By PFC Pflege

After boot camp I was sent to Camp Smith, which sits in the hills overlooking Pearl Harbor. It’s also headquarters for the Fleet Marine Force, and CINCPAC (Commander in Chief Pacific), so it’s a pretty important base. As a result, they spent more money on it than other bases, and the barracks were pretty fancy by Marine Corps standards.

They looked like motels — three stories of rooms, each facing out onto a porch which ran the length of each building. Each section was the same: 1 squadbay, which looked like a motel room, and next to it, a second squadbay, which was the mirror opposite of the other, and between the two was the bathroom, or what we called the head. There were four Marines to each room, and each Marine had his own bed. It’s important to picture these beds accurately because a lot of spreadeagling went on in my squadbay. Each bed had a small headboard and a small footboard, which were attached at the top and bottom to metal bedposts, leaving about a 3-inch space between the attachments. Obviously, when you tied the wrists and ankles to these posts, your spreadeagled Marine could not slide the ropes either above or below these attachments. I wonder if the guy who ordered these beds did so with being spreadeagled in mind.

Anyway, when I came on base, there was a sergeant in charge of the squadbay, me, and two other Marines. At last he shipped out, and I was put in charge, a 23-year-old Marine corporal. The other guys had changed too, so I had three privates straight out of LeJeune: Dave, a Mexican-American, Andy from Austin, Texas, and John who was from Long Island. They were 17 and 18 years old. John played only a small, but interesting role, later on, and ultimately left us for the detox center.

Another thing significant about the barracks is the fact that it never gets cold in Hawaii, and most of the time we ran the barracks in Speedos or briefs. Most nights we slept without covers because it was so warm; in fact a couple of us got some foam rubber which we put on top of the made beds, and slept on these. This saved us the necessity of making beds for inspection.

Dave and I finally got together one night, when the other two Marines were out. I forget what started it, but we’d both had enough to drink, and I probably bet him he couldn’t tie me up so that I couldn’t get out. He tied me to a chair, and I got out in about an hour. From then on, Dave got real interested, and we would tie each other up almost every night. Andy was out most times, and John was never there, so we were mostly alone.

One night I came down the hill from the Enlisted Men’s Club a little more drunk than usual. It was Friday night, about eleven. I always slept wearing only tight Speedos (like a lot of Marines), and I slept uncovered on top of the foam rubber on my bed.

About twelve (I guess), when I was sleeping on my side, I felt someone very gently lift my right hand and ever so carefully slip a rope loop over my wrist. I was awake, but I kept my eyes shut, and continued regular, deep breathing. My heart was racing wildly, though, and my cock had jumped and thrust stiffly into the Speedos, so rock-hard that I was glad I was lying on my side so whoever it was who was tying me up couldn’t see the massive erection straining at the thin nylon.

Ever so gently my arm was pulled back to the bed post, where it was secured. This pulled me onto my back. Next, my other arm was very gently raised and tied to the other post. I was still pretending to be asleep, and it was a convincing job, because I heard some whispering, and a voice said “Wake him up now.”

Suddenly the overhead lights were on, and Dave was slapping me on the face. I awoke with a “Wazza happening?” and I looked up at whoever had done it. Dave was standing at the foot of the bed, with more rope in his hands. Andy, and three Marines from the other squadbay were standing looking at me. All of them were in cotton briefs, nothing else, four hard, lean, young male bodies, fresh from boot camp, and tanned by the Hawaii sun.

Dave grabbed one of my legs and tied rope to it. He then pulled my body down the bed as hard as he could, and tied the leg to a bed post. More rope, and my other leg was tied too. I could look down my body to the massive curve in my crotch which I was completely unable to hide now, I felt enormously sexually aroused, my body thrilling with the very, very tight spreadeagle, and with the humiliation of being tied up and having an erection in front of four young Marines.

Dave was not through. He got a piece of rag and tried shoving it in my mouth. I clenched my teeth to prevent him gagging me. With a quick, deft movement, still holding the rag up against my mouth, he karate-chopped my crotch, and as my mouth involuntarily opened to scream, he shoved the rag in. Fortunately, either the booze I had had, or maybe Dave didn’t hit me all that hard, the pain from the karate chop had no measurable effect on my erection.

Dave gagged me expertly and carefully. Now that the rag was in my mouth, he held it in place while he got a band of thin adhesive tape around my head and through the mouth, He wrapped this tape carefully around my head several times, jamming the rag deep into my throat. He wasn’t through. Next, he took wide, grey duct tape, and proceeded to tape my head from just below the nose to under the chin. I writhed and heaved in the ropes while this was going on, first shouting, then muffled shouts, then gurgles, and finally soundless screams. I heaved my ass up off the bed in a kind of wrestler’s bridge, which, of course, showed off the gigantic bulge in the bondage and the public humiliation.

Finally Dave was done. They stayed around a while, doing things like cutting off my breathing by holding my nose, shaving my armpits, and slapping the Speedo-covered meat. Needless to say, I was as horny as a goat. Finally, they got a can of shaving cream, and lifting the band of the Speedos, they filled the speedos with warm shaving cream. It was an incredible sensation to have my cock, balls and crotch covered with shaving cream, while my manhood was bent in a forced curve under the tight nylon of the briefs. Then they turned off the lights and left me.

I fought the ropes deliciously for a long time, until the booze began to wear off, and panic started in. All the supposes occurred to me: suppose an officer comes in, suppose they leave me here and there’s a fire, suppose, and suppose. At one point I got filled with desperation, and sent useless unheard scream after scream into the gag. Sweat broke out all over my body, and I struggled desperately in the ropes, trying with brute strength to break them. Nothing doing. I was tightly and viciously spreadeagled.

At long last, the panic subsided, and I started rationally to untie myself. I loosened one knot with my thumbnail, and started rubbing it against the bedboard to undo it. The bars would be closing at 3:00, and already I could hear men returning to the barracks. There was not much time. Finally the one knot gave way, and I was able to free the wrist for about six inches until the rope was stopped by a second knot. With the new freedom of movement, though, this knot posed no problem, and I had my right wrist completely free and was going to work on the left, when the door opened, and Dave, obviously drunk, came in.

It was after three o’clock, and all through the barracks the final doors were being closed, the last lights going out. At first Dave didn’t see me, and I quickly moved my right wrist back to where it would look as if I were still tied. I was getting rock-hard again with the thought of escaping, and tying him up while he was sleeping it off.

But Dave saw me after he came out of the head, and came over to check me. The room was still dark, and only an outside light shone through the curtains into the room. I was hoping he would be too drunk to notice my right wrist. But he did notice it, and quickly grabbed it, and tied it with rope. I was really thrashing around now, because it had taken me three hours to free that wrist, but in less than 10 seconds I was thoroughly and completely tied up again. Then he took more rope and bound both wrists more tightly to the posts. There was now no freedom of movement at all, and I was totally secured. I heaved around with utter desperation, begging (uselessly) into the gag, but a few minutes later, Dave started snoring, and I was finished.

About ten minutes later, Andy turned up, and I got a sudden surge of excitement as he came in and looked at my tied-up and gagged body. Just where I had been at midnight when he and the other guys watched me being spreadeagled. He just looked at me for a while, and I squirmed and writhed trying to signal him to untie me. Andy did nothing. He went to bed, and pretty soon he too was fast asleep.

It was early morning, I guessed, somewhere around four o’clock, and at this point I had totally given up trying to escape. My wrists felt as if they had been poured in concrete; I could move my fingers slightly, but the circulation was not real good. My legs were OK, as far as circulation was concerned, but they were still tightly tied to the posts. My shoulders were aching because of the way my arms were tied; my crotch was definitely aching because my legs were spread out so far. The sodden rag sealed into my mouth felt as if it had been there all my life. Technically speaking, the gag was perfect. Dave had jammed enough cloth into my mouth so I could not get my tongue to my upper lip. Anyone who has been gagged with tape knows that the way to breathe or to talk is to break the adhesion of the tape on the upper lip, by contracting the lip and working with the tongue. This I could not do, so I lay entombed in silence and secured tightly at my four appendages with rope. The fifth appendage, between my legs, was starting to grow again, as I slipped slowly and inevitably into pleasure. I was really getting into my roped submission, and I remember how incredibly sexual it was in the early morning, with a soft Hawaiian breeze playing across my sweaty body, and those two guys sleeping it off in the next beds. And I was forced to wait, to wait until one of them got up and untied me. I was utterly and completely helpless, and Dave retying my wrist at 3:00 AM or so had beaten me.

So I lay luxuriating in the ache in my arms, back and crotch, thrusting my ever-increasing bulge towards the ceiling. I bridged as best I could, lifting my ass off the foam rubber and hoping one of those guys would wake and see my erection. I grunted into the gag, my mouth hermetically sealed with tape, which scratched into my morning beard. My head ached with lack of sleep and my hangover; I felt all grubby and sweaty; pools of sweat had gathered in the foam, and as I rolled and twisted, my body got recoated with old sweat.

My body was on fire with lust and sexual arousal. The Speedos tightened as my nine inches stiffened into rock-hard erection. I wanted to kneel in front of Dave and the other guys and jerk off. I fantasized about being ordered to strip in front of them, and stand at attention, wearing only my Speedos. Dave would be sitting in a chair, and the other guys standing around. All eyes would be fastened on my crotch, which would show a lovely curve, but still be covered. Then Dave would curtly order me to remove the last barrier, and kneel. Six erections would be the result as the 23-year-old man corporal knelt before his 18-year-old master, who quietly leaned back in his chair.

All the while I fantasized this my erection grew huge and hard; I lusted in the ropes.

It must have been after 5:00 AM that John turned up, but that’s just a guess. The room was measurably lightening, and I had been dozing on and off, so it must have been some time around then. John was a weird guy. First, he hated any kind of authority, which naturally included me, since I was NCOIC of the squadbay. Second, he had a real drug problem, which ultimately got him kicked out of the Corps. But for this story, none of that mattered. Because what he did was the only contact we had during the six months he was in my squadbay. He was gone most of the time, sleeping elsewhere, and almost never turned up in the barracks. This morning he did, as I heard him pushing uncertainly with his key at the door’s lock. Finally, he got it open, and came in. He was dressed in civvies: cutoff jeans, and a ragged t-shirt, which did little to hide the built chest of that boy. I will say one thing for him, he did have a hunky body.

It must have been a sight for him to see. Here was his NCOIC tied up and gagged, and his two other buddies asleep. The room was lightening, but still pre-dawn, and he could see enough of me to tell that I was not only tied up but gagged. He sat down on the bed beside me, and whispered at me, calling me an asshole and every other name he could think of. While he did this, he had his hand on my chest, playing with the chain around my neck, flipping the dog tags up and down. I tried grunting at him, and lifting my head off the bed, and twisting around to show what I thought of him. He stopped whispering at me, and looked over at Dave and Andy. They were sound asleep, and Dave, who was a real snorer, was giving of his best. John’s hand then moved down my chest, and over the Speedos, and down to my legs. I went rigid in the ropes and the bulge between my legs went rock-hard. One of the things that John did was to reaffirm one of the oldest Marine Corps, and straight boys’, excuses, that you can do whatever you want when you’re drunk or on drugs. The next day you can always say, “God, was I drunk last night!” or “I don’t remember a thing about last night,” and everything is OK. When I met Rocky several months later, and we had sex in the basement room of the barracks, we both used exactly those words the next day. Dave and I always tied each other up after we had a load on, so as to give ourselves the same excuse.

Anyway, John stroked my legs for a while, and then he cupped his hand over the curve in my crotch. I bridged up to meet his hand, feeling incredibly horny, and trying to rub his hand with my stiffened cock. This kept up for a few minutes, and then, suddenly, John made a fist and hit me hard with it right on the head of my cock, catching one of my balls as well.

“Fuckin’ queer,” he said.

With this I went limp, but he hit me again in my crotch. I was really scared, not only because I had deliberately thrust at him with my erection, but also because I was heavily gagged, and couldn’t say anything. The pain of John’s beating me in the cock and balls was mild compared to the shame of being caught out. I thought of what he would tell the others next day, and what would happen to me.

But it was strange. He hit me three or four times, and stopped. Nothing happened for a while, and then he started playing with the dog tags again. I relaxed, and John started playing with my body, up and down the arms, across my chest, down my legs. Then his head slowly caressed my abdomen (back then your typical Marine’s washboard), and along the top of the Speedos. Then he quickly moved again to the curve of my manhood, and cupped his hand over it, massaging it gently with his fingers. It went rock-hard immediately, and for a long time he kept stroking it. It made me delirious with lust, and this time, as I thrust my crotch into his hand, he didn’t stop stroking it. His hand went around the base of my cock, stroking my balls, and over the mountain of my male erection to the head, which as I knew from experience, was clearly molded in the thin nylon. I was begging soundlessly for him to let my dick out and stroke me to ejaculation. And, if this were a porn film, he would have. But he didn’t. After enjoying my body, he hit me twice, very hard, in my meat, so hard that I almost passed out, with my eyes filling with red mists of pain.

“Fuckin’ queer,” he repeated.

He then changed clothes and left. I lay there, wanting desperately to caress and hold my exceedingly painful manhood, but obviously unable to do so. The agony which had caused me to break out in sweat all over my body, slowly, very slowly subsided, although it returned from time to time without warning in sudden flashes of intense pain. Finally I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke as Dave and Andy were coming out of the head. They were dressed for work (half-days on Saturdays), but I had this weekend off, and they knew it. Maybe that’s why they had ambushed me last night. It was full morning, with the hot Hawaiian sun beating in at the windows. It was also weird because here were these two guys dressed in uniform, and I still lay on the bed, trussed, gagged, and displaying a hardon in my tight Speedos, a relic of the night before. Not only that, but Dave slapped my face affectionately before the two left.

I was alone. All around me I could hear Marines getting up, some to work, some to the beach, talking, laughing. The three guys in the squadbay next to mine came into the room through the head. They were in cutoffs and tight t-shirts, headed for the beach.

“Jesus,” one of them said, as they looked at me, and laughed. “Dave really did a job on his buddy.”

“See you tonight,” they called out, laughing again, and off they went.

The hours crept slowly on, the hubbub of the morning had died down, and the barracks were entirely deserted. I could hear, faintly, traffic from down the hill, and other normal sounds of daily occupation. All the while, unknown to the base and the barracks except those five sadists, I lay spreadeagled on my bed. Again I was forced to wait, and slowly again my cock stiffened to a full erection. I had lost count of its ups and downs through the night, but the warmth of sexual arousal filled my aching body and lust replaced pain as my mind and body slipped forever into submission.

I was finally untied at about 12:30, after Dave came back from work. He untied one wrist, and left, leaving me to struggle loose. It took about an hour, and finally I stood up, still gagged, chafing my wrists and ankles in an effort to restore circulation. I was, unfortunately, alone in the room, but I made do as best I could.

Leaving the gag in place, I placed a chair in the middle of the room. I took a pair of Dave’s spit-shined boots and placed them on the floor in front of the chair, facing out, as if he were sitting there with his boots on. I stood at rigid attention for a moment, not permitting my hands to stroke the still-covered rock-hard cock encased in my Speedos. I pretended that my fantasy had come true.

“Well, Mike, I see I’ve won.”

“Yes, Dave, you have.”

Andy and the other guys stood around Dave, who was fully dressed, wearing spit-shined boots. They were naked, except for jockstraps which were showing clearly the evidence of their sexual excitement. The older Marine corporal stood at attention before the young Marine privates, waiting for his orders.

They came curtly. “Strip, corporal, to your jockstrap.”

The corporal slowly stripped naked, except for his jock, and once again stood at attention before his 18-year-old master. All eyes feasted on the promising bulge between the corporal’s legs, showing a huge bulging curve.

They knew that in a few minutes he would be ordered to remove the jock.

While I was thinking of this, I ripped the gag off as savagely as I could, taking hair and skin at the same time. The sodden rag dropped on the floor, and I kicked it out of the way. My meat grew harder in the curve of the Speedos. I followed orders, and removed the last barrier.

Then I knelt down before the chair and the boots, and indulged in two long fantastic jerk-offs, shooting both loads onto Dave’s boots. My mind luxuriated in the submission, humiliation and degradation of the scene: one male kneeling naked and beaten before the captor, and humbly shooting his precious cum in token of his master’s dominance. I indulged myself in the first jerk-off, taking my cock, free at last after being imprisoned in a forced bent curve all night in the Speedos. I thought of the Marines standing at the foot of my bed while I was being tied up, Andy, seventeen, naked except for his briefs, whipcord muscles in his arms and chest, lean, hard, all-male, all Marine. I thought of Dave kneeling on my chest while he had gagged me, the heavy pack of muscle in his shoulders, shifting as he wrapped the tape, the musk odor of his body within inches of my face. And the other guys, tanned, with hair sun-golden on chests and thighs, their hard, lean bodies. I stroked my own lean body, feeling the tips, twin hard pricks of sexual heat, pinching them roughly with my fingers. I remembered the intense excitement when, hours ago, I had felt Dave very carefully, very gently slip the first rope around my right wrist; then, in contrast, how he viciously pulled and stretched my legs, tying them with clothesline, while I, now awake, looked down my body and over the massive curving bulge in my crotch to those near-naked Marines enjoying my bondage.

I remembered, now with pleasure, the strange business with John, how he alternated stroking me to an erection and then torturing me. I remembered the early morning lust, while those two hunky Marines were sleeping, when I heaved and thrust my cock to the ceiling, my cock rock-hard, imprisoned, covered with shaving cream. Finally, I let my cock shoot, and a gush of cum covered Dave’s boots and the floor.

I stood up, rigidly at attention, and felt with pleasure that my nine inches were still hard, and ready for Dave’s order. I gave the order, and knelt again, and indulged a second time in memory and fantasy, and willed them to be there now as I submitted to them. A second gush came, and yet still I remained stiff. Again I stood at attention, and for the third and last time, knelt.

The third erection took much longer, but finally I shot a small load of cum, and realized I was completely depleted. The image of the Marines’ bodies was still strong in my mind, and I gave myself one final order from Dave.

Of course, I fantasized that Dave then ordered me to clean his boots, and in that very hot room, in the Hawaiian afternoon, I groveled on the floor, my cock again stiffening, and licked the cum off the boots and off the floor where it had splattered around the chair in which my 18-year-old master sat. I spent considerably time on the boots, because my cum had gotten into the laces, and required to to dig it out with my tongue. To my amazement, my cock was hard again, and required an all-time record of a fourth jerk-off to relieve it. I licked it off the toe of Dave’s boot, and went to bed. It took a long, long time, but finally a tiny shot of sperm spurted out. Needless to say, I slept like a baby that afternoon.

 

To be continued …

 

This story originally appeared on the Bondagezine site. Metal would like to thank the author, PFC Pflege, for sharing this experience and thanks also to Master Jack of Bondagezine.