Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
KIDNAPPING CHRIS
KEEPING IT UNDER WRAPS
MY EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY
IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
STRAIGHT AS A QUESTION MARK
MASTERING STEFAN
MARKING TERRITORY
A CERTAIN UNDERSTANDING
THE TAKING OF BRIAN KROWELL
AND SERPENT BECAME ROD
A GIFT TO THE RISING DOG STAR
BOUND BY LOVE
NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR
PLAYING GOD
THE HARNESS
NORCEUIL’S GARDEN
THE MAN WHO TIED HIMSELF UP
DON’T THROW ME INTO THAT BRIAR PATCH! - (TIED TO THE RAILROAD TRACKS OF LOVE: ...
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For Asa,
Bound by love
INTRODUCTION: BLAME IT ON VICTOR MATURE
Can it be as simple as this: we desire now what we desired then? Then, I wanted a lanky, redheaded lad with supple limbs and a large graceful nose. I had that tall boy—with freckles!—for almost a year, before we were even legal, until his family’s move to a new military base took him out of my life. Now, I have loved many other men: some tall, some short, some slim, some stout, some fair-haired, some dark-haired, some fair-skinned, some dark-skinned, some with just a hint of red about their heads, even some with no hair at all, several decades beyond my redheaded first love.
But the imprinting remains. My head turns at the sight of a slender man, a tall man with supple limbs, a noble nose, and red hair. My head sometimes turns at two out of three. In truth, my head will turn simply at the sight of a redhead.
I remain now what I was then, am excited now by what excited me then.
Without getting all theoretical and psychological here, I’m pretty sure it’s the same with amorphous desire as it is with the memory of a real person. That’s why some younger men yearn for older, why some men lust after muscle, why some men find heft and hair erotic, why some men thrill to the sight of a firefighter or a police officer—or a UPS delivery man—in uniform, and why some men are stimulated by wrestling, or spanking, or piss, or shit. Or silk. It’s what turned them on, early on. Why that should be so, in the first place, I’ll leave to the theorists, and the shrinks.
For some men, it’s all about the ties that bind. Naughty knots. The struggle against restraints. The rush of abandoning control. Sometimes even the absence of senses. How does it start? A ten-year-old sitting in front of the black-and-white TV in years past sees Chuck Connors in “The Rifleman” or Clint Eastwood in “Rawhide” muscling against Western rope, and a desire is born. (Is it a kinkier desire if the turn-on originated from watching Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Mike Nesmith, and Peter Tork—in psychedelic color!—in “The Monkees” episode “Your Friendly Neighborhood Kidnappers”?) Even now, in an era where bondage of all sorts streams across laptop screens, images of The Rock and Seann William Scott bound together in The Rundown (2003) can turn on today’s questioning and soon-queer teen, and titillate older homos with an eye for the bound guy. And bondage fans of a certain age will forever have Victor Mature in Samson and Delilah….
And they’ll have the stories in this collection: the metal cuffs, latex suits, silk ties, strong tape, loops of rope and leather, a classic harness—the tools of a particular erotic trade—and the men who top and the men who bottom for the pleasure of our imaginations. Then, and now.
Richard Labonté
Bowen Island, British Columbia
KIDNAPPING CHRIS
Jeff Mann
He’s been out for a while. Rob’s checked on him twice. A train’s rocked and roared past the house, but Chris has slept on, sagging and snoring in the dark.
Outside, it’s late summer. Queen Anne’s lace edges the pastures with floating discs of snow, and Joe-Pye weed lines the ditches along the dirt road, its tall flowers like shaggy wigs the hue of old rose. Rob and Mark’s little farm needs water badly; rain’s been sparse this summer in southwest Virginia. The tomato plants, hot peppers, and zinnias are all half-wilted. After Rob slips the pie in the oven, he fills a can with tap water, steps outside, and gently pours it over the limp-leaved plants. He’d like to sit on the porch and watch silver maple boughs sway in the warm breeze—every breeze in August is a blessing—but he might not hear Chris out here. Chris should be coming to in an hour or two and he’s responsible for Chris now, entirely responsible. So Rob steps back inside, mixes a mint julep, hurriedly does up the dishes, then hits the couch with a new fantasy novel.
If Chris wakes up in time for dinner, Rob will fry them up corn cut off the cob, browned in bacon grease, spiced up with cayenne. He’s got homemade biscuits in the freezer, so he could heat them up, top them with country ham, mayonnaise, sliced tomatoes picked fresh from the garden. Then there’s the pie, coconut cream, due out of the oven soon, Chris’s favorite kind, as Rob well knows. Rob likes cooking for handsome men. He likes taking care of them. One thing’s for sure: Chris isn’t likely to lose weight during his sojourn here.
Rob’s halfway through his drink and beginning another chapter of the novel when Chris regains consciousness in the basement, directly below the sofa where Rob comfortably sprawls. Like bubbles released when the bottom of a pond’s disturbed by a dropped anchor, Chris floats up out of darkness and silence. What he finds is not light spangling the surface, however, but more darkness and silence, a chrysalis entirely enveloping him. What he sees and hears is nothingness. What he feels is constriction and discomfort.
Where? he thinks, shifting in the chair, lifting his head and shaking it. There’s no sound but blood pumping in his ears, and, beyond the cinder block walls, the chirring of insects in summer meadows. There’s no light at all. Rob’s careful creation of this space has seen to that. There isn’t even a crack of light under the door.
Chris shakes his head again. His temples are throbbing and wet. Drops of sweat tickle his cheeks in their descent. His mouth is dry, his jaws are sore. His limbs ache. He groans. Where the fuck is he? Why does he feel so bad? Why is it so dark, so quiet?
Removing his hat would help. As usual, Chris is wearing a cowboy hat; he can feel its weight on his head, its sweatband on his brow. He wants to take it off, to wipe the moisture off his temples, to massage his aching head. He tries to do all those things. He fails. He cannot move his arms.
It takes a few frantic seconds of tugging and thrashing for Chris to understand his situation. Now he’s scared. His heart races; the blood rushes through him, making his head hurt worse. His throat, belly, and scrotum are tight with fear.
What his struggle reveals is this: he’s bound to a chair, like some hapless character in a Western. He’s shirtless—he can gauge this by the cool air on his torso, shoulders, and arms—though otherwise he’s still clothed, he knows, for, as devoid of light as his new world is, he can feel the presence of his hat, belt, jeans, and cowboy boots. His hands are secured together behind the chair; something rough, dense, and narrow is wrapped tightly around his crossed wrists, chafing the skin as he struggles. Rope, Chris correctly assumes. More rope is knotted around his arms and elbows, securing them to the chair back. More rope, crisscrossing his bare chest above and below his nipples, makes it impossible for Chris to move his torso more than an inch or two in any direction. Another round of rope cuts into the furry curve of his belly, increasing his immobility. His thighs are spread and bound to the chair’s seat; his booted ankles are tied to the chair’s back legs at such a height that only his toes touch the basement floor.
Upstairs, in early evening’s copper light, Rob’s finished his drink; downstairs, in the unmitigated blackness, Chris has begun to panic. He’s a big tough redneck from Texas, he’s had his share of bar brawls and ass-whippings both given and received. But he’s never been this disoriented or powerless. He rocks and squirms, trying to work his wrists and ankles loose, twisting and straining his chest against the rough rope till he’s breathing hard and hurting. Fright and exertion make him pant and curse, but that only leads to another unwelcome discovery: it’s hard to breathe through his mouth, and his swear words come out muffled. When he bites down in frustration, his teeth sink into a balled-up rag his captor has stuffed in his mouth, entirely filling it. This is the reason his tongue is dry and his jaws ache. When Chris tries to work the rag out with his tongue, he can feel tape tightening over his lips, tugging at his cheeks and the back of his neck. Not only can he barely move, he can barely speak.
Fuck! Goddamn it! Chris would like to shout for help, but that’s what stupid women do in distress, and besides, he figures any noise he makes will simply summon his captor, whatever bastard has bound and gagged him and left him here. Who the hell has done this? he wonders, suddenly as enraged as he is frightened, searching his memory and coming up with nothing. He can’t remember the events of today. He tries to shake amnesia from his head, as if it were a cloud of cigar smoke like those he regularly emits in honky-tonks, something to be dismissed with the wave of a hand. This cloud will not disperse.
Upstairs, Rob rises to mix another drink. In the cellar, Chris hears the creak of floorboards overhead. Now he knows for sure he’s not alone, his captor is near. In a careful silence broken only by snorts of fear and rage, by low, rag-stifled cursing, Chris works to free himself. He stops occasionally to rest, to catch his breath, before beginning the f
Rocking from side to side, Chris feels the taut ropes over his upper chest give a little. This gives him hope. He rocks harder. He rocks harder. He rocks too hard. He sways, he tips over. His bare shoulder slams into the concrete floor, pain jolts through him with a gasp.
Chris is sobbing softly now. He’s alone, there’s no one to see him cry, so he can afford to break down. His bare sides shake. His head lolls against the gritty floor. A few tears escape. His shoulder throbs and stings, bleeding a little. His hands clench and unclench, straining still in their tight circles of rope, continuing their futile fight for freedom, but listlessly now, because he’s in pain and he’s exhausted. He breathes hard through his nose and fights back the tears, willing himself to calm down, to shake off this welling terror, to be a man, not a sissy, to figure out what to do, what the fuck to do.
Chris lies there, aching on the floor, for half an hour before his struggles taper off entirely and he finally calls for help. He’s tentative at first, utterly humiliated by such a necessity, then, when no one responds, he increases the volume. Despite the thick gag, a big man like him can make some noise, though the actual words—“Help me! For fuck’s sake, help!”—are entirely unintelligible. Finally, Chris lifts his head from the floor, sucks in cool cellar air through his nose, fills his lungs, and simply roars.
Upstairs there’s a thump—Rob’s dropped his novel—then heavy footsteps, doors slamming, someone thunking down the cellar stairs. Click of a lock, and the door opens.
Dim light falls over Chris. Footsteps across the floor. Bare hairy feet by his cheek. Chris looks up as best he can at the broad silhouette of his abductor. “Help me, you fucker!” Chris grunts. Mmmm mmm mm mmm! is what Rob hears.
“Hey, handsome, you’re awake already! What are you doing on the floor? Did you hurt yourself?” Chris is a big man—used to play college football—but Rob is even bigger. With no effort at all, he’s wrapped an arm around Chris’s waist, grabbed the back of the chair with his other hand, and righted Chris as if he weighed no more than an adolescent girl.
“Ah, you’re bleeding,” says Rob, touching Chris’s blood-smudged shoulder. “We’ll have to wrap that up.”
Chris looks up at his captor, gathering breath to shout with fury. Instead he gasps and stares. Not only is the voice familiar, but the bearded face, round glasses, hairy chest, and beer belly revealed in the gray light of the open door are all familiar too.
“Yes, Chris, it’s me,” Rob says, grinning down at him. “I guess you don’t remember this afternoon very well, eh?” He smoothes Chris’s mussed hair, strokes his brown sideburns, then bends down and kisses first his wet brow and then his taped-tight mouth. “Why are you making such a fuss? You used to claim abduction scenarios were a fantasy of yours. Haven’t you always wanted this?”
Ummm mmm! Ummmm mmmm! Chris shakes his head violently. Abduction might be a hot fantasy, but reality’s another matter. He never asked for any of this. Tugging at his bonds again, he glares at Rob, mmmfffs some more. Let me loose, asshole! is what he’s trying to say. Why the hell are you doing this? Let me loose!
All garbled, but Rob can figure out from the look in Chris’s face—shimmering meld of fear, anger, and confusion—what he’s asking. “Nope, sorry, I’m not untying you yet. This is all for your own good.” Chris snorts in response, rolling his eyes with outrage.
“Check it out: we finished all this last week, just for you,” Rob says, lighting a few candles around the room. Wick by flickering wick, the space comes clear: a large, windowless room, walls painted black, a stereo system, a sling hanging from the ceiling, a St. Andrew’s cross against the wall, a padded paddle-bench, a shelf displaying various implements, sex toys Chris remembers from another life, one he recanted a good while back.
Rob pushes a button. The stereo lights up. Gregorian chants fill the room. The music’s meant to be relaxing, but, in response, Chris strains his torso against the rope till it indents his fleshy pecs and belly; he twists his wrists till they burn; he rocks and growls.
“Chris, baby, stop it. You’ll hurt yourself. You’re not getting loose. You know I know how to rope a man…plus, just in case, well, now that you’re awake and seem determined to resist…” Rob reaches for something in the candlelight, then holds it up in front of Chris. “Remember this? Your favorite, right?”
Duct tape. Candlelight shimmers off the shiny silver-gray. Chris groans, shaking his head. Pulling loose a long section of it, Rob wraps it around Chris’s chest, reinforcing the rope. “Guys can squirm out of rope sometimes, but there’s no way a man can escape tape. Isn’t that why you love it?” Rob chuckles, circling Chris, tightly applying the tape to his arms and torso, careful to leave his nipples exposed, finally cutting it with scissors and smoothing the end against the Celtic cross tattooed on Chris’s left biceps. “When this stuff comes off later, you’re going to wish your chest weren’t so hairy,” Rob says, ruffling the dark fur on Chris’s pecs. “You might regret that handsome goatee too.”
When Rob starts wrapping up Chris’s wrists, that’s when Chris loses all control. Dignity be damned. He thrashes crazily, frantically; he screams into his gag, his customary baritone gone shrill with hysteria. Immediately Rob drops the roll of tape. He seizes Chris’s face in his hands, holding him still. “Hey! Hey!” Rob slaps his cheek lightly, so lightly it might be a love-tap, a caress. Chris stops his struggle, staring up at Rob, his wide brown eyes meeting Rob’s light blue ones.
“Chris, for god’s sake, no one’s going to hurt you, okay?” says Rob, stroking his goateed chin. “We’re going to take care of you, all right? You know us, Mark and me. We love you, Chris. We got you, Chris. We’re doing this for you. Just think of it as an intervention.”
Chris hangs loosely in his bonds now, all fight gone. “You gonna behave,” Rob says, more of an order than a question. Chris nods.
Taking advantage of his prisoner’s sudden submission, Rob finishes the tape-work: wrists, then ankles, then thighs. With each ripping sound of the tape, with each tight application around his limbs, with each snip of the scissors, Chris grows weaker, more pliant in his powerlessness. Now that he knows it’s Rob who’s holding him, he knows he’s safe. Rob would never harm him. The dwindling of fear allows other feelings to surface. By the time Rob’s finished taping him up, Chris’s cock, to his embarrassment and amazement, is hard in his jeans. He prays that Rob won’t notice in such dim light. His reluctant tumescence tells him that Rob’s right, though Chris hates to admit it: when they were together, Chris loved rough roped-up scenes like this.
“You want some water?”
Chris nods. Please is the soft word rag and tape hinder.
“All right, lover. I’m going to take that tape off your mouth now. You can shout as much as you want, ’cause we’re way out in the country, and we’re underground. No one’s going to hear you, so you might as well save your voice for civilized conversation, okay?”
Chris nods. He’s so worn out from struggle and shock he can hardly lift his head. Rob fetches the scissors from the floor, then reaching behind his captive’s left ear very carefully cuts the tape and then very slowly unpeels it. It hurts Chris, pulling on his hair and goatee. He squints and winces. “Sorry, baby,” Rob soothes.
Finally the tape is off. Rob eases the soaked rag out of Chris’s mouth. “Thanks,” Chris groans, stretching the stiffness from his jaw. He’s such a well-bred country boy that he’s mannerly even in extremity. Rob massages Chris’s face, the firm and tender touch Chris has always savored. “I’m sorry we had to do this to you,” Rob whispers. “But you need this. We all know you do. You’re going to be all right. We’re going to keep you till you know who you are.”
