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Gay bdsm art by 'mitchmen' Mitchell and other artists featuring male erotic sexy fetish, S&M, men tied up, male bondage, domination, humiliation and spanking. Vintage photographs of men in uniform, Royale & Hussar Studios, humourous captions, gay pride articles
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This surprising sequel opens up another dimension to his initiation. The prospect his new visitors promise seems just as scary, judging by his face, but excitement still shows elsewhere. It looks as if he's got himself into a seriously leather, gender-neutral establishment, although the setting looks like an ordinary, nightclub, out of hours.
It was these two images that prompted me to do a Part 3 of this review.
Didn't that guy do something to me in that S&M Club last night?
Homoeros does a lot of vanilla studies. This one, showing a jogger's chance encounter in the woods, is rather nice. Love is in the air here, not fetish.
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After a while he stopped, looked at my bruised body and sighed, as if in regret. Then he went to his bench and returned with a second batten. He used them simultaneously to beat both sides of my body. The effect of the wood smacking my abs had dulled by them, but when he switched to my ribs, the pain was excruciating. I'm ashamed to say that I gasped, quite loudly. My torturer smiled, then hit me again. I managed better control of my responses the second time, but it was difficult. My struggle to remain silent was obvious. That made him smile again, for it was a sign, a small one, that I was losing, and he was winning. We both knew that, and I trembled inside.
Before he left to take his lunch, he signed off with the battens by rasping their rough cut edges across my body like a saw. My bruised skin was repeatedly pricked and punctured by splinters, with many of them breaking off and sticking in me. He was playing a childish game, but left me with widespread soreness that returned every time I stretched to relieve the stress of the prolonged restraint.
After he had gone, to my surprise, the Guards took me down and gave me a small but nourishing meal. I ate it appreciatively, imagining that someone, at least, wanted to keep me alive. But for what? As soon as I had finished, they tied me up again.
When the torturer returned, the games continued. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy the task of wearing me down, waiting for me to crack. He was relying on time and repeated attacks to persuade me, rather than extreme wounding. This time he took up a wooden paddle with which to torment me.
I'd experienced the paddle before. It looks slightly comical, but its flat surface produces a wider spread of pain. The holes in it ensure that air making way for its delivery do not impair the impact. It is most effective on large muscle groups and so is widely used for buttock spanking. Naturally, my Trainers hadn't spared me that experience and humiliation, although they claimed to think it beneath them. I wasn't convinced about that after experiencing their efforts, but my torturer seemed to share their view, he made no move to turn me round to feel its sting on my behind. Instead, he applied it to my pecs and thighs, two areas which had largely escaped his attention in the morning.
Vast new areas of fiery pain erupted to torment me.
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I can recall very little of what happened after that. I woke up in a primitive, wooden shack with 3 other prisoners. They nursed me back to some semblance of health, until my captors decided I was fit to work in the quarry, which was just outside our hut. This is the place I now call home.
As soon as I was able, I searched for my missing comrade, the man whose underpants I still wore, but I did not find him, only more strangers, most of whom did not speak my language. As I became better acquainted with my new companions, I was able to join in their secret, nightly intimacies, which were unexpectedly tender and comforting. Necessarily so, because of the patrolling guards who might otherwise hear us.
In reality, though, my only real bond with them is our experience of the Orange Room, of which none of us ever speak. Whether I broke and talked or kept my silence until they gave up trying, I cannot say. It doesn't matter, because I know for sure that my mission ended in failure. It gives me no comfort to have escaped death when my other comrades may well have perished, for I have still paid a terrible price for my failure.
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It's hard work, breaking the stones and carrying them to the collection point where the lorries come to pick them up. I soon discovered that slackers quickly feel the whip, and that invoked such terrible memories for me that I take care not to provoke the overseers if I can help it.
I think about escaping sometimes, but the fire in my belly has gone out. The fear of more, remorseless punishment has finally quenched my spirit. My comrades seem to feel the same, although none of us talk of our past lives or what we endured to get to here. I am one of the lucky ones, supposedly.
So I wield my sledgehammer and count the hours 'til the next meal, which is usually quite nourishing and designed to keep us alive and working. The alternative would be starvation rations until we die.
I'm not sure which is the worse fate of the two.
~
Imagery for this story is from 'Mercenary Nick' at Real Chained Heroes.
The star is 'Robert' flaunting his fabulous physique.
This is a brilliant fantasy about a 'sports centre' where men can go to experience being tied up. Luckily for us, they are all extraordinarily cute or handsome and there's a shop full of sexy gear for them to wear while they live out their bondage fantasy. You can see it's the first time for some of them, and they are plainly surprised and sometimes shocked by the unexpected reality of being in the hands of an unseen and none-too-gentle rope-master. There's even a hint that his work goes on, after the centre is closed for the night, leaving you wondering just what happens in the end to all those 'rope-curious' men.
~
I'm full of admiration for all the creative effort that has been put into this by Cybertied, negotiating the restraints and wilful disobedience of the AI Art engine and creating a storyline that is tantalisingly sketchy and vague about what is really going on.
Visit Cybertied at 'X'. and Cybertied @ Tumblr
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Night had begun to fall, and the office staff were leaving, but the real work of the Organisation would continue after the exodus, in the so-called 'Orange Rooms' where they would be interrogating suspects, out of sight. Many of our men had gone through those doors and never been seen again. I was about to risk joining them. A cold shiver ran up my spine, but I quickly dismissed the negative thought.
I rang Room Service for a snack and while I waited and diverted myself by wondering if it would be brought by a handsome waiter in a cute, tight-fitting outfit. There was time for a little relief before I commenced my mission. Or so I thought. But when I answered the knock on the door, I found four, ugly goons waiting outside. They barged in, seized me and took me down with professional ease. I felt the sharp stab of a needle in my neck and within seconds lost consciousness.
Day 2
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