A new serial for Snobound, who challenged me to write a passionate (as opposed to intimate) one-on-one male to male TUG.
BEST FRIENDS FOR LIFE
Mark felt unseen hands gently caress his face and he tried once again to move away from his unseen captor, but as always before it was no use; the chains that wound around his limbs and near-naked body held him firmly in their cold, hard, implacable grip. The thick leather hood that covered his head rendered him blind, almost deaf, and totally incapable of speech – at least, while the detachable ball-gag that imprisoned his mouth was in place. It left him free to breathe, as his nose cleanly protruded through the hood’s only opening - but even that was a luxury he could not take for granted as his captor proved when he playfully pinched his nose shut between thumb and forefinger. For sixty seconds (as he counted them mentally as this happened) Mark’s air was cut off; and then the unseen hand with drew and he could breathe again. He could vaguely hear gentle laughter (muffled by the leather pads covering his ears) as he noisily sought to catch his breath again.
Mark’s fit, muscular body hung limply in his restraints as he made an effort to control his breathing. At 6’ 2†and 190 pounds, with a body fat ratio of less than 2%, Mark was as strong as a bull and could endure as much as any well-trained athlete. He would have been the pride of the Marine Corps had he joined, and were it not for the intrusively strict and rigid life style of a Marine he might have enlisted. He could bench press well over 250 pounds, run a mile in under five minutes without breathing hard, and swim circles around anyone not of Olympic caliber. He was a world-class gymnast with enormous dexterity, speed, and stamina. When he ran the Boston Marathon the previous year he’d placed tenth – and then only because of a sheer accident; he ran upon a piece of wood with a nail sticking in the wrong direction out of it. Despite this he still managed to run several more miles to complete the marathon ahead of most of the of the other runners.
But despite his sheer physical prowess, Mark was now as helpless as a newborn infant. His magnificent body was trapped in chains no man alive could possibly break, locked around him in a tight grip only an eel could slip through. He had no footing or other means to brace himself for an escape effort, for his body was completed suspended in the air by more chains… attached to him evenly all over his body by over a dozen different places. He hung at a roughly thirty-degree forward tilt from the perpendicular, head forward as if he was frozen in the act of falling over. Yet his bonds, though tight, were not at all uncomfortable. Every attachment point was at a part of him covered by thick but softly padded leather; His wrists, ankles, elbows, knees, biceps, thighs, chest and abdomen were each heavily wrapped in leather; and by each of these he hung by a chain. In addition there was an attachment point on the top of his hood, and a chain there took all the pressure of his head off his neck – but at the cost of leaving his head as virtually immobilized as the rest of him.
Besides his bonds, the only articles that covered him were his head-enclosing hood (locked in place with a padlock securing the straps tightly but not uncomfortably around his neck), the leather bands to which those suspending chains were attached, a simple jock strap, and thick leather mittens that completely trapped his fingers. His feet were bare; which left his soles completely vulnerable to the occasional random tickling caress of a skillfully-applied feather. The room was hot enough though that this lack of clothing proved more comfortable than otherwise; though not so much so that it caused Mark to sweat – at least, not for that reason alone. There were plenty of other reasons however.
For an unknown time Mark had been left to hang in his suspension in virtual isolation; all his senses deprived of any stimulation. But now his captor was back, and was now subtly torturing Mark by gently stimulating his senses; now keenly-delicate from their long-term deprivation. It began with the light, gentle caress of the feather along the soles of his feet – and it felt like a surge of electricity jolting his legs entirely. Mark groaned and thrashed about as much as he could to avoid that feather, but his movements were too severely restricted and that feather always found him again in its own good time. Sometimes he seemed as though he had somehow escaped from it, but all too soon it would find him and tickle him again. Each time this happened, Mark found himself losing all control; he would squeal like a piglet and thrash about like a fly caught in a spider’s web. His firm resolve not to move and increase his captor’s entertainment would like brittle glass with each new touch of that taunting, tormenting feather.
The feather eventually left his feet and sought new worlds to conquer; sparing only those areas covered by the leather restraints for the chains that held him fast in their grip. His ankles were spared, but now the feather teased the undersides of his calves, the insides of his thighs, his sides, his belly button, his rib cage – all were carefully explored and conquered, but with less violent resistance than the soles of his feet had entailed. But then the all-conquering feather found the undersides of his arms, as Mark knew they eventually would. Mark braced himself for the ultimate resistance; determined that this time he would not break! He would endure! He would be the Man of Steel!
The determination he’d built up over the feather’s previous exploration to resist caving in to his tormentor crashed and burned in the first instant that the teasing, taunting feather found his most ticklish spots. From then on, Mark was engulfed in what seemed like an endless tickling assault that smashed his defenses and turned him into a shivering, thrashing, squealing, quaking mass of flesh. Gone was the Man of Steel; in his place was a man of Kleenex. He writhed, thrashed, squealed, and made various other muffled and incomprehensible noises that were meant to be pleas for mercy. But, as usual, such pleas were casually and totally ignored as the feather shattered his defiance and rendered him all but insane with relentless tickling. Were he not so well and truly gagged, his hysterical laughter would have been the envy of The Joker from the Batman cartoons.
But finally, after a seeming eternity of tickling torment, the feather suddenly went off to parts unknown and left a shivering Mark to slowly but steadily collect himself from the shattered raw bundle of nerves he had been so easily, so casually reduced to. Then, while he was still rebuilding his pose, he felt those fingers touch him in the shoulders gently – but in a way that comforted and soothed rather than tickled and tormented. After a few soothing strokes that helped to further settle Mark, they went away for a moment only to return. But this time they had a different mission in mind. One hand grasped him gently but firmly at the base of his hood while the other fumbled with the padlock that locked his ball-gag in place. With a few quick, deft movements, the padlock was made to release its firm grip upon him, and then the same hands carefully pried the ball gag out of his aching jaws and took it away. The same hands then gently caressed his jaws for a few moments as he worked it to get the soreness out.
One hand withdrew, and a few moments later it was replaced by the tip of a straw poking at Mark’s closed lips. His lips parted at once to allow this welcome visitor in, and he slowly but greedily sucked in precious moisture. It was merely ice-water, but never had anything – not even his first beer – had tasted half as good to him as this water did to him now. At least, never since the last time he was in this same situation.
“Take it easy Mark!†Mark heard Kinto’s deep but gentle voice tell him with a soft laugh. “Don’t go too fast or you’ll get sick. Don’t worry; it’s not going anywhere until you’re good and ready!†Despite this warning, and despite knowing better himself, Mark continued to drink greedily until the straw sucked up only empty air.
“I’ll get you some more in a moment,†He heard his captor’s voice tell him. “But I think it’s time you had a short break away from the hood.†And with that, the unseen hands returned to the back of his neck, unlocked the padlock that secured the strap holding the hood on, and with slow, gentle insistence the hands pulled the hood up and off of his head. His head no longer had the support and chain on the hood had given him, but it was still definitely a relief to get it off for even a short while.
Mark’s eye adjusted to the light (left dim by his captor to make this transition easier for him) and Mark looked over at his captor. Kinto was stepping out of the room to get another pint-cup of ice water for him. He was gone only for a moment, and the came back with a fresh container of water. Mark sucked this refreshment much more slowly as his eyes lingered on his captor’s trimly muscular body; which was fully open to his view because all Kinto wore was a (tight) set of Speedos that left very little to the imagination. Mark didn’t need his imagination; he’d seen what was underneath those Speedos many times before. More than just seen it, for that matter…
Kinto was the same age as Mark and was also a near-perfect physically-fit specimen of manhood, but where Mark was blond and blue-eyed Kinto was a full-blooded African with much darker skin than anyone whose ancestry included several generations spent away from the so-called “Dark Continentâ€. His features were handsome and regular, and his body graceful and athletic. But where Mark was 6’ 2†Kinto was 6’ 7â€, and his lithe body was supple and lean rather than built solidly like Mark’s was. Kinto was not quite as strong as Mark was, but if anything he was even faster on land or in the water, and won their frequent wrestling matches as often as Mark did by dint of his greater agility, stamina, and his more-developed sense of strategy.
It was because he’d won their latest match that Mark was in his current situation now. Every weekend they would wrestle together, and loser was always the bondage slave of the winner for the entire weekend. Mark had won last time, but Kinto had won the preceding three times in a row. Mark decided he needed to work out more if he were to hope to stay roughly even with Kinto on who defeated who in their weekly wrestling matches. Not that he minded being Kinto’s slave for the weekend; Hell, no – but it was a matter of pride that he continue to pose as much a challenge to his best friend and roommate as he possibly could.
Mark indicated that he’d had enough liquid refreshment for now, and Kinto obligingly put away the still half-filled container. But now he offered Mark refreshment of a different kind as he walked back up to Mark, hugged him for a moment, and gave Mark a long, passionate kiss. On the lips, on the cheeks, on the forehead, and then back on the lips and past them as the two wrestled with their tongues as avidly as they’d earlier wrestled with their bodies. This time there was no clear cut winner or loser.
Afterward, Kinto smiled – and then locked the hood around his best friend and roommate’s head once again; after all, the weekend had just begun. Mark relaxed within his oh-so-secure-and-yet-so-comfortable bonds once again and relished the feel of Kinto’s lean but powerful hands as they gave him a much needed shoulder rub.
There were definitely worse ways to spend the weekend than to be Kinto’s prisoner, Mark decided silently – and not for the first time either.
TBC