Category Archives: Story

Story

The Party – Part 02

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By findingmyself1986

In the quiet and darkness of the cell you cannot do anything but focus on the itching of the jlube and the heaviness of the bondage. You struggle to try and find a spot of comfort, but every movement causes the jlube to bite further into the welts. Finally the sweat starts building into the heavy rubber. The sweat mixes with the jlube, and as the burning subsides you start to drift and think how this came to be.

For years you have longed to be an extended-service rubber gimp. When the doms presented you with this plan your dick jumped and started to leak. However it was made clear: agree now or never. When you agreed one of the doms cuffed your hands behind your back, another threw a bag of ice on your dick as you screamed and a third pulled out an intense chastity belt with three locks.

As the ice did its job the belt came together and then your soft dick was threaded through the cage and you heard the clicks of the locks. The fourth dom gathered all the keys, tapping your cage with his boot and told you you’re a lucky gimp. The fifth dom took your pants and put you in a pair of skimpy running shorts for the bus ride home. There was no way to fully hide the belt with the skimpiness of the shorts.

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Story

Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 06

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 6: An Environment Planned for Your Security

We walked back along the slab, and he pointed to something I hadn’t noticed on my quick walk to the loading area.

“Here,” he said, turning toward a strip of shade cast by one of the buildings, “is the pillory.”

That’s what it was, all right—a pillory, looking just like they do in pictures: a wooden upright and a wooden crosspiece, fitted with three round holes, one for your head and two for your hands.  You put them in, the top of the crosspiece is lowered onto them, and now you’re locked in the holes.  You have to stand there, maybe forever.

“Amazing!” I said.  “And after the first one, two more!”

“Yes, we have three pillories.  In the beginning, slappies have a great need for punishment.  And any serious problem usually arises out of a combination among them.  One of them gets an idea; then the others get it.  So before any trouble starts, we punish the troublemakers.”

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Story

A Day on the Slopes

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By Cutieboy90

gay male BDSM fictionCome to Whistler, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.

Mitch grunted in frustration as he replayed the events of the last several days in his mind. He and his friends were avid skiers, so when they offered a week-long stay at Whistler, Mitch had of course taken them up on it. What he didn’t think about, though he now realized he should have, was payment. Mitch groaned. His body was sore. No, not from hours of black diamond runs, not at all. But from being left hogtied on the couch all day.

He was in his full gear, compression layers, long underwear, ski bib, a sweater, and parka. His thick socks, scarf, hat, and gloves were on too, as well as his goggles and boots. It looked hot as hell, and he certainly was. His hands were tied behind his back, with a simple chest harness. His feet were drawn up as tight as the thick layers of clothing allowed, and tied off to the harness. A rank sweaty sock had been stuffed in his mouth and tied in with another pair, compliments of his buds. The back of the gag was tied back to his boots, forcing his body into an uncomfortable arch.

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Story

It’s Been a Year

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By Taurus

NOTE: This single-part work by Taurus is a short sequel to his much longer story One Year.

As James spun around, all he saw was white, with the set of washbasin and toilet flashing grey intermittently.

When he eventually slowed down – he was not quite sure if it was double vision or nausea – there were two sets of personal hygiene stations.

It took James another few breaths to calm down enough that he could confirm once and for all that it was not just him – there were two sinks and two toilets on opposite corners of this cube-shaped cell, which was brilliantly lit on all its sides.

Raising his head, he slowly fell towards the ceiling, until his neck got tired enough to bring the rest of the cell back into view.

Disappointed that he could not fly, James lay down on the one unlit surface in the cell he had been on the whole time; a black leather mattress.

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Story

Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 05

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 5: You Must Take the Tour

A taxi took me to the headquarters of the State Labour Program.  It was a couple of miles from the hotel, and on St. Bevons, a couple of miles makes a lot of difference.  The street was wide but almost deserted.  A few old frame houses straggled along, but most of the frontage was warehouses or wholesale places—Stor-It-Here, Pure Products, Empress of India Auto Parts . . . .  Because it was St. Bevons, everything was wreathed with tropical foliage, even the razor wire fences around the parking lots.  But you could see why this part of town wasn’t on the tourist itinerary.

The cheerfulest place was actually the SLP building.  Nothing to brag about, but they did make an effort to fix it up in a “colonial” style, and the foliage facing the street was well maintained.  Even the little strip of grass in front looked like it was trimmed by hand, every day.  As soon as my shadow approached the glass doors, a slappie jumped out and held one wide for me, bowing.  A man at a desk—a real man, not a slappie—stood to welcome me, asked if I were Mr. Lansing, and said that Major Timmons was awaiting me.  Within a minute I was comfortably seated at a table in the Major’s spacious office, watching the morning light play across his ebony features.

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Story

Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 04

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 4: Travelers Are Often Moody

I rose early and hit the breakfast room, a cream-and-gilt confection where the morning light shone softly on the cut flowers at my table, and slappies bowed and asked permission to butter my muffin.  After observing them all at my leisure I decided that the hottest one was a smiling young black with “Omar” on his shirt and shorts and one of those silver necklaces—which all of them seemed to be wearing — glinting from behind his collar, a nice adornment for a shapely neck.  When I was ready to leave I snapped my fingers in his direction, and in seconds he was at my table, bowing.

“I want a tour of the island,” I said.  And I want you to give it to me!  But I didn’t say that.  I knew they wouldn’t let a hotel servant out for that purpose, or pretense.  Although maybe, if I offered enough money . . . .    But no–I remembered Roger’s advice.  “And I want it now,” I said.

“Yess sirr,” he answered, in the island intonation.  “If you will please to relax here a moment, sir, I will convey your wishes sir.”

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Story

The Party – Part 01

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By findingmyself1986

You agreed to this last month, and once you locked the chastity belt on there was no turning back. Of course you could just decide not to show up for the party, but why do that? First off that would mean no main attraction, and second you will likely never see the keys to that belt again.

While most guests will be getting ready after work, your part preparation starts Wednesday night after your last solid meal. You decide to make it a light one as you know what lays ahead. Thursday morning finds you preparing jello and broth for your liquid diet and drinking the colon prep you snuck from the hospital. The cramps are hell but necessary for tomorrow morning.

Friday morning finds your nerves at their peak as you power on. Hopefully by Monday morning your dick will be free of its steel prison. You make the drive to the party location and upon arrival, strip and strap yourself standing spread eagle, blindfolded, outside in the fenced backyard as you wait for the doms to arrive. Your only hope is that UPS or Fedex does not show up with a package to leave out back.

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Story

Island Paradise – Part 1: Chapter 03

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 3: Exceeding the Ideal

The flight was beautiful — the turquoise sea studded with emerald islands, then the purple thrust of St. Bevons, relic of an extinct volcano, with a city relaxing on its flank.

The Wellington International Airport is small but friendly.  In an American airport, you have to fend for yourself.  At Wellington, a gang of attendants in brown uniforms lines up in the luggage department, waiting to take your bags and carry them to Ground Transportation.  The first one in line grabbed my belongings–one bag in the left hand, one in the right, the third tucked under his arm–and before I knew it he was stowing it all in the trunk of a cab.

The guy was young and fresh-faced and very cute, with a strand of yellow hair poking out from under his little brown cap.  Too bad our encounter was so rushed!  I reached in my pocket for an outsized tip when the cab driver, an elderly black man with a rum-thick accent, intervened.  “No wurries, sirr.  You doan tip thee slappie boys.”

Slappie boys!  So this little corn-fed Midwesterner with the brown shorts and the brown short-sleeved shirt and the glint of a silver necklace underneath his collar—he was a slappie!  Obviously, St. Bevons had several ranks of hierarchy, and they weren’t arranged in order of race.  But fuck!  How hot can this be!

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