By PFC Pflege
I discovered Rocky one night when Dave and I tied up the boys in the next squadbay who shared our head. We tied them up and put them one by one in the shower. Rocky was an extra guy, who had been waiting next door, trying to buy drugs, and we tied him up, too. He said later that he was from El Paso, but he was crazy and said a lot of things. Dave was a Mexican-American, with broken English, 18 years old, and a PFC. I was the barracks honcho, a corporal, age 23. Rocky was a spaced out private, busted twice from PFC, and on a fast road to nowhere. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He was about 5’8″ in height, with a gorgeous pouting face like those hunks in sex magazines, and he had a naturally beautiful body. He was lying on the floor, wearing only red shorts, tanned from the Hawaiian sun, hogtied. This luscious creature was struggling gamely while we put his buddies, one by one, into the shower, and turned on the cold water. I felt it necessary to put more rope on his upper arms, and in doing so, checked the wrist ropes. While I did, Rocky stroked the palm of my hand, and an electric shock went through me, and my cock stiffened. I told you Rocky was nuts. Here’s a room full of Marines, and he’s stroking some guy’s hand! Well, it wasn’t too much later that he and I found ourselves alone, and I had my first sex with him, actually in the locker room of the swimming pool, to which Rocky had a key, since he was life guard.
Naturally we talked about bondage, and Rocky told me how he had been tied up to a post by Indians for three days, or some such nonsense, that he had been in Viet Nam and captured by the Cong, and tied up with wire, that when he was 14 his friends tied him up in his father’s garage, stringing him up by the ankles, stark naked. Don’t get me wrong, listening to Rocky was an enormous turn-on, but even as naive as I was at 23, I knew most of it was crap. But it excited me, and no wonder Dave had an easy time of it when the night of my submission arrived.
Anyway, Rocky’s stories were pretty crazy. He told me he was really a sergeant, undercover, that he worked for the CIA, and I don’t know what all. Later, when I was older, and knew more people who got fucked up with drugs, the stories they told had a depressing familiarity to them—I had heard ones like them from a Marine male hunk, late at night in a swimming pool locker room, in the warm Hawaii evenings.
Rocky and I did a certain amount of bondage, but two incidents scared me, and I went back to being tied up by Dave. The first time, Rocky tied me stark naked to a chair in the pool lockerroom, and then went back to the barracks, and forgot me. I know it sounds odd, but he did. He forgot me. He got out some drugs, I guess, and smoked, or injected, or whatever, and all the while I writhed naked in a chair. The guys from the M.P.’s discovered me during their normal checkup. Fortunately I knew all of them, it being a small base, so with some story about being drunk and making a bet, I was let go without any formal action.
The second time was not so easy, but again, looking back, I was very lucky. Every Marine had fire watch once every month or so, which meant you did nothing but sit in an office all night, and walk the barracks every couple of hours. Dave was fire watch that night, and he knew that Rocky and I were tying each other up, because I had told him. I didn’t tell him that Rocky had been regularly servicing my cock. Anyway, I suggested to Rocky that we use some other place than the pool locker room, and I asked Dave to unlock a barracks storage room, so that Rocky could tie me up. Dave readily agreed, but only if we promised to let him watch me be tied up.
So we went into the storage room, which was full of metal shelves, and floor polishers, and all that kind of thing, and which, best of all, had a huge pipe running across the ceiling about eight feet off the floor. Imbued with Rocky’s stories of suspension, and drunk as a goat, as we Marines always got before bondage, I stripped to my ever-present Speedos, and with Dave’s help, Rocky strung me up by my ankles. He then bound my wrists behind my back with rope. Then he asked Dave if Dave had any tape.
I started protesting a little bit, but I was drunk, and horny, and looking up my 23-year-old hard muscled body gave me stiffening pleasure. And I think I wanted to have a hard-on with Dave there, sort of showing off. So I didn’t protest any too hard, and Dave and Rocky went off to get tape, which they dug up somewhere. While Dave stood and watched, Rocky proceeded to tape my mouth very securely all around the head. Then they took turns swinging me back and forth. I did my best in showing off what was now a rock-hard cock in front of Rocky (drunk) and Dave, firewatch (sober), with me (strung up). Speedos bulging. From my vantage point, it was an unmistakable erection, and I believe that bondage and the sight of my erection is what prompted Dave several days later to do what he did.
But I was starting to feel very woozy with all the spinning and the alcohol. There was a faint sound of the phone ringing, and Dave ran from the room to answer it in the office. Rocky closed the door, and sat down on a step ladder, looking at me. He took a joint from his jeans, and smoked it, slowly. In the meantime, since I was no longer spinning, the wooziness passed and I started to enjoy looking at Rocky upside down, and being tied up. The marijuana smoke helped too. I don’t know how long the silent scene went on, but Rocky suddenly got up and left the room, closing the door after him. The following day I found out that he had returned to the Enlisted Men’s Club, and drank beer until he passed out. He had either forgotten about me again, or he didn’t care. Looking back on it, I subscribe to the second theory, but I remained loyal to him even when they finally carted him off to the psych ward at Tripler Army Hospital six weeks later.
Anyway, here I was swinging from a pipe in the storage room, hands tied behind my back, and gagged with adhesive tape. Dave and Rocky knew where I was, but no one else. About ten minutes went by, and I knew, somehow, that Rocky was not coming back, and my male erection shriveled in my nylon Speedos. Several times in the future I would experience real, deep fear, but here time was of real importance, because I was hanging upside down. I couldn’t yell for Dave since the firewatch office was down at the end of the corridor, and I was gagged. I couldn’t get out and for all I knew I would hang there until morning. I tried a lot of stuff, like trying to slide my wrists up over my ass towards the pipe, trying to break the ropes (hopeless!), twisting back and forth trying to loosen the rope which bound my ankles to the pipe. Nothing worked.
And then the blessed sound of a key, and Dave came in. My God, I was glad to see him! After he cut me down, he told me that he thought I was crazy to get mixed up with a nut like Rocky, that the whole base knew about him, that he was reputed to be queer, and a whole lot of stuff. I thanked Dave brokenly, believe me, I did, because when he had come in, I was crying like a baby in those ropes.
Well, it wasn’t to be the last time I was suspended. Rocky dropped out of my life for a while, until the night before Tripler, and the regular, fun bondage with Dave continued. I would be drinking in the NCO bar, for example, and Dave would come up and ask me to tie him up, and so I would. Or I would get back to the barracks before him one night, and pretend to pass out, leaving my locker drawer open, with the ropes in plain sight, as a plain invitation to Dave to truss me up like a chicken. During the last few months of my tour of duty, he and I regularly tied each other up on Friday and sometimes Saturday nights. Once I got him to tie me up during the day, in a kneeling position, my chest tied to my thighs, and my wrists behind my back and then to my ankles. Extremely painful, but very sexy, as it was the first time I was on my knees before Dave. He also placed his foot on my neck, but there’s a reason for that.
Dave, as I said, was Mexican-American, spoke broken English, joined the Corps for its educational advantages, and I was college-graduate, preppy good looks, all-American boy. So naturally I called him wetback and he called me some pejorative name in Mexican, sort of paralleling the banter I had with Steve about the hippie and the Marine [BOUND & GAGGED, Issue #28, page 7). Later, as I grew more experienced, I used this kind of technique to get many a young hunk to tie me up, as in the “blue collar and the preppy,” the “dumb blond and the college grad.” All most of them ever want is an excuse to tie you up, and with straight boys like Dave, you have to invent reasons. As he did. He, like Steve, said he “liked the challenge.” Well, okay.
So his putting his foot on my neck was part of the wetback-gringo challenge, the PFC and the Corporal, and my being bound and gagged was the Mexican’s revenge, according to him, and his being tied up and taped was a challenge to him to escape gringo capture. I didn’t give a damn what name he put to it.
Finally the night of my first submission to a male, my kneeling, just like “Seven in a Barn,” arrived.
Dave was a stocky build, about 5’10”, strong, wiry, but no Steve in physique, or Rocky in physique. Just hard male Marine body, which after he left the Corps probably went to shit. It was fun tying him up, and it was obvious he enjoyed tying me up, but we still had to play this wetback-gringo stuff. So this night I’m down in the room, stripping, and putting on Speedos in preparation for Dave to tie me up, when Dave came into the room. He was drunk, and so was I (there’s not much else to do on base). I suggested tying me up by my ankles, just the way Rocky had.
We went down to the storage room and found it locked, and went to the firewatch, but it was some PFC we didn’t know, so we didn’t ask him for the key. Back to the room, and I get this bright idea. The wall lockers are six feet tall, and above them is shelf space, and the shelf is supported at regular intervals by a short metal post attached to the ceiling. Take a rope around that metal post, and your 23-year-old male Marine can be hung upside down, with his ass banging into the wall locker. He can do good stretching and writhing, with his hands behind his back, and when his Mexican friend gets the idea to use this rope-whipped male Marine as a punching bag, the fun begins.
Dave is the one who taught me how to enjoy being hit in the crotch. I know that sounds weird, and maybe you’re not into ball & cock pain, but if it’s done right, it’s a real turn-on for me. Dave seemed a natural at it, or maybe I was just too drunk anyway, but while he hit me in the chest and abdomen pretty frequently, he also found time to hit me in the curve of my Speedos.
This kept on for a while, I have no idea how long. In our four-man squadroom, one guy was never there on weekends (this was a Friday), and one guy worked late. That guy came in, and saw me swinging from the post, shook his head, took some stuff out of his locker, and left. Dave and I had been seen bound and gagged so much that nobody gave a damn anymore. With this guy gone, the whole scene shifted in some way, because I think Dave and I realized that we were alone together for the whole night. That’s when the torture got serious, with my total acquiescence, and even suggestions.
As I’ve said, everyone at the base at night wore as little as possible, Speedos being the favorite, but also shorts and briefs. So with me in Speedos, and Dave in his tight-fitting Mexican, non-Speedo swim trunks, it was all pretty normal. Except that I was getting my ass slowly and very thoroughly whipped. When our roommate left, and the two Marines were left alone, and Dave realized that not only was I tied up and therefore in his power, but that I could take a lot of pain, the wetback-gringo thing shifted into high gear. Of course, I helped out by calling him names, not just wetback, but asshole and everything else, to encourage him to torture me, he in turn shifted into purposeful torture—trying to get me to admit to things, to confess crimes, and I don’t know what. At one point, he even tried to get me to confess that I sucked Rocky’s cock, followed by interrogating me about my girl friend (I quickly invented one).
That night took on a strange, sort of slow motion aspect. I had long since been cut down from the post, and hogtied instead. The hogtie I should describe because it was really well done.
Dave had a natural talent for tying me up, and we always used clothesline because when inspection of the rooms came you could explain all the clothesline as being your way of saving money by washing your own clothes and hanging them up to dry. So after Dave cut me down, and I’m lying on the floor, ankles and wrists still tied, he tied my elbows together, about three inches apart. Next he tied another rope to the elbows, but pulled this around under my chest and tits so that the two ropes on my elbows pulled against each other. Lastly, he roped my ankles together more tightly, and pulled the legs back until the feet touched my upper arms. There he tied the ankles, not to my wrists, but to the three inches of rope between my elbows. I was bent like a bow. He took a long time tying me this way, and I wish I had the words to describe the feel of this Marine’s strong, dry hands crisscrossing my flesh and binding me slowly and methodically. I was there for the duration.
The torture kept up, mainly him hitting me with his fists in my chest, abdomen and occasionally my crotch. I had gotten to the point where I was showing off my bent erection in the Speedos, and watching his crotch for any telltale signs. Somehow I got moved from the floor to the bed, though I don’t remember when.
We both fell asleep several times, and I remember being awake and listening to Dave snore, and then being awakened by him rolling me on my hogtied side and hitting me. I remember that at one point (it was very late, or very early depending on your point of view), Dave and I were lying on our sides, on the bed, facing each other, although I was still hogtied, and I was aware that he had a hardon. I was also aware that I was in that alcoholic state of false sobriety, when you think everything you do is logical and orderly. Actually, everything is in slow motion. I think we were both aware that we were on an historic bender, that I had been tied up and beaten for a long time, that it was now nearly dawn, and that somehow that made it unusual and memorable.
Whatever it was that impelled Dave, he started hinting at what he wanted.
I had been tied up so tightly for so long in a hogtied position, that nothing he could hit would hurt me. He shifted the mattress on the bed, so that the mattress and the rigid box spring made a kind of step. He placed my body on the step, facing him, and he started sliding me down and off that bed, so that my cock and balls caught on the rigid edge of the box spring, the bulge catching there so that the full weight of my hogtied body pressed the cock and balls into the edge of the box spring. And now he started demanding that the gringo “submit.” He didn’t say how, but as I did not complain, but rather kept calling him names, he increased the pressure and the demands. I always have had a sense of atmosphere, and I remember the atmosphere in that squadbay, with two young male Marines, both nearly naked, and one who had been tortured over a period of hours, as being heavy with sex, not evil or bad, but heavy with young maleness.
Dave kept sliding me down the side of the bed, catching my manhood on that damn box spring, with him sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling me up and down by the rope which tied my ankles to the three inches of rope between my elbows. My cock was very, very hard, but the frame kept catching my balls, too, and finally I really had to submit to him. I agreed to submit to the Mexican PFC, and asked him what he wanted.
He made an unmistakable gesture with his curled fist, up and down.
Holy shit, I thought.
Dave then made it clear in words, after he saw my reaction wasn’t crazy or that I didn’t really refuse at all. He used a word which has been in my vocabulary ever since, with its special, particular meaning. He said he wanted me to “perform” on my knees. He didn’t say “jerk off,” he didn’t say “masturbate.” He said that I was to “perform” on my knees. He said it over and over again, while he kept torturing me.
And this is where, for once in my life, I think I did something pretty well. First, I refused to agree until he slid me up and down the torture slide a few more times. Then, I agreed to submit to him. He untied me, and we both stood up. He got one of the metal chairs, one by the way he had been tied to a lot, and sat down, crooking his legs back onto the rungs. By sitting like that, his ass slid forward on the seat, thus spreading his legs, and displaying his crotch. He locked his hands behind his neck, and leaned back. My sense of excitement was intense, but I wanted to prolong it, so I went into the head to take a leak. After I was done, I stood in there for a while, watching myself in the mirror. My body was crossed with red, rope welts; my Speedos fit my body like my skin; between my legs there was definitely a lovely curve. I came out of the head and faced Dave.
Dave was still leaning back in the chair, and he watched me as I stood, legs spread, and my hands interlaced behind my neck, just like him, except mine was to signal submission. (I’d love to write here that Dave gave me curt orders to remove my Speedos, to kneel and to jerk off, but it didn’t happen. I think he was probably just as tense and excited as I was, so we both said nothing).
What I meant when I said that I thought I had done something right, was my deliberate delaying of the ultimate scene, by going to the head, and standing upright with my hands behind my neck for a while. It escalated the excitement in the room. Ours was probably the only room in all the barracks where a light was still on; inside that room, it was very, very quiet, and with a heavily electric atmosphere. No longer were there sounds of male fists hitting male meat, or Dave talking, half Spanish, half English. No sound at all while a 23-year-old male stood before his 18-year-old master.
Finally, without moving my hands from behind my neck, I knelt before David, and noticed a very tiny relaxation in him, which I attributed to his realizing that I intended to go ahead, or, in the words of “Seven in a Barn,” I intended to play the game fairly. Even then, though, I delayed. I slowly brought my hands down to my sides, and then in front, and then deliberately stroked the still covered bulge, until at last I unloosed the draw string, and let my cock out. I didn’t take the Speedos off, I just pulled them down in front so my cock sprung free.
As soon as I did that, the atmosphere in the room changed dramatically, at least from my point of view. It was like pulling the plug on a sink of water, and it suddenly all gushes out. The heavy electricity vanished, the tension was gone, and replaced (at least for me) with a real, true sense of how much fun this was. I think the change came because the act of removing the barrier to my stiff cock was probably more important than the coming masturbation. I think that the submissive and humiliating act of a young male kneeling before another young male was a very powerful statement I had made: Dave was straight, and I was supposed to be, of course, since this was the Marine Corps. Both of us, however, had had erections that night, covered by nylon, bent erections in the swim trunks. Now one erection was naked and open, and an 18-year-old Marine was sitting in a chair watching me perform.
And I did perform, on my knees, as Dave had told me to. I was shyly proud, I think, because my erection was its full length, even before I touched my cock with my hands, and its nine inches of meat jutted out from between my legs. Since the tension (on my part—I never did know what Dave thought or felt) was gone, I helped things along by leaning a little back, and spreading my knees farther apart, and slowly stroking my shaft from the root to the head. I knew from the first touch that my cock was ready to explode, but I wanted to delay that, because I was really enjoying the submission and the humiliation. I had been fantasizing about it since I read “Seven in a Barn” excerpts in a sex book; finally it came true.
Even without touching my cock, I was getting perilously close to shooting, and I didn’t want to yet. I had been surreptitiously looking at Dave’s crotch while I “performed on my knees”, and the curve in his crotch was quite substantial. Thinking back on it, maybe if I had made a move on him, we could have had sex, but we were both young, in the homophobic Corps, Dave had recently told me about me getting mixed up with Rocky the “queer,”and my kneeling submission could still be explained by that tattered excuse, gringo-wetback punishment. So I didn’t make any move on Dave, but while I was watching, I saw his hand come down to the bulge, and his thumb slipped under the drawstring. I believe to this day if I had held back, Dave would have started jerking off too. But at last it was too much for my meat.
My cock had been imprisoned in Speedos for a long time without sex (Rocky had ceased supplying that); I wore Speedos day and night, cramming my meat into them. Dave had tied me tighter than I had ever been tied, which caused a rock-hard erection, bent in the Speedos. He had tortured me, on and off, all night, with emphasis on the chest and abdomen, but with plenty of attention to the stiffening in my crotch. Nothing was going to stop it. So I gave in to my cock as I had given in to Dave, and with a final frenzied “performance,” I creamed the distance between me and Dave’s chair.
What happened subsequently is interesting too. After I had performed on my knees before him, Dave remained seated, and I resumed the position I had before, kneeling with my hands behind my neck. I didn’t even put my dick back into the Speedos, because I still hoped Dave would jerk off. I kept my eyes on the floor, and my hands behind my neck. Then he got up, and went into the head, and I heard nothing for a long while. I suspect he jerked off, and maybe, not to brag although it sounds like it, he didn’t want me to see that his erection was smaller than mine. He came out and found me still kneeling.
I smiled up at him, to show him I was still good ole Mike, and asked him if the gringo had been punished enough. He laughed, and whatever bad feeling or nervousness he may have felt (if he felt any) was gone.
He tapped me on my arm, and I got up. We picked up cigarettes, and went outside, and leaning over the balcony (our squadbay was on the third floor or “deck” as we boys in the Corps call it), looked at the lightening sky over Pearl Harbor. We smoked in silence for about two or three cigarettes, a companionable, amiable silence, and then went to bed, and slept like logs for hours.
It has been a hell of a night.
We never did anything remotely like that again, but we did enjoy tying each other up, and we were far more open about it than we had been. The wetback-gringo shit stopped, and Dave frankly started making suggestions about ways he wanted to be tied up, without all the “challenge” excuse.
I left the Corps a couple of months later, and Dave got married, then divorced. He called me at home one time in response to an ad I had placed in Leatherneck, the Marine Corps magazine, looking for him. We talked a long time, and it turned out he was in Quantico, Va, not that far from Philadelphia. We finally talked about ropes, and he admitted that he loved being tied up, that it gave him a hardon, that he often thought of the night I just described, and of other nights when he was tied up, and that his wife didn’t like it, and that he was alone. I made the mistake of telling him that I was gay, and although we talked some more, I think he felt threatened by that, and I never heard from him again.
This story originally appeared on the Bondagezine site. Metal would like to thank the author, PFC Pflege, for sharing this experience and thanks also to Master Jack of Bondagezine.