By Hunter Perez

“Jock, I feel ridiculous,” I complained.

“Bingo, you look incredible,” Jock responded with a grin. “Trust me on this.”

We were in the basement of Jock’s house. He was shirtless and shoeless, with a camera hanging by a strap around his neck while his lower body was encased in the tightest denim shorts imaginable — although, truth be told, they left nothing to the imagination. I was naked and standing in a spreadeagle position with my wrists and ankles bound to a wooden St. Andrew’s Cross fastened to a wall.

Now, you may be wondering how I got myself into such an unlikely situation. Well, Jock informed me that the MetalbondNYC.com was running a photo contest that invited readers to submit their best bondage pictures. The winning photo would receive a prize and Jock was confident we could snag that reward.

“But, Jock, this isn’t going to work,” I argued as he studied my cross-bound nudity through his camera lens. “You know what Metal publishes — I don’t look like any of those guys. Guys like JimmyUSMC, Derek Pain, and Connor Maguire are big, muscular, and handsome hunks. Come on, look at me. Ralphie says that I look like Barney Rubble.”

Jock lowered his camera and frowned at me. “You don’t look like Barney Rubble — and don’t listen to Ralphie. He knows how to push your buttons and you always fall for his insults.”

“Yeah, but Metal is going to laugh when he sees me,” I insisted. “Why aren’t you on the cross? You’re a big, muscular, handsome guy — I could take your picture.”

Jock shook his head in a sorrowful manner. “Bingo, you keep forgetting that I am a professional photographer. Why do you think I have all these lights and filters set up around you? And why I am using this thousand-dollar digital camera instead of my cell phone? I’m not here for snapshots — I am here to take Drummer-worthy photographs and win this contest. Plus, how can I take pictures of myself if I am bound up on that cross? Besides, I can’t trust you to take my picture — you’re always putting your finger or your thumb over the lens. I love you, pal, but you’re no photographer. And, seriously, you look incredible on that cross. When Metal sees your photo, he’s going to want even more pictures of you.”

I shut my eyes and gently banged the back of my head against the wall where the cross was fastened. “Oh, just take the photo and get it over with.”

“No, we’re not ready to start shooting,” Jock said as he walked behind his light stands and retrieved a small grey bag. “You need to be accessorized before I start taking pictures.”

I opened my eyes with confusion and watched Jock approach me with his grey bag. “What do you mean by ‘accessorize,’ Jock?” I said. “I thought I was going to be naked for this shoot.”

Jock reached into this bag and pulled out two huge black clothespins. He dropped the bag and held a clothespin in each hand, pointing them at my chest. I began to pull at the bonds that fastened my wrists, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Jock, please tell me you’re going outside to use those clothespins to hang up laundry,” I whimpered.

“Bingo, you have a great sense of humor,” he laughed as he fastened the clothespins to my nipples.

My chest became inflamed with a riot of burning pain as the clothespins mercilessly squeezed my nipples. I rocked violently on the cross as I let out a scream.

“I’m going to fucking murder you!” I yelled, breathing heavily as my eyes focused on him with if-looks-could-kill fury. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Perfect!” Jock cheered as he grabbed his camera and pointed the lens at me. Jock furiously clicked the camera, bobbing and weaving to achieve different angles while my body rocked from my nipples’ agony. “Bingo, you can’t believe how erotic you look. I’ve never seen you like this. This is so damn sexy.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to this,” I bellowed, trying in vain to shake the clothespins from my nipples.

“Well, spontaneity is the most important aspect of a successful photo shoot,” Jock answered amid camera clicks. “The worst photos are the ones that look too rehearsed.”

I kept yanking at the bonds that held me to the cross, but it was impossible to break loose. I clenched my jaw and looked at Jock in anguish. Jock dropped to his knees and leaned back while snapping my picture.

“I want to get some Orson Welles shots in,” he said. “You know, the Orson Welles version of ‘Macbeth’ is on TV tonight — do you want to stay over to watch it?”

I looked at Jock with bafflement. “I’m being tortured to death and you’re talking about Orson Welles movies?”

Jock returned to his feet, picked up his grey bag and giggled. “Oh, ‘Macbeth’ is my favorite of his films — you’ll love it. And you’re not being tortured to death — we’re only getting started. I have some more ideas.”

Jock extracted a half-dozen more clothespins from the bag. Within 30 seconds, Jock fastened the clothespins across my chest.

“I love what you’re doing with your eyes,” Jock exclaimed as he snapped more photographs. “You’re achieving an incredible mix of agony and ecstasy.”

“Jock, seriously, I am going to murder you,” I moaned. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Seriously, I can imagine thousands of guys getting a hard-on when they see these pictures,” Jock said. “Derek Pain is going to have to look for a new line of work once your pics get published.”

“I don’t want Derek Pain’s job — I just want to go home,” I whimpered as I looked at the multiple clothespins clamped into my chest.

Jock lowered his camera and looked at me quizzically. “Oh, come on, Bingo, you can’t let a little thing like a clothespin bother you. Besides, I have a few more that I need to attach.”

Jock grabbed three more clothespins from his bag and began to approach me. I felt my heart began to pound its way out of chest.

“No, stay away from me,” I said frantically, my body rocking with fury on the cross. “Have pity. My chest can’t take more of this.”

“Oh, these don’t go on your chest,” he replied, looking down at my groin. “And I’m lucky you’re not circumcised — this makes my life so much easier.”

Amid my cries of “Stop!” and “Don’t!”, Jock fastened one of the clothespins to my foreskin and the other two to my balls. More photographs were rapidly taken while Jock yelled out praise at how I rolled my eyes and gnashed my teeth.

“First, I am going to kill you,” I hollered as the clothespins took control of my groin’s sensitivity. “Then, I am going to chop you up and bury you in a vacant lot. Then, I’ll go home and unfriend you on Facebook.”

“I love it,” Jock cried out as he photographed my torture from every imaginable angle. “Bingo, you are the hottest man in the world.”

Jock stepped back and looked into his camera’s display window, studying the photos he captured of my torture. “You know, Bingo, we really should do this type of thing more often,” he said while examining his work. “You have very expressive eyes. I could spend my day just looking at these photos.”

“I feel like my balls are going to explode,” I moaned. “Please take these things off me.”

Jock instantly stepped to me and within a matter of seconds pulled off all the clothespins. He then reached back into his bag and pulled out a yellowish bottle.

“It’s time for Doctor Jock’s cure-all,” he announced. “I made it myself with aloe vera, shea butter, peppermint oil and eucalyptus oil. I also had a kiwi laying around that became overly ripe, so I threw it in, too.”

Jock poured a glob of the bottle’s contents on his fingers and then began to make slow, clockwise movements on my nipples. The biting pain from the clothespins immediately disappeared as the lotion created a calming, soothing sensation. More lotion was applied in slow strokes across my chest, and the raw sting of the clothespins immediately vanished. He then poured a handful of lotion into his palm, put down the bottle, and slowly started to massage my balls and my foreskin. The crazy torment that I experienced minutes before evaporated as Jock’s strong fingers massaged his lotion across my groin. In a matter of a few hand strokes, I catapulted from hell into heaven.

“Oh, damn, this is incredible,” I sighed as I closed my eyes and arched my back. “I wish you could feel what I’m feeling.”

For a minute, Jock’s massage brought to a level of serenity that I had never experienced — any tension or modicum of stress within me was released within his lotion-thick strokes. Then, abruptly, his hands dropped from my groin. I opened my eyes and found Jock nearly in my face, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth in a dopey half-grin – he looked like a cartoon character who was just shot in the rear by Cupid’s arrow.

“Is something wrong?” I asked with hesitation.

Jock shook his head slightly and allowed his half-grin to grow into an ear-to-ear beam. He said nothing as I felt him breath heavily through his nostrils on my chest. I looked up at the bonds that tied my wrists to the cross and then back at Jock.

“Are you going to take me down from this?” I said in a voice that even I could barely hear.

He looked up at my wrists and reached to them, pulling on the bonds. He moved closer, sandwiching me to the cross with his muscular frame.

“You know, Bingo, you’re a very handsome man,” he said. “If you were in my place and you had a very handsome man tied up on a cross, would you let him go?”

Before I could answer, he placed a deep kiss on my lips. He then stepped away, retrieving a chair from the other side of the room. He positioned the chair directly before my groin, sat down, poured more lotion on his hands, and began to slowly massage my groin again.

My body started to writhe is rhythm to his strokes. “Jock, I thought you wanted to see an Orson Welles movie on TV.”

“That goes on at eight o’clock — it’s just about two o’clock now,” he said, watching his hands rubs over my balls and cock. “We have six hours to pass.”

I swallowed in disbelief. “You’re going to keep me on this cross and massage my balls for the next six hours?”

Jock shrugged his broad shoulders and nodded casually as his lotion-thick fingers carefully danced around my balls and up to my foreskin. “Can you think of a better way to spend the afternoon?”

The End

Metal would like to thank the author, Hunter Perez, for this story. Be sure to check out his book-length story, The Friend Request, available on Amazon.