THE SHORTCUT - M/MM - Ryan's message (new part added October 18)

[Htdgagfreak85]

[/i][/i]“Illusion is to the soul what food is to the body.” — Virginia Woolf

I wasn’t going to publish this.
I’ve received strange messages before—usually compliments, sometimes requests—but never anything like this.
It came from an untraceable email. No subject line. No greeting. Just a message titled:
"He read your stories. And then he made me live one."
The body of the email was a confession. Or maybe a warning. A story, if you want to call it that. I haven’t changed much—just corrected the punctuation, line breaks, a few things to make it readable.
But the words?
They’re his.
He says it happened last month.
That he’s a college athlete, early twenties, a football player with a bit too much attitude and not enough foresight.
Strong legs. Solid build. Short dark hair, tanned skin, a little too confident for his own good.
And according to him, everything that happened started because someone read my stories. Someone who wanted revenge. Who turned fantasy into punishment.
This is what he sent me:

You ever read something that feels like it was written just for you? Like it crawled inside your brain and spilled your secrets back at you?
That’s what happened to me last month.
I’m in my early twenties, still in college, still trying to make sense of who I am and what I want. And then this… thing happened. I’ve only told one person—well, not told exactly. I sent it to you.
Because you’re the guy who writes those stories.
Because maybe, just maybe, someone else out there is reading them too.
And taking notes.
They say every man has a moment that breaks him.
A line he doesn’t come back from.
Mine still burns behind my eyes whenever I hear duct tape rip or feel cold air hit bare skin.
I never thought I’d be writing something like this.
I always thought it was fantasy. Just kink.
Something to get off to in private and forget about in the morning.
But this wasn’t fantasy.
This was real.
And it started last April, just after training.
I was walking home, still in full football kit—cleats clacking on the pavement, jersey soaked with sweat. I’d just finished drills. My thighs were sore, my shoulders stiff, my head already on dinner.
I took my usual shortcut—behind the construction yard, past the old fencing warehouse.
That’s when I heard the screech of tires.
Doors slammed.
I turned just as two men in black rushed me. Masks. Gloves. Fast.
One grabbed my arm. The other went low, taking out my legs.
I hit the pavement hard.
“Don’t fight,” one of them snapped. “You’re gonna end up tied either way.”
I did fight. Out of instinct.
But it didn’t matter.
One of them pinned me down, yanked my arms in front of me, and zip-tied my wrists. The other tied my ankles in seconds.
Then came the gag—cloth jammed in my mouth, sealed in tight with layers of industrial tape. Pressed down hard.
“MMMPHH! NNMMMPHH!”
They lifted me. Carried me. Tossed me into the back of a van.
The inside was metal. Hooks everywhere. I didn’t have time to process it.
They rolled me onto my side. Pulled my tied hands above my head and zip-tied them to a hook on the floor. Then stretched my legs and zip-tied my ankles to another hook.
Not spread. Just tight. Uncomfortable. Helpless.
I lay there, bound, gagged, sweating in my gear. Confused. Scared. Already leaking adrenaline.
And something more.
I was hard.
And I hated it.
They said nothing to me.
Eventually one of them chuckled from the front seat.
“He said full kit. No stripping.”
“Wants to do that part himself.”
They laughed like it was routine. Like I wasn’t even a person.
We drove a long time.
Then stopped. Gravel. Trees.
The doors opened. Cold air hit me.
They cut the ankle tie and dragged me out. I stumbled on weak legs, gagged and zip-tied. I was still in my gear—jersey, shorts, socks, cleats.
They marched me inside.
Stone floors. Dim lighting. A tall wooden chair waited in the middle of the room.
They shoved me toward it.
I struggled. Nothing worked.
They forced me down. Cut the zip ties. Retied me with rope.
My wrists went behind the chair. Ankles to the legs. Chest to the backrest. A leather strap across my thighs. Another across my chest.
And then… the final piece.
A thick strap pulled across my forehead, locking me into place.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
I was still gagged. Still hard.
Still freaking out.
Then I heard him.
“Well… Dylan. It’s been a while.”
That name. That voice.
My blood went cold.
He stepped into view. Neat vest. Slacks. Calm face. Glasses.
Mr. Hale.
My old English teacher.
The one we got fired.
The one we humiliated.
“Mmmmphhh! MMMPHH!!”
I screamed into the gag.
He just looked me over, completely unfazed.
“I see you’ve kept in shape,” he said. “But not much has changed. Still cocky. Still undisciplined.”
Then he looked down at my lap.
At the way I was tenting my briefs.
“Still pathetic.”
I hated that I was hard.
But I couldn’t stop it.
I’d always known I was into this stuff—bondage, control. I’d read stories online. Watched videos. Even imagined being tied up.
But this wasn’t a story. This wasn’t a video.
This was real.
And I was tied to a chair, gagged, helpless, and getting off in front of the man I helped destroy.
The door opened.
The two masked men dragged someone else in.
Naked.
Sweaty.
Bound.
Matt.
Another guy from my class. The one who filmed the prank. The worst of us.
They dropped him on the floor in front of me—hogtied, gagged, face pale, body trembling.
His ass was welted. Red. Raw. Marked.
When he saw me, his whole body jolted.
His eyes filled with fear and shame.
“Mmmmmmhh!!”
I whimpered in response.
Matt was already broken.
And I was next.
Hale crouched beside him.
“This one didn’t learn. So I’m going to correct that tonight. Not with the cane. With something… more intimate.”
Matt screamed behind the gag. His whole body convulsed.
Then he pissed himself.
Right there. On the floor.
The puddle spread around him.
One of the men chuckled.
“Guess someone’s not looking forward to part two.”
They turned to me.
“This one’s still hard,” said the other. “Guy’s leaking again.”
They stepped closer.
“Damn, he’s about to cover himself. Look at that twitch.”
I shut my eyes.
I hated it.
But my cock was rock hard. Dripping. My thighs trembled.
Then came the order.
“Untie him.”
They obeyed.
“Now strip him naked. No need for that kit anymore.”
One of them was hesitant. “But you specifically asked…”
“I know what I asked, and now I want him naked.”
They cut the waistband, and my underwear just slipped, exposing my throbbing erection. No way to hide it anymore.
There was laughter—flat, professional, not even mean, just functional. My humiliation was an ordinary checkpoint to them, probably the best part of their day. They whittled away the jersey, the socks, the underwear, piling every piece like evidence. My cock was obscene in the cold: purple-headed, bobbing, almost angry. There was a moment when one of the men paused, just looking at it. “Dude’s a fuckin’ geyser,” he marveled, and then flicked it with a finger, hard enough to sting but not enough to be a gesture of cruelty—just an experiment, to see what I’d do.
I let out a muffled scream. I couldn’t help it. My body was on fire, my head swamped with shame.
“Look at that,” the other masked man said, “the boy’s having the time of his life.”
“Now get him ready for the next phase.”
My arms were pulled behind me. Ankles bent up. Hogtied.
I’d never really understood what that meant, hogtied, until the moment the second loop of rope bit into my wrist and my heels slammed together over the soft of my ass. The pressure was brutal, nothing like the staged stuff in porny clips online. My arms stopped being arms and became numb, rubber tubes packed with agony; my shoulders shrieked, my thighs cramped, my calves flexed uselessly with every twitch. My whole body was bent into an arc, spine one long electric cable, every muscle trembling with the effort to move even a fraction and finding itself locked, locked, locked. The ropes dug in—thick nylon or something, not the velvety red you see in photos. They carved little half-moons into my skin, already burning with sweat and humiliation.
My cock, which should have wilted in all this, instead pulsed harder. Maybe it was the helplessness, maybe the panic, maybe just the freak part of me I’d never admitted to anyone. I prayed for it to go down but every second I was exposed, every pass of cold air or brush of hand or taunt, it throbbed with even more sick power. The worst part was the acknowledgment: everyone saw, noted, and judged, and I was stuck in the hell of my own twisted arousal.
Hale circled me like I was a science demonstration. He crouched so our eyes could lock, his face close and intent. “I’ve thought a lot about justice,” he said, voice low. “About fairness. You boys don’t understand those words. So tonight, I’m going to teach them to you in the language you actually speak.”
Then they hauled me like a carcass, slamming me down across Hale’s lap. My cock throbbed against his thigh, my ass high and vulnerable, face burning with humiliation. He glanced down, lip curling at the wet stain spreading onto his slacks. Precum. Oozing, betraying my body's sickening response.
“Repulsive,” he sneered.
Then he raised his hand. And the blows began.
Brutal. Relentless. Savage.
I screamed into the gag, a muffled, animalistic cry. “MMMMMPPPPHHHH!!!” Still hard. Still leaking. Still writhing in a torment of pleasure and pain. The spanking didn’t cease. Hale was a machine, his hand a piston, striking again and again, each blow echoing through my body like a gunshot. He was silent, his face a mask of cold precision. Not cruel. Not entertained. Just merciless.
Each slap sent a shockwave through me. My cock ground against his slacks, pulsing, throbbing, dripping. I was still gagged. Still hogtied. Still a prisoner in my own flesh.
“Mmmmphh! Mmmmfff!!” I moaned, desperate to escape, but there was no sanctuary. I was helpless. Completely at his mercy. And it petrified me.
But what horrified me more? That within the agony, the degradation, the rope cutting into my skin, I was still grotesquely hard. Still leaking. Still ablaze with twisted desire.
Finally, he stopped. My ass was an inferno, throbbing and raw. He held me there, his breath steady, not touching, just letting me burn in my own shame.
Then he spoke, voice low and final, like a judge passing sentence. “Lay him next to the other one.”
The masked men returned, silent and efficient. They hauled me up, naked, bound, dripping with sweat, and dumped me beside Matt. Our shoulders touched. We didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But I felt him. His body convulsing. Not from cold. From primal fear. From soul-crushing shame. From bone-deep exhaustion.
I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. Our eyes met, his wide and glassy. And in that moment, we understood each other. Completely. Two boys. Bound. Beaten. Broken in ways we couldn’t yet comprehend.
Hale stalked to the door. “Maybe now you’ll both listen,” he growled, flipping off the light. The door slammed shut, sealing us in darkness.
We lay there, two pathetic figures on the cold stone floor. Breathing. Suffering. Alone.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. The ropes were too tight, my wrists screaming, shoulders burning. My cock had finally retreated, but shame pulsed through every fiber of my being. I twisted, fighting the knots. The rope sliced into my skin, but nothing gave. I grunted, struggled, muscles cramping, toes numbing. The hogtie was unyielding, brutal.
“Mmmphh...”
Matt stirred beside me, a slow, defeated shake of his head. Don’t bother, he seemed to say. The ropes won’t give.
And they didn’t. I surrendered, cheek pressed against the cold floor, every breath a capitulation. Trapped. Defeated. Lost in the dark.
Then I heard the footsteps. Sharp. Measured. And a voice that chilled me.
"Still here?"
The door creaked open. Light spilled in.
Hale.
"Thought by now you might have come to your senses. Or at least crawled away in shame. But no. Here you are. Still next to each other. Still... enjoying each other’s company, I see."
He stepped into view. His eyes went straight to our groins.
"Filthy scum. Both of you."
He walked between us, the leather soles of his shoes echoing.
"Don’t worry. We’ll take care of those throbbing cocks soon enough. But I have something special for you."
He clapped once. Footsteps approached.
The door opened wider. And then we saw them.
The chairs. Two of them. Metal. Padded only where necessary. Each with a seat that had a gaping hole in the center. A bucket placed beneath. Thick leather straps on the armrests, across the chest, over the thighs. And something worse—a head brace, a kind of padded yoke with adjustable clamps, already smeared with sweat from previous use.
Hale smiled.
"Custom-made. Inspired by something I read once. Maybe you’ve heard of it. A story involving a very strict chair, a very disobedient boy, and a very unfortunate need for relief."
My heart pounded. Matt let out a muffled sob.
We both knew we weren’t going to walk out of this. Not anytime soon.
And whatever dignity we had left—was about to be stripped away completely.
Matt went first.
They untied his hogtie slowly, methodically, as if savoring his helplessness. He was too weak to resist, but still whimpered into the gag, feet twitching when they grabbed his ankles. Hale gave a single nod. The chair was tilted slightly backward, and Matt was lowered into it like a specimen on display.
His arms were pulled behind the chair’s backrest and locked into thick leather cuffs. Ankles bound tight to the lower rungs. Thighs pressed flat against the open-edged seat. His back was strapped tight. A wide belt pinned his chest. Then the worst part—his neck.
A curved leather brace slid around his throat and clicked into place, holding his head still against the padded headrest. Eyes wide. Gag still soaked. No movement possible.
Then the tilt.
With a loud, mechanical clunk, the chair shifted backward—until his torso was nearly horizontal. Feet now stuck out forward, soles completely exposed. Buttocks slightly raised by the curvature of the seat’s opening.
Matt moaned, horrified.
Then it was my turn.
I didn’t go quietly.
They cut my hogtie, yanked me to my feet, and shoved me back into the other chair. I thrashed. Kicked. Tried to turn.
“Still some fight in this one,” one of the men grunted.
Hale only smiled.
“Let him fight. The straps don’t care.”
They didn’t.
Soon, I was locked down just like Matt. My legs trembling. My cock still embarrassingly hard. The leather bit into my skin. My jaw ached from the gag. The moment they tilted me back, I felt everything shift. Blood in my head. My soles pointing forward. My ass perfectly framed by the gap in the seat.
I whimpered through the gag.
Hale stepped between us. Looked from one chair to the other.
“You two make quite the picture. The perfect duo of disgrace.”
He walked behind Matt, ran a finger slowly across the arch of his foot. Matt jolted.
Then he stepped beside me. Pressed his palm gently against my thigh.
“Still leaking,” he said softly. “Still not sure if this is punishment or reward?”
I moaned. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t hide.
Then he turned to both of us.
“We’ll deal with those twitching cocks later.”
“A few tweaks on the design you may recall from a certain online story. The tilting wasn’t part of the original blueprint, but I made some modifications. To allow easier access to certain… areas.”
He smiled.
“I hope you like them. They’ll be your world for a while.”
And then he left.
Lights dimmed.
The only sound left was our breath—fast, shallow, trapped in leather.
And the drip of shame between my legs.
The straps dug into my skin with every breath. My chest couldn’t rise fully, and the tilt of the chair had blood rushing to my head. I could feel the sweat cooling along my spine, collecting in the hollows of my hips, dripping between my thighs.
Beside me, Matt whimpered into his gag.
MMMPPPHHHH
I turned my eyes toward him as far as the head brace allowed. His chair was angled the same—almost flat, soles pointed forward, arms stretched behind, chest strapped tight, neck locked in place. His feet… they twitched slightly. Like they knew what was coming.
Then came the sound.
A slow, deliberate tapping on tile. Leather soles.
Hale returned.
His expression was calm. As if he’d just stepped out of a lecture hall.
“Correction,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That’s what this is.”
He walked to the foot of Matt’s chair. I couldn’t see what he picked up, but I heard it—a thin swish of air. Something flexible. Cane. Strap. I don’t know.
Matt’s whole body tensed. His toes curled.
MMMPPPHHHH
The first strike was sharp. Precise. Not theatrical—there was no windup, no showmanship. Just an efficient snap of pain, landing square across the soles of his feet.
Matt screamed into the gag.
NNMMMPPPPHHH
I flinched.
Another. And another.
Five, six, seven strikes. Each one spaced just far enough apart to make you dread the next. Matt’s body shook. His heels strained against the restraints. His chest heaved under the leather strap.
Then Hale moved toward me.
My mouth dried. I tried to brace myself, but there was nowhere to go. Nothing to tense against. I was just… open.
The first lash landed on the arch of my foot.
White heat.
My leg jerked involuntarily, but the straps held me in place.
“GGHHNNMMMPHH!”
A second lash, higher. Then another. Each one carving fire into my soles. I tried not to make noise. I tried to swallow it. But I moaned. Loud. Guttural.
By the fourth, I was making noises that didn’t sound human. Choked-off, half-garbled animal sounds. The pain built not just on itself—it radiated, multiplied, became the only thing there was.
“MMMHHHH—GGHHNNMMMPPHHH!”
“Still hard,” Hale said with disapproval, brushing his fingers along my thigh.
I couldn’t respond. Couldn’t hide. The pain hadn’t dulled the arousal—it had somehow sharpened it.
He tilted both chairs back upright with a clank of metal gears.
I felt it immediately—my head swimming, the shift in gravity as the chair locked into place. I was now upright, but trapped just the same.
Then I saw it.
Matt’s chair was moved right in front of me.
So close our feet touched.
So close I could feel his breath, shallow and wet, on my face.
His eyes flickered up to meet mine. They were glassy. Humiliated. But not angry. Just broken.
“Mmmppphhh…”
And then the command came, harsh and unyielding. “Now for the edging,” Hale barked at the two masked figures. They hesitated, but Hale's insistence was a vice. “You know what to do, right?” They nodded, their eyes cold behind the masks. Panic surged through me, raw and uncontrolled. I knew what that word meant. I'd seen it done in porn clips, but this was real. Too real.
The gloved hand was suddenly there—stroking, deliberate, agonizingly slow. My body betrayed me, responding instantly. I fought it, teeth grinding into the gag, willing myself to resist.
“NNNGGHH-MMMPPHHH!”
But the pressure... the relentless buildup... the cruel denial... it was overwhelming.
They edged us mercilessly. One masked figure for each of us, hands working in a brutal, synchronized rhythm, pausing just before the edge, leaving us to hang there in silent, excruciating torment. Matt's head thrashed against the brace, his grunts muffled, desperate.
“NNNNGH! MMMPHH!”
I tried to think of anything else. Anything. But all I could feel was the pressure, the friction, the burning shame. And the proximity. We were inches apart. When I finally came—hard, convulsing, against my will—it landed on him. Across his thigh, his stomach.
He came too, his moan hitting me like a gut punch. The way Matt’s body jerked at the finish shocked me. Not just the spasms—violent, almost convulsive—but the sheer force of what came out. Even with my own body locked in its own shameful climax, I saw the first arc of his orgasm: a thick, white geyser, launching up and out, splattering hot against my bare stomach. The impact was so sudden I almost yelped. It landed across my navel, then higher, spatters streaking my chest and even my chin, sticky and wet and impossibly hot. Every pulse was punctuated by a raw animal groan, muffled behind the gag and the clamp on his neck.
For a moment it was silent—just the echo of our release in the cold, stone room, and the obscene slick sound of fluids leaking down skin and metal. Then, without hesitation, the hands resumed. Rougher now. Indifferent to our spasms, our pleading muscle-twitches. They stroked us again, as if nothing had happened. As if the last eruption had been a test run, a calibration for the punishment that was to follow.
It was a different kind of hurt. A raw, shrieking hypersensitivity. The nerves in my cock screamed at every gloved touch, even as my balls ached and my body shuddered with the aftershocks of forced orgasm. They didn’t care. They didn’t even slow down. The masked figure at my side alternated between full-fisted strokes and cruel, pinching tugs along the rim of the head, drawing out every last drop and then wringing a new, sick pulse of arousal from some hopeless gland deep inside me. It was like running a wire brush over an open wound—an agony that circled back on itself, so pure it threatened to knock me out. I heard myself sobbing, a deep, wet sound, desperate and pre-verbal. If the gag hadn’t been in I’d have howled.
Every stroke on Matt got a sharp, high whimper. He was shaking, eyes on me and then squeezed shut, the sinews in his thighs standing out like ropes.
He looked thinner now, even though I knew his frame was broader than mine. The sweat glued his hair to his skin. The next spurt was smaller, but the sound it dragged out of him was worse—like he was being hollowed out from the inside.
Hale watched as if grading an oral report. He circled, hands folded, making small notes on a white notepad. Occasionally he’d pause to lean in and check the state of our skin, the color of our cocks, or the shuddering of our thighs. It was all data to him. A process.
One of the masked operatives checked his watch, then met Hale’s eyes: “He’s gonna pass out, boss.” Matt had gone from sobbing to a weird, high whistle—a sound with no voice left in it, only air and panic. His legs spasmed and then just… stopped. Even his toes gave up. Hale nodded, as if this was a technical hiccup. He approached, took Matt’s chin in his hand, and examined him. Matt’s eyelids fluttered. His face was the sick gray of a spent match. Hale peeled down the gag a little, checked his breathing, then lifted a finger to the masked men: “Pause. Let him recover, or he’ll never learn.” The hands left Matt’s body. He slumped in the chair, limbs twitching, chest shallow and fast. Wetness pooled under him, mixed with sweat and something darker. I stared, waiting for the next horror. “You, on the other hand,” Hale said, turning on me, “are just getting started.”
The masked man had a thick grip, rubber gloves just rough enough to catch every vein. He didn’t stroke fast. The rhythm was slow, unyielding, like a machine designed for torture instead of pleasure. No matter how I tried to twist away, the head clamp and the web of leather kept me a human circuit, body and brain crossing and shorting out. Wet sounds echoed off stone. Every time the pressure peaked, he’d throttle down, pinching the base and waiting for the tremor to pass — then start again.
It was a cycle with no end. I lost track of time, of my own face, of the boundaries between what I wanted and what I could survive. I only knew the next spasm, the next humiliating squirt, the next freezing second I was left there, empty, then refilled by the suffocating grip around my cock, the heat of forced arousal, the knowledge that it was never going to be enough for him.
By the third time, I was hallucinating. Not in pictures, but in the sense of my own self. I was nothing but a body, slick with sweat and tears and filth, my skin crawling, my head slumped forward in the clamp. I barely heard the noises coming out of me, didn’t recognize the way my body jerked and twisted, the huge, involuntary lurch of my hips as the masked man once again ignored the aftershocks and milked a fourth, impossible spurt from my body. My vision blurred and I screamed, soundless, into the air.
I couldn’t stop it. It kept going, kept wracking my stomach and my chest with convulsions. My balls ached with a pain so bright it was pure white, stripped of meaning. The air thickened around me, and every cell in my skin begged for mercy. I tried to black out, but the head brace wouldn’t let me slump, wouldn’t let my mind drift away. I was forced to witness everything—every drip, every twitch, every second that followed.
Hale stepped in front of me and waited for the next spurt, as if he could see it building inside me. I felt it—felt the heat, the inevitability—and then it was out, splitting the air, a hot stripe across my own chest and neck. It didn’t even feel like pleasure. It felt like dying, over and over.
Hale stood between us and checked a timer on his phone, his face perfectly still. “That’s enough for now” He motioned to the masked men, and they stepped back at once—leaving me, body shuddering, head lolling in the brace. The only movement was my own trembling, and the slow, sticky trails of everything that had been wrung out of us.
Our breath was ragged, the room reeking of sweat, leather, and something vile. They didn't clean us. They didn't even speak. They just left us there. Spent. Sticky. Bare. Breathing each other’s air,
And then, slowly… the other need came.
I tried to hold it.
Mmmph…”
Tried not to think about it.
But I couldn’t ask for release. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but feel it come.
Warm. Humiliating. Unstoppable.
I pissed.
And so did Matt.
The buckets below us caught it all—but not the shame. That stayed, suspended between us in the space we couldn’t escape. The stench of urine hung in the air. So close I could feel the heat of it radiating from his body.
We didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
Just sat there.
“Mmmpphhh…”
Silenced. Used. Exposed.
Two boys with nowhere to look but each other.
And nowhere left to hide.
Morning came in silence, save for the distant echo of a door opening and the click of shoes on tile.
Hale entered like he always had: unhurried, composed, his face unreadable. Matt stirred first, a faint whimper caught behind his gag. I blinked against the light, dry-eyed, every muscle aching in its bonds.
Hale stopped in front of us. He looked at Matt, then at me. Something like satisfaction flickered across his expression.
"I believe," he said softly, "the score is even now."
His voice had that clinical chill again, the tone of someone who thought this was a calculation. A balancing act.
"You're free, in a sense. Not unmarked, of course. But no longer in my care."
He loosened the ropes tying our hands, and put a heavy duty scissors on our laps.
"You should be able to get free in a few hours. I’ve loosened the knots enough. Two young studs like you will figure out a way to escape, sooner or later. Good luck."
MMMPPPHHHH
He turned to gather a few items from a nearby cart. As he did, he spoke casually, almost as if talking to himself.
"It’s strange, really. I should have sent a thank-you to the writer who first described these chairs. Every curve, every cruel little feature... he brought them to life in fiction before I ever built them."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Funny how a good story can inspire real engineering."
I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to understand. But part of me did.
"I used to roleplay on a small platform—nothing special. There was this one thread. The professor. The student. The chair. That script stayed with me for days."
He let the silence hang, then added:
"Maybe I’ll send that writer a sample of the footage. Just to show how well his vision holds up in practice."
He smiled faintly, then turned and walked out.

The message came late.
Subject line:
“You’ll want to see this.”
It was from a name I couldn’t forget now.
Dylan.
I don’t know what I expected when I opened Dylan’s message.
If you’re reading this, it began, it means I finally gathered the nerve to write you. Or maybe I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

There was no greeting. No apology. Just a tone — half-accusation, half-confession. His words spilled out, sharp, uneven. I could picture him typing with trembling fingers, unsure whether he wanted me to understand or to suffer.

I know what you did. Not directly, not with your hands. But with your stories. With that fucking chair. The one from The Captive Game. You know the one. The headrest, the seat with the hole, the straps around the thighs. You described it like you’d seen it. Lived it. And someone — someone actually made it.
He told us.
He said you played the professor. That he played the student. Obedientboy92, he called himself. Said you were so vivid, so methodical, that he didn’t need to invent a thing. Just… follow your blueprint.

There was a pause, then more.

It took hours for me and Matt to get free. We struggled like crazy, the desperation mounting with each failed attempt. We were about to give up, our spirits waning as the sun began to dip in the sky. But it was late afternoon when Matt finally managed to break free. With determination, he opened all the straps that held him to that fucking chair. Then, he cut the ropes tying my wrists and set me free.
We had to help each other to remove the layers of tape that sealed our gags, our breaths coming in ragged gasps as they tasted freedom once more
I wish I could say I hated you. But the truth is worse. I get hard thinking about it. Still. Even now.

At the bottom of the message, there was a short line:

He sent me these. I thought maybe you should see them too. Just so you know this isn’t fiction.

Attached: three still images.

I hesitated. Then clicked.

They weren’t staged. Not posed. The lighting was harsh. The restraints—real. And the expressions? They weren’t acting.
Dylan. Matt.
The chairs.
Everything I’d imagined — made real.
I should’ve looked away.
I didn’t.

Days passed. I couldn’t sleep. I kept returning to the message. To the images.

Then — a new notification.

A private message, on a platform I hadn’t used in months.

From: obedientboy92
Subject: Thought you’d appreciate this.
Attachment: VID_4932.mp4

No other text.

I should have closed the window.

Instead, I pressed play.

The footage stuttered at first, as if the file were resisting being seen. Then it resolved: high resolution, fixed-angle. Two chairs. Two bodies. Motionless at first. Then a twitch. A tremor. A breath.

A sound:

“MMMMPPPPHHH.”

Low, pained, stifled. Then another. Rhythmic. Desperate.
I watched. Shame flushed my face. My pulse kicked up.

I told myself I’d only see a few seconds.

I watched it all.

Twice.

He never appeared on camera. But his voice echoed clear at the end.

“It was your idea, Professor. You just never had the nerve to build it.”

When it ended, the room around me felt too quiet. My screen darkened to black, reflecting my own face back at me — flushed, jaw tight, eyes wide.

And the worst part?

I was hard.

Not because I approved. Not because I agreed.

But because I wrote it.

Because it came from me.

Because the chair was mine.

Even if I hadn’t built it. Even if I’d only ever imagined it.

That was enough.

Dylan was right.

I couldn’t hide from what I’d created.

Not anymore.

Because when you write something dark enough…

Someone out there will always want to make it darker.

“Fiction is the truth inside the lie.” — Stephen King

[MountainMan_91]

Ooowwweee... that was a fun read.

Now you have to tell us the prank they pulled to get Mr Hale sacked...

The punishment ought to fit the crime?

[Htdgagfreak85]

Ooowwweee... that was a fun read.

Now you have to tell us the prank they pulled to get Mr Hale sacked...

The punishment ought to fit the crime?

Glad you liked it, @MountainMan_91 ! As for the prank… Dylan finally told me the truth, and it’s not the kind of joke you laugh off. I’ll share his follow-up soon.

[Htdgagfreak85]

The Prank

A follow-up to The Shortcut

I didn’t expect to hear from Dylan again after publishing The Shortcut. But a few days later, a message landed in my inbox — long, hesitant, almost like he’d written it three times before sending.
He’d read the story, and what unsettled him most wasn’t what I’d written, but what one of you had asked in the comments. That one question: “Now you have to tell us the prank they pulled to get Mr. Hale sacked…”
Dylan said I couldn’t have answered it — not properly — because I had never known the full truth. He told me he had carried it for years, hidden even from himself, and now, for reasons I don’t fully understand, he wanted me to know. He left it in my hands whether to share it.
I’ll be honest — I hesitated. Stories like this maybe should stay untold. They stir up more than they settle. But truth has a way of pressing against silence, finding cracks, and eventually spilling out.
And what Dylan sent me doesn’t read like a prank anymore. It reads like a turning point. A night that began with one intention and ended in something none of them could have imagined. And it left marks on Dylan that he’s still carrying.
That’s why I struggled with the decision to publish it here. Now that I know the truth, I don’t know who’s right and who’s wrong anymore. Maybe the truth lies somewhere in between. Maybe punishment and revelation got tangled together that night.
In the end, I decided to share it, not because I think it will settle anything, but because keeping it to myself felt like holding someone else’s secret too tightly. Read it, judge for yourselves if Dylan and Matt deserved what Hale did to them.
But I’ll tell you this: when I finished his message, I had the strange sense that Dylan had discovered something in himself that night — and in a twisted way, maybe even has to thank Hale for it.
So here it is. Dylan’s words. His version of the night that changed everything.

We were in Year 13 — eighteen and full of that special arrogance, certain we were untouchable, certain we could do anything once before the world caught up. That’s the important part. We thought we were clever. We thought we were in control.
I’ll tell you straight: Hale wasn’t some crusty old fossil of a teacher. He was early forties, sharp jaw, hair always neat, shirt buttoned to the last one. He carried himself like he was twice his age, though — rigid, precise, cold as stone. He’d stand at the front of class and wait. No raised voice, no slammed desk. Just silence until you couldn’t breathe. Then he’d cut you down with words sharp enough to draw blood.
He marked assignments like he was writing your obituary. “Careless,” he’d scrawl across the top, or worse, read your mistakes out loud so everyone could snicker while you squirmed in your seat. He called out the football captain for sloppiness. He mocked the star sprinter for thinking rules bent around training schedules.
None of us forgot the time he stopped training to shame Jace for missing punctuation in an assignment. Or how he singled me out for a throwaway grammar slip that the whole class still joked about. That’s the kind of detail that sits under your skin and starts to burn.
It wasn’t just discipline. It was humiliation. And by the time Year 13 rolled around, we were all eighteen and ready to push back. Hale was the perfect target.
It wasn’t one grand moment that sparked the prank. Instead, it simmered, growing day by day, fuelled by resentment, anger, and humiliation.
But the day finally arrived when I decided I’d had enough.
It started in the canteen. Matt had his phone out, showing off a tiny cam feed, bragging about how clean it looked. He’d learned more in a year of messing with livestream apps than half the media kids in school. Ryan was sketching fizzing reactions on a napkin, daydreaming in chemistry shorthand. Chemistry kid, smart in a dangerous way.
“You know who deserves to be the joke for once?” I said, leaning across the table. “Hale.”
“Matt — we could put that camera of yours to good use,” I said, leaning forward so my words landed. “We could make a prank on Hale.”
He blinked at me, a grin already threatening. “What d’you have in mind?”
I let the silence hang long enough for both of them to lean in. Then I said it: “Not a clip to laugh about later. Live. He thinks he’s private — we make him public.”
I let the silence do half the work, watched them both lean in. “We hit him where he’s private,” I said, lowering my voice. “Loo. Toilet. He goes in alone, thinks no one’s watching. We stream him live. Instant audience. No edits. No excuses.”
Ryan made a face, then laughed. “You mean set the bowl on him? Flood his loo?” He tapped the napkin — fizz sketches and arrows — already thinking in reaction curves. “I could put a sachet where the water hits, something that fizzes up and spits. Messy, theatrical. Harmless if I do it right.”
Matt shook his head, sceptical and excited at once. “Streaming a teacher going to the bog — that’s bold. You sure you want the risk? And how do you get a cam in without Hale spotting it?”
“You hide it in the vent,” I said. “You’re the only one who can make that feed look clean.” I pointed to Ryan. “You make the splash. Ryan, you’re the only idiot I trust to put his hand in that bowl.” Ryan grinned at that, rolling his eyes.
They traded looks — the kind kids give when trouble tastes good. Matt’s smile spread, slow. “Okay. Micro-lens in the vent. Private channel, invites only. We sit by the window to pick up the signal. Four metres tops.”
“First flush,” Ryan said, rubbing his hands together. “One blast and he’s drenched. It’ll look spectacular.”
“And if he notices?” Matt asked.
I shrugged, feeling the weight of the plan settle. “Then we run. But he won’t. He’s careful in public. He thinks he’s private where he shouldn’t be. That’s our edge.”
They nodded, and the plan snapped into place — a stupid, dangerous thing that felt, for the first time, like ours.
Ryan stuffed the napkin in his pocket. “I’ll prep the sachet. One flush, it’ll spit like a shaken bottle. He won’t know what hit him.”
We laughed at the idea. “Can you imagine his face?” Matt smirked. “Mr. Ice-Cold Hale, soaked and scrambling?” Ryan added, “It’ll be a Year 13 classic. People will be quoting it for years.”
That was it. The three of us. A prank. A plan.

We planted it the same night. No waiting. If the cam sat too long, someone might find it; if the sachet got damp, it might ruin the trick. Live was the only way — raw, risky, undeniable.
Matt worked the kitchen latch with quiet fingers, and I slid in behind him, heart pounding. The house smelt like polish and paper, everything in its place. Too neat. Too stiff.
In the loo, Ryan crouched by the toilet. He rolled his sleeve up, grimaced, and shoved his hand into the bowl, tucking the packet just under the rim where the water would blast it on the first flush.
“Perfect,” he muttered. “First go and it’ll blow like Vesuvius.”
Matt wrinkled his nose. “Fuck, Ryan, when’s the last time this loo was cleaned?”
Ryan smirked. “Cleaner than some I’ve seen in halls.” He pushed the lid down and wiped his hand on a rag.
Then Matt unscrewed the vent cover and slid the cam into place. Tiny lens, black as an eye, staring at the bowl. He grinned as he snapped the grille shut.
We froze. For a second, I thought I heard something — faint, low, carried through the walls.
Ryan cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Matt whispered back.
“Sounded like… I dunno. An animal. Like… moaning.”
I shook my head fast. “Old pipes. Focus.”
But something in me clenched. The house was too neat, too quiet — and now it felt like it was listening back.
We left as fast as we came, slipping into the dark. The prank was armed.

Friday night felt heavy. The town slept, and we crouched beneath Hale’s loo window, less than five metres from the wall, close enough for the micro-cam’s signal. Matt balanced the phone in his palm, the red dot blinking like a nervous pulse.
The feed flickered to life: the vent’s grainy view, frosted glass, dim light. A handful of classmates were already in, comments scrolling — laughing emojis, “what’s he gonna do?”, guesses that he’d slip or make a mess. None of them had any idea what was really about to happen.
“He sits,” Ryan whispered. “He flushes. Splash. Easy.”
I forced a grin, but my mouth was dry. I’d pushed them into this. I’d demanded it be live. I was the one who had to own it.
Inside, floorboards creaked. Hale’s footsteps.
The loo door opened. He stepped in, calm as ever. We leaned closer, holding our breath. This was it — sit, flush, splash, humiliation.
But he didn’t sit.
He moved to the sink, fingers brushing the tiles like he was searching for something.
Ryan frowned. “What the hell is he doing? Why isn’t he—”
Then Hale’s hand found the ring in the grout. He tugged.
The wall sighed open. Red light spilled out, washing the ordinary loo in a glow that didn’t belong.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
And the prank — my prank — slipped away, replaced by something else entirely.
The vent-cam caught Hale stepping through the crack, red light spilling into the loo. For a moment, all we saw were fragments: coils hanging on hooks, the padded corner of something heavy, the gleam of polished steel.
“What the hell is this?” Ryan whispered, his breath clouding in the night air.
Matt squinted at the screen. “He’s recording himself. Look — he’s got a camera in there.” His thumbs flicked over the phone, muttering. “If it’s connected… maybe I can…”
Matt turned on a laptop he had brought in his backpack, just in case, and started typing frantically. Lines of code streamed across the screen, then… The feed froze, stuttered, and shifted. The crooked vent angle disappeared. Now the picture was steady and sharp — Hale’s own camera.
Ryan’s voice cracked. “Matt… is this going live?”
Matt didn’t even look up. “Yeah. It’s live.”
The chat box on the side exploded with disbelief: “WTF”, “OMG HALE??”, emojis pouring in. But we weren’t watching the chat. None of us could look away from the screen.

The dungeon spread out before us.
At the centre, a man was strapped wide to a St. Andrew’s cross, leather cuffs biting into wrists and ankles, body stretched tight. He looked Hale’s age. A black blindfold sealed his eyes, and a thick red ball gag filled his mouth, buckled so tight that drool poured down his chin and chest in gleaming ropes. He was wearing nothing but his briefs, which clung to him, damp with sweat, every breath making the fabric strain, the shape beneath them leaving nothing hidden.
On a heavy table nearby, another man strained in a vicious hogtie. Younger — late twenties, maybe, dressed no differently than the man on the cross — down to nothing but his underwear. Blond curls damp with sweat tumbled over his blindfold. A knotted gag jammed between his teeth, forcing every sound into guttural “mmmppphhh! mmmfffhhh!” that vibrated in his throat. Ropes dragged his wrists and ankles together so tightly his back arched in trembling strain.
Ryan’s voice shook. “Bloody hell. He’s keeping people down there… Should we call the police?”
“No,” I snapped, sharper than I meant. My throat was dry, my body alight. “Don’t you get it? The bulge in his underwear — he’s turned on. This is consensual. This is… this is BDSM!”
Matt turned, frowning. “A what?”
“Bondage. Discipline. It’s a sex thing,” I muttered, eyes locked on the men. “They want it. Look at him — he’s not fighting. He’s… into it.”
Ryan glanced at me, eyebrows up. “Sounds like you know a lot about that. How come?”
I ignored him. Couldn’t look away.
Hale entered the frame like a conductor. Calm. Controlled. He ran his hand slowly down the chest of the man on the cross, tracing a nipple, sliding lower. The gagged man moaned deep, wet, “nnnghhh…”, spit flying as he struggled to form sounds.
“Good boy,” Hale said, voice sharp as a blade.
The reply came muffled but immediate: “Yefff, Srrr…” Drool spilled down his chest as he forced the words out, hips jerking.
Hale picked up a slim knife from the wall. He pressed it to the waistband of the briefs, slicing down in one neat stroke. The fabric dropped in tatters.
The man’s cock sprang free, hard, flushed, throbbing.
Matt hissed, “Jesus Christ.”
Ryan recoiled. “He’s… he’s hard.”
I shifted in the hedge, jeans unbearably tight. My pulse hammered. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
Hale turned to the hogtied blond. He grabbed a fistful of his curls, jerking his head back. The knotted gag muffled a strangled “mmmmppphhhhhh!” as his body arched and twisted, ropes biting deeper.
The knife flashed again, slicing away his underwear. He was left bare, muscles taut, straining in the ropes. His muffled roars vibrated through the gag, each one rawer than the last.
Hale’s palm slid along his thigh, slow, possessive. The hogtied man convulsed, back bowing tighter, ropes creaking under the strain.
Ryan whispered, “This is insane…” But his eyes stayed locked to the screen.
My stomach dropped. That tattoo on the hogtied man’s shoulder — dark, simple. Recognition hit like a blow. Martin. One of the janitors.
I froze. Said nothing. Kept it to myself. Just stared, heat flooding me, my body betraying me every second.
The man on the cross bucked violently, cock jerking, gag squealing wet fragments: “urrgghhh yessss, srrr…” Spit dribbled down his chest as Hale pinched his nipple hard, wringing more sounds from him.
The blond thrashed harder, gag bursting with muffled fury: “mmmmmppphhhhhh!” Hale slapped his arse, sharp and sudden. The younger man jolted, body arching tighter, ropes squeaking under the strain.
Ryan whispered, reverent now, “This is mad…”
“And everyone’s seeing it,” Matt muttered. “Live.”
And me — I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t stop staring at Martin, hogtied, blindfolded, gagged, writhing in the ropes.
The three of us crouched in the hedge, mesmerised, watching what we were never meant to see.
And inside me, something cracked open I couldn’t push back down
The feed spread faster than we could breathe. Matt’s trick had hijacked Hale’s system — his own camera now feeding out far beyond our tiny channel. Invites leaked into group chats; screenshots became clips; clips snowballed through the night. What had begun as our prank was now a wildfire.
Ryan’s face was pale in the glow. “Shit. Shit. Shit—this wasn’t the plan.”
“Be quiet,” Matt hissed, thumbs darting across the screen. “I can’t shut it off. Once it’s his feed, it’s his system. Whatever he’s broadcasting, it’s out there.”
Ryan grabbed at my arm. “We should call someone. The police—”
“No,” I cut him off, too fast, too sharp. My eyes hadn’t left the screen. “That’s not… that’s not what this is. Remember? It’s consensual. They wanted it. Can’t you tell?”
Ryan stared at me like I was speaking a language he didn’t understand.

By morning the clips were everywhere. Screenshots whispered across corridors; laughter too loud in the canteen; whispers cut short when staff walked by.
The school board convened an emergency session. Parents demanded answers.
Hale didn’t fight. He didn’t point fingers. He didn’t accuse. He stood there calm, unflinching. “My private life is mine alone,” he said, voice clipped and steady. “If my choices carry consequences, I will accept them.”
He never named the men we’d seen bound in the dungeon. He took all the weight himself. By the end of the week, his desk was empty. He was gone.
But I couldn’t shake it.
Not Ryan’s pale face in the hedge. Not Matt’s wired thrill at hacking the stream. Not the sounds — the gagged moans, the wet slurs, the rope creaking under strain.
And not the tattoo on the hogtied man’s shoulder.
Martin.
At night, the memory rewound itself until I was raw. Blond curls damp with sweat. Wrists and ankles dragged together. Gag muffling those furious, helpless sounds. Shame burned hotter because my body answered it.

I saw him again at the gym.
Late afternoon, the changing room quiet. The air thick with steam, taps dripping. He was at his locker, towel over one shoulder, skin flushed from the shower.
I stood too long before the words came out. “Martin… that video. Was it you?”
He turned. His eyes narrowed, guarded. “What video are you talking about?”
“The one… Hale’s dungeon,” I said, throat tight. “The cross. The table. That night.”
A beat passed. Then he nodded once. “Yeah. That was me.” His voice didn’t waver. “And yes — I was a willing captive. Of course I was.”
The words punched through me. I swallowed hard. “Why? Why would you let him—”
“Because I wanted to.” His tone was flat, firm. “That’s the only answer that matters.” He stuffed the towel into his bag like he was closing a file. Then he turned back to me, eyes sharp. “But the way you’re asking… the way your eyes are burning right now… are you sure you’re not looking for something else?”
Heat flushed my face. I shook my head too fast. “No. I’m not into that kind of thing.”
The denial cracked. Too quick. Too loud. Even I heard the lie in it.
He let the silence stretch, then turned back to his locker.
I blurted before I could stop myself. “The other man. The one on the cross. Who was he?”
Martin froze. His hand gripped the metal edge. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a growl. “You don’t want to know who he was. Don’t ask questions like that, Dylan. Some truths aren’t meant for daylight.”
The clang of the locker slamming shut echoed. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If Hale ever finds out who set that night in motion — who pushed it live — he won’t forget. Nor forgive. Not easily.”
A shiver ran through me, cold against the sweat on my back.
Martin’s gaze cut into me. “You do know who did it, don’t you?”
My tongue stuck. The truth lodged in my throat, heavy as lead.
He didn’t wait. He slung his bag over his shoulder and brushed past, leaving the room thick with steam and silence.
I stayed behind, palm pressed to the cold locker door, head buzzing with ropes and muffled cries, with the pounding rhythm of a truth I couldn’t unsee — or escape.

That’s all I can tell you for now. Writing it down doesn’t make it go away — it just shifts the weight a little. What started as a prank became something I still can’t name, something that cut deeper than any of us expected. You can decide for yourself if we got what we deserved. I’ve stopped trying.
As for Martin… let’s just say he’s still in my life, in ways I never saw coming. Maybe one day I’ll tell you more — if he ever finds the guts to say it himself. Or if I do.

— Dylan

My final note

That’s where Dylan left it. I read his words twice before I could breathe properly. Stories like this make you wonder: was it justice, or cruelty, or simply curiosity tipping into something none of them could control?
I won’t add more, because I think it’s best left to you — the reader — to weigh it. Whether Dylan and Matt got what they deserved, or whether they set loose something far darker than they imagined.
But I keep circling back to one thought: Dylan may never forgive himself for what they did, but part of him can’t stop replaying what he saw. And perhaps, though he’ll never say it straight, that discovery — and the shadow of Martin — is what haunts him most.

Will I ever know?

[latin-self-bound]

I don't use to read M/M stories, but this captured me (pun intended) from the beginning.

I've designed some wicked gadgets in my mind, to ensure to some boung and gagged captive a very bad (or good) time.

But the idea of someone reading those ideas, and building those devices, and use them...

It's outstandingly creative.

This story for me was fascinating.
Captivating
Intoxicating

The narration is very well written, the descriptions didn't left out any detail. I almost could feel the maddening sensations of the unfortunate hostages.

Congratulations for this fine tale.

[blackbound]

This was a great story, and - as it turns out - the two captives entirely deserved what they went through. Love a good bit of comeuppance.

[MountainMan_91]

Whoo. That was a fun read! Thanks Dylan if you are reading this!

And yes... it does seem like they deserved, I'm thinking Hale went a little harsh but eh, better to ensure the lesson is learned.

Send more Dylan... I feel like you have more to tell!

[dwild]

Wow. What a masterpiece of story telling. Epic.

[Htdgagfreak85]

Thank you — truly — @latin-self-bound, @blackbound, @MountainMan_91, and @dwild — for every word you’ve shared. Reading your comments meant more than you might imagine. And thank you also to all of you who’ve had the patience to read so far, following Dylan’s story through every difficult turn, every unsettling truth, every question that still hangs in the air.

I’ll be honest with you: I’ve been stalled for days, torn between keeping the next part to myself or sharing it. The new message Dylan sent me a few days ago shook me more deeply than I expected — it forced me to confront things I wasn’t quite ready to face. I needed time to sit with it, to let the weight of it settle, before I could even think about posting it.

But now… now I’m ready.

The story is about to go deeper, darker, and far more intimate than before. And if you’ve come this far, you deserve to follow it where it leads — wherever that may be.

Stay close… because the story is far from over.

[latin-self-bound]

You are welcome @Htdgagfreak85 . And I shall thank you for let us read your magnificent stories, full of creativity. I'm glad you're ready to continue writing this literary masterpiece.

[Htdgagfreak85]

I thought the story was finished. I thought I’d shared all there was to tell — every confession, every secret, every twisted turn.
But then another message arrived. Days ago, actually. I didn’t share it right away — not because I didn’t want to, but because this time, more than ever, I needed space to absorb it. To sit with it. At first, it felt overwhelming, like the weight of it might crush everything I thought I understood.
And as I read it again and again, I realised the story hadn’t ended at all. It had only gone quiet, waiting for the courage to continue. Only now do I feel ready to share it with you.
What follows isn’t just an epilogue — it’s a reckoning.
It’s a story about choices that can’t be undone, love that refuses to fade, and the blurred line between devotion and destruction. It’s a story that pulls deeper into the darkness, where every truth has a cost and every silence hides another layer. And once you step into it, there’s no going back.
I don’t know why Dylan keeps doing this — why he can’t let it rest. Maybe he’s unburdening himself, maybe he’s daring me to judge him, or maybe he’s just trying to make sense of what happened by writing it down.
But this time, it feels like he’s daring not only me, but you all to judge him.
Whatever the reason, I couldn’t ignore it.



Hi there,
It’s me, Dylan. I didn’t think I’d write to you again — not this soon, maybe not ever. After everything I’ve already shared, I thought I could bury the rest, let the memories rot quietly where they belonged. But I can’t. They won’t stay buried. Something keeps dragging me back. Something I haven’t told you yet.
It’s about Martin.
You already know how I feel about him — or at least, you know the edges of it. I’ve hinted before, maybe too much. The truth is, that attraction has been there far longer than I’ve ever admitted, tangled up with guilt, anger, resentment… and something I still don’t have a name for. And when I saw him again after everything Hale put me and Matt through, those feelings didn’t just return — they hit me like a wave I couldn’t outrun.
I was still raw then. My body hadn’t forgotten what it had endured, and my mind… my mind was a mess. Every moment of that ordeal replayed on a loop whenever I closed my eyes. And yet, standing in front of Martin — hearing the calm in his voice, watching the quiet certainty in the way he moved — something inside me stirred that I didn’t want to feel. Desire, yes. But also a deeper pull I didn’t understand.
And threaded through it all was one question that refused to let me go: How did Hale know? How did he find out it was me and Matt behind the prank? We were reckless, sure, but careful too. I was certain only the three of us knew. And yet, when Hale came for us, he was ready — too ready.
That night with Martin was when I finally got my answer. Or rather — when I dragged it out of him.
And what followed… I still don’t know if it was punishment, revelation, or something far more dangerous. All I know is that it changed everything — and maybe, if I’m honest, it changed me.
Because somewhere between anger and desire, fear and fascination, I crossed a line I didn’t even know existed. And once I stepped over it, there was no going back.



It was weeks after everything—weeks since Hale had stripped me and Matt of every shred of control. Since those ropes biting into our skin like jealous fingers, the gag pressing wet and suffocating between my lips, turning my screams into desperate, aching moans. Since the night my body arched under his gaze, rewiring some dark craving I still couldn’t name.
School had quietly moved on. The hushed whispers died down. But I was still trapped in that room, on that floor, with those humming sensations coiled inside me.
Then Martin slipped back into my life.
I’m not entirely sure why I went. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something darker. Maybe because every message Martin sent — short, calm, casual — felt like a thread I couldn’t stop pulling. And when he finally asked if I’d come over one evening, I said yes before I had time to think about why.
His house was warmer than I expected. It smelled faintly of cedar and something sweet — like the air itself was trying to lull me into a false sense of safety. Martin welcomed me in with that same quiet composure he always carried, the kind that made him look like he was ten steps ahead of everyone else.
We sat in the living room, the small fan humming quietly in the corner. Martin twisted the caps off two bottles of Carling and handed one to me. For a while, it almost felt normal — two people sharing a beer and pretending nothing had happened. But the pauses between his questions stretched too long, and beneath the casual chatter, it was obvious there was something heavier he wasn’t saying.

“I know what happened,” Martin said at last.
I stopped with the bottle halfway to my lips, the cold glass hovering in mid-air. “What are you talking about?”
“I know what Hale did to you,” he said, his tone even, unhurried. Then, after a beat, “To you and Matt.”
The room seemed smaller suddenly. I stared at him, my throat dry. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because Hale told me.”
The words hit harder than I expected. “He told you?”
“He did,” Martin said, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Everything. How he took you. How he made sure neither of you had any control left. How he strapped you down — wrists, ankles, chest — layer by layer until you couldn’t move an inch.”
I swallowed hard. “Stop.”
But he didn’t. His voice stayed steady, almost clinical. “How he kept you like that for hours. How you thrashed at first — and then you stopped. How the ropes dug in until you forgot where your body ended and they began. How the gag turned your protests into nothing but sound. And how, once the fight was gone, something else started to surface.”
“Stop.” This time it came out sharper, but he ignored it.
“He said Matt cursed and fought until the end,” Martin continued quietly. “But you… you went still. Completely still. And when he touched your face — just once — you leaned into it.”
I looked away, my chest tight. The images he painted weren’t words. They were memories. Memories I’d tried to bury.
Martin let the silence linger. “So yes,” he said softly. “I know. I know exactly what happened.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The weight of his words pressed down on the room like a hand on my chest.
Finally, I found my voice. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t think you’ve been honest with yourself about it,” Martin said. His eyes were fixed on mine, steady and disarming. “Not about how much you hated it… and not about the parts of it that terrified you because of how it made you feel.”
“Don’t,” I snapped, my pulse spiking. “Don’t you dare—”
“I saw it, Dylan. Even now, when you talk about it, your breathing changes.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. “The ropes. The gag. The stillness. Your body remembers every second, even if you don’t want it to.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to shout, to storm out, to deny it all. But the truth was sitting there between us, too heavy to lift.
After a long silence, I forced the words out: “Then tell me this — how did he even know it was us? How did he find out?”
Martin sighed, like he’d been expecting the question. “He didn’t figure it out himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone told him.”
I felt something cold and sharp rise in my chest. “Who?”
“Ryan.”
The name didn’t land right away. It drifted through the room and settled like ash. I stared at Martin, hoping for the smirk that would tell me this was a joke. It didn’t come.
“Ryan?” I said. “No. No, he wouldn’t.”
“He would,” Martin replied calmly. “And he did.”
My heartbeat roared in my ears. “Where is he?”
“You don’t need to find him,” Martin said, rising from his chair. “He’s here.”



The room felt like it shifted under my feet. My pulse was in my throat, my breath jagged.
“What do you mean he’s here?” I asked, but the answer came before Martin could speak.
The door behind me opened.
“Dylan…”
I knew the voice before I turned. Ryan stood there, hands half-raised in a pathetic gesture of peace. He looked smaller somehow — guilt carved into every line of his face.
“Don’t,” I said, the word like acid on my tongue.
“Please, just let me—”
“Don’t!”
The anger I’d been trying to contain exploded. I was on my feet before I even knew I’d moved, the chair clattering back against the floor. “You told him?” I shouted. “You? After everything?”
“Dylan, listen—”
“No, you listen!” I shoved him hard, sending him stumbling into the doorframe. “He humiliated us. He broke us. And you handed us to him!”
“It wasn’t like that!” Ryan’s voice cracked as he steadied himself. “I didn’t have a choice—”
“Bullshit!”
The next shove was harder. Ryan grabbed at my wrists to steady himself, but I ripped free, grabbing his shirt and pushing him back again. The room spun with shouting — his voice, mine, Martin’s — but all I could hear was the roaring pulse in my head.
Then, hands were on me. Two sets.
“Enough,” Martin barked, his tone suddenly sharp. He caught my arms from behind, locking them to my sides. Ryan lunged forward, gripping my wrists before I could twist away. I kicked, swung, shouted, but they moved with practiced precision — two against one, calm against chaos.
“Let me go!” I roared, thrashing, but the more I fought, the faster they worked. Rope slid across my skin — coarse, relentless — and in seconds my wrists were pinned behind my back. My legs buckled under me, but they caught me before I could fall.
“Stop,” Martin said firmly. “It’s over, Dylan.”
But it wasn’t. Not even close.
“Get off me!” My voice broke against the walls.
Ryan didn’t look at me. He was shaking, his jaw tight, eyes glassy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t you dare say that,” I spat. “Don’t you—”
The rest of the sentence died behind a wad of cloth. Martin’s hand was at the back of my neck, tilting my head forward as he shoved the gag into place and tied it off tight. My last words dissolved into a furious, strangled “mmpphhh!”
“Better,” Martin muttered. “We’ll do the talking now.”
I kicked, but my ankles were already being lashed together. They hauled me across the room — my body flailing uselessly — through a side door and down a short, narrow corridor.
The space they dragged me into was colder, darker. Not a basement exactly — more like a converted utility room, walls bare brick and pipes running along the ceiling. And in the centre of it stood a thick steel support pole.
“This will do,” Martin said.
They sat me down hard against the pole, the cold metal pressing against my spine. My arms were yanked around it, rope biting deeper as they forced my wrists together. More coils around my chest, pinning me to the metal, every breath a reminder of how tight they’d bound me.
My ankles were next, dragged forward and cinched tight, then pulled back toward the pole with another length of rope so my knees stayed bent and useless. The position was humiliating — designed to be humiliating.
I screamed into the gag — curses, pleas, anything that came to mind — but the sound was nothing but wet, angry noise now.
“Stop fighting,” Martin said quietly. “It’s done.”
Ryan crouched in front of me, his hands trembling, his face pale. “I know you hate me right now,” he said, voice cracking. “I know. But I need you to hear me. You deserve to hear me.”
I shook my head violently, the gag muffling another furious roar. “Mmmphhh! Hhhrrmmphhh!”
Ryan took a deep breath. “Then listen. Because this is what really happened.”



Ryan stayed kneeling in front of me, hands clasped tight like he was afraid they’d shake themselves apart. He wouldn’t meet my eyes at first — just stared at the floor between us.
“It happened the day they suspended him,” he started quietly. “The board was meeting, people were whispering… I don’t know why I went there. Maybe I thought I could clean up the mess. Maybe I was just terrified.”
He swallowed, voice thin. “I went back to the house. To get rid of the sachet. The packet we left in the toilet — I thought if I could remove it, maybe they’d never trace it back.”
I grunted into the gag — a furious, mmpphhh! — but Martin’s hand on my shoulder was a warning to stay still.
“I didn’t know Hale was there,” Ryan continued. “And I definitely didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”
He swallowed hard. “I opened the window and climbed in… and he was waiting. Him — and him. The masked man. The same one you saw down there.”
The memory clearly burned — his voice started to break. “They didn’t drag me,” Ryan said, trembling. “They didn’t need to. Hale just looked at me when he caught me near the cistern and said, ‘I think you and I need to have a little talk.’”
He stared at the floor, the scene replaying behind his eyes. “I tried to run. I really did. But with Hale blocking the way and that masked man — tall, silent, like something out of another world — closing in on me, I didn’t stand a chance. They overpowered me in seconds.”
Ryan swallowed. “Hale didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He just gestured toward the wall, pressed something I couldn’t see — and the same bathroom you filmed opened up into something else. That hidden door slid aside, and suddenly I was staring into the room you saw on the feed.”
He drew a shaking breath. “They led me through it. Step by step. And with every step, I felt something in me slipping — that cocky senior bravado, that idea that this was still a game.”
“The room was colder than I’d imagined from the video,” he said. “Stone underfoot, the smell of leather and metal in the air. And right in the middle, the cross. The same one.”
He shut his eyes. “They told me to stand still. I didn’t. I fought, twisted, cursed. But it didn’t matter. Hands pinned me in place. They stripped me of everything I had on — methodically, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to hide behind. My clothes were gone. My bravado was gone. All that was left was me.”
His breath hitched. “The cuffs were next. Heavy, padded, unyielding. They wrapped around my wrists first and hauled my arms up and out. Then the ankle restraints — wide enough to force me to spread, tight enough that I couldn’t move an inch without feeling the strain in every muscle.”
Ryan’s voice grew thinner as he went on. “Then they gagged me. A thick ball pushed past my teeth, buckled behind my head before I could protest. Every word I tried to spit out turned into a pathetic, useless nnnghhh.”
He mimicked the sound involuntarily, eyes distant. “I could feel it — drool starting to slip past my lips, running down my chin. I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop anything. And that’s when I realised I wasn’t part of the conversation anymore. I was just… there. A body. A lesson.”
Martin shifted slightly, and his voice cut in, cool and deliberate. “They edged him, Dylan. The same way you and Matt were. They drove him mad. Master R. — that’s what he calls himself — knows exactly how to do that.”
Ryan nodded faintly, eyes unfocused, shame coloring every word. “It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t violence. It was worse. Master R used his hand, stroking me with slow, maddening precision, keeping me balanced right at the edge. Sometimes his grip was tight, sometimes feather-light, his thumb circling the tip just enough to make me gasp behind the gag. Every time I tensed, desperate for release, he’d stop—waiting until my breathing slowed, my body sagged with frustration, before starting again.”It went on for hours. I lost all sense of time, the world shrinking to nothing but the ache inside me and the relentless rhythm of his hand. My cock throbbed, slick and swollen, my hips jerking helplessly, begging for mercy. I pleaded behind the gag, wordless cries — please, please, let me cum — but he only smiled, drawing it out, again and again. They made every second feel endless, kept me hovering at the brink, over and over, until I wasn’t thinking about anything else — not you, not Matt, not the plan. My whole world narrowed to that desperate need. All I wanted was for it to stop—just to let go, just once.”
That was the moment I heard his voice, inches from my ear — calm, cold, utterly unshaken by what he’d been doing to me.
“You want this to end?” he murmured. “Then talk. Give me the names — every one of them who had a hand in that little stunt. Don’t lie. Don’t hold back. Otherwise, you’ll stay right here until your body gives out. And when you wake, we’ll start again. Over and over. No one’s coming for you, Ryan. Not until you give them to me.”
I shook my head, or tried. The gag squelched in my mouth. My whole body trembled, cock pulsing, the humiliation worse than any schoolyard taunt. I thought I could hold out. I really did. But it was hours. Hours of edging and nothing else, until I was drooling, crying, my vision swimming with pressure and want. I screamed into the gag, every ounce of fight wrung out of me.
At some point, time stopped making sense. They let me hang, wrists numb, body sagging. My heart detonated. I fought harder, the shame boiling up, the need burning me alive. I tried to hold out — I did. But Master R’s hand never slowed, never lost its rhythm. He found a way to keep me right at the edge, every muscle locked, sweat pouring down my face, my body straining to break free. I’d never felt so helpless — so raw. The gag flattened every word into a low, shameless mmmfff, but they didn’t need a translator. Hale stood to my left, arms folded, the old detached stare now tinged with something meaner.
“Who are you protecting, Ryan?” he asked, like a schoolmaster catching a boy with a cheat sheet. “You’re clever, but you’re not clever enough.”
I tried again, my throat raw and shredded from begging, the pain in my cock now a white-hot thread. “Nmmphhh… nmmphhh… Dmmmlinnn…” The ball gag turned the sounds into wet, desperate grunts, but the shape of the name still pushed through. “Maaatthhh…” The second name was barely a word — the t melted into a sloppy, spit-slick thhh, drool bubbling at the corners of my mouth as I forced it out. It took three tries before he understood. But he did.
“Dylan,” Hale said, turning to the masked man. “Or is it Matt? You can’t even lie straight anymore.” He leaned in, face inches from mine. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever been here? The only one who’s ever tried to outsmart me?” His voice was soft, but the threat in it was merciless. “You’re not. You’re just the first to last this long. But you will break, Ryan. Everyone does.”
The memory made Ryan’s hands clench tighter. I saw the tremor start in his wrists and spread up his arms. “It went on. I don’t know how long. I lost feeling in my hands, my head. My whole body. But I still felt… all of it.” He glanced up at last, straight at me, eyes red-edged and all but empty. “I never wanted to give you up, Dylan. Or Matt. But in the end—”
“He did,” said Martin. Not unkindly. Just the truth of it.
Ryan flinched, but he didn’t deny it. “I would have died there,” he whispered. “Or lost my mind. He knew how to make the want worse with each hour. At the end, I told them everything. I told them what they wanted.
He lifted his gaze to mine, eyes glassy. “That’s how they broke me. And that’s why I said your names.”
I wanted to scream. To tell him he should’ve endured. That we’d all paid the price for his weakness. But the gag sealed every word into a strangled growl.
Martin knelt beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Now you know the truth, Dylan,” he said quietly. “And you can hate him for breaking… or you can hate yourself for thinking you wouldn’t have done the same.”



The words hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable.
I twisted hard against the ropes, the pole digging into my spine. My wrists burned from the effort, the coarse bite of the bindings cutting deeper every time I struggled. But no matter how hard I pulled, nothing gave.
Ryan looked at me — not defiantly, not proudly, just broken. “That’s why I did it,” he said, voice shaking. “That’s why I betrayed you. Because in that moment, there was nothing else left inside me.”
“Mmmphhh! Mmmfffhh!” I roared into the gag, the words useless and wet. My whole body trembled with rage — at him, at Hale, at myself. Most of all, at the image of him on that cross, drooling, trembling, surrendering. It wasn’t pity I felt. It was fury.
Martin stepped forward, crouching so his eyes were level with mine. “Look at you,” he said softly, almost amused. “Still fighting. Still pretending you’d have held out where he didn’t.”
I tried to look away, but his hand caught my chin and forced my gaze back to his. “Would you, Dylan?” he whispered. “Would you have lasted longer? Or would you have broken the same way he did — with your body betraying you before your mind even caught up?”
I groaned into the gag, a guttural sound born of anger and humiliation. The rope around my ankles tugged tighter as I shifted — they’d pinned me perfectly, forcing my knees bent and back straight so I couldn’t thrash without losing balance. Every breath I took was a reminder that I was exactly where they wanted me: helpless.
Ryan swallowed, watching me fight. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wish I’d been stronger. But now you know why I wasn’t.”
Ryan shifted slightly on his knees, his eyes dropping, shame and something else flickering in their depths. It was impossible not to notice the way his breath came uneven now, or how the front of his jeans betrayed more than his trembling voice ever could. He didn’t try to hide it. Maybe he couldn’t.
Martin noticed too. “You’ve said enough,” he murmured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Go now, Ryan. Leave him with his thoughts. I’ll take it from here.”
Ryan didn’t move at first. He just knelt there, hands in fists on his thighs, sweat beading at the line of his hair. His eyes darted down my body, then away, then helplessly back again. I followed the look, and it was impossible to miss what he saw: the bulge in my own jeans, the telltale press of flesh tight against denim. My hips jerked at the realization, a useless twitch, but my body was ten moves ahead of my head, already betraying me in the same way his had betrayed him. The shame of it was electric and raw. I glared at him, tried to spit out another curse, but the gag rendered it nothing but a wet, guttural moan.
Ryan watched me struggle, and for the first time, his expression changed—the guilt and the fear and the old friend all folding into something else. Wonder, maybe. Or relief. Or just simple, sick recognition: “You’re hard too, Dylan”.
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t the same, that it meant nothing, that I would chew through bone before giving up. But the pressure in my chest, the ache knotted between rage and need, made liars of us both.
Ryan hesitated, guilt carving deep lines into his expression, then pushed himself to his feet and walked out, the sound of the door closing echoing like a lock clicking shut behind my heartbeat.



The silence that followed Ryan’s exit felt almost alive, pressing down on me in the dim, close air. Martin didn’t rush to speak. He circled instead, slow and deliberate, every step a quiet reminder that I wasn’t going anywhere. The ropes held me too well — wrists pinned behind the pole, shoulders pulled back, ankles cinched tight and drawn in just enough to keep my knees bent and trembling. Every inch of me was contained, reduced to breath and heartbeat and the memory of choices that were no longer mine.
He stopped behind me, so close I could feel the warmth radiating off his body, a contrast to the cool fibres biting at my skin. His breath brushed the back of my neck, and the sound of his voice came low, close, measured.
“Your body’s already telling the truth,” he murmured.
I hated how right he was. My chest rose too fast, every breath shallower than the last, as if my body couldn't keep up with its own desperate need. Heat pulsed low and deep, impossible to ignore, impossible to deny. The ropes didn’t just restrain me—they focused me, sharpened every sensation until the world narrowed to the cold brick wall in front of me and the hands that could, at any moment, do so much more.
Martin moved closer, his presence folding around me like a shadow. His hand traced the rope at my wrist, then followed the taut line down to my forearm, slow and deliberate. "This," he said, barely above a whisper, "is what you were running from. And this is where you stop running."
His touch wasn’t rough; it didn’t need to be. It traveled with unhurried confidence, a patient reminder that resistance was pointless—and somewhere deep inside, unwanted. My muscles betrayed me again, shifting against the restraints not to fight them, but as if searching for more contact, more of him.
"Good," he breathed, the word brushing against my ear like a secret. "That’s it. Don’t fight it."
I let out a long, muffled sound—not quite a moan, not quite a protest—something tangled and raw that neither of us could pretend to misunderstand. The pressure coiled inside me, relentless and growing, fed by every small movement, every soft command, every carefully chosen pause that left me aching for the next.
He moved around to face me, his eyes locked onto mine as he slowly sank to his knees. His hands slid down my sides, tracing the curve of my hips before moving to the front. He unbuttoned my jeans, his knuckles grazing my skin, sending jolts of electricity through me. He pulled them down to my ankles, as far as the ropes allowed. Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my underwear, tugging them down to join my jeans, and my cock sprang free, pulsing hard, throbbing with need. The cool air of the room did nothing to dampen the heat radiating from my body.
He leaned in until his lips hovered just above my ear. "Do you feel that?" he whispered. "That helplessness? That hunger?"
I did. God, I did. And it wasn’t just arousal—it was a revelation. Every knot, every inch of rope, every measured breath had stripped me bare in a way words never could. What remained was the truth I’d buried under denial and bravado: that some part of me wanted this. Needed this. Had been waiting for this.
His hand wrapped around my length, his grip firm and sure. I bucked into his touch, a guttural moan tearing from my throat, swallowed by the gag. He started slow, his strokes matching the rhythm of his breath on my neck, steady and controlled. Sensation coiled tight within me, building with each twist of his wrist, each deliberate pause that left me aching for more.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "Let go. Give in."
My body tensed, straining helplessly against the ropes. My breath hitched, my mind drowning in the intensity of sensation and surrender. And when his pace quickened, his grip tightening, I thought I would explode. But then he stopped, his hand stilling, and I groaned in frustration.
Martin chuckled, low and knowing."Not yet," he said, his voice a dark promise.
His hands gripped my thighs, fingers digging into the tense muscles as he leaned in, his breath hot on my pulsing cock. His tongue flicked out, a teasing touch that sent a shockwave through me. I jerked in the ropes, a desperate plea caught in my throat. He looked up at me, a wicked smile playing on his lips, before taking me fully into his mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming—wet heat enveloping me, his tongue working the underside of my shaft, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked. I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the relentless pleasure. My hips tried to buck, to chase the sensation, but the ropes held me fast, forcing me to take what he gave.
He took me deep, his throat constricting around the head of my cock, before pulling back, his teeth lightly grazing my sensitive flesh. The mix of pleasure and pain was maddening, the sensation building, growing, threatening to consume me whole.
I could feel the pressure building, the inevitable climax bearing down on me like a freight train. Martin’s pace quickened, his head bobbing faster, his grip on my thighs tightening. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the tightness of the ropes, the relentless pursuit of release.
And when it hit, it was explosive.
My body convulsed, waves of ecstasy crashing over me, leaving me trembling and spent. Martin swallowed every last drop, his throat working as he took all I had to give.
The fight was gone. All that remained was the pulsing, throbbing aftermath and the trembling certainty that I had crossed a line I would never step back from—and that, in Martin’s hands, I had never felt more alive.
Martin rose, letting my gaze travel up the length of him. He moved without hurry, hands going to the hem of his shirt; he peeled it off in a single, practiced motion. Underneath, his body was cut from quarry: lean and defined, pecs ridged, stomach a stretch of taut, sculpted muscle, the faintest dusting of trail leading down. The tattoo on his shoulder stood out, black and geometric against his pale skin. He undid his belt, slow enough to make it clear he wanted me to watch. The buckle clattered to the floor. Then he pushed his jeans down, boxers with them, and stepped free, naked and—God, he was huge. The cock that sprang forward was already hard, flushed nearly purple, the veins a roadmap of hunger.His cock bobbed inches from my face: I stared, stunned by more than just the sight; it was the intent that landed hardest.
Martin leaned closer, the heat of his skin radiating against my cheek. He reached behind my head and, with a deft flick of his thumb, undid the knot of the gag. The wet fabric fell awayand I gasped for air, spit slicking my chin.
I barely managed anything beyond a ragged whisper: “No, Martin… I’m not… I’m not ready for that.”
He didn’t answer, not in words. His hands cupped my jaw, thumbs stroking the raw corners of my lips, fingers gentle but absolute as they pried my jaw wider. He guided my mouth to the head of his cock, which hovered there—impossibly thick, glistening, the tip already leaking.
“Relax,” he muttered, voice steady but unyielding.
I tried to turn, to flinch away, but the ropes were absolute, my head trapped between his hands. When I didn’t open quickly enough, his thumb pressed down on my tongue and slipped in past my teeth, pressing my jaw wider, until the blunt tip of his cock forced its way between my lips. It filled my mouth at once, stretching it open so wide I thought my jaw would crack, the taste of him immediate and salt-metallic and pure, humming with heat. The head hit the back of my throat, and I sputtered, already choking, but Martin’s hand cradled my skull with surprising care, holding me steady—not savage, but inevitable.
He let me fight. Just for a moment. He let the panic bloom behind my eyes, let my breath catch, let my tongue thrash uselessly before he loosened his grip, just a fraction, and let me draw in a wheezing gasp around the thick column of him.
“That’s it,” he said, each word a slow hammer-blow to the back of my head. “Don’t gag. Breathe through your nose,” he said, the words clipped but not unkind. “You’ll get used to it.”
I tried, sucking air sharp through flared nostrils, saliva already pooling under my tongue, leakage dribbling down my chin. Martin’s hips pistoned gently, setting a rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about total, uncompromised control. Each thrust battered away the last of my resistance and seeded a strange, humming need at the base of my spine.
He withdrew just enough to let me speak again, just a gasp and a wet string of drool, and then he drove back in, deeper, until I felt the press of his cockhead at the threshold of my throat. Every instinct screamed to turn away, to bite, to fight, but the ropes and his hands made it clear: I had no say in this any longer.
“Good boy,” he murmured, and the words stung in a way nothing else did—because I felt the fierce, involuntary twitch in my spent cock at the sound of them. He gripped the back of my head, fingers winding through my hair, and each stroke slid easier, the struggle bleeding out of me until it was only surrender, only the hot, slick ache of being used by someone who already knew I’d fold.
My jaw ached; my throat burned. I coughed and spluttered, but aside from a single, slow backstroke to let me breathe, Martin never stopped. His body tightened above me, breath turning harsh, each flex of muscle running like voltage through my cheeks. The rhythm quickened, hips slapping the bruised corners of my mouth, and the sound filled the tiny room—a percussive, wet slap I’d heard in porn but never believed could be so animal, so total.
He came like a fist unclenching inside me. One last thrust drove the head so deep it choked the world to black, and I felt the spent heat pulse, thick and raw, down my throat. My gag reflex rebelled, but he held my head so steady, so perfectly aligned, that I had no choice but to swallow and gag and swallow until he was done.
Then, with an exhausted snap of muscle, he released my head, letting me sag against the pole, half-drowned and gasping, spit and cum streaming from my lips. He cupped my chin, thumb smearing the mess down my cheek. “You did well,” he said, not as praise but as a diagnosis.
I trembled, wrung out and shuddering, every cell a raw nerve ending. My lungs seized, then dragged in air, and everything in the room snapped into brittle focus. The cold brick. The scent of sweat and metal and humiliation. Martin’s body—naked now, streaked with damp, his cock still held at half-mast, the dark veins rebounding with each shaky breath.
He knelt beside me, cheek against mine for a second, not in comfort but as if listening to the hammer of my pulse. When I didn’t flinch or turn, he nuzzled in tighter. We exhaled together, hot clouds fringing the freezing air of the utility room.
“Untie me,” I rasped, my voice hoarse and trembling. The words tumbled out, heavy with desperation, each syllable laced with a raw urgency. My body felt like lead, every muscle aching from the ordeal, but the plea was unmistakable. “Please, just untie me. Now.”
Martin didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me — long, steady, unreadable — and then shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “Not yet.”
My heart kicked against my ribs. I watched as he moved behind me, felt the ropes shift as his hands worked at the knots. For a second, I thought he was doing as I asked — and then my wrists were free of the pole, only to be pulled behind my back. The moment I realised what was happening, it was already too late. Coils of rope circled my wrists again, tighter this time, and another loop lashed around my ankles.
“Wait—” My protest died as Martin’s weight pressed me forward, lowering me until my chest and stomach were flat against the floor. In one smooth motion, he bent my knees and drew my ankles toward my hands. Rope slid and tightened, binding the two together until I was curled helplessly, my back arched, my body pinned in a shape I could neither fight nor ignore.
I strained against the new bonds — more from instinct than hope — and felt how completely they held. The more I fought, the more the ropes bit, reminding me how useless resistance was. Somewhere beneath the panic, another feeling flickered: one I couldn’t name but didn’t want to lose.
Martin crouched beside me, his breath warm against my ear. “You asked to be untied,” he murmured. “I’m giving you something better.”
He grabbed one of the socks from the heap of discarded clothing, rolled it tight, and pressed it to my lips. I tried to turn my head, but he was patient—held my jaw, waited for the moment my mouth opened to curse him, then stuffed the wad deep behind my teeth. Before I could spit it out, layers of tape followed, quick and practiced, sealing me in silence. The adhesive yanked at the edges of my skin, stretching my cheeks in a permanent rictus of obedience.
The smell of sweat and wool filled my nose, the taste pure gym locker. My complaints died as muffled grunts, swallowed by cotton and plastic. I thrashed once, hard enough to feel the ropes threaten to bite through to bone, but Martin just watched with those pale, level eyes until I collapsed into shudders.
I groaned into the gag, muscles trembling with effort. He just smiled and stood, brushing a hand lightly across my shoulder. “I’m going for a shower. You stay here and… think.”



The soft sound of his footsteps receded, then the faint hiss of water through pipes. I was alone. Alone — and more helpless than I’d ever been. The ropes held me in a position that left no room to hide from what I felt. The pounding of my heartbeat. The ragged pull of my breath. The heat curling low and deep that had nothing to do with fear.
My cock was hard. Totally, disgustingly hard — a pulse of want that throbbed beneath the ropes, raw and urgent, every nerve tuned to the ache of it. My body, still dripping with shame and sweat and the taste of Martin’s, responded with a humiliating, eager clarity. I arched in the ropes, feeling the stretch of my thighs, the obscene curve of my ass in the air, the helpless way my cock pressed against the cold floor and left a smear of slick, sticky evidence for anyone to see. I gagged on the sock, tried to yell, but it came out as a pathetic, high-pitched “mmmphhhh!” that echoed off the brick.
I don’t know how long I lay there before I heard the creak of the door.
Ryan stepped into view, his expression caught somewhere between guilt and fascination. He hadn’t left at all. He’d been close, listening. Watching.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He just stood there, eyes tracing the ropes, the rise and fall of my breath, the way my body moved uselessly against its bonds. And in that silence, I knew he saw everything — every truth I’d spent the night trying to hide.
His expression was different. Lighter, but sharper. Like something had loosened inside him, and that was far more dangerous than anger.
“You know,” he said, voice quieter than I’d ever heard it, “I thought I’d feel sorry for you.”
He crouched next to me, fingers brushing the rope around my wrists, not loosening anything — just feeling the tension in it. I tried to flinch, but the gag made my protest a useless, breathless sound.
“But I don’t,” he continued. “I feel… curious.” He leaned closer, and his hand slipped to my hair. I jerked away, or tried to, but the hogtie left me no leverage; I could only twist and grunt, the humiliation burning a second set of nerves across the surface of my skin.
He smiled, not nastily, just with that old, too-bright, Ryan intensity. “I always wondered why you pushed so hard. Maybe you just… wanted someone to push you back. Is that it?” His palm pressed the back of my head, forcing my cheek and mouth into the filthy floor, like a cop pinning a suspect. “You’re always acting like you’re above everyone. Like you’re doing us a favor just by showing up.”
He kept me there, cheek grinding into concrete, while he talked. “You never even apologized, you know. Not for dragging us into it, not for the prank going off the rails, not for leaving anyone else to deal with the fallout”.
He rolled me onto my side with an easy grip, one hand braced on my shoulder, the other steadying my hips. The ropes strained, pressing me even tighter, knees awkwardly splayed so my cock jutted up, flushed and humiliating. He looked down at it, then up at my face, and the look was pure, clinical amazement. “You’re actually enjoying this,” he said, almost laughing. Not disbelief—confirmation.
He reached for my cock, just a brush at first, as if checking the temperature of a beaker, and I jerked violently, a muffled shriek snared in the tape. Ryan’s hand was gentle, almost scientific, and that made every touch worse. He circled his thumb over the head—slow, precise. My whole body shuddered, ropes biting in, breath trapped behind layers of gag. I tried to glare, to beg or curse, but my face was pinned, my options reduced to twitch and moan.
Ryan leaned his mouth to my ear. “You’re not so different from me. Or Martin. Or any of them.” He squeezed, more pressure now, more intent. “Maybe you’re even worse.”
There was a tremor beneath the words — not cruelty, exactly, but something more volatile. Intoxication. Ryan was tasting control for the first time, and it was already going to his head.
I shook my head, tried to speak around the gag, but he wasn’t listening. He placed a hand on the side of my face, almost tender, and leaned close.
“I didn’t plan this,” he said softly. “I swear I didn’t. I was supposed to leave. But then I saw you like this, and…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “God, Dylan, do you have any idea what this is doing to me?”
I mmphed into the gag, trying to ask what, but he kept going, words tumbling now like he’d been holding them back for years.
“I’ve spent so long being invisible. Being the one people forget, the one they laugh at, the one they push around. And you — you were always kind. You looked at me. And now…” His eyes swept over the ropes around my body, and he swallowed hard. “Now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to be the one who decides. Just once. To be the one with the power.”
His hands hovered just above me, trembling with uncertainty as if caught in a moment of indecision. Then, with a sudden rush of boldness, Ryan's fingers grazed my hard cock, sending a jolt of electric heat coursing through my body. “I know it’s wrong. I know this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. But when I see you like this, I feel… alive. Like I’m not the weak one anymore.”
A chill crawled up my spine. This wasn’t Ryan being cruel — it was Ryan unraveling. Every word was a confession, every glance a crack in the careful shell he’d built around himself.
“Do you hate me for saying that?” he whispered. “Because I hate myself for it. But I can’t stop.”
The sound of footsteps in the hallway snapped the air tight again. Martin. His return.
Ryan stiffened, eyes flicking to the door, then back to me. “He thinks he owns this. Thinks he owns you. But I won’t let him.”



The doorknob turned. Martin stepped inside, his face going from composed to steel in a second when he saw Ryan still there.
“Ryan,” he said, voice low and measured. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”
Ryan’s throat worked. “Talking.”
“About what?”
“About him.” He pointed at me. “About what you think you can just take.”
“Enough,” Martin snapped. “You’ve made your point. Now get the fuck out of here.”
But Ryan didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, breathing shallowly, eyes darting between me and Martin as if weighing a hundred thoughts at once.
“You don’t get it,” he whispered. “You’ve never been powerless. Never been the joke. You stand there acting like you own everything — even him.”
Martin took a step forward. Then another. The shift in his body language was subtle but unmistakable: he was going to end this. One hand reached toward a coil of rope hanging from a hook by the door.
“Stop,” Ryan said.
Martin didn’t. He wrapped the rope loosely around his fist, his gaze locked on Ryan’s. “I’m not going to ask again. Step aside.”
The tension was unbearable. Even through the gag, a muffled sound tore from my throat. My pulse spiked as I watched Martin advance — calm, confident, certain he would subdue Ryan in seconds.
And then I saw it.
The small, brushed-steel canister Ryan pulled from his pocket — I knew it. A flash of memory sliced through the panic: months earlier, behind the science block, Ryan had shown it to me, half-embarrassed. “It’s just in case,” he’d said. “Something I made myself. It’s not pepper spray — stronger, longer-lasting. If they try anything, it buys me time.”
Now that “just in case” was here.
Martin didn’t notice. His focus was locked entirely on Ryan’s face, on the coiled tension in his stance. He never saw the metal glint until it was too late.
Three sharp bursts hissed into the air.
Martin jerked back instantly, but the reaction was far more violent than he’d expected — far more intense than any standard spray. His eyes slammed shut, tears streaming uncontrollably, and a guttural cough tore out of his chest as the burning hit deeper than his lungs.
“Breathe,” Ryan muttered, panic threading his voice. “It’s not poison. It burns — I know. But it’ll pass.”
But Martin couldn’t breathe. He stumbled blindly, crashing into the wall, dragging in ragged, shallow gasps. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, half-blind, chest heaving.
Ryan moved before he could think. He threw himself onto Martin’s back, wrestling his arms behind him. The rope slipped and tightened, messy but effective, dragged across his chest and shoulders until his arms were pinned.
“Don’t fight,” Ryan pleaded. “Please don’t fight.”
Martin groaned, twisting, but every breath came ragged and shallow. “You… shouldn’t…” he rasped.
“I had to,” Ryan hissed, cinching a knot and grabbing another coil. “You were going to tie me up. I had to.”
Another loop bit around Martin’s torso. Then another. His wrists were lashed together, his elbows bound tight, his chest criss-crossed with coarse rope. Ryan yanked his legs back and tied them too, dragging them into a tight bend.
Martin’s breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as the worst of the compound’s burn began to fade. Ryan hovered above him, shaking, unsure whether to help or run.
“Don’t… don’t move,” Ryan stammered, more to himself than to Martin. “It’ll pass. Just breathe. It’ll pass.”
Martin coughed hard, blinking tears from his eyes. “You—” He wheezed and swallowed. “You need… to untie me.”
Ryan didn’t respond. He was staring at the rope, at his own hands, like they were acting on their own.
“Ryan,” Martin said again, more firmly this time. “Listen to me. This isn’t the way. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I am thinking clearly!” Ryan shouted back, though his trembling hands betrayed him. “I had to stop you. You were going to tie me up. You were going to take him away!”
His gaze flicked toward me — bound, gagged, helpless on the carpet — and something in his expression shifted. It was like he was no longer looking at me, but at the embodiment of every humiliation he’d ever endured.
“Ryan,” Martin tried again, voice softer now. “I’m not your enemy. You’ve made your point. Now untie me, before you make things worse.”
But Ryan wasn’t listening. His breath came fast and shallow, his eyes glassy with adrenaline. “Worse?” he repeated, almost laughing. “Worse is what people do to you when you’re powerless. Worse is what they make you feel.”
He grabbed another coil of rope and dragged Martin upright against the base of a heavy shelving unit. Martin didn’t resist — not out of submission, but because the spray had robbed his body of strength.
“Ryan,” he said again, his voice still calm but now edged with concern. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t I?” Ryan hissed. His hands moved faster now, looping more rope around Martin’s torso, lashing him tighter and tighter to the wood. The first knots had been practical enough to restrain. These were excessive, obsessive, layer upon layer until Martin’s chest was crushed against the post and his arms pinned completely immobile.
“Ryan,” Martin said, and this time there was something new in his tone — something close to panic. “You’re tying too much. I can’t… I can’t move my chest properly.”
“Good,” Ryan whispered. “You shouldn’t move. Not after what you were going to do.”
I strained against my own bonds, muffled sounds spilling from behind the gag. He wasn’t listening to Martin. He wasn’t listening to me. His movements were frantic, messy — childish, almost. He was acting on pure instinct, as if the rope itself was the only thing keeping the fear at bay.
“Ryan, listen to me!” Martin barked, the first crack in his composure. “You’re making this dangerous. This isn’t control — this is chaos.”
But Ryan didn’t stop. He dragged more rope across Martin’s thighs, cinched his knees together, lashed his ankles to the base of the shelving until Martin was more sculpture than man. The floor beneath him creaked with the strain of the knots.
And for the first time since I’d known Martin, I saw something close to fear in his eyes.
This wasn’t a scene of dominance anymore. It wasn’t even revenge. It was a frightened boy, high on power he didn’t understand, binding the world before it could bind him again.
Martin’s chest still heaved against the ropes, skin flushed from the shower, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The vulnerability of it — bare, restrained, breathing harder with every shallow inhale — only made Ryan’s hands shake more.
“Ryan,” Martin said, steady but strained. “Listen to me. You’ve gone far enough. This isn’t who you are.”
But Ryan didn’t answer. He was pacing now — three steps forward, two steps back — his breath coming in short bursts.
“Think about what you’re doing,” Martin pressed, voice rising. “This isn’t control. This isn’t power. This is fear. Your fear. And if you stop now, we can still fix this.”
“Fix this?” Ryan barked a laugh — a sound so brittle it almost cracked. “You think this can be fixed? You were going to tie me up like I was nothing. You were going to take him away. You always think you know better — but you don’t. You don’t.”
“Ryan. Stop.” Martin’s tone hardened. “I can’t breathe properly. You’re tying too much. You’re making this dangerous.”
Ryan froze for a second. His eyes were glassy, distant — and then something inside him seemed to snap. He stepped closer.
“You talk too much,” he whispered. “Always talking. Always explaining.”
Martin barely had time to draw a breath before Ryan grabbed a piece of cloth from the floor — something torn from discarded clothing — and crammed it firmly between his teeth. Martin groaned, his jaw forced wide, the sound muffled and useless.
“Shhh,” Ryan murmured, almost soothing. “No more words.”
Then came the tape. The first strip stretched tight across Martin’s lips, pressing the cloth deeper inside. Another followed, and another — each layer sealing his protests further, silencing reason beneath adhesive. Soon the tape wrapped halfway around his head, a thick, unbroken band pinning his cheeks and chin, each breath now coming through his nose in shallow bursts.
Martin thrashed against the ropes, muffled sounds breaking into angry, frustrated growls. The composure that had once defined him was gone. Now there was only confusion — and, beneath it, something that looked alarmingly like fear.
I lay there, hogtied and gagged, heart thundering against my ribs. Ryan’s movements were jerky, uneven, frantic — the movements of someone who no longer knew where the line was. The ropes had gone beyond restraint. The tape had gone beyond silence. And as he stood over Martin, panting, trembling, his eyes burning with something wild and uncertain, I understood a truth that made my stomach twist.
Ryan wasn’t in control.
Control had him.
And none of us knew how far it was willing to go



Time blurred.
I don’t know how long I lay there hogtied, the ropes biting deeper into my wrists and ankles with every useless twitch, the gag sealing my mouth into silence. The room was a haze of shallow breaths and frayed nerves.
Martin wasn’t speaking anymore — he couldn’t. The layers of tape plastered across his mouth turned every attempt at reasoning into faint, strangled hums. He sat bound to the shelving like a grotesque sculpture, ropes cinched so tight they carved angry red lines into his skin. His chest rose and fell quickly, too quickly. His eyes, once cold and calculating, now looked almost pleading.
Ryan stood in the middle of it all, trembling. His breathing was jagged, his pupils blown wide, as if adrenaline had hijacked his body. Every few seconds, his eyes darted between me and Martin, back and forth like a cornered animal trying to decide which threat to face first.
And then —
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
Ryan froze. His head snapped toward the hallway. Another knock, heavier this time. Then a voice, muffled but unmistakable:
“Ryan? It’s me. Open up.”
Matt.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry into the gag.
Ryan’s breathing quickened, panic spiking again. “Oh God… oh God, no, not now…”
Another knock. Louder. “Ryan, I know you’re in there. You texted me, remember? Said to check on you if you didn’t reply.”
He had texted. Probably hours ago — before everything had gone so wrong.
“Shit…” Ryan whispered, pacing in frantic circles, hands clawing through his hair. “I didn’t mean for him to actually come.”
From the other side of the door: “I’m coming in, man. I’m worried.”
A click. The door creaked open. Footsteps. Slow, cautious, moving deeper into the house.
“Ryan?” Matt’s voice again. “Where are you?”
Ryan backed into the wall, trembling. He looked at Martin — gagged, trussed, stripped of every ounce of authority. He looked at me — bound and helpless, breath shallow and fast. His lips moved soundlessly, a thousand possible choices chasing each other across his face.
The footsteps drew closer. A pause. Then the door to the room swung open.
Matt froze. His eyes widened as they swept across the scene: Martin, almost mummified in rope and tape; me, naked, hogtied on the floor, breath ragged; Ryan, a trembling silhouette at the centre of his own disaster.
“What the hell is going on here?” Matt whispered.
No one answered. No one could.
The silence roared. And for the first time since this had begun, it wasn’t clear who was in control — or if anyone was anymore.
Matt didn’t move at first. He just stared. Then, slowly, his voice dropped to a steady, careful register.
“Ryan,” he said, “put the rope down.”
Ryan didn’t. His chest rose and fell quickly, his pupils still blown wide from adrenaline. He took a step back, then forward again, pacing like a caged animal.
“Talk to me,” Matt tried again, moving slowly into the room. “What’s going on here?”
Ryan barked a nervous laugh. “What’s going on? Look at me, Matt. For once in my life I’m not the one getting pushed around. I’m not the scared one.”
“You’re scaring me,” Matt said quietly.
That landed somewhere. Ryan blinked, hesitating for a heartbeat, but then his eyes darted to Martin and hardened again. “He was going to tie me up. He was going to take Dylan away. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Ryan, this isn’t the way,” Matt said, holding his hands out, palms open, like he was approaching a cornered dog. “You stopped him. Fine. You proved your point. But look around you. This isn’t strength. This is panic.”
“Don’t call it panic.” Ryan’s voice cracked. “This is control. This is finally being in charge.”
Matt took another careful step closer. “You think this is control? Control isn’t how tight you tie a knot. It’s knowing when to stop tightening. And right now, you need to stop.”
For a moment, Ryan wavered. His breath slowed. The rope slackened in his hands.
Then Martin groaned into the gag — a low, guttural sound — and something inside Ryan snapped again. He swung his head toward Martin, trembling.
“Don’t start,” he hissed. “Don’t you start.”
“Ryan,” Matt said sharply, and the command in his tone made Ryan flinch. “Listen to me. If you keep going, you’re going to hurt someone. You don’t want that. I know you don’t.”
“I don’t…” Ryan’s voice faltered. “I don’t want to. But I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Matt’s tone softened. “You can. You’re stronger than this.”
Ryan’s gaze flicked between us — Martin, me, Matt — as if searching for an exit from the trap he’d built around himself. His breathing was ragged again, his hands shaking. Then, suddenly, he reached into his pocket and pulled the canister halfway out.
“Don’t make me use this,” he warned, voice trembling. “Just stay back.”
Matt froze. “You don’t need to use anything. You just need to let go. Right now.”
For a heartbeat, everything hung suspended — the air heavy, the room utterly silent except for three sets of uneven breathing.
One wrong move, and it would all collapse.
Martin, still naked and tied to the shelving, realised brute force would only shred his skin or wrench his joints.
Instead, he used the only power he had left — weight and leverage.
A subtle shift of his hips. A push from his heels. The ropes creaked. The furniture groaned as it slid a few centimetres. Then another push. And another. Thud. Creak. Slam. The wood hit the wall. Martin’s chest heaved, muscles trembling, sweat running down his bound body. This wasn’t panic — it was a signal: I’m still here. I’m still fighting.
Ryan flinched. The first sound he ignored. The third made his jaw clench. The fourth — a sharp bang — made him snap his head toward Martin.
“Stop that,” he shouted. Another shove. Another loud mmpphhh! from Martin’s gagged mouth — part defiance, part distraction.
It worked.
The second Ryan turned his head, Matt moved.
One heartbeat he was standing still. The next, he was on Ryan with the force of a storm.
The hiss of duct tape tore through the air. He ripped the canister from Ryan’s hand and hurled it against the far wall — it hit with a dull thud and rolled under a chair — then turned back with a fury I’d never seen on his face before.
“Enough.”
The word cut through the room, sharp and cold. He wrapped the tape around Ryan’s chest once, twice — over and over until his arms were pinned hard against his sides. Ryan squirmed, kicked, shouted, but Matt just kept going. Around his waist. His hips. His thighs. Layer after suffocating layer until he was little more than a shaking figure locked in silver.
“Matt—!” Ryan gasped, but the panic in his voice only grew when Matt dragged him bodily across the floor. I watched, still hogtied on the ground, as he shoved Ryan hard against the pole — the same pole I’d been tied to not long ago — and wound the tape tighter still, until he was welded to it, unable to move.
And just like that, all the fire drained out of him. His eyes darted around the room, then fell to the floor. “Oh God… what have I done…”



Matt’s breathing was heavy, jaw set tight. Then he turned to me.
“Let’s get you out of this.”
I felt the ropes loosen around my wrists, the tension finally slipping away. When he peeled the gag from my mouth, air rushed back into my lungs. My voice came hoarse, shaky.
“Help me untie Martin.”
Matt froze. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” My eyes flicked to the corner where Martin was still slumped, naked and bound to the heavy piece of furniture. “We were… playing our game.”
“Game?” Matt frowned, confusion creasing his forehead.
“It’s… complicated,” I said, breathless. “Martin and I… we have a story. In our way. Isn’t that right, Martin?”
He tried to speak, but the layers of tape swallowed his words into a wet, broken mmpphhh. It was enough. Matt sighed, muttering something under his breath, and knelt beside him. I followed.
The ropes were tight, biting deep into Martin’s skin. I watched his chest rise and fall as we worked, watched the marks appear as the knots came undone one by one. Red lines. Angry welts. The faintest trace of blood where the tape had torn.
When the gag finally came off — the damp cloth sliding from his mouth, the sticky layers of tape peeling from his cheeks — he drew in a deep, shaking breath. The sound of it almost made me shiver.
“How do you feel?” I asked. My voice sounded small, even to me.
Martin’s eyes met mine. “Oh, God… those ropes…” He glanced down at his arms, his chest. They were a mess of rope burns and pressure marks.
“You’re bleeding,” I murmured. My hands hovered uselessly near his skin, too afraid to touch.
He shook his head, lips twitching into a faint smile. “Just scratches, Dylan. Don’t worry.”
I swallowed. Something about the way he said it — calm, steady, almost reassuring — made my chest tighten. There was no anger in his voice. No hatred. Just a weight that hung heavy between us.
I looked around the room — Ryan taped to the pole, trembling; Martin, raw and bruised but unbroken; Matt, breathing hard, standing silent in the middle of it all — and felt the ground shift under my feet.
What the hell had we done?



The silence that followed was almost unbearable.
It wasn’t the soft kind of silence that comes when things have calmed down. This one pulsed — heavy, jagged, sharp — like the air right after an explosion you hadn’t realised was that close.
I sat back on my heels, finally free from the ropes, and looked around — really looked.
Ryan was taped to the pole, chest heaving, eyes wide and wet, staring at nothing. His earlier rage had vanished, replaced by something hollow and terrified. Matt still stood there, knuckles white around the half-used roll of tape, his jaw tight as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. And Martin… Martin sat slumped against the wood, his body mapped in angry rope marks, lips still glistening where the gag had been, breath trembling but steady.
And me. I was kneeling there, free at last, but feeling anything but free.
We’d crossed a line — or maybe a dozen of them — without even noticing. One moment this had all been a twisted game, a dangerous dance of power and trust, and the next it was something else entirely. Something darker. Something that could have gone so much worse.
I thought of Ryan’s face when he sprayed Martin. That brief flash — a boy who had never held power, suddenly drunk on it.
I thought of myself, hogtied on the floor, watching it all unfold and feeling something I still couldn’t explain.
And I thought of Martin, gagged and roped, still trying to reason with the boy who’d just overpowered him — the man who, not long ago, had made me realise how deep this rabbit hole could go.
It hit me then, harder than anything had so far: none of us were in control anymore.
Not really.
This wasn’t just about ropes and gags and games. It was about everything that had been simmering beneath the surface — anger, guilt, fear, desire — exploding in ways none of us had prepared for.
And we’d all nearly been swallowed by it.
My eyes lingered on Martin’s wrists, the skin raw where the rope had bitten deep. And for the first time that night, I wondered if maybe — just maybe — we’d gone too far to ever come back the same.
But beneath all that — beneath the fear and the guilt and the sick, trembling relief that no one was hurt — there was something else I couldn’t shake. Something I didn’t want to name.
Why hadn’t I screamed louder when Ryan first lost control?
Why hadn’t I begged Matt to stop when the tape kept wrapping around Ryan’s body?
Why, when Martin was gagged and helpless, had part of me still been… drawn to it?
The thoughts slid under my skin like splinters. They stung because they were true.
The truth was, a part of me hadn’t wanted it to stop. That same part that lit up watching Hale’s dungeon feed, that betrayed me when Martin first restrained me — it had thrived on watching the chaos spiral. And even now, seeing Martin’s wrists raw and Ryan’s eyes full of tears, that part pulsed quietly inside me, whispering: this is what it means to give yourself over.
I hated myself for it. And yet… I didn’t.
Maybe this was who I was now. Maybe Hale hadn’t made me this way — maybe he’d just stripped away the layers hiding it. Maybe Martin had only brought it into the light. And maybe Ryan, in his clumsy, terrifying way, had shown me how thin the line really was between control and surrender, trust and disaster.
I stared down at my hands — the same hands that had fought the ropes, clawed at the gag, reached for Martin when he finally let me breathe — and they trembled.
What scared me most wasn’t that we’d almost lost control.
It was how much of me wanted to.



The room had gone quiet again, except for the sound of Ryan’s breathing — short, broken, uneven. I turned toward him almost without meaning to. He was still taped tight to the pole, chest rising and falling like it might burst, cheeks streaked with tears that caught the dim light.
“God, Dylan…” His voice cracked, splintered into pieces. “Don’t you get it?”
I blinked, not sure I wanted to hear what came next.
“Everything I did,” he said, voice trembling but growing stronger with each word, “I did it for you. The sachet. The prank. My stupid, sloppy attempt to get back into Hale’s house and remove anything that could trace back to us — to you.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “What I endured down there… the humiliation of giving you away, saying your name — I did all of it for you.”
My chest tightened.
“For you,” he repeated, louder now, his voice almost a sob. “Because I… love you, Dylan. I’ve always loved you.”
The words hit harder than any rope ever had.
I stared at him — at the way the tape pinned his arms helplessly to his sides, at the way his tears streaked through the grime on his cheeks — and my thoughts scattered. I wanted to be angry. I should have been angry. But all I felt was this strange, aching pull, this sick mix of pity, confusion, and something else I couldn’t name.
Ryan dropped his head, shoulders shaking. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I messed everything up. But I just… I needed you to know. Even if you hate me for it.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat felt too tight, my thoughts too loud. The ropes and tape, the chaos and betrayal, Martin’s unreadable eyes — all of it blurred around the edges.
Somewhere deep down, a question I wasn’t ready to face began to stir: what if, under all the mistakes and madness, Ryan wasn’t wrong? What if some part of this was about me — about all of us — from the very start?
For a long moment, none of us spoke. The room was heavy with everything unsaid — Ryan’s ragged confession still hanging in the air, Martin’s quiet, unreadable gaze fixed on me, and me… stuck somewhere in between.
I swallowed hard, eyes drifting back to Ryan. He was still taped to the pole, cheeks streaked with tears, chest heaving with every breath. He looked so small now, so broken — and yet there was a raw honesty in his eyes that I couldn’t ignore.
“Ryan…” My voice cracked, and I had to start again. “Ryan, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you understand,” he whispered. “Say you feel the same.”
The words tore something open in me. Part of me did understand. Part of me ached for him — the boy who had risked everything, suffered everything, for me. But love… not like this. Not the way he meant it.
“I do understand,” I said quietly. “More than you think. But I can’t lie to you. What I feel for you — it’s not what you want it to be.”
Ryan’s eyes closed, his lips trembling. “Because of him?”
I glanced at Martin. He hadn’t moved, but something in his gaze shifted — not anger, not jealousy. Just certainty.
“It’s not because of him,” I said. “It’s with him. What happens between us — it’s different. It’s not love in the way you mean it. It’s trust. It’s surrender. It’s something deeper and darker and harder to explain. And I choose it.”
Martin finally stepped closer, his voice low but clear. “He’s not my prisoner, Ryan. He chose this. And he’ll choose again now.”
His eyes locked on mine, and for a heartbeat, the world went still. Everything that had happened — the prank, Hale, the ropes, the chaos — narrowed down to this single question.
“Do you want to stay here,” Martin said softly, “with me, as you are?”
The silence stretched. Ryan’s breath hitched. Matt shifted slightly behind me. And me — I stared into Martin’s eyes and felt something deep inside me stop fighting.
“Yes.”
It was barely a whisper, but it was the most certain thing I’d ever said.
“Yes,” I repeated, louder now, the weight of it sinking in. “I want this. I choose this.”
Ryan flinched, like the words had hit him. His head dropped, a sob slipping past his lips. “Then I guess I was never enough…”
I wanted to go to him, to untape him, to offer some piece of comfort — but my body wouldn’t move. Because the truth was brutal and simple: this wasn’t about being enough. It was about what fit, what called to me, what I couldn’t deny anymore.
Martin’s hand brushed my shoulder, grounding me, claiming me all at once. “Then that’s settled.”



Martin didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me for a long, searching moment — and then, without a word, he crossed the room.
I watched him open a drawer in the side cabinet, his movements unhurried, deliberate. Metal glinted under the dim light. The sound that followed — a soft, unmistakable click — made my breath catch in my throat.
He turned back to me, holding a pair of handcuffs. Simple. Steel. Heavy with meaning.
“Then you won’t mind,” he murmured, stepping behind me.
My pulse stumbled as the cold metal touched my skin. The first cuff snapped shut around my right wrist with a quiet click, then the second locked into place around the left. My hands were drawn gently but firmly behind my back, my shoulders shifting instinctively as the reality of it sank in.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t about control or punishment. It was a gesture — quiet, deliberate, final.
The cuffs weren’t there to trap me. They were there to remind me.
To remind me that this was my choice. That I had stepped willingly into this space. That I wanted to surrender — not because I was forced, but because I had finally stopped fighting the part of me that craved it.
Martin’s breath was close to my ear now, steady and calm. “Then this,” he whispered, “is where you belong.”
His words settled over me like a weight and a balm all at once. The cuffs were cold, the air around us still electric with everything that had happened, but inside me something shifted. Something gave way. The fight that had always been there — the denial, the shame, the self-disgust — loosened its grip and fell silent.
But then a sound broke through the hush. A low, broken exhale — half a sigh, half a sob.
I turned my head just enough to see Ryan. He was still taped to the pole, but his body seemed smaller now, his shoulders caving inward as though the fight had been knocked out of him. His lips parted, but no words came — just a wet, shaky breath and eyes that couldn’t meet mine for more than a second.
When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I get it now…”
It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t bitter. It was just… hollow. Like something inside him had cracked and gone quiet.
And that silence — that absence — hit harder than any shouting ever could.
I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was, he was right. He did get it now. And maybe, in some way, that hurt more than if he hadn’t.
Martin’s hand rested lightly on the back of my neck — a simple, grounding touch — and I exhaled slowly, my wrists still cuffed, my choice sealed.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the guilt and the ache and the weight of Ryan’s silence, a darker realisation settled like a shadow:

There was no going back from this.
Not for me.
Not for Martin.
Not for Ryan.
Not for any of us.



I didn’t expect Ryan’s final words to hit me the way they did.
After everything — the prank, the humiliation, the chaos — his voice still echoes in my head: I did it all for you. And maybe that’s why this story refuses to rest quietly. Those words change everything. They turn mistakes into sacrifices, recklessness into devotion, and they make it impossible to see Ryan simply as the boy who betrayed them.
Maybe, if we’re honest, those words will never stop echoing for Dylan either.
And maybe that’s why the ending hurts so much. Because it isn’t fair. Because love doesn’t always win. Because sometimes, no matter how hard someone fights for us, we walk a different road.
I felt a sting in my chest when Ryan said he loved Dylan — and an even deeper one when Dylan couldn’t give that love back.
I’m only the one passing on these fragments, but I’d be lying if I said they didn’t leave a mark. Because now, every choice Dylan made feels heavier, every silence Martin held feels louder, and Ryan’s tears — the ones he tried to hide — feel impossible to forget.
It should end here, and yet it doesn’t. Something about the way Ryan’s voice cracked, the way his eyes couldn’t meet Dylan’s, suggests this isn’t the final chapter. Maybe his story isn’t finished. Maybe love like his doesn’t disappear just because it’s unreturned — maybe it lingers, reshaping itself into something darker, quieter, harder to name.
I don’t know if we’ll ever hear from him again. But I have the feeling this silence is only the pause between breaths — and that somewhere, out there, Ryan is still searching for the words he hasn’t yet found.
Some stories don’t end — they wait, quietly, in the dark, for the next hand to pull the rope.

[blackbound]

Poor Ryan. I hope this doesn't end up hurting him (even) more than he deserves.

Wild back-and-forth between these characters. I think there's still hope they could come to an understanding.

[Htdgagfreak85]

Poor Ryan. I hope this doesn't end up hurting him (even) more than he deserves.

Wild back-and-forth between these characters. I think there's still hope they could come to an understanding.

Thank you, @blackbound , for such a thoughtful comment. That “back-and-forth” you mentioned is exactly what’s been haunting me too — the constant push and pull between devotion and damage, love and obsession, that seems to trap these characters in a loop they can’t quite escape. It’s messy, painful… and maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about them.

And then something unexpected happened. A few days ago, new messages appeared in my inbox — some from Dylan, yes, but others from someone I never thought would speak for himself. They changed how I see everything. They turned what I thought was an ending into a new beginning, one that feels far more complicated than before.

I won’t spoil anything, but I’ll say this: the story isn’t done. That relentless push and pull is far from over, and where it leads next might not bring the closure anyone’s hoping for. In fact, it might tear open wounds that were never meant to heal.

A follow-up is on its way — and it will shed light on sides of this story none of us have seen before.

[latin-self-bound]

Marvellous continuation!!
I really love how the interaction among the 4 characters was intense, and how the descriptions showed them as flawed, imperfect human beings (just like any of us). That makes me feel closer to them. It's logical that after all the damage done by and to the protagonist, the following chapter had to be impetuous and even chaotic.

Your narrative style is superb!! The way we as readers can watch -and feel- the whole situation through Dylan's eyes is extensive and captivating. Please continue developing the characters and telling the future events the former friends shall have to endure.

[Htdgagfreak85]

Marvellous continuation!!
I really love how the interaction among the 4 characters was intense, and how the descriptions showed them as flawed, imperfect human beings (just like any of us). That makes me feel closer to them. It's logical that after all the damage done by and to the protagonist, the following chapter had to be impetuous and even chaotic.

Your narrative style is superb!! The way we as readers can watch -and feel- the whole situation through Dylan's eyes is extensive and captivating. Please continue developing the characters and telling the future events the former friends shall have to endure.

Thank you, @latin-self-bound — you’ve been following these characters long enough to really understand where their pain comes from, and that means a lot. They’re messy, human, raw — and that’s exactly how I’ve always seen them. No heroes, no villains, just people trying to survive what they’ve done to each other.

Dylan still has things to say — and when he does, I have a feeling it’ll change how you see everything that came before.

[Htdgagfreak85]

I thought the story had reached its end. I really did.

I believed I’d shared everything worth telling — every secret, every scar, every word that could possibly matter. I told myself it was time to close that chapter and leave it to rest.

But then the messages came.

The first arrived days ago — from Dylan. It wasn’t long, but it shook me more than I want to admit. I didn’t share it right away. I couldn’t. I needed time — time to let it sink in, time to untangle the knot of emotions it stirred up in me. It felt raw, unfiltered, and heavier than anything he’d shared before.

The second came from somewhere I didn’t expect — from Ryan. He’d stumbled upon this story by chance, here on TUG, and he recognized it immediately. He knew who Dylan was. His Dylan. And something in him refused to stay silent. So he reached out — not to correct anything, not to rewrite what had happened, but to tell me what came after. To tell his side.

That’s when I understood this story wasn’t finished at all. It had only gone quiet, waiting for the courage to speak again. Because now, it wasn’t just Dylan’s voice reaching out from the shadows — it was Ryan’s too. And their truths don’t quite match. They never could.

What follows isn’t a continuation. It’s a reckoning — a weaving of two accounts, born from the same storm but shaped by different hearts. One is a story of surrender, written in trust and trembling hands. The other is a story of obsession, born from love that refused to stay love and became something darker.

Somewhere between those two voices lies the truth — if such a thing even exists anymore.

And so, I decided to share both messages, just as they reached me — raw, unfiltered, and painfully human. It’s up to you now to read between their words, to feel the weight of what they chose to reveal… and what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.


From Dylan

Nothing about that Wednesday at Martin's apartment suggested anything unusual.

The fan hummed lazily in the corner, the last of the summer light leaking through the curtains. A couple of beers sweated on the table between us, one half-empty in my hand. Nothing peculiar, nothing that said tonight would change anything.

But then I noticed the folder.
It was sitting there on the table, dark blue, perfectly aligned with the edge — too deliberate to be nothing. Martin hadn’t mentioned it, but his eyes kept flicking toward it, and the longer it stayed there unopened, the heavier the air felt.

“What’s that?” I asked finally, nodding at it. “Another one of your cleaning schedules? Or did I miss a pop quiz?”

Martin didn’t smile. “It’s for you,” he said. “Something I want you to look at.”

That should have been my cue to stop joking, but humour has always been my first defence. “For me? What is it, a certificate of bravery? Best performance in a hostage scenario?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just slid the folder toward me, slow and careful.
When I opened it, the neat stack of papers inside made my mouth go dry.

“Contract?” I read the bold header out loud. “Are you planning to sell me a used car or something?”

“Read it,” Martin said. His voice was calm, measured — but there was a weight behind it that made my pulse skip. “All of it. Then we’ll talk.”

I skimmed the first paragraph, then stopped. My name. Full name — Dylan Carter — printed in stark black letters across the page. And below it, a sentence that made my stomach twist:

I, Dylan Carter, hereby declare that I am entering into this arrangement of my own free will…

“Oh, wow,” I said, forcing a laugh I didn’t feel. “Sounds serious. Should I get a lawyer?”

Martin’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. “It is serious.”

The folder wasn’t just a few pages. It was thick — too thick — printed on heavy paper, clipped neatly into place. My name stared up at me again from the front page: Dylan Carter. Underneath it, in the same bold font, Martin Graves.

And beneath that:

Mutual Agreement of Voluntary Restraint
Between Mr. Martin Graves (hereinafter referred to as “the Custodian”) and Mr. Dylan Carter (hereinafter referred to as “the Subject”).

I stared at the words for a long second. “Custodian?” I muttered. “Sounds like you’re about to put me in a museum.”

“Keep reading,” Martin said calmly. “It’s important you understand what you’re agreeing to.”

I flipped the page and began to read aloud — partly for myself, partly to break the tension coiling in my chest.

Clause 1 – Voluntary Submission.
I, Dylan Carter, hereby declare that I am willingly and knowingly consenting to a period of voluntary restraint and captivity lasting no less than 48 hours and no more than 72 hours.
During this period, I understand that I will be physically restrained, deprived of clothing…

“‘Deprived of clothing’?” I echoed, eyebrows raised. “You make it sound like I’m being extradited, not tied up.”

“Would you rather it be vague?” he asked evenly. “If you’re going to give me this level of trust, you deserve to know exactly what you’re agreeing to.”

“… deprived of movement, and prevented from communicating verbally unless expressly permitted by the Custodian.

I set the paper down, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “So, let me get this straight. You’re telling me I have to sign an actual contract just to let you tie me up and gag me for a weekend?”

“To let me restrain you completely,” he corrected. “To let go. Not for an hour or two — for days. This isn’t a game, Dylan. It’s a deliberate choice. And I want you to make it with your eyes open.”

“Sounds like a holiday brochure,” I said dryly. “But with fewer cocktails.”

Martin smirked but didn’t interrupt. I flipped to the next page.
Clause 3 – Methods of Restraint.
The Subject understands and accepts that restraint may include, but is not limited to: the use of handcuffs, rope, chains, locking devices, gags, blindfolds, hoods, body harnesses, spreader bars, and other bondage equipment.
The Custodian will retain full discretion over the choice and duration of these restraints, provided that my safety is not endangered.

“‘Other bondage equipment,’” I read, eyebrows raised. “That’s reassuringly vague.”

“It’s called legal coverage,” Martin said. “I don’t want you claiming I breached the agreement because I used a karada instead of a hogtie.”

“God forbid,” I muttered. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the paperwork. Oh, and what the fuck is a karada? Just—what, some kind of IKEA sex swing? Or do I need to watch a YouTube tutorial first?”

Martin’s mouth twitched. “It’s… actually a rope harness… never mind. Maybe I’ll show you.”

I turned another page and felt my mouth go dry.

Clause 5 – Basic Care and Welfare.
The Subject acknowledges that during the period of restraint, his basic physical needs — including nutrition, hydration, and bodily elimination — will be managed at the Custodian’s discretion.
The Subject further accepts that traditional bathroom breaks may not be provided, and that alternative methods for managing such needs may be employed.
The Subject will not interpret these methods as abuse, provided that they are safe and hygienic.

I looked up sharply. “At your discretion? ‘Alternative methods’? Should I be worried?”

Martin’s tone stayed level. “It means you won’t be wandering off to the bathroom every few hours. You’ll stay restrained. I’ll handle things.”

“Handle things,” I echoed. “That’s one way to phrase it. Anything else I should ‘handle’ before we start this little adventure?”

“You’ll be fed and watered,” Martin said simply. “Don’t expect fancy meals or beer.”

“Well, there goes my dream of a five-star kidnapping,” I muttered. “Do I at least get dessert?”

He ignored the joke, nodding toward the next clause.

Clause 7 – Mental and Emotional State.
The Subject acknowledges that the experience may cause feelings of helplessness, vulnerability, or arousal. The Subject accepts these outcomes as part of the arrangement and understands that they do not constitute harm.

My laugh came out sharper than I intended. “Helplessness, vulnerability, or arousal. You covered all the bases there, didn’t you?”

“It’s better if we don’t pretend,” Martin said softly. “You know what this is. We both do.”

“Okay,” I said, flipping a page. “Let’s see what else you’ve got here… Oh, good. A safeword section. How reassuring.”

“It’s important,” Martin said. “The safeword is Perseverance.”

I blinked at him. “Perseverance? That’s not a safeword, that’s a motivational poster.”

“It’s not something you’ll say by accident,” he explained. “That’s the point.”

“Right. Because if I’ve got a ball gag shoved halfway down my throat, I’ll just recite a Shakespeare monologue. That word is impossible to say when you’re gagged”.

I set the paper down and, without thinking, opened the nearest drawer in Martin’s cabinet. I knew what I’d find. Martin kept all his “equipment” meticulously organized — gags, cuffs, zip ties... I pulled out a bright red ball gag, the kind with silicone straps and a mouthpiece chunky enough to make speech a joke. Martin watched, face unreadable.
I turned the gag over in my hands, then popped it between my teeth and cinched it tight behind my head. The bite of rubber on my molars brought back a hundred memories, some of them good, some of them not — but I forced myself to confront the feeling, to own it. The straps pulled my mouth open until my jaw ached. Saliva pooled fast. I tried to speak the word.

“Pffffhh—pfffrrrr—vrrr…”

I tried again, louder.

“Pffrr—sssvv—rr”

Martin cupped my chin, thumb digging into the hinge of my jaw, and unbuckled the ball gag. He eased it out with a slow, wet pop that left my lips buzzing and my teeth slick with spit.

“See?” I muttered, thick-tongued and defiant. “You could say ‘catastrophe’ easier than that word. Maybe go with something less motivational next time.”

“If you’re gagged, there’s a gesture,” Martin said, demonstrating a small circle with his finger. “Do that, and everything stops.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A circle. Sure. Because I’ll definitely be free to do interpretive dance with my hands tied behind my back. Because last time I definitely had enough room to wave my hands around.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them — and the memory hit immediately after. The ropes from last time, biting deep. The marks that had taken days to fade. My wrists still bore faint traces if you knew where to look.

I realised I was already hard: the thought of that weekend, despite all the legalities written in that contract, was enough to get me aroused. The bulge in my shorts was unmistakable. I shifted slightly, trying to adjust myself. It didn't help much.

Martin's eyes flickered downwards and back up again, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Nervous, Dylan?"

"Fuck off," I muttered. I hated how Martin could read me so easily.

Martin smirked. "I wasn't referring to your witty comebacks."

Before I put it down, though, Martin’s voice slid across the space between us, low and deliberate:

“There’s one more clause you should read.”

The subject acknowledges that the relinquishment of agency is total. While the Custodian will not inflict intentional harm, the Subject understands that restraint may result in physical marks, fatigue, or psychological stress, and agrees that these are inherent aspects of the experience to which he consents. The Subject also agrees that all forms of protest, verbal or physical, expressed during the restraint period shall be treated as part of the consensual scenario and not as a revocation of this agreement.

I let out a shaky breath. “So if I beg you to stop, you’ll just ignore me?”

“If you use the safeword, I’ll stop,” Martin said. “If you don’t, I’ll assume you don’t want me to.”

It was a terrifying thought. And yet — my pulse raced, a hot, insistent thrum in my chest. I felt the heat build low and sudden, and before I knew it, the telltale strain against my shorts was unmistakable.

I stared down at the contract again. Two copies. My name printed on both. Two signature lines at the bottom of each page — one for Dylan Carter, one for Martin Graves. My pen would go beside his. And once it did, there’d be no pretending this was just a game.

“So,” I said, aiming for levity but hearing the thinness in my own voice, “what happens if I breach the agreement? Do I owe you damages? My Netflix password?”

Martin didn’t answer the joke. He just looked at me, gaze steady, patient. “If you sign this,” he said quietly, “you’re giving me control for the weekend. All of it.”

His smile deepened just slightly. “It’s still about trust.”

There it was again — that word. Trust. And beneath the sarcasm, I knew he was right. My wrists still bore faint shadows from the last time he’d tied me. The memory of not moving an inch, of being held so completely that it felt like my body wasn’t my own, flickered behind my eyes. It was terrifying. And intoxicating.

Martin leaned forward slightly. “Do you trust me?”

I swallowed. “Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”

“Then sign.”

My hand shook as I picked up the pen. The pages felt heavier now, each clause like a weight pressing down. I hesitated, one last question slipping out — small, shaky, and honest.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?”

Martin’s eyes softened. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

I signed. Once on my copy. Once on his. Two names, side by side — Dylan Carter and Martin Graves — bound together in black ink and quiet understanding.

The contract was folded neatly, one copy slipped into a folder and handed to me. The other vanished into a drawer.

“Well,” Martin said finally, voice low and certain. “Now that it’s official…”

From beneath the coffee table, he pulled a coil of rope — familiar, soft, and ominous. A roll of black tape followed, landing beside it with a muted thud.

“…let’s make sure you spend this night properly tied up.”

He paused, letting the silence thicken, his gaze never leaving mine. I felt the weight of his intent settle in the room—heavy, certain, impossible to ignore.

“Don’t fight this.”

Martin’s voice was barely above a whisper, but there was steel underneath. It wasn’t a request, not really — more like a truth he was coaxing me to admit. “It’s what you want,” he murmured as he stepped closer. “What you need me to do.”

I swallowed, hard. The air between us had shifted; it wasn’t casual anymore. It wasn’t teasing. Every inch of space seemed charged now, humming with intent.

He reached for the hem of my T-shirt. I could have stopped him — lifted my arms, stepped back, said no. But I didn’t. My breath caught as the cotton slid up my chest, over my shoulders, and off. The room felt cooler instantly, the air prickling against my skin.

“Good,” Martin said, so softly I almost missed it. “Just breathe.”

When he moved behind me, I knew what was coming. My heart hammered, half anticipation, half instinct. The rope brushed against my wrists — gentle at first, then firmer, more certain as he crossed and cinched them together behind my back.

The rope tightened, rough against my wrists, each tug drawing a sharp breath from me. My skin prickled under Martin’s hands. I couldn’t stop my hips from shifting or the way my cock throbbed, trapped heat building with every small, involuntary movement. Bound and helpless, I felt my body responding—betraying me with need.

The knot tightened with a quiet finality. My hands were no longer mine.

“See?” Martin’s breath ghosted my ear. “You’re already letting go.”

He shifted to stand before me again, and this time his hands hooked into the waistband of my shorts. My chest rose and fell faster now. I didn’t protest. I just let the fabric slide down my thighs and pool at my feet. I stepped out of them when he nudged me to.

“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself. “Exactly where you’re meant to be.”

I was already trembling when he pushed gently against my shoulders, guiding me down onto the sofa. The cushions dipped beneath me, swallowing me into their softness as he knelt and lifted one ankle, then the other.

The second length of rope came next — firmer, surer — circling my ankles and drawing them together with deliberate care. A tug here, a twist there, each one a reminder of how easily he could claim every inch of me.

I couldn’t help it—my toes curled, calf muscles flexing instinctively, body straining against the growing confinement. The more he tightened, the less room I had to move, and the harder my cock throbbed in response. My breath hitched, sharp and shallow, chest rising in quick little bursts as the restriction deepened. The sensation—half pain, half pleasure—sparked everywhere at once: the dull ache of pressure, the drag of rope, the brush of Martin’s fingers as he checked each knot. Helpless, I shivered, pulse pounding, overwhelmed by how easily he could make my body respond, how badly I wanted him to take control.

When the last knot was tied, he stepped back, just far enough to see the work of his hands—wrists bound behind my back, ankles lashed together, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. My cock was so hard, already slick with precum, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

“You’re not fighting,” Martin observed. “Not really.”

“I’m not sure I could,” I admitted, voice unsteady, a bead of sweat trickling down my temple.

He smiled—small, knowing. “That’s the point.”

He leaned over me, close enough that his breath brushed my lips. “You’ve spent too long pretending you want control. But this…” His hand traced the line of rope at my wrists, feather-light. “…this is where you stop pretending.”

The weight of his words settled deep inside me. My pulse thundered in my ears, every nerve alive, every instinct screaming to pull back—and yet I didn’t. I sank into the ropes, into the steady gravity of his presence, my cock twitching, leaking more precum as I let myself fall, surrendering to the dark, consuming need he stirred in me.

Martin crouched down again, eyes fixed on me with that same unreadable calm. Without a word, his hands moved to my trainers, tugging one heel loose and then the other until both slipped free and thudded softly onto the floor.

“Can’t have you walking anywhere,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

Next were the socks — those thin, low-cut ones that barely reached past the arches of my feet, the kind that stayed hidden when you wore shoes. He peeled them off slowly, one by one, his fingers grazing my skin, sending a shiver up my spine. For a fleeting second, I thought he’d just toss them aside.

But then I saw what he intended.

“Wait—” I started, but the word barely formed before he balled the first sock in his hand, then the second, pressing them together into a damp, compact mass. My breath hitched, a mix of anticipation and dread.

“Open,” he said simply, his voice a low command that sent a thrill through me.

I hesitated—a heartbeat, no more — and then my lips parted. The bundle slid past them, the rough texture of the fabric scraping against my tongue. The taste was warm and salty, a mix of sweat and skin that filled my mouth. I tried to swallow involuntarily, the muscles in my throat working against the intrusion. Martin’s hand was firm, guiding the socks deeper until my jaw ached, and the first muffled sound slipped from my throat. The gag took hold, my breathing shifting to short, shallow gasps, each inhale pressing the fabric tighter against my tongue, every exhale a struggle against the constriction. My chest heaved, the sensation overwhelming, as I surrendered to the helplessness of being silenced and bound.

“Better,” he whispered. “Much better.”

The silence that followed was no longer silence. It was heavy, deliberate — punctuated by my uneven breaths and the faint, humiliating wetness gathering at the corners of my lips. Martin stepped back to look at me — naked, bound, barefoot, and now silenced by something so ordinary it felt obscene.

“You see?” he murmured. “Even now, you’re still trying to talk. Still trying to hold on.”

“Mmmpphh…” The sound was barely human, swallowed and muted by the cotton stuffed deep inside.

Martin only smiled. “But that’s not your job anymore.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


I wish I could tell you I slept much that night, but the truth is I didn’t. Bound and gagged the way he left me, I drifted somewhere between exhaustion and awareness.

Martin didn’t push me past my limits — not really — but he made sure I remembered what I’d signed up for. The ropes came and went in waves: wrists bound behind my back, then ankles pulled tight; a hogtie that left me gasping through the gag, then a spread-eagle that made every twitch feel like a confession. At one point, I was tied to a chair so securely I could feel my pulse in the knots.

It wasn’t brutal. It wasn’t meant to be. It was a reminder — a carefully choreographed preview of what surrender really meant. Every time I thought he’d finished, another restraint, another silence, another test of how far I’d let him go.

My skin prickled under the ropes, every nerve lit up. I was already half-hard, hips twitching against the restraints, breath hot in the dark. It wasn’t just about getting off anymore—being tied up did something to me, made my head go quiet and my body ache. I needed it more than I wanted to admit.

By dawn, I was drained but strangely calm — like some part of me had already accepted the path ahead. And yet, even that night, I sensed it had been nothing more than a warm-up.

Whatever awaited me that weekend would make this feel like nothing at all.

Maybe that’s why I agreed to meet Ryan the next evening.

Part of me told myself it was just a catch-up — two friends grabbing a drink, nothing more. But deep down, I think I needed to breathe before the plunge. I needed to feel like myself again, just for one night, before the weekend stripped that illusion away.

I hadn’t planned to text him. It just… happened. Maybe I wanted to see a familiar face before the weekend. Maybe I needed someone who knew enough about the mess I’d made to listen without asking too many questions.

The pub was quieter than usual — a Thursday night lull. Low music hummed beneath the clink of glasses, and the amber glow from hanging lamps cast everything in a soft, almost forgiving light. Ryan was already there when I arrived, tucked into a booth in the corner with two bottles of Carling on the table.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said when I slid into the seat across from him.

“I almost didn’t.” I took one of the bottles, twisting it open. “But then I figured I could use the company.”

“You look knackered,” he said.

“Didn’t sleep much,” I admitted, sliding into the seat opposite. “Busy night.”

It was meant as a joke, but even to my own ears, it sounded too heavy. And maybe that’s why Ryan kept watching me, like he was waiting for me to tell him more.

The first bottle went down too fast. The second followed quicker. My thoughts loosened with the alcohol; everything that had been sealed behind my teeth now sitting dangerously close to the edge.

“Martin came by,” I said eventually.

Ryan’s brow furrowed. “Martin?”

“Yeah. He… proposed something.”

“What… kind of something?”

I stared at the condensation sliding down the neck of the bottle. “A weekend. Just him and me. But not like—” I gestured vaguely. “Not like a trip. More like… surrender.”

Ryan blinked. “Surrender?”

I laughed again, softer this time. “That’s the word he used. He wants me to sign a statement saying I agree to be restrained. Completely. For the whole weekend. No clothes, no control, no questions.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Ryan’s grip on his beer tightened, knuckles paling. “And you’re actually considering it?”

“I already signed.”

His eyes widened. “Jesus, Dylan.”

I shrugged, feigning a casualness I didn’t feel. “It’s not like I was tricked. I know what I’m agreeing to. He said I’ll be cuffed, gagged, blindfolded… transported somewhere I don’t know.”

Ryan’s jaw worked silently. “Transported?”

“In a car. Maybe in the boot.” I laughed again, but it sounded brittle even to me. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I trust him.”

He stared at me for a long time, something complicated swirling behind his eyes — worry, anger, something darker. “Trust,” he repeated quietly, like the word itself was foreign. “I don’t think I could ever do that.”

“Maybe that’s the difference between us.”

I didn’t mean it to sound cruel, but it hung there, sharp and unyielding. Ryan didn’t respond.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the contract, the paper already creased from how many times I’d unfolded it. My hands shook a little as I slid it across the table. “Here. Look for yourself.”

Ryan stared at it for a second, then took it from me. His eyes traveled over the lines—every clause, every signature—while the page quivered between his fingers.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered again. “This is real.”

“Of course it’s real.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the alcohol loosening my tongue further. “Maybe because I needed someone else to know. Maybe because it scares me, and I want to pretend it doesn’t.”

The third bottle had been a mistake.

By the time I hit the fourth, I’d stopped pretending I was just there for the company. The world had gone pleasantly soft around the edges, and Ryan’s worried face across the table only made me want to tease him more.

“So yeah,” I said, my voice looser than I meant it to be. “This weekend’s going to be… interesting.” I watched him stiffen, exactly as I knew he would. “Apparently, I’m supposed to be naked for most of it. Tied up in more ways than I can count.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Dylan—”

“What?” I leaned closer, grin crooked. “You think that’s weird? You think I’m weird?”

“That’s not what I said.”

I laughed — too loud, too sharp. “Come on, admit it. You’re picturing it now. Aren’t you?”

He looked away, but that flicker in his eyes was all the answer I needed.

“I know you,” I said, lowering my voice, the alcohol giving me courage I didn’t deserve. “You’re getting hard just hearing it.”

I let my hand drift lower, fingers tracing the seam of Ryan’s jeans until they hovered over the obvious swell at his crotch. My touch was light, almost thoughtful, as if I was considering some philosophical point instead of running my palm over the thick outline of his cock. I watched his breath hitch, shoulders tensing…

“Imagine it,” I murmured, “Me, hogtied—wrists yanked back, ankles pulled tight, gag shoved in my mouth so all I can do is moan while I’m stuck on the floor, completely helpless.” My thumb pressed a little firmer over his bulge, feeling the heat and hardness, testing how far he’d let me go.

“Bet you’d like to watch that, wouldn’t you?” I added, smirking, my tone skating that line between teasing and daring, hungry for any reaction.

But Ryan caught my wrist before I could push the provocation any further. “Stop it, Dylan. You’ve had too many beers tonight.”

For a second, the room steadied. His grip wasn’t rough — just firm, grounding. I could’ve pulled away. I didn’t.

Instead, I smirked — that same mask I always wore when things got too close. “Guess I should save it for my weekend job then, right?”

Ryan exhaled hard, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Maybe he was right. But the truth was, I didn’t want to know. Knowing would’ve made it real. And right then, with the beer and the heat and Ryan’s hand still half on mine, I wanted to feel untouchable — even if that meant pretending I wasn’t terrified of what I’d signed up for.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The air outside was thick and warm, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel slower than it really is.
Ryan kept close as we left the pub, his hand brushing my arm once or twice — not holding, just steadying.

“Let me drive you,” he said. His voice had that edge again — part concern, part something else.

I almost made a joke, something about how he didn’t need to babysit me, but the words came out slurred, so I just handed him the keys. “Fine. You can play chauffeur, Doctor Responsibility.”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the passenger door and waited.

The ride was quiet. The streetlights blurred past, pools of gold in the dark. The hum of the engine filled the silence we couldn’t. I kept replaying the look he’d given me at the table — that mix of pity and something heavier — and it made me restless.

“You’re really judging me for this, aren’t you?” I finally said.

“I’m not judging,” he muttered. “I just don’t understand how you can trust him like that.”

“It’s called faith, Ryan. Something science doesn’t explain.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Faith? In a man who wants to—” He stopped himself. “You barely know what you’re walking into.”

I turned in my seat, the movement sloppy but deliberate. “Maybe that’s the point.”

I leaned in, letting the seatbelt bite into my shoulder, close enough that the smell of beer on my breath drifted between us. My thigh pressed against the console, edging just a little closer to Ryan as he focused on the road. The air inside the car felt thick, every inch between us buzzing with tension, and I watched the line of his jaw tighten, curious how close I could get before he’d crack.

He glanced at me, then back at the road. “You’re drunk.”

“So what if I am?” I murmured. “Doesn’t mean I don’t see the way you look at me.”

“Dylan…”

“Don’t ‘Dylan’ me.” I smiled — the kind that never reached my eyes. “You think I didn’t notice? Every time you flinch when I talk about Martin. Every time you pretend you don’t care.”

I shifted closer, close enough that the space between us thinned to a heartbeat. “Tell me you haven’t imagined it.”

Ryan’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Stop it.”

But I didn’t. I reached out — or maybe I just fell forward — and my lips brushed his. Just a second, light, stupid, enough to make my chest ache the moment it happened.

The second our lips met, time seemed to slow down. My heart hammered in my chest, as if trying to break free from my rib cage. Ryan's lips were soft and warm, just like I'd always imagined they would be. The moment stretched on, each passing second eternal, yet not nearly enough.

The buzz of alcohol in my system dulled my inhibitions, leaving only the heat between us, the desire I'd longed to act on but had been too afraid to acknowledge. I knew it was wrong, that I was drunk and maybe didn't mean it, but in that moment, none of that mattered.

I felt Ryan's hesitation, the way his lips trembled against mine, unsure, but not pulling away. Emboldened, I pressed forward, deepening the kiss. My tongue darted out, seeking his, and for a split second, he met me—soft and hungry, lips parting, his breath mixing with mine as we lost ourselves in the heat.

He broke it first. His breath came uneven, his voice low but steady. “You’re drunk, Dylan. Let’s not do something we’ll both regret in the morning.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. I leaned back, staring out the window, the glow of the streetlights cutting lines across my reflection.

“Right,” I said quietly. “Regret. I’m full of those lately.”

Neither of us spoke again.

The rest of the drive was a blur of headlights and silence, the kind that settles too deep to shake off.

When we reached my place, he parked but didn’t turn the engine off right away. I opened the door, the night air sharp against my face.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, my voice thin.

Ryan nodded. “Get some sleep, Dylan.”

As I stepped out, I caught my own reflection in the side mirror — flushed, half-smiling, pretending I hadn’t just made everything worse.

[Htdgagfreak85]

Author’s Note

I thought Dylan’s message would be the last one — a final confession before silence.
But a few nights later, I received something unexpected. Not through the usual channel, but through the TUG Stories private message system.


The sender was Ryan.


I wasn’t sure whether to open it at first. Part of me feared what he might say — or what he might confirm. But curiosity won, and as I read, I realized this wasn’t an answer to Dylan’s words. It was a counterpoint.


Where Dylan’s letters breathe surrender, Ryan’s pulse with guilt and confusion.


His story begins the moment Dylan steps out of the car — in the silence that follows, when everything unsaid between them finally begins to speak.

Ryan's message

I hadn’t planned to go up with him.

Honestly, I thought I’d just make sure he got home in one piece, then leave. But Dylan wasn’t steady on his feet. He was half-laughing, half-slurring, and when he dropped his keys twice trying to unlock the door, I followed him inside before I could talk myself out of it.

The flat was dim and warm, with a lived-in smell of books and old wood polish. The fan in the corner hummed lazily. He stumbled to the sofa, mumbling something about the weekend — “Martin’s got it all planned, you know, gonna keep me naked the whole time, see if I last…” — and then laughed, like it was a joke.

I didn’t laugh. Something about hearing it in his voice — that mix of pride and fear — twisted in me.

He grabbed another beer from the table and dropped onto the sofa beside me. “Bet you’re imagining it now,” he said with that crooked grin. “Me, tied up again. You always said you couldn’t picture why I’d let anyone do that, right?”

I told him he’d had enough to drink. He ignored me, leaning closer. There was a shine in his eyes — not just from the alcohol.

Then he said it: “Come on, Ryan, admit it. You’re hard, aren’t you?”

The words hung there — too loud, too intimate.

I froze. He reached out, fingers brushing my thigh, and the air changed — thick, charged.

“Stop it, Dylan,” I said quietly. “You’ve had too much.”

But he didn’t. His hand pressed a little firmer, testing, teasing, and I felt my pulse stumble.

I should’ve stood up. Should’ve left. Instead, I stayed — caught between guilt and a gravity I didn’t understand.

My words died on my lips as Dylan slowly, purposefully, began to undress. Button by button, he unfastened his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. The fabric slid to the floor, revealing his slim, wiry chest, with a pale line of hair trailing down his stomach. His hands moved to his fly, and I felt my heart lurch into my throat.

“Dylan, you don’t have to—”

He cut me off with a glance. “I want to.”

He whispered something then, so soft I almost didn’t catch it.

“Tie me up, Ryan. Please.”

It wasn’t playful anymore. It was a plea — raw, unguarded, the same tone he’d used when he told me about Hale.

I shook my head, but he was already moving — pulling a length of rope from the drawer near the sofa, the kind of rope no one keeps by accident.

He held the rope out like an offering.

For a heartbeat, I didn’t move. Then I reached for it. The fibres were coarse, faintly waxed, the kind you’d use for climbing or work, not play. It left dust on my fingertips.

“Ryan,” he whispered, “please.”

It wasn’t the alcohol talking anymore. The sound came from somewhere far more sober — almost desperate.

I looped the cord once around his wrist, not tight, just enough to test how it felt to pull. His breath caught.

“Like that,” he said.

I didn’t mean to keep going, but my hands knew what to do. A second loop. A knot. Another pull.

The slack disappeared, and suddenly his wrists were joined behind his back.

For a moment I just stared — at the way the rope sank into his skin, at the faint tremor in his shoulders. My pulse was hammering, too loud, like it might give me away. I barely knew what I was doing. But somehow it didn’t matter. The rope guided me more than I guided it.

He shifted, testing the hold, and the sound of the fibres tightening sent a jolt through me. His breath caught — quiet, deliberate — as if acknowledging what had just happened between us.

I drew in closer, my knees brushing the floor beside him. My fingers brushed the rope again, correcting a twist, tightening one last coil. It was clumsy, not the practised precision of someone who knew, but there was something raw in that imperfection — something real.

He looked over his shoulder, a faint smirk flickering through the tension on his face.

“Didn’t think you’d actually do it,” he murmured, voice low.

I swallowed hard, the words stuck somewhere between apology and fascination. I didn’t reply. I just watched the ropes rise and fall with each breath he took, watched the way the light from the window carved along his chest as he shifted against his bonds.

I hadn’t meant to go this far. But now, with the knot tight and his wrists secure, I knew there was no taking it back.

The second length of rope was lying in the same drawer where Dylan had found the first. I hesitated for a heartbeat before taking it, feeling its roughness against my palms. I wasn’t sure what I was doing — not really — but my hands moved as if they’d already made the decision my mind hadn’t caught up with.

“Like this?” I murmured, crouching by his feet. He didn’t answer, just watched me, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. The silence made everything sharper — the scrape of the rope against skin, the rhythm of his breathing, my own heartbeat pounding somewhere in my throat.

I looped the cord once around his ankles, then again, pulling until the coils settled snug against him. It wasn’t perfect, but it held. When he flexed, testing the restraint, the fibres creaked and tightened, and the sound made my stomach twist in a way I couldn’t name.

My eyes fell on the roll of tape in the drawer. I didn’t think — I just grabbed it. The first rip echoed in the quiet room. The scent of adhesive filled the air as I wound it around his thighs, then higher, binding his arms to his sides in wide, uneven layers. It was messy, improvised, but the effect was… complete. His chest rose against the tape, every breath deliberate, controlled.

I stood there for a moment, breathing with him. My fingers hovered near the tape, not sure whether to add more or stop. Then I caught sight of one of his socks on the floor — soft, grey, slightly crumpled. I picked it up before I even realised why.

“Do you want me to… gag you?” I asked.

Dylan didn’t speak. He just opened his mouth — slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving mine.

My throat went dry. I pressed the sock in gently, feeling the warmth of his breath against my fingers before it disappeared behind his lips. He didn’t flinch.

I tore a strip of tape and sealed it over his mouth, the sound loud and final. Then another layer. And another. Until the shape of his lips disappeared under the smooth, silvery surface.

For a moment, I could only stare. The quiet between us changed — heavier, charged. His eyes said everything words couldn’t.

That’s when I reached for the last rope.

For a heartbeat, I just stared — the way the rope dug slightly into his skin, how his shoulders drew tight, chest forced forward. He shifted, testing, and the creak of the rope filled the air. It wasn’t pain I saw on his face, just awareness — of me, of the tension between us.

“On your stomach,” I whispered, the words surprising even me.

He nodded once, slow, and I helped guide him down. The tape around his chest caught faintly on the fabric of the rug as he turned. His breath came short through the gag, the sound muffled but steady.

I slid the rope through the bindings on his wrists, looping it down between his ankles. My fingers fumbled once, then found rhythm — a tug here, a pull there, until his body arched slightly, taut and complete. The final knot settled under my thumb.

He exhaled into the tape, a quiet, resigned sound that rippled through me. I sat back on my heels, watching him test the tension — the subtle movements of his shoulders, the faint twist of his bare feet. The ropes answered each motion with soft, deliberate resistance.

It wasn’t expert work. It wasn’t clean. But it held.

The sight of him — naked, bound, silent, still — made something deep inside me go still too. My hands trembled slightly, resting on my thighs, half afraid to touch him again.

I hadn’t meant to go this far. But now, with the hogtie cinched tight and Dylan lying before me, the truth pressed hard against my chest.

I didn’t want to stop.

For a long moment, I didn’t move. The room seemed to shrink around us, the air thick with something I couldn’t name. Dylan’s breath came through the tape — slow, steady, rhythmic. The rise and fall of his back against the ropes drew my eyes in and wouldn’t let go.

I could see every detail — the tense curve where his shoulders strained against the tape, the pale flesh of his round naked buttocks, the faint reddening where the ropes pressed into his skin, the way his hands flexed uselessly against the knots… He looked helpless. But he wasn’t afraid. That was what undid me.

My palms were still warm from the rope. I could feel my pulse in them, matching his. I told myself I should undo it — untie the knots, peel away the tape, say it had gone far enough. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

He shifted, a small, deliberate movement, and the ropes creaked again. That sound — soft, fibrous, alive — hit something deep inside me. I hadn’t realised until that moment how much I’d wanted to hear it.

I leaned forward, my hand hovering an inch above his back. The warmth of his skin reached me even through the air. The muscles beneath the ropes moved with each breath, restrained but not broken.

I caught myself smiling — not out of pride, not even satisfaction, but disbelief.

What had I just done?

It should’ve felt wrong. Maybe it did. But beneath the confusion, there was something else — something raw and magnetic that I couldn’t push away.

He turned his head just enough to meet my eyes. His gaze was calm, unreadable, but there was a spark in it — the kind that tells you this moment wasn’t a mistake for either of us.

That’s when I realised it wasn’t just curiosity anymore. I wasn’t tying him to see what it felt like. I was tying him because, for the first time, I felt completely alive.

I stayed there, barely breathing, watching him.

Then I saw it — the smallest shift, a tightening of his body against the ropes. It took me a second to understand what I was seeing, and when I did, a rush of heat hit my face.

He was aroused.

Of course he was.

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. My mind went blank, my stomach flipping somewhere between panic and something darker, deeper. The air in the room changed — thicker, heavier, alive with a silence that said too much.

I drew in a slow breath, forcing myself to look away, but my eyes came back on their own. Dylan was lying there, bound, breathing through the gag, his chest rising against the tape. There was no shame in his eyes. No fear. Just a calm acceptance — maybe even invitation.

And that scared me more than anything.

He rolled on his side, the ropes creaking with the effort, and I caught my breath. His erection strained against the bindings, flushed and rigid, the tip glistening with a pearlescent bead that caught the dim light as it traced a delicate thread down the underside of his shaft. The sight of it — so vulnerable, so honest — made my mouth go dry.

I felt the urge to reach out, to test that line neither of us had spoken about. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

My hands clenched against my knees.

“Jesus, Dylan…” I whispered, almost to myself.

That was when it hit me — how far we’d gone, how close we were to something we might not be able to take back.

I exhaled hard, breaking the spell, my voice barely steady.

“I think… we should stop,” I said. “Now. Or we’re really going to have something to regret in the morning.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then a slow, quiet nod. The ropes creaked as he relaxed, the tension dissolving into the still air.

I reached for the knots, my fingers trembling, undoing what moments ago had felt inevitable. The fibres loosened one by one, until his wrists were free, then his ankles. I peeled the tape from his mouth gently, feeling his breath brush my hand as the last strip came away.

He didn’t speak. Neither did I.

For a while, neither of us moved. The ropes lay in loose spirals on the floor, the tape crumpled beside them like shed skin. The air still carried that faint scent of it — fabric, sweat, something electric that didn’t fade.

Dylan sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists, testing his shoulders. His hair was a mess, his skin flushed in places where the rope had pressed. He looked wrecked — and beautiful.

I stayed where I was, cross-legged on the floor, trying to steady my breathing. The silence between us wasn’t awkward. It was full. Charged. I could still hear the echo of every sound from a few minutes ago — the rip of the tape, the creak of rope, his muffled breath.

He glanced at me then, eyes half-lidded, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Guess you’re better at it than you thought,” he said, voice low, a little rough.

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because I might believe you.”

That earned the faintest smirk, then silence again. He leaned back against the edge of the bed, looking at me like he wanted to say something more but didn’t.

I pushed myself to my feet, suddenly aware of how hot the room felt. “I should go,” I said. “We—” I stopped myself. “Let’s just say we stop here.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

But as I turned toward the door, I could feel his eyes on me — calm, unreadable, but with that same glint from before. I hesitated, hand on the handle, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t.

I stepped out into the hallway, heart still beating too fast.

The door clicked shut behind me, but the moment didn’t end there. It followed me down the corridor — the sound of his breathing, the feel of rope in my hands, the unspoken question that neither of us had answered.

Maybe stopping was the right thing.

Or maybe it was just the beginning.

__________________________________________________

The rain had started at some point while I was inside, and now the street was soaked, each pavement tile shining up at me in little fractured mirrors. The temperature had dropped enough that my arms broke out in goosebumps as soon as I hit the air. I didn’t run for the car, even though it was only a dozen metres down the alley. I needed the cold. I needed the rain. I needed something to remind me there was still a world outside the room I’d left behind.

My boots left muted splashes in the puddles. Every footfall was a wet slap, but I took my time. There was no one else out. Only the dull sodium light pouring a yellow sickle over the kerb, and the distant rumble of another car a few streets away.

I stopped under the lamp. Water collected on my neck and rolled down the spine of my shirt. I stared at my hands, outstretched, the fingers still slightly curled inwards, as if they expected more rope to be handed to them. The knuckles were a little red, and there was a faint dark line across my right palm from the last knot I’d tied. It would fade by morning, but I imagined it would itch long after.

I flexed my fingers and brought them to my face. The smell of the hemp was still strong, but it mixed with sweat and something saltier — something I tried to name, but couldn’t. I scraped my thumb along the base of my finger, feeling the tacky slick left by the last time I’d cinched a knot. I closed my eyes and pressed both hands to my face, as if I could wipe away the memory. I couldn’t.

It was all still there. The feel of Dylan’s skin, hot and tense under the ropes. The soft, pathetic mmmpph behind the tape gag — not a word, not even a plea, just a sound. But what really stuck was the look in his eyes when I pressed the sock in — that flicker of defiance, gone in a second, replaced by something wild and frightened and bright.

I let out a breath, slow and shaky, fogging the air in front of my mouth. I couldn’t decide if I was more ashamed of what I’d done, or of how good it felt.

The city was silent. No traffic, no footsteps, just the slow drip from an overfilled gutter somewhere behind me. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the car key, and stared at it for a long minute before I let myself move. The lock beeped, a sad little confirmation, and I slipped inside, pulling the door shut hard enough that it rattled.

The interior smelt of wet seats and air freshener, with a faint undertone of the weed Dylan had stashed in the glovebox months ago. I ran my hands over the steering wheel, squeezing it until my knuckles threatened to go white. The urge to hit something — the dashboard, the glass, my own skull — pulsed just under my skin. But I didn’t. I just sat there, hands locked at ten and two, eyes fixed on the distorted world of the rain-streaked windscreen.

In the rear-view mirror, the building loomed, only a couple of windows lit. I wondered if they were still awake inside — Dylan, maybe showering the sweat off, maybe pacing the floor, maybe already forgetting what I’d done to him.

A fresh wave of memory hit me, as sharp as a slap.

The way the rope had drawn tight around his arms, pulling his chest up and out. The way his nipples stood out against the tape, flushed and hard, every breath making them twitch. The way his thighs tensed as I wrapped the tape around them, the muscles under his skin shifting, bunching, surrendering. The look he gave me when I picked up the sock — surprise, then acceptance, then something else I couldn’t name.

Even now, the taste of it haunted me.

I realised my heart was thumping loud enough to shake my vision. I dropped my forehead to the top of the steering wheel, tried to breathe through it, but the ache in my chest wouldn’t go down. My whole body felt tight and raw, like I’d been in a fight and lost, but was still too proud to admit it.

I thought about Dylan’s voice, the last words before I taped him up for good: “You like this too, don’t you, Ryan?” Like it was a dare. Like he’d seen something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself, or maybe just refused to look at until now.

I jerked my head up and started the engine, if only to drown out my own thoughts. The headlights lit up the waterlogged street and cast everything in a harsh, antiseptic glow. I waited for the heater to push a little warmth into the air, but it took its time, so my breath made little clouds on the inside of the glass.

The rear-view caught my face. I looked like shit: eyes too wide, lips bitten raw, hair plastered down from the rain. There was something new in my expression too — a tremble in the jaw, a little extra tightness in the mouth. Like a dog that’s been kicked but is already deciding to bite back.

I gripped the wheel tighter and put the car in gear.

The rain turned the streets into rivers of neon, every sign and window smearing across the windscreen in bright, useless colours. I let the city flow past without really seeing it. My hands drove; my brain ran loops.

Dylan’s body under me, the way he’d arched up when I finished the hogtie. His breath, ragged, through the gag. The way he’d looked back, one last time, to see if I was watching. Like he wanted me to be watching.

My stomach twisted. I pressed my thighs together and tried to think of something else, but it was pointless. Every memory was a fuse leading back to the same explosion.

I wanted to say I was disgusted. That I hated myself for what I’d done, for what I’d wanted. But it wasn’t that simple. There was something else, something blacker and stickier than guilt. The way my cock had pressed against my jeans when I saw him gagged, naked, bound. The way my hands shook when I touched him — not from fear, but from wanting it too much.

The urge to hit something came back, so I punched the steering wheel — once, hard, enough to make my wrist tingle. The sound was flat and dull in the small space, but it made me feel better, for a second.

At the next red light, I put the car in park and leaned back, closing my eyes. My head lolled against the headrest, rain drumming the roof in an unsteady pattern. I slid my hands down to my lap, palms pressing flat against my thighs, trying to will away the pressure building there.

It didn’t help.

I saw Dylan’s face again, close and desperate, lips forced apart by the mass of his own sock, the tape stretching the corners of his mouth. I saw the veins in his arms, the little shudders in his shoulders as he twisted against the ropes. I saw his cock, hard and flushed, drooling onto his belly even as he lay totally helpless. I saw the raw honesty in his eyes — no fear, just the knowledge that he was wanted. That he was being seen.

I let out a long, shaky breath and tried to focus on the wet blur of the world outside the windscreen. The rain had picked up, turning the traffic lights into spinning halos of red and green. The night felt hollow and infinite. There was nothing left to do but drive.

I didn’t have a destination, so I just kept moving. Letting the city thin out around me, letting the dark get thicker. After a while, the buildings shrank to two-storey houses, then to chain-link fences and empty lots. The air tasted cleaner, or maybe just less like regret.

I pulled over beneath another streetlamp, this one flickering like it was about to burn out. I put the car in park, left the engine running, and leaned forward, head pressed to the cold glass.

I stayed that way for a long time, letting the rain fog the window in front of my mouth. My thoughts cycled: memory, shame, want; memory, shame, want. It didn’t get easier. It didn’t get less.

I thought of Dylan again. The way he’d smiled after I untied him. “Guess you’re better at it than you thought,” he’d said. Like it was a joke, but there was nothing joking about the way he looked at me.

My hands crept to the wheel again. The ache in my chest, in my cock, in my head, was still there. I squeezed the wheel until my hands ached, until I could feel the little pulse of my heartbeat in every fingertip.

I didn’t know how long I stayed like that — maybe minutes, maybe an hour. Eventually, the heater caught up and warmed the air, but I didn’t move. I just watched the water race down the windscreen in little rivers, erasing the world on the other side.

I thought about what would happen if I went back. If I let myself into Dylan’s flat again, woke him up, tied him up again — only tighter, only rougher. If I made him admit what he wanted, if I made myself admit it too.

The idea made me shiver. I wanted to say it was fear, but it wasn’t. It was something else.

I put the car in gear and drove home, my hands steady now. The rain was still hammering the windscreen as I parked up on the street outside my flat. I let myself in, peeling off my soaked clothes as I went, leaving them in a sodden heap on the bathroom floor.

That same image of Dylan naked, bound, and gagged replayed in my mind like a loop I couldn’t escape. My hand went instinctively to my hard cock, and I couldn’t help it…

I wanked, reliving the memory of tying him up, the feel of the ropes in my hands, the way he’d looked at me.

As I finished, I clamped my teeth into my fist, swallowing back a guttural noise that would’ve given me away. The relief was brutal, sharp — but the shame hit even harder, roiling in my gut. Fucking hell. What had I just done? What the fuck was I turning into?

And when sleep finally came, it wasn’t rest — it was a trap.

Because in the silence between dreams, I could still hear him trying to speak through the gag.

A sound that belonged to no language, but still said everything.

And I knew I’d hear it again.

Author’s note

Ryan’s message hasn’t stopped echoing.
There’s something in it — raw, unfiltered — that leaves a mark you can’t quite shake.
For days, I thought that was the end. That his words had said everything that needed saying.
But I was wrong.

A new message arrived.
This time, from Dylan.

It wasn’t long, but it didn’t need to be.
He said things with Martin have gone too far — further than he ever imagined — and that Ryan’s presence still hangs over him like a shadow.
He wrote that he doesn’t know what’s real anymore: fear, desire, guilt — they’ve all blurred into one.

He doesn’t want to keep writing, not this time.

He says he needs to talk. Face to face.

He asked if I’d meet him, said he was booking a flight, that he’d be here tomorrow.

I told him he didn’t have to.
He said he did — that he couldn’t trust anyone else to listen, not even himself.

He knows I’ll write about it eventually. He reminded me of the pact — the one I made with you, the readers — to tell his story as truthfully as I can, no matter how dark it gets.
He says he’s ready for that.
But first, he needs me to hear it from him, in his own voice.

He’s staying at a hotel not far from here.
He says it’s discreet, that we’ll meet at the bar in the lobby, late tomorrow evening.

I don’t know what he’ll tell me.
Maybe it’s closure.
Maybe confession.
Or maybe it’s just another descent into the dark that neither of us can quite escape.

Either way, he’s coming.
And I’ll be there.

[blackbound]

Very complex and realistic updates there, complicating things further, perhaps? We'll have to see what happens next. I can't tell where you're going with the story, and that's a lot of fun.

[latin-self-bound]

I loved the update!!! The feelings are described in a way I mysekf can ffel them, and I remember some situations I've had with friends and TUG's that make feel confused, ashamed, guilty and wanted.

You are doing a very good job with this story and these characters. I want to know how the meeting with Dylan results.