The Collar by Lars

By Lars

Originally published in Drummer magazine

If I could just shuck this necklace, I could handle the other shit. Been wearing this ornament now for three years and four months – or is it three years and five months – I’m losing track. It gives me headaches, and no wonder: a three-inch-tall band of thick heavy iron riveted to my neck and welded to a giant 15-foot tow chain, which in turn is fastened to a ring-bolt in the concrete floor. Heavy hardware, I call it.

When you started hammering the rivets those many months ago – that last second of freedom – you grinned reassuringly and promised me I’d get used to it eventually, wouldn’t mind the chaffing and the weight. You lied.

Lars The CollarHanging from the collar, two six-foot logging chains drape down to heavy leg irons locked onto my boots. Since that day you made me prisoner, you’ve kept me buck-naked except for wearing boots. Every week or so, you unlock the shackles and make me change footgear. So I alternate from being a naked, muscular lumberjack in lug soles – to a naked muscular cowboy in pointed shitkickers – to a naked muscular biker in tall, brawny engineers. Always booted, swinging heavy iron, and under your complete control.

Except for the collar and shackles, you usually leave me “free” when we sleep together. Half the large room has a carpet and plush bed. Most nights, we share the comfort there – share good times – back rubs, wine, small talk, maybe sex. Almost like the good times before you talked me into giving you a lifetime lease on my body. In those old days, you’d often put me into make – believe bondage. Great fun it was, but somehow fake and frivolous – even silly. Both of us hungered for the real thing. We got it now, by god. Every time I wake during the night, I feel the aggravating weight on my neck, and know where I am, and who I am. You got my ass for good, buddy.

I know it. You know it. But you take no chances. Whenever you leave the room, you always – without fail – come up to me and talk soothingly while you cuff or tie my hands behind my back, usually cinching them high to the collar, or to my waist. Also without fail, you then gag my mouth good and tight – smiling as you do the good bondmaster’s work, because while you’re gone, you’ll dig the thought of a bound, gagged prisoner-buddy waiting down here for you, uncomfortable and helpless.

Matter of fact, if you’re really feeling good about yourself and about me, you’ll cinch me down all the more – taking greater “pains” to make me rigidly immobilized. In those moods, you’re like an artist at his work, youthfully dreaming up new ways to put me down and under. Sometimes you’ll lock my cuffed arms to a ringbolt in the wall, or to the floor bolt. Sometimes you’ll tie me hand and foot, then padlock my neck chain – that permanent friend – to the same wail bolt, making it impossible for me to rest my head on the floor. Sometimes you’ll hogtie and cuff me, hand and foot, then padlock both my collar and boot irons to the floor bolt, leaving no slack even to raise my head or budge my bound torso. And always the tight gag – that’s your particular fetish, I think, your specialty.

Constantly collared and shackled, as well as subjected to the additional rigid bondage nearly every day, I’ve learned to wait, straining against the ropes and iron and gag. Lots of hurting and waiting. I’ve become a philosopher of sorts, with all that waiting, and could write it down for the world to know if my hands were ever free. Lots of waiting. No damn wonder the sound of your boots on the stairs makes me come alive – as much as a hopelessly restrained dude can come alive. The sight of your lanky form and swaggering limbs, descending the stairs in boots and leather, gets me going. Besides, you always bring me food and water, and usually a sunny smile to light up that angular, handsome face of yours. You’re good at soft massages to ease my strained muscles – good with the friendly words and comfort. Your easygoing male elegance envelopes me, makes me warm. Guess I’ll spend my life in bondage aching for the sight, feel and smell of you.

Don’t even mind too much if you take a notion to whip me – maybe for crapping on the floor, or dislodging the gag (an insult to the specialist). Some days you’re moody, and rough me up cruelly, pausing just long enough to feed and water me – out of the floor bowls, if you’re really out-of-joint. And the sight of you on those stairs doesn’t always mean instant relief from rigid bondage and the gag – even when you’re happy. You’ll tease, and talk and strut – leaving me guessing just how soon you’ll ease me out. More than once, out of pure whim, you’ve kept me padlocked to the floor bolt all night – left me “resting” on concrete while you snacked, or slept on pillows. I like it when you sit in the stuffed chair, smoking your pipe and watching TV, your oiled boots propped on my bare, bound torso, prodding and pushing. Like it too when you stand on me, verbally hassle me, kick me a little, call me your favorite slave, brag on my muscles – my chained and straining muscles. Even like it sometimes when you tighten the gag or close the cuffs one more notch – before you go back to reading that favorite new novel, laughing smugly while you enjoy your firm yet gentle domination of a friend and prisoner.

We both have good physiques, and keep in top shape by hard exercise nearly every day. Help each other go through the regimen’s paces – two equal jocks in a way, except that your glistening and powerful body is unhampered, while my collar stays riveted, and the chains add a clanking accompaniment to our movements. We build up good hardy sweats – like to smell each other, like to slap each other’s romps.. That’s when we usually have sex – aroused, masculine, energetic. But damn if I don’t pay for the pleasure, because afterwards you nearly always either leave me or put me in rigid bondage for hours more, as if to have me ready for that next good shot. I love it – just so you’re there.

When you’re not there – that’s when I feel the collar most painfully. Four walls, irons, ropes, cuffs, constricting gag – all keeping me quiet and out of trouble – keeping me waiting for those heavy boots on the stairs. Maybe tonight you’ll surprise this still-hopeful slave, and strike off the collar – give me a break, if only for a few days – or hours. I mean, shit, I signed on for life, but the contract didn’t require that damn iron noose every hour of every day. I’d ask you to replace it with a lighter one, but I’m afraid you’d bring back a four-inch model instead – smiling as usual as you hammered it into place.

Reckon I knew what I was doing when I signed on for this scene. But in the back of my mind, I think I unconsciously expected you’d get tired of the “real thing” after a week or two – a month or two at most. Would get to feeling guilty when faced with the cruel actuality of it all. Trouble is, part of the contract also reads that if you ever chicken out and release me, then I get your ass for keeps – to use or abuse. Damn that no-escape clause! The contract also promises your ass to me if I ever escape on my own, but the rivets, collar, tow chain, shackles, ropes, cuffs and gag all make that an illusion – a real fantasy. I’m as strong as you, and when my arms are free could probably wrestle you to the concrete floor some fine day, but the rivets and the collar would still be in place. Hell, I’ve even thought of choking you in your sleep some night, but for what? I’d still be on the chain, and who would know? Yeah, bossman, you’ve got all bases covered.

But a man’s gotta hope. Will you still keep me chained, bound and gagged when I grow old – get wrinkled – lose my hair and good physique? Or what if I promise not to exercise my rights to enslave you in return? Come on, fella, strike off these rivets. We’re buddies, remember?

But I’m dreaming again – something I do a lot of on this concrete floor. Not a chance. Shit, you like me just as I am. You know when you’ve got a good thing going. makes me feel good, in a way. Besides, I’m no candy-ass. I can take it. Have taken it. You haven’t caught me begging or whining – yet. Still and all, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings none if you came down right now, massaged my chest slowly and sensuously, stroked my nude rump – and eased this gag just a fraction of an inch. Yeah, I’d like that. Sure would.

THE END

NOTE: Does anybody remember Drummer magazine? This is a story I really liked from Drummer, by the author Lars. What I like about it is how serious the locking metal restraints are. I must extend special thanks to my friend Yossie for digging this one up out of the vault. Since Lars is now deceased and Drummer magazine no longer exists, I am pretty sure I can get away with posting it here on Metalbond without getting any angry emails.

 

2 thoughts on “The Collar by Lars”

  1. This is execellent, elegant writing that is simutaneoulsy visceral, descriptive and at the same time has elements that inspire empathy. It’s the sort of writing that is in the forefront of homoerotic literature and, one day, will be more broadly recognized. Thanks to the great person who took the trouble to find it.

  2. Sometimes I feel frustrated at playing the games we play. A few hours of bondage make me crave a lifetime spent chained and bound. The following quote from the story hit me hard when I first read it and did the same thing when I read it this time.

    “Almost like the good times before you talked me into giving you a lifetime lease on my body. In those old days, you’d often put me into make – believe bondage. Great fun it was, but somehow fake and frivolous – even silly. Both of us hungered for the real thing. We got it now, by god. Every time I wake during the night, I feel the aggravating weight on my neck, and know where I am, and who I am. You got my ass for good, buddy.”

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