After my first meeting with Strand I was busy with business and family and we were unable to get together again for several days. Finally we set a date for the day before I was to go home. At the appointed time, he arrived back at my suite.
“Okay, Max,” he said. “Iʼve got an idea. I think we might like to try something I call mutual self-bondage.
“Sounds interesting,” I replied. “What do we do?”
“You go in the bedroom for just a minute, then come back when I call you,” Strand said.
I shrugged and did as he suggested. A few moments later he called me back.
“Iʼve hidden a pair of EMT shears in here. Now Iʼm going in the back. You hide this.”
He handed me a small key and went into the bedroom. I looked around the room, decided on the oven, put the key in, closed the door, and called him back.
“Right, hereʼs my idea,” he said. “First, we get naked. Then you tie up your legs for a hogtie while I frogtie my legs. Then Iʼll tie your arms to your ankles and, finally, blindfold and handcuff myself. Neither of us will be able to escape without help from the other. First one to ask for release is the loser.”
“That should be entertaining,” I said, already hard at work binding myself. Strand also got to work and soon enough he was frogtied on his knees watching me finish my preparations.
I had outdone myself. My legs were bound together with four ropes, then doubled up and bound heels to butt, a loop around my upper arms. Strand watched with a little smile, then slithered over to me on his bound legs and tied my wrists and connected them to my ankles so tightly that my chest was pulled off the floor. He then blindfolded himself and cuffed his wrists behind his back.
It took only a few minutes to realize that I was in a much more uncomfortable position than Strand, but I resolved to take it for as long as necessary. I was not going to be the first to ask for help. Obviously he had made a similar commitment to himself. We both wriggled around some, luxuriating in the feel of tight bondage. The minutes ticked by. At about the half hour mark, I began to seriously regret having done myself up quite so tightly. Strand knelt quietly in his own world. I slithered and wriggled and moaned a little.
There was a knock at the door.
Strand almost fell over and my eyes got big as I heard a voice say, “Housekeeping! Here to do up your room!”
As the locks started to turn in the door, I realized that I had been smart enough to put the chain on.
“Come back later,” I managed to shout. “Busy now.”
“Okay,” came the cheerful reply. “I come back.”
Whew.
I was very glad weʼd avoided the use of gags.
The interruption unnerved me to the extent that my erection had subsided somewhat. The idea of being discovered apparently had the opposite effect on Mr Ankler, as his was bobbing around at full extension.
We got back to the business at hand, i.e. the business of being each otherʼs captive. I slowly lost myself in the sensations of being bound. Strand seemed to be doing the same, as he knelt quietly. I found my eyes being drawn to his doubled-up legs. He has quite delectable stems for a guy and I was thinking it might be fun to rub them, lick them, rub my cock on them.
Oh my goodness. I must be quite horny to entertain such thoughts.
Cramps began after about forty five minutes. I worked on relieving them as best I could and managed to hold them off, but soon they were replaced with itching. Having my legs and arms stretched so tight while my ear itched was more than I could bear. I looked at the clock and saw that weʼd been bound for over ninety minutes. Strand was still kneeling quietly, showing no signs of discomfort. I couldnʼt take it any more.
“I give up,” I managed. “Canʼt take it. Please. Where are the shears?”
Strand smiled.
“Just under the couch,” he said.
I slithered over and worked on rolling onto my side. My fingers groped around but found nothing.
“Having a little trouble?” Strand asked.
“Canʼt reach ʻem,” I said.
“Then get me the handcuff key,” he replied.
“I canʼt reach it like this,” I said.
“Tell me where it is.”
I did and he commenced squirming across the floor as I directed him to the oven. He managed to retrieve the key, then took his time working it into the cuffs and releasing his wrists. He removed the blindfold, untied his legs, and stood slowly, stretching.
“Ahem,” I said.
“What? You want out?”
“Yes please,” I replied.
“But you lost,” he said. “Losers donʼt get to be untied. They get gagged.”
I got gagged. With his socks.
While squirming around Iʼd managed to rub my itchy ear on the carpet, but I was not pleased when he got dressed, took the shears from under the couch, hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside doorknob, and left. He got lunch downstairs in the coffee shop (using my room key to charge it to me) and returned in about an hour. I was very ready to be untied but he wasnʼt ready to untie me. He rolled me onto my back and sat in a chair watching me for a while. He pulled a long candle from his backpack.
“Losers have to pay,” he said. “And the price is pain.”
He lit the candle and held it over me for a moment, smiling wickedly. He tipped it to one side. A pool of hot wax fell onto my chest. I flinched and cursed into my gag. He continued dripping hot wax all over the front of my bound body. Finally he attached small alligator clamps to my wax-covered nipples. He tossed the shears into a corner of the room and, without a word, left me. It took half an hour to free myself and the soreness of my nipples reminded me of our session for several days.
I didnʼt see him again on that trip but there was an email waiting for me when I got home, suggesting he might find an excuse to visit me in the West.
Thatʼs another story.
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20.12.11