This story is taken from the website which was run by the late, great Ropejock…
As consciousness returned, I remembered what had happened and tried to sit up – I couldn’t. I found I could barely move a muscle. My arms were tied tightly behind me; I felt something tied tight around my ankles, my knees and even my thighs. My wrists were secured and my elbows were pulled painfully tight together in the small of my back. My head was enclosed in something, the smell was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. My mouth felt stuffed full of something soft, springy but tough and I could barely swallow. The contraption blindfolded me – it must have been a hood of some sort over my head.
As I grew more aware, I felt the strain of the bonds around my body, everything was painfully tight and my muscles ached from the strain of the unusual position my limbs were forced to adopt. I was lying on my side and couldn’t straighten my legs without pulling on my arms. I was hog-tied, I’d seen it before but I’d never thought that it could be this painful. My skin felt strange, I couldn’t work it out but I knew that every part of me was covered in some way. I must have the uniform on, but I knew how that felt and this didn’t feel the same, besides, I knew that the motorcycle boots were not on my feet – that much was clear.
I couldn’t help but try to relieve the strain on my limbs, I moved as best I could but could do nothing to relieve the pain. I realized that my arms were secured to my body and that bonds were secured around my chest and torso in some criss-cross fashion. I could feel them biting into my flesh and restricting all movement. I tried in vain to speak but couldn’t make myself understood, I heard gurgling and rasping and realized that it was me. Saliva was running from the side of my mouth and pooling at the side of my face and chin, held in place by the hood that was so tightly wrapped around my head. There was no light to relieve the darkness in which I was held. I didn’t know if it was day or night.
My body cried in pain. My 6’4″, muscular frame was not built for this type of punishment, and I could do nothing but try to move a little. My efforts paid off and I suddenly rolled onto my chest, pulling my legs up behind me still attached to my wrists as they were. As I settled into this new position, the pain eased slightly and I felt my cock and balls crushed under me, pinned between my body and the surface on which I lay. I sucked on the gag in my mouth as a sharp pain crashed through my body. I’d never been so aware of my equipment in this way, I wondered what those bastards had done to me.
Here’s a classic story from ropejock.com…
the moment i walked into Mark’s den i could tell i was in for much more than i had bargained for. between the den and the study was a large, open, double-sized entry way cut into the wall. i immediately noticed that four big, heavy eye-hooks had been screwed into it’s frame at each of the four corners. there were four lengths of heavy clothesline running through each of the loops in these eyehooks. four thick leather straps hung from one end of each of these ropes. the ropes were threaded through the hoops and then fed to winches which had been installed into the top and bottom at the midpoints of the doorframe. the straps nearest the floor were fed to the bottom winch and conversely, the straps near the ceiling to the top winch.
They came for him at 3 o’clock Friday morning. He awoke instantly, eyes wide and staring, to the sound of the front door being broken down. Within a couple of seconds he realised what was happening, and leapt out of bed. By the time he was halfway to the door they were coming up the stairs. He cursed and spun round, looking for a way out, but there was nowhere to run. All he could think of was to hide behind the door. He didn’t even make it that far. Four policemen burst into the room, grabbed him and pinned him down onto his bed, their black, shiny uniforms cold against his bare skin.
One of the policeman sounded as if he was running the show. “Anthony James Beresford, you are charged with theft under section two of the Electronic Data Act 2002. You do not need to say anything, but anything you do say will be entered into your record and reproduced in any trial or inquiry bearing on this charge. Bag him up.”
Within seconds Tony’s wrists were handcuffed behind his back, the regulation hood dropped over his head and the drawstring pulled tight. Thus completely helpless, and naked, he was marched down the stairs, out of the flat and into the waiting police car.
Straight Rick is bound, shaved, and tickled by his gay roommate in his first gay male bondage experience after losing an arm wrestling match.
Roommate Tickle Wager: Arm Wrestling
One of my recent wagers was with my buddy and roommate Rick. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I stacked the deck against him, and I feel just terrible about it.
We always used to hang out around the apartment drinking, playing cards, horsing around, bullshitting. Rick is a well-built, masculine guy, a carpenter, like me, with an in-your-face cocky attitude. He is about 5’9″, muscular, 160 lbs., with size 9.5 feet. He also shared my interest in bondage devices, and we had even tied each other up a few times. Nothing major, just Ha Ha, You’re tied up, now let’s do something else. Being straight, there was never anything sexual involved with Rick. But the last time he had me tied up, he used my handcuffs, some chain and padlocks to get me into a very tight hogtie. He was none too gentle with the cuffs, and they dug into my wrists real painfully and cut off the circulation, which didn’t seem to faze him, despite my protests. I plotted to get a little revenge for that.
I knew from horsing around with him that Rick was very ticklish, especially his feet and pits. And he HATED to be tickled. I had never mentioned to him my interest in bondage and tickle torture, so he never suspected a thing.
Late one night, after knocking back several Stoli martinis each, and several games of cards, he started to get rowdy and run off at the mouth about what a tough stud he was. The time was ripe.
I like this story so much, I thought I’d repost it!
I’d been watching him for several weeks now. Gliding by with his buddies he’d be, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts, baggy, coursing elegantly over the corporate cement. I’d be hangin’ out on Saturdays, reading a novel, smoking cigarettes in the late spring warmth, thoroughly enjoying these young studs’ skate stunts (until the goddamn corporation cracked down later that year and put up signs and more security to drive them off). Several were quite nice-looking, but one stood out. About five-nine, jet-black hair of average length, heavy-boned frame, and, around his neck, oddly, a very-seventies shark tooth on a black leather cord. The young hunk was broad-shouldered and clearly well-built; he distracted me often from my book.
As I had decided to be more bold with my interest in good-looking, athletic, cocky young men, specifically desiring to explore my paternal disciplinary instincts, and the possibility of persuading one of these smirky, arrogant skatepunks into bondage and boyish tortures, I determined to strike up a conversation with this guy. . .eventually.
It was the start of John’s second week in Hell. He’d skidded on some diesel in the road and driven his motorcycle into a tree. The next thing he’d known, here he was.
It was not actually quite as bad as he’d expected. It wasn’t continuous boiling oil, sulfurous fumes and everlasting fire–the demons and fiends worked an 8-hour day torturing souls and everyone had the weekends off for sight-seeing. Accommodation could have been worse, too–he shared a room with a serial killer who didn’t want to talk about his punishments and there was a reasonable view of the general devastation from his window.
His first week had been a getting-to-know-you kind of time: he was shown around, introduced to various dignitaries (he even caught a rare glimpse of Mephistopheles himself, getting into a hearse) and met his own personal torturer–a fiend named Elmet. There then followed a variety of torments and tortures, to find out what John was most susceptible to. They started out with the usual physical things–foot crushing, bamboo under the fingernails, branding — (the nice thing was that however he was abused, at 5 PM prompt everyone reverted to their undamaged state so they could be worked on again tomorrow), but he reacted no more and no less to these crude methods of torture than did anyone else. Elmet was looking for something better–something personal to John–something he particularly couldn’t take. The fiend found just the thing on Friday afternoon. It was 4:55 PM, almost time to quit, and Elmet had John spread-eagled on a table. He’d been gouging out bits of the boy’s body with pincers and was getting bored. To be fair, John had been screaming quite well, but it just wasn’t right somehow. By accident, Elmet’s clawed hand slipped and a long, bony finger scraped across the boy’s bare sole. The resulting yell and convulsion of the biker’s body had made Elmet pause. This boy is ticklish, he thought. He put the pincers down and experimentally scraped a fingernail slowly down the length of John’s left foot. The ensuing scream caused the demon next door to bang on the wall. Elmet looked at the boy, considering. He reached over and tickled both armpits lightly. Now John was strapped down with good-quality canvas restraints, but his conclusion was so intense that he actually broke the one holding his right wrist. At that precise moment the end-of-day whistle went and all torturing stopped for the weekend. Elmet ran his eyes over the young, hunky body before him. What he saw was not a healthy, 22-year-old boy with a firm, well-muscled body but an infinite number of intensely, unbearably ticklish spots. As he released the boy from his restraints and sent him off with a cheery, “See you Monday,” he realized that this weekend would not be spent as usual watching re-runs of “Baywatch” but in constructing a suitable restraining device and thinking of fiendish ways to make an excruciatingly ticklish–and horny–boy suffer as much as inhumanly possible. Elmet was good at that sort of thing. As he blew out the torches on the wall and left the torture chamber he smiled in anticipation.
I got into a fight with my little brother and it changed my life. He was less than two years younger than I was, but I had always been able to dominate him-one of the benefits of being older. Whether we played hoops one on one, football or wrestled on the living room floor, I always beat him, which made him furious. I guess I was kind of a dick towards him, but it was fun. I’m that kind of guy. I remember one Saturday when mom and dad had gone to an out of town wedding, he pissed me off about something and I ended up pinning him and keeping him down for hours. He really couldn’t get up unless I let him and I eventually had him crying tears of frustration.
After high school, we went to different colleges and I didn’t see him as much. We had grown up to be fairly similar in looks and size. We both were about six feet tall, weighed about 180 lbs., and had good bodies from playing sports, running and working out. I had short brown hair and Tim’s was blond. We both always had a lot of girls sniffing around. Even though we looked to be equal, I knew I could still dominate him if I had to- once an older brother, always an older brother.
Tim spent his entire junior year abroad, so I hadn’t seen him for a long time. I had just finished college, and with no real job in sight, I was back home to lifeguard one more time and Tim was going to live at home too and wait tables. The folks were going to be gone for most of the summer at the lake house, so Tim and I were going to bach it. I hadn’t really thought about our boyhood fights for a long time, and I just assumed Tim and I would co-exist and stay out of each other’s way. Boy, was I wrong.