By Jaybird

It was almost dusk as I pulled into the long driveway. Once past the line of trees, I saw the classic farmhouse with a porch was on my left, to the right there were a couple of working metal barns. Once again I was on a business trip, and had found him on Recon, sent a cruise, got one back, and started a conversation. I immediately liked his easy going, no posturing, attitude, we could both laugh at our kinks. He offered up that he had what he called a “horse,” one of those now pretty popular pieces of bondage gear built from plywood, with a flat padded top, supports on the sides for forearms and shins, and straps – lots of straps. I told him it would be totally hot just to be strapped into that for three hours or so. He seemed to like that idea.

The fact that he insisted on talking on the phone increased my comfort level. We had a good conversation, though I remember feeling kind of awkward just because small talk isn’t something I do well. But he understood, asked a lot of good questions, and reinforced my impression that I was dealing with a basically kind, good natured guy with some compatible interests.

Finally, he shared his address, and we agreed on a time. I told him, pretty clearly, I am REALLY OK with him just getting started right away. I said “Telling me to just take off my clothes is a really good icebreaker,” half, but only half, joking.

So here I am. I know he had heard me pull up, and certainly heard the car door shut. On the porch was a chair, with a cardboard box. There was a piece of paper taped to the door. It said, in bold letters, “If you are brave…”

The note inside was simple:

“Take off your clothes, and put them in the box. Put on the hood and cuff yourself. Wait.”

In the box were a neoprene hood, a pair of black police style hinged handcuffs, and a set of ankle shackles with about 18 inches of chain between them. Whoo. Maybe I should have hesitated, but, well, I didn’t.

I took the items out of the box, and set them separately on the chair. Took off my shoes, socks, jeans, briefs. The sound of the ankle cuff ratchets had a degree of finality as I put them on, though I probably could still have left if I really wanted to.

Next I pulled my heavy sweatshirt and T-shirt over my head as one unit, and put them into the box with my shoes and pants.

The sun was setting, and the shadow of dusk was descending. Moving quickly now, I locked my right hand into the handcuffs, put on the hood, then secured my left hand behind my back. Feeling my bare ass with my hands was a stark reminder of just how naked I was. As was the chill. Did I mention that it was 17 degrees?

It was probably less than a minute before he opened the door, but not knowing when he would bring me inside really had me feeling the total vulnerability at all levels. This is a lot more than “no clothes.” I was not standing nude on his porch, I was totally naked, and could not change that without help.

When I did hear the door open, it was followed by a laugh, then a hand was guiding me over the threshold, “Step up, there you go, OK, turn left,” and I was slowly guided inside and across a room until I felt my legs touch something.

He helped me bend over the padded top, then guided each of my legs onto the support. They were still chained together at the ankles, but there was enough slack that it didn’t matter.

Straps. One around each ankle, pulling it snug against the wood sides. One around each thigh doing the same thing. He had me lift my arms away from my body, then secured a strap across my lower back, and another higher up, just below my arms, snugging my chest down against the top. There were a couple of padded pipes or something sticking out from the front that I rested my head on.

I heard a jingle of keys and felt him unlock the handcuffs, and secure each arm with two more straps – one around my wrist, one securing my forearm.

The position was as though I was crawling on my knees and forearms, only I was off the floor, bent over naked. Finally he strapped a ball gag around the back of my head and asked, “Comfy?” I grunted in the affirmative.

This is what I crave. Self-bondage doesn’t do it for me because it is about someone else being in control, someone else seeing me, the feeling of being on display rather than just the sensation of restricted mobility. It is hard to explain to a lot of people. It is about feeling naked, and that only happens if there is vulnerability to someone else. He wants me this way.

I felt his jeans press in against my ass, and his hands exploring, finding my nipples, lingering there as I tensed hard against the straps. He laughed again, but in a way that was sharing the scene. Then he stepped away.

He was close though. I heard the sound of a newspaper. Then of him typing. He told me what he was doing, “I’m sharing your situation in a chat room,” that just notched it up a bit more for me.

I had asked for three hours. The time passed quickly, and slowly. Mostly just zoning to myself, feeling my saliva drip away from the ball gag, waiting, longing really, for another touch, tease, edging. A few times I got that, maybe for a minute, maybe a bit longer, enough to get me longing for that to continue, enough to re-engage a raging erection.

Finally, though, I felt the straps being undone. I wished for more, but, not tonight. Finally free and standing, I took off the hood and saw him for the first time. He had a kind, bearded face. I stepped close and wrapped my arms around him, he was a muscular guy, and I felt so secure when he reciprocated. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to spend time naked next to him, but that would have to wait until next time.