By PFC Pfledge
We all remember when we first had an interest in bondage, and the first time we were tied up. You wouldn’t be reading this account if you aren’t interested in being tied up, or tying other guys up. I was first tied up when I was younger, then a number of times during high school, when I was a teenage wrestler. I loved wearing those skin-hugging tights, showing a huge bulge, as my buddies, Steve and Peter, would hogtie me.
In college, I had a lot of bondage at the hands of a local high school senior, ostensibly straight, but who enjoyed tying me up in skimpy Speedos, and being tied up himself, on his knees, to a post in my parents’ basement. When I was in the Marine Corps, and stationed in Hawaii, I was tied up in a tight spread eagle almost every night in the last three months of my enlistment. I also tied up my tormentor, David, many times, too. We wore the smallest possible Speedos in the hot Hawaii climate, and neither of us “noticed” the other guy’s straining bulge and packed, smooth curve of my or David’s crotch.
After my enlistment was up, I screwed up the courage to go to Missouri to the Training Center. (It has since moved to Georgia, if it’s still around.) There I was first introduced to heavy chaining, and long-term (3-4 days) imprisonment. There was no torture at first – that came later – just constant changing of chaining. I would arrive at St Louis airport, and be hog-chained and tape-gagged for transport. At the facility, I was stripped naked, every time, and chained in the cell, with my head in a Spanish head cage. Heavy manacles ran from an iron ring around my neck, to my wrists behind my back, down to my manacled ankles. I would stand there for a long time. It was useless to scream, because the cell block area was sound-proof.
This was an entirely new experience for me in bondage. From being a cocky wrestler boy to a Marine, I was now a real prisoner, stark naked, chained and head-caged in the middle of Missouri somewhere. The experience was taking me to a much higher level, and I was still only 25 or 26 years old, fresh out of the Corps, hard and lean. The man who ran the Training Center was named Chip, sometimes Captain Chip, but mostly just Chip. His guards – the muscle – were active-duty Marines and Army, and local state prisons guards. Later, when I was into the rhythm of the Training Center, I would “rebel,” fight the guards, and curse, so that I would be beaten up. One Marine guard loved beating me up, because I was the “faggot Marine.” Beating up meant being pounded by his fists, but also he administered pressure to areas of the collarbone, for example, an action that produced an instant and grueling pain. In this way, I was taught the word “Sir.”
The first time I went to the Training Facility was pretty much how it went every time. Picked up late at night at the airport, keyed up with excitement, and sleepless for a couple of nights, I was brought chained and gagged to the cellblock, where I was re-chained, standing up. Then, after an hour or so, I was spread eagled with four hand cuffs to the cell block bars. An hour or so of that, and I was re-manacled, as described above, and forced to kneel inside the hot box, sweating like a pig. Then, out, and spread eagled again. The guards worked in shifts, but the idea, clearly, was on Parris Island lines: keep the prisoner awake, chained, and unable to sleep, so that he becomes exhausted. That’s when Chip arrived. I had not seen him before that.
I am guessing that he always came down around dawn to see me, because, though there was no clock, I was usually fed an hour or two after he left me. By the third or fourth time I went out there, I knew that Chip was coming, because I was invariably spread eagled to the bars, stark naked, legs and arms wide, outside the cell, facing outward. Each time I was ball-gagged, something not normally in the routine. The first time I hung in this spread-eagle, physically and mentally exhausted, I had no idea what was coming. I was just trying to endure. I was alone in the cellblock, with a bright white light on me, hanging stark naked in the spread eagle, against the bars.
The door to the cellblock opened, and this little man, in Army fatigues came in. He was carrying a swagger stick, and he was smiling. The cellblock was deathly silent; no guards were there, just me and Chip. Chip’s smile was as warm as a skull. I was six inches taller than he, but I was the one spread eagled, and he was carrying the swagger stick. I do not remember a single word he said, but I remember the effect, as if it happened yesterday. He mesmerized me with his eyes, the way an Adolf Hitler must have done, and every one of his words was uttered with a soft, though inflexible and menacing, voice. I remember with unbelievable clarity how the hairs on the back of my neck rose up, despite the strap that held the ball gag in place. A cold terror, not a hot, panicky terror, seized me, as I looked down at him, and he looked up at me, with those shining, glistening eyes, like a cobra.
It was no wonder I went back to the Training Center again and again and again. That early-morning spread-eagle, the ball gag, my total nakedness and extreme vulnerability, intensified by Chip’s utter and complete control of me fascinated and attracted me. I do remember he would ask questions, insistent questions, to which I invariably nodded my head. He owned me, and he knew it.
One thing about it that was incomplete was that Chip never took me to the next stage. Master Jack took me to the next stage, after a couple of fairly easy sessions in his facility. When he deemed me ready, and the Training Center had laid a damn good foundation, I learned from Master Jack why I wanted long-term, heavy chaining, and near total isolation. I wanted no music, no sound, no interaction with him or anyone else. Except for the twice-a-day toilets and, at the same time, the meals. I was kept in chains, chained in a chair, chained to the post, chained in the cage. Most of all, I was hooded and gagged. Master Jack taught me that I wanted complete and utter (or as close to it as we could get) black, soundless, sightless, solitude, tightly chained, so that as the long hours wore slowly on, I could contemplate the whys of my bondage, and what I was seeking. There is nothing like 23 hours a day being chained, tape-gagged, and hooded. I have a raging hard-on just thinking about it.
Men have various reasons they want to be tied up. I have a young friend, age 26, who is a wrestler. For him, he wrestles for dominance and tying up the other guy, but he also becomes equally rock hard, if he is beaten, and ends up being tied up. Then, he wants to be the other guy’s toy, while he struggles hard against the ropes, and curses his buddy as his buddy forces his cock down his throat. I have another friend, who, like me, is 100% a bottom, but seeks bondage to which is added levels of extreme pain, like crucifixion, electrical, ball crushing, and so on. Every man who is into bondage has his own desires. There’s no right, or wrong way.
Every now and then, however, when exploring your own desires for bondage, and I know you wouldn’t have read this far if bondage doesn’t turn you on, a man meets another man who understands. A friend of mine introduced me to Master Jack, and I learned so much about myself from him, particularly why I loved bondage. Master Jack gave me a couple of mild sessions, I think to test me and see if I really had been in long-term imprisonment in the Training Center, and then, being assured I could take, gave me the full-court press, from airport pick-up on Thursday to release on Sunday morning. I lusted between that first session and the subsequent ones. I could only handle a 56-plus hour chaining, gagging and hooding once a year or so, but, during the sessions, I learned from Master Jack why I craved bondage.
Every man, as I mentioned before, who is into bondage, has his own reasons why he craves it. Some need to be slaves, some love the struggle against the ropes or chains, some want the pain that they are helpless to prevent. Master Jack taught me that what I wanted was to be ripped out of my world, a world surrounded by jewelers’ cotton, and chained, gagged, and hooded for an indefinite number of hours, the end of which was to be submission. The bondage, therefore, was to be the prelude, the necessary preparation for the submission. That is why I endured a minimum of seven hours tightly chained to that damn chair, heaving and thrusting uselessly against the chains across my chest, through my crotch, locking my wrists and ankles together, all the while gagged and hooded. Again and again Master Jack put me in that chair for punishment, for long, long, slow punishment, until my muscles screamed in agony, but there was nothing I could do to stop it! And even after I was released from that fucking chair (God, I hated it – hated its indifference to my slow agony, as chains chafed my body), I was presented with being chained in the cage, still gagged, still hooded.
The submission was actually quite simple. Master Jack knew what I wanted before I did, but the form of submission was hardly novel. After being released Sunday morning, I was totally physically and mentally exhausted, exactly what Chip achieved in the Training Center. This time, however, my Master, Master Jack, expected the submission for which the whole bondage scene, over 55 or 56 hours had been aimed. I knelt, dirty, unshaven, stinking, a high-and-mighty prep school arrogant prick, and licked Master Jack’s boots. He wore calf-length boots, and I whored on my knees, licking those boots. I originally started with my hands behind my neck, but then, lusting into the leather and the submission, I twisted my tits in pain. I whored into every inch of his boots, and particularly enjoyed the humiliation of licking the soles and heels. The erection that followed was incredible.
Why am I telling you all of this? For two reasons. If you’re young, and curious or excited about bondage, do it! Don’t wait. I spent incredibly happy hours tied up all night in a chair, in a friend’s house when I was 22 years old; my circulation prevents that from ever happening again. I went through the Training Center and Master Jack’s Hell on many occasions; I don’t look back and say, Oh, what if I had done that when I was 25? I did it when I was 25, again and again, and have the erections to prove it. Have doubts? Go see a true pro – see Master Jack. Don’t lie to him about what you want or what your experience is: if you’re a novice, say so. If you really have had extensive experience, be up front with him about that. But, above all, don’t check off his questionnaire saying that you want this and that and a hundred other things, when you haven’t done them, and don’t know what they are.
Copyright 2012 PFC Pflege & BBH Ltd. All Rights Reserved.
Re-posted here with permission.
Metal would like to thank Master Jack for sharing this first-person account, which was written several years ago by PFC Pflege (of blessed memory). You can learn more about Master Jack by visiting his popular and long-running site, Bondagezine.