A quick look at his web browsing history over the last few months would have proven that it wasn't a rash decision, but one that was the eventual, and highly anticipated culmination of months of research, deep introspection, and increasing desire. Regardless, Brandon's hands were literally shaking as the distance to destination read-out on the truck's navigation system rapidly ticked down below five miles.
This was a big mistake. He thought he'd find a place to turn around, but there were no turn offs, or even a shoulder, for that matter, on the long, forest-lined road. The day was dreary and cold, and the occasional snowflake drifted across the twisting, two-lane state highway outside of Bangor, Maine. He was sweating. It was a cold, nervous sweat.
The Dodge Ram pickup began to slow. "What the hell?" Brandon thought. The two year old truck had been flawless, what was this? It had only been a four hour ride. Just then, he came to the realization that he had completely removed his booted foot from the accelerator. "Jesus, even my body's conspiring against me," he mumbled aloud, his jugular thumping at the side of his neck.
"Hands down, the best experience of my life! Amazing, just amazing! Just don't let the setting scare you." That's what Jacob had said, wasn't it? That it was something he just had to do, and would certainly never forget- and, that he'd be back- as many times as he could afford.
As it turned out, he really couldn't afford it. But he had saved. Yes, scrupulously since making up his mind. A thousand bucks. And that was just to get in the door! An "initiation fee" is what Jacob had called it. Sort of like joining a golf course, he guessed. No golf course he had ever been to, however, had charged an additional five hundred for each round thereafter! But that's exactly how much Brandon's first session would cost- and there would be more, at least according to Jacob.
Brandon never would have believed him, had it not been for the card. A business card- Jacob had handed it to him after being told that he was full of shit for about the tenth time. Brandon's jaw had dropped. There it was. In sleek black lettering against a blood-red background was the name "TUG Institute". Below it was a phone number, and nothing more. Brandon flipped the card over. Affixed to the empty red backdrop was a small sticker with a ten digit number printed on it. Brandon remembered looking up at Jacob inquisitively. "Just call and give them that number. Otherwise, they won't even talk to you. New 'customers' are by client referral ONLY!" Jacob had explained.
No regrets. That's what Jacob kept saying. That I would have no regrets, and would become an instant promoter, just as he was, after only the first visit. Could he trust Jacob? The two had met at a bondage convention in Boston, had a few drinks, and wound up spending the remainder of the night together tying each other up. As the sun came up, lying on the hotel bed together, sweaty and spent, is when Jacob had first told him. Brandon noticed that he had a hard-on, once again, by the time Jacob had finished recounting his impossibly fantastic experiences.
It had taken a month to make the call, and he had hung up- twice- upon hearing the gruff male voice at the other end of the line. "The NUMBER! the voice would demand, saying noting more.
Finally, on the third try, Brandon stammered, "Uh... ah... my friend, Jacob said that...." Click. "SHIT!" Brandon screamed, angrily flipping his cell phone closed. "FUCK!" He flicked his phone back open and redialed the cursed numbed for the fourth time, plucking up every ounce of courage he could muster. Before the increasingly angry voice at the other end of the line could utter a syllable, Brandon spoke, forcibly. "Eight, four, eight, six, zero, zero, two, four, eight, zero!" The pit in his stomach was overwhelming.
From the other end of the line, slicing through the silence like a knife, came a deep, almost devious chuckle. The disturbing laugh, if you could call it that, ended as abruptly as it had begun. "Address!" the gruff voice bellowed.
"Don't... don't you want my name?" Brandon stammered, apprehensively.
"ADDRESS!" the man thundered. Brandon's address spilled from his mouth before he had even realized what he had done. The line went dead. Brandon closed his phone, looking ashen-faced. What the hell had just happened? This was bullshit.
Thump, thump, thump. Brandon woke with a start, squinting at his clock through the bright morning light. It was barely seven! He scrambled from his bed, wearing nothing but the boxers that he had slept in. Brandon undid the numerous locks and ripped open the door of his modest condo. An old man in an unfamiliar blue uniform was standing there holding a thick, manila envelope. The yellow patch on the uniform's breast pocket read: Bay State Document Couriers. "Sign here," the old man insisted, shoving an electronic device with a scribe at the befuddled Brandon. He signed, and the old man was already halfway down the stairway before Brandon could even mutter a thank you.
He looked at the envelope's markings. No return address. No mailing address, for that matter. Just a sticker, upon which was printed the same ten-digit number Brandon had recited over the phone to a seemingly maniacal stranger no more than fifteen hours ago.
Brandon slowly closed the door, his pulse racing. He ripped open the envelope with shaking hands. Brandon rifled through the contents without removing them. He noticed a number of very official looking forms, a small USB data stick, and a full-color, magazine-sized, glossy brochure. He realized he was rubbing a throbbing hard-on through his boxers after flipping through the brochure, transfixed, for no more than a mere five minutes.
He was certifiably nuts. That had to be it. He couldn't believe he was doing it, even as he handed the oversized envelope over to the postmaster behind the counter, not more than two days after receiving that package. Cash only, sent to a P.O. box in Bangor. No Pay-Pal, credit cards, or checks accepted- and no money trail, either, Brandon had thought. He exited the post office feeling as if he'd just pissed away fifteen hundred bucks. There goes a mortgage payment, he thought.
Cash wasn't all that was in the envelope. Brandon had been giddy with excitement as he filled out the detailed questionnaire about his BDSM "preferences". Some of the things contained in that questionnaire were well beyond anything he had ever experienced. The release forms had deflated a bit of Brandon's excitement, however. "I hereby agree to hold harmless the above designee in the event of my death, disfigurement, ..." It went on and on. What the hell was he getting into here? The confidentiality agreement, Brandon thought, was a little over the top..."Unless in a manner prescribed by The Institute, the signatory will refrain from any and all..."
Yet, in the end, and after watching that video on the data stick from the envelope (countless times), Brandon had signed each and every document. He was really going to go through with this.
Brandon took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, and pressed the accelerator. Three miles. Two. "What are you doooooiiiiiiinnnng!" he whined aloud. The road had been bounded by forested hillsides for the last ten miles, though a river valley now opened up before him. Perched on a snow-covered hillside, standing out starkly against the surrounding wilderness, sat an imposing concrete structure, vaguely resembling a modern fortress. Brandon recalled the promotional video- now etched into his mind: "Located on over 400 secluded acres, our state of the art facility occupies a former privately-owned, for-profit correctional institution..."
A prison is exactly what came to mind, contributing to Brandon's growing sense of unease, as he eyed the watch towers, two layers of razor wire-topped fence, and guarded entry gates lying no more than a quarter mile ahead. He slowed again, involuntarily. He momentarily considered pulling over, but knew that if he did, he'd manage to talk himself out of what could be an amazing opportunity.
Brandon took a deep, steadying breath and continued on to the gates. A solid, serious-looking man, maybe in his early thirties, was already out of the guard house ready to intercept Brandon's pickup even before the truck came to a stop. This man exuded that former military vibe, and was dressed in a black tactical uniform, reinforcing this perception. The guard motioned for Brandon to lower the window. A lump seemed to fill Brandon's throat. Before he could pluck up the courage to say anything, the no-nonsense guard barked, "What the fuck do you want, kid? I think you've got the wrong place."
With a shaky hand, Brandon lifted a thick envelope from the passenger seat. On it was the same ten-digit number he'd struggled to read to the equally grumpy man on the phone. Disturbingly, and just like that man on the phone, the guard chuckled deeply upon seeing the printed code on the label. "Welcome!" he laughed. Then, in a blur of motion that left Brandon both stunned and confused, the door to his truck was flung open. He was roughly dragged from the driver's seat, and led forcefully by the startlingly strong guard into the small, concrete building adjacent to the gate.
Another identically dressed brute was waiting inside, and the two men roughly stripped Brandon of both his belongings and clothing amid sporadic verbal protests. A heavy leather transport belt was being applied to Brandon's waist even before his boxer briefs had been fully removed. These men were pros. They worked fast. Heavy hinged handcuffs were fastened tightly around Brandon's wrists after having his arms wrenched behind his back. At the same time, leg irons with a six-inch chain hobble closed tightly around his ankles. The hinge of the rigid cuffs was somehow anchored to a ring at the back of the transport belt, along with one end of a short length of chain. This chain was barely long enough for the opposite end to be locked to the center of the six-inch chain hobbling Brandon's ankles. He was forced to bend his knees just slightly in order to prevent the thick transport belt from cutting into his sides.
Still wide-eyed, and with his mouth gaping open, Brandon continued to be manhandled by the guards. The younger of the two men, probably in his late twenties, roughly grabbed Brandon by the shoulders and held him firmly against his body. Brandon was surprised to feel the hot guard's growing excitement against his stomach, just above the transport belt. These guys were enjoying themselves! Now, so too was Brandon, having realized that this treatment was all part of the experience.
While practically being bear-hugged by the younger guard, his partner was busy encircling Brandon's upper arms with a heavy tan leather belt. He felt the guard cinch it tightly, leaving his elbows separated by only an inch or two. Another belt was fastened around both Brandon's gym-toned chest and arms, pressing them tightly against his back. The guard's face was a mere inches from Brandon's. He was carefully watching the expressions on his prisoner's face. "Having fun yet?" he asked, not really expecting a response.
"Awesome," whispered Brandon, just before a heavy, though simple, white canvas hood plunged him into darkness. It's collar was buckled tightly around his neck. The young guard released Brandon from his grasp and backed him into a chair. "I'll take care of the boy's truck, boss," said one of the men, whom Brandon assumed was the younger of the two guards.
Brandon listened as his truck was driven away. At this point, he didn't really care where it was being taken. After a brief moment of silence, Brandon heard the remaining guard's radio click on. "Unit seven to unit one. Do you copy? Over."
In seconds, the radio crackled back to life. A woman's voice responded. "Unit one to unit seven, what's your status? Over."
"Subject acquired and awaiting processing. Over," answered the guard.
Processing?! thought Brandon, with a stab of concern.
"Roger that, unit seven. You should expect arrival of the transport vehicle at any moment. Over." The radio fell silent.
Brandon felt the guard's hand around his forearm. "Get up, boy!" said the guard, gruffly. He stood, and was led from the building. Brandon shivered, still naked and shoeless under the expertly applied leather and steel. It couldn't be more than twenty-five degrees outside, and it was breezy to boot. Though he could hear its approach, Brandon was unable to see the modified ambulance making its way down the steep, twisting driveway leading from the hulking main building.
The ambulance, as starkly white as the snow-covered ground, came to a halt in front of the guard house's door. Both the passenger and driver side doors were opened and then slammed shut. Brandon listened as fast, smart boot falls made their way to the ambulance's back doors, which were thrust open. The two young women, also dressed in the same black tactical uniform as the guards, removed a stretcher from the rear of the vehicle.
It's wheeled legs were extended and locked into place. "Let's go, boy!" commanded the girl. Brandon was a little taken aback by the female voice. He felt the two girls' hands on his bound arms as they tugged him toward the waiting stretcher. With surprising strength, they bent Brandon over so that his chest was pressed against the black vinyl cushions of the stretcher. He knew what they were doing, and put up no resistance. The girls, neither a day over twenty, each grabbed for one of his bound legs, hefting his athletic body onto the stretcher.
They positioned Brandon's helpless body, face down, in the center of the cushions. He felt wide straps being draped over his torso and legs. Six of them? Yes, he counted as the girls fed the loose ends of each strap into ratcheting devices that were then cranked tightly. "This one's a cutie, isn't he? he heard one of the girls ask the guard, though he didn't hear an audible response. He did, however, feel the hands of the two girls exploring his taut body. They ran their fingers over his naked legs and butt. One of them actually gave his package a tight squeeze before they moved to wheel the stretcher back toward the rear of the ambulance.
Brandon was beginning to think about how grateful he was for Jacob's referral while listening to the clanking of steel as the stretcher and it's heavily immobilized occupant were loaded into the back of the ambulance. The rear doors were slammed shut, and Brandon both heard and felt the distinct pair of thumps from the front, as the girls climbed aboard, closing their doors. The ambulance lurched forward, and the helpless Brandon was driven to the Institute.
The facility's half-mile driveway was traversed quickly, and the ambulance was driven through an expansive overhead door, flanked by two additional guards, into a cavernous, mostly empty room. The rear door was flung open, and the stretcher quickly unloaded- this time, by the two male guards standing sentry near the open door. The girls drove from the room, leaving Brandon to his fate.
These guards- as muscle bound and brutish as the others- rolled the stretcher through a pair of swinging doors, and down a sterile-looking hallway that resembled a hospital corridor. He was finally wheeled into a small room containing a number of stainless steel tables, sinks, and other forbidding looking fixtures. The guards positioned the stretcher in the middle of the room, beneath a bank of bright examination lights, turned tail, and exited into the hallway.
Brandon began testing the effectiveness of his bonds. He found that he could lift his hooded head from the cushions a bit, and wiggle his fingers and toes. That was it. He had never experienced such nervous excitement. His heart pounded as his steady erection pressed into the black vinyl. After a half hour of isolation he began to wonder. Was this how he'd spend his day? If so, it was fine by him.
The doors to the room swung open just as thoughts of being forgotten in this room, helplessly bound, began to creep into Brandon's head. He heard the sounds of equipment being moved around the room. He was startled upon feeling a pair of hands on the hood's collar around his neck. The hood was unbuckled and jerked roughly from Brandon's head. He blinked momentarily, temporarily blinded by the brightness of his surroundings. The vague outline of a woman in a white lab coat appeared before him. He craned his neck in an attempt to get a better view of his captor, though there was little chance for his eyes to adjust to the lights.
A breathing mask had been forced over his mouth and nose. The squeak of a metallic valve pierced the silence, and a stale-smelling gas filled Brandon's lungs. He had no choice but to succumb to the nearly instantaneous effects of the nitrous oxide...
Part two coming soon!