[This story by a Canadian reader of Bound & Gagged, was published in Issue 50 (January/February 1996), three years after his first submission, Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper, and three years before his last one, The Student, the Apprentice Plumber and the Senior Civil Servant, in July/August 1999).
TORONTO, CANADA. These events took place in 1973. I was 20 years old then and attending University in a small English city not far from London. I’d been introduced to bondage by my friend Bill about six months earlier [See “Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper,” Issue 35, page 48] and ever since then hardly a Saturday night had gone by without the two of us getting together for sex at his little house near the College.
By this time in fact there wasn’t a chair left in the place that I hadn’t been roped into—immobile—while he worked my tits or forced me to improve my cock sucking technique; just as there wasn’t a flat surface left in the cottage that hadn’t been used to tie me down on or drape me over while he fucked me, usually after a vigorous caning.
However all was not sweetness and light between us and problems had begun to crop up. Bill was twelve years older than I. He’d returned to University—after a stint with the place—as a mature student, and in fact was doing many of the same courses as I. Like many older adults he was having a hard time adjusting to being a student again. Difficulties arose from the fact that while sexually he was still the unquestioned master of our relationship, he found it humiliating that he was slipping further and further behind me in school.
His bitterness was showing through in our sex together and the last couple of times I’d been frightened by the undercurrent of anger and the degree of force he’d used to beat me.
I’m dark haired and tan easily, but in those days never tanned in the nude, so my ass cheeks were a very English shade of pale white. This meant that even a few slaps would show up instantly as bright red marks—a great encouragement to him of course. I was quite used after a session with him to have to wait for a couple of days for the colour to disappear, but on our last time together he had marked me quite badly. Afterwards when I looked in the mirror I could see dark purple bruises and cuts up and down my back and thighs.
Bill arranged for a couple of weekends away after this. He had various family obligations he’d been neglecting because of me and I think he also was frightened by his own anger and needed a cooling-off period.
So while he was away I decided to see what or who else was available. Bill was still the only man I’d been with and I was a horny twenty year old (brand new to sex!) who wasn’t going to waste two whole spring weekends by staying home alone.
1) One of the few gay friends Bill had introduced me to had once dropped the names of a couple of pubs in Central London where you could meet gay men.
2) The night Bill had originally picked me up I’d been wearing just a tight T shirt and jeans.
3) London was only a 50 minute train ride away.
Putting 1, 2 and 3 together meant that next Saturday found me standing with a beer in my hand in a certain pub in London’s West End just after mid-day, wearing jeans, T shirt and boots. I was in a quandary though. Like most pubs in England where gay men gathered twenty years ago this establishment hosted a very mixed crowd of patrons. There were working men drinking beer, old ladies sipping sherry, tourists eating pub lunches and—I noticed—a bunch of men standing or sitting alone or in groups who seemed to be mainly interested in the comings and goings of the other men in the bar. Bill and I had met by accident, at least on my part, so I was ignorant about gay pick-up etiquette. I did notice though that there was a lot of interest in my movements. I did not know whether to be annoyed or flattered; not realising of course that I was merely a new face with a new bum in tight jeans.
I gulped down my first pint of beer and squeezed my way back up to the bar past the tourists eating their plates of Fish and Chips. When I got there my eye was caught by a young man who gave me a dazzlingly wide and friendly smile and said in a thick Cockney accent, “You’d better take a bodyguard to the loo with you or one of these tired old queens is likely to rape you before you can get the prick out of your trousers.”
I was stunned. I looked around in disbelief in case anyone else had heard but amazingly enough no one else’s head had turned. I realized that the general noise level and the fact that he had spoken to me directly meant that I was the only one who had caught what he said.
“How did you know?”
“That you’re gay?”
I nodded, too nervous to say the word myself.
“Well, it’s a pretty safe bet in here and anyway even if you ain’t you’ll still need someone to keep these blokes off young meat like you.”
We looked at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter.
I had lucked out. He told me his name was Chris and I told him mine—Martin—and we hit it off straight away. His remarks about me being young meat had seemed so incongruous since he was only two years older than me. But as I heard, he was a lot older than me in experience and the two of us were soon giggling like school boys while he gave away the embarrassing secrets of half the men in the bar. In response I told him the whole story of Bill and I.
An hour later we were staring at each other’s naked body in the changing room of the St Martin’s Lane Sauna Bath which was only a couple of blocks away from the pub. This being England in 1973 though, nothing untoward was going to be allowed to happen—only a few dips in the indoor pool and a lot of sitting around and staring longingly in the steam and sauna rooms. There were no private cubicles or rooms, just a lot of closeted older men eager to enforce the rules on the few younger men foolish enough to be there. Chris had warned me of all this but I’d made him bring me here. I’d got a bad case of lust at first sight and was desperate to see his naked body.
What he and I could see now were two men who looked very similar. We were each about six feet tall, with wide shoulders, dark hair and clean shaven. We each weighed about 170 lbs, though Chris was noticeably more muscular. I have blue eyes and his were green. Below the waist I have extra big balls and an average sized dick, while Chris’ uncircumcised cock was certainly well above average in size.
The other obvious difference between us was on top of our heads. While my hair was short—very short by the standards of those long haired days—Chris had a skinhead haircut which, when he was clothed, matched his high laced boots, rolled up jeans and sleeveless sport shirt. He was a fervent supporter of his local soccer team and so wore the punk uniform which later became common all over Europe and then North America. Back in those days, apart from a few fistfights with the fans of opposing teams, the ultra masculine skinhead look hadn’t become identified with neo-Fascist youth gangs or become the object of fear and dread.
Certainly for me, Chris was mainly the object of extreme lust and pretty soon I found myself French-kissing him in the shower room. That, plus the fact that both of us sprang immediate erections was enough for a red-faced older man to threaten us with “The Manager.” So we were out of the Sauna, very clean but very frustrated and it was still only three o’clock in the afternoon.
Chris offered to take me back to his home in the East End of London, which he shared with his widowed mother. She didn’t seem at all fazed at the arrival of her son accompanied by a young man (me) that he had obviously only met a couple of hours before. Soon, tea and cakes were being pressed on me, followed by supper, followed by a visit by all three of us to the crowded local pub—where half the customers seemed to be friends or relations of Chris or his Mum. When was I ever going to get him into bed? I began to pout like a baby as I sat in the corner, until I noticed him laughing good naturedly at me—I really couldn’t stay mad at him for long.
A little later while consoling me for having to wait so long, he leaned over and whispered to me, “You know, Martin, I’m glad you told me about you and Bill, ’cause I like to play really rough, too.”
That started me thinking. On the one hand I was ecstatic at the thought that this cute guy I was already half in love with might be interested in exactly the same kind of sex that I craved. But then I worried that since Bill had frightened me by going farther than I thought I wanted, how would I react to “really rough” sex? Oh well, I ended by thinking, he’s not going to murder me with his mother sleeping downstairs so why not relax and enjoy yourself.
Before too long we were staring at the other’s naked body again—only this time, together alone at last.
“I’m also glad you told me about Bill,” Chris said, “because it means that I can get right into the stuff I like without wasting time explaining everything and reassuring you that it really won’t hurt. It strikes me that you want it to hurt, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
Those were the last audible words I was to speak for the next few hours. He pushed me down to my knees in front of him and fed me his cock for a while. I could hear him fumbling around in a drawer in the chest next to us as I chewed hungrily on his boner; then he pulled it away, came around behind me, stood me up again and roped my wrists securely behind my back. Another piece of rope was used to tie my elbows tightly together, forcing my shoulders back and my chest out. After shoving a handkerchief in my mouth and securing it with a long nylon sock, he came around in front of me again.
“She hides it well, but my Mum’s a bit deaf and she sleeps like a log. So she don’t normally hear a bloody thing. But I don’t want her woken up with too much screaming, so we’ll be leaving that gag in for as long as it’s needed.”
Having said that he immediately attacked my tits and kept at them for minutes on end, pulling, twisting and biting. Soon I was writhing in ecstatic agony as I struggled to remain standing under the intensity of his assault. He stopped as quickly as he started and guided me in the direction of his bed, which was an old Victorian monstrosity with a high wooden ornate footboard.
“The only problem with gagging you is that I can’t get my cock sucked. So I suppose we’ll have to use another hole instead,” he said as he pushed me up against the footboard, the top of which was level with my hips.
With my wrists and elbows tied behind me I was helpless to stop him as he bent me over until my face and shoulders were pressed into the mattress. My feet were still planted firmly on the floor, leaving my ass as the highest point of my body. Since we were the same height my asshole was perfectly positioned for his hard dick which was soon thumping in and out of me. I squealed noiselessly into the gag and tried to squeeze my sphincter muscle in rhythm with his thrusts. All of a sudden he shot an enormous load into my guts (this was years before we dreamed of the need for safe sex). I could feel him slowly regain his breath, wait for his heart beat to slow down and for his cock to soften a little before he pulled out. Then he grasped me by the shoulders and pulled me back up.
“Damn, I didn’t mean to come so fast. Your ass is too good to waste on a quickie like that. Get down on your knees while I pull that gag out and then you can clean me up.”
With that, the soaking wet gag was replaced by his half hard dick. After I had licked it clean he didn’t take it out of my mouth and I suddenly realised that he was starting to piss. This was something Bill had never done and I was startled and frightened. For a few seconds I tried to pull away but Chris held my head firmly and I quickly grew to find the whole idea immensely exciting and even to like the taste. He had drunk quite a few beers during the evening, so a lot of liquid had to be swallowed, not all of it successfully. But the feeling of the overflow dripping on my face, neck and chest seemed to add inches to my raging hardon—at least in my own imagination.
After he’d finished pissing he pushed me further down until I lay face down on the floor. My ankles and knees were tied as tightly as my elbows and wrists, then he doubled my legs over behind me and ropes the ankles closely to the backs of my thighs. Next he passed a long cord around my chest and shoulders and waist, completely imprisoning me in a cocoon of rope.
Then he replaced the gag and pushed me over onto my side before leaving the room for an instant. He came back with a large glass bottle of the sort given in hospitals for bed-ridden male patients to pee in. He laid it down on the floor next to me and guided my rock hard penis inside the neck, then sat on the floor next to me himself.
“I’ll bet you need to piss, eh Martin? You drank as much beer as I did, plus you’ve got half of mine now, too.”
The power of suggestion being what it is, I immediately realised the truth of what he said.
Unfortunately, I was in absolute helpless bondage, unable to move a muscle without his assistance—a fact guaranteed to keep my cock hard and therefore impossible for me to piss. In a demonstration of pure sadism, Chris proceeded to torture me for what seemed like hours by preventing me from getting relief from the pain in my bladder by working my tits or jerking my cock every time I seemed to lose even a tiny bit of my hard-on. Eventually he relented, my cock started to soften and then a spray worthy of a firehose came bursting out and filled up the bottle.
Now of course his own cock was all ready and quite recovered from its earlier exertions. He untied enough of the ropes to free my legs and pushed them apart far enough to get at my asshole again. Unlike earlier in the evening he took his time with a leisurely screwing as I lay on my stomach on the floor beneath him.
Eventually he pulled me over onto my side while still fucking me, then grabbed my cock and jerked me off, making sure that I came just as his second orgasm of the night was pumping into my guts.
Very late the next morning he walked me to the local Underground station and I looked forlornly at his back when he turned to go home. I could hardly wait for the week to go by as we’d made a date for the following Saturday and I was determined that nothing was going to stop me seeing him again.
Click here to read the story that precedes this one: Goody Goody Cuffed and Corrected by Colonial Copper
Click here to read the sequel to this one: The Student, the Apprentice Plumber and the Senior Civil Servant
Comments