You've Already Won

You've already won, in fact some time ago. Now we're making conversation as you work. Our talk is casual; words of no great import except to fill the space unease might otherwise occupy. Though we are alone in your house, if we were overheard it might sound like we were just getting acquainted.

This is not actually far from the truth. I saw you for the first time when I entered your house only minutes ago. I was not surprised to find you wearing only tight underwear, nor was I surprised when you wrestled me to the carpet. It did not take you long to remove my clothing, and not much longer to remove my freedom.

With that behind us, I am focused on your calming voice making small talk as your hands work their final touches on the ropes. The strands and knots you're placing now feel more ornamental than functional; my naked limbs are held neatly together by rope, tight and efficient.

I was immobilized the moment your strong arms and legs entangled mine as we grappled on the floor. I am in good shape but have no wrestling skill, and I quickly found myself at your whim as you rolled me into one lock and pin after another. You toyed with me gently, showing me glimpses of escape, quickly snatched away with the sweep of a muscular arm.

Then came the rope, first a simple drawstring around my wrists as you sat on my back. Then a quick pivot and another loop around and between my ankles. My chest heaving from exertion, I accepted defeat. It was at this point that you started the conversation, as if we were not two grown men, one binding the other hand and foot.

You kept going even after my wrists and ankles were bound, cinching my knees together, then attaching my wrists to my ankles in a prim hogtie. Even this was not satisfactory for you, and you continued adding lengths of rope connecting one bit to another.

All this while we chatted pleasantly about the mundane. We did not talk about the web site on which we met or the arrangement we made. It would have felt unnatural to discuss the details on which we had agreed or the limits we negotiated.

Presently you pause your work and you seem to be done applying your ropes. What I can see of the intricate web you've weaved is masterful in form and function. You arrived at this moment with practiced ease and efficiency, with no reachable rope end to pull, nor any errant strand.

Our conversation comes to a halt as your hand, briefly idle after so many busy minutes of pulling and tying, finds my cock which has been hard since the moment you were on top of me. You rub firmly up and down, your palm on the underside of the shaft, and I let out a low, involuntary sigh.

You've positioned me on my side with my feet drawn up behind me in your hogtie. You're kneeling in front of me, regarding me with a look of combined satisfaction and amusement. I wonder what has inspired this visage, and imagine you are satisfied with your rope work, and amused by this bound man in front of you who professed to be straight but whose rock-hard cock in your hand suggests otherwise. I, the reluctant prize for your masculine triumph, am now the living canvas for your dominant art.

You look me up and down as if seeing me clearly for the first time. Your hand comes off my cock and explores the length of my body, traveling from rope to rope. Both hands now roam over me, testing bonds and touching skin.

As your hands move, you lean forward, and I see the outline of your cock pushing the fabric of your gray briefs. You are hard as well, and you make no effort to hide it. Your roaming hands find my ass cheeks, giving one a light slap, I'm certain my face is turning crimson in embarrassment.

A wave of doubt comes over me. I have only ever been attracted to women. Though I know you are impressively handsome by any standards, I find nothing appealing in your muscles and masculinity. We are similarly charged particles, not designed to enter each other's orbits. Perversely, what you're doing to me is enthralling, and I am aroused beyond any previous experience.

Holding my eyes while your hands massage and probe, you seem to know my thoughts. "I see straight guys all the time," you say, breaking the momentary silence. The way your eyebrows rise when you say "straight" tells me everything I need to know.

You lean further over me to grab something on the floor. You have made an adjustment to the fly of your briefs, and as you lean, your stout cock pushes through into the open air and I feel revulsion. Simultaneously I realize with a jolt that you are hard because of me, and I like that.

You come back to your kneeling position with a small smile holding a red ball gag with a black leather strap in one hand. Your other hand goes to my cock again and continues working it vigorously.

"Now," you say, holding up the gag, all pretense of normalcy evaporating, "for the rest of the afternoon, you'll either have this gag or my cock in your mouth."