Turning the Tables
By James Forbes jasbike1@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction created for the entertainment of interested adults, partly based on my experiences, and partly fantasy of what I wish will still happen. Please read no further if you are underage, if this is illegal in your area, or if you are offended by explicit sexual stories. Any resemblance to anyone is strictly coincidental. This would have taken place in the pre-AIDS era. The main focus is on domination, submission, various punishments and kink, with of course some actual sex thrown in. But it's more narrative than straight-up fucking. If you're looking for a good sub in San Diego, email me.
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Chapter Four – A Degrading Beginning
After tricking me into a hiking trip, my friend David put me through an embarrassing ordeal on a wooded trail, lashing me with a switch, stripping me of my shirt, then using hot wax to remove my pit hair. But that was only the beginning of my torment...
David looked me over, walking around me and trying to decide what to do to me after my hand slipping off an overhead branch, violating his order. "First of all, you obviously can't control your hands. Take them down, and put them behind your back." My arms ached after gripping that branch for a good half an hour. I put them behind my back. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. I could continue the hike like this. Anyone seeing me would think I was holding up my backpack or something.
"Wait," David corrected, "That won't work, not with that backpack." It was like he read my mind. "Put the backpack on." While I did that, David went through his backpack, filling me with dread. The last time he'd done that, he'd waxed all my armpit hair off. At least it would grow back eventually, or at least I thought it would. "Clasp your hands together in front," David instructed. As I did, he quickly brought out a length of climbing rope and bound my hands together. "There. That should make you behave." He removed my shirt gag and put it in his pack.
"But I think something else is called for. That was really disobedient, what you did. I told you clearly to keep your hands above your head on that branch. So your armpits stung a little. So what if that hair never grows back." What?! Never grow back? Maybe he was just trying to scare me. "But next time, you'll think twice before disobeying my orders." Before I realized what was happening, he reached out, and yanked my hiking shorts down to my ankles, revealing the tighty-whities I preferred.
David told me, "Step out of those shorts. You won't need them anymore. If someone sees you on the trail, that's your fault." He put the shorts in his pack with my t-shirt. I couldn't believe I was going to be on a hiking trail with only underwear, socks, and boots on.
"Let's go!" David said. "You go in front of me. If you go too slowly, remember I have that switch. Finish the rest of this canteen first, though." Why was being nice now? I drank greedily of the nearly full water bottle.
We hiked in silence, up steep switchbacks, further into the remote alpine lakes. At least there were trees around for shade, so no other hikers on the trail could see me unless they were passing us directly. I slowed under the heavy pack only once, and was met with immediate switches on my ass, which was only covered by the thin white cotton brief. I was sure my ass had red lines now, too, to match the backs of my legs. My biggest concern was that my urge to pee had only gotten worse since the pit hair denuding incident a few miles back. Suddenly it dawned on me: It was another trick. David had given me way too much water an hour ago, knowing I would have to pee. As embarrassing as it would be to pee in front of him, I couldn't hold it any longer.
"Please," I pleaded. It was the only word he allowed me to say without permission.
David stopped and smiled. "Please what, slave? Speak freely."
"Please let me pee," I asked as nicely as I could.
"Fine, go ahead." I started to go off the trail to pull down my underwear with my tied hands.
"Wait, what are you doing?" David said. "I didn't say go off the trail. Come back here right now. Just for that, you have to pee right here, right now, in front of me. But leave your underwear on." I shook my head in horror. He wanted me to piss my pants like a little kid. It was as disgusting as it was mortifying.
"No?" David said. "It's that, or this. Your choice." With that, he turned away from me, and promptly filled the empty water bottle with his own piss. The large bottle even overflowed a little bit he peed so much. "It's not the first time I've peed in a bottle. Remember last year? You made me pee into a Gatorade bottle in our tent in the middle of the night, you little shit. I will make you drink this, right now, if you don't wet your shorts." He held the piss bottle in front of my face. I could smell the hot piss. I resigned myself to the inevitable. Pissing myself was better than drinking his piss. But what an awful choice.
Without realizing it, I felt a warmth between my legs. David jumped back. "Holy shit! That was fast. Just like a scared little boy. Wow, you really needed to go. Look at that. It's all down your legs, too, and into your boots. Come to think of it, without your armpit hair, you don't really look 14 anymore. You look more like guys my age, like maybe 13, if that." David sealed up his piss bottle, and put it in his pack. "Alright, let's go. Wet underwear and all. This should give you something to think about. Your next trial will be at the top of that hill." A minor peak loomed about two miles up steep switchbacks.
We finally reached the false summit. My butt cheeks were sore from a few lashings of the switch when I didn't hike fast enough for David's liking, and my pits still burned from the hot wax pulling out all the hair. My entire crotch was uncomfortable from the still-soaked underwear. Again, David read my mind.
"OK, stop, slave. It's time for the next quiz. But first, would you like that wet underwear off? I'll give you something else to put on, even. But you can't change your mind once you decide." Desperate, I nodded my head. "Better be sure." He went through his backpack, which I was learning was never a good sign. I hoped I'd made the right call, but anything to get that wet underwear off.
"Here we go." I looked in horror at a tiny yellow jockstrap, several sizes smaller than the size I wore in my gym class. "Take your underwear off. Now." It wasn't easy with the backpack still on, and my hands tied in front of me, but I slipped them off as I turned away from him. Thankfully, he didn't make me show him my dick for the first time. "Wow, that ass has some nice red stripes across it," he commented proudly. "Pull on that jockstrap. We don't have all day." It barely contained my dick, and one ball kept popping out the side. I started to stuff it back in the yellow pouch. "No!" David told me. "Leave that out. I did some research in a gay guide book recently," he said, surprising the hell out of me. "Did you know there are different colors that mean different things with gay guys? Yeah, like blue is fucking, pink is dildos, black is S&M, grey is bondage—hey, you're already doing that!—red stripe is shaving—you're doing that, too, well, having it done to you heh-heh—and red is putting a whole fist inside you. Maybe that will happen if you really fuck up bad..." I was horrified. Here my whole plan was to see him naked, maybe kiss him and suck his dick, and I was listening to him talk about extreme sex toys, bondage, shaving, and whatever they called putting fingers in your butt. I wasn't even sure what S&M meant, but knew it was something bad. I couldn't tell if he wanted to do that, or was revolted by it. What had attracted me was his innocence about the world, but that had all changed in the last year, apparently. Now I was trapped, in the middle of nowhere, with him dominating me.
"So you're wondering what yellow means with this gay code," David continued. "I'm sure you can take a wild guess. I don't want to put these piss-soaked underwear in my backpack, so you're going to carry them. If you resist, something way worse will happen."
Having no choice in the matter, I silently held out my bound hands to carry my soaked tighty-whities.
David pulled them back. "Nope, that's too easy. You misunderstood, slave. You'll carry them in your mouth, at least until our next stop in a mile." I shook my head violently. There was no way I was going to do this. The humiliation would be too much. This was someone I saw every day at school, and played in the band with. I was his mentor. And now this? He brought the underwear up to my face. "Open up. That's an order." I clamped my mouth shut.
"Fine. Remember you brought this on yourself." My stomach sank. What was he doing to do? There was no way he could pry my mouth open. But he'd already found my weak spot: He pinched my tit and twisted it violently. Without realizing it, my mouth came open with the sudden pain, and before I could shut it, David stuffed the underwear in my mouth. It was still so wet I could feel my own piss dripping down my throat, and I choked with my first woody taste of urine. Surely nothing could be worse than this.
"Oh, man! That's awesome. This calls for another photo." He did a close-up, which clearly showed my formerly white underwear now stained bright yellow, matching my jockstrap. The jock and underwear matched perfectly in his overall photo. "Just remember, slave: I have photos of you before, and now after, failing all these tests. Now hike. The next quiz a mile up will be crucial."
There I was in nothing but a yellow jock, the symbolism of which was obvious, socks and hiking boots, hands bound, with a piss gag in my mouth, walking up a steep trail. I wondered what else could possibly happen to me that horrible day.