It was his third visit. The previous two had been both passionate and intense. Nonetheless, Dylan was trembling slightly as I gave him a quick, welcoming hug. Was it nerves? Excitement? Both? He stared at the floor, blushing slightly. "Thank you for inviting me back, sir," he said, failing to make eye contact.
Sir. I can't seem to get used to being called sir. I've never demanded it of my subs, nor have I encouraged its use. Dylan, however, is one hundred percent sub, where as I'm a true switch. Adherence to the master/slave dynamic is a major part of what turns Dylan on, and I'm happy to accommodate- he's damn cute, after all. Just under six feet, with a slim, though athletic, build. Sandy, what I'd call "skater" hair, hung down over Dylan's blue eyes. I guess you could call him a stereotypical college sophomore- for Vermont, anyway.
I wanted to set the tone for the evening, deciding to save pleasantries and small talk for later. Besides, the kid was clearly exuding tremendous sexual energy. I ripped the duffle bag from Dylan's hand, tossing it aside. A ski bum like myself, Dylan was wearing a Burton hoodie, which I pulled over his head without warning. Still only standing in my foyer, Dylan was already stroking a hard-on beneath his well-worn and torn jeans.
Grabbing Dylan by his bicep, I dragged him into my living room then bent him over the arm of a leather sofa. From my jeans pocket I pulled a gleaming pair of hinged Smith and Wesson handcuffs. Dylan saw, and positioned his arms behind his back without prompting. The cuffs were snug, but not too tight. "Uh... thank you, sir," Dylan muttered as I pulled the black Converse sneakers from his feet without undoing the laces. Leaving his thick white sweat socks, I wrenched Dylan's jeans down to his knees, revealing his red Calvin Klein boxer briefs.
Dylan's jeans were soon in a heap on the floor. From another pocket, I retrieved a set of heavy Clejuso leg irons. German precision and heft- like nothing made in the U.S. I knew that the feel of cold steel clamping down upon Dylan's socked ankles and the smooth, satisfying ratcheting of the leg irons were working a special magic on my eager sub. Gripping his bicep, I pulled Dylan from the sofa and into a standing position. Dripping pre-cum had stained the boy's briefs, and I couldn't resist giving his crotch a few rubs. Dylan pushed against my shoulder with his head, moaning. "Uhhhh, thank you sir!" he stammered as I pulled my hand away.
The night's festivities would take place in the basement, but not before a quick trip to the loft for gear selection. "Upstairs," I commanded.
"Yes, sir," replied Dylan, obediently. The short, ten-inch hobble of the leg irons made it difficult to climb the twelve stairs, though I maintained my hold on Dylan's arm as we climbed. The chain slapped noisily against the hardwood as my captive fought his way up the stairs. Hanging from the central beam under the loft's vaulted ceiling was a single stout chain that extended almost to the floor.
The chain bristled with gear. There were restraints for every conceivable use: wrist, ankle, thigh, arm, and suspension. Some were padlocked to the chain, while others were attached with snap hooks and carabineers. Among the restraints were collars, floggers, blindfolds, and an impressive variety of one of my most enduring fetishes- headgear. There was the Israeli military gas mask, along with its counterpart of Russian origin. Below these- about seven feet from the floor- were hoods; two leather and one rubber. Scattered about were other sundry gags: bit, plug, and ball. Finally, hanging at eye level due to their frequent use, were the head harness muzzles of varying composition and complexity that have long been my favorite form of head gear. Easily one hundred pounds of limitless possibilities hung from that chain.
Of course, I had already planned out and prepared for the intense bondage that Dylan was about to endure, though I wanted him to choose his headgear for the evening. Dylan had seen my "bondage tree" before, but stood transfixed nonetheless, taking in the variety of restraint devices before him. I pushed him into the column of leather, rubber, and steel. "Do you want to be gagged? Hooded? Muzzled?" I asked as Dylan regained his balance. The sub's eyes scanned up and down, finally settling in the direction of the hoods.
"That one. With all the straps," said Dylan enthusiastically, with a glint of excitement in his eyes.
I was surprised. My sensory deprivation hood is not for the faint of heart, nor is it for the panic-prone. "Are you sure? That thing's a trip by itself."
"Yes, sir. I think I can handle it. It looks awesome!" Dylan was an overgrown boy after my own heart, I thought. A fully adjustable sit-up bench sat in the center of the room. The backrest was positioned at roughly a sixty degree angle.
"Sit with your chest against the bench," I ordered.
"Yes, sir." Dylan sat. I removed a sixty inch long, two inch wide, double pronged buckling strap from a trunk filled with other leather goodies. With this strap I encircled Dylan's arms and torso, along with the backrest, securing him to the often-misused piece of workout equipment. Kneeling near Dylan's hobbled feet, I unlocked the shackle from his right ankle. The hobble was short, but I managed to pass the chain over the frame at the underside of the bench. I reconnected the shackle, though now both of Dylan's ankles were lifted from the floor. "That feels great, sir," said the boy.
The hood was fastened to my perverse "bondage tree" with a snap hook. Dylan followed my every move with keen interest. A brief moment of apprehension seemed to flash across his face as I retrieved the complicated sensory deprivation hood from the hanging chain. He stared at the leather cocoon with intensity as I approached the bench. With Dylan's slender body strapped so securely to the bench, there was plenty of room left for me to join my captive on the seat. I sat against Dylan- my chest against his back- and plunged him into a world of leathery darkness.
I wrenched down on the collar of the thickly-padded hood, fitting it snugly against Dylan's head. His entire body tensed in response- the effects of sensory deprivation took immediate control. The lacing went quickly, and this alone made the hood conform to every contour of Dylan's face and head. My captive pulled against the leg irons and handcuffs as I cinched a bow just above the collar. I spoke near the thick padding covering Dylan's right ear. "I want to see your tongue."
An inaudible murmur came from the single nickel-sized opening that must be lined up with the wearer's mouth. If Dylan could stick his tongue through the air hole, I knew that he could breathe. "Stick out your tongue, slave!" I was confident that the last word would rouse Dylan back to his senses. The pink tip of Dylan's tongue shone momentarily through the breathing hole. I was satisfied. I buckled the hood's built-in collar- snugly, but not too snugly. The constriction of a tight collar, together with the strict confinement of the hood, could have easily brought on a spell of panic in a relative novice such as Dylan. I had pushed Dylan to his limits on each of his previous visits, and this one would be no different.
There were two other reinforcing straps on the exterior of the hood. One crossed over both Dylan's padded ears and eyes. Cinching of this particular strap prevented even the wearer's eyelids from opening, and blocked out nearly all sound not actually intended for the sub. Dylan was stock still as I buckled this strap, as well as the last, which passes under the chin, effectively limiting his ability to open his jaw.
I sat back momentarily, admiring my willing captive. Dylan's feet were wrenched upward to my left and right by the short hobble of the Clejuso leg irons. I ran my fingers over both of Dylan's socked feet simultaneously as he shrieked through the hood and fought the single, highly effective strap securing his upper body and arms to the sit-up bench. The chain hobble clanged against the steel of the bench's frame as Dylan exerted a tremendous amount of energy in a pathetic attempt to avoid my fingers.
Dylan's shrieks turned to grunts after at least a full minute of ceaseless torture. I removed my fingers from his left foot, continuing to tickle Dylan's right. With my free left hand, I covered a quarter of the hood's breathing hole... then half. Dylan's heavy breathing grew increasingly frenzied, though I tickled with even greater ferocity. Then, for no more than a few seconds, I plugged the breathing hole completely. Dylan's body shuddered as each of his muscles flexed involuntarily, only relaxing when I saw fit to grant my boy the oxygen he so desperately needed.
I stood abruptly, allowing Dylan to catch his breath and recover as I retrieved a three foot spreader bar from a closet. Dylan sighed as I unbuckled the strap securing his torso to the bench. I positioned the spreader across Dylan's back, under the crook between his forearms and biceps. Eager to aid in his restraint in any way possible, Dylan held the spreader in position with is arms as I gathered an armload of tan buckling straps. I sat again, behind Dylan, with a number of the long, versatile leather straps draped over my shoulder and around my neck.
Leaning in close to Dylan's ear, thickly sheathed, I asked, "Is the boy okay?"
Dylan's response was quiet, but clear. "I love it, sir."
Good, because I'm just getting started, I thought with a grin. Still perched on the bench behind Dylan, I encircled the boy's arms at the elbows with one of the straps, just below the spreader. I did the same above the spreader, capturing both biceps with this second strap. I adjusted the straps so that all slack was removed from each. Then, by advancing both locking buckles two additional slots each, I reduced the space between Dylan's arms to a mere four inches. This elicited a grunt from my captive that tickled me in that special way. I knew that I was on the right track.
More leather. I lashed Dylan's left arm to the spreader with one long strap, capturing those already binding him. I followed suit on his toned right arm with a second strap of equal length. Four longer straps of the same construction remained draped around my neck. Two were used to lash the center of the spreader against the small of Dylan's back- in a crisscross pattern between his bound arms. Keeping my plans for later in mind, I buckled these straps, as well as the next two, more tightly than the others. I wrapped the next long strap around Dylan's chest and upper arms, bracing them tightly against his back. I did the same below the spreader bar with the final strap.
I placed the palm of my hand against Dylan's back, above the multitude of leather straps. He was breathing deeply and evenly; something I've always associated with bondage-induced ecstasy. The leg irons continued to anchor Dylan to the bench, ensuring his complete obedience as I dug through a large plastic storage trunk. Quickly finding what I needed, I returned to Dylan's side holding a five foot length of chain and three carefully-chosen padlocks. I draped the chain around my neck and stowed the locks in my jeans pocket.
Crouching at the side of the bench, I unlocked the leg iron from Dylan's right ankle, freeing the hobble from the steel framework. I stood, leaving the single shackle of the leg irons unattached. "Stand!" I commanded, pulling upward on the bundle of leather binding my captive's arms and torso. Dylan stood, though shakily, as I guided him away from the bench. I knew very well just how disoriented Dylan felt in that leather cocoon, as well as how exhilarating such complete helplessness can be.
I captured each strap in the thick band between Dylan's arms with one end of the chain. I encircled the leather a few times before cinching, then locking the chain, effectively tightening each of the straps as a result. The remainder of the chain hung well past Dylan's cuffed hands; the end swung just a couple of inches above the hobble of the leg irons. I used a special padlock with an elongated shackle to lock the hinged Smith and Wesson high security cuffs to the same chain. Finally, I knelt to secure the center of the short, ten-inch hobble to the last link in the dangling chain. My figuring was close, but I was forced to wrench down slightly on the chain in order to capture both the hobble and this final link with the last padlock. Dylan grunted again in that special way as I resecured the open shackle of the leg irons.
The pre-cum stain on Dylan's red Calvin Klein boxer briefs had grown considerably, as did the hard-on concealed beneath them. My eager sub tested the combined effectiveness of the straps, spreader, and chains as I pleasured him momentarily through his briefs. He pressed forward, into my hand, growing desperate for release. Thankfully, I quickly foresaw what might have resulted. The sensory deprivation hood was disorienting indeed, and Dylan leaned much farther forward than he would have otherwise. I was already on my feet by the time he mindlessly attempted to take a considerable, stabilizing step forward that was abruptly halted as the hobble went taut. Had I not grabbed a hold of the chain, Dylan would have went crashing forward, face first, into the balustrade at the loft's edge.
I held Dylan closely and securely as he gasped for calming breaths. I could sense his jugular thumping beneath the hood's collar. I talked at his ear again. "That was close. The boy is still okay?"
"Yeah...yes...okay," he stammered. "It was my fault, sir."
"NO!" I corrected, sternly. "That was MY fault. I'm the one in control."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Shut up, boy!" I laughed. I released my grip on Dylan just long enough to snag one last padlock and another spreader bar from the closet. This spreader was longer- a full five feet. With the large padlock, I secured one end of the spreader to the chain where it was wrapped around the leather straps. Spreaders are versatile. On this day, one would serve as a lead.
The leather imprisoning Dylan's arms and torso creaked as he flexed against their unyielding strength. The chains repeatedly tensioned, then went slack as Dylan took a tentative step forward. Grasping the spreader, I steered my bondage toy toward the stairs. "To the basement!" I called. Dylan was remarkably immobilized for someone not actually tied down to something, and he knew it. I pushed him forward with the spreader. Dylan pushed back; his socked feet slipping against the carpet.
I knew what he was afraid of- the stairs. All twelve of them. Hardwood. I would have been frightened too. Regardless, I overcame Dylan's feeble resistance, thrusting him toward the top stair. Panic was rising within my sub. He thrashed back and forth, though I only tightened my grip on the rigid lead in response. I pushed him to the edge. Dylan's toes curled over the lip of the last riser. He shook his hooded head back and forth vigorously. Dylan squealed as I gave the spreader one additional thrust that forced him over the edge...
TBC...