My rusty F-150 sat in the darkening shadows at the far end of the school's student lot. The distance felt like miles after running all of those hills. I began to put the key in the door, and then froze. There was a package sitting on the passenger seat, wrapped neatly in black paper. I opened the truck's door, hopped in, and grabbed the mysterious package- aside from my parents, only one person knew where I hid my spare key.
Attached was a small, folded piece of the same paper used for the wrapping. The note inside read: "Open now." With my heart beating slightly I tore the paper from the package. Inside was a plain cardboard box. I used my key to slice away the packaging tape. I felt a twinge of excitement as I removed the contents of the box. It was a black leather head harness muzzle! I loved head gear, and had drooled over these on the net, but could never afford the $200. For a moment I stared at the many leather straps and locking roller buckles. Excitement of a different kind was suddenly present as well.
I noticed that some of my teammates were getting into their cars not more than a few dozen feet away, and I shoved the muzzle back into its box- this was a secret I intended to keep. However, just as I was about to replace the cardboard flaps my eyes fell on a note scrawled on the inside of the box itself: "Did you look in the bed?"
I hadn't. I spun around in the driver's seat and immediately noticed a large black duffle bag. I flew from the truck and jumped into the bed, using the rear tire as a step. Crouched down, I began unzipping the bag.
"Last chance for beer, Hunter!" Chris, our captain, shouted this from the passenger window of another teammate's car. I shook my head absentmindedly, without even looking up. He could have asked if I wanted a million bucks and I probably would have responded the same way. That's how transfixed I was on the contents of the bag that had only been unzipped a few inches. "Suit yourself, birthday boy," said Chris, shrugging as he was driven away.
Inside were many, many coils of a wonderfully soft, half-inch diameter black rope!! I ran my fingers over what had to be well over 200 feet of just what I needed. I felt around inside the bag a bit more. With the exception of yet another note, the contents seemed to be nothing but tons of rope. Not that I was complaining or anything. The note made my heart pound, my breath quicken and, well, my growing excitement return. "Come to the barn- now! Happy 17th, Hunter!" is all it said.
I was on autopilot. Before I knew it, I was on the bumpy back road that lead to Ian's dairy farm. I laughed, realizing I had butterflies in my stomach. It was just Ian- we had been messing around like this since we were twelve! This, however, seemed different. Ian spent some serious money, and had apparently done some careful planning. The anticipation was growing unbearable as I spotted the silos of his family farm and smelled the 400 head of cattle. The country road was riddled with potholes from countless Vermont winters, and it was a relief to finally pull into Ian's mercifully smooth driveway.
I was almost shocked to see the farmhouse dark, and both of his parents' vehicles gone. This was strange, I thought. Farmers NEVER go away, especially dairy farmers. "Them cows ain't gonna milk themselves," was Ian's dad's famous complaint, though you have to imagine the thick Yankee accent. Regardless of the strangeness of it all, there it was- an abandoned farm.
The note said "Come to the barn." To anyone else, this message was worthless. There were a dozen outbuildings on the property that a flatlander would have called barns. However, there was "the" barn where Ian and I had played since early childhood- barns were great places to be tied! I drove down the gravel pathway past the house and two enormous, low-slung buildings that held the milking herd. To the right were seemingly endless acres of harvested corn.
I rounded a corner near the silos and spotted "the" barn, and saw Ian's ATV sitting outside, but no Ian. I parked the truck and got out, carrying the box containing my treasured new toy. Ian emerged from behind the barn's huge sliding door. He had the most devious grin on his face, one that I will never forget. Without saying a word he strode over and hugged me! "Happy birthday, dude!"
I was at a loss for words. Ian and I were very comfortable with each other, in many ways, but the hug was a bit unusual. "No offense, man, but you reek," laughed Ian.
"Hey, I had a double practice, and your note said to come NOW! Anyway, what the hell is going on here... this place is always buzzing. Where are your folks?"
"My great aunt or something DIED! My parents had to go to Maine!" said Ian, almost enthusiastically.
"Uh, sorry, I guess," I responded.
"It's okay, I didn't know her. Now it's time for you to shut up, birthday boy!" laughed Ian with that same grin. He grabbed the box from under my arm and pulled the muzzle from inside.
"Outside?" was all I had time to mutter before being shoved against the truck as Ian aggressively placed the muzzle harness over my head. Within what seemed like seconds he had the six roller buckles tightened around my neck and head. He spun me around and bent me over the hood of the truck- remarkably like a cop- pinning my arms behind my back. Before I knew it, I was handcuffed! I didn't even resist- why would I?
Even if I wanted to, I knew that I couldn't overpower Ian. Now, I am certainly no weakling. Playing both soccer and baseball since junior high had left me in damn good shape, and the coaching staff's relentless training programs had given me a gym-toned body, even at sixteen (going on seventeen)! Regardless, Ian was a farm boy, and had been doing demanding chores since he could walk. He was naturally a bit stockier than me, and had gravitated toward football and wrestling in school, and had the muscles to show for it. We were both about 5' - 10" with similar athletic endurance, but when it came to brute force, I was simply outclassed by Ian.
I was still in my practice gear- red mesh gym shorts with boxer briefs underneath, and a light gray T-shirt with the school's eagle mascot on the front and my last name on the back. I hadn't even removed my Adidas cleats or nasty, sweaty soccer socks. No matter how inappropriate for the circumstances, Ian always wore his tan Timberland work boots, untied and with the tongue hanging loose, and thick tube socks pushed down to his ankles. his only other clothing was a pair of yellow Under Armour shorts. The strange combination made him look damn hot.
It was warm for late September, and some of Ian's messy light brown hair was matted to his forehead. My close-cropped, darker brown hair was mostly hidden beneath the muzzle's harness. Ian removed the duffle bag from the bed of my truck and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed my upper arm with his other hand and led me into the dimly lit, though familiar barn.
This building was too far from the farm's main dairying operation to serve as anything more useful than long-term hay storage, and managing that was Ian's job. No one would bother us until early tomorrow morning, when a few farm hands would arrive to help with the milking.
Ian sat me on a stool, still handcuffed and muzzled, as he unpacked the contents of the duffle bag. He gathered up a large armload of rope and carried it toward the center of the barn where two massive wooden beams, separated by about five feet, rose up to support the roof. My eyes were about to follow Ian walk back toward the remainder of the rope when I spotted it. On one side of each beam- those that faced each other- Ian had installed a number of evenly spaced heavy lag eye-bolts. They were spaced about six inches, and rose roughly ten feet up each beam. Hanging from each eye-bolt was a three-inch steel ring!
These were certainly put there by Ian. They were shiny and new. He saw me examining his handiwork, and my reaction underneath my shorts. He approached me, pulling a handful of small padlocks from his pocket. One by one, Ian locked the six roller buckles on the harness, watching me intently as he did. He grabbed the front of my shirt and stood me up. Without saying a word, Ian unlocked the cuffs, and lifted the T-shirt over my head. He took me by the arm again and led me toward the beams, bristling with heavy steel hardware!
Ian picked up a coil of the thick, soft rope from the ground and tied my hands in front of me, tightly, leaving many feet of rope hanging. As a farm boy, Ian knew his knots. They never came undone. As if he knew exactly how this should unfold, Ian quickly retrieved another coil. He found the center, and wrapped it around one of my elbows, leaving the two unused ends hanging. He did the same on my other elbow. I stood there, breathing heavily through my nose, hands bound, and ropes hanging from each arm. Suddenly, Ian grabbed me and pulled me close to him. He whispered into my ear, "Ready?" All I could do was nod.
Ian grabbed the free end of the rope that bound my hands, bunched it up, and flung it over his head, where it passed over a rafter beam. I looked up and saw a final ring anchored in the beam, centered between the two support columns. With the surefootedness of someone who had been doing this his whole life, Ian climbed a ladder and was walking among rafter beams above my head. He found the rope, and passed it through the ring, allowing the last bit to fall back toward the barn floor.
Within seconds Ian was back, standing before me, and with the loose end of the rope in his hand. Grabbing my shoulders, he guided me between the two beams. Satisfied with my position, he pulled on the rope. My bound arms rose above my head. Ian pulled some more, and then tied off the end of the rope to one of the many rings to my sides. My arms were pulled taught, but not uncomfortably so.
He ran a finger up my side and across an armpit. I shuddered, and cried into the muzzle. I looked at Ian with pleading eyes, hoping he would take pity. He knows I can't take tickling. Ian reached for me again, but I lunged out of his way. He chuckled, "You won't be doing THAT for long!" He grabbed the stool that I had been sitting on and placed it at the base of one of the beams. Standing on it, he took the ropes hanging from my right elbow. Ian passed the ropes through two different rings to my right- one just above and one just below my elbow. The ropes were knotted, but only temporarily - they would be adjusted later, and tighter. Ian did the same to my other arm, effectively preventing me from moving side to side, or from front to back for that matter.
I watched as Ian grabbed a rather large coil of rope, which he doubled up. He draped this doubled rope over my shoulders, with the middle resting against the back of my neck. Ian then used the long remainder of both doubled ends to tie a harness on my upper body. He crossed the two ends over my chest, brought them around my back, and then back to the front where he tied the ends together. Each end was then passed through a ring on opposite beams, and then back toward me where they were tightly cinched at the back of the rope harness.
Ian stood back for a minute, admired my predicament, and then began to tickle my torso and armpits mercilessly. I shrieked into the muzzle and fought against the ropes with every ounce of strength I could muster. After an eternity, which was probably only like a minute or two, Ian paused as I hung there in defeat, huffing and puffing through my nose. Sweat was now dripping off of me. Ian took this opportunity to adjust and tighten the ropes at my sides, eliminating the small amount of slack that my thrashing had caused. He grabbed the D-ring on the collar portion of the muzzle harness to get my attention. "Shall I continue?" My slight moan beneath the muzzle, as well as my shorts, must have been acknowledgement enough- Ian grabbed for yet another coil of rope.
Ian wrapped this rope around my waist a few times before tying it off in front. He gave my nicely toned abs an affectionate slap before threading the loose ends through yet more rings at opposite beams before tying them off.
I was slipping into that state of euphoria that good bondage usually brings about when I felt Ian grab my foot, bringing reality back into focus. "Oh shit, don't tickle my feet!" I thought with rising panic. And he didn't. Not yet. He pulled off my cleats, followed by the endlessly long, red soccer tube socks.
"These are just gross!" Ian laughed. There was that grin again. He stood up, and stuck the ends of both socks under one of the straps of the muzzle that ran across my forehead. Racked out as I was, and being able to breath only through my nose, it was impossible to avoid those foul, sticky socks! I thrashed around some more, finding that I pretty much stayed in position if I kicked my legs out! Ian had really gotten good with rope!
I settled down, and again Ian's hand was on my ankle. He was wrapping it with the same black rope, creating a thick band. My other ankle was tied in an identical manner. The remaining rope leading from each ankle was held in one of Ian's hands. In the other was a three foot long homemade spreader bar with eyebolts screwed into each end. Was this really happening? It was as if Ian had reached into the deepest recesses of my mind, the home of my darkest fantasies.
"Let's see how much you can take," Ian said, almost to himself. He pushed my feet apart, causing the ropes anchoring my hands and arms to bear more of my weight. Ian quickly tied my ankles to the ends of the spreader bar, and the slack on each side was cinched to the bottom rings on the opposing beams. I hung my head to survey my predicament- the endless feet of rope crisscrossing my torso and limbs. Ian stood no more than inches from me, and asked, "Enjoying yourself?" He knew that I was, though I was pretty much beyond rational communication.
"Almost done," said Ian softly. I grunted between deep, slow breaths. He wrapped the middle of a doubled up rope around the upper part of each thigh, leaving two ends. These were tied to their respective posts with one rope above and one below where the opposite ends were tied to my legs. "God damn," I remember thinking, "he's doing the same to my knees!"
I thought that it was almost artful, the way that Ian had managed to totally immobilize my entire body- well, nearly. I didn't register the fact until my muzzled chin was thrust suddenly upward, but Ian had tied yet another length of rope to the D-ring on the top of the head harness. The opposite end had been threaded through the same ring that anchored my arms to the beam above. When had this happened? The thought occurred to me that if it weren't for the muzzle, I'd probably be drooling.
Racked out in midair- that's the only way to describe it. I allowed the ropes to take control of my body- making no conscious effort to support my own weight. My eyes had been closed, but I felt Ian's presence and opened them. He was pressed against me, hugging, again. He whispered into my ear, "Happy birthday, Hunter."
