I yank them taut. Your ankles are spread, each tied to a chair leg with more rope, the coarse fibers scraping your skin raw. I add a steel cuff to one wrist, just for the weight, letting it clang against the wood.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I snarl, stepping back to admire my work. Your muffled grunts through the sock gag make my pulse quicken.

I rip the tape off, pulling the socks out only to replace them with my used underwear, still damp from my last workout. The taste of my sweat and musk fills your mouth as I slap fresh tape over it, wrapping it around your head twice.
“That’s better,” I mutter, grabbing your chin and spitting in your face. The glob lands on your cheek, dripping slow. I laugh, low and cruel, as I pinch your nose shut, cutting off your air. Your eyes widen, chest heaving against the ropes, but I hold tight for a good 30 seconds before letting go.
“Breathe when I say,” I growl.

The night’s just starting. I grab a leather paddle from my bag, the kind that stings like hell, and bring it down hard on your abs. The smack echoes in the room, your body jerking against the restraints. I hit again, harder, watching red welts bloom on your skin. “Look at you, tough guy,” I taunt, landing another blow. “Not so tough now.” I switch to my hands, pinching your nipples until you squirm.

I left you there for 2 hours in your ropes.

Then I untie you, unwrap the tape on your mouth and take out the soaked underwear. I flip you onto the floor, face down, and hogtie you again—this time with military-grade paracord, the kind that doesn’t give an inch. I loop it around your wrists and ankles, pulling your limbs back until your spine arches painfully. Your face is pressed into the grimy carpet, and I step on your back, my bare foot grinding into your spine. “Lick it,” I order, shoving my other foot under your nose. The smell’s rancid—sweat and dirt. When you hesitate, I grab your hair, yanking your head back, and spit into your open mouth before shoving my underwear back in.

By midnight, I’m bored of the floor. I drag you to a corner, cuffing your wrist to a radiator pipe. The metal’s cold, unyielding, and I leave you in a stress position—knees bent, arms stretched, body trembling. I tape one of my sneakers—ripe from months of gym sessions—over your face, the laces tied tight to keep it there. “Breathe deep,” I say, kicking your side lightly. I leave you like that for an hour, sipping a beer and watching you struggle.

[WhereAmI]

Drinking beer in front of your tied up, gagged, brow beaten, hungry wiggle worm hostagee.

[bondagefreak]

Brutal and vividly depicted, @Gaybondage
I wonder who the victim is and what the captor's motivations for kidnapping him are.
This seems to have been premeditated and planned ahead of time. Old acquaintances, or a stalking victim perhaps? Either way, interesting start.

* Only suggestion would be to correct the gender tagging. Small letters mean underage. Since this story is in the adult section, a lot of readers are going to skip this if they think the characters are teens.

[Gaybondage]

Brutal and vividly depicted, @Gaybondage
I wonder who the victim is and what the captor's motivations for kidnapping him are.
This seems to have been premeditated and planned ahead of time. Old acquaintances, or a stalking victim perhaps? Either way, interesting start.

* Only suggestion would be to correct the gender tagging. Small letters mean underage. Since this story is in the adult section, a lot of readers are going to skip this if they think the characters are teens.

Thanks man! Corrected the tag. Yes the details will come later

[ChairBoy]

Really liking the vibe of this story

[dwild]

Good start, looking forward to more.

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 2

It’s a humid summer night, and I’m slouched in a creaky chair in my messy apartment, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and my unwashed gym clothes. The glow of my laptop screen cuts through the dim light, casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper.

I’m scrolling through a dark corner of the internet—a private, invite-only forum, a hidden space where people like me, with twisted tastes, find others who share them. The forum’s raw, no bullshit: kidnappers looking for willing victims, victims craving the rush of surrender.

Then I see your post, a detailed list that makes my pulse quicken. You also want it rough, non-consensual in vibe, but consensual in reality, with a kidnapper who’ll push you to the edge. Your words are confident but raw, like you’ve been craving this for years, and I can almost feel your desperation through the screen.

I lean forward, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, and fire off a message: “Ian here. Saw your post. You sound like you can handle what I dish out. Tell me more—how far you wanna go, and what gets you shaking.”

You reply within hours, your message sharp and direct. You describe your fantasies in vivid detail: being snatched from a gym or street, bound with ropes and cuffs, gagged with a kidnapper’s sweaty gear, tortured with slaps, bites, and forced submission. You list your hard limits but everything else is fair game. You want the fear to feel real, the restraints inescapable, the degradation humiliating.

I’m hooked, my mind already spinning with ways to make you squirm. Our messages fly back and forth over days, each one hotter, more intense. We negotiate specifics, you pushing for tight hogties and stress positions, me adding creative twists like forced workouts or piss-soaked meals. You admit you’ve done lighter scenes but never this deep, and I promise to make it unforgettable, my words dripping with dominance: “You’ll be mine, prisoner. No escape, no mercy.” You respond with a single line: “Fuck, I’m ready.”

The connection grows fast, not just sexual but personal. You open up about your life—a corporate job, gym obsession, the itch for something darker you’ve never fully scratched. I share scraps of mine—ex-military, bouncing between odd jobs, living for the thrill of control. We trade banter, you teasing my “redneck” apartment, me mocking your “fancy” city life. There’s a spark, a trust forming through the raw honesty.

You send a shirtless gym selfie, your lean muscles glistening, and I reply with a shot of my arm, flexing, a rope dangling in the frame. “This’ll be around your wrists soon,” I write. You fire back: “Make it tight.” It’s electric, the anticipation building, our kinks aligning like puzzle pieces.

The night before, we message one last time. You’re jittery, excited, asking if I’m as brutal as I claim. I send a final tease: “You’ll be begging for air by midnight, prisoner. Sleep tight.” You reply with an emoji— a winking face—and I know we’re locked in, not just for the scene. I close my laptop, my pulse racing, already picturing you bound, helpless, mine.

[Gaybondage]

Glad you like it!

Good start, looking forward to more.

[Gaybondage]

Thanks, hope you like the rest of it too. Definitely more to come!

Really liking the vibe of this story

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 3

Saturday morning, I’m back. The apartment’s even stuffier now, the air heavy with my stench. I untie you, only to force you into a new setup. I spread-eagle you on my mattress, wrists and ankles bound to the bedframe with steel cuffs and more paracord. The mattress is lumpy, stained, and smells like me. I straddle your chest, my weight pinning you, and start biting—hard—along your neck and shoulders, leaving marks. “You’re mine,” I whisper, my breath hot against your ear. “Forever.”

Food’s next. I chew a mouthful of stale cereal, letting it mix with my spit, then spit it into a bowl. “Breakfast,” I say, holding it to your taped mouth after ripping the gag off. When you resist, I pinch your nose again, forcing you to open up, and pour the mess in. “Swallow, or I’ll make it worse.”

The day drags on with more—flogging your thighs with a belt, spanking your ass until it’s raw, forcing you to worship my armpits and crotch, your face buried in my unwashed skin. I tape your mouth shut again, this time with a strip of duct tape over a pair of my crusty briefs. By nightfall, I’ve got you back in the chair, ropes tighter than ever, a fresh round of abs hitting and face-slapping keeping you dazed. I lean in close, my voice a low growl. “You’re not leaving. Ever.”

...

It’s Saturday night, and the apartment’s air is thick, heavy with the stench of sweat, piss, and the lingering musk of my unwashed gear. You’re chained to the radiator, my rancid sneaker taped over your face, the laces knotted tight to keep it pressed against your nose.
Your body’s trembling from the stress position—knees bent, arms stretched high, the steel cuff biting into your wrist.

The flickering bulb overhead casts jagged shadows on the grimy walls, and I’m sprawled on the couch, a half-empty beer in hand, watching you struggle. Your muffled groans through the tape and my crusty briefs stuffed in your mouth make me grin. “Tired yet?” I taunt, kicking an empty bottle across the floor. “Too fucking bad. We’re just getting started.”

I get up, my boots thudding on the hardwood, and rip the sneaker off your face, tearing the tape with it. The briefs come out next, soaked with your spit and my stink. You gasp, but before you can speak, I grab a handful of your hair and yank your head back, spitting a thick glob right into your open mouth. “Swallow it,” I growl, pinching your nose shut until you do.

Your eyes are wide, panicked, but that just fuels me. I unchained you from the radiator, dragging you by the arm to the center of the room. Your legs are shaky, but I don’t care—I shove you face-down onto the filthy carpet, the fibers reeking of spilled beer and cigarette ash.

Time for a new tie. I grab a bundle of black paracord, military-grade, tough as hell, and start binding you. I force your wrists together behind your back, looping the cord tight, each wrap deliberate, pulling until the rope digs into your skin.

I cross your ankles next, tying them so tight your feet are pinned together, then run a line from your wrists to your ankles, hogtying you in a brutal arch. The cord’s so taut your shoulders and thighs strain, and I add a twist—wrapping more paracord around your biceps, pulling them together until your chest juts out.

For good measure, I grab a roll of duct tape and wrap it over the ropes, reinforcing the bind, the sticky adhesive catching on your skin. “Try moving now,” I sneer, stepping back to admire how the ropes cut into your flesh.

I kneel beside you, grabbing a pair of my dirty socks—stiff from days of sweat—and cram them into your mouth. The taste hits you hard, and I seal it with a strip of duct tape, wrapping it around your head three times, pulling it so tight it stretches your lips.

I stand up, planting my bare foot on your back, grinding my heel into your spine. “Sniff it hard,” I order, dragging my foot to your face, the calloused sole reeking of sweat and grime. When you hesitate, I slap your face, the sting echoing in the room, then force your nose into my toes, holding it there until you choke out a muffled whimper.

[WhereAmI]

Great ideas to use on a captured slave boi to keep him in line.

Great shorter chapters.

[jammer212]

Love all this stinky sock and foot action you've got going o

[owenlewisgrey]

Can't wait to see how it unfolds further!

[harveygasson]

Great stuff!

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 4

The night’s about pain now. I grab a leather flogger from my duffel, the tails heavy and worn. I start on your ass, each swing landing with a sharp crack, your body jerking against the ropes. Red welts bloom fast, and I don’t stop, moving to your thighs, then your back, each hit harder than the last.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” I growl, my voice a low, guttural rumble that echoes off the damp walls. I lean in, my stubbled jaw brushing close enough for you to feel the heat of my breath. Slowly, deliberately, I let a thick glob of spit fall from my lips, watching it land on your flushed cheek. It clings there, warm and slick, before sliding down in a humiliating trail. Your body tenses, but the ropes hold you fast, your toned muscles straining uselessly against the restraints.

I step back, my combat boots thudding heavily on the concrete, and crouch to meet your dark, defiant eyes. My calloused hand reaches out, gripping your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to mine. “Look at you,” I sneer, my thumb smearing the spit across your face, the texture of my rough skin scraping against your smooth face. “Squirming like a worm. You’re nothing.”

I release your chin and shift my attention lower, my hands moving with cruel precision to your already reddened ass, the skin raw from earlier blows. I draw back, delivering a sharp, deliberate spank, the crack of my palm against your flesh ringing out in the small room. The sting lingers, and I watch your body jolt, a muffled whimper escaping the dirty sock stuffed in your mouth.

My fingers trail up your torso, slow and teasing, brushing over the faint ridges of your abs, now slick with sweat. I pause at your chest, my rough hands finding your nipples. I pinch them hard, twisting slowly, savoring the way your body arches in agony, the ropes creaking as you writhe beneath me. Your muffled groans vibrate against the gag, and I smirk, leaning closer to let my hot breath graze your ear. “You like that, don’t you, slut?”

Rising, I swing one leg over your bound form, straddling your back, my full weight pressing you into the cold, hard floor. The coarse fabric of my uniform scrapes against your skin, and I can feel the heat radiating from your body beneath me. My broad shoulders block out the light as I lean down, my lips hovering over your shoulder.

Without warning, I sink my teeth into the tender flesh, hard enough to leave a constellation of marks, my tongue grazing the faint salt of your skin as I pull back. The bite is possessive, deliberate, and I linger there, letting you feel the sharp edge of my control. My voice drops to a whisper, low and menacing, as I press my lips close to your ear. “You’re mine forever, prisoner,” I hiss, my words curling around you like a chain. “No one’s coming for you. No one even knows you’re here.”

For food, your favorite arrangement. I chew up a stale protein bar, letting it mix with my spit, then spit it into a chipped bowl. I rip the tape off your mouth, pulling the socks out, and hold your jaw open, forcing the mess in. “Eat,” I snap, pinching your nose again to make you swallow. Then I grab a bottle I pissed in earlier—warm, acrid—and tilt your head back, pouring it slow. You gag, but I don’t let up, making sure every drop goes down. “Good boy,” I mock, slapping your face lightly.

By midnight, I’m not done. I untie the hogtie. I drag you to a metal chair, its frame rusted and cold. I spread your legs, tying each ankle to a chair leg with more paracord, the rope so tight it cuts into your skin. Your wrists get cuffed behind the chair with steel cuffs, the metal clicking shut with a heavy finality. I wrap duct tape around your chest, pinning you to the backrest, then add a rope around your neck, tying it to the chair so any movement chokes you.

I gag you again with the same pair of socks, now soaked in your saliva, and tape it in place. I step back, grabbing a belt, and start whipping your abs, each hit making your body jolt.

Without warning, I pinch your nose shut, my grip firm and unrelenting, cutting off your air entirely. Your body jerking slightly as your lungs fight for oxygen. I count slowly, deliberately, in my head—one, two, three—watching your smooth chest heave, the defined lines of your abs contracting as you struggle against the ropes. Your eyes widen, dark pools of panic and pleading, locked on mine as I lean closer, my stubbled jaw grazing your cheek, my breath hot against your ear. “You breathe when I let you, slut,” I murmur, my voice low and cruel, laced with a sadistic edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

Forty seconds pass, each one stretching into an eternity as your face flushes deeper, the veins in your neck pulsing faintly under your smooth skin. I release your nose, and you gasp desperately through your nostrils, the sound wet and frantic, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. I smirk, my fingers lingering near your face, brushing against the damp skin of your cheek as I watch you recover, only to clamp down again without warning. This time, I hold for a beat longer, fifty seconds, my eyes never leaving yours, taking in every twitch, every silent plea. Your body writhes, the ropes creaking, your toned thighs flexing uselessly against the restraints as you fight the growing burn in your lungs.

I lean in even closer, my lips brushing your ear, the faint scratch of my stubble grazing your skin. “Look at you, prisoner,” I whisper, my voice dripping with mocking arousal, “so fucking helpless, squirming like a worm under my control.” My free hand trails down your chest, my rough palm grazing your sensitive nipples, giving one a sharp pinch that makes you jolt, a muffled whimper vibrating against the gag.

I release your nose again, letting you suck in air greedily, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as relief floods your body. But I’m not done. My fingers return to your nose, teasing this time, lightly brushing the tip before pinching it shut once more, prolonging the torment, drawing out every second of your submission.

“You exist for me,” I growl, straddling your waist now, my weight pressing you harder. My muscular thighs lock around you, pinning you in place as I control your breath again, holding for another fifty seconds, my eyes glinting with dark satisfaction as your body trembles beneath me. When I finally let go, I spit on your face, the warm glob landing on your cheek and sliding down, mingling with the sweat and desperation there. “You’re mine, and you’ll never forget it,” I say.

I leave you like that for hours, the chair creaking under your weight, your body trembling from the strain. The apartment’s quiet except for your muffled groans and the occasional drip of a leaky faucet. I crash on the couch, leaving you to suffer, the ropes and cuffs ensuring you’re not going anywhere.

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Sunday morning, the door bangs open, and my buddy Jake strolls in. He’s ex-military, built like a tank, with a shaved head and a manly grin that matches mine.

His boots are caked with mud, his camo pants stained with sweat. He is a man of very few words.

“This the guy?” he asks, his voice gruff, eyeing you like prey. I nod, kicking the chair to make you flinch. “All yours, man. Sharing is caring.”

Jake wastes no time. He cuts the ropes off, only to manhandle you to the floor. He’s rougher than me, his hands like vice grips as he forces your arms behind you, binding them with zip-ties so tight they cut into your wrists.

He flips you onto your back, straddling your chest, and starts slapping your face, alternating cheeks, each hit harder than the last. “Look at this pretty boy,” he sneers, grabbing your jaw and pinching in your face.

I join in, grabbing a paddle and working your thighs while Jake focuses on your chest, pinching and twisting your nipples until you’re writhing. He unzips his camo pants, pulling out his sweaty briefs and stuffing them in your mouth, taping them in place. “Taste that,” he growls, then forces you to your knees, your face shoved into his armpit, the hair matted with sweat. I hold your head there, making you inhale.

For lunch, Jake’s got an idea. He pisses into a bowl, soaking some stale bread in it, and we take turns forcing it into your mouth, holding your nose to make you swallow. “Eat up,” I say, laughing as you choke.

By Sunday night, we’ve got you spread-eagle on the mattress again, wrists and ankles cuffed to the bedframe. Jake’s biting your neck while I flog your thighs, and we take turns licking your face, cutting off your breath and calling you worthless, a toy, a prisoner.

“You’re never leaving,” I tell you, my voice cold as I tighten the cuffs. Jake adds a final touch—taping a pair of his filthy socks over your face, the smell inescapable. We leave you there, chained and gagged, the apartment dark and stinking, as we crack open beers and watch Ocean's Eleven, and then we both pass out. You are left there, trembling, broken, and ours.

[blackbound]

This is pretty hardcore and vividly detailed. I almost feel bad for the captive, but I suspect this is an agreed-upon scenario. If not, then I do feel slightly bad

[owenlewisgrey]

ooh, the plot thickens. Curious to see what the next plans are...

[dwild]

What an intense story this is turning out to be - keep going!

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 5

The morning sun barely creeps through the grimy windows of my stinking apartment, where you’re still cuffed from yesterday’s session with me and Jake.

Jake’s leaning against the wall, his camo jacket unbuttoned, smirking as he looks you over like a prize buck. “Ian, man, let me take him for a day. Just me and him at my cabin. I’ll bring him back… eventually.”

I laugh, a low, guttural sound, and nod. “He’s all yours, Jake. Fuck him up good.” I trust that he will not actually hurt you, but give you what you want. I yank the tape off your face, and hand you over to Jake.

Jake doesn’t waste time. He grabs you by the collar of your torn shirt, his meaty hands rough as he drags you out to his beat-up pickup truck parked in the alley. You stumble, still sore from yesterday, but he manhandles you into the passenger seat. Before you can sit up properly, he’s on you, wrenching your arms behind your back. The cold bite of steel cuffs snaps around your wrists, so tight they pinch your skin.
He grabs a roll of black duct tape from the glove compartment, rips off a strip with his teeth, and slaps it over your mouth, pressing hard to make sure it sticks. “Not a fucking word,” he growls, his breath hot. He pulls a black hood over your head, the fabric scratchy and reeking of motor oil, plunging you into darkness.

The drive feels like hours, the truck rattling over uneven roads, your body jostling against the seat. You hear Jake humming some old country tune, occasionally muttering, “You’re gonna love this, pretty boy.” Finally, the truck stops, and he yanks you out, your sneakers scraping against gravel. The hood stays on as he guides you into his cabin, the air thick with the smell of damp wood, stale beer, and something sour—like old sweat. He shoves you to the floor, and rips off the hood.

The cabin is cluttered with empty cans, hunting gear, and a sagging couch covered in stains. A single bulb swings overhead, casting harsh shadows. Jake’s towering over you, his muscular frame filling the room, his buzzcut head gleaming under the light.

“Welcome to my playground,” he sneers, cracking his knuckles. He grabs a coil of paracord from a nearby table, thick and military-grade, and starts binding you. He’s methodical, wrapping the cord around your wrists first, pulling it so tight it bites into your skin, then looping it around your elbows to force them together, making your shoulders strain.

He kicks your legs apart, binding each ankle to a heavy iron ring bolted to the floor, spreading you wide. The position’s brutal, your muscles already screaming from the stretch. He steps back, admiring his work, then grabs a pair of his old combat boots from the corner—rank with sweat and dirt—and duct-tapes one over your nose and mouth, the stench overwhelming, forcing you to breathe through the filthy leather.

“Time to play,” he says, stripping off his jacket to reveal a sweat-stained tank top clinging to his chiseled chest. He slaps you across the cheek. “Look at you, all helpless,” he taunts, grabbing your jaw to force your gaze up. He spits in your face, the warm glob sliding down your cheek, and laughs when you flinch.

Next, he kneels, his fingers finding your nipples through your shirt, pinching and twisting them until you’re squirming, muffled groans trapped behind the taped boot. He doesn’t let up, digging his nails in deeper, his eyes glinting with sadistic glee.

He stands, grabbing a leather paddle from a hook on the wall. “Let’s see how tough you are,” he says, and brings it down hard on your thighs, the crack echoing in the small room. Each hit is precise, leaving red welts through your pants. He moves to your ass next, yanking your pants down to expose you, the paddle landing with a sickening thud. Ten, twenty strikes—he doesn’t stop until your skin’s burning, and you’re trembling in your bonds.

“Not going anywhere, are ya?” he mocks, kicking your bound legs lightly. “You’re mine till I’m done with you.”

Midday, he decides it’s time to “feed” you. He grabs a can of Mac and cheese from a shelf and dumps it into a metal bowl. He spits into it, stirring it then shoves the bowl under your face, ripping the boot off your mouth. “Eat,” he orders, grabbing your hair gently but firmly and forcing your face into the mess.

The texture is not super appealing but you are hungry. He holds you there, smearing it across your face when you resist. “Lick it clean, or I’ll make you regret it.” You choke it down, his grip unrelenting, his laughter filling the room.

After “lunch,” he guides you to a wooden chair in the corner, its surface splintered and rough. He unties your legs just to rebind you to the chair, using zip ties this time. Each tie cuts into your skin as he fastens your wrists to the armrests, your ankles to the legs.

Your limbs are already raw from the earlier ropes, but he takes his time now, savoring the process of restraining you further. He produces a coil of thick, black nylon rope, its texture coarse and unyielding, and begin looping it around your torso, each pass pulling tighter, pinning your toned chest flush against the chair’s back. The ropes crisscross over your pecs, framing them, the pressure making your smooth skin flush faintly red. He tugs the knots deliberately, his calloused fingers brushing against your ribs, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of your body beneath the thin fabric of your shirt, now clinging to you with sweat.

He kneels in front of you, his broad frame filling your field of vision. His eyes lock onto your dark ones, catching the flicker of defiance mixed with something else—anticipation, maybe fear.

His hands linger on your calves, his thumbs pressing into the taut muscle, tracing slow, deliberate circles that send a shiver up your spine. “Look at you, prisoner,” He growls, his voice low and thick with menace, “trapped like a fucking animal, all for me.”

Standing, he circles behind you, his combat boots thudding against the floor, the scent of his sweat and dirt wafting closer as he leans in. His stubbled jaw grazes the side of your neck, just below your ear. “You’re not going anywhere,” He murmurs, his voice a provocative rumble.

He reaches down, his rough palm sliding over your shoulder, then lower, his fingers grazing the outline of your nipple through your shirt. He pinches it lightly, teasingly, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until your body tenses, a moan escaping you. “Pathetic,” He sneers, giving your nipple a sharper twist, just enough to make you squirm against the unyielding restraints, the chair creaking under your futile movements.

He steps back, admiring his work, your body now a taut canvas of restraints, every muscle outlined by the tight bonds. His hand trails down your chest, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing the smooth, toned skin of your abs. He pauses there, letting his touch linger, the heat of his palm pressing against your stomach as he teases you further.

“You like this, don’t you, slut?” He whispers, his lips close to your ear, his voice dripping with cruel amusement. He pulls back, his fingers lingering on your skin for a moment longer before he stands, leaving you trembling, utterly helpless in the tight embrace of the ties. “No one’s coming to save you,” He says, his tone dark and taunting.

As evening sets in, he’s not done. He unties you from the chair, only to force you into a new position—a stress hogtie on the floor. He uses steel cuffs for your wrists and ankles, linking them with a short chain so your back arches painfully, your body barely touching the ground. He stuffs one of his crusty gym socks into your mouth, the taste of sweat and grime choking you, then wraps duct tape around your head to keep it in place. “Sleep tight,” he sneers, kicking you lightly in the ribs before stepping over you to grab a beer. He leaves you there, the chain digging into your skin, the sock gagging you, as he crashes on the couch, the TV blaring some wrestling match.

You’re left in the dark, the cabin’s only light from the flickering screen. Every muscle aches, the cuffs and ties cutting into you, the sock making every breath a struggle. Jake hass passed out, snoring, the empty beer can rolling on the floor. You’re alone, trapped in the tight, unyielding bondage, the cabin’s stench and the pain keeping you awake. He’s made it clear: you’re not going anywhere, not until he’s had his fill. And from the way he’s been talking, that could be a long fucking time.

[Gaybondage]

Chater 6

Jake’s truck rumbles back into the alley behind my apartment, the sky bruised purple with dusk. He drags you out, still trussed up like a hog from his cabin—steel cuffs biting into your wrists and ankles, linked by a short chain that keeps you arched and helpless. Your face is smeared with grime and dried spit, and the duct tape gag he slapped on is peeling at the edges, barely muffling your ragged breaths.

He hauls you inside, putting you on the filthy carpet of my living room, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and sweat.

“Here’s your boy, Ian,” he grunts, giving your ribs a nudge with his boot. “Had my fun. You’re welcome. See you man.” He opens the door and leaves.

I crouches down to check on you. You look tired but seem happy to be returned to me. My phone buzzes—some bullshit I gotta handle across town.

“Fuck,” I mutter, eyeing you. “Gonna call in my old squad to babysit. Don’t try anything stupid.”

I make the call, and within the hour, four of my old military buddies roll in—big, white, jacked-up bastards. There’s Cole, blond and mean with a scar across his jaw; Duke, a bald tank with a neck like a tree trunk; Travis, leaner but with a psycho glint in his eyes; and Rex, broad-shouldered with a buzzcut and a grin that screams trouble.

They fill the room, their boots thudding on the floor, their camo gear reeking of oil and sweat. I give them the rundown: “Keep him tied, keep him safe, feed him. That's all. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I shoot you a look, my voice low. “Behave, or you’ll regret it.” Then I’m out the door.

Back in the grit of those old military days, I was the squad leader barking orders at them. We'd run drills in the scorching desert heat or freezing mud pits, me pushing them to their limits, forging them into unbreakable machines through endless push-ups, night marches, and simulated combat where I'd single out the weak links and make examples of them.
The real fun came with the new recruits—those fresh-faced younglings straight out of basic, trembling like leaves; we'd bully the shit out of them, hazing 'em with forced midnight runs, making 'em scrub latrines with toothbrushes while we pissed on the floor, or tying 'em up in "training exercises" that left 'em bound and begging, their wrists raw from ropes and their asses sore from paddles we called "motivation tools."
That's how we sniffed out each other's sadistic traits—for example Cole's came out when he'd pin a recruit down and twist their arm just to hear the whimper.


Cole eyes you, “Well, look at this pretty little package,” he sneers, kicking the chain between your cuffs to make you flinch. 'Shall we make sure he cannot escape guys? ' He sneers, looking at the rest of them.
Duke grabs a coil of nylon rope from the table, rough and splintery, and starts reinforcing Jake’s work. He loops it around your chest, pulling it tight until it digs into your skin, then ties your elbows together, forcing your shoulders back painfully. He also swaps the old duct tape gag for one of his own sweaty bandanas, stuffing it deep in your mouth until you’re choking on the salty, musky taste, then wrapping more tape around your head to seal it in.
Rex swaps the steel cuffs on your ankles for zip ties, cinching them so tight they cut into your flesh.

“Should we have some fun though? We are not supposed to but who is gonna know? ” Travis says.

They drag you to the center of the room, your body scraping across the carpet. Cole grabs a pair of nipple clamps from my bedroom drawer and kneels by your chest. He rips open your shirt, exposing your nipples, and clamps the cold metal onto one, twisting slowly. The pain’s sharp, like a needle, and you writhe against the ropes, but Duke’s got his boot on your back, pinning you down. “Squirm all you want,” he growls. “Ain’t nobody coming.”
Rex, not to be outdone, grabs the leather belt from his pants, doubles it over, and starts whipping your thighs, each crack leaving a burning stripe. They take turns, laughing, passing around a bottle of blue moon, their faces flushed with sadistic glee.

Travis gets creative, grabbing one of his old running sneakers—rank with months of sweat—and tapes it over your nose, the stench suffocating, forcing you to breathe in his foot funk. “Smell that, bitch,” he taunts, slapping your face hard, the sting blooming across your cheek.

The gang left you alone for a few hours. They were chatting in low voices while drinking beer.

Duke says, "guys, shall we test his endurance, like the old days?". You don't know what that means, but he takes off the stinky sneaker from your face, and grabs a basin of water from the kitchen, dunks your head in, and holds it there, pinching your nose shut for good measure. Your lungs scream, your body bucks, but the ropes and zip ties keep you locked in place. He pulls you out just as you’re about to black out, laughing as you gasp through the bandana gag.

"Guys, too much beer". Travis says, as he unzips his pants and pees into the water. Everyone laughs in a low voice. And they test your "endurance" for the next forty minutes in the piss water. It feels hours to you.

When it’s time to “feed” you, Cole grabs a stale protein bar from his bag, chews it up, and spits the soggy mess into a bowl. “Open wide. I heard it is your favorite way of eating, chewed up junk from real men” he mocks, ripping the tape and bandana off just enough to force the mush into your mouth, his fingers shoving it past your lips. It’s vile, tasting of his spit and the bar’s chalky aftertaste, but they hold your jaw shut until you swallow.
Rex follows it up with a “drink”—a warm can of beer he’s half-drunk, pouring it into your mouth while pinching your nose, forcing you to gulp or choke. “Good boy,” he sneers, wiping the excess off your chin with his calloused hand.

As night falls, they decide you need “rest.” They don’t untie you—instead, they drag you to a corner and force you into a kneeling stress position, your knees grinding into the hardwood. Duke ties a rope from your bound wrists to a ceiling beam, pulling it taut so your arms are wrenched upward, your shoulders straining. Travis adds a twist, taping his other sneaker—equally rancid—over your face, the sole pressed against your nose. “Sweet dreams,” he chuckles, kicking your thigh for good measure. They leave you like that, the ropes and ties cutting into you, the shoe’s stench filling every breath, while they crash on the couch, playing cards and blasting heavy metal.

Before they let you “sleep,” Cole leans in close, his breath hot and sour. “Listen up, fucker. You breathe a word of this to Ian, and we’ll find you again. We’ll drag you to a place worse than you can imagine, and you’ll never see daylight. Got it?” Duke chimes in, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back. “We’ll bury you in so much pain you’ll beg to stay our bitch forever.” They all laugh, Rex spitting on your face for emphasis, the glob sliding down your cheek. They leave you there, bound and aching, the threat hanging heavy as the room grows quiet, their snores mixing with the creak of the ropes holding you captive.

[Gaybondage]

This is pretty hardcore and vividly detailed. I almost feel bad for the captive, but I suspect this is an agreed-upon scenario. If not, then I do feel slightly bad

Don't feel bad for him. The agreed-upon scenario is that there will be not agreed-upon scenario

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 7

The next morning, I’m back in my grimy apartment. You’re still kneeling in the corner, bound tight from the squad’s handiwork—ropes cutting into your chest, zip ties carving red lines into your wrists and ankles, and Travis’s rancid sneaker taped over your face.

My old squad is sprawled across the room, cracking open beers despite the hour. They’re grinning, still buzzing from yesterday’s fun, when I clap my hands to get their attention. “Alright, you bastards,” I say, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “You did good keeping this fucker in line. Now let’s make it interesting. A competition. Winner gets him for a full day, no questions asked, do whatever the fuck you want. Some tools are available to you in that duffel bag by the table, be creative.”

Their eyes light up, predatory, and you twitch in your bonds, the sneaker muffling your breath.
I lay out the rules. “It’s a torture gauntlet. Each of you gets 20 minutes with him. Most creative, most fucked-up setup wins. I’ll judge based on his reactions and my preference. No permanent damage, but everything else is fair game.”

I yank the sneaker off your face, rip the tape and bandana gag free, and give your face a caress. “Do you have an issue with this proposal? Too bad, princess. Ain’t nobody stopping this.” I guide you to the center of the room, leaving the ropes and zip ties on, and let the games begin.

Cole’s Turn
Cole goes first, his scarred jaw twitching with a smirk.
He unties your chest ropes and your hogtie. He drags you to a rusty metal chair bolted to the floor. He pulls out heavy-duty cable ties from the duffel bag, the kind used for industrial shit. He wraps them around your thighs, cinching them to the chair’s legs, pulling so tight your muscles bulge against the plastic.
Your arms get the same treatment, cable ties biting into your biceps, pinning them to the armrests. He adds a twist: a thick leather strap around your neck, looped through a ring on the chair’s back, forcing your head upright, choking you if you slump.
“Stay still, slut,” he growls, then pulls out alligator clips attached to some wires and he attaches the clips to your earlobes, the sharp metal teeth sinking in, and flicks the battery on low. A jolting buzz shoots through your head, not enough to knock you out but enough to make your vision blur, your body jerking against the ties. He leans in, grabbing your crotch through your pants, squeezing hard, his fingers digging in like a vice. “Gonna make you scream,” he whispers, then forces his tongue into your mouth, rough and invasive, his spit mixing with yours as you gag against the intrusion.
He keeps the current on, groping you harder, until your muffled cries echo in the room. When his time’s up, you’re trembling, sweat soaking your torn shirt.

Duke’s Turn
Duke steps up, cracking his thick neck, his bald head gleaming. He cuts the cable ties but doesn’t give you a second to move. He shoves you face-down onto a splintered wooden table, your cheek grinding into the rough grain. He grabs a roll of electric wires from the bag, carefully wrapping it around your wrists behind your back. He loops more around your ankles, tying them to the table legs, spreading you wide. For your torso, he uses duct tape, wrapping it around your chest and the table, mummifying you to the surface, each layer tighter until you can barely breathe.
He stuffs a balled-up jockstrap, crusty with old sweat, into your mouth, taping it shut with electrical tape wound around your head. Then he pulls out a taser, its tip crackling. Estim seems to be a common theme for this messed up group.
“Let’s see how you dance,” he says, jabbing it into your side. The shock rips through you, your body convulsing against the wire.
He doesn’t stop, hitting your thighs, your back, each zap making you scream into the gag.
Then he climbs onto the table, his weight crushing you, and grinds his crotch against your ass, his hands pinning your hips as he thrusts, the denim of his jeans rough against your exposed skin. “You’re my bitch now,” he growls, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave marks, his teeth sinking in as you thrash helplessly.
“Your time’s up!”, I growl, and Duke reluctantly gets off you.

Travis’s Turn
Travis is next, his psycho eyes glinting as he unties you from the table. He drags you to a corner where a heavy metal frame is bolted to the wall, like a fucked-up gym rig.
He cuffs your wrists with steel manacles, chaining them to the top bar, stretching your arms until your shoulders scream. Your ankles get the same, spread wide and chained to the floor, leaving you in a taut X-shape.
He wraps a chain around your waist, pulling it tight to the frame, the cold metal digging into your skin. For a gag, he takes off his stained yellow underwear in front of everyone and shoves it into your mouth, sealing it with clear packing tape.
“Taste that, whore,” he sneers, then grabs a bottle of hot sauce from the kitchen. He smears it over your chest, working it into your skin, the burn immediate and vicious, especially where the red welts are.
Then he pulls down your pants, exposing you, and slaps your cock hard, each hit making you buck against the chains.
He kneels, forcing his fingers into your ass, rough and unrelenting, probing deep while you writhe, the chains clanking. “You love this, don’t you?” he taunts, spitting on your face, the glob hitting your cheek as he keeps violating you, his fingers relentless until his time runs out.

Rex’s Turn
Rex is last, his broad shoulders rolling as he steps up, grinning like a wolf. He unchains you but only to force you into a new setup. He drags you to the floor, binding your wrists behind your back with steel wire, twisting it tight until it cuts into your skin. He hogties you with more wire, looping it around your ankles and pulling them up to meet your wrists, the sharp strands biting deep, forcing your body into a painful arch.
He adds a collar—leather, studded, and too tight—chaining it to a floor bolt so you can’t move your head. For a gag, he stuffs a pair of his piss-soaked briefs into your mouth, the acrid taste choking you, then wraps duct tape around your head, layer after layer, until it’s a second skin.
He grabs a whip—not a paddle, a real whip—and cracks it across your back, the lash slicing thin lines into your skin. Each strike is precise, the pain white-hot, and you jerk against the wire, cutting yourself deeper.
Then he takes off his white crew socks, and steps on your face with his bare foot for a while. You can see he is getting very aroused in his pants. He forces his cock against your taped mouth, rubbing it over the gag, smearing precum across the tape.
“You’re gonna worship me later,” he growls, then grabs your hair, pinching your nose shut until your vision blurs. He repeatedly cuts off your breath until time is up.
By the end of it, you are in tears, and look at Rex pleadingly. It is a strange feeling looking at this handsome, muscular man, his tones body, and tasting his piss and foot odor in your mouth. You feel something has snapped.


The Winner
I watch the whole thing, leaning against the wall, my cock hard from the show.
Cole’s electric torture was nasty, Duke was brutal, Travis’s hot sauce and assault were vicious, but Rex… Rex took it to another level with the wire hogtie, whip, and piss.

“Rex wins,” I declare, clapping him on the shoulder. “Take him for the day. Teach him up good.”

The others groan but don’t argue, their eyes still hungry as they look at you, trembling in your bonds.

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 8

Rex’s Day
Rex doesn’t waste time. He keeps you in the wire hogtie, throwing you into the back of his van, the metal floor cold against your lacerated skin. The drive’s short, and he drags you into an abandoned warehouse, the air heavy with rust and mildew. The warehouse doors slam shut as Rex drags you inside, your body still aching from the competition, the wire hogtie leaving scratches on your wrists and ankles.

Inside, it’s a concrete hellhole—chains dangling from the ceiling, a single flickering bulb, and a pile of old tires in the corner. The air reeks of rust, oil, and something rancid, like rotting wood.

The concrete floor is cracked and stained, littered with old chains and broken crates, and a single flickering bulb swings overhead, casting jagged shadows. Rex, all broad shoulders and buzzcut menace, towers over you, his muscular frame outlined in the faint light, his camo pants and sweat-soaked tank top clinging to his chiseled body.

His grin is feral, eyes glinting with sadistic hunger. “You’re mine for the day, fucker,” he growls, his voice low and gravelly. “Let’s see how much I can teach you.”

He doesn’t bother untying the wire hogtie completely—just unties the strand linking your wrists to your ankles, leaving the steel wire biting into your skin. You’re too sore to fight as he hauls you to your feet, his thick fingers digging into your biceps, almost ruising the flesh.

He drags you to a rusted metal frame in the center of the warehouse, a relic from some forgotten industrial era, its bars pitted and cold.

He slams you against it, your back hitting the steel with a dull clang, and starts binding you with military precision.

First, he swaps the wire on your wrists for heavy steel manacles, their edges rough and unpolished, locking them with a padlock that clicks ominously. He chains them to the top bar of the frame, hoisting your arms until your shoulders scream, your toes barely scraping the concrete.
Your ankles get the same treatment—steel cuffs, chained to bolts in the floor.
He grabs a coil of coarse hemp rope, its fibers splintery and abrasive, and starts wrapping it around your thighs, knotting it so tight it pinches your flesh, the rope’s texture burning with every movement. He loops more around your chest, crisscrossing it over your pecs, pulling it snug until it restricts your breathing, the knots digging into your ribs.

For your waist, he uses a thick chain, wrapping it around you and the frame, padlocking it so it presses against your hipbones, cold and unyielding.

“Ain’t going nowhere,” he mutters, stepping back to admire his work, his eyes raking over your stretched, helpless body. He grabs a rubber ball gag from the duffel he took from my place, the size obscene, forcing it into your mouth until your jaw aches, the rubber tasting faintly of chemicals. He buckles it tight, drool already spilling down your chin, and adds a layer of duct tape over it, wrapping it around your head, the adhesive pulling at your hair.

Rex starts slow, savoring your vulnerability. He pulls out a ESTIM unit, its wires dangling like a predator’s claws.
He sticks electrodes to your abs, inner thighs, and the sensitive skin around your cock, the adhesive cold and sticky. “I know you are not into this. Ian told me. But I want to see you dance for me so let’s light you up,” he sneers, saying “dance” with a British accent and cranking the dial.

The first pulse hits like a hammer, electricity ripping through your muscles, making your body convulse against the chains. Your muffled screams vibrate through the gag, drool soaking the tape as he increases the intensity, the shocks pulsing in waves, each one forcing your muscles to contract painfully.

He watches, his cock hardening in his pants, and steps closer, his breath hot against your neck. “Fuck, you look good like this,” he growls, grabbing your face and spitting on it, the warm glob sliding down your cheek.

He licks it off, his tongue rough and invasive, then bites your earlobe hard, drawing a sharp sting.
He switches to a whip, its leather tip worn but vicious. He drags it slowly down your chest, teasing, before snapping it across your nipples, the pain white-hot, your body jerking against the restraints.

He hits again, and again, each strike precise, leaving red welts that burn in the cold air. “Scream for me,” he taunts, then moves lower, smacking your inner thighs, the sensitive skin flaring with each hit.

He kneels, his face inches from your crotch, and rips your pants open, exposing you completely. He slaps your cock with his hand, the sting sharp and humiliating, your muffled cries echoing in the empty warehouse.
Then, without warning, he grabs your balls, squeezing hard, his fingers like a vice, twisting until you’re thrashing, the chains rattling.

He laughs, low and cruel, and forces two fingers into your ass, rough and probing deep while you squirm, the intrusion burning, his knuckles grinding against you as he thrusts, his other hand still crushing your balls.

Around noon, Rex decides it’s time to feed you. He unbuckles the gag, peeling the tape off slowly, letting the adhesive tug at your skin. Your jaw aches as he pulls the ball out, strings of drool following.

He grabs a tin can from his bag—cold, lumpy oatmeal mixed with something sour, like it’s been sitting for days.
He scoops a handful, spits into it. “Eat, slut,” he orders, pinching your nose shut so you have to open up or suffocate.
The taste is vile, gritty oatmeal mixed with his thick spit, coating your tongue as he shoves it in, his fingers scraping your teeth. You choke it down, gagging, but he keeps going, smearing, laughing as it drips down your chin.

For a “drink,” he pulls out a plastic bottle, half-filled with his piss, the liquid warm and acrid. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, and pours it into your mouth, his thumb pressing your tongue down to make you swallow. “Every drop,” he growls, slapping your face when you sputter, the sting blooming across your cheek.
“Apologies, I also know you are not into piss, but you like to be degraded by force, so forcing you to do this is fine, I guess?” He kisses you on the cheek with a smile,

After “lunch,” he ramps it up. He grabs a violet wand, its glass tip crackling with static. He runs it over your chest, the electric sparks dancing across your skin, each one a sharp, burning prick, especially where the crop left welts.

He lingers on your nipples, the sparks biting deep, your body arching against the chains. Then he moves lower, dragging the wand along your cock, the electricity making you buck, your muffled screams filling the warehouse. He chuckles, grabbing your hips and grinding his bulge against your ass, his cock hard through his pants, the friction rough and humiliating. “You’re my toy now,” he whispers, biting your neck, his teeth sinking in as he grinds harder, his hands roaming your body, pinching and twisting your skin, leaving bruises everywhere.

After what seems to be forever, Rex unties you from the frame, but only to force you into a new position. He drags you to a pile of old tires, the rubber cold and gritty, and bends you over them, your chest pressed into the rough surface.

He binds your wrists behind your back with paracord, looping it tight, the fibers cutting into your already-raw skin. Your ankles get steel cuffs. He wraps more paracord around your thighs, knotting it so tight it feels like it’s slicing through you, and adds a chain around your neck.

He stuffs a pair of his piss-soaked briefs into your mouth, the fabric heavy and bitter, and seals it with electrical tape, winding it around your head until it’s tight as a vice.

He grabs a flogger, its leather tails thick and knotted, and starts on your back, each swing landing with a heavy thud, the knots biting into your skin, leaving red marks that throb. He moves to your ass, the strikes harder, the pain radiating through your core as you jerk against the chains, the tires scraping your chest.

He rips your pants down further, exposing you completely, and forces himself into you, his cock thick and unrelenting, the intrusion raw and brutal. He thrusts hard, his hands gripping your hips, nails digging in, each movement makes the tires creaking under you.

“Fucking take it,” he snarls, spitting on your back, the warm glob sliding down your spine as he pounds into you, the pain and violation overwhelming, your muffled screams lost in the briefs.

As dusk settles, the warehouse grows colder, the single bulb flickering ominously.

Rex unties you from the tires, your body limp and bruised, but he’s not done. He drags you to a concrete pillar, chaining your wrists to a high ring, your arms stretched painfully overhead. Your ankles get cuffs again, spread wide and chained to the floor, leaving you in a standing spread-eagle.

He wraps duct tape around your torso, pinning you to the pillar, each layer tighter, squeezing your ribs until every breath is a struggle. For a gag, he uses a strip of his sweaty tank top, shoving it deep into your mouth, the fabric thick with his musk, and tapes it shut with more duct tape, the adhesive pulling at your lips.

He pulls out a new toy: a set of weighted nipple clamps, their teeth sharp and cruel. He attaches them, the weights pulling hard, stretching your nipples until they burn, your body trembling in the chains. He flicks the weights, making them swing, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through you.

Then he grabs a candle, lighting it and holding it close, letting hot wax drip onto your chest, the molten heat searing your skin, hardening in red splatters. He moves lower, dripping wax on your thighs, your cock, each drop a fiery sting, your muffled cries echoing in the empty space.

He steps back, stripping off his tank top, his muscles glistening with sweat, and rubs his cock against you, his scent mixing with the wax and piss. “You’re my bitch forever,” he growls, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back, forcing you to look into his eyes as he spits in your face again, the glob hitting your nose.

For “dinner,” Rex repeats the earlier ritual, but worse. He canned dog food with his spit and piss, scooping it into a rusty bowl and forcing it into your mouth with his fingers, smearing it across your face when you gag.

“Eat, or I’ll shove it up your ass,” he threatens, pinching your nose until you swallow, the taste vile and humiliating. He follows it with more piss, poured straight from his cock this time, the warm stream hitting your lips as he holds your jaw open, laughing as you choke.

For the night, he leaves you chained to the pillar, your body aching, the clamps still biting your nipples, the wax hardening on your skin. He blindfolds you with a strip of duct tape, pressing it over your eyes, plunging you into darkness.
He stuffs his piss-soaked briefs back into your mouth, the taste inescapable, and wraps more tape around your head, sealing it tight. “Sleep well, slut,” he sneers, kicking your shin.

He chains a heavy weight to your ankle cuffs, making it impossible to shift without pain, and leaves you there, the cold concrete seeping into your bones, the warehouse silent except for the drip of a distant leak.

As he crashes on a pile of crates, his snores filling the air, he mutters one last threat: “Tell Ian about this, and I’ll drag you to a hole so deep they’ll never find you. I’ll make you my personal fucktoy for life.”

You’re left in the dark, every muscle screaming, the clamps and chains unyielding, the taste of his briefs choking you, his words ringing in your ears as you struggle to endure the endless night.

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 9

The warehouse door screeches as I pull it open, the early morning light cutting through the dank air. Rex is sprawled on a crate, still snoring, his muscular frame slumped like he owns the place.

You’re still chained to the concrete pillar, your body a mess of bruises, wax, and dried piss, the duct tape blindfold and piss-soaked briefs gag keeping you in a world of darkness and stench. The weighted nipple clamps are still biting into your chest, and the tight ropes and chains have left angry red marks across your skin.

I stomp over, my boots echoing on the concrete, and give Rex a nudge. “Time’s up, asshole. I’m taking him back.” Rex grunts, barely stirring, and I start unbinding you. I rip the tape off your eyes, the adhesive tearing at your skin, and yank the briefs out of your mouth, tossing them aside.

The chains come off next, the steel cuffs clanking as they hit the floor, your wrists and ankles raw and tender. I gently grab your arm and drag you to my truck, your legs barely holding you up.
I seat you into the passenger seat, your torn clothes barely covering you, and bind your wrists behind your back with zip ties, but not too tight.

For good measure, I wrap duct tape around your thighs, pinning them together, and slap a strip over your mouth, pressing hard. “Don’t move, let’s go home”. I growl, slamming the door.

The drive back to my apartment is quick, the truck rattling through the city, your muffled breathing the only sound.

My place is still messy—stinking of staleness, spilled beer, and unwashed clothes. I guide you inside, laying you down onto my carpet.

I kneel beside you, grabbing a coil of military-grade paracord from a nearby table.

“I know you went through a lot, and I am very very proud of you. But first I still have to tie you up.” I force you onto your stomach, wrenching your arms behind your back and looping the paracord around your wrists, tying it in tight, intricate knots that dig into your raw skin.

I pull your elbows together, binding them with more cord, the strain forcing your shoulders back painfully. Your ankles get the same treatment—paracord wrapped tightly, then tied to your wrists in a hogtie, the rope so taut your back arches, your muscles screaming.

I grab a dirty sock from the floor—crusty with days of sweat—and shove it into your mouth, the taste bitter and foul, then wrap duct tape around your head, layer after layer, until it’s sealed tight. I step back, admiring the way the ropes bite into you, your body trembling on the filthy carpet.

I crouch down, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at me, your eyes bloodshot and wide. “So, pretty boy,” I say, my voice low and mocking, “I really really miss you. How’d you like your little adventure with Jake and the squad? Tell me everything—every damn detail.” I rip the tape off your mouth, pulling the sock out, strings of spit trailing. “Speak, or I’ll make you wish you had.” I slap your face teasingly and wait for your response, my hand hovering, ready to strike again.

You stammer out some details— about Jake’s cabin, the squad’s gauntlet, or Rex’s warehouse, but ignore all the details you are not supposed to say—I smirk.
“Sounds like you had fun, slut,” I stand, grabbing a leather belt from the couch, doubling it over. “Let’s add to the memories.” I bring the belt down hard on your ass, the crack echoing in the room, each strike leaving a burning welt through your torn pants. I hit again, ten, twenty times, until your skin’s red and raw, your muffled groans barely audible through the new gag I stuff in.

I cut the hogtie ropes, only to flip you onto your back and drag you to a wooden chair in the corner. I bind you to it with more paracord, wrapping it around your chest, pinning you to the backrest, the rope cutting into your bruised skin. Your wrists get tied to the armrests, each knot pulled tight, the cord scraping your raw flesh. Your ankles are bound to the chair legs, spreading you wide, the rope biting into your shins.

“You’re mine again,” I growl, leaning in close, my breath hot on your neck. I bite your nipples, hard, my teeth sinking in, drawing a muffled cry. My hands roam your body, groping your chest, pinching your skin until you writhe, the ropes holding you fast.

I rip your pants off completely, exposing you, and kneel between your legs. I grab your cock, squeezing hard, then slap it, the sting making you buck against the chair. “Fucking pathetic,” I sneer, spitting on your crotch, the warm saliva dripping down.

I leave you alone for two hours, When I decide it’s time for you to “sleep”, I untie you from the chair, your body slumping, and drag you to a corner of the room where a metal pole is bolted to the wall. I force you to kneel, your knees grinding into the gritty floor, and bind your wrists behind the pole with steel cuffs, the metal cold and tight.

I wrap paracord around your chest, looping it around the pole, pulling it snug until you’re pinned. Your ankles get cuffed together, chained to a floor bolt, forcing you into a stress position, your muscles straining.

I stuff another dirty sock—fresh from my gym bag, ripe with sweat—into your mouth, the taste choking you, and wrap duct tape around your head, sealing it tight. For good measure, I tape one of my old combat boots over your nose, the leather rank and suffocating, forcing you to breathe in the stench.

I step back, kicking your thigh lightly. “Sleep tight, bitch,” I say, my voice dripping with menace. “You ain’t going anywhere. Ever.” I turn off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and crash on the couch, leaving you bound and gagged, the cuffs and ropes biting into you, the boot’s stench filling every breath.

The apartment’s quiet except for the creak of the ropes and your muffled, labored breathing, my threat hanging heavy as you’re forced to endure the night, trapped and helpless.

[Gaybondage]

Chapter 10

The morning light filters through the grimy blinds of my apartment, casting jagged stripes across the filthy carpet. You’re still in the corner. I stir on the couch, my muscles stiff from crashing there, and stretch, my boots thudding as I stand.

“Rise and shine, fucker,” I growl, stomping over to you. Your eyes are misty, your body trembling from the stress position. I rip the boot off your face, the tape tearing at your skin, and peel the duct tape from your mouth, yanking out the sock, wet with your spit. You gasp, choking on fresh air, but I grab your chin, forcing your gaze up. “Had a good night, slut?” I sneer, slapping your face, the sting blooming across your cheek.

“Bet you need to piss,” I say, noticing the way you shift uncomfortably. I cut the paracord around your chest and unlock the cuffs. I drag you to your feet, your legs wobbling. I don’t bother unbinding your wrists, still cuffed behind you, and march you to the bathroom, a cramped, moldy shithole with cracked tiles and a flickering bulb.

I shove you toward the toilet, keeping a tight grip on your arm. “Go on, piss. Don’t make a mess, or I’ll make you lick it up.” I stand close, watching, my presence heavy, my hand hovering like a threat.

You fumble, humiliated, and manage to relieve yourself, the sound echoing in the small room. I smirk, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back. “Good boy. Now let’s clean you up.”

I drag you to the shower, a rusty stall with a leaking head. I cut the cuffs off, only to replace them with zip ties, binding your wrists in front of you, tight enough to pinch.

I shove you into the stall, the cold tiles making you flinch, and turn on the water—ice-cold at first, hitting your bruised skin like needles. You shudder, I grab a sponge and soap. I scrub you gently, and thoroughly, focusing on your chest, thighs, and crotch, my hands rough and invasive, groping as I go.

“Gotta make you pretty again,” I mock, pinching your nipple until you wince.

I rinse you off, the water warming slightly.

I turn off the water and drag you out, and drive you. You’re shivering.

I grab a plastic cup from the sink, stained and chipped. “Time for a drink,” I say, unzipping my pants. I piss into the cup, the stream loud and warm, filling it nearly to the brim. I grab your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and pour the acrid liquid down your throat, my fingers digging into your cheeks. “Swallow every fucking drop,” I growl, tilting the cup higher, the bitter taste making you gag.

You choke it down, your eyes watering, and I slap your face again, laughing as you sputter. “That’s it, drink me up, whore.”

I lead you to the kitchen and let you onto a rickety wooden chair, and cut your zip-ties, but bind your wrists to the armrest with duct tape, wrapping it tight.

Your ankles get taped to the chair legs, spreading you slightly, the adhesive pulling at your leg hairs.

“Gonna feed you proper,” I say, grabbing a pan and cracking a couple of eggs into it, the sizzle filling the air. I toss in some bacon, the grease popping, and to be honest I am not the best chef—just enough to make it edible. I dump the breakfast onto a the plate.

“Open up,” I order, ripping a strip of tape off your mouth for access. I scoop the eggs and bacon a spoon and feed you slowly, enjoying this intimacy when you look at me. When the plate’s empty, I wipe my hand on your face, leaving a trail of grease, and tape your mouth shut again, the duct tape fresh and sticky.

With breakfast done, I lean back, eyeing you like prey. “One last ride before I cut you loose,” I say, my voice thick with lust.

I cut the tape from your wrists and ankles, but only to manhandle you to the floor, your body hitting the carpet. I grab a coil of nylon rope, rough, and bind your wrists behind your back, looping it tight, the fibers cutting into your raw skin.
I tie your elbows together, forcing your shoulders back, the strain agonizing. Your ankles get more rope, bound tightly and linked to your wrists in a hogtie, arching your body painfully. I stuff a pair of my crusty gym shorts into your mouth, the fabric heavy with sweat, and wrap duct tape around your head, sealing it in place.

I kneel over you, my weight pinning you down, and rip off what’s left of your clothes, leaving you exposed. I spit on your face, the warm glob hitting your cheek, and smear it with my hand, my fingers rough.

I grab your cock, squeezing hard, my nails digging in, then slap it, the sting sharp and humiliating. “Fucking useless,” I growl, biting your chest, my teeth sinking into your bruised skin, leaving marks.

I undo my pants, my cock hard and ready, cut the connection between your wrists and ankles, and force myself into you, rough and brutal, my arm around your neck, choking you a little. I thrust hard, the carpet burning your chest, the ropes cutting deeper with each movement. I lean in, sucking your neck, my breath hot and ragged, leaving a big red mark as I pound into you, the violation raw and relentless.

“You’re nothing but my toy,” I snarl, my hands roaming, groping your thighs, pinching your sides, until I finish, leaving you trembling and broken.

I stand, zipping up, and look down at you, still tied and gagged, your body a map of bruises and welts.

“Time to go, slut,” I say, cutting the ropes with a knife, the blade grazing your skin. I rip the tape off your mouth, pulling the shorts out, and haul you to your feet, your legs barely holding you. I toss you a shirt and pants and shove you toward the door.

“Get the fuck out,” I growl, kicking your ass lightly as you stumble into the alley, the morning air cold against your battered body.

“You are coming back very soon.” I slam the door, leaving you free but marked, the memory of my hands, my spit, and my ropes burned into you.