Jason Copyright 2000
Chapter 1
I have a large, three-bedroom townhouse. My company has a program of putting new college graduates on two- to three-month projects at up to four divisions, until they find assignments they like and divisions who want to hire them. These grads need temporary housing for their short stints. So far, it's been a match made in heaven for me.
You see, all of these new college graduates are young. Many are male. Some of them are good looking. Some of the good-looking ones are gay, or at least bendable. And I can interview them before I rent them a room. So far, my instincts, or gaydar have been pretty good-in the four years I've been renting rooms I've had fourteen grads stay with me. Eight were gay; I made it with all of them. Three more were "bendable"; at least I was able to bend them. Let me tell you about one of the gay ones. I trained him well.
I caught a glimpse of Jason in the office hall on his first day of work at our division, and knew that he had to me my next conquest-make that boarder.
Jason was 22 and very blond. He had a swimmer's body (it turns out he had grown up in an island off Vancouver and had spent a lot of time working on fishing boats and swimming and scuba diving-all good exercise-and it showed.
Jason was just under six feet tall. Jason had fair skin to go with his blond mop of hair ("I burn easily, then tan," Jason told me at one point during his stay. Jason had a tan line to die for, I was to see; he obviously wore VERY small suits, hardly more than thongs.) Jason had sparkling blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, and almost no facial hair ("I shave once a week, whether I need to or not," Jason also told me. THAT was to change, as you'll see. Jason would be shaving more than once a week-if he knew what was good for him-although, to tell the truth, he'd only be shaving his FACE once a week). All in all, Jason was a finely put-together young man, the kind to get one's juices flowing.
Within minutes of first seeing Jason I had hurried to the Personnel office to remind them that I had a room for rent. You see, I knew all of the short-timers, well, all of the CUTE ones, so I knew Jason was new and, I hoped, looking for a place to stay for a couple of months. Jason gave me a call at my cube, came up and introduced himself. After I'd described my townhouse, his bedroom and its furniture, and the townhouse complex I lived in (large pool, nice club house with a small gym, and only a ten-minute commute from our office), he agreed to move in, with the room sight unseen.
From the beginning Jason showed off a cocky side. The first weekend Jason lived with me was nice enough to use the townhouse pool. Jason wore a relatively modest pair of Speedos (e.g., you couldn't see any of the public hair above his cock), but they were still kind of skimpy. Jason and I swam a few laps (well, I swam a few, he swam a lot-showing off or keeping his body developed-who cares, both worked). No sooner had Jason gotten out of the pool and was toweling off then he took hold of the ends of his towel, gave it a twist, and started snapping it at me, sassing me all the while.
That was, by the way, the first time I'd seen his chest; it was well worth the wait. He had a great set of lungs, as they say, tapering to a narrow waist. His arms weren't overdeveloped; he came by his muscles honestly, not through hours in the gym. His chest was nearly hairless, just a small patch between two perky tits and a small patch around his navel, with the requisite treasure trail disappearing downward into his trunks and towards the treasure. Jason's legs were well muscled, again through hard, physical labor, not artificially on some gym machine.
Jason's bantering and baiting continued that first week. He'd sass me first thing in the morning, at work whenever he saw me, then started in again on our way home. I decided something had to be done, this "boy" had to learn some manners. It only remained to decide when, and how.
Jason and I weren't able to swim again; it was too cool after work, then the weather turned and it was too cool during the day as well. Jason decided we would stay in shape by jogging. We started out with three miles (I'd run track in college, so three miles was easy), and within a couple of weeks were up to six miles.
One night soon after we started jogging I got a cramp in one leg. I slowed up, trying to work it out, and even managed to do a couple of miles before heading for home. Jason, of course, razzed me about giving up, being a pussy, a wimp, then headed off to finish his six miles. I decided that tonight would be the night Jason would get his come-uppance, the start of his training.
I got home, took off my shirt and wiped my face, then grabbed a magazine and sat down to rest my sore leg (the magazine was The Economist, not Playguy or In Touch. I was not obviously out in those days; I didn't have a rainbow sticker on my car, nor did I even own a rainbow flag for another few years).
A short while later Jason came in. He, too, took off his shirt and was wiping his face (god, what a hot chest!) Jason immediately started in on me again. He positioned himself in front of me and, without warning, started jumping in and trying to slap the sides of my face and calling me a wimp, a wuss, and other so on. A big grin was almost frozen on his face as he took wicked delight in hassling me.
I managed to block most of his blows with my arms. Then he switched tactics and started grabbing at my arms, trying to pull me out of my chair. "Wanna wrestle?" he taunted. "Come on, let's fight. What's the matter, are you chicken?" I looked up as he continued, "Bock, bock. Chicken. You're too chicken to fight"
I had a sudden revelation on how I'd get back at Jason, though he was younger and stronger. Smiling to myself at the plan I just thought up, I responded, in between Jason's bantering, "You're too strong for me to wrestle. You're younger, and faster, and stronger. Of course I don't want to fight you. I know I'd lose."
Jason made his first mistake of the evening. He put one arm behind his back and said, "I'll fight you and only use one hand. I'll take you on that way.
Still chicken? Bock, bock, bock." He slapped at me with his other hand.
"Can you beat me with one hand TIED behind your back?" I asked.
"Sure, I can beat you, even with one hand tied behind my back," this cocky young man confidently responded. "I'll take you on. Come on, let's go. Let's wrestle. Bock, bock!"
I said, "Wait here. I'll be back in a moment." I left the puzzled Jason and headed downstairs. Now, I occasionally get into bondage scenes (I WAS gay, after all; I just wasn't out to very many people). I have some nice ropes, and I know how to use them. I selected a couple, a twenty-foot long piece and a smaller, four-foot one-that one was for later. I headed back to the living room where I'd left Jason.
Jason looked at me as I walked back in, carrying the coils of rope. I surreptitiously set the shorter rope aside, then started tying a bowline a few feet from one end of the long rope. "Come here," I directed Jason, "And turn around. You said you'd fight me with one hand tied behind your back, so let's go. Which arm do you want tied up?"
Jason still sounded confident as he responded, "My left one." He kept hassling me, about how he was going to whip my ass even with his arm tied behind his back. But he came over to me. If he was puzzled, or thought it strange that I'd actually have rope and want to tie him up, he was too jazzed, too confident, to say anything. Good; I wanted him off balance.
I stood behind Jason, studying his muscular back and tight buns, which I could almost see through the cloth of his sweat pants. I took hold of his RIGHT hand. I slipped the loop over his hand and up to his shoulder.
"What's up," Jason asked, puzzled.
"I need something to tie your hand to," I replied. "I could tie a loop around your neck, but that's not a good idea. So I'm making a harness around your shoulders so I can tie your hand back there." Jason nodded, satisfied with my answer. Again, he was too into it to even question how I'd know about such things. And little did he know my other plans.
I won't bore you with the details of my rope tricks; I'll just report the results. Jason soon had loops of rope under his arms and around both shoulders, connected moderately tightly across both his chest and back (remember, his chest was bare-he'd taken his shirt off when he'd come in from jogging-so I didn't have to worry about getting his shirt off him later). Likewise, I couldn't hold things in place with ropes through his crotch-how would I get his sweats off? So I made do. I'd left a three-foot length of rope hanging down from Jason's right shoulder in back.
Only now did I take Jason's left wrist and bend his arm. I slipped the rope around his wrist, then started pulling upward, like I had him in a hammerlock. I kept pulling his wrist higher until Jason said, "Ouch. That hurts. Not so high." I loosened the rope but a fraction, then tied his wrist. The rope was not tight enough to cut off the circulation in his hand, but it was tight enough not to slip. He wasn't going to get that rope off without help. And I'd made sure his arm was bent slightly upward already, the better to hammerlock him with.
Finally I was satisfied with my bondage work. I stepped in front of Jason. Without warning, I reached up and started slapping first one side of his face, then the other. The fight could start!
"Hey!" Jason called out, and the fight began.