Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 2
Then Rob kisses him. Chris resists for a minute—Rob has abducted him, he’s holding him against his will, Chris should bite his fucking tongue off—but then he gives in, opening his dry mouth to Rob’s moist probing. After all, this is a man he has kissed before. This is a man whose body he’s worshipped, who has worshipped his body. In that other life, before Chris found God and married Tammy.
Rob tastes of bourbon. Chris would kill for a shot of bourbon.
There’s a skittering at the door, a clicking of claws. A shaggy black dog pushes her way into the room. Rob laughs, pulling back from the kiss. He pats the dog’s flank, saying, “Chris, you remember Missy. She’s going to help us take care of you.”
Chris licks his lips, smiling weakly. He settles back into his bonds. Part of him likes the tightness around his wrists and ankles; it reminds him of many a hot time with Rob, when they lived together in Craig County. Missy circles excitedly about, then, at Rob’s command, collapses into a dog bed beneath the suspended sling. Rob fetches a pitcher and glass from somewhere behind Chris, pours water, lifts the glass to Chris’s lips. Chris gulps and gulps till the glass is empty.
“Thanks,” Chris murmurs. He leans back against the chair and sighs. He looks up at Rob and furrows his brow. “So what the hell?” Chris is trying to be calm now, despite the miasma of anxiety, confusion, and arousal bubbling in his brain.
Rob sighs back. He feels Chris’s bound hands—still warm, circulation seems fine. He pulls a chair out of the corner, a chair identical to the one Chris is bound to. Rob’s pushing three hundred pounds of muscle and belly; the chair creaks loudly as he sits back heavily and crosses his arms. He’s barefoot, bare-chested, clad only in raggedy denim shorts. He’s even hairier than Chris, with a thick black pelt covering his chest and his solid, round belly. His arms are bigger than Chris remembers. He looks like a brute, a biker, a criminal, black hair falling over his brow, except for the wire-rimmed glasses and the kindness in his eyes. In the old days, Chris was his boy. When they were lovers, Chris called him Daddy.
“God, you look so fine…” Rob’s glance takes in Chris’s half-naked body. “We’re going to make you feel so good.” He shakes his head, pushing back sweet visions of their future to come, and starts over again.
“So, how and why, right?”
Chris nods. He looks so whipped, so broken, slumping sweatily in his bonds. He breaks Rob’s heart.
“Don’t you want me to bandage up that shoulder?” Rob touches the wound. Chris winces, shrugging off solicitude.
“No,” says Chris. “Not now. Now, I want to know…” He drops his gaze to the tape creasing his chest and belly, then looks at Rob with a kind of quizzical desperation.
And so Rob explains: what led them here and what Chris can’t remember. He starts with their five years together, years rich with rough sex but fraught with Chris’s Baptist guilt. He speaks of that Christian tract Chris brought home from the Roanoke Airport. He speaks of Chris’s consequent conversion, his abandonment of Rob, his fervent churchgoing, his devotion to Exodus International’s ex-gay movement, his three-year-long marriage to Tammy. He reminds Chris of those surreptitious visits he made to Rob and Mark, Rob’s new lover, three-ways Chris craved but could handle only when he was staggering-drunk. He reminds Chris of those many mornings the three of them woke together, snuggled side by side in Rob and Mark’s big bed, how hungover and sick with shame Chris would always be, full of regret, always quick to flee back to his wife, swearing he’d never fall into sin again.
Most recently, Rob points out, there’s been Chris’s constant drinking, his divorce, his long unemployment after being fired from the Radford munitions plant; his self-hatred, isolation, and despair; his sudden avoidance of Rob and Mark. And, a month ago, the DUI, when Chris drove into a ditch, banged himself up pretty badly, lost his license. That was the turning point, Rob admits. When he saw Chris in the hospital, his bruised face half-sunk in the pillow, that’s when he decided to intervene.
Now Rob describes the afternoon chemistry won’t let Chris remember. After months of phone-slurred reasons not to visit them, lunch today with Rob and Mark, the Texas Roadhouse in Christiansburg, a neutral place, a straight place, where Chris knew his damned desire wouldn’t get out of hand. The date-rape drug Rob had heard about from college students he counseled. Chris’s several Bud Lights, one of them unusually bitter, his drunkenness and confusion, a burly Texan weaving through the parking lot, supported by two big buddies. The back of Mark’s van, Chris’s weak struggles, his loss of consciousness, Rob’s swift skill with rope and tape. The drive down Vicker’s Switch, careful lugging of a bound man down cellar stairs, several hours of snoring in the dark.
Back to this here and now, Rob finishing his story thus: “You were my boy once, Chris. Now you are again. You were killing yourself, but we’re going to save you. You’re a gay man, lover, you’re a bottom. These are things to be proud of, not to hate, not to cut out of your heart. We love you, and we’re going to keep you here till you love yourself.”
Chris is stunned. What can he say? He’s silent as Rob fetches hydrogen peroxide and bandages his shoulder. He’s silent in the dungeon’s dimness, listening to music while Rob cooks upstairs. He’s silent save for an occasional “Thanks” or “That’s really good” as Rob feeds him fried corn, biscuits with country ham and tomatoes, coconut cream pie. Rob has chosen this menu, Chris knows, because these are some of his favorite foods, ones Rob used to prepare for him years ago. It’s clear that Rob intends to give Chris everything that pleases him, short of the freedom and the bourbon he keeps asking for.
“Did you enjoy that?” Rob asks, wiping meringue from Chris’s fur-framed lips.
“Yeah, a lot. You were always real good to me before I…” Chris trails off.
“No regrets, handsome. This is a new day. This is a new marriage. Mark and you and me.” Rob piles the dirty dishes on a tray, then looks at his watch.
“I’ve got to fetch Mark from work pretty soon. His bike is in the shop. So I have to leave you here for about an hour. Think you’ll be all right?”
“Yeah, I guess,” says Chris.
Picking the roll of tape off the toy-table, Rob tugs off a long strip.
“Ah, naw, man!” Chris pleads. “You said no one could hear!”
“Don’t try to fool me, lover. Now you know you’re safe, you’re turned on. I saw that hard-on in your pants. I want you gagged, you want gagged. Right?”
Chris blushes, staring down at the denim-covered bulge of betrayal between his thighs. He shakes his head sheepishly.
Rob chortles. “Bullshit! Tell me what you want. Ball-gag, bit-gag, plug-gag? I’ve got all your favorites. What’s your pleasure?”
Chris looks toward the table’s array of implements. He flushes further. He shakes his head again, stammering, “Y-you know, someone’s gonna be l-looking for me…. What about Tammy? And—”
“We told her you were joining the Peace Corps, and, besides, she’s written you off as a drunk. You don’t have any family left. You stopped attending church months ago, when you started boozing so hard. We’ve paid your rent for the next six months. No one will be looking for you. We’re your family, hot stuff. I repeat: what’s your pleasure?”
“The tape, I, I guess.” Chris’s voice is trembling, and Rob knows why. He hates to ask for what he wants.
“No need to stuff your mouth with that rag I used before. I know it hurts your jaw,” says Rob, pressing the tape over Chris’s lips, wrapping three layers around his head, cutting the end off, smoothing the gag against his cheeks. “How’s that feel?”
It feels wonderful, Chris wants to say. I’m so scared and so turned on. I am so fucked up. Please take care of me. I need to be saved so bad. Instead he nods his head.
“Are your hands hurting you?”
Chris grunts No.
“Well, before I leave, let me tell you what’s in store for you tonight.” Rob stands behind Chris, tousling his hair, stroking his bare shoulders, cupping the dense flesh of his pecs in his palms. “Once Mark is here, we’re going to cut you loose, tie your hands in front of you so you’ll be more comfortable, and help you upstairs. We’re going to leave you gagged, Chris. We’re going to get you naked, Chris, we’re going to shove you down onto your elbows and knees, and then, Chris, we’re going to take turns fucking your hairy ass, deep and rough, just the way you like it. We might even work a plug up inside you for the night. Would you like that?”
Chris gazes at the toy-table, then at the floor, at the dog sleeping beneath the sling. Slowly he nods. He despises this: what honey abject helplessness is, how badly he wants his butt filled up.
“You’re going to sleep bound and gagged between us every night. One of us will be here to take care of you just about all the time, and the times we’re both gone, well, you’ll be just fine down here, won’t you?” Rob nods toward the sling, cross, and paddle-bench. “Isn’t this what you’ve always dreamed of? To be kidnapped by some big guy and held captive? Don’t you remember confessing that to me when we went camping at Holly River? The thought turned me on so much, I never forgot.”
Rob’s standing in front of Chris now, loving his long-lashed brown eyes, his square jaw, his brown goatee bushing out beneath the tape; loving his big football-player’s shoulders, tattooed arms, thick pecs, and fuzzy belly bound tightly to the chair. “God, boy, you’re so beautiful like this,” Rob mutters. He drops to his knees, brushes his beard over Chris’s very hard nipples, then takes one into his mouth.
Chris throws back his head and groans. Rob’s so, so good at tit-work. Soon, inevitably, Chris is growling with discomfort, tossing his head from side to side as Rob does what he always does with Chris’s tits in his mouth: after sucking them hard, he chews and nips them till they’re raw. Now Rob’s rubbing the bulge in Chris’s jeans, unzipping them, pulling out his prisoner’s short beer can of a cock. He’s tying a thin cord around the base of Chris’s dick and balls till they’re glossy and swollen. He’s lapping the arrowhead of rigid flesh, reaching up to twist the sore nipples and caress the chest hair as his hunger bobs in Chris’s lap. As heated up as Chris is by his helpless state, it takes him about three minutes to shoot down Rob’s throat. It takes another two minutes for Rob to finish, slapping his dick against Chris’s gag, pumping himself till a thick spurt lands in the hair between Chris’s aching nipples.
Rob’s gone now. He’s put the cowboy hat back on Chris’s head, blown out the candles, left the stereo on. The door is cracked for the dog to lope upstairs if she wants, but it’s not a freedom she’s interested in. She continues dozing beneath the sling. Chris moves his wrists around in his bonds, gently now, not trying to escape, just reminding himself of how little he has left to decide. His shoulders are stiff, but soon enough his daddies will be back to bind him more comfortably, to make love to him for hours. He needs a big man’s weight on him so badly, so badly needs a loving cock up his ass.
The semen Rob shot on his chest is thinning, liquefying, oozing down his belly. How he wants to taste it. Into the tape Chris mumbles Thank you, to no one in particular, to dark deepening over these Virginia mountains, to the frantic cheeps of crickets sensing cool nights and searching for cellar warmth, to a distant flash of lightning and purr of thunder, the very storm Rob’s been praying for, relief for his parched garden.
Now, more immediate and mechanical thunder, the freight train rumbles by again, going somewhere Chris cannot imagine. This time he is fully awake, this time he hears it rocking noisily along its silvery timeworn tracks. The sound comforts him, the way the purling of brooks does, or the sough of pines, or rain on the roof. As he listens, he strains his mouth against the tape just to feel its tautness over his lips. Where did this contentment come from? How can God disapprove? He’s been taken, he’s fought to no avail, bigger and stronger men have overpowered him. He never wanted Tammy. He treated her so badly. Instead, Jesus, oh Jesus, he has ached after this: to be forced, to escape free will, to be silent, to be still. How did Rob know? Something is breaking loose in Chris tonight, the exposed earth of clear-cut hillsides sliding into the valley, washing away in brown floodwaters.
He bows his head, sleepy, drained, glad to be alone, glad to know Rob and Mark are driving back through the dark to own him. But before he can drowse, just as the last boxcar rumbles past beyond the cellar wall, the black dog is up and by his side. She wags her tail. Beneath the tape Chris smiles. She circles him. With his bound hands, he reaches out. She stops, nuzzling and licking his fingers. He strokes her muzzle, mumbling Good dog, good dog.
Then he’s sinking again, into darkness, into approaching thunder, into the rope and tape that are his chrysalis. He will sleep deep tonight, after his nipples and asshole are loved sweet-sore. All night he will be held captive between strength and strength while welcome rain sweeps the hills. Sun will wake him tomorrow, bars of light across his eyes, far-ranging gifts of a star, colors he has never known before. Two lovers will stroke him into rapture, into completion. Two lovers will lift him to his feet.
KEEPING IT UNDER WRAPS
Bill Brent
We don’t say a word. We’ve never met before. Just two horny guys at a sex party. He wanders into an empty room, giving me the come-hither look recognized by horny guys everywhere.
In the room, he is seated on the couch, legs spread, touching himself through the one-piece latex suit covering his trunk. It has short sleeves and legs. This is a rubber fetish party, my first. I feel inadequate in my standard-issue leather vest and Levi’s.
I lower my face to his. My intuition is working tonight. I know that he likes being nibbled on the neck—prefers it to sloppy, wet kisses. He writhes beneath me as I press one hand firmly into his pectorals, pinning him down. Now I nip into him more intensely, lips covering teeth. His breathing deepens.
My fingers massage the hot latex suit. There’s a zipper down the front. I tug to the spot between his broad pecs, exposing splayed brown hairs. He looks at me with large brown eyes. I kiss him dryly on the mouth. We begin dry-kissing. Our breath is hot.
I reach inside the zipper, kneading and pinching his exposed pectoral flesh. I’m invading him, molesting him. My dick jumps. I notice through his jumpsuit that I’m having the same effect on him. I slide my knee up to his balls and press into him as I pinch his nipples through the latex.
I slap his inner thighs. They’re hot from the latex. I remove my vest and pull the front of my black T-shirt over my head and behind my neck, exposing my chest. I place his hands over my largish nipples, and we begin tugging each other’s tits, his still covered in latex. I begin slapping them with my hands, pummeling this boy trapped beneath his tight rubber skin.
I take my dick out, rigid now, and slap it against his thighs. It gets so hard, it almost hurts. I pull a small vial of lube from my pocket and squeeze some onto my dick. I jack it off in front of him, slapping the hard cock against my outstretched palm. I open up a rubber and squeeze some lube into it, wiping off my sticky hand and rolling the affair down my swollen shaft. I put it up to his lips, and he hungrily gobbles it down. My knee slides to his groin again. I stroke his fine brown hair.
Most guys don’t like to suck on condoms, but for him, it’s one more piece of latex fetish. So I pull out a second condom and try to place it around my nuts. This provides some comic relief as I try, then he tries, to trap the stubborn balls. Finally I shrug, giving up, and we laugh a bit.
He looks so hot in that rubber suit. Hot to the touch, too. I squeeze him all over. It’s as if he’s the last guy I’ll ever get to grope and I’m trying to carve this memory into the deepest groove I can find, to make it last a lifetime. Part of me wants to rip him out of his kinky rubber armor, part wants to keep him trapped inside it forever, all tantalizingly displayed and hot to the touch. I squeeze his well-developed biceps and broad, fleshy shoulders; run my fingers through his beautiful hair; squeeze his pointy nipples and his love handles, and finally his hot, hard dick. This time I slap it with the backs of my fingers, gently at first, worried that I’ll slap too hard and break the spell. But he likes it, so I slap harder and harder, testing the depth of his limit, and squeezing his ample balls.
Then I hold his balls and gaze intently into his eyes. His nostrils flare. Out of nowhere come the backs of my fingers, slapping him lightly across one cheek. The eyes widen. I kiss him dryly on the mouth. Then again. Slap. Kiss. Slap. Kiss. I feel surges of blood through his balls where I clench them. “Take it out,” I hiss. It’s the first time either of us has spoken in ten minutes of anonymous sex.
He scrambles to comply, sitting up and beginning to unzip. “Slowly,” I say. “Turn me on.” I grab my rubberized dick and jack off, pinching my nipples, each of us now showing off for the other.
He slides his fingers down his stomach, teasing the zipper to its end. He gingerly pries his moist cockflesh loose from the clutching rubber sheath, then his balls. He raises his eyebrows, gesturing toward my lube. I hold up the bottle and squeeze some goo onto his fingers. He works it over his expanding dick. I draw closer and slip my hands under the open suit, really working his nipples now. His dick gets enormous—I can’t cover it with both my hands. So I hand him a condom.
He extracts it, and I squirt lube into the tip. We unroll it down his sticky dick; it barely reaches bottom. Then I kneel between his knees and take it in my mouth, biting the head between my teeth and tickling his balls. He’s working my nipples just the way I like, and soon the whole hot package is throbbing down my throat and I’m biting him on just the other side of the latex tube, down near his nuts. I can tell he’s amazed. It’s not as if many guys can do this for him. I’m not one of those tops who think that cocksucking is always the role of the bottom. My forceful attitude gets these submissive, big-dicked boys all hot and bothered. I only reveal my champion dickchomper side once their cocks are stiff beyond resistance.
I milk the groaning boy for several minutes with my well-trained throat, and then I begin jacking him off with both hands. He wants lube, so I give him the bottle again, and he starts jacking on my condom-clad cock with his sticky hand. I grab his dick near its base and start slapping it into my palm. I feel a new tension building in his thighs, and as I slap and jerk his dick, I mutter, “Yeah, fucker. That dick’s gonna shoot. Gonna fill up the rubber with hot scum. Gonna dump your fat load into that tube. Gonna slap it around till you fuckin’ come, Rubber-Boy. Gonna tickle your fat gonads till they squirt for me—”
