Stories of Tie Up Games

Chapter 1

Part 1: Clayton

It was a blazing hot August in Texas. The sun beat down like a disapproving glare on the dusty little town just off the highway leading to Dallas. A small gas station and convenience shop formed an oasis of sorts, a respite for those on their way to civilization, far away from this backwater. Inside, a plump, muscular middle aged fella leaned on the counter by the register, a fan blowing on him, ostensibly helping with the heat.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, squinting and groaning from the headache and nausea that was a result of the heat.
"Whoa!" The man gasped as he lowered the handkerchief, "Heheh, didn't see you there friend. Didn't even...hear the bell on the door... actually..." The man's voice drifted off as he looked his strange customer up and down.
The man was over six feet tall, with the body of an underwear model. Sharp, chiseled features, blond hair in a sharp undercut, tasteful, trimmed scruff, all framed by an immaculate, jet-black suit that seemed almost too-perfectly tailored. He had and a far-off yet intense look in his...black eyes?
"How much will this be?" He said in a Mississippi accent with an airy, yet commanding voice. "...Daryl". The man behind the counter felt a chill go up his spine as the man spoke his name, knocking him out of trance-like state he had entered as he gazed at his customer.
"How did you..." Daryl began, before looking down at his own nametag, and feeling rather foolish. "Oh, heh...yeah." He laughed nervously. He felt uneasy, but a bit rude to the stranger. Looking down at the counter, the manager saw a long coil of sturdy rope, held in a black-leather gloved hand. He took it, and scanned it, looking to his left where the total would come up. "That'll be..." as he looked back the man was gone. Darly rubbed his eyes to see if he had lost his mind. Evidently he had, as when he opened them again, the man had returned. Daryl chuckled nervously. "That'll be five dollars, stranger. Heh." Maybe the heat really was getting to him.
"And these?" The strange man asked, putting three black bandannas on the counter.
"Uh, a dollar a piece sir. So eight in...total." Daryl had merely blinked, and somehow eight dollars, each bill brand new and perfectly crisp, was in the man's same hand, resting on the counter.
"Pleasure doing business sir. No receipt required." The stranger said cordially.
"Heh, yeah. What brings you to this neck of the woods anyway, stranger?" Daryl asked nervously. Was it nerves, his friendly nature, or an insatiable curiosity at this fellow that made him ask? He wasn't sure.
The man simply pursed his lips, looked to the side, and with a bit of a chuckle said, "Nothing."
"Oh...and where you headed?"
A smile crept on to the man's face, like a cat might smile while toying with a mouse it had caught. "Nowhere."
"Oho...just uh...just passin' through, then? Say, a swell suit like that...just who are you anyways?" With each question, Daryl's voice had gotten shakier. Why? He didn't understand that himself.
The man curled his lips up, revealing a row of pearly, sharp-looking teeth, in a cross between a friendly smile and a predator bearing its fangs. "Nobody."
Just then, the door burst open, ringing the bell on it loudly, startling Daryl who looked over to the left where it was located.
"Clayton! You're late for the third time this week!" Daryl yelled, angrier from the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"Relaaaax old man, I'm here ain't I? Yer lucky I showed up in this heat." Said the Clay, who had just walked in.
Clay had shortish, curly brown hair, and a handsome boyish face. He was broad and muscular, but still had a youthful look to him, and he walked with a swagger that could be seen from miles away. Clayton was the star quarter-back at his dallas high school. For all intents and purposes, this made him a god in his school. Clay knew this, and acted accordingly.
The punk showed up in shorts and a company hat, but a t-shirt that he had removed the sleeves from, and cut most of the sides away, making more room during a workout (but mostly just to show of his arms, abs and chest.) "And not even in uniform!" Daryl said, exasperated. "Clay, we have custom...ers...here?" Daryl trailed off. The man was gone.
"Heh, yeah, ok old man. Heat gettin to ya?" The punk asked impudently. He began to walk behind the counter as Daryl did a double take to the register. On receipt for 8 dollars, but the rest of it was too smudged to show any details.
"Uh...anyway, here, take this company t-shirt, and go change into it. You're on thin ice, kid, ya here?" Daryl said, trying to sound imposing. He failed. Clay took the shirt, and laid it on the counter, grabbing the bottom of his own shirt and starting to pull it off. "In the bathroom, kid! I don't let customers in here without their shirt, let alone employees, Good Lord..." Daryl said exasperated.
Clay merely rolled his eyes and walked to the other end of the store into the restroom.
While in there, he stripped his muscle-shirt off, and spent a few moment looking at his chiseled body in the mirror. He got closer, till he was right in front of it, flexing, and admiring himself, thinking of all the ladies he would impress...and what they would do together afterwards... After his fantasy came to an end, a black shadowy substance in the mirror caught his eye. Was that a crack in the glass? He peered closer as the blackness seemed to stretch outward from his own body in the mirrors reflection. A man in a black suit behind him! Clayton gasped. The man seemed to have a lasso in one hand, and with the other, held a finger to his lips, shushing him.
Filled with adrenaline, the athlete turned, arms up, ready to fight, even though he was terrified. Nothing. He was alone in the bathroom, staring at a wall. He put his arms down, and breathed a sigh of relief.

A lasso was tossed over his shoulders and chest, and a hand reached out and a leather gloved hand clamped over his mouth from behind him.
"You're going nowhere." A gentle voice in a Mississippi accent whispered to the startled boy.

Intriguing story!

Very detailed, yet captivating. Clay is a great "needs to be put in place" type and there's a thrilling mystery aspect in it.

Great job, can't wait to see where this goes.

A very interesting beginning. Good characters, good dialogue, just the right length, and lots of questions to make sure I check back.
Don't wait too long please.

Interesting concept, intriguing "protagonists" and a first victim who seems to scream to get tied up. Good job!

Thanks for the kind words, y'all. I will try to get chapter two of part one up some time today.
I also feel like I should perhaps qualify, this is NOT a horror story, just a supernatural 'thriller', if even that. Had some interesting ideas that, hopefully, y'all enjoy.

Can't wait to read more! Can never get enough of stories about good ole boys getting tied up.

Chapter 2

Clay suddenly felt as though he had been submerged into a cold pool, which sapped the strength out of him. He watched as the wall of the bathroom, viewed through the window as by a mirror, drifted further and further from view, replaced by an almost cosmic, quiet blackness. He tried to call out into the void for help, but no sound came from his mouth. Instead, thousands of whispers seemed to shush him at once quietly from every direction.
He tried to pull against the lasso around his chest, but his limbs felt more fatigued than they had ever been before, almost as if they were trapped in time. Suddenly, impossibly quickly, the rope dared all around his chest, arms and torso, forming an intricate harness, then loops wrapped around each of his wrists, pulling them till his forearms were parallel to the ropes across his chest, finally tying them together and to the chest harness, completely immobilizing his upper body in mere seconds. Clayton's eyes widened as the absolute desperation and hopelessness of his situation sank in.
Throughout the whole binding process, the hand, or at least impression of a gloved hand, never removed itself from his mouth. The mirror had now become a mere speck in the inky black abyss, filled only with Clayton's pitiful whimpers, and the shushing whispers. Soon a new rope emerged, coiling and cinching itself around his legs at his thighs, knees, ankles, and even feet. This time Clay offered not even the veneer of a struggle. Whatever force had taken him, it had him now. Tears welled up in the fallen 'god's' eyes and floated out and away from him weightlessly. String-like protrusions emerged, from the hand or the abyss, he wasn't sure, but weaved themselves into and all around his mouth, stuffing, cleave-gagging and covering his mouth with what seemed almost like a living cloth. Clay was simply too overwhelmed to even register all of this; he just stayed still, whimpered, and hoped.
And waited...
Little by little, he noticed his own muffled cries growing louder, the silencing whispers growing dimmer. Looking back at his one light, he noticed it drawing closer! He gasped. Had freedom come? As the light from the mirror approached, he noticed something different. Strange. It was not a mirror, it was three slats it seemed, letting in only a small amount of light, but he was still approaching it. As he grew closer, the hope in his heart swelled up, and he cried unintelligibly into his gag "Please let me go." But the whispers had gone silent, the glove was gone, and with it, and sense of connection he had to anything. His only hope now was this light! Suddenly he was accelerated towards it, feeling like he was about to crash! Then the light was blinding, and...
"Hello boy." From the other side of the the slats, which were not even as wide apart as Clay's head, was a pair of sharp, black eyes. Clay froze. Something was different. He didn't feel like he was floating. No, he was on solid ground, hot again, cramped! He looked around him, and he was in an impossibly small cell, that he had to fold his shoulders inward to even fit inside! This was too much! Who was doing this to him? This wasn't fair!
"I thought that this might teach you a lesson, next time you don't listen to me." The man's voice was silky smooth, and cold as ice. Clay felt like it stabbed into him and injected ice water into his veins. What did he mean!? He never met this maniac before! He must have been slipped a drug...or taken one earlier and forgotten about it. This couldn't be real! Suddenly though, Clay became aware of other people, other voices all around him, murmuring, laughing together, enjoying each other's company. So close!
Clay then noticed the man, or at least his eyes, were gone. Taking this opportunity, he thrashed around as much as he could in his iron coffin, screaming his lungs out. Immediately, he noticed his otherworldly gag seemed to expand inside his mouth, and clamp around his chin, more and more tightly as he increased in volume, like it was punishing him for trying to speak up. The next thing he noticed was somehow even more strange, alien, and heartbreaking. All the voices surrounding him united as one...and laughed loudly at him. They knew where he was. They heard him. His would be rescuers just didn't care.
He hung his head in defeat, and shame. Why were they doing this to him? What did he do to deserve this? He slammed his head into the walls of his cell, and cried hot tears of rage and frustration, but his time of crying was almost immediately cut by his surrounding captors slamming on the other side of the wall, imitating and mocking him. followed by more, louder laughter. The cacophony of the banging and laughter was overwhelming for a time, but eventually, after what felt like eternity, it stopped. The crowd dispersed. Clay was left alone with his thoughts. How, WHY was this happening?
He choked back tears and sniffled a bit, his mind going into emergency protocols essentially. He was left in his quiet, cramped cell, with nothing but a bunch of ropes, so he started tugging guilelessly at those. At times, he couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the monumental task before him. It seemed like there was a coil of rope in the grooves of each individual muscle, pulling them all together towards a central web. At least in the confines of his cell, he couldn't even see, let alone reach any knots. He had already given up fighting with the gag; the ropes at least seemed fairly natural.
And so he picked at the loops and coils...
and he picked at the coils and loops
and he picked
and picked
picked...
Finally, after what seemed like the most overwhelming pointless hour of his life, he realized he had made no progress on anything, except giving himself a few cramps. He began to quietly sob; mercifully the gag seemed to allow this level of noise. He found himself wishing for the comforts of his home, and his bedroom. The camaraderie of his teammates. The familiarity of his school. Hell, even old man Daryl and all his stupid rules! He just wished...he just wished...
"Someone in there?" A shaky old voice called out. Clayton screamed in the direction he heard the voice coming from, and was promptly punished by the gag very tightly constricting on him, while expanding the stuffing in his mouth. He then proceeded to bang his head on the wall of the cell to get the old man's attention. "Ah Jesus....kids these days-I'm coming son! I'll get you outta there!"
Clayton let out tears of joy. This nightmare was finally over. The man came over, and somehow had the keys to his cell, opening the door wide. Cramped as he was, Clay lost balance and fell face first into the blinding light, and onto the ground. "Oh! I'm sorry sonny, I...how long did they keep you locked up there? I...lemme get those ropes off ya."
Clay barely felt the pain as he lay on the floor, joyful tears freely flowing as his eyes slowly adjusted to his surroundings. White 'tile' floor, overhead fluorescent lighting, a plain looking room lined with benches, and...
The old man kept timidly apologizing as he began cutting off the ropes that bound Clay.
There was a banner, a sword, with crimson and blue on either side...
The old man worked swiftly, and most all the bonds were off the young man by now.
His football locker room. He had been in a locker...no, HIS locker!
"Do you remember now?" Suddenly the room was darkened, as if that thick Mississippi accent had turned the lights dim. Now free, Clay stood bolt upright and looked behind him, where the old man had been. Gone. Now the man in black stood behind the janitor's cart. "It was about an hour after ya'll left that Mr. Winters found John,"
Clay was remembering now, and backing up as the man in black came closer.
"tied up,"
No, this couldn't be happening. This wasn't real!
"locked in a locker...Your locker, Clayton. Crying his eyes out...just like you were." Clayton began shaking his head profusely. "But it was only fair, right?" The threads of the man's suit seemed to unravel, stretch, and multiply, taking on a lifelike quality as they stretched out along the ground towards Clay like shadows, all while his pearly whites flashed that charming, devious smile. "As you said, Clay," at this sight, the mortified Clayton turned and bolted in the other direction, hearing once more the silencing whispers of the black void, now approaching him, faster, faster! "Ya'll had a DEAL boy!"

Strange and totally fascinating.