Lust in France (M/M) - *17.06.24 Part 5 added*

[Straitjacketed]

This is, again, a collaboration, originally a role-play between myself and another TUG member, reformatted slightly and published here with his permission. My character's narration is in default font, his is in red.

This isn't our first or last role-play together! The characters of Richard and Lance were fleshed out in 'Nine Circles', effectively their first date from - or rather IN - Hell. You might want to read it first.

The events of 'Lust in France' take place in the mid-2010s, over a year after 'Nine Circles'.


Lust in France - part 1

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
Tall, wide, heavily-muscled white man in his mid-forties. Impression of bulk. Celtic complexion, ginger hair and beard, blue eyes. Open features. Nose broken and crookedly reset.

Lance:
Tall, buff but lean Asian man in his mid-twenties. Short-but-messy dark hair in an undercut. Stubble. Resting scowl.

Richard:
24 hours in the French countryside was how you sold it to me although, in truth, it didn’t require much selling. The whole thing sounded near perfect: overnight in a rustic but comfortable lakeside gite; lost in France avec Lance. Ideally, I’d have liked longer but our schedules allowed what they allowed – and we’d make the time together count.

Hard to believe it was last May that we met in Berlin and spent that memorable night at Deubel’s (I spent rather longer in the venue than you did, as you never fail to remind me): even allowing for the subsequent Yellow Knight weirdness (which I’m not ready to talk about), that makes it almost 14 months since we connected in person.

We’ve kept in touch, obviously, by email, telephone and – my favourite means of communication – text. I was pleasantly surprised to discover, in addition to your talent for matching me, quote for pretentious quote, a sense of humour as dry and expansive as the Sahara. During the longer-than-intended fallow period that followed the end of my television role, you kept my spirits aloft with frequent laugh-out-loud rants about life as a bartender.

That ranting has, if anything, intensified since your move from Germany to France: you really haven’t appreciated the Parisian clientele, but I’ve been greatly entertained by the mental image of you trying to suppress that instinctive scowl of yours while serving ungrateful fashionistas.

Myself, I’ve mostly been living off Superintendent O'Halloran’s earnings – that role turned out to be the gift that kept on giving – plus a couple of limited runs in off-Broadway productions. Instinctively, I’d begun to sense a career crossroads and was thinking about refreshing my original therapist training… only for drama of a more familial nature to pull me back to London.

That’s what I’ve been dealing with for the last few weeks and, frankly, your suggestion of a little mini-jaunt across the Channel couldn’t have come at a better time. I needed a break, and it sounds like you did too. You were happy to do the planning and I was more than happy to let you.

The Eurostar was quiet, but I attracted a curious glance or two in full lederhosen a good three months early for Oktoberfest. Recalling your initial reaction to my police uniform back in Berlin, I anticipate much eye-rolling but hell, I had these made for me years ago, in Munich, and just don’t get enough opportunities to wear them. Traditionally, lederhosen consist of robust, snugly fitted, brown suede shorts and attached torso harness; these ones came from a fetish craftsman and are shiny black deerskin inside and out, intricately embroidered flaps concealing zips rather than buttons. A third, less conspicuous zip runs the length of the central seam at the rear.

The front embroidery appears suitably Bavarian so long as one doesn't look too closely.

As well as the integral harness, there are separate lockable waist and thigh straps. They're coiled in my pack but, recalling several hours sealed into a broadly similar chastity garment in Room 6 at Deubel’s – and not keen to give you that opportunity again – I’ve opted to leave padlocks at home.

In addition to two side pockets, there’s a knife pocket at the hip, containing my trusty Swiss Army penknife. The lederhosen are cut above the knee, high enough to show the blackwork of my newest tattoos, starting to curl down both legs.

Ever mindful of my Celtic heritage, I’m liberally slathered in high factor sunscreen that purports to double as insect repellent. Atop the sunscreen, I’ve matched the shorts with a plain black linen shirt – long-sleeved – black woollen socks and heavy hiking boots. My scalp is protected beneath a Tyrolean hat in dark felt, adorned with a truncated crow feather.

“Cast thy nighted colour off?” I declaim, “not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun!”

As I understand it, our trek to the rented cottage starts with a short hike through forest a little south of Paris. We could have driven but gambled on the weather allowing us a wander through some idyllic wooded countryside. Ever the sub, you sort out both booking and provisions, leaving me responsible only for my clothing and equipment.

(Because of course there had to be equipment…)

Everything is rolled, military style, inside my metal-framed, black oilskin backpack. Given the unpredictability of European weather, even in summer, I’m prepared for it to be unexpectedly wet. Assuming your own chosen attire would be selected to best show off your body and therefore wholly impractical for basic modesty let alone rain (I hate rain), I went OTT on waterproofs-for-two: my long, hooded foul-weather raincoat, raincape, dungarees and overmitts, all in heavy black PVC. In anticipation of mud at the cottage itself, I brought a pair of sturdy black rubber wellington boots and armpit-length heavy rubber gauntlets.

Although my old Scouting motto – Be Prepared – didn’t explicitly cover bondage play, I did gain a badge in knot-tying. I feel sure my patrol leaders would’ve approved of the various hanks of rope and rolls of wide black tape filling out the rest of the pack, along with one or two little surprises. Generally speaking, however, the bondage basics - plus confidence in my skills and experience - are all I'm going to need. Formidable you may be in hand-to-hand combat but Houdini you are not.

I tried not to hold my breath passing through Customs (well do I remember the occasion I had to explain why I was carrying a straitjacket in my hand luggage) but, this time, I'm lucky and they wave me through without issue.

The car from Paris is a final extravagance. The driver – swarthy, gruff – seems fascinated by my attire, throwing me glances in the rear-view mirror. On another day, I might’ve been tempted to chat, to explore that line of possibility but, today, my anticipation is wholly focused on you.

As we leave the suburbs behind us, I glance at the sky, gauging the cloud movement, the likelihood of rain.

Eventually, we reach our agreed destination, pleasantly green and rural.

“Merci,” I grunt, tipping the driver.

I hoist the backpack on my broad shoulders, settle the hat upon my head and – with an uncharacteristic jolt of giddiness – look around for the subject of my assignation.

Lance:
“Never meet your idols,” they say, and I don’t think the phrase applies to anywhere as well as Paris.

It’s not like the city is all bad, but the occasionally amazing food and some great art museums lose their glamour fast compared to the abrasive locals, exorbitant prices, and lack of free time to go somewhere more fun in the evenings.

At least I can’t complain about the money. Bartending brings in a decent wage but I can gain a lot of extra tips by wearing the tightest shirts I own and flirting with the customers in my so-so French. Ever since I met you, my control over how I come across got better and while I still can cause people to avoid me when I’m in a bad mood, I can now consistently smile and not look like I’m grinning wickedly.

Speaking of meeting… during the last year, I’ve hooked up with a couple of guys but none of them went anywhere and I quickly dropped the habit. Maybe you spoiled me but it’s hard to go back to superficial one-night stands when I subconsciously keep comparing men to a certain intellectually and physically challenging older ginger.

This is why I never stopped keeping in touch with you and even used some toys on myself during our rare phone calls (rare because of the differences in our schedules). Even though the least said the better about what happened after our first night at Deubel’s, I kept looking for opportunities to get together with you once more.

Of course, that didn’t make me come to London. Not quite yet. I still have a lot to see and even France was an afterthought between my subsequent travels. A thought that apparently had a lot of unforeseen downsides.

Even though venting to you about work and amusedly listening about your plethora of acting roles, I miss you and want to see you in the flesh… or in one of your hot black leather outfits.

Plus, my job introduced me to some patrons who dabble in BDSM workshops and sex shops, and I now have much more familiarity with concepts I was only introduced to before. I want you to see how much I learned and maybe use some of my learnings on you...

When my boss announced to close the bar for a long weekend for some refurnishing, I knew this was our chance. I called you, learned that you could make it, and promptly began planning.

After asking for some help from friends for a secluded date spot in nature and not far from Paris, I picked a suitable forest hiking route and went shopping.

There’s going to be a picnic along the way so I pack food, a camp stove and, most importantly, Lance’s Sexy Time Stash - including condoms, lube, and the new toys I collected through the few months I spent in Paris, such as a new leather harness that I tried it on and had a great time with and of course, the collar you gave me that day.

When the day of reunion finally comes, I have a small concern that things are going to be awkward between us. However, as soon as I take in your distinct figure, my worries disappear.

Not only do we quickly catch up, your ridiculous but charming ensemble gets genuine, fond laughter from me. “Lederhosen? Really?” I check you out, appreciating the way you fill those goofy shorts and the new tattoos you gained on your muscular legs when I was gone. Are there more in places I can’t see? “You never change, old man. With all that black, you’ll have a heatstroke before we get there.

Me? I’m dressed more lightly. A LOT more lightly.

Actually, despite your unusual clothes, there are just as many curious gazes on me. I’m dressed in red short shorts with drawstrings and mesh sides that do nothing to hide my tights or the curve of my buttocks. The muscle shirt I have on top of it is more akin to a white strip of fabric passing between my pectorals and with each step, a flash of my new barbell nipple piercings shows, the deep neckline not helping at all.

I’m barely fully clothed and I wouldn’t be surprised if the waistband of my underwear shows. The lengths I go to give you a warm welcome!

Even though my complexion is dark enough to protect me from the sun, a red ballcap is perched on my head, matching my shorts and hiking sneakers. The only fashion-conscious thing I have on is the string bracelet on my left wrist.

“If clouds still don’t hang on you,” I lead you to the beginning of our route with an arm around your broad shoulders, “we have places to go.”

I effortlessly haul my giant backpack back up and off we go. On our way, I tell you more about Paris and the people I met here.

“I should introduce you to my roommate Tariq sometime, he plays tabletop games and you two nerds would hit it off – look, here's the start!”

The surroundings make the long trip worthwhile. It’s rocky and full of evergreen and deciduous trees but also has a semi-hidden lakeside and a hill with a gentle slope. We walk away from the road and the path is thankfully free of any tourist traps or brick roads. It’s just us and nature here.

“I have everything planned,” I turn to you. “But I’d like to hear your opinion, as well. Do you want to rest first or are you good to get going?”

Richard:
The sight of you makes me ridiculously happy and I pull your lithely muscled form into a tight embrace that lasts just a little longer than intended - before drawing back to take in all the details of an ensemble that might as well be spun from distilled Essence of Lance.

“Lederhosen? Really?”

"Well, you can take the man out of Munich..." I grin, still giddy with a rush of genuine pleasure.

“You never change, old man. With all that black, you’ll have a heatstroke before we get there."

"Whereas you must've caused any number of actual strokes among the middle-aged population of the City of Love," I respond, "I know these are playing havoc with my blood pressure."

I reach out to rub a thumb over your left nipple, easily escaped from its blink-and-you'll-miss-it covering of white Lycra, and grunt approvingly at the piercing: barbells, as opposed to the thick titanium rings beneath my own shirt.

"Very nice," I murmur, "boy."

There it is. Old man, boy. We're back in the swing of things.

“If clouds still don’t hang on you, we have places to go.”

I realise why you seem younger: not just the outfit but the little frown-crease that used to linger between your brows is much less pronounced. Fewer clouds are hanging on you. The sunnier disposition suits you, but I catch myself wondering what else has changed: are we back in the swing of things? How does the push-and-pull dom/sub dynamic of two strangers meeting in a Berlin leather club translate to 24 hours in the Great Outdoors?

We'll find out.

"Lay on, Macduff."

I glance at the cloudless sky as we enter the trees, wondering whether the summery weather will hold.

I enjoy your chatter about the contacts you've established in Paris. It's a while since I gave full vent to the nerdiest of my pursuits. "Tariq sounds... Neutral Good,” I tease, “hopefully not too Good.”

My own roleplaying buddies are, God knows, a varied bunch. Hopefully, you’ll get to meet them.

“I have everything planned, but I’d like to hear your opinion, as well. Do you want to rest first or are you good to get going?”

Rest? I've been sitting down all day. However...

"You know me: the primrose path of dalliance, always. Give me the scenic route..."

I deliberately fall back half a step, the better to take aim at one of those buttocks, virtually laid bare in their scrap of red mesh. If an exhibitionist falls in the forest and there's no-one around to see, does he even make a sound?

I hit your arse-cheek a resounding slap.

"... and I don't just mean this."

To be continued...

[blackbound]

Well hello there, stranger(s)! Loved Nine Circles and I'm looking forward to what (tipping my hand here at my poll choice) Richard (and Tariq??) have in store for Lance.

I just returned from a week in Paris, incidentally, and found it vastly less dirty, crowded, rude and expensive than the stereotype - but then, I didn't bartend there.

[DeeperThanRed]

It's been a while since we started this so it's going to be nice to read everything from the beginning. @Straitjacketed, thanks again for being a great Richard!

[Straitjacketed]

It's been a while since we started this so it's going to be nice to read everything from the beginning.

Yeah, as sequels go, it feels like this took us longer than 'Dune 2'!

@Straitjacketed, thanks again for being a great Richard!

I don't think I'd even attempt lederhosen...

[Straitjacketed]

Well hello there, stranger(s)! Loved Nine Circles and I'm looking forward to what (tipping my hand here at my poll choice) Richard (and Tariq??) have in store for Lance.

Aww, thank you. Your feedback throughout 'Nine Circles' was much appreciated and I hope you like this one. It was a little counterintuitive taking them out of one setting and dumping them in a completely different one but interesting from a character exploration POV.

I just returned from a week in Paris, incidentally, and found it vastly less dirty, crowded, rude and expensive than the stereotype - but then, I didn't bartend there.

I was back there a couple of years before the pandemic (previous time - when I was 14) and loved Paris.

[gag1195]

Yay! More of these two! I wasn't sure if there'd be more after their intense night in Hell, but I'm so glad you two are gracing us with more of their exploits!

Of course, I must continue to champion the possibility of Lance being in charge, if only briefly, even if my choice already puts me in the minority! I'm sure we can all agree that Lance needs to silence Richard and his soliloquizing platitudes!

[Straitjacketed]

Of course, I must continue to champion the possibility of Lance being in charge, if only briefly, even if my choice already puts me in the minority! I'm sure we can all agree that Lance needs to silence Richard and his soliloquizing platitudes!

Absolutely nothing wrong with being in the minority!

[Guardianbound]

Loved reading the first story between these two and it looks like I'm going to enjoy this as well.

Seems like Richard could be packing for his own downfall, ropes and tape can be used by anyone, not just the person who brought it

[Straitjacketed]

Thanks to everyone who's commented so far: @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 2

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
To my endless annoyance, the sight of your tree trunk thighs and muscular ass in those blasted shorts as you climb the gentle slope is already arousing me. Thankfully, I can blame how much I missed you for that, but I still try to stay ahead and lead the way.

I saw you naked and in similar black leather but never in broad daylight. The air you give off is entirely different (less “naughty cop” and more “theater teacher on a field trip”) but still distinctly recognizable as you.

"Whereas you must've caused any number of actual strokes among the middle-aged population of the City of Love, I know these are playing havoc with my blood pressure.”

Well, it’s nice to learn that the attraction goes both ways. I was always a fan of light summer clothes and enjoy being able to feel the wind and sun on my skin. For the moment, I decide the withhold the more scandalous part of my choice of outfit: the underwear I picked is a pair of Jockmail briefs with a red waistline that has a large cut-out in the back, where my buttocks peek out outlined in shining white.

"Tariq sounds... Neutral Good, hopefully not too Good."

I chuckle to myself. “He’s more like Neutral Virgin. He’s fun but gets shy easily.” In retrospect, me walking around in our shared room in nothing but socks and undies probably doesn’t help. “But I like making friends now. It’s been a while since I had any serious ones.” Thanks to you, I think, for helping me to mellow out my approach to other people.

"You know me: the primrose path of dalliance, always. Give me the scenic route..."

“So we’ll reach the lake before too long, and we have to walk around it a bit before we get to the cottage” I point downward. “After we climb up to this hill. Our road will have its literal ups and downs, but we should have a nice view of both the water and the forest as we climb up.”

Too busy mentally mapping our surroundings, my thoughts are rudely interrupted by a sudden sharp sting on my ass. I immediately turn on my heel, bringing up my elbow, ready to deal a blow to whomever… oh, right. It’s you.

I manage to stop my arm millimeters away from your cheekbone.

It’s a good thing I’m calmer than usual these days.

“I’m gonna start charging you for touching the goods,” I rub my butt - it doesn’t even hurt, really - and grin at you. “If you can’t keep your hands off of me, I’ll have to restrain them until we arrive at our picnic spot.”

Making a “give me” motion, I say “Come on, I know you didn’t come here without any equipment on you. Rope, tape, it’s your choice. I’ll have your hot bear arms behind your back either way.”

Richard:
Some would argue that certain elements of what goes on in a Berlin leather club ought to stay in a Berlin leather club. I've been in the luxurious position of never really having to think about it.

Until now.

Now that I do give the matter due consideration, impromptu and unannounced arse-slapping mayyy be one of those elements.

Even if your reaction hadn't taken me by surprise, your reflexes are significantly quicker than mine: by the time I've begun to fall back into a defensive crouch, your arm is up by my face and I'm wincing in anticipation of a cheekbone-shattering blow...

... that never comes.

Gingerly, I raise my hands in mock-surrender. Inwardly, I thank the Fates that I was never foolish enough to start a fight with you when you’ve got all four of your limbs untethered.

“I’m gonna start charging you for touching the goods."

You're taking it in good humour, but I do get an infinitesimally tiny stab of the regret I feel when I know I've gone too far - like the time, with another partner, my staged game-playing resulted in an actual fracture to my nose. And how could I forget the night of our meeting, when I played a similar game with you, and-

"If you can’t keep your hands off of me, I’ll have to restrain them until we arrive at our picnic spot.”

"Oh-ho!" I exclaim. This I did not expect.

"Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase!"

You're no Daphne and God knows I'm no Apollo but it's all that comes to me as I fumble for a more authentic response.

“Come on, I know you didn’t come here without any equipment on you."

I pantomime an offended "who, me?" but, in truth, I’m taken aback and a little impressed. Either you’re a lucky guesser or you know me altogether too well.

"Rope, tape, it’s your choice. I’ll have your hot bear arms behind your back either way.”

"I plead the Second," I complain, "I have a right to bear arms! And if you do manage to truss those arms up, who's going to carry my rucksack?"

Did that 'manage to' come across as patronising? I dismiss the notion.

I'm stalling, I realise, because I'm curious. You've bound me up on two occasions - the first time was endearing, the second (after the first hour of dedicated but fruitless escape attempts) anything but - but I know your success, latterly, was more by luck than design: you happened to find yourself in a well-stocked den of inequity with access to leather mitts, custom-made bondage restraints designed specifically to incapacitate fingers.

Armed only with the basics - rope and tape – could you repeat that lucky strike? How would you fare?

In all your skimpy glory, can I really deny you this little moment of dom-play?

"O, reason not the need," I sigh, "go on, then."

You're asking me to select an option and provide materials, so I choose rope: I show you the side pocket of my rucksack wherein lies my stash of cords of differing lengths and types, all neatly coiled into hanks.

As you go to work with your chosen ligature, I fix you with the steely eye of an inscrutable appraiser during a particularly hard practical test. I'm not going to resist - I allow you to position my limbs as you wish - but neither am I going to indulge you.

I pay careful attention as you bind me, surreptitiously flexing my forearm muscles to see if you notice (are you even aware of that trick for gaining slack?).

"Happy," I ask when you're finally done, "boy?"

Lance:
"Apollo flies and Daphne holds the chase!"

Here you go again. “Not Hyacinthus?” I reply impishly. “So, I get to keep my skull intact.” Comparison to nymphs doesn’t bother me (I’m too confident in my masculinity for that) but I can’t help but get riled up a little at it - no doubt, your intention in the first place.

This playful ribbing and banter comes out on top during the verbal back and forth that precedes the knots and manacles… I missed it. Some guys I hooked up with in the past liked dirty talk and while I didn’t mind it, being called “jock slut” and such isn’t as interesting as trying to find comebacks to your eclectic collection of references and compliments veiled as jabs.

Still, no one can tell that I’m all talk and no bite (neither are you) and I fully intend to carry out my threat. Even if I’ll let you turn the tables on me later, I want to be the one holding on to your leash, so to speak, until we arrive at the picnic spot. I do lead us anyway.

"And if you do manage to truss those arms up, who's going to carry my rucksack?"

I frown. “You underestimate how much I can lift.” Well, this might be a bluff. I can lift both of our backpacks but not for the duration of a longish hike. “But I’m not going to take your precious bag - I’m sure you have some light reading in it.”

I take a careful look at your black backpack, which looks like it’s waterproof and has an external frame that might be aluminium.

To nobody’s surprise, of course, you have a nice selection of ropes in your person and after some deliberation, I pick a white coil of sturdy-looking, densely braided cotton rope. “This one will do.”

"Happy, boy?" The look of deliberate provocation you give me makes me waver between kissing you and yanking your arms behind you to make the smug expression go away… another reminder of how arousal and violence are so closely linked together for me.

“Delighted,” I grumble but I know I can’t hide the smile in my eyes.

Without being too harsh but also not trying to be gentle, I pull one of your wrists toward the frame of your backpack and tie it to the metal rail with a snug rope cuff. The rope goes through one of the rings so you can’t move it and as your palm faces away from your back (and the frame), it should not be easy for you to pick the knots. I repeat the same process with your other wrist - then wrap more rope between your elbows and upper arms, crisscrossing the bonds behind and over your bag.

As I tighten the ropes, I notice you flexing your muscles. I lean forward and press my lips against your neck - and my bulge against the back of your lederhosen. “Relax, old man,” I whisper to your ear. “You’re gonna pop a blood vessel.”

Cheesy? Maybe. Slick? Absolutely. But I’m not above dirty tricks to make sure you don’t embarrassingly get out of my ropework in minutes, and I also want to be sure I can get you hot and bothered just as easily as you can make me.

Richard:
All this talk of Apollo and his paramours reminds me that I am anything but a sunworshipper. The sunscreen is, however, sufficiently protective (and my application of it sufficiently complete) that I've been able to roll up my shirtsleeves in anticipation of whatever you're going to do next.

I start to unbuckle the heavy waist-belt of my backpack and the smaller connector linking the shoulder straps, but you stop me.

"... I’m not going to take your precious bag - I’m sure you have some light reading in it.”

"I do nothing lightly," I warn, but I refasten the backpack straps as instructed.

I maintain an air of slightly frowny inscrutability (only belatedly does it occur to me that this is not unlike your own vibe when we first locked eyes in Deubel's) as you select a hank of rope.

I note, silently, that the braided cotton is a good option for tying hands. Its tensile strength is easily enough to withstand brute force attempts to break free but narrow and supple enough to pull properly tight, with a surface that'll grip and hold knots.

Have you been - literally - learning the ropes? Nahh, you’re probably choosing by colour.

"Hnnff," I grunt as the first loop of rope is pulled around my wrist and, unexpectedly, the reinforced aluminium frame of my rucksack.

Mentally, I follow the progress of four or five coils stacked into a cuff that binds my hand, palm outward, to the lower corner of the rectangular frame. You're maintaining the tension with each turn, keeping everything snug, and I'm fairly sure you've included the securing ring in at least one rope loop.

"Someone's been practising," I mutter, as you move across to the other arm. I maintain a gentle degree of flexion, as I did with the first.

“Relax, old man," your voice is suddenly at my ear, your cock at my rear, "you’re gonna pop a blood vessel.”

I relax, instinctively, and in that moment, you pull ropes on both sides between wrists and frame, applying a sudden double cinch that tightens everything up quite considerably.

"No fair!" I laugh, wiggling my fingertips in an attempt to find and prod at your bulge, in retribution.

As you tie the cinches off with knots behind and above the range of my fingers, I'm forced to concede that you may have, probably accidentally, done an at least semi-credible job. Binding my elbows and upper arms - separately to the frame and also toward one another, with rope criss-crossing the bag itself - starts to seem gratuitous.

"The labouring spider," I quote darkly, "weaves tedious snares..."

When you finally step back, your expression verges on smug - and I have to acknowledge that smugness isn't 100% undeserved. From wrist to shoulder, each of my arms is firmly fixed to the corresponding aluminium upright; together with the straps over my shoulders and the horizontal belts at waist and chest level, I’m reasonably solidly melded with my backpack.

I grant you the satisfaction of a display of dramatic straining as I fight my newly created bonds with a show of power: I knit my brows in theatrical concentration and attempt, Houdini-style, to wrestle or tug a hand free. You've bound me, however, in such a way that I have little leverage and the rope neither breaks nor stretches. The frame creaks but holds.

Next, I explore the range of finger movement. The rope cuffs are tight enough that rotating my hands within them could friction-burn my wrists and, as I suspected, the corner rings of my backpack prevent me sliding them along the lower rail toward each other. None of the knots of the upper arm roping seem within reach.

I mean, I probably could still free myself if I really tried but why do that? Why upset the rope sophomore?

I spread my pinioned hands in a gesture of facetious acknowledgement.

"It appears you have me at a disadvantage," I say wryly, "forgive me if I don't applaud."

To be continued...

[blackbound]

And so it begins!

[Guardianbound]

Can't wait to see if Tariq really pans out to be so 'neutral'. The detailed descriptions are great as usual

[gag1195]

I wonder if it's too much to hope for a leash/lead for Richard? Oh and a gag! He definitely needs a gag!

[Straitjacketed]

Thanks again to everyone commenting - @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound - plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 3

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Lance:
"I do nothing lightly,"

You don’t need to remind me. It took me days to lose all the red rope imprints on my skin the last time we met - and I know muscles make it harder for bondage to leave marks! Which actually upset me a little considering I used them to, ahem, excite myself.

You go all the way with everything you do, and I enjoy seeing you push both of our limits but sometimes it’s fun to limit you exactly because of this. Your reactions always make it worth it.

"Someone's been practising.” I smirk at your grunt.

“You have no idea,” my mind goes to my compliant French roommate who endured more than a few sessions of me trying YouTube roping tutorials on him. You’re bigger than I’m used to but that’s not a problem as long as I check the knots against potential slack beforehand.

"The labouring spider weaves tedious snares..."

“Calm down, Duke, I’m not a black widow.” I can’t help but smile at your fondness for Shakespeare. You’re not wrong though, even if the bondage is surface level, it holds tight and ensures that you’ll be more deferent for a while until I untie you. I even make sure to place the knots on your upper arms between your back and your rucksack - and with arms and rucksack so closely pressed to each other, you don’t have any leverage to rub them to undo those knots.

Looking at your dextrous fingers, I wonder if I should do something about them. You can work wonders and I can’t be too careful.

“You don’t have to applaud,” I smile wryly and drop my backpack beside you before sinking to my knees. The ground is dusty and rocky under them but as usual, a little pain does the opposite of bothering me. “But feel free to cheer if my performance satisfies you.”

My enthusiasm is not a ruse. With your leather-clad bulge in front of me, I slowly but keenly began to nuzzle my face on the crotch of your lederhosen. Without your hands, you have to go along with my pace - which slows down and quickens as I wish, and I try to leave you hanging as much as I can.

My real plan, though? I brought a pair of leather, fingerless mittens with me - which have buckles and belts around their wrists and should be familiar to you. I’ll try to take advantage of my distraction and put them on you. I can just ask nicely, and you might agree but where’s the fun in that?

If not, we can just walk down the path for a bit and build our camp. Yep, that’s the plan. I definitely don’t mouth and lap your clothed dick like a parched man drinking water.

Man, I missed this. I secretly look up to see whether you’re looking at me and then sneak behind your back with one of the pouches and try to snare your tied-down left hand.


Richard:
"... feel free to cheer if my performance satisfies you."

"Woohoo..." I begin sarcastically, then "... ooOH!"

Even through at least one layer of deerhide, your skilled ministrations start to take effect almost immediately and I have to steady myself. Damn, you’re good at this!

You’re clearly in the mood to edge and when you pause or pull back, every muscle fibre in my arms itches to grab that red capped head in both hands and forcibly return you to your rhythm. My wrists still twist, tug and fret inside their imprisoning rope cuffs, hands clenching and unclenching.

The backpack at my rear also knocks me - literally - off balance, shifting my centre of gravity in a rearward direction so I find myself, automatically, leaning forward to compensate… which (warns the shrinking part of my mind still attempting conscious thought) could lead to an unprotected face-plant.

“Uuuhh," I moan softly, "don’t stop."

Careless of balance, I thrust my leathered groin forward to meet you. It’s as if you have x-ray vision capable of seeing not only through animal hide but foreskin, uncannily locating the most sensitive parts of my uncut cock and applying targeted pressure right there.

I close my eyes in anticipation of ecstasy and my fingers strain, involuntarily, toward you...

... and brush something. Something leather.

My reaction is instantaneous. Eyes open, I jump back from the touch as if burned, and reflexively assume a defensive stance - inasmuch as that's possible with my upper body strapped and trussed to a rigid metal framework.

Potential wrestling moves are seriously limited - and I'm not the kickboxer here - but I can at least retreat, turn and angle myself to avoid whatever you're trying to do with those mitts. I've been strapped into those by you once already and I am not acquiescing a second time - not when cutting myself free with my penknife is an important possibility to maintain.

Then there's the principle of the thing: if your intention is to render me truly helpless, my intention is to resist. You're going to have to work for dominance.

"Really?" I say, taking a step or two back and away from you. With arms trussed and unable to steady myself, I'm aware of being clumsier than usual. I'm still not going to make any of this easy for you.

"I'm going to paraphrase a young man with whom you'll be familiar."

I pause. "How did he put it again? Oh yes: 'why don't you make me'".

Alas, I am not cooped here for defence! My arms are useless, my hands are mostly useless, my flexibility is impaired, and my centre of gravity destabilised. But I'm damned if I'm going to just let you put those things on me.

"Yeah, that was it," I can't resist adding, with a curl of the lip, "boy."

Lance:
As I lap and suck your bulge, I’m keenly aware that this position would usually tempt the receiving side to press my head further on their crotch. And while I’m the last guy to complain about some rough treatment, there’s something really cute about the way your hands grip against their bonds, obviously itching to find their way into my hair but unable to do so.

“Uuuhh, don’t stop."

In an act of malevolent compliance, I just do that - but slow my pace just enough that I draw out more moans from you and the movement of your hips gets erratic as you try to squeeze more stimulation from my languid lips.

Of course, I also slow down because my attention is split between worshiping your growing hard-on and trying to get one of those mittens on your hands.

Alas, I overestimate my talent for multitasking. The second I try to put your hand into it, you turn and avoid me. I stand up (and wobble because of how fast I was) and take a step towards you but obviously, you’re not in the mood for an easy submission and I can’t just seduce my way through binding you further.

"How did he put it again? Oh yes: 'why don't you make me'".

Oh, this is too much. I double down in laughter. “Pfft! Now I see why you keep calling me cute!” Both of us have our manly feelings of pride and wrestling with you in nature has a primal appeal for me.

But I also don’t want to arrive at our picnic spot already tired and sweaty.

“Fine, fine.” I raise my hands in a mock-surrender motion. “I know you’re the dom here and I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot. You’re good like this - as long as I know my ass is safe until we reach our destination.”

As a show of goodwill, I slip the mittens under the suspenders of your lederhosen. “Here, hold on to these for me - if you’re good, I’ll allow you to put them on me later.”

Then an idea pops into my head. “Or… you can hold these in your mouth during our short trip (which should take about fifteen to twenty minutes) and I’ll let you try any toy you have on me during the weekend. How about this for a deal?”

This is not quite bondage, but you’ll be abdicating your chatter rights for eventual rewards. I’m curious about which option you’ll pick. In either case, we walk downhill for a while before arriving at a clearing near the lake.

It’s still sunny and there are only a few tree shadows but is a bit cooler thanks to the large body of water. “Welcome to Lance’s Summer Hideout! Now let’s have a break.”


Richard:
“… How about this for a deal?”

I roll my eyes, instinctively disliking the thought of walking not only trussed but silenced.

I think of the hood, however, the leather one in my backpack: it encloses the whole head, with holes for eyes, lips and nostrils but separate blindfold and mouth cover that fasten in place with little buckles. The collar fastens with a strap that can be padlocked shut.

I never did get around to lacing and strapping your head up. Is a hood a “toy”? I’m confident I can make the argument that it is.

“Fine,” will presumably be my last word for the next twenty minutes.

I give you a hard stare but open my mouth and allow you to fill it with the thick leather mitts.

For the rest of the walk, I hum tunelessly, a range of marching songs, in as irritating a manner as I can muster.

Even with arms tied and semi-gagged with a mouthful of leather, I'm in good spirits. You did a decent enough job with the rope that it's secure without being uncomfortable - and, I remind myself, the penknife is right there if I need it.

When we reach "Lance's Summer Hideout", I wait in patient anticipation of having my arms released.

Lance:
“Good boy,” I say, just to be a brat and stuff the mittens inside your mouth. You glare at me but the sight of your hairy cheeks bulging from the leather inside them utterly ruins any threatening effect it might have.

I know I may be digging my own grave at the moment, but I can’t help it. It’s thrilling to push your buttons and give you a taste of your own bondage schemes until you snap and get back at me tenfold.

My own pushy brand of masochism aside, the rest of the walk is uneventful but not silent. I keep pointing out random sights and ask, “Hey Richard, don’t you love how pines look this time of the year?” and so on, occasionally accompanying your humming (though some of the anthem-like ones irritate me more than anything).

When we arrive, I drop my backpack to a dry spot and stretch. “Nothing like a good walk in nature. I pegged you for an indoors guy, but you seem to be doing pretty well.”

I can keep delaying the inevitable, but we need to get our picnic ready and I don’t want to do all the work myself. So, I untie your ropes and let you spit out the gag in your mouth by yourself.

As we get settled, I wonder when you’ll bring up my part of the bargain. “So…” I dump my pack and start unpacking a groundsheet for us to sit on. “I hope you don’t want me to wear a catsuit or anything because it’s going to get hot fast in this weather.”


To be continued...

[blackbound]

Huh! I didn't expect the ropes to come off that easily... love the domination/submission dynamic of holding the mitts in the mouth!

[Straitjacketed]

Huh! I didn't expect the ropes to come off that easily...

Neither did I! That's the beauty of a two-writer collaboration, though: the narrative twists and turns in unexpected ways...

[Straitjacketed]

We do this largely for the interaction so, whether old hand or newbie, if the spirit moves you, please do drop a comment. As ever, thanks already to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 4

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
"Hey Richard, don’t you love how pines look this time of the year?”

The leather stuffing my mouth does not permit me from saying "they're evergreen, they look the same all year round" so I settle for humming a mash-up of Ride of the Valkyries and Teddy Bears' Picnic.

“Nothing like a good walk in nature. I pegged you for an indoors guy, but you seem to be doing pretty well.”

I do my level best to communicate just you wait through eye contact alone.

Finally, you untie me. No sooner are my arms free - even before I've extricated myself from the backpack straps - than I use them to grab and hold you in a bearhug.

"That was cute," I nuzzle into your ear, having ejected the mouth-stuffing, "but I will exact my revenge."

I take your earlobe between my teeth and give it a little nip before releasing you so I can help set up camp.

“So… I hope you don’t want me to wear a catsuit or anything because it’s going to get hot fast in this weather.”

"There's always the lake," I say, "you'd look good in that."

Oddly enough, I do have a suit with me, the black and red PVC one-piece you found and wore in Deubel's, albeit briefly, before leaving it behind in Room 6. I kept meaning to return it but somehow never did (I can't pretend I didn't enjoy having something that smelled of you). When I packed my own rain gear, it seemed reasonable to bring it for you.

Thoughts of waterproofs - and having been handed two corners of the tarpaulin-like groundsheet to unfold - gives me the germ of an idea.

You're on your knees, half-turned to anchor one edge of the sheet and clearly not expecting retribution so soon. The opportunity seems too good to miss.

In one motion, I throw the vinyl groundsheet over your head and barrel into you so you're knocked face downwards. I'm immediately astride you, my body weight pinning you down at the waist.

With one hand, I gather and tighten the sheet at your neck - not enough to strangle you but enough to control the flow of air inside the slick fabric. My other hand gropes for the discarded length of braided cotton you used to bind me.

"Payback," I mutter, "boy."

I make short work of roping your elbows: no fancy shibari this time, just a quick and dirty lashing as tight as I can make it. This is just the first move - that rope's only temporary - but, for now, it needs to stay put.

As, of course, do you.

Lance:
I knew you were going to attack me when you got out of those ropes, but I didn’t expect you to do it as soon as you’re free! I struggle against your burly arms wrapped around my arms, but you already threaten and nibble my ear (which makes my shorts somehow even tighter) before letting me go.

At that point, I assume that this is all you’re going to do until we settle.

How blind I was, in retrospect.

"There's always the lake, you'd look good in that."

Shit, I just now remember about diving suits being a kink. I warily look at the lake. Going for a dive doesn’t sound too bad but I like to skinny dip myself. Though, that one-piece swimsuit I found wasn’t half-bad. It can be fun to put something like that on one of these days.

Before long, I check how you’re doing and return to my own tent.

Suddenly, something slick and heavy is thrown on top of me! Right about at the same time, I’m thrown onto the ground by a heavyweight crashing into me. If it weren’t for the fabric wrapped around my upper body, I’d definitely have lost skin somewhere.

I know it’s you even if it weren’t for your frustrating baritone taunting me but that doesn’t prevent me from violently thrashing in my smooth prison, trying to kick or headbutt you, or at least buck you off.

"Payback, boy." The taunt is muffled through my struggles rustling the sheet, but it does nothing to muffle my anger. “You’re so dead!”

“This wasn’t our deal!”

I’m not angry-angry maybe but I know I’m pissed. If we’re going to roll around on the ground, I want it to be accompanied by make-outs, damn it! Just wait until I get out of this and…

I keep fighting against you and realize that I can’t. Well, I can bustle around like there’s no tomorrow but with the vinyl wrapped so tightly around me, I can’t get any leverage around my upper body and my legs are useless to kick at you - or you’re that durable.

Worse, you begin to tie up my elbows and it will take my arms thoroughly out of commission if you manage to do it. So, I focus all my energy to try and separate my arms and keep flapping left and right to prevent you from getting a hold of me.

The fight is thrilling, and I know I’m grinning through sweat under the hood… but I’m still going to obliterate you if I can get free.


Richard:
“This wasn’t our deal!”

"Consider it a renegotiation," I reply, trying to keep the grin from my voice. I'm shading into Brutal Leather Top mode, knowing that pushes your buttons.

As manoeuvres go, this isn't without risk to me - I've seen and felt your kicks and almost a punch - but when I've got you flattened on the ground, fighting for oxygen, that risk is minimised.

If you're behaving yourself, I'll loosen my grip just enough to allow a little more air in. If you're resisting, I'll close it further - so it shouldn't take too long for you to learn who's in control.

The rope around your elbows doesn't have to be pretty and it doesn't have to be comfortable; the discomfort (as I thread the rope under both your arms, make a noose and use it to pull them closer together) is meant as another distraction.

Then, while you're busy worrying at the elbow ligature, flapping your arms around, I take the lengthy end of rope from that elbow binding and encircle one of those sneakered feet. It's hauled bent against your arse and tied off before you know it.

The second leg is more of a challenge because you're anticipating it but, realistically, you can't put up much resistance with your other limbs neutralised. It's a matter of time before that leg, too, is folded against a red-shorted buttock.

Now you're in a (very) rudimentary hogtie, I can even step off you for a moment while I consider how best to immobilise your hands. The leather mitts are tempting - still with faint marks of my teeth on the surface of the hide - but I decide you'll be expecting those.

No. Unless you turn out to have some hitherto-undiscovered Houdini talent – and, let’s face it, you’re hardly a master rigger – mitts won’t be necessary.

From my backpack, I select a hank of the same soft cotton rope that I use for shibari, this time white rather than red.

You don't see it coming so getting another smaller noose around one wrist is easy - and then I can drag the other across to meet it.

If you're still putting up a fight, then I pause to grasp a handful of groundsheet at your neck, reducing your airflow. It's my primary leverage and I intend to use it.

When I tie your hands, they're going to stay tied. I take my time forming a good solid square lashing around your wrists, first around both then cinched between so there's no chance of slipping out. The knots are placed out of reach, but I deliberately leave the ends long.

By now, with no air and your elbows starting to become numb, it's time to release the original rope. Before I do that, I open the groundsheet a little and drag the vinyl covering further down your body, so it's past your waist, front and back.

Suddenly, your elbows and ankles are free, but the rope is outside the fabric covering you, at waist level, and I'm tying it tight. This time, your arms are pulled against your body, your bound wrists useless against your rear.

You're doubtless squirming and kicking but, when you're trussed up inside a makeshift sack, I hold all the aces.

"You're right about the heat, boy" I muse, "and yet you're wearing vinyl. Poor wardrobe choice.”

I smirk at your muffled response. "Of course, I could help you with that - if you cooperate. Do as I say and get more of this nice, cooling, pine-fresh air on your skin and in your lungs. Keep resisting and stay wrapped up like a parcel."

I smile at your futile attempts to wrestle to freedom.

"What's it to be, boy?"

Lance:
Great, now you’re fully in character… not that this dominant side of you is a role, I reckon it’s more like one of your many personas that you don on different occasions. I can hear the glee in your words, and I once again understand that as much as you might like playing along with me tying up you, this is the kind of scenario where you’re overjoyed.

By now, the airproof sack around my upper body is beginning to be debilitating as I feel the salty sweat soaking my thin shirt and breathing becomes laborious. I don’t struggle much after that and thankfully, you repay my obedience by loosening the sheet a little.

You’re training me like a dog, my self-deprecating side provides unhelpfully, I’m only missing that collar now. Or maybe a prize hog would be a more apt comparison - seeing the way you truss me up. I grunt as I’m bent into a bow shape and the position digs my pierced nipples into the hard floor.

My hard dick does the same, but I try not to think about how a little pain never fails to make me erect. I still try to kick you with my free leg but before long, it’s roped down anyway.

So far, the damn sack over my head is more frustrating than any rope and I want out. However, my air supply is still limited and whenever I try to voice my displeasure, I just get a mouthful of foul-tasting plastic.

Begrudgingly, I act as a good boy and wait for you to finish your work - which then maybe I’ll have a chance to resist. Of course, with you being a perfectionist as always, it takes a good while for you to just finish my wrists.

After a couple of minutes, the lack of fresh air turns from an annoyance to a genuine concern and I begin to struggle for the earnest once more, although with much less energy.

However, that only makes you push me deeper inside the vinyl jail. My thrashing doesn’t even put a dent in the sturdy fabric and all I manage is to get inside hotter, sweatier, and less oxygenated. I feel you letting go of my legs and I try to throw you off by lifting my hips up using my knees to push myself up.

"You're right about the heat, boy and yet you're wearing vinyl."

My threats of ultraviolence and revenge are left unheard. Worse, trying to shout only makes me short for breath and dries out my mouth.

"What's it to be, boy?"

“Alright, fine!” I don’t know how far you’re willing to let this go. Do I really want to pass out first thing on our weekend? The heat is starting to become unbearable, and I just want to have a long, cool swim in the lake - preferably after drowning you.

Childishly, I let my head hit the ground with a thud and wait for you to finish. But I will sneak in a few impatient pokes with my feet.


Richard:
“Alright, fine!”

"Good boyyy!" I enthuse. It's hard to maintain Brutal Leather Top mode when you actually do start following orders.

I open up the groundsheet to give you a little more air. Now I'm not gathering it closed around your neck, a small but constant flow will be filtering up from the gaps around your bound hands.

You're clearly very hot and bothered, though, and I don't want to prolong your discomfort. Not when you're behaving yourself - and you are behaving yourself, aside from those "accidental" kicks.

"Let's get those feet under control," I decide, fetching a coil of thicker rope and settling a loop around both ankles. Four or five turns around and a few vertical cinches snugging everything up, knots at the front, harder for your hands to reach.

"Almost done," I reassure, addressing you like a dog, "now roll over".

Whether you do or whether you're sulking, and I have to flip you like a burger, I get you onto your back and immediately force a knee between your legs so you're stuck in that position, unable to turn or roll back.

I reach up and under your buttocks for the long tails of the ropes binding your wrists.

I yank sharply on them then, maintaining tension, tie the ropes off to the belt-like tether around your waist. Your hands are now pulled in tight to your arse and held uselessly there; the securing knots are in front where you have no hope of reaching them.

Only now do I begin easing the waterproof sheet out from under the waist-rope and off your moist red face.

"There now," I smile, giving your sweat-soaked hair a tousle, "order is restored once more."

I swoop in for a quick forehead kiss then pull back immediately afterwards in case you try for a head-butt.

I could hogtie you properly or rope you to a tree, possibly even fashion some wooden pegs to secure you to the ground, then get down to some teasing and torturing - but you being an exhibitionist, I suspect the way to truly irk you is to just leave you to struggle while I finish the job of setting up our picnic.

I make up for the time I couldn't chat because someone had stuffed a pair of leather mitts in my mouth.

"It's funny how you didn't see me as the outdoor type," I muse, "I excelled in the Scouts. I was leader of, would you believe, the Otter Patrol."

I glance across to see if you're smirking.

"I imagine you will be unsurprised to learn I gained my knot-tying badge very early on. I like to think I've retained those particular life-skills. Would you care to give me feedback?"

I can't pretend it's not thoroughly entertaining watching you chafe and pout in my ropes. Maybe you're groping around you for a piece of flint or a sharp stick or the like, or maybe you're just doing that "enjoying the not-enjoying" thing you do with authority.

Either way, once the groundsheet is settled to its proper purpose, I decide to give you some extra motivation to test my knots. Carrying your own backpack within range, I squat down on the sheet of vinyl.

"I'm going to unpack for you, brave Sir Lancelot. Let's see what treasures can be extracted from this wonder chamber..."

I start to open your backpack and paw through its contents.

Lance:
"Good boyyy!"

I groan and roll my eyes. I can tell you’ll enjoy my early submission a bit too much. Now, letting go a little has its nice sides but I still think of all the ways you may make my escape difficult. Once, I read about how campers hang their food on high branches to prevent bears from stealing it. In my situation, I may just be the food that’s suspended from a tree by a certain red bear!

The sheet around my upper body gets looser but it doesn’t go anywhere and the air I breathe in remains stale, albeit greater in volume. I don’t think I’m kicking you hard but at least I managed to annoy you because the next thing you rope is my feet.

Not only do you snugly knot your way around my smooth ankles, but even my new sneakers also get tied up. I just hope you don’t pull out their laces to bind my dick or whatever.

"Almost done, now roll over".

Since you can’t see the glare on my face, I snarl “Bite me.” I’m not THAT compliant and without the threat of impending suffocation, I don’t need to make things easier for you.

Still, you easily switch me face up without my help and expose the tenting bulge in my shorts. I don’t feel any air hitting my buttocks where my underwear leaves uncovered so hopefully you don’t discover what’s under my shorts just yet, but I still feel vulnerable, exposed, and helpless.

Not that nervous though. More like irritated. The rope going between my buttcheeks doesn’t help either, especially when you yank it suddenly, making me yelp.

When you open the vinyl, my eyes water from the sunlight and I have to blink a few times to get the tears away. I don’t mind the hair ruffle that much though. My hair was already a mess from the cap and your touch feels nice against my sweaty scalp.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t try to go for a bite when you kiss my forehead. “You know I’m going to whoop your ass once I’m free,” I test my relentless bonds. The hogtie holds so well that I can’t even attempt to reach my wrist knots without pulling somewhere else. “I’ll wrap you up in that fucking tarpaulin and throw you into the lake!”

All in good nature, though. As much as I’m pushed to my limits, getting bound by you once again is exhilarating. The blood rushing to my face isn’t all just exertion.

“I was the leader of, would you believe, the Otter Patrol."

I snort. “Are you sure it wasn’t the Cubs?” I can’t imagine you being slender in your youth… or young at all. You always seem so broad and comfortable in your skin in a way that comes with age.

But I have to grudgingly admit… “Your ropework is perfect,” I toss and turn in my hogtie to try and reach my ankles. I just can’t pass my fingers between my legs to find the knots. My limbs are expertly folded and kept out of the way as I uselessly twist and look for a way to escape.

Just when I think things couldn’t get worse, you drag my backpack and begin to investigate it. “Oh, come the fuck on!” I try to sit up, fall and wriggle more. “You don’t see me going through your shit!”

That only seems to make you more eager to discover everything I brought with me.

You easily sift through the boring items and slowly pull out the juicy stuff: A few rolls of tape: duct tape, microfoam, and bondage tape in two different colors - black and red. A large whale butt plug. A simple leather hood with an opening for the nose, mouth, and chin. A silicone ballgag and, of course, some spare jocks in case we go through them.

And the most embarrassing two things: one, a black-red leather harness that would’ve cost me a small fortune if I didn’t pay it through “alternate means”. The second is the collar that you gave me during our first meeting, and I still keep it like a sap.

I groan and close my eyes. “Just get this over with.”

To be continued...

[gag1195]

BOOO! HISSS!! JEER!!! Richard should have remained bound and properly gagged for longer!

Mostly joking! A great few chapters I got to enjoy! Very interested to see which toys, and how many, get used on poor Lance... and eventually on Richard!

[blackbound]

Mmmmm had to read that as slowly as I could make myself. Love the take-down you two describe in such exquisite detail.

Excited to see what's next.

[Straitjacketed]

BOOO! HISSS!! JEER!!! Richard should have remained bound and properly gagged for longer!

What can I say? His natural dominance asserted itself and Lance backed down - sooner than I too expected!

Mostly joking! A great few chapters I got to enjoy! Very interested to see which toys, and how many, get used on poor Lance... and eventually on Richard!

Hahahah, I kind of love that you have it in for the Red Bear.

[Straitjacketed]

Mmmmm had to read that as slowly as I could make myself. Love the take-down you two describe in such exquisite detail.

Excited to see what's next.

Love that you're loving it! Depending on how the editing's going, I may try to commit to two instalments per week so you can read as fast as you like.

[blackbound]

Love that you're loving it! Depending on how the editing's going, I may try to commit to two instalments per week so you can read as fast as you like.

No, I want to savor the descriptions instead of wolfing them down

[Straitjacketed]

We do this largely for the interaction so, whether old hand or newbie, please do drop a comment: opinion, criticism, whatever. Do you like open-air bondage? Which of our heroes would you want to tie or be tied by? As ever, thanks already to @blackbound, @gag1195 and @Guardianbound plus everyone who's placed a vote.


Lust in France - part 5

(Co-written with @DeeperThanRed)

Richard:
Getting you roped up is a little like capturing a wasp: there's no guarantee I'll achieve it without pain and, once it's angrily buzzing in my jam jar, I'm honestly a little fearful of releasing it again.

That said, your own angry buzzing is beautiful to behold.

“You know I’m going to whoop your ass once I’m free. I’ll wrap you up in that fucking tarpaulin and throw you into the lake!”

Despite the risk of being stung, something in me just can't resist stoking you further.

"Promises promises," I smirk, "what makes you think you're going to get free?"

Your backpack looks meticulously organised. I unfasten it.

“Oh, come the fuck on! You don’t see me going through your shit!”

"Only because you didn't think to do it. Never forget that good old Scout motto: Be Prepared."

As the main planner of this weekend, you've packed a host of practical equipment - and, I'm delighted to learn - some deeply impractical.

"'Speak low, if you speak love'," I stage-whisper, holding up your roll of microfoam. What with all this tape plus your assortment of mouth-stoppers, you're clearly prepared for all manner of gagging.

“Spoilt for choice…” I marvel, “… ooh, and what’s this?”

I toss the buttplug upward, sending it spinning end over base, like the Neanderthal-thrown 2001 bone. I catch it and, with a wink, stow it in my own backpack. You’ll model it for me later.

"You've clearly overcome your aversion to hoods," I say, examining the one you brought, less severe than my own but still impressive, "tyou know they call this type 'the cocksucker'?"

Both it and the harness that follows are sturdily constructed – I’m impressed with your apparent eye for quality – but I lay both items to one side when I notice the final piece.

The collar.

“Just get this over with.”

"Oh, Lance," I exclaim, genuinely touched but concealing this within banter, "'sentimental creature that you are!"

Sure, you know what's coming, you brought all the ingredients, but I want to throw you a little bit of a curve ball – and keep right on riling up that hornet…

I fetch my own backpack and open one of the side pockets, extracting a pair of the flattened emergency scissors used by ambulance crews for cutting off... well, everything, including plaster bandage.

"I'm sorry," I say, as I approach your bound form, wielding the shears with menace, "but upon such sacrifices, the Gods themselves throw incense."

I move the scissors toward your crotch but I’m not about to destroy your body – not in this manner, anyway – just your clothing.

Without even thinking to consider how much it might’ve cost, I unseam your cobweb-of-nothing vest from nave to chops, snipping through the wisps of fabric with ease and pulling them out from under you.

"Don't worry," I hold up a meaty paw to stem the inevitable complaint, "it's recyclable".

I stuff as much of the wadded-up white garment as I can into your mouth, using the blunt end of the scissors to pack it in as thoroughly as possible (minimising risk of being bitten) – and I use one of your own gags to hold the packing in there, pushing the silicone bulb behind your teeth and expertly buckling the strap at the nape of your neck.

I give you a moment or two to adjust to the mouth-filling then grab your own roll of microfoam, cutting a generous rectangle.

"I'm impressed that you splashed out on this stuff," I say approvingly, "it's very effective. A little too effective on those of us with an excess of follicles, so it's fitting that you should be the one to model it."

I smooth the tape over your face, covering from just under your nose to below your chin, the blood-red of the ballgag entirely hidden.

"Oh, so quiet!" I give you a patronising pat.

You’re not wildly happy at my wanton destruction of your property but why let that stop me?

Readying the next items, I seat myself behind you, legs spread, and prop you so you’re upright, backed into my lap. Your bound hands are now sandwiched between your own buttocks and my leathery bulge. You don't have sufficient slack to properly pummel at me, but I'll enjoy your attempts.

"Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back!"

Your harness, however, enhances the view from the front: as I drape and buckle it, I notice how the underarm straps come close to your new barbell piercings, almost kissing the metal. My fingers "accidentally" brush those piercings as I take time to get everything symmetrical and perfectly balanced.

The final touch - for now - is the collar. Maintaining a smirking eye contact, I buckle it in place.

"Something's missing," a frown creases my brow, "I didn't want to take cuffs or locks in case one of us ended up fixed to a tree with keys lost. But, having said that..."

I stretch for my own backpack, heavy oilskin, fastening with buckles, zip and... a padlock! A tiny luggage one, attached to the zip!

"... it seems I missed one. This'll do nicely."

The key is on my keyring, so I'm able to open the padlock, insert the hasp in the buckle of your collar and snap it closed.

"There," I say, "property safe and secure!"

Much as I might bluff about keeping you prisoner for the duration – and part of me does relish the thought of derailing your planned overnight just to demonstrate that I can and will – that isn’t my plan. If nothing else, I'm looking forward to sampling your culinary skills a little later (although, there too, I have a surprise planned...).

I release the hogtie, so your legs are still bound but you can, with my help, extend them so you’re sitting rather than kneeling. I'm easily able, however, to find a flat rock to hammer in a makeshift peg and rope it to your left leg, while you're on your back. I use my rock to bang in a second peg and, careful to secure a loop around your right ankle first, release the rope binding your ankles together. I then haul your right leg nice and wide to attach it to the second peg.

End result: I have my gagged, harnessed, collared captive staked out with legs spread wide. It’s almost too easy.

“You didn’t have me pegged as an outdoors guy? You didn’t have me pegged at all: I have you pegged.”

Heh, in one sense of the word, anyway. And there's still time...

You can lie flat - putting pressure on your bound arms and hands - or you can sit upright, tensing those impressive abdominal muscles.

Your crotch is fully vulnerable. I massage it with the toe of my hiking boot.

"Now," I say, "I am going to give Sir Lancelittle a treat..."

I don't want to destroy all your clothing - those little red shorts are cute – so although I wield them again, threateningly, I don't actually use the scissors. Instead, I untie the drawstring and do my best to work enough of the fabric of your shorts and underwear down and aside from the under-crotch roping to allow your cock and balls to spring out.

"A violet in the youth of primy nature!" I exclaim.

Right now, I want to bury my face in your groin and experience, on my palate, every flavour of that nodding violet.

Again, I straddle you but this time, I kneel so my leather-clad rear is directly over your gagged face (if you've been sitting up, my arse pushes you down). Slowly, I ease down and into a sort of bastardised 69 position - so my deerhide crotch bumps up against your microfoam-covered, ballgagged lips, my own mouth poised above the cut head of your own cock.

I consider being truly obnoxious and letting rip an unholy fart…

… but remember I am, at least technically, a grown-up and settle instead for a slow descent, careful not to sink all of my mass directly on your head or torso (keeping my knees spread and stable astride you) but taking your cock in and lavishing it with languorous strokes and liberal tongue action. I pause, periodically, to push my nose deeper into the angles of your groin, inhaling your musk and letting my hairy chin and jaw graze your most sensitive parts as I return to lapping and sucking your genitals.

Your legs are staked apart and your upper body is, if not taking my actual weight, pinned beneath my lowered torso. You're not in a position to do much pushing against me but my aim is to please rather than tease so I work with whatever rhythm you can muster, writhing my leathered bulge over your face as I bob up and down your shaft, taking you deep in and almost out, in and almost out.

When you start to near climax, an evil little voice in my head considers changing pace and giving you a ruined orgasm... but I'm not quite that monstrous. Not this early in the weekend, anyway.

When you're on the verge of coming, I increase the pace of my ministrations to intensify the experience, grind my leathered bulge downwards into your taped face to drive home your helplessness and suffuse you in my own pheromones and the smell of warm deerhide.

Once you've come, I move off you and, with care and tenderness, peel the microfoam off and gently pop the ball out, ungagging you. Swiftly, I free your ankles, take your still-bound body in my arms and plant a slightly salty kiss on your lips.

"Ready to be untied?" I ask, "I imagine we might both benefit from a rest, maybe a refreshing dip? IThe collar stays locked, though."

Lance:
"What makes you think you're going to be free?"

I’m half-sure you’re bluffing. It wouldn’t be out of character for you to just keep both of us in this camping spot for the entire weekend and feed me smores while I’m hogtied but you’ll probably untie me once it’s time to go for a hike… right?

Yeah, it’s better if I don’t count on it.

You showcase the plethora of equipment I brought and make a show out of each and every one of them. I just give you the stink eye for the whole thing but I blush a little at the hood’s name. Honestly, I just thought it would be more comfortable relative to some alternatives but when you put it like that, the intention behind the design seems too obvious to miss.

Still, you know me well and I have to accept that being trussed up and forced into “predicaments” is what turns me on.

But I draw a line at you cutting my shirt. “Is that really necessary?” I grimace, thinking about how much it’d cost to replace it. “It barely has any fabric, you can just leave it and forget I’m wearing anything!” However, my protests mean nothing to you as you carefully strip me of my only clothing other than my shorts and sneakers.

"Don't worry, "it's recyclable".

“I’m going to make you eat that shirt!” I threaten. In retrospect, I should’ve kept my big mouth shut because now you’re gonna do it yourself.

Restrained as I am, you easily push the shredded carcass of your shirt into my mouth, buckle the ballgag and tape my lips shut. I groan at the bulbous silicone and sweaty cloth filling my mouth shut, already annoyed at how muffled my voice sounds even to my ears. “Ppphhhgggnn hhhhmmmnn!” It’s surprising how little tape you used - and how it’s effective enough.

You pull me to your chest so that we sit chest-to-back. The position is… not uncomfortable. It’s actually kinda nice having your broad torso to lean on but I try to see if I can make your job harder. You should expect my headbutts by now so if you manage to avoid that easily, I’ll try and see if I can squeeze the bulge under my hands when they’re pressed against your dick by my bodyweight.

After you strap on my harness and collar, I begin to feel like a go-go boy in a kink club. The latter is just as snug as I remember from the multiple times I wore it alone and the harness deliciously digs into my supple chest.

The padlock doesn’t even phase me. That’s just one of your trademarks. Plus, I can easily keep the collar until Monday. I don’t care if it’ll cause some innocent hikers to stare at me funny.

Does the collar put me into a submissive mood? I don’t think so - and either way, you’re way too careful with your ropes as you untie the knots on my legs and retie them to those bits of stick you’ve hammered into the ground with a handy chunk of rock.

There’s a silent voice in my head that says I’m taking everything you throw at me too easily. I guess there’s power in enduring all the bullshit you come up with… but I also can’t help but look forward to all the unique ways you keep my muscular body under control.

The ground isn’t comfortable at all against my mostly naked body but thankfully I picked a smooth and dry surface to put my tent up. So, no rocks under my head or anything when I lie down. I try to see whether I can sit up - after all, it’s not easy having my bound arms squashed between my body weight and the ground.

I can, but due to how stretched my legs are, I basically have to lift myself up with nothing but my abdominal muscles. “Hhhnnggmmpph!” After a couple of tries and some effort, I manage to do it and triumphantly look at you. “NNnnnhgghh!” That’s nothing compared to all the exercise I do every day!

However, I quickly lose my composure (and balance, almost) when you pull down my shorts. Worse, you push your bulging lederhosen to my face and take me into your mouth. Now that’s a dilemma! I’d love to suck you off but I also want to graze my teeth to teach you a lesson so I can’t blame you for not removing my gag.

And you’re being courteous so I just decide to let you off the hook and return the favor with the amazing blow job you’re giving me by enthusiastically rubbing my taped mouth to your musky, leather-scented crotch to the best of my ability.

The climax is sudden, intense, and amazing. I holler through my gag and I’m sure if it weren’t for my shirt packing my mouth, I’d scare off some wildlife.

When you remove my gag and ankle ties, I can hardly kiss you back, tasting myself on your lips. It’s uncanny how well you can milk an orgasm from a guy. And being so thoroughly bound and dominated didn’t hurt either…

"I imagine we might both benefit from a rest, maybe a refreshing dip? The collar stays locked, though."

I think for a second. “Deal. But I don't want to ruin the harness, it comes off.” After a few minutes, the post-orgasm jelly legs go away and I want to stretch my limbs. “A swim sounds good. I never tried swimming in freshwater, it can be fun.”

Only then did I remember to comment on how we just had sex months after our first meeting? “You, uh…” Smooth, Lance. There’s a reason I usually go straight to the point. “You’re insufferable but that mouth of yours can make it up to me just as well as it can piss me off.” I lean forward for another kiss, this time with more vigor and teeth.

“Do you always give other men such good service?” I smirk. “I can get used to this. Now let’s see why hikers praise this lake so much.”

Richard:
You are clearly none the worse for my little demonstration of dominance.

“You, uh… You’re insufferable but that mouth of yours can make it up to me just as well as it can piss me off.”

"Double-edged," I muse, "but I'll take it".

“Do you always give other men such good service?"

"I give every man my ear," I smirk, "but few my..."

I stick my tongue out and perform my party trick: touching the tip to the tip of my nose.

"... Now let’s see why hikers praise this lake so much.”

You mentioned skinny dipping earlier and, with the lake all to ourselves, I'm all for that.

I unlace my boots, peel off my socks and whistle, impressed, at the reveal of your arse-less underwear.

"Mine are rather trickier to remove," I complain, "and you're not doing anything to help me with that..."

Having unbuckled my lederhosen harness and undone both zips, I'm able to lower the front flap. You can see that it's only the outer layer: inside is a fairly standard pair of tight deerskin shorts with a hole through which my cock and balls have been pushed and strapped in place.

I fumble to undo the small, soft leather ball-strap and, when I'm sufficiently detumesced, push everything back through the hole so I can finally remove the lederhosen.

In seconds, my shirt is off and you see that tattoo blackwork now extends down my abdomen, hips and buttocks, onto my thighs. It's the familiar mix of abstract and twisting symbols around a centrepiece on my belly: a bear skull, intricately engraved with more sigils.

I slap said belly excitedly. The water does look inviting.

"Last one in's a Deubel's VIP!"

I break into a run.

Lance:
Even though I’m hardly wearing anything, removing my shorts still feels good, with the cool air brushing my naked ass.

"Mine are rather trickier to remove, and you're not doing anything to help me with that..."

I grin in a way that’s supposed to look fake-innocent but comes off more predatory. “I can help to get you out of those clothes, I love helping people.” Truly, my eyes don’t leave your painted-on shorts but as snug as your lederhosen are, I still hate them with every ounce of my being and the sooner you get naked, the happier I’ll be.

Oh, and also because you’re hot.

And as nothing about you is normal, of course, your shorts have a dick window.

“We match,” I point out my own briefs. “The holes are even in the appropriate places.”

What surprises me most though, is how much you added to your collection of tattoos. Getting ink isn’t something I’m into but the figure you cut with your pale, burly body adorned with various mesmerizing patterns makes me reconsider my stance on that a little.

"Last one in's a Deubel's VIP!"

That boyish challenge gets me out of my lustful haze and I peer my gaze away from your muscular yet soft belly. “No way! I’m too broke for that!” Not bothering to remove my underpants, I dash to the water.

The secret of winning races is to not care about your opponents and focus on the finish line. I zip through the short distance between us and the shore in a few steps and jump to the water using my momentum.

Only after my feet leave the sand that I think about whether the lake is deep enough. I’d never hear the end of it if I end up slamming face down in ankle-depth water.

Thankfully, the lakebed has a steep elevation so I end up crashing into cold water and even get a few strokes in. Now, I can hold my breath fairly long underwater. Swimming in a lake is different than what I’m used to so I don’t stray far from the shore for now. Maybe later I’ll try swimming across to the other shore.

Wondering how far you got, I turn behind and try to locate you through clear water. If you’re near, I’ll try to sneak behind you and slap your buttocks before coming up for air.

Richard:
I see you overtake me as you rush toward the water, underwear still in place but flashing bare buttock as you run.

"Cheating!" I laugh as you pass, "you're going to wet your pants!" - although, to be fair, your underpants seem to be composed of holes stitched together with tiny scraps of white cotton.

The water is cold against sun-warmed skin - enough to make me gasp before beginning to adapt to its chill depths. I then realise you're nowhere to be seen. Didn't you just dive in? Starting to prickle with anxiety, I turn a slow 360 degrees, shading my eyes with one hand while I scan the water surface...

... then gasp afresh as your underwater slap makes my arse tingle.

As you surface, I make a grab for your armpits.

"Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling!"

You're niftier and more dynamic in the water than I am, however, and easily able to evade my grasp - so I regress over four decades and resort to splashing you.

The coolness of the lake soothes my ardour a little (my cock is, as yet, a flower unblown) but, crashing around after you, I still feel like a satyr chasing a naiad. When I do catch you, I'm hungry to kiss and taste your dolphin-smooth slipperiness then try, clumsily, to spin you around in the water so I can press my submerged groin into you from behind...

When we eventually leave the lake, I decide there's enough of my water-resistant UV protection left for me to stretch out on a slab of rock to dry in the sun.

Sprawled out, I let my thoughts wander. Idly, I consider whether I should've brought a towel or at least a little more practical clothing. For example, I can't be bothered shoehorning myself back into my lederhosen right this minute but, other than below-the-waist nudity, the only alternative is the pair of black PVC dungarees – or, if I gamble against meeting fellow hikers and looking like a flasher, the long hooded raincoat or raincape.

Even such pressing sartorial concerns dwindle with the gentle late afternoon sunlight warming my eyelids and, literally, every other inch of me. I stretch lazily, luxuriating in the novel pleasure of being naked and sun-drowsy in the open air.

In a matter of minutes, I'm snoring softly.

Lance:
I poke my head out of the water sputtering and laughing. Even though we’re not seriously competing, it’s not so bad to fool around in the water like this. Of course, my (slightly) superior agility underwater giving me a leg up doesn’t hurt, either.

Although the water itself is clear, it’s not easy to see what’s going on inside when the sun is hitting the surface just right to flash and blur the transparency. Still, you manage to hold me as one does to a large cat and lift me halfway out of the water, your fingers barely missing my nipple piercings.

"Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling!"

“You don’t even deny you’re a bear!” I lift my arms up to slide out of your hold and dodge sideways, yet still get a faceful of splashed lake water.

I don’t know how much time we spent in the lake with you trying to catch and put your mouth (and crotch) on me while I run, dive, and occasionally swat at you. It’s a lot more fun than it should be and when we get out, we’re both weary, soaked, and lively.

Not minding how I get my feet dirty, I walk up to my bag and dry myself with a spare shirt before putting back my sneakers and cap - not bothering with shorts.

“Hey, Richard you should put on some sunscreen before your lily-” I turn back to discover you snoring on top of a flat slab of rock.

I get silent and quietly watch you for a few seconds, seeing your hairy chest rise and fall. Even if weren’t for your occasional sleep twitches, your thunderous snoring would be enough of a clue that you’re actually dozed off.

Calling out your name a couple of times and getting no response, a plan quickly forms in my head.

I know from experience that you’re a heavy sleeper but wake up fast so I work carefully yet swiftly: taking a few items from my bag, I begin to scheme.

As usual, an inescapable trap is not my intention. Something that holds you for a while if you wake up suddenly is enough. Using the softest cotton rope I have, I wrap and knot cuffs around your wrists and tights before attaching the respective sides together. Then, I repeat a similar process with your upper calves and ankles.

I’m crouched on top of you so if you were to wake up, you’ll be greeted with the sight of my backside poking out of the cutoff of my briefs.

Richard:
On the ground, sleeping sound... this time, I'm out like Titania and notice not a thing.

Lance:
After checking to make sure my knots are secure, I moved on to making it harder for you to get free. Using bondage tape, I make your hands tight fists and wrap enough tape around them to reduce them into useless knobs. Then the more dangerous part: tying your upper arms at shoulder level, once again using cuffs around your biceps to ease the burden on my roping skills.

This part requires me to slightly lift your body up but it shouldn’t wake you up… hopefully. If you’re still not done, I’ll end my trick by taking my leather hood and putting it on you. Since it's a lace-up model, it only fits around your head once I pull the laces and tie a knot.

Finally, I straddle your chest and tweak a nipple softly. “Wakey wakey, Richard. You shouldn’t fall asleep under the sun, it’s bad for your skin.”

Richard:
Perchance to dream...

"I love a man in uniform," says Georgie.

"It's your vocation," I agree. A stick-thin New Yorker in what looks to be his mid-sixties (but "a lady never reveals her age"), Georgie would be the most fearfully waspish queen in existence were it not for that singular weakness. As it is, he's the perfect Head of Wardrobe for a long-running police drama - and he's having the perfect time putting Superintendent Seamus O'Halloran into his dress uniform for a funeral scene.

"This feels a little tight," I tell him.

"It's meant to be tight," Georgie responds, "you need to stand to attention... and I don't mean THAT."

Obediently, I place my legs together and let him position my arms by my sides.

"Are the gloves meant to fit like this?" I ask, "I can't open my fingers."

Georgie ignores me. He's busy fitting the dress cap but it feels more like a helmet. Surely O'Halloran doesn't do street patrol work any more? He's way too senior.

"Are you sure this is right?" I ask. The helmet has a riot shield or visor, it's enclosing the top part of my face and he's reaching behind, fiddling with fastenings at the back of my neck. I realise the helmet must include a collar yet doesn't cover my bearded chin.

This must look very strange. Sacrilegious as it is to doubt the Queen of Wardrobe, I'm starting to think he's got my uniform wrong. Or is he the Witch of Wardrobe? That would make me the lion - sacrificed on a stone slab - but surely I'm a bear rather than a lion?

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my...

“Wakey wakey, Richard," Georgie tweaks my nipple, "you shouldn’t fall asleep under the sun, it’s bad for your skin.”

"Bad for my-"

I push through the pre-waking hinterland, shedding fragments of dream, and struggle to make sense of my surroundings.

"What?" I stammer stupidly, blinking through the eye-holes in the hood, "what are you... what's happening?"

I try to reach up to swipe the leather from my face but find I can't. My arms and hands are trapped.

The final vestiges of dream fall away and the realisation that I'm restrained - and hooded - brings me back to full consciousness with a jolt.

I tug at both hands, feeling rope cuffs tighten against my wrists and my thighs. I try to sit up but my legs won't gather under me; they too are bound.

"Fuck," I swear, struggling harder.

You've wrapped something around my fingers, forcing them into fists and, when I try to see, I'm hampered by not being able to sit up and my peripheral vision being restricted. I'm peering through the eyes of a hood and the distinctive odour of new leather in my nostrils - plus the freedom of my jaw - tells me it's your "cocksucker" hood.

"You little sneak!" I exclaim with a half-laugh, my indignation tempered by the awareness that you've merely done what I did: taken advantage of a moment of weakness, grabbed an opportunity. I presumably dozed off and you did... this.

So, what is this? I wrestle with my bonds, a little for show but mainly to determine how efficiently you've managed to tie me. The wrists are snug enough to frustrate my yanking and straining, and although I can twist my legs a little, it feels like you've cinched between them at ankles and just below my knees. I also become aware of loops around my upper body, with what feels like more cinching between my biceps and torso.

And, worst of all, my fingers are somehow out of action. I don't think these are the leather mitts you tried to get me into earlier, so... tape? Wondering how much you've used, I make an effort to open one of my closed fists.

I make a similarly focused attempt to shake the hood off then, when that fails, glare at you through it.

"Seriously," I repeat, "you are one sneaky. Little. Fuck."

Like a landed salmon, I thrash against every part of my bondage at once, in the hope of breaking a weak section of rope or tape or shaking a knot loose. I can sense a few vulnerable places where, with time and effort, I could potentially begin my escape but, for the most part, you’ve done a decent job. For a beginner.

Despite my mock (or, at least exaggerated) anger, my rising cock is impossible to conceal.

To be continued...

[Guardianbound]

Love the editing, the back and forth, the inner thoughts of both characters, the brilliant descriptions!!

Keep it up @Straitjacketed ! You don't need to rush these chapters out at all