Weekend Kidnap (Chapter 1) M/M
Posted: Fri Aug 01, 2025 9:21 pm
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My first story here, hope it entertains you.
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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.
My first story here, hope it entertains you.
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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.
