By PFC Pflege

I stood up, and looked at Vasquez. I liked what I saw. I had already gagged him before I tied his ankles, so there was little left to be done. It was nearly midnight, but the unair-conditioned barracks were very warm from Hawaii’s heat, and it never really cooled off, even after the sun set. Vasquez was lying face up on the foam rubber padding which I kept on my bed.

It was comfortable to sleep on, and meant I didn’t have to make my bed each day for inspection – just roll the foam rubber up, and stow it. Now Vasquez lay on it, face up, spread-eagled to the four corners of the bed. It was the third or fourth time I had tied him up, so he was no longer shy about the fact that his briefs showed his rock-hard hard-on.

The Marine base where we were stationed is on Oahu, with a view down the steep hills all the way to Pearl Harbor. When the guys were off duty, we tended to strip down to Speedos or briefs, because of the heat; there was nothing like being with sixty or seventy Marines, in the peak of physical condition, strutting around in Speedos. Our barracks were split up into rooms, with four guys per room. At the time Vasquez and I lived there, one other guy was assigned to our room, but we didn’t see him much. I was a corporal, and in charge of the room; Also, I was older, a college graduate, looked like the preppy I was; Vasquez was 17 or 18, a Mexican, and built solid. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He stood five foot ten and was rock-solid hard: not a body builder, or a sculpted beauty – just a rock-hard slab of muscle. His thighs in particular were thick with ropes of muscles. His chest tapered down to his small waist; his smooth butt and packed crotch were always contained in the same clinging briefs. The first time I had tied him up, he begged me to leave the room – I found out later that he was embarrassed to show he had a hard-on. Later, when he tied me up for the first time, I made damn sure he could see my hard-on, straining in my Speedos. After that, he lost his shyness, and enjoyed showing off the lovely curve in his crotch. Like tonight.

I looked him over, before leaving. I checked the knots at his wrists and his ankles. Vasquez always sweated a lot, and he was sweating now – there was a small pool of sweat in his belly button. I liked the way I had tied him up. First, the wrists, and then the gag. The gag was duct tape, and to tape him properly, I had knelt over his chest. Like Vasquez, I was wearing only skin-tight Speedos, and by kneeling like this, I made sure my bulge was right in his face as I tape his mouth. Tape round and round the head, and then several lengths, long-wise, from under the chin to over the top of his head. This held his jaw tightly shut. (I would never leave a guy alone now, gagged like that, but we were young and horny.) Lastly, I tied his ankles, pulling his legs down the bed, hard, so that his body was stretched out. The bondage was tight and secure: there was no play in the ropes.

Before I flipped the light off, I posted a sign over his head “Do Not Untie This Man,” and left it there for the other member of the squad bay to see, if he came home. I also looked with sensual enjoyment at that rock-hard slab of muscle trying to twist and writhe on the bed. His briefs barely covered the huge, straining erection between those massive legs. He tried making words through the gag, but my trick with the tape under his chin kept his mouth sealed shut.

Vasquez had come to me at eleven that night, while I was in the NCO bar. He wasn’t an NCO so he had to send someone in to get me. I was a little annoyed on being summoned, but he took me outside, and I could see he was sweating with desire. He had been drinking, and he wanted me to tie him up “tie me up fucking tight, please, Dan.” So we had walked down the hill to the barracks, and both of us had stripped to Speedos in the hot Hawaiian night. I arranged my foam rubber sheet on his bed, and when he came into the room from the head (bathroom), I said: “Still want it?”

He had nodded, and climbed onto the foam rubber, positioning his arms and legs in the classic X of the spread-eagle. Now I had finished binding him, and gagging him. No one but our buddy had a key for the room, and I was pretty sure that he was gone for the weekend anyway. As I slipped my shorts and t-shirt on, I looked at Vasquez one last time – he was straining upwards with his abdomen and hips, so that the bent curve of his hard-on was obscene. So was my own hard-on, but, of course, we were Marines, and it had nothing to do with the bondage, let alone gay sex. We were just your average, horny young Marine, except that one was being left alone, spread-eagled with rope in his squad while his buddy went back up the hill to the NCO club.

I had enjoyed spread-eagling Vasquez, forcing that muscle-hard body into what was going to be a long night of aching agony, but, as I ordered a beer in the club, I had no idea what even more enjoyable experience lay ahead of me. No, I don’t mean sex, though Vasquez and I came perilously close a couple of times, and in my last year on base, I did hook up with another guy who liked to combine bondage with man-sex. No, this was a different kind of pleasure, but what I have never forgotten, even though there wasn’t much to it.

The bar closed at 2:00am, but, for some reason, maybe lust, I decided to return to the squad bay earlier, at around 1:30 or so. Vasquez would have been tied up for about two hours. The hill was dark, but the air was moist and warm. You could see the lights from Pearl Harbor and, further away, from Honolulu. Most of the barracks were dark, with only one or two rooms still lit. It was Friday, but for most Marines, Saturday was a work day, and they had turned in. I climbed the outside stairs, and went along the balcony to our room. All the squad bays open onto a balcony, kinda like a motel. I inserted the key, and opened the door.

I had returned at exactly the right time. As I flipped on the switch, and the room filled with light, I saw that Vasquez had gotten his left hand free, somehow, and was working with his fingers on the ropes holding his right hand. If I had stayed in the bar until closing, he would have gotten himself completely free. I came over and sat down on the bed next to his. I never enjoyed anything so much as the expression in Vasquez’s eyes and face – one of someone who was desperately close to victory, only to have it snatched away from him. His cock had gone soft, and his body was drenched in sweat. I liked how his ass cheeks were indented, and he still strained with every muscle to somehow free his right hand. But his eyes showed his total hopelessness. I got up, and stripped to my Speedos, very slowly. I was in no hurry. Vasquez was finished, and he knew it, and I knew it.

Picking up the rope which had bound his left hand and wrist, I peeled his arm away from his chest, and slowly crushed it back down on the bed. He was fighting me as hard as he could, but with only one arm free, it was hopeless. I bound the left wrist again, and ran the loose end around the post at the corner of the bed. There was a bar running between the posts at the head and the foot of the bed. Getting more rope, I bound his upper arms and elbows to the bar behind his head. Then, I added rope to his thighs and legs and bound them to the bar at the foot of the bed.

I was rockhard in my skimpy Speedos, but I had been drinking, and I didn’t care. I stroked my bulge, and admired the spread-eagle of my buddy Vasquez. The gag was still extremely effective, because all the time I was tying him tighter and tighter, he was pounding his head on the foam rubber, and making noises, but, because his jaw was taped shut, he could make only grunts. His frustration at being so close to freedom gave me intense pleasure, and, to further enhance the fun, Vasquez was erecting again. In the dark silence of the night, our room the only globe of golden light in the sleeping barracks, an 18-yr-old Marine, spread-eagled to his bed, was visibly erecting. He was soaked in sweat, and there were pools of sweat on the foam rubber. His skimpy swim briefs were dark with sweat, but what I enjoyed was watching his cock grow. It was bent in the straining nylon, but lifted the briefs away from his skin, so that the hairs at the base of his cock were clearly visible.

Then he started rutting. At this point, I could have done anything with him – jerked him off, sucked his cock, but the homophobia of the Marines held strong. I watched him rut, heaving his hips upwards, writhing in intense sexual heat in the bondage. The room was warm, but also heavy with sex. I switched the light off, and left on only one light from a corner desk. Vasquez heaved and lunged in the ropes, but this time there was no chance at all of freedom. He had submerged into a sexual twilight (we have all done that) where the rope bondage, his youth, the contrast of sleeping Marines right in the next squad bay, the skin-tight Speedos, and the obvious and obscene bulge of his bent horse-cock – all created a high-intensity atmosphere in that room. I lay on the bed next to him, coming as close to masturbating as I dared, playing with my own bulge, while I watched Vasquez put on his show for my benefit.

In later months, Vasquez tied me up more than I tied him up, and we did have the one night, which I have already written about, where we used physical torture to make one of us kneel, and the end, and jerk off while his buddy watched him. But mostly it was spread-eagles, and showing off our ripped bodies to our buddy, and strutting and struggling, and sweating and writhing, muscles against rope, in the most macho captive-prisoner scenarios we dared do, in the context of being Marines.


Copyright 2001-2013 PFC Pflege & BBH Ltd. All Rights Reserved.


This story is courtesy of Master Jack over at Bondagezine. It is posted here with permission.





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