Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 15
“Uncle,” said a deep voice behind me.
I turned around. Immediately I recognized the long, Roman nose, the full luscious lips. It was my nephew, Taylor! Totally naked like the others, he was tied to an oak tree on my right hand side, his legs pulled wide apart.
I smiled casually. What a sight for sore eyes! “Taylor,” I said warmly, stretching my hand toward him before realizing he had no way of shaking it. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.” Instead I shook his cock.
“Uncle!”
“I’m sorry. You can’t shake my hand, you see. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“Uncle, you have to get me out of here! They kidnapped me.”
I feigned surprise. “No! Really?”
“Yes! You’ve got to help me!”
“Taylor, I’m not sure I can do that. Even if I untied you, there’s no way we could escape together. There are men everywhere and we’d be seen.”
“Uncle, I don’t care. You have to get me down. You could hide me somewhere in the bushes and come back for me.”
“Hush, Taylor, hush, you’re getting yourself excited.”
“Uncle, what are you talking about! You’ve got to help me!”
I looked up at his flushed cheeks and the ruffled blond hair on his head. He looked so innocent, so imploring, I almost did as he said. But then my hand went up, almost involuntarily and grabbed hold of his cock.
“Uncle! What are you doing?”
I started jacking him off, at first slowly but gradually getting faster and faster. “Stop it, Uncle! Please! What are you doing?” He struggled and kicked at his bonds, but they were too cleverly knotted around him.
“You definitely take after your uncle in this department,” I chortled, amazed by the length and width of his cock. His eyes were frantic as I moved the foreskin back and forth across the head. With the other hand I reached up to pinch his pale pink nipples, then, still chortling to myself quietly, I took his balls in my palm and jiggled them up and down.
“Uncle, please,” he said in a serious voice, but I carried on pumping his cock, now gently, now with abandon. His face was beginning to redden now and every so often he would lick his lips and his eyes would roll around in their sockets. He was about to come. “Uncle, please, I don’t want to come. Don’t let me. Stop!”
But it was too late. A massive jolt ran through his cock and jet after jet of cum flew with great momentum from the tip. His whole body went into spasms and he groaned deep within his chest. I pumped his cock till the last drop of cum had dripped from the end then I took a step back and looked up.
He looked like he was sleeping, his handsome face on one side.
“Good-bye, Taylor. I enjoyed that very much.”
I started backing out between the trees.
“Wait,” he said quietly. “Uncle, you have to help me.”
I smiled softly. “Anytime, Taylor. Just give me a call. I’m good, aren’t I? If you’d like it to happen again, just call.”
As I walked away, his cries began to echo louder and louder through the wood. Looking down, I saw his cum on my hands. Grimacing, I wiped it in the grass.
The horizon was a rich, dark blue by the time I made it back to the tent. Stars still twinkled in the middle of the sky, but lower down they’d all been wiped out.
I sat down on a large rock and looked deep into the trees. The young men’s cries still rippled through the wood, but they were fainter now, more pathetic—hardly distinguishable from the calls of the awakening birds.
“What a night,” said an old fellow next to me, his eyes bleary with drink.
“Yes,” I murmured. “Quite a night.”
The man chuckled. “And weren’t they convincing? Norceuil got it just right. All paid actors, of course…College is expensive these days…”
“Yes,” I murmured, trying to fully grasp what he had said. “But my nephew, Taylor…?”
“Oh, you know Taylor? He’s been making very good use of his holiday break, I can tell you!”
I sat on, musing on all I’d seen and heard. On the outskirts of the clearing, the leaves had begun to catch the first rays of morning. I plucked one from the forest floor and held it up to the sky. Veins ran through the crisp brown skin like finely threaded gold. I dropped it and watched it glide peacefully to the ground. A line of light was creeping across the forest floor. It traveled up my ankle and warmed my skin, and for an instant it seemed as if the trees were burning. Then the sun rose from the treetops and rays of yellow light burst through the air. “And now it’s over,” I said.
The man nodded. I stood up and slowly made my way back toward the house.
THE MAN WHO TIED HIMSELF UP
Simon Sheppard
(based on a true story)
There was a man lived in our town, and Arthur was his name. Oh, Arthur had his kinks of course, just like any of us does. He liked to eat ass, he liked to be spanked, and sometimes, if he was in a very, very good mood, he liked to drink other men’s pee.
But mostly, Arthur liked to get tied up.
Because he was a most attractive young man, Arthur generally had no trouble finding other attractive young men to do the tying up. He would follow them home, take off all his clothes—a process that always left Arthur’s extraordinarily large penis stiff and dripping-wet—and allow whoever it was to tie him down to their bed with whatever clothesline came to hand. But this left poor, well-hung Arthur somewhat dissatisfied.
So he began to seek out less attractive, less young men—fellows who presumably knew more about what they were doing—to tie him up instead. This was a good decision. Not only were these men less self-absorbed and more knowledgeable, many of them were well heeled enough to have amassed sizable collections of pricey bondage gear. Suspension harnesses, black leather bondage mitts, tight-fitting cowhide hoods…all sorts of swell new gimcracks now played a part in Arthur’s perverted little sessions.
Still, no matter how skilled and solicitous his temporary masters were, there was always something unsatisfactory. One man talked too much, another maintained stony silence. There were tops who left him feeling too loosely restrained, others who stretched Arthur’s naked body out to the point of discomfort.
So Arthur began to tie himself up.
Ah, that was more like it. Now he was sure to get what he wanted, with none of those disappointments that occurred when other men were involved.
Arthur started slow. In the beginning, he would strip down and, a length of soft rope at his side, lie down on his bed and jack off. When his big, beautifully formed cock was fully hard, he would pick up the rope and loop it around the base of his cock and balls. Tightening the loop would cause the blood to be trapped in his dickshaft, making it bulge even more and turn a pleasant, darkish shade, a pink tinged with purple. He would tie the rope off with a square knot—left over right, right over left—and lie back to look at his handiwork. Simple as the arrangement was, it gave him a great deal of pleasure, and when he spit in his hand and caressed his hard shaft, it was an excellent feeling indeed.
Soon, Arthur’s dick-tying sessions became more elaborate. He would use a longer piece of rope to bind his balls, stretching them out just right, then winding coils of clothesline around the base of his sac till his nuts were bulging beneath slick and shiny skin. If he were feeling even more ambitious, he would tie his shaft up, too, winding rope around his hard prick until only the tip of his dick showed, its distended piss slit glimmering with pooled precum.
Sometimes he would slap around his tied-up package, stopping just at the point when pleasure was about to become pain, and then he’d rapidly pull the ropes off, exposing a bobbling, hard cock just begging to be brought to climax.
This all went so satisfactorily that Arthur soon embarked on more elaborate scenarios. At first, he would take a long piece of rope and wind it around both of his graceful, hairy ankles, then loop it crosswise between his legs and tie it off, leaving his ankles firmly restrained in rope cuffs. Just the process of doing so made him intensely excited, and he would struggle against his restraints as he beat his tied-up dick off to a frothy resolution. He began to take pictures of himself, at first by triggering the timer on his 7-megapixel Olympus, then by setting up his video camera and flat-panel TV to provide a real-time feed, instant bondage porn he could watch as he masturbated. Bondage porn starring himself.
He then proceeded to experiment with more restrictive play. As the video camera winked, he tied his bound-together feet to the footboard of his bed, then added a rope that secured his left arm to the headboard. It all looked quite nice on-screen, but he yearned for even more. So he went online and ordered sets of wrist and ankle restraints from a well-known purveyor of S/M accoutrements.
When the much-anticipated package arrived, Arthur immediately opened it, took off all his clothes, and tightly cinched down the ankle restraints. Just walking around his house wearing leather cuffs gave him a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, so he lay down, clipped the restraints together, and tied them to the footboard of his bed. He came almost immediately.
In the days that followed, he proceeded to choreograph ever more elaborate scenes. At first, he put on one of the wrist restraints, roping it to the headboard after his ankles were securely bound. Then he added the second one, managing to maneuver all four limbs into a spread-eagle position, afterward undoing the bondage with his teeth. When he was feeling particularly festive, he would add tit clamps and a gag. He briefly considered a blindfold, but that would have meant being unable to watch himself on the video hookup as he squirmed in ostensible powerlessness. He left his eyes unblocked.
Some of the men who had tied him up in the past (mostly those to whom he hadn’t displayed obvious disappointment) would occasionally get in touch with him, wanting to play again. But Arthur had found a superior bondage top: himself. There was really no reason to accept second-best. All the offers were politely refused.
In his quest for bigger and better thrills, Arthur took his show on the road. At first, the changes of scene were minor. He built a bondage board in his basement, for instance, and took great delight in enmeshing his own squat-but-muscular body in increasingly elaborate webs of rope and chain. With a tripod and his camera’s time-lapse setting, documenting the dungeonesque scenes was a snap. But even that paled after a while; as lovely as his tumescent self-portraits undoubtedly were, Arthur longed for the aesthetic next step, something to accurately document how beautiful his bound-up body actually was.
Arthur had grown up in a small town in the Mojave. The place had been something of a pit, but he had always loved the sight of the surrounding desert, especially the sand dunes at sunrise. He decided to incorporate that beauty in his pornographic self-portraiture.
One Saturday afternoon he drove back to his hometown, taking care not to stop long enough to be spotted by anyone he knew, especially his parents. He drove out past the gas station his father ran, out to the towering sand dunes. He put up a freestanding tent, set his alarm clock for just before dawn, and crawled into his sleeping bag.
When he awoke in the dark, it was chilly; the high desert got cold at night. But the full moon was still above the horizon, and Arthur lost no time striking the tent and stripping down. He left his clothes and cell phone in the car, and, carrying his camera, tripod, and a bag of bondage gear, climbed up a nearby dune, oddly horny from shivering naked in the near-dawn. Though he was only about a half mile from town, he figured the chance of being glimpsed at such an early hour was minimal. Still, the vague possibility added a piquant edge to the proceedings.
He sank the legs of the tripod into the sand and set the camera at an angle that would catch the image of him lying on the sand, the red glow of dawn illuminating both timeless sands and straining flesh. Fiddling for a moment, he set the camera on time-exposure so it would take a new picture every sixty seconds.
Arthur had recently purchased two pairs of shiny steel handcuffs, hoping that his photographs would capture the glint of early-morning sunlight on metal. Since the sunrise would take a goodly while, he fastened a cock ring around the base of his penis and balls; he was hard as a rock now, but why take any chances? And rather than rope up his dick, he spread baby oil on the arc of hard flesh—the movie director in him hoped his cock would gleam with the morning sunlight, too.
Making certain the handcuff keys were attached to his car keys, so they wouldn’t get lost, he sat down on the side of the rather steep dune. The shots would not only capture the image of his body, but a vista of the desert beyond. It would, he hoped, look breathtaking. But then, Arthur designed window displays for pricey clothing stores. He knew about breathtaking.
Leaning over, he fastened one pair of cuffs around his ankles; the sound of the metal ratcheting down cut excitingly through the desert silence. Then he painstakingly cuffed his wrists together, his right hand keeping a tight grip on the keys. He knew from numerous practice sessions that, by gripping the key between his teeth and maneuvering just so, he’d be able to undo the lock.
The camera had been snapping pictures all along, making a nostalgic electronic click that sounded just like the shutter of a film camera. And the sun hovered just below the horizon now, turning the east red. It was all perfect, perfectly arranged. Except for the sand up the crack of his ass; he hadn’t anticipated that, but he could wash the grit off later. Arthur lay back on the dune, twisting himself so the shine of cuffs around his ankles would be caught by the lens. He raised his arms above his head and stretched his muscular torso upward. His gleaming cock pointed toward the heavens.
As minutes passed, each one demarcated by a click, Arthur began to trance out, the way he often did in bondage scenes. It was a kind of sexual excitement that verged on the narcotic, the sort of thrill he found nowhere else. And now there would be a record, a beautiful portfolio of his bondage in the Mojave Desert.
It began as a faint, distant whistle. But soon enough, the sound of wind became a whoosh. The sand was getting whipped up, blowing everywhere. Fuck, the camera! Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. Arthur shut his eyes tight, hoping that the sand-storm would calm down soon. But for one careless moment, he relaxed his lids, and sand got in his eyes. He brought his hands to his face to protect himself, and as he did, threw himself off balance. Arthur began rolling down the dune. He threw his bound-together hands out in an effort to break his fall, and as he did, Arthur let go of the keys.
He came to rest near the base of the dune, not far from his car. But great pinkish-tan avalanches of sand were still sheeting down the dunes, and the keys were nowhere to be seen. Trying to crawl back up the hill in the wind took Herculean effort, but he gave it a shot, rooting around in the sand for the lost key ring.
No dice.
The wind had died down, but he was well and truly fucked. Oh, well, he might not be able to get dressed, he might feel foolish, but he could go back to the car and phone someone to rescue him, call one of the ex-boyfriends whose numbers were programmed into his phone. It might be early, but he knew that at least a couple of them were likely to have been up all night.
Cautiously, he rolled himself away from the dune, sand covering his sticky hard-on. He got to the car, struggled to his knees, and grabbed the door handle.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. For no reason at all, he had unthinkingly locked himself out of his car.
And that was how Arthur came to be hopping and hobbling down a desert road in the pale, cool morning. For a while, his big dick remained hard, bobbing ahead of the rest of his naked body. He remembered the cock ring, unsnapped it, and his penis soon deflated, but the occasional jackrabbit couldn’t have cared one way or the other.
The heat of the day was just beginning to hit when Arthur, exhausted, reached the tumbleweed-strewn edge of his hometown. Out in front of the Arco, his father was setting out the rack of motor oil.
Demurely, Arthur lowered his cuffed-together hands till they almost hid his dick.
“Hello, Dad,” he said.
DON’T THROW ME INTO THAT BRIAR PATCH!
(TIED TO THE RAILROAD TRACKS OF LOVE: HOW I ONCE SEDUCED MYSELF INTO KNOTS NO SAILOR EVER KNEW)
Jack Fritscher
I’m not interested,” he says, “in the casual trick who wants to get tied up for three hours, fucked, and then be untied and let go. I do bondage best from referrals. I want to know the man really likes to be tied up in a prolonged scene. The first bondage training session should last a minimum of thirty-six hours. After all, this is not a game. Bondage is a lifestyle. A day and a half restrained in rope, chains, or mummification is not a major commitment. A full scene should last ten days.”
He’s real. He’s totally real, sitting here in his Los Angeles apartment. He’s got my attention. Now if he can only hold my interest. “You mean then,” I say, “some guys come to you here in L.A. and spend their entire vacation in bondage?”
“That kind of major scene is not uncommon, but the shorter thirty-six-hour trip is a valid training period. In and out of bondage. Say four hours of rigid, total, immobile bondage, broken with short extreme periods of even more intense and tighter bondage. Good bondage style alternates the basic immobile states with the heavier intense state, and then adds in periods of light restraint with leg irons, wrist cuffs, and a collar. Even some duties to perform. Bondage reinforces the master-slave relativity. When a man is immobile for eight hours, he learns to know his place. Restraining his body binds his mind, locks him into a space of servitude.”
He knots and unknots a long length of rope grayed from much use. His knotting motion is not nervous. He fondles the rope casually, expertly in his big hands. He stands six feet and weighs well over two hundred. He is blond and good-looking with one tattoo on his muscular right forearm. He is a beefed up, matured version of the surfer he once was.
