GIGGS

[This story originally appeared in Issue 47 (July/August 1995).]

SAN FRANCISCO, CA. It was the summer of 1959. I graduated from eighth grade in June, went to summer camp with my boy scout troop near Yosemite in July and now—in the dog days of August—I waited to enroll at Amador Valley Joint Union High School in September.

It was going to be a hot day in the Great Central Valley of California. By noon it would probably be 105 in the shade. By 10:00 A.M. I was wearing my old jean cutoffs and a sparkling white Jockey “Torso” tee shirt and sandals. My mom and dad had left for work at 7:30 A.M. and I was—at least theoretically—consigned to the tender care of the tenant family who rented the small cottage at the rear of the garden.

Mrs. Reis was a jolly soul and a good cook. She worked as a housekeeper for a number of families in town to supplement the meager family income. She had agreed to baby sit me during the summer and to make sure I had a good lunch. After lunch she would depart for her housekeeping chores leaving me in the care of one of her two sons.

Gary was 18 and Harry was 19. Harry had enlisted in the Army and was awaiting orders to ship out to Korea. Gary had graduated from high school in June and was spending his last care-free summer at home before starting work on a house construction crew with his dad in the Fall. Gary was a handsome teenager with a husky footballer’s body, blemish free tanned skin and striking blue eyes set in an angelic face topped with a mop of dark brown hair slicked back in a 1950’s Elvis style. He was the apple of his mother’s eye and could do no wrong. Gary was the natural choice for his mother to appoint as my afternoon overseer—and I use the term advisedly.

Gary’s nickname was Giggs. Giggs clearly regarded his afternoon baby-sitting job as beneath his dignity and as a chore to be completed with as little interference with his own free time as possible. In this regard, he laid down the rules of our time together quite firmly. I was not to leave the backyard area where he could see me, I was not to bother him or otherwise try to play my childish games with him and I was to obey his orders—or else! The “or else” provides the meat of this short story.

There was little doubt in my mind that I was physically attracted to Giggs. Of course, at my age I had very little understanding of what was going on; nonetheless, I instinctively reacted to what could only be termed “puppy love.” Every time I would see Giggs’ large, pouty nipples pressing against the worn fabric of his two sizes too small tee shirts I would spring a boner. I guess you could say I already had a thing about tits. Mine were extremely sensitive and seemed to be directly connected to my dick. Whenever I would jack off in private—which was quite often as a budding adolescent—I would almost automatically begin by gently rubbing my tits which would immediately send delicate waves of pleasure down my body to my prick which would get hard within seconds. I had an almost irresistible curiosity to tweak Giggs’ tits just to see if he would react the way I usually did, that is titplay as foreplay to jacking off.

When Giggs’ mother returned from her morning housekeeping duties and was busy preparing lunch for all of us, Giggs would continue to play the role of dutiful son and little angel. During this lunch hour Giggs was forced to tolerate my boyish enthusiasm without restraint. I took full advantage of this daily one hour situation to do all the things I dared not do when I was alone with Giggs lest he “beat me up” as he frequently threatened to do. In fact, he had never laid a hand on me; however, as all little boys knew well enough, big boys could certainly beat you up if they had a mind to do so.

One of the things I most enjoyed doing was mock wrestling with Giggs. I had seen all the wrestlers on television and I thought trying out on Giggs various holds I had recently seen would be a quite innocent and correct excuse to touch Giggs body and to smell him. Yes, smell him. His body gave off a wonderful heady aroma that must have been pure sex. It was not the usual jock body odor of stale sweat. It was a captivatingly sweet, fresh smell of pure man/boy. For all I knew it was the residue of innumerable jack off sessions with cum smeared over his whole body. Just as some female moths secrete certain odors which can be detected by male moths miles away. Giggs gave off a scent that broke down my normal inhibitions and drove me wild. I wanted to be near him, to touch him, to smell him.

Needless to say, he regarded these physical assaults of mine with mild amusement. He couldn’t figure out why I liked smelling him. He didn’t know whether to regard my olfactory attraction as a compliment or an insult. With the braggadocio of youth he tended to regard it as a positive attribute of sorts and allowed me to explore his fully clothed body with my nose. He even raised his arms behind his head so I could bury my nose in his armpits. His mother simply overlooked this activity as childish horseplay.

One noontime I was happily smelling Giggs’ body while he watched TV in his dad’s armchair with me hanging on to his neck sprawled across his chest. I don’t know whether it was deliberate or whether I was just carried away by this lovely situation; however, I ran my hands across his chest and tweaked one of his tits. I didn’t think it was very hard, but he made a little yelp, grabbed my little wrist with his big, strong hands; twisted my arms behind my back and held my face tightly pinned against his armpit. I suppose he thought he was teaching me a lesson, but I was in heaven!

Unfortunately, Mrs. Reis called us to the lunch table and Giggs had to let me go. I was over-excited by the whole episode and couldn’t quite settle down. I ate lunch and anxiously waited for Mrs. Reis to leave for her afternoon housekeeping chores leaving me alone with Giggs again. Mrs. Reis cleaned up the dishes and left for work admonishing Giggs to take good care of me. Giggs returned to the big chair in the living room to watch the afternoon soap operas. I—consciously or unconsciously I don’t really know—decided to take a chance on Giggs’ continuing good humor. I cautiously returned to sit on his lap with my head resting on his chest. He didn’t say anything so I took his silence for consent. Right in front of my eyes were those big, perky tits of his! I couldn’t resist the temptation even though I reckoned there would be hell to pay. I turned my head against his right pec, found his tit with my mouth and sort of gently chewed on it. Giggs allowed this indiscretion of mine as if nothing had happened until I let my better judgment get the best of me. Not content with merely lapping at his tit—which might have been pleasurable for both of us as long as we didn’t have to admit it was happening—I bit down fairly hard on the very tip of his right tit.

He let out a little yelp followed by a curse, grabbed me in an armlock and told me that was enough of my shit. He force-marched me back to my house, up the back steps to the laundry room on the second floor and threw me into a pile of dirty laundry. By the time I had collected my senses and gotten up off the floor he had already taken off his tee shirt and was wiping the perspiration from his brow. His tight, hard body was covered with a thin sheen of sweat from the growing summer heat and the exertion of practically carrying me across the hot gravel of the driveway and up the steep wooden stairs. He stared at me for a moment and then told me to take off my shirt. I didn’t have to be told twice. He looked hot and mean. He found a length of old clothesline rope that my mom used to hang out the sheets in the backyard. She liked the smell of fresh sheets and took the extra effort to put up a clothesline for the sheets even though we had a dryer. She had to put up and take down the clothesline because the only available space for hanging clothes to dry was inside the carport. As a result of the constant putting up and taking down the clothesline the rope was well worn and soft.

Giggs picked up the clothesline and cut off two lengths of rope each about 6 feet long and two more pieces of rope each about 10 feet long. He had used up over 32 feet of my mom’s old, soft clothesline rope! As part of my punishment I was going to have to buy my mom a nice new clothesline to replace the one Giggs was so nonchalantly cutting up. Giggs looked at me again and considered what he was about to do. He told me to take off my jean cutoffs because they would get in the way of his tying me up. Tying me up! Even at my tender age I had had fantasies about being tied up and tortured by handsome captors. The 1950’s was the age of the Roman and Biblical extravaganzas at the movies. I had watched every slave movie of the period several times. When Judah Ben-Hur was delivered over to the Roman galleys and chained to the oars I had a hard on for days. Unwittingly Giggs was about to convert many of my fantasies into reality. No doubt he thought he would be humiliating and punishing me by binding me into a helpless position, roughing me up and leaving me to contemplate the error of my ways. The classic case of the older boy disciplining the younger boy.

Giggs told me to sit down on the floor in the center of the laundry room. The floor was linoleum and was cool to the touch in spite of the summer heat which had built up in the closed-in laundry room. Giggs was perspiring quite freely now and the beautiful planes of his chest were wet and glistening. Just like the slave overseer on a Roman galley! I sat down on the floor with lots of emotions running through my mind all tinged with excitement and sexuality. Giggs took my right wrist and put it on the outside of my right ankle. He held it there none too gently as he wrapped my wrist and ankle with about 4 or 5 turnings of the rope. Then he tightened the rope and tied it off with a square knot. I was already bound fairly tightly and I thought he was done with my right hand. But then he cinched the rope tighter still by wrapping 3 or 4 turnings of the rope perpendicular to the original bindings between my wrist and my ankle. Giggs tied the cinching off with a square knot as well. He tested the results and seemed quite satisfied with his work. Since the inside of my wrist was against my ankle and there was no rope putting direct pressure on the inside of my wrist I was not feeling any nerve or circulation problems. Just a damned tight binding feeling. It felt wonderful.

Giggs performed the same binding on my left wrist to my left ankle. He did it at quite a leisurely pace but he did it quite deliberately as if he had done this type of tying up before. Hunched over with my chest more or less against my knees and my hands tied to my ankles was a somewhat awkward position. I didn’t really understand the full significance of this position until Giggs carried on the next phase of the binding. He carefully tied my right elbow joint to my right knee joint which really meant tying my lower biceps to my lower thigh. These were larger areas to tie and took more rope so he used the 10 foot lengths he had cut. To complete my bondage he tied my left biceps to my right lower thigh. He used the same technique of wrapping the rope around both biceps and thighs four or five times, tightening it, tying it off with a square knot and then cinching it tight. The cinching was much more painful because the skin was looser on my biceps and thighs and kept getting pinched between the ropes. I cried out a few times, but got no sympathy from Giggs who simply continued his dispassionate work. He didn’t seem to care if he hurt me—or maybe he knew that a few pinches and rope burns weren’t exactly serious injuries that were going to maim me for life.

In any case, the result of the biceps to thigh tying and cinching was to force my legs apart. Here I was sitting in the middle of the laundry room, hunched over as if I were trying to tie my shoes, but with my legs splayed wide apart exposing my obviously erect cock inside my white jockey underwear. Like all growing youngsters, my underwear was a couple of sizes too small because I had outgrown them. My mom would buy me new clothes at the beginning of each school year, but at the end of each summer I had to put up with tight fitting clothes. The tight bondage was irresistible. There was no possibility of escape and I could already feel the blood throbbing through the four points of my bondage. There was another point that was also throbbing, but there wasn’t much I could do about it bound as I was. This surrender of my voluntary movement to Giggs’ bondage was indescribably delicious. I had a sense of building euphoria and pent up sexual desire.

Giggs stood up to survey his handiwork. The sweat dripped off his forehead onto his chest and ran down his washboard abs. Looking up at him over the ridges of his chiseled stomach muscles to the underside of his pectorals with their protruding tits to his handsome face was like watching an ideal Greek god come to life. The god told me to try to get out of my bondage. I struggled futilely for about five minutes. Giggs seemed to take some delight in watching my boy muscles struggle against the ropes he had placed on my body. While I did not know it at the time, Giggs was no amateur at tying boys up. He had done it many times with his own age group friends over the course of the last couple of years of high school and was quite expert with ropes and knots. And all the time I had thought he was merely a good boy scout who had carefully read his boy scout tying manual…

Of course, all of Giggs’ experiences with tying up his friends had been just part of the normal growing up process. They had played cards, stayed up late and the loser had been tied up for the night. Giggs was a good cards player and seldom got tied up. But he did a lot of tying up. On more than one occasion the normal teenage circle jerk among friends had turned into something more sinister (or dare I say “fun”) when Giggs had discovered that the helpless guy who was tied up tended to shoot the biggest load after all the “free” players had had an opportunity to play with the tied up boy’s cock for a long while without letting him cum. Giggs had intentionally lost a couple of times just to find out how it felt. And since he usually won, his friends weren’t exactly gentle with him. They teased him to the point of no return for what seemed like hours and never let him cum. When at last they let him cum, they merely left him tightly bound, covered him up with blankets and made him sleep in bondage with cum drying on his body. Giggs decided that he would never intentionally lose another card game. He preferred being the one who did the tying up rather than being the one tied up.

After Giggs had assured himself that I was going nowhere, he opened the back door to leave. I let out a shriek and begged him to stay. He told me to shut up or I would have the whole neighborhood over, poking their collective noses into what the hell was going on here. This sense of risk at being discovered only heightened my sexual arousal. I kept yelling at Giggs to let me go. He came back inside the laundry room, put one of his big hands over my mouth and rooted around in the dirty laundry with the other. After a couple of moments he found what he was looking for—a nice smelly dirty sock. I secretly hoped it was his.

He took his hand off my mouth, used both hands to quickly roll the sock into a large ball and told me to open my mouth. Needless to say I would have done anything this god come to life asked of me. I opened my mouth as wide as I could. The sock wouldn’t quite fit inside and Giggs told me that for such a loudmouth I sure had a small mouth. I guess it was then that I realized that he really wasn’t going to hurt me and that this was really a grown up’s game. Of course, with a slightly rearranged but still whole sock in my mouth I wasn’t exactly in any position to tell Giggs I loved his game. My jaws were stretched wide open and were beginning to ache already.

To make certain that I couldn’t work the sock out of my mouth and start hollering all over again Giggs cut off another length of clothesline rope and wrapped it over the sock and around the back of my head and tied it off tightly. He was careful not to pinch my lips between the gag and the rope and he checked to make sure I was breathing OK. His hands on my face felt like caresses to me even though he was probably just being careful. Having a dead kid on his hands obviously wasn’t part of the game.

To make certain that the gag was working effectively Giggs reached under my right armpit with his right hand, fumbled around looking for my tit and finally grasped my right tit firmly between his thumb and index finger. At first he just worked my tit gently. But then he gradually built up the pressure. Within a minute or two of this treatment he was squeezing the hell out of my not so virgin tits. I had already experimented on my own with increasingly painful attacks on my tits, but somehow I was always much gentler with them myself than Giggs who was by now painfully manhandling my right tit which felt as if it were being ripped off my chest. Finally he gave it one last vicious twist and I squealed through my gag as best I could. I guess he thought the gag worked because he got up and walked around in front of me. I was as embarrassed as heck because with all the titwork my cock had been drooling pre-cum for the last several minutes and a wet patch showed quite clearly through my frequently washed and worn jockey shorts.

Giggs’ obvious notice of my blatantly sexual arousal seemed to trigger his own concomitant physical reaction. The front of his own button fly Levis revealed a hitherto unobserved bulge. In addition, it seemed Giggs was not wearing any underwear. Some errant crotch hairs were quite clearly visible between the buttons of his Levis. He noticed my eyes and simply told me matter of factly

“Yeah, it was too hot to wear underwear today.”

I was in no position to reply to him. During the whole tit workout I had been vigorously chewing on the sock in my mouth and had succeeded in reducing it to a mass of soggy, wet cotton in my mouth. I couldn’t seem to stop the flow of saliva. It was as if my saliva glands were trying to digest the gag. I had to involuntarily swallow quite frequently to keep from choking on my own spit. Of course, this spit was now inextricably mixed with the foot sweat and leather shoe lining aroma of the dirty sock in my mouth. Giggs had selected a particularly ripe dirty sock which he had used with his own new leather work boots. So indirectly I got my first taste of leather.

I was still terrified that Giggs was going to leave me alone to suffer in silence by myself. Whatever happened I wanted him to be near me. I guess he was just experienced enough to know better than to leave a young boy tied and gagged alone. As he leaned against the laundry room wall in front of me he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. I had never seen him smoke before. In fact, I had never even been able to smell tobacco smoke on his body before. I knew that his father smoked and that a number of his friends smoked. I had seen them standing on the other side of the railroad tracks just beyond the school property boundary line ostentatiously smoking during the lunch hour breaks during the school year.

It was funny. Both my parents smoked and I hated the smell of tobacco smoke. I had never tried it myself even when quite a number of my own age group friends were experimenting with smoking. I regarded it as a vulgar, dirty habit and tried to avoid being anywhere where people were smoking. And yet the sight of a handsome teenage boy sucking on a cigarette with wisps of gray tobacco smoke swirling around his head never failed to give me a hard on. Punk kids who believed that smoking made them mature adults disgusted me. Unless the punk was a hard muscled kid in which case smoking—and the rebellious attitude which it indicated—made him an object of sexual desire. I guess most fetishes are irrational…

Giggs pulled out an enormous Zippo lighter, lit his cigarette and dragged deeply on it. I thought I would shoot my wad. Here was a beautifully muscled kid with his pecs rippling and reflecting the moisture on his skin in the filtered sunlight of the back porch smoking just for me. He told me flatly

“I’m going to have to punish you for biting my nipple while my mom was at home. I guess I’m going to have to toast those sensitive tits of yours.”

I thought he meant that he was going to burn my titties with the glowing tip of his cigarette. Instead he went to the hardware storage cabinet next to the washing machine and rifled through it searching for a couple of items he knew would be there. He found the two heavy brass sprinkler heads that my mom used in the garden. One was a standard spray nozzle about 4 inches long and the other was a so-called fog nozzle which was very heavy brass and had three separate small spray heads which misted water over delicate plants. I was later to learn the terms “heat sink” in my physics class. Basically, a heat sink is any object which can absorb and retransmit energy in the form of heat. In real terms this meant that if Giggs could heat these two nozzles to a fairly high temperature they would retain the heat which he could then use to “toast my tits.” But then I was in a state of high excitement.

What he in fact did was to take a black metal ashtray which would absorb a lot of solar heat because it was black, place it directly in the sun at the top of the back porch and put the brass nozzles on top of the metal ashtray. As he continued to draw on his cigarette and exhale dense clouds of blue gray smoke he told me

“I reckon that these nozzles ought to be hot enough to teach you a good lesson in about twenty minutes. In the meantime I think those titties of yours could use some more work.”
He put his cigarette firmly in his sexy mouth, sat down directly behind me, pulled me back into the Y of his crotch, put his arms around my chest, found my tits with his strong fingers and began to roughly squeeze and massage my tits. I squirmed and twisted and hollered as best I could, but I was essentially helpless against his attack. In any case, his firm young body was tight against my back, his chin was on my shoulder and his arms held me tightly as his hands worked my tits. He was so close to me that I could smell the burning end of his cigarette as well as the smoke which he exhaled from his lungs from time to time.

In spite of the pain—or perhaps because of it—I thought I had died and gone to heaven. My helplessness and his usage of me was overwhelming all my senses. I wanted to escape. I wanted to stay with him forever. My head was reeling from the unaccustomed experience.

After what seemed like both an eternity and no time at all, he got up and went to the back bathroom. I heard him taking a piss as his urine splashed into the toilet. Somehow I felt cheated that his prick was doing something without me. What a crazy sensation. Here this older boy was doing nasty, dirty things to me and suddenly I wanted to be his cock slave. When Giggs returned his dick was hanging out through his button fly. He hadn’t bothered to do up all the buttons and his cock was dangling there in full view. I guess he could see that I liked what I saw because he made no effort to conceal his manhood. He worked it a little in front of me and I could see it getting stiffer. After a couple of moments he said to me

“Well, I guess those nozzles are plenty hot enough to teach you a lesson now”

He looked me directly and asked me

“Before we start with your tits do you want to see what other positions we can have with this same bondage?”

I nodded my head as emphatically as I could under the circumstances. He smiled softly at me, went behind my back, lifted me up by the armpits and pushed me forward onto my head and shoulders. Most of my weight was supported by the front of my shoulders and my knees with my butt up in the air. Giggs pulled down my underwear, stroked my butt and gave me a couple of friendly slaps with his big hands. I rapidly understood what a versatile bondage situation this wrist to ankle and elbows to knees was. Giggs stroked my butthole and it didn’t take me long to figure out that he could put his finger (or any other appendage) he wanted up my butt and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He contented himself with merely rubbing my butt with his dick. Then he stood up, went around to my head which was wedged in the dirty laundry he had used to cushion my shoulders, sat down and lifted up my head and showed me his cock close up. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. He rubbed his cock over my lips and the gag and sort of face fucked me without any penetration. Then he stood up and pulled his 2 inch wide leather work belt from his waist and told me

“Got to prepare you for your toasting. Think I’m going to warm your butt a little.”

He proceeded to beat my little butt with his belt. I had never been beaten before and my butt was as sensitive as my tits. He seemed to sense this and he went pretty gently for the first few strokes. After a while he increased the intensity of the strokes. I could feel his strong arm coming right through the leather into my butt. The strokes sounded like claps of thunder as they hit my butt. The combination of the sound and the thud going through my body seemed to increase the reactions of my eardrums. I suppose in all I got about 50 strokes of his belt that first time.

I was crying and my butt was on fire. Tears rolled down my cheeks into the dirty laundry. The game was getting a little heavy for me now and I had nearly lost my erection. He played with my red butt for a few minutes, spitting on it and then slapping it hard with the flat of his hand. The spit made the slaps much worse. I was certain I would be wearing his handprint for quite some time. He unceremoniously pulled back on my hips and banged my butt back down on the floor. He had not bothered to pull up my shorts and my hot bare butt was cooled by the floor.

He put on some garden gloves, went outside, retrieved the heated brass nozzles and quickly returned indoors before the nozzles began to cool. He sat down behind me again, reached around my body and held one nozzle against each tit as firmly as he could. I jerked in my bonds, screamed into my gag and felt as if my tits were on fire. In fact, the brass could not be heated in the sun to more than about 105 degrees and I would not even have blisters on my tits to show for my torture. But I felt that they were being burned off my chest. Giggs simply said to me

“Bet that feels good, don’t it?”

As the nozzles cooled he removed them from my tits and put them back in the cabinet. He took off the gloves and pulled out a can of “bag balm” which my mom used on the udders of our milk cows. Big balm is a combination of Vaseline, lanolin and some kind of fungicide to heal udders sore from the milking machines. He opened the can, put a large gob of grease on each index finger and sat down behind me again. He grabbed a nipple with each hand and very roughly massaged the grease on my tits. This massage was a combination of agony and ecstasy. I think it was the first time I recognized the fine line between pain and pleasure. It hurt like hell when he pinched my burned tits but it felt wonderful when he could not get a firm grip owing to the grease and my tits slipped through his rough fingers.

Again and again he attacked my tits. At some point I came. He obviously noticed when my body went stiff and I climaxed because he let go of me, got up and wiped his greasy hands on my tee shirt. He put on his own shirt, reached down and untied the cinching on each of my four bondage points, and unwrapped the rope around my right wrist and ankle. Then he said to me

“You can probably work yourself free from the rest of the ropes by yourself. You’d better hurry because your mom will be home in a couple of hours and you wouldn’t want her to find you like this would you?”

He undid the rope around my mouth, fished out the dirty sock and left me sitting on my bare butt on the back porch.

Well, I did finally manage to extricate myself from the remaining ropes, put my clothes back on and greet my mom when she returned from work. If she noticed the impressions the ropes had left on my wrists and ankles she said nothing. What she did say shocked me.

“Have you been smoking? You smell like a stale ashtray. I thought you disliked cigarettes.”

I guess you think I learned my lesson that afternoon about teasing Giggs too much. Would it surprise you to learn that the very next week, after all the evidence of the previous session had disappeared from my body, I bit Giggs on the other tit while one of his friends was visiting with him. But then that is another story.

EDITOR’S NOTE. Some points in this writer’s story left me wondering, and I wrote him for clarifications. Here are his replies to my questions.

Q. How did you learn about Giggs and the poker games he played with his high school buddies?

A. I learned about the poker games and Giggs’ previous experience in roping guys the Fall of my freshman year in high school — just after the events described in my story took place. It seems that one of the seniors was on the same high school football team with Giggs (Giggs having graduated the year before I entered high school) and had played poker with Giggs and a few team mates. This senior seemed to take great pride in bragging about his ability to get out of the various rope bondage positions except for the times Giggs tied him down. Of course, this was all locker room braggadocio so nobody took much notice and just thought the senior was running off at the mouth. I knew the truth of his assertions by personal experience.

Q. How could you know that the smelly sock he stuffed in your mouth actually had been on Giggs’ foot and worn in his workboots?

A. It was really a matter of logical elimination. His mother did the family laundry once a week at our place and the bundle was left on the back porch where he tied me up. The sock he used was white with tan stains where his sweat had caused the brown leather of his work boots to bleed dye into the cotton socks. His father was constantly recuperating from a bad back so it wasn’t likely that he was sweating in his boots. His brother was getting ready to go into the army and wasn’t working. So Giggs was the only remaining option and he was working that summer at odd construction jobs. He also took quite deliberate delight in making certain that I was watching him as he selected the smelliest old sock he could find. No doubt he didn’t know I took the same delight. Or maybe he did!

Comments

[Bondagebuddy]

Great story and excellent memory recall. I was hard reading through it all. The youngster was very lucky to be put through such a bondage experience at such an early age, and by such a good-looking young man, experienced in bondage himself. This type of experience is exactly what draws one to a lifetime love of bondage sessions.

Bondagebuddy