Story – ‘A Day in Hell’ from

the moment i walked into Mark’s den i could tell i was in for much more than i had bargained for. between the den and the study was a large, open, double-sized entry way cut into the wall. i immediately noticed that four big, heavy eye-hooks had been screwed into it’s frame at each of the four corners. there were four lengths of heavy clothesline running through each of the loops in these eyehooks. four thick leather straps hung from one end of each of these ropes. the ropes were threaded through the hoops and then fed to winches which had been installed into the top and bottom at the midpoints of the doorframe. the straps nearest the floor were fed to the bottom winch and conversely, the straps near the ceiling to the top winch.
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Story – ‘Would-be Houdini’

We were sitting in our favorite bar – actually in the basement of a friend’s house – jawin’ about a special on Harry Houdini, you know, the great escape artist. Boy! What a build, and what a slick performer. Now George, the resident loudmouth, said he wasn’t impressed with the man. He was about Houdini’s size and had twenty more pounds of muscle. George can talk a blue streak, but he generally doesn’t have much worth saying, and tonight was no exception. The guy is incredibly built, incredibly defined, and though he is on the short size, about 5′ 9″, he is beautifully proportioned. He is the son of the owner of the best exercise gym in town and works for his dad as a personal trainer. Well anyway, he was on some tack that he could fight his way loose from anything Houdini could have gotten out of. He had had a couple of beers and, short hitter that he was, he was hell bent on making a damn fool of himself. We couldn’t get him off the topic.
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Story – ‘Tim the Ticklish Skatepunk’ from

I’d been watching him for several weeks now. Gliding by with his buddies he’d be, in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts, baggy, coursing elegantly over the corporate cement. I’d be hangin’ out on Saturdays, reading a novel, smoking cigarettes in the late spring warmth, thoroughly enjoying these young studs’ skate stunts (until the goddamn corporation cracked down later that year and put up signs and more security to drive them off). Several were quite nice-looking, but one stood out. About five-nine, jet-black hair of average length, heavy-boned frame, and, around his neck, oddly, a very-seventies shark tooth on a black leather cord. The young hunk was broad-shouldered and clearly well-built; he distracted me often from my book.

As I had decided to be more bold with my interest in good-looking, athletic, cocky young men, specifically desiring to explore my paternal disciplinary instincts, and the possibility of persuading one of these smirky, arrogant skatepunks into bondage and boyish tortures, I determined to strike up a conversation with this guy. . .eventually.

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