What I did during my summer vacation

The head referee waved a colored flag in our direction, which signaled the end of the first round and became our cue to pull all together as a team with our giant tits to ring the closing bell. We did it better the second time.

We were allowed to lower the doughnut to the ground for a brief interval. Everyone’s nipples restored elastically back to an almost normal size of about 4 inch long x 1 inch thick. But, there were multiple divisions in this tournament and more than one round of competition for each division. We were soon hoisting it all over again.

And again. And again…

They would keep us standing out there hitched to that pole all through the day for their entertainment— sweating naked in the heat, on display, lower than beasts. I lost count of how many opening bells and closing bells. I got so tired on my feet, my nipples were stinging and raw, my balls aching, bruising angry stripes all over the backs of my legs, thirsty. I wasn’t able to see or focus on many of the other matches. It was sport and a rite of manhood for them, and it was the utmost humiliating torture for me, all put on as an entertaining side-show that instructs everyone about the difference between a consort and a real man in stark contrast.

This next part is hard to even talk about. Around mid-day of the tournament everyone breaks for an outdoor picnic lunch. Competition pauses. Small groups of people go out into the meadow with prepared food and have picnics on the lawn, if they want to. We consorts benefit from a prolonged interval of tit rest. First, I saw the owners of Ringlets and Sweet Pea come to take each of them. They sighed with evident pain and relief when the giant industrial strength tit clamps came off to be replaced by their ordinary smaller familiar tit-leash clamps. I recognized Sevda when she came to take Daisy away. She led him over to a picnic blanket over in some shade where Ahmadi was also sitting. Daisy was allowed to kneel in the grass beside them. One by one, Blond Jesus and Kim Jong Un and Panty Hose all went away for the break. And, then there remained only me and Gas Mask standing across from each other still hitched to the pole.

“I guess it’s just you and me together now,” I said to Gas Mask.

But, all he did was stare back at me from inside that full-face mask. The round eye googles on his mask were partially fogged up from the heat. Every time he drew a breath you could see it, because his eye holes would steam up completely and then clear partially in time with his inhale and exhale. When his eye holes partially cleared, you could still see the insane look in his eyes. It must be so awful for him to be out in this heat locked up inside that mask. What kind of owner would make him be like this? Finally, Gas Mask’s owner arrived.

Whoa! Wait just a minute. That’s a surprise.

It was a Cypriot male who owned Gas Mask – and his dog, maybe? The guy was accompanied by a white and black spotted Great Dane dog walking beside him not on a leash. His owner unhitched Gas from the pole cables, but evidently not for purpose of giving him any relief or respite. He connected Gas Mask’s tit leash to the Great Dane’s collar.

I heard him say, “Titan needs some exercise. Go take him out in the meadow.”

The giant dog barked and started out for the meadow, dragging Gas Mask behind. Gas Mask began to hop like a kangaroo as fast as he could to keep up with the Dane. For the next hour or so I occasionally glimpsed them both dashing across the lawn.

So anyway, that happened. But, that wasn’t the really hard part, which is so hard to even talk about. I was still standing there in the sun after all that, still tethered to the pole by painful industrial strength heavy duty load bearing tit clamps. No one had come to release me. No one had come even to torment me. I was simply ignored.

“Hey, Greg!”

Coming from behind me – did someone actually just call me by my name?

“Greg? That ain’t you, is it? ”

Greg. That’s me! I shuffled my feet and turned my body partially around to see behind. I didn’t turn around all the way, because my cable would twist, and then my tits would start twisting around in different directions also. I’d like to think I still have enough dignity to keep both tits going in the same direction.

“Oh wow, it really is you! How’s it hangin’ man?”

How’s it hangin?— That used to be our standard greeting to each other when we were classmates together at Schenley High School. There was no mistaking it. My best friend since fifth grade continuing all through high school was somehow unaccountably here.

“Oh, hey Earl. It doesn’t actually hang anymore.”

There was an awkward pause when I’m sure he was staring dumbfaced at my penis rig, but he simply didn’t want to talk about that.

Instead, he just put his hand on my head and tousled my hair saying, “Damn boy, you got some big ass titties. I didn’t know you was so into weight lifting!”

“Yeah, uhmm… I realize this all might look strange.”

“Ya think? Oh, I almost forgot, I got this bottle of water for ya.” He pushed a perspiring bottle of cold water into my hands.

“Oh man, thank you, thank you. I am so thirsty! You’re the greatest friend!”

He said, “Yeah. I am a great friend. That’s why you up and disappeared on me to go join some bare ass tit cult, I suppose.”

“No. no, man. It’s not like that. I just got caught up in something.”

He was just walking around me. After an interval he said, “Greg—boy, if you don’t just look like a nude sunflower standing up out here – you is a big wilting naked sunflower.”

“Yeah. Hey Earl,… uhmm … I can’t actually … would you … please … feed me the water in my mouth?”

He made a small involuntary laugh, but he took the bottle out of my hands and brought it up to my mouth.

“Wait Earl. Could just do me one more favor?”

“What?”

“Order me to get down on my knees.”

“Dude, I don’t know what kinda shit you’re into, but I ain’t gonna play that.”

“Please? If you’re my friend, you’ll say it.”

“Uhggk. OK. Get down on your knees then,” Earl said.

And then, gratefully, I sunk down toward the ground and got off of my aching sore feet for the first time all day. I’d been so wanting to get off my feet, but I was afraid to just do it on my own volition. If anyone comes all “disgrace” on me, I can say I was ordered to my knees. Earl put the open end of the water bottle in my mouth, and I gulped it all like a thirsty sunflower.

Earl said, “Thing most pisses me off is how you skipped out on Quantum Break.”

“Oh, I forgot all about that.”

“You said you’d already pre-ordered it, and we was going to play Quantum Break together when it came out. Greg, it is already a month now since Quantum Break come out. That game is sitting right there in your damn house downloaded on your X-Box.”

He wasn’t kidding. He is so jealous of my X-Box.

“Hey Earl, what do you think about World of Warcraft?”

“Dude! Don’t try to change the subject. We was discussing Quantum Break. Everybody knows World of Warcraft is for faggots.”

“Earl, seriously though, how are you here? This is a Cypriot thing. They don’t invite strangers outside their community to this type of gathering. I’m here to serve and be judged because I’m being turned into consort. I just don’t understand how you could be here.”

“Aww, me? Well, I’s here with Madison. She invited me as her date. Yeah, we been going out.”

Earl smiled proudly, and then he actually winked and nudged me playfully.

“Madison? Where is she?”

He pointed over to a picnic blanket in the shade of a tree, one of many put out. I could see her outline over there. I squinted my eyes, and I could see her wave. But, that was the most I would get to see of her. Madison was a hard woman to love.

“Earl, you gotta be careful. If her brothers find out, they will turn you into a Cypriot consort like me. The Cypriots don’t allow outsiders to get with their women. They have a code of honor. It’s because of Madison I am out here hitched to a pole. I’m telling you this as your friend. Be really careful!”

I thought what I was saying was totally true and meant it sincerely, but Earl just shook his head. How could he not listen?

“Nah Greg. That just ain’t so at all. The girl is fine, but I wanted to do the honorable, you know. So, I go to her house and talked to her dad, there. And, you know, he strict. He very all ‘better treat her right’ and everything like that. We talked a while, and I really thought he might say ‘no.’ But, then he took me over to they mosque to see the imam. Imam says I can’t be with any Cypriot girl because I’m not of their people and don’t know their faith. But, I say I’d like to learn their ways so I could respect ‘em better. And the imam relents and says, OK, I could get with her if I convert to they faith and make a donation. So, yeah. I gave a donation to the imam, and he blessed me. I’m an honorary Cypriot now.”

I said, “Huh, I never met her father.”

He said, “Boy, don’t you know to always talk to a girl’s father? Girls love that.”

“Earl, I think I made a horrible mistake. I think they tricked me.”

But he said, “Nah Greg. You where you need to be, I think. Hey look man, the second half is going to start soon, and I got to get back. Good luck with all this.”

Turning to go back, Earl grinned and said to me, “Hey dude – Madison, she has some nice titties – not like yours. Nice. I really like her.”

I felt like I had been stunned. The break ended. Everyone started getting ready for the second half. I was going to need more time to process this information. My best friend is getting serious with my girl on a picnic blanket while I sweat in the sun and ring the fight bell with my tits. All he had to do was make a nominal donation to their church and get a blessing. He’s an honorary Cypriot man and doesn’t need to get his dick in a tube. Why didn’t I think of that?

The pole official came back from lunch and started hitching up the consorts again to the cables. I told the official that I couldn’t continue with this because I’ve had a traumatic experience and I need to have some me-time.

“Me-time? Me-time?”

The pole official was sincerely stumped by that. I don’t know if it was the language barrier or what. The Cypriot official did not understand me but was concerned enough to call time. A conference of officials assembled in the meadow. Tension and restlessness built everywhere because I delayed the start of the second half.

Panty Hose was looking at me with contempt again. “What is this newb’s fuckin’ problem now?” he asked to no one in particular.

I didn’t want to talk to him. The official came back bringing Ahmadi as a troubleshooter.

So, I said to Ahmadi, “Look man, I don’t feel well. I just need a little time to thinnnughgh…”

I didn’t finish my sentence before he pinched my nose and stuffed a medicine ball in my mouth.

Ahmadi explained to the official, “Is medicine he asks for, has prescription from doctor.”

He crammed two more medicine balls in for good measure. Everyone was getting impatient to get the show underway again, and the pole official seemed satisfied with that. Ahmadi told me to behave myself and went back to the bleachers.

Everyone got ready to start hoisting the doughnut again, but I just felt so empty and depleted. I started to cry silently. There were no words for it and my mouth was stuffed with hair balls. Panty Hose loudly asked if he could be moved to another part of the circle to get away from me.

When that didn’t happen, he decided to make his feelings toward me known by opening his mouth and launching a big wet spit-ball at me. But, that didn’t go well for him. He’d forgotten he had panty hose on his head, and his gooey spit ball stuck in his nylon and just hung there splatted between the lips of his own open mouth. He tried to play it off as if he’d meant to do that. The other consorts tactfully looked away not wanting to get involved.

Daisy gently stepped his foot over and placed it on top of my foot. He said, “It’s OK kid. You’ll get through it.”

It was a sweet gesture. It made me realize that the tops of my feet were painfully sunburn.

(Day 48)

Ali ascended to glory in the competition meadow and wore his cauliflowered ears as a trophy. At the tournament’s conclusion, he won a champions’ medal and was awarded a big cash purse. His people loved his güres performance, and he became a breakout local celebrity. So young. So athletic. So talented.

“Deep waters,” they said.

Girls started coming over to visit with Ali – respectable Cypriot girls accompanied by chaperones. Ali was suddenly a desirable catch. He was barely even 16, and the community had now judged him a man eligible to marry. It was an honor. It was also an obligatory honor. He would be pressured to decide.

It’s strange how my trajectory became the mirror image of Ali’s ascent to manhood. I was paraded naked and beaten and humiliated in the same meadow. I thought I was doing it all to impress a girl. There is a kind of redemptive dignity in that, don’t you think? But in the time I’ve been gone locked away, my best friend has moved in on her. He has the imam’s blessing. He is romancing her, putting his hands on her. I know Earl. He’s got big grabby hands.

I feel like I’ve been punched in my nuts, except it is a continuing ongoing squeeze that began at that pole in the meadow and hasn’t stopped. I can’t breathe fully. My soul is being crushed. Everyone noticed Ali winning; no one noticed me failing. I wouldn’t be any more invisible if I’d been shrunk down miniature and lost in the grass.

After Ali came back from the tournament, he took me back into his bedroom at night. Ahmadi was happy to be rid of me, and I also preferred it that way. It upset me when Ali had thrown me out before and cut me off for talking and swinging my dick at him. I was becoming so broken down and fragile. I longed now for any sort of comfort and to be noticed by him again.

“I saw you fight in the meadow. You were amazing,” is what I said to him when he put me into the sleep sack on the floor beside his bed again.

He said, “Yeah, what you know about it, silly? Huh? What you know?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I know how to lick your balls. You’re the man.”

He finished strapping my sleep sack to the backboard and zipping it up to immobilize me, but he didn’t put the sleep mask down over my eyes. He stripped off his clothes for bed, stepping over me traversing the room. I watched, because I need to be reminded what a man looks like. The only other thing he did was, briefly, he pumped his hips and swung his dick up above me. Then he winked at me before turning out the light and going into his bed.

In the darkness above me Ali said, “Thought about your words at the fight, silly – hitter can’t be too tense. Was good advice.”

I smelled the blob of lube when he squirted it on his cock and started once again to slowly jack himself in bed. He had stopped doing it pre-fight so that it wouldn’t take his power away. All the wrestlers were superstitious about jacking off before a fight. Now the fight was over. He had been out all evening on a date with another Cypriot girl and her chaperone. Probably, there was no relief of tension for him there. So now, he slowly jacked himself again toward a satisfying climax. He was in no hurry. He had all night. It was his cock to enjoy for as long as he could keep the girls away.

I gazed at the ceiling and smelled it and listened. It was a warm humid summer night. I could already feel the water collect between my toes in the foot of my sleep sack and rivulets pooling together on the baseboard under my coccyx and running up my spine. My deektoob was poking out of the hole pointing vertical as if I were lying on the floor with a large plastic bong mounted on my loins. Sweat beads broke out all along my penis shaft and started dribbling down. It had nowhere to go from there. It would just pool wet underneath my snares on the o-ring at the base of the tube. On a night like this my skewered meat stick inflates like a bicycle tire inner-tube and juices up all over with sweat beads that collect in the tube at night. I feel an urge to itch and absent-mindedly try to, forgetting again that my fist mitts will barely even touch the outside of the tube and that I’m not supposed to touch it anyway.  My itchy balls are wallowing in sweat.

I fall asleep and dream that my penis erupts with torrents of sweat that cascade down off of it like a hot wet fountain. The whole tube fills with sweat water, and my nuts are completely submerged in it. My nuts hurt and swell because they are boiling in the sweat water. They pull and stretch my bag trying to float up to the surface, but they can’t pull free. They just swell and bump submerged in the tube like hardboiled eggs. Ali kneels beside me on the floor. He has somehow attached a stem to the tube and lights some cannabis at the end.  He opens his mouth wide around the top of my deektoob, inhales, and smokes me to relax himself. I am his sweat-soaked human bong. My dick expands even more with the suction from his mouth on the tube, and the hot smoke bubbles well up through the bong water all around my cock.

The same dream recurred all night. I didn’t so much sleep as go unconscious in heat. I’ve learned to relax and be still at night, but tonight the sweat and the dark and the smell of his lube and the sound of it gliding in his hand…  I couldn’t move at all, but my muscles tensed and flexed. My heart pumped. My head pounded. I gulped air, and it felt hot in my own face every time I exhaled. My mouth went dry. At one point, I thought I would go mad because I couldn’t open out my elbows from my body to let the water out of my armpits. I couldn’t stop myself flexing and tensing to get some relief; so, I kept building up more heat, going unconscious again, dreaming again….

The night was delirious agony. Then I woke up exhausted, still in crushed confinement, and still very, very hard. One string of my sticky white cum had welled up from my loins and had managed to leak out through the post holes of my apadravya. But, it wasn’t even enough for a reprimand. My gonads were hardboiled with my jiz locked in there solid.

(Day 51)

The next day after the tournament Ali’s father came and took him to the DMV to take his driver’s test. Then, they took his cash winnings and his dad bought Ali a new car. I am now responsible for washing it every day.  This is how I wash his car:

The best time to wash the car is in the early morning before the sun gets hot enough to prematurely dry the wash water, which would leave soap stains on the exterior. So, he lets me out to work on the car first thing after I am released from my sleep sack on the bedroom floor. I have a car wash kit that consists of two buckets, car soap, buffing towels, a tire brush, sponges, a Dust Buster, a windshield squeegee, and a step stool. I again have the big circular sponge that is mounted on a handle attached to a bit between my teeth strapped to my face in the traditional Cypriot way.  The far end of my deektoob is again clipped to a chain link up on my chest with a carabiner to prevent it bouncing around hitting the side walls of the car while I wash it.

The most important thing is to be super careful about all of my zinc plated ¼ inch thick, 1 3/16 inch long, ¾ inch wide chain links not knocking into the car when I am washing it. We engineered a solution to that problem using lengths of clear Tygon plastic tubing with a 1 in. inner diameter. The chain links are now threaded through cut sections of Tygon tubing going down my chest and stomach, then through one long section of tubing between my legs to my ankle chain. The tubing creates a bumper for the chains that prevents me scratching his finish when I am up against the car. It remains possible for me to nick the car with the manacles on my wrists when I buff with my shackled hands. That is a serious danger. To prevent it, I wear double-sided car wash chenille tentacle mits that ride up over the manacles and seal at my wrists with electrical tape. They cover the manacles, and my deektoob covers the short length of chain linking my wrists. I think that’s how it works down there; although, I haven’t actually seen it.

I put my face into the soapy wash bucket to wet the sponge. I’ve got goggles on to protect my eyes, because this car soap is thick, and it stings if it gets in the eyes. The car is parked in the front of a driveway. I reach down with my mitted hands to grasp the hand hold on the step stool to position it next to the passenger door. Then, I feel for the first step with my bare foot and lean into the car with my mits as I climb it. I hold my head up so that my face sponge won’t dribble soap all over as I climb. The soap harmlessly dribbles and collects around my neck and chin in my conical collar instead. When I have climbed the step-stool to the final step my mitted hands can hold onto the edge of the car roof. I get up on my tip-toes and bend all the way forward to get my face sponge planted on the roof of the car. Soap squishes out. I can taste it. I move my face in short arcs front to back going from the middle to the passenger side of the roof.

Then, I step down off the steps and feel with my foot for the head of the water hose. It is over in the grass. There is a faint hiss of water coming out in a fine spray that wets my feet. I kneel and lift it in my two hand mits. I stand, aim toward the car, and squeeze the trigger to rinse the roof. Unexpectedly, it bucks in my hand mits and sprays my whole chest and stomach instead of the car! I drop it in surprise. I was holding it backwards again.

Since I am wet already, I decide to pick the hose up again and spray myself all over on purpose. I aim up around the bottom of my neck where the collar itches on my neck scruff. Then, I stick my elbows out wide like chicken wings and aim the spray up under my arm pits. I feel my tits stiffen up and become erect when the spray hits them hard. I let the spray bounce off my chest into the open end of my tube, and the cool water collects around my balls in the bottom end. I completely fill my tube and submerge by stretched impaled penis. I only get to shower inside the house when I start to stink objectionably; so, it feels good to me to stand in the yard for a minute and just get the stink off my dick. I put the hose nozzle near the open end and run the hose full force down over my penis, and I can get hard that way. I squeeze my thighs together at the base of the tube and feel it thicken and tighten against the cords until it starts to pull and hurt urgently. I have to stop now. That’s as close as I can get to masturbating. And, oh yeah, I am standing out in the middle of the front yard.

Shit! I realize that the soap has dried on the roof of the car while I was spraying myself. I feel another wave of despair at the thought of rinsing it and starting over again. I’ve been having doubts recently about this whole impaled-naked-consort-slave thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but not with Earl involved. What’s the right word for it? Inconceivable. Exactly! Because, I can’t even start to imagine the picture of Earl being with Madison before my head starts to want to explode from conceiving it. He is so beneath her. And, he won’t respect her. He will just want to play with her tits. He is totally one-dimensional. I just can’t…  I can’t even think about me being Madison’s devoted slave on my knees while fucking Earl is up there bronskying her tits with his face. Inconceivable!

I suddenly realize that I want no more of this. I want to get the hell out of here. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired! Adios muchachos! It is still early in the day; so, there aren’t many people out on the streets yet in the neighborhood. The sidewalk is vacant, but I wouldn’t bet on my chances of hobbling along down sidewalks through this whole neighborhood alone without someone questioning why am I not on my tit leash. I don’t think I could escape any better if I tried instead to hobble off-road through people’s backyards. I realize that the way of escape is actually right here in front of me, and soap is drying up on it. My best way out would be to commit an unthinkable act by stealing Ali’s brand new sweet ride and driving away with it.

I feel about two seconds of guilt and then start mapping out where the keys are and how to get them. Last night, Ali put me in the sleep sack and then stripped off his clothes while I watched him on the floor. His new car keys might still be in his pants pocket when he tossed them over a chair. And, where is Ali now? He’d be in the shower! I had no time to think anymore. I started hop-skipping on my shackled feet up to the front door. I had to hold my head toward the sky to keep from hitting the door with my face sponge. I felt with my tentacle mits until I found the handle. I hobbled straight through the house past the half-open bathroom door with the shower running into Ali’s empty room.  I had to put my head down to look around the sponge for the pants on the chair. A big glop of soapy water fell onto Ali’s bedroom floor, but I couldn’t stop for that. I had crossed the bridge of no return! I grabbed his pants and could hear the keys jingling inside. I took the pants, keys and all, and went right back outside the same way I’d come in.

When I was back in the front yard by the car, I turned the pants upside down and shook them until I felt the keys fall out and click on the ground. I knelt in the grass and felt with my knees and my mits for them. I got them off the ground, but then I realized the difficulty I was going to have unlocking the door and then driving. I couldn’t feel where the keyhole and the key were in relation to each other through the tentacle mits. I knew I was scratching the finish of the driver door trying desperately to find the key hole. I bet that I could have put it into the keyhole with my mouth, if only I didn’t have my mouth full with the holder for the face sponge.

I realized in despair that I wasn’t about to find the hole, and then I accidently squeezed a button that caused the trunk to pop open. If there is a remote trunk button, then there ought to be a remote door unlock on it also. I pushed on it with my mits and listened for other responses. The car horn went off briefly. Wrong other button! Finally, I heard a click that might have been the doors unlocking.

I was able to open the driver-side door and crawl in. Here, I immediately confronted another problem, because when I attempt to sit up in the driver’s seat, I am sitting on my Reminder, which is a colorful round gourd attached to a plug in my ass. It is very uncomfortable if I accidently forget and sit on it. Now, I am purposely sitting on it, and the big plug is wedging farther up my ass. I have to just take it because there is no other way for me to sit in the driver’s seat and drive the car. I am balancing my ass on top of the round gourd that sits in the seat. If I push down on the bottom of the wheel with my mits, I can get some leverage to take my weight off the gourd. That helps me a little.

Again, I am leaning forward into the wheel and fumbling with my tentacle mits to feel the place where the car key goes in and turns to start. I can’t see it at all, because my Cypriot collar is splayed out on top of the wheel. I squirm in the seat finding it, trying not to be distracted by the pain in my ass. But, I do find it. I manage to turn the key and start the engine of the car.

OK. But, how do I shift it into gear? Oh no! My stomach clenches in fear when I suddenly realize it is a manual transmission. Ordinarily the driver would put the car into drive by simultaneously pushing the clutch with his left foot while moving the stick shift with his right hand. I can push the clutch, but my hands are shackled together in front of me under the steering wheel. The only way I can get my hands to the gear shift is to let myself fall all the way over across the seat until my hands are in between the seats near it. So, I gently try to do that. As I fall off of the gourd toward my right butt cheek the angle of the butt plug changes. I groan loudly and see stars in my eyes from ass pain, but I can’t stop now.

I push the clutch and shift the gear. I feel the car drift forward; although, I can’t see where it is going while lying sideways in the front seat. I push hard off my right elbow and grab the wheel again with my tentacle mits to pull myself back upright. Pulling myself up with the wheel automatically causes the car to begin turning left into the street while I am still getting up to see out the window. I have to also bounce on my hips off the seat as if it’s a trampoline to get the gourd back squarely underneath them. The plug lodges into me again with a hard bounce that makes me yell full-throated into the sponge handle. I can’t shift the gears again. My poor little ass can’t stand it.

I am drifting diagonally out into the street. I find that I am able to hold the bottom of the wheel in my mits and climb with them up one side or the other to turn the wheel. I find the gas pedal under my right foot and start to push it down. The car drives forward into the road. I’m moving! But, it probably looks a little strange because the trunk of the car and the driver-side door are both wide open.

The driver side door is a big problem, because I really have no way to get it closed. If I reach out the left side to get the door handle, I will fall out the door into the road before I can ever get to it. I realize that if I accelerate down the street and then make a sharp right turn at the next intersection, then the door might swing on its hinge as I round the corner and come shut. I do that, and it totally works! My door slams shut beside me.

Unfortunately, I am now on a one-way street going the opposite direction that I am going. I see a car travelling head-on into me. He sees me and is honking his horn angrily. I feel with my foot and push the break pedal to stop myself. The other car also stops, waiting for me to put my car in reverse and start backing up to correct my error.

“Sorry. I just can’t do that pal. My sore ass can’t handle another gear shift.”

I push the gas driving toward him and then accelerate over the curb up onto the narrow side walk. My passenger side scrapes noisily against the trunk of a tree as I pass the opposite car on the sidewalk and then thump back down into the street behind him. I am getting into so much trouble so fast and ruining Ali’s car.  But, I get to the next intersection and turn again onto a two-way street where I can legally travel.

Unfortunately, I really have no idea where I am going. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I just need to get out of the Cypriot neighborhood – back to the real world. It is hard for me to read the road signs to get any sense of direction. I can’t actually see the road at all when looking straight ahead because of the damn face sponge that’s locked on my head. I have to turn my head to either the left or the right to see out from either side of the sponge. I still have the safety goggles over my eyes that protect me from the soap. I can’t see the speedometer to gauge how fast I’m going either, because my wide conical collar blocks the view of all below my neck. I need to escape, but I don’t want to kill anybody. So, I try to keep my speed on the slow side.

I think I am following the rules of the road pretty well now, but then I see flashing lights in my rear-view mirror and am suddenly being told through a load-speaker to pull over. I pull off to the side of the street and put my foot on the break. The cop taps on my windshield, and I fumble with some difficulty to reach the button that lowers the window.

He asks me, “Do you know why I stopped you?”

I look at him sideways from the left side of my face sponge and shake my sponge “no” at him.

“You were traveling in the bus lane. This lane is reserved for express bus service only. Cars must only travel in the left lane – unless they are intending to turn right. In that case, the driver may signal and briefly pass through the bus lane on the way to the right side curb to make an immediate right turn at the next intersection. Even if you intended to make a right turn at the intersection ahead, you were definitely not signaling to briefly pass through. You were traveling. It’s a moving violation – failing to obey a traffic control device.

There are no buses anywhere around. 

Is he fuckin’ kidding me?

I think the cop would not have even cared that I’m seventeen naked in chains with a sponge mounted on my face, but I had no drivers’ license or registration to use to write out the ticket; therefore, he ran the license plate to discover who is the owner of this car. He thus discovered that I am not a Cypriot named Ali and that this is a stolen car. He impounded the car and took me to jail.

When the cop pulled me out of Ali’s car and put me in the back of his cruiser, there was some difficulty. He, of course, informed me of my rights to remain silent and to have an attorney present with me during interrogation. I nodded the sponge at him and grunted my affirmation. Then, he needed to search me for weapons and contraband. He put me up against the hood of the car, and I spread my legs as far as the ankle chain allowed.

You wouldn’t think there could be so much concern for hidden weaponry. He felt all up and down my legs up under my arms. He felt all around under my collar. He sifted fingers through the long curly hair on my head and then though the shorter curls between my legs. He seemed suspicious that my penis rig or butt plug might be some type of illegal drug transport device. Neither was readily removable to inspect, being locked onto me in such a way that a lock-smith would need to be consulted.

“I advise you we will be searching you more thoroughly when we get to the police station,” he said.

He wanted to handcuff my hands behind my back and was annoyed they were already shackled below my chest in front of me. The most he could do was to restrain my elbows behind my back using two sets of handcuffs interlinked together between them. He put his hand on the back of my neck and pushed my head down so I wouldn’t bump my head going into the back of his vehicle. He let me lie sideways across the back seat, which relieved me having to sit upright on top of the bulbous Reminder again.

When they booked and fingerprinted me at the police station, they got the bit out of my mouth. They were able to start asking me questions and to learn my name. I told them I’d been kidnapped and that I took the car to escape from my Cypriot captors who were keeping me locked up in their house against my will, making me their slave. I thought that my story was believable, and I kind of actually believed what I was telling.  I was sure they would see me as a victim. I wondered when the social worker would arrive to counsel me about my trauma and validate me as a victim of human trafficking.

However, the police interrogator first affected sympathy drawing me out to get all the details of my story. Then, he became increasingly skeptical as I continued. I realized later that the Cypriot family’s attorney and the Cypriot consulate had both already been in contact with the police and had given them a different account.

I was a guest of the Cypriot people in a cultural exchange program fully supported and sanctioned by UNESCO (The United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) with the goal of contributing to peace and security through international collaboration and educational programs. The chains and locks and piercings and the giant collar and bit in my mouth were not restraints to keep me against my will. They were ceremonial Cypriot consort dress and part of their cultural heritage. Furthermore, I was never held against my will. I entered willingly with full knowledge with an expressed sincere desire to learn about their culture. Apparently, I had even signed a letter in the doctor’s office when they put all the piercings in my dick.

Furthermore, he got me to backtrack on my story and admit that I never actually asked the Cypriots to set me free. I just went nuts all of a sudden and stole their car. They had witnesses who could truthfully say I had been seen out in public in the neighborhood and at cultural gatherings. I never called for help or claimed to be a prisoner against my will.

I said, “Wait, no! You are making me sound like the bad guy. And, there was one time when Ahmadi turned me over his knee on a park bench and spanked me with a shoe in public while I screamed for help. What about that? What about that? Is that a willing participant in a cultural exchange program?”

The police interrogator paused to light his cigarette and blew smoke in my face. Then he appraised my telling.

“You were screaming for help because you wanted to escape?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Isn’t it true you were screaming because he caught you trying to jack yourself off like an animal in the middle a residential street in full view of decent women and innocent children?”

My whole face turned bright red. I’m the victim. He’s talking like I’m a degenerate sex fiend.

I was starting to feel really exhausted and overwrought. I hadn’t been sleeping well. I suddenly just wanted to shut down, to go to sleep, and to be left alone. But, they kept me in the interrogation room all day into the next night. They told me to think more carefully. They picked apart everything I said. They recorded everything I said and kept asking me what happened again and wouldn’t stop asking. My mouth got dry. I felt light-headed. I hadn’t eaten all day. I needed to take a piss, but the end of my dick tube was still locked vertical to the length of chain going up my stomach and chest. Ali wasn’t here to unlock it.

I signed a plea agreement in which I confessed that I stole the car, and I admitted that I was never really kept against my will as a prisoner. As part of the agreement, I would not have charges formally pressed against me on condition that I perform 100 hours of community service and make restitution to my Cypriot hosts for the damage I did to Ali’s car when I scraped the passenger side of the car on a tree trunk. I would be spared from getting a felony conviction for grand larceny to go down on my permanent criminal record following me all my life. I signed on the line. I’d sign anything to get out of there. Oh… and of course I would also pay steep traffic fines for driving without a license and for a moving violation traveling in the bus lane.

They brought in a lock-smith to pick the locks and unchain me. They took the collar off my neck. They snapped the cords anchored in my dick head with a pair of those wire cutters the police have available to disarm bombs. I didn’t explode. I just retracted slightly like an over-stretched rubber band. They left it to me the delicate, highly intimate procedure of pulling the skewers out, one by one, so that finally I could pull off the tube. The parts I couldn’t remove were, first, the thick rubber o-ring at the base of my cock and, second, the metal posts in my dick head that still had the cut ends of the dick cords hanging off. I was finally able to pull the colorful decorative gourd out of my ass after the locks were picked on the guiche ladder of rings around my butthole.

“We’re done here. Honor this agreement and keep out of trouble.”

It was about dawn the following morning. A door was held open for me, and I was told to leave the police station.

I was allowed one phone call. I waited on the curb side until Earl came and picked me up. He loaned me some gym shorts and a t-shirt. We found a bus line that could take me back to my home in my own neighborhood across town. We waited together for the bus to come.

“Damn Greg. You really fucked it up, didn’t you?”

That made me so angry. I remembered again it was the thought of Earl and Madison together that drove me over the edge and made me steal the car. In a way, this was all his fault.

“Earl – you fucking knew I was into Madison! How could you just move in on her like that?”

“What? Dude, yeah, you were into her, but you were never gonna man up and do anything about it! You dropped out and disappeared. And, you’re away to college in another month. What are you even talking about?”

I said, “Could I please talk to Madison, try to explain things to her? Does she even know what I’ve been going through?”

“Nah boy. She don’t wannna talk to you. Ain’t none her family wants to talk to you anymore after this stunt. They say…”

“…they say I’m a disgrace. I know. I get that a lot.”

I feel like my heart’s been trampled on by a thoughtless caribou. The bus came. Earl gave me the fare to get on it, since I had no money.

“Thanks for the clothes and bus fare anyway,” I said.

“Good luck with your life, Greg. Try not to get your dick stuck in a tube…”

(Much Later)

I worked out how to do the mandatory community service, and I paid the restitution so I wouldn’t have to go to jail or have a record. At the end of August I moved away to school. I’ve rarely been back home since. I never saw Madison or Ali or Ahmadi or the other Cypriots again. The other consorts that I met – Daisy, Panty Hose, that deeply disturbing Gas Mask guy  – I pushed them way down into the basement of my mind so I wouldn’t think of them again.

I did hear soon after from Earl that Ali became joined for life to a proper Cypriot girl in a ceremony that he and Madison attended. Earl was judicious in his appraisal:

“Small titties. Pretty in the face though. They have a subterranean maze under the mosque. The groom is required to find his way to the center of the maze in darkness where he is symbolically slain and devoured by The Minotaur before he is joined with his bride.”

I found myself wondering about Ali and feeling saddened and guilty, as if I could have done anything about it. It sounds awful to be slain, devoured, and married all in a day for someone so young and full of potential. I wondered if he still plays World of Warcraft.

What if I had stayed? What if I’d got up the courage to tell him that I knew he was a gay orc in the game and that I was his pixie mount  – that he really wanted me more than a Cypriot girl? I don’t think it would have gone over well. I think he would beat the crap out of me. And, I think he would still follow their tradition and marry the girl.

I still regret I didn’t call him on it. I’m free to do whatever I want now because I’m a disgrace. His freedom is in a sense more limited because he is a pehlivan. I can’t imagine him happy like that. It’s really none of my business, and I know I shouldn’t care. He is the only one I still think about.

I still have the hardware. I used to be really apprehensive about anyone seeing it, and I thought about having it removed. In college I eventually got some confidence in myself. Then, I discovered that some chicks actually dig the hardware. I had no idea. There are women who actually think it’s cool to have metal posts driven through my cock head with metal rings attached and a guiche ladder going up my butt crack. I’m keeping it. Sometimes at night I put my deektoob back on, and I restring my penis like an archery bow.

There was a time when I felt like I needed to be Madison’s slave, or maybe Ali’s slave, or just … somebody’s slave. But, I failed at it because it was just too damn hard. Then later, real life got in the way.