The Chinese Test
(An excerpted transcription from an unpublished Edwardian diary)
Transcribed by Peter Hawkwood (phawkwood@hotmail.com)
The game was always pretty much the same. He would wander over and just hang about for a time, looking through my books or simply sitting quietly. Eventually he would produce a length of thin cotton rope from one of his pockets and challenge me to let him tie me to see if I could free myself. I would agree, as if to humour him, and would sit in a chair or lie on the couch while he drew my arms behind me and slowly, carefully bound my crossed wrists together.
He never rushed this part, and I would go into an almost hypnotic state from the feel of his hands on my arms as he pulled them behind me and then again as he looped the ropes around my wrists and pulled each knot sufficiently tight. It was especially mesmerizing when he would sit on my buttocks while I lay under him as he tied me. At some point he would say "There! See if you can get out of that!" But of course I never could. For such a young lad he was awfully good with knots and that sort of thing and my captivity was quite real. After a few minutes of earnest struggle I would admit that I couldn't get loose and ask him to release me. "Oh, no!" he would cry, "You must earn your release with a show of courage! I shall torture you in the Chinese manner to test your manhood!" Whereupon he would proceed to unbutton my clothing and tease my bared flesh with pinches and tickles.
This would go on for some time, until he was ready to pass on to the main course. He would brush his hand softly and gently over the fly of my trousers and say "What's this? It seems frightfully lumpy!" His small fluttering fingers would feel delightful to me but I would not answer him. "Won't speak, eh?" he would say. "Well, we'll just have to make you talk, won't we?" He would then continue to disrobe me, until finally I was lying (or sitting) there with my upper clothes bunched around my bound wrists and my trousers and underthings gone completely. A little more of his poking and tweaking in my most private areas and I would be quite thoroughly excited, and very visibly so as well. This delighted him, and was not entirely unpleasant to me I may say.
The more he teased, the more robustly firm would my poor tormented member become, until finally he would produce a small bottle of a slippery unguent and pour a goodly dollop of it into his palm. This lubricant he would apply liberally to my straining instrument and then taking the turgid captive into his well-oiled hands began the most deliciously prolonged and expert massage of my rampant maleness. Throughout my ensuing ordeal he would be scrupulously careful to cease his manuevers if he sensed that I might be reaching the crisis. After a moment's cooling delay he would resume his "Chinese torture," taking the greatest possible pleasure in his helpless prisoner's moans and struggles of agonized bliss. The goal of this ordeal was for him to force me to tell him what the object of his cruel attentions was, to name it. But no proper or polite term would suit the imp: nothing would do but that I give it a risque sobriquet. Finally, after a considerable passage of time, I would be able to stand it no longer and to one of his frequent inquiries as to whether I was "ready to talk" or not I would cry out desperately, almost against my will, "I will talk! I will!" By further cajoling tweaks and rubs and brief strokes he would finally draw from me the words he wished to hear. "What is it I have here?" And I would submit to his precociously randy will by blurting out "It's my cock! My prick! Now-- please?" Whereupon the young fiend would resume his manual endeavors with energy and skill and would soon have me in the final breathless throes of a ecstatic and quite liquid release from his torture. This game delighted him, the dirty little bugger, and we spent much of a summer playing it.
Each time I would swear that I would never succumb to the game again. And after a few days he would reappear in my study, only to draw the cord from its place of hiding and, with an impish grin, sternly order me to put my hands behind my back. And despite my fear of discovery, not to mention my more general and pervasive sense of guilt, I would comply, and give myself up to him as a prisoner to his will and a slave to my own perverted passion.