Date: Fri, 16 Apr 1999 12:15:36 -0700 (PDT)
From: tugger049@yahoo.com
Subject: Tom's Tale (college, bond)

The usual caveats apply.  If you are under eighteen, you shouldn't be
reading this; please go away (although this is a tale of a young man whose
history you may in some way share).  If you don't like male to male love
and sex, what are you doing here?  If you don't find ropes and gags proper
enhancements to lovemaking, you probably won't enjoy this.  If you do like
ropes and gags, this may intrigue and excite you.

Please do not copy this story to any other page or web site without
permission, and please do not claim my stories as your own, as some have
done.  They are the fruit of much labor, and I enjoy having the credit.
Alan Katz, this means you!

TOM'S TALE

Tom majored in music in college, and he did well.  In the first semester of
his sophomore year, he took a course in European history for his
elective. Tom was hooked on his new professor at first sight.  James Colton
was a man in his mid-thirties, sturdily built but trim and fit, of medium
height, with well- modeled features and merry gray eyes behind wire-rimmed
spectacles.  He was prematurely bald, the dark hair receded well back on
his well-shaped skull, and he wore a neatly trimmed beard.  In the chest
pocket of the tweed coats that he favored wearing with open-necked sports
shirts, he always had a large, colored, and patterned silk handkerchief in
an ample puff.  The night after the first meeting of the class, Professor
Colton appeared as the hapless hero in one of Tom's nighttime fantasies.
He was set upon by a gang of three robbers, all of whom were dressed in
chinos and sports jackets with big colored silk handkerchiefs puffed in the
chest pockets, just like their victim.  He was overpowered, not without a
struggle, his hands tied behind his back, and his arms bound to his sides.
Despite his angry protests, his captors took out his own hip pocket
handkerchief, large and white, gathered it up with two of the villains' own
big white handkerchiefs into a huge puffy wad, and stuffed that into his
mouth as a gag.  The third villain took his big white handkerchief from his
hip pocket, folded it wide on the diagonal into a thick swath, and bound it
over the professor's solidly stuffed mouth, knotting it with brutal
severity behind his head.  Struggling uselessly and grunting into his cruel
gag, he was forced into a waiting car and taken . Tom knew not where, for
he climaxed explosively as he imagined his new hero hustled away in
helpless bondage.
	Tom's days began to revolve around Professor Colton's class.  He
was too conscientious to neglect his musical studies, and he practiced with
the same enthusiasm as always.  But he gave his heart to this new class,
working hard to make his papers and his tests the best he possibly could.
During class meetings, he gave Professor Colton his undivided attention.
He memorized how the man looked, spoke, carried himself, and especially how
he was dressed, at every session.  Thankfully for him, Professor Colton was
just that bit of a dandy.  He never failed to show up for class dressed in
what for him was clearly his workaday uniform of chinos, sports shirt, and
tweed coat.  And always, in the chest pocket of his coat, there was a silk
handkerchief, colored and more often than not patterned as well, and amply,
even a bit foppishly, displayed in a large puff.  He carried as well, in
his hip pocket, a large pocket-handkerchief for use, white almost always
but occasionally with colored borders.
	At night, Tom's fantasies became concentrated on Professor Colton
to the exclusion of all others.  That first night, he had imagined the man
as the victim, seized, tied, and gagged.  On a few other nights, he
imagined Professor Colton as the leader of a trio who attacked and
kidnapped him, the three men setting upon and binding and gagging him
before carrying him off he knew not where.  Most nights, however, it was
Professor Colton who was the victim, grabbed, overpowered, bound, and
gagged, and then carried off.
	Once or twice, Tom fantasized about his professor being robbed at
home.  He knew that the man must have a good number of handkerchiefs, and
he imagined the fellow being taken prisoner in his own home, tied up, and
gagged with the handkerchiefs from his own bureau drawers.  This last
fantasy became Tom's favorite after Professor Colton held a seminar in his
flat about half way through the semester.  The class was small, hardly more
than a dozen students, and their professor invited them over for a
discussion before the half term test.  Tom was saddened by the fact that in
his own home, his professor put off his tweed sports coat, but he was
compensated for this by learning exactly where his hero lived.  And by
discovering that he was a bachelor.  He lived in a two-bedroom apartment
not far off campus, in a well- kept, four flat building from the twenties.
His living room was furnished with comfortable chairs and a leather couch,
and was lined with bookcases that were stuffed full of books.  The
bookcases were the only untidy aspects of the flat.  Every thing else was
neat and cleanly.  Tom took a stealthy glance into the bedroom when he
excused himself to go to the bedroom.  There were bookcases in that room as
well.  It was hard to resist crossing the room to peek into the drawers of
the dresser, to gaze at the handkerchiefs he knew must be there, but he
did, too fearful of being caught.
	From that night on, Tom imagined his idol robbed at home.  Grabbed
as he came in the door, a huge gag of his own white handkerchiefs thrust
and bound into his mouth, tied hand and foot, and lashed down to the chair
of his big oak desk, Professor Colton was overpowered again and again in
Tom's dreams.  Tom found himself unable to resist imagining himself as one
of the two or three robbers he thought necessary to overcome his hero's
struggles.  All of them, of course, were dressed in chinos and sports
jackets, and all of them had big silk handkerchiefs puffed in their chest
pockets.  Tom imagined himself and his companions as masked with black silk
handkerchiefs to disguise their identity.  One night he had the idea that
he and two fellow students would go to the professor's flat to steal the
answers to the final exam.  This fantasy became his favorite, and he took
pleasure in imagining different young men from among his fellow students as
his companions in this petty crime.  Always it was he who had the privilege
of gagging his hero.  He would take half a dozen big white handkerchiefs
from the man's dresser drawer and fashion them into an immense puffy wad.
He would fold yet another big white handkerchief on the diagonal into a
thick, wide swath.  Then, while his fellow criminals held the bound
professor, he would gag the man.  Tom would imagine this act in great
detail: how he would cup the back of the man's head in his free hand and
shove in the great bolus of soft cloth with the other, the professor's
frightened and indignant eyes starring up at him as he was silenced.  Then
he would take the folded handkerchief and bind it with exacting care over
the man's solidly packed mouth.  He would fit the band between his nose and
chin, wrapping the long ends over his bearded cheeks and around his head,
and drawing them into as hard a knot as he could manage behind the older
man's neck.
	It was during the last week of classes that Tom finally met his
hero.  Of course, he knew the man as his professor.  He found occasions to
talk with him about his tests and papers, and his hard work had paid off.
He did well in the class, and he had the satisfaction of hearing his
professor commend him warmly for his performance.  Even so, in class he was
one of many, a good student, even a favored student, but still a student.
During the last week of classes, however, the university orchestra gave a
concert.  Tom, who played his cornet in the orchestra, had a solo part for
a few bars, a bit of virtuoso playing of which he was rightfully proud.
Mingling with the audience during the intermission afterwards, he ran into
Professor Colton.
	"That was a very fine performance, Tom," he said with a warm smile.
	"Thank you, sir," Tom said.  He was proud of his playing, but he
was nervous and shy at meeting with his hero in so public a place.
	"Well, you're prepared for the final, aren't you?"
	"Yes, sir, at least, I hope so."
	The two men, the younger and the older, looked at each other, both
seemingly at a loss for words.  Tom was about to excuse himself, longing to
stay but too shy to think of what else to say, when a tall, white-haired
man approached and, with a friendly and inquiring smile at Tom, handed
Professor Colton a drink.
	"Oh," Professor Colton said.  "George.  George, I want you to meet
Tom Bentley.  Tom, this is Professor Duncan, a friend of mine.  Tom's a
student in my Europe in the nineteenth century class," he added to the
white-haired man.
	"I see," Professor Duncan said.  "And I hear you are doing well,
Tom.  And certainly," he added, a bit hastily it seemed to Tom, who
wondered why this man would have heard he was doing well in Professor
Colton's class, "you play the horn extremely well.  You handled that solo
superbly, young man."
	"Uh, thank you, sir, thanks very much."
	"How long have you been playing?"
	"Ever since I was a kid.  I was pretty good, I guess, and my
teachers encouraged me, and my parents.  I, uh, like it a lot, really."
	"Planning on going on with it, I hope?"
	Tom nodded.
	"Good.  It would be a waste if you didn't."
	Professor Colton had been standing by, observing this conversation
and sipping his drink.  Now he spoke.  "What sort of music do you like,
Tom?  Rock and roll, like most fellows your age?"
	Tom grimaced.  "It's all right.  Yeah, I like it.  But ..." he
paused, and then looked around, as if he were about to confess something he
was afraid others would overhear and condemn, "what I really like is
Baroque.  You know, with all those trumpet solos, and stuff."  He smiled
shyly at the other man, who smiled back.  The professor was slightly more
formally dressed than usual, in gray wool trousers, and a gray herringbone
sports coat.  His shirt was a starched button-down broadcloth, in light
blue, and he wore a navy, black, and white tattersal vest.  He wore a tie
tonight, a navy wool knit.  From the patch breast pocket of his coat, a big
handkerchief of navy, black and white paisley silk rose up in a great
dimpled puff.  His companion was more conservatively dressed, in a dark
three-piece suit, with a dark rep tie.  He wore a plain white handkerchief
in his chest pocket in what Tom thought of as an old-fashioned display of
points, one he had never favored.
	"Baroque?"  Professor Colton sounded surprised but gratified.  "Do
you really, Tom?  I'd like to talk to you about that."
	Just then the lights blinked, signaling the end of the
intermission.
	"Perhaps later," Professor Duncan said.  "It's time we were heading
to our seats."
	"Yes, perhaps later," the other man took up the idea readily. He
turned to Tom. "After the concert?  a cup of coffee or whatever?"
	Tom was startled, and Professor Duncan looked surprised for a
second but quickly covered and seconded the invitation.  Tom, too
frightened to do otherwise, accepted, and it was agreed they would meet in
the lobby.  As he hurried backstage, Tom wondered how he had dared to speak
so boldly, or so it seemed to him in his shyness and hero worship, and also
what had prompted his professor to be so friendly.
	The rest of the concert was unmemorable to Tom.  He had friends in
the orchestra, and they asked him along afterwards, casually friendly, and
he casually excused himself.  Somehow he did not want them to know that he
was meeting Professor Colton.  As it happened, no one he knew saw him when
he came up to where the two men waited for him.  They quickly agreed to go
to the ----, a coffeehouse only a couple of blocks from the campus, one Tom
had never visited.  He was not accustomed to going out in this fashion, and
he felt shy and awkward with the other men.  As they walked along, however,
Professor Duncan drew him into conversation, questioning him about his
training on the horn and keeping him talking with what seemed a genuine
interest.  Professor Colton listened to this, asking one or two questions
himself, but mostly he walked and watched.  Tom was too nervous himself to
notice this, and it did not occur to him that the other man might be
feeling as shy as he was.
	When they reached the coffeehouse, they took seats and ordered, and
Professor Duncan turned to Tom, continuing their earlier conversation.
	"So," he said, "what was your teacher--Mr. Ducar, didn't you
say?--what was Mr. Ducar like?"
	Tom stared at him, at a loss for words.  Talking about his training
and his parents' encouragement and pride in his playing had been more or
less easy.  To be asked about the man whose place as the object of his
night-time fantasies had only recently been taken by the man sitting
opposite him, also waiting for Tom's answer to what must have seemed an
innocent question, was suddenly impossible.
	Sensing Tom's embarrassment, the older man asked gently, "He helped
you a great deal?"
	Tom seized on this. "Yes, yeah, he did, a lot.  He was great.  He
helped me get my scholarship, and he wrote me all sorts of letters and
recommended me, stuff like that.  He was great."
	The other men nodded.
	"He was new in your school?"  Professor Colton asked.
	"Um, yeah, Mr. Tetley retired my sophomore year, and Mr. Ducar came
then.  Everybody liked him, not just me, `cause he was, O, I dunno, he was
neat, you know?"
	"Young, I suspect," Professor Duncan said.
	Tom considered this.  "Yes, he was, really.  A little younger than
you, Professor Colton, I think, but not much.  And he wore his hair kind of
long, long for our town, anyway, and he had a mustache, and he ... he
dressed nice, too," Tom ended a bit shyly.
	The other men nodded, avoiding each other's eyes.
	"He taught us new stuff, and he told us about music, different
kinds of music, and you could tell he really liked them.  He liked rock, he
really did, but he liked other stuff, and, well, that he could like rock
and show it, but still like other things, like, well, like Baroque and
English choral music, and stuff like that, and it made it, like, that you
could like them, too, and not feel silly.  I mean, say you liked them, not
keep it kind of a secret."
	Again the others nodded, and this time, Professor Colton spoke.
"He made it OK to like old music without looking like an old fogie."
	"Yeah."
	"He sounds like a good man, a good teacher."
	Tom nodded.  Mr. Ducar had been all that.  It was wrapped up in why
Tom had so hero- worshipped him in high school.  That he could talk about,
a little.  That Mr. Ducar, the handsome, well- dressed, silk-puffed,
handkerchief-carrying Mr. Ducar, had also figured night after night in his
fantasies, bound and gagged and made a helpless prisoner, just as the man
opposite him now did--that he had no way, of course, of conveying.  He
looked over at his professor.  He realized suddenly, perhaps consciously
for the first time, that he thought the man was handsome.  It wasn't just
his clothes.  He was handsome.  He didn't know yet what to do with this
knowledge about himself, and he tried to forget it, at least for the
moment.  He stared for a few moments at the handkerchief in the man's chest
pocket, studying again how it rose up into a great dimpled puff of thick
silk.
	The two other men looked at each other.  All three were finished
with their drinks.  Professor Duncan spoke.
	"Perhaps it's time we went on.  It's getting late."
	"Yes," the other man answered, but there was a note of reluctance
in his voice.  "I'll walk with you part way, Tom.  It's on my way. "
	All three stood up.  Tom found the moment confusing, and he didn't
really follow everything.  Professor Duncan was saying good-bye, and then
they were outside, and the older professor was walking away.  He found
himself walking toward his dorm with Professor Colton.  They were silent,
the hour was late, the side street, when they turned off onto it, was
deserted except for some distant walkers a block or two further on.  It was
cold.
	Tom was nervously shy, and yet he was enjoying himself.  He had
never imagined himself with his hero in just this fashion, just the two of
them.  He wasn't sure why, but he liked the silence between them.  He did
not know it yet, but he was beginning to resemble his father, and his
father had been a handsome man, was a handsome man still, in his
mid-forties.  Tall, taller by several inches than his companion, and fair,
Tom had pleasant, regular features.  Like many of his fellow students, he
had grown a mustache, soft and a bit darker than the hair on his head. The
students in the orchestra were not expected to wear formal clothes, only
their best suit and tie sort of outfits.  Tom was dressed in his best
Sunday suit, a dark navy blue vested suit.  With it he wore a white shirt,
and a silk tie of navy and maroon rep stripes.  He wore a silk handkerchief
of maroon with navy foulards in a large puff in his chest pocket.  He felt
suddenly grown up, walking with his professor.
	At the corner where they would part, the two men, the older and the
younger, paused.
	"Well, Tom," Professor Colton said.  "You played very well tonight.
Honestly.  You have real talent.  George, Professor Duncan was right: it
would be a shame if you don't go on with your music."
	"I plan on it," Tom said.  Here they were on sure ground.  Without
excessive vanity, Tom knew that he was good, knew that he had a talent
worth developing.
	"And I, we enjoyed talking with you."
	Tom was suddenly tongue-tied.  He had found the past hour more
exciting than he knew how to explain, even to himself.
	"Thanks," he said softly.
	"Perhaps," Professor Colton began and then paused.
	"Yes, sir?"
	"I just thought, well, you might like to do it again."
	Tom felt confused.  It sounded like his professor was, well, almost
asking him to go out for a drink or something with him again.  But that
couldn't be, he thought.  He was too shy himself, too confused by his own
emotions, and too self-centeredly thinking about them to realize that the
older man was almost as shy as he was.
	"Sure, I'd like that," Tom stammered.
	The other man nodded.  "When classes are over, perhaps."
	Tom nodded.  Then, without really thinking, he blurted, "But it'll
have to be before the twentieth, sir."  He looked at the other man
anxiously. "I'm going home for spring break that day."
	The professor suddenly smiled.  "All right, Tom.  How about ... I
don't know, how about next Friday?  Any other plans?"
	Tom thought.  "No, no, that'd be great."
	The older man nodded.  "Good."  He held out his hand, and Tom shook
it automatically.  "Good night, Tom.  See you in class."
	Tom nodded.  "Good night, sir."
	The other man smiled and then turned and walked off.  Suddenly Tom
called after him.  "But, Professor Colton, uh, how will I ... I mean, where
...?"  he trailed off in confusion.
	His professor turned and said, "Come to my office hours tomorrow."
	"OK," Tom said.  "Sure, your office hours."  He watched the other
man as he walked down the block and turned up the steps to his flat.  Then
he turned himself and headed toward the dorm.  That night, he had to jack
himself off twice to fantasies of Professor Colton being kidnapped, tied
up, and gagged before he could make it to sleep.
	Friday of finals week, Tom showed up at the front door of his
professor's flat.  He had handed in his final three days before, and the
other man had told him already that it was graded and his grade for the
course handed in with those of the other students.  Tom understood that the
man was telling him that he now felt more free to associate with him as a
mere friend, that any ethical worries could be more or less put aside.  Tom
had not given this matter much thought, although he respected the older
man's concern.  He had been far more worried about what to wear for what he
realized he seemed to be thinking of as a kind of date, almost the first
date he had ever been on.  He had finally been unable to resist dressing in
imitation of his idol, hoping that the other man would dress as he did for
class.  He wore tan chinos, a light blue dress shirt but no tie, and a navy
blazer.  In the patch chest pocket of the blazer, he had arranged a large
silk handkerchief, golden tan with pale blue foulards, in as large a puff
as he had dared.  So arrayed, and looking, had he known it, both foppish
and handsome, he appeared for his meeting with Professor Colton.
	The professor answered the door promptly and greeted him warmly,
inviting him inside.  With a smile, he looked his former student up and
down, saying, "You look very nice, Tom."  He reached for his coat where it
lay on a chair in the hall, and shrugged into it.  He was dressed as Tom
had hoped, in gray wool trousers, a long-sleeved cotton shirt in a muted
plaid of dark greens, and a gray tweed sports coat.  In the chest pocket of
the coat, he had arranged a silk handkerchief of dark green and navy
paisley in an ample puff.  Internally, Tom breathed a sigh that mingled
relief and nerves as they left the flat and headed down the stairs.  Colton
had suggested dinner at a local restaurant, an idea with which Tom had
readily fallen in, and they walked the few blocks in the cool evening.
Their conversation was a bit stiff until Colton asked Tom to tell him about
how he chose music to play that he really liked, rather than what his
teachers chose for him, and this set Tom off in a lively response that
carried them into the restaurant.
	Ordering food took them over the next hump, but then there was a
pause.  Both seemed at a loose for topics.  Tom, acting out of desperation
and hardly believing his temerity when he thought back on the evening
later, blurted out, "Have you always taught here?"
	Colton, smiling shyly, had answered, "No, I came four years ago.
Before that I taught at the state college in ." and he named a town several
hundred miles away.  But when Tom looked as interested as indeed he was--he
would have given anything to know his hero's whole life story from cradle
to doctorate-- the man went on, and gave a sketch of his academic career
from college to his present teaching appointment.  In the course of this,
mercifully, their dinners arrived.  With the distraction of food to help
them, they managed, reverting several times to Tom's musical apprenticeship
and to Colton's studies at the university, to get through the meal and be
more at ease with each other at the end of it.  Tom was nervously happy
when Colton suggested, in response to Tom's praise of a piece by Hayden,
that they go back to his flat and listen to the piece on his stereo.  Tom
had felt sure the older man would be tired of his company by this time, and
be anxious to be rid of him, but his invitation, pressed twice, seemed
genuine, and Tom accepted.
	The walk back to Colton's flat was quiet, but shared some of that
silent companionableness that Tom had felt on the evening after the
concert.  Colton himself seemed content, walking slowly and looking about
himself and over at Tom with an amiable air.  All through dinner, of
course, Tom's thoughts had strayed occasionally to fantasies of his
companion tied up and gagged.  With the man seated opposite him in the
restaurant, he had found his eyes repeatedly dropping down to that big
paisley silk puff in his chest pocket.  Once, in an absent-minded fashion,
Colton had idly toyed with the handkerchief, and Tom had for several
moments completely lost the train of their conversation.  He found himself
imagining how the man would look, tied in his chair.  He kept picturing his
handsome companion with his arms roped behind him, his hands lashed
together at the wrists, and his mouth stuffed full of a huge wad of big,
soft white handkerchiefs and sealed with a broadly folded handkerchief tied
with brutal tightness over his lips.  Even now, as they walked back to the
older man's flat, Tom could not help the images of the man beside him,
trussed up with rope and gagged with his own handkerchiefs, that repeatedly
came into his mind.
	When the two men entered Colton's front hall, there was an awkward
pause.  Tom had sensed, or worried that he sensed, a change in the older
man's demeanor, a tension he had not seen before, as they reached the man's
flat and mounted the stairs.  He seemed suddenly preoccupied, and as soon
as they entered the flat, he turned to Tom with a troubled look.
	"Tom," he said, and then stopped.
	"Yes, sir," Tom said nervously.
	Colton sighed softly.  Then he smiled crookedly at the younger man.
"I was just ." Again he paused, and Tom watched him anxiously.
	"Is it too late?"  Tom tried to hide his disappointment as he
guessed that the man was regretting his invitation after all.  "Should I
go?"
	Colton looked up at him intently.  "No, I didn't mean ." Again he
paused and seemed to change his mind about something.  "Do you want to go,
Tom?"
	Tom stared at him, confused and troubled.
	"Damn," Colton said abruptly.  "I'm not being fair to you."  He
took a deep breath.  "Tom, how old are you?"
	Tom started.  "Twenty, almost twenty one.  Why?"
	Colton looked at the floor a moment and then looked up.  A smile,
not altogether a happy one, was on his lips.
	"Tom, have you heard . well, rumors about me?"
	Tom stared at him now in confusion and worry.  "Rumors?" He shook
his head, baffled.  "What do you mean, Professor Colton?"
	Colton looked at him and shook his head with a sad seeming smile.
He sighed.
	"Tom, I'm . I'm gay." He looked at the younger man.  "Do you know
what that means?" he said gently.
	Tom did, but for a moment he could not answer.  Wonder that the man
should trust him, confusion over what to say in return, an abruptly welling
desire to blurt out a confession of his own, and intensely arousing images
of the man before him trussed and gagged, all dumbfounded him.  He stared
at the other man, feeling that he must look a fool and worried to the point
of real pain that his silence was hurting the other man.  He swallowed hard
and forced words through his throat.
	"I didn't know but it doesn't matter." He stopped and then
stammered on.  "I mean, of course it matters, but I don't care, I mean, no,
I care, but I'm not afraid, I mean ." He stumbled to a stop.  He looked
down at the other man, shaking his head, unable to put into words what he
felt.
	Colton was watching him with a frowning smile.
	"Are you all right, Tom?"
	Tom nodded.
	"Are you comfortable, staying to listen to the music?  You still
want to?"  Colton asked.
	"Of course, I do," Tom burst out.  "Even if I didn't think that I
." he stopped, looking confused.  "I mean, I wouldn't think there was
something wrong with you, even if I weren't . " Again he found it
impossible to finish.
	Colton seemed to sense something in his broken words and confusion.
With a hesitant hand, he gripped Tom's shoulder.  Tom took an abrupt step
closer to the other man, unable to control his urge to be near him, and
then jerked himself to a stop, blushing hotly in deep embarrassment.
	"Tom," Colton began, and then paused.  He pulled himself upright
and closed his eyes for a moment, and then he went on.  "Tom, are you
. struggling, inside yourself, with feelings like the ones I mean?" He
looked intently at the younger man.  "Are you worried that you . might be
gay?"
	Tom stared at the other man.  Then he nodded.  "I don't know.  I
mean, yes, I think so . but . it's hard to explain." He stepped a little
closer still to the other man, who kept his hand resting gently on his
shoulder, but made no other move.
	For a moment, they were silent, and then Colton said gently, "If
you want to talk to someone about it now, or some other time, I would be
glad to listen."
	Tom stared at the other man for a long while.  He wanted
desperately to tell him everything, including how he felt about the man
himself, but he was terribly afraid.  He felt close to tears, and that
embarrassed him further.
	"I just don't know ." he said, and felt his chance slipping away.
He paused, and then said suddenly, "I want to tell you, but, well, there's
more to it than what you think." He studied the other man.  He had never
spoken to anyone like this.  Unfamiliarity gave him courage even as it made
him frightened.  He wasn't sure how far people went in things like this,
and his lack of knowledge protected him in some ways by making him unaware
that he was going very far very fast.  Colton sensed something of the
matter, but he was himself unsure how far the younger man intended or
needed to go.
	"I don't think so much about sex," Tom said in almost a whisper.
"I mean, I think about guys when I ." He looked at the other man.  He was
acutely embarrassed now.  He knew that he was hardly alone in masturbation.
Sniggering jokes and high-minded hints in textbooks had let him know that
almost every boy he saw was familiar with it, and he was not completely
innocent, by word of mouth at least, after living for more than a year in a
college dorm.  Still, confession was not completely easy.  Colton only
smiled gently.
	"I guess we've all done that, Tom," he said quietly.  He shook his
head.  "It's nothing to be ashamed of, honestly, son."
	Tom nodded, a bit reassured.  "But, you see, it's . it's what I
think about."  Colton looked expectant but not inquisitive.  "Ever since I
was little, I mean, geez, as far back as I can remember, nearly, I've
thought about ." He stopped again, afraid to go on, but aching to have his
secret out in the open with someone, with someone he liked, whom he hoped
he could trust, to not have it just inside his head at last.  He took a
deep breath, but when he spoke, it was in a choked voice, almost a whisper.
What he said was clear enough, however.  "Ever since I was a little boy,
I've . done that, and I've thought . about guys, about the heroes on TV
shows, the good guys, you know?" Colton nodded in response.  "The good
guys, well, the good guys when the villains get them, take them prisoner,
you know?" Again Colton nodded, still with the same gentle smile on his
lips, his eyes intently on the younger man.  "When the villains grabbed
them and . and tied them up . and . and gagged them."  There, it was out.
He'd said it, something he had never said before to another living being.
He took a shuddering breath and stared at the floor, unable to lift his
gaze to meet the other man's.
	"That's all, Tom?" Colton said, very quietly, very gently.
	Tom looked up, startled in spite of himself.  Wasn't that bad,
well, maybe not bad, but weird enough?  Thinking, while he was doing that,
about guys being tied and gagged?
	Colton still had his hand on Tom's shoulder, and his face was
gentle.  He shook his head slowly.
	"That doesn't seem to me to be a bad thing, Tom.  Nothing to be
sorry about or ashamed of.  Just tying a guy up and gagging him?" His full
lips curved in a wry smile.  "I take it you don't want to . I mean, you
don't want the good guy to get hurt or anything, just .?"
	Tom shook his head vigorously.  "Oh, no, sir, no, I just get all
excited when he gets tied and gagged . I mean . " He paused again,
embarrassed at this open confession of his arousal.
	Colton nodded.  Then he shrugged, with a broadening smile. He led
the younger man into the living room, and pulled him down to sit with him
on the couch.  "Honestly, Tom, nothing you've said sounds terrible to me,
not at all."  He paused.  Then, with his head cocked slightly to one side,
he started to speak, and then stopped.
	"What, sir?"
	Colton grimaced with sudden embarrassment.  He wet his lips and
then looked over at the young man.
	"I was just wondering . well, who you thought about."
	Before he knew what he was saying, Tom blurted out, "You.  I mean,
Mr. Ducar.  But now, I mean ." His voice trailed off and he sat trembling
and then burst into tears.  With a soft grunt of sympathy, Colton pulled
him into his arms and held him against his chest as he sobbed for a moment.
The older man stroked his back and patted his head gently and murmured
meaningless words until Tom got control of himself and pulled back a bit,
afraid that he was taking advantage of the other man's kindness and yet
longing to stay in his embrace.  The older man took out and offered Tom his
big white handkerchief, and Tom gave a gasp and turned away.  Puzzled,
Colton stared at him.  Tom looked back and stammered.
	"That's what they use." Colton looked more puzzled.  "To gag the
good guy, they use ."  Suddenly enlightened, Colton was torn between an
amusement that he recognized had a bit of the overwrought in its makeup and
a compassion for his troubled young friend.  He put the handkerchief away
and sat lightly embracing Tom.  After a moment, Tom moved as if to pull
away, and Colton reached to take his chin in his hand, turning him to face
him.  The two men looked at each other for a long moment, Tom embarrassed,
trying hard not to feel ashamed, overcome with excitement and longing,
Colton appearing worried and yet tensely holding back other emotions.  Then
Colton gently drew Tom back into his arms, and Tom, with a deep sigh,
allowed himself to press the other man in a tight embrace.
	For several moments, that was all.  Tom still felt horribly
excited, barely able to understand how he felt, as if he had suffered a
wound that would only begin to hurt later on.  At the same time, it was as
if a gathering sore had finally burst, and though there was pain, there was
also great relief from a tremendous pressure that had been building up
inside him for longer than he could remember.  He held tightly to the other
man, aware of how intensely pleasurable he found simply feeling the other
man's firm torso and strong arms.  All the while, however, insistent images
of Colton bound and gagged thronged his mind, strobe light flashes of his
companion being seized, tied, gagged.  When Colton eased his hold slightly
and drew back to look up at him, Tom felt a wild confusion, a mixture of
fear that more was about to happen and a stronger fear that nothing would.
	Colton smiled at him.  He stroked the side of Tom's head gently.
His breathing was deep and under control, but Tom sensed the tension in the
other man's body.
	"What are you thinking?" Tom asked.  He heard the tremor in his
voice and felt acutely ashamed of his question.
	Colton seemed to jerk in startlement.  His eyes closed and he half
frowned, half smiled.  "God forgive me," he said in a low voice, "I don't
think I should tell you, Tom."
	"What?" Tom said anxiously.  "Please?"
	Colton shook his head, but answered even as he did so.  "O lord, I
was wondering . if you wanted to go get the clothesline in the laundry
room."
	Tom stared at the other man, who looked back at him with an
expression that mingled shamed embarrassment with a mischievous grin.
	"I mean, you said you thought about me, so I was wondering if you
wanted to . well ."
	Tom began to shake, a tremor in his whole body that he found he
could not control.
	"Would you let me . do that?"  he whispered.
	Colton shrugged.  "Tom, I don't know if I should tell you this.
I'm . well, I'm a lot older than you, and I worry I might be taking
advantage of you in some way."
	Tom shook his head.
	Colton smiled sadly.  "Easier denied than made honest, Tom." He
paused and then went on.  "Tom, I like you very much.  Very much.  I liked
you as a student, and when I heard you play and listened to you talk about
your music and your plans, I liked you even more.  And now, well, that I
know . well, I take it you like me?"  He looked suddenly as if he truly
doubted this, and his expression was anxious as he studied Tom.
	"I liked you from when I first took your class, Professor Colton."
Colton winced being called that.
	"Tom, please, you make me feel like Methuselah.  Call me Jim."  He
shook himself and gave a little chuckle.  "Listen to me.  When the
important thing is ." He looked at Tom, who was looking back at him with an
expression of naked longing. The older man wet his lips and half-smiled.
"Maybe we should find that rope."
	Tom gave a faint gasp and suddenly stood up, pulling the other man
up with him.  Afterwards, he was incredulous at the way he had acted, but
at the time the compulsion was so strong that he was aware only of the
force of his need.  He took the older man by the arm and drew him into the
hall and into the back of the house.  Colton may have been surprised that
the younger man seemed to know his way around the flat, but he did not
realize how Tom's passion had lead him to memorize its layout on the night
of the midterm seminar.  Tom moved quickly, drawing the other man beside
him and went through the kitchen and into the little room that served as a
laundry.  A hank of white clothesline hung neatly on a hook in the wall.
Tom almost snatched it from its place and hastily shook it loose.
	Tom had never actually tied up a man, but years of imagining how to
do it in minute detail and the compulsion of his arousal seemed to have
given him a skill he had not known he possessed.  He bound the older man's
hands behind his back, crossing his arms at the wrists and lashing them
together with repeated coils and knotting the rope off firmly.  Using the
long length that still remained, he brought the rope up and used it to bind
the man's arms to his sides.  He wrapped the cord around and around his
chest and upper arms and pulled it snug, laying the coils neatly beside
each other and just under where the big silk puff rose from Colton's chest
pocket.  In only a few moments, or so it seemed to the painfully excited
Tom, he had bound the other man securely.  Colton submitted docilely to all
of this, putting up no resistance and allowing Tom to move him as he
needed.  Once bound, he stood looking up at the taller, younger man, an
expression of anxious arousal on his handsome face.
	Tom took him by the arm and hurried him back into the hall and into
his bedroom.  Standing him beside the dresser, he turned and opened the top
drawer and then paused, momentarily entranced by what he saw.  The drawer
was full of handkerchiefs, a loosely mixed up collection of silk
handkerchiefs on one side, half a dozen neat stacks of white and colored
border pocket-handkerchiefs on the other.  Colton, who of course did not
understand Tom's overwhelming emotion at this sight, watched as the younger
man stared at this to him marvelous array of handkerchiefs.  Then Tom, with
a small moan, took out a stack of the large white squares, and he began to
prepare a gag.
	He shook open three of the big white handkerchiefs and layered them
on each other to form a thick square of soft white cloth.  Then he rolled
the corners of that triple layer of cloth in upon themselves, forming a
huge puffy wad.  He took another handkerchief from the drawer, selecting a
big one with green plaid borders, and this he folded on the diagonal into a
wide bandage.  He turned then to the older man, a look of exaltation on his
face.  Colton was watching him with an expression of intense concentration,
and yet there was the hint of a smile on his bearded lips.  It was not a
smile of mockery or amusement, but of a kind of tender sympathy.  He seemed
to recognize how painfully intense his companion's emotions were, how the
younger man was almost in shock, a shock betrayed by the tremors that shook
his whole frame.
	Tom cupped the back of the older man's head in one hand while he
held the huge wad of the man's own handkerchiefs in front of his mouth.
The gag was enormous, but to Tom that was simply how he had always imagined
the gags his villains had stuffed into their victims' mouths.  Colton
glanced down at the immense wad of white cloth, made of his own big
handkerchiefs, and after only a moment's hesitation, opened his mouth wide.
Tom began to stuff in the gag, easing the great spongy ball between the
other man's spread jaws.  He tried hard to control himself, to guide the
huge gag in gently, terribly afraid of hurting the man and also afraid of
somehow frightening him and making him resist.  He was torn by his desire
not to harm this man, for whom he felt an unnerving attraction, and by his
overwhelming need to gag the man forcefully and thoroughly, to render him
utterly helpless, trussed and silenced.  As the gag filled his mouth,
Colton moaned softly, a little choked grunt.
	"Mmmgmmph!"
	Tom paused, staring down at the man, his hand shaking as he held
back from forcing the gag in deeper.  Colton seemed to sense his
hesitation, and he nodded, encouraging him to go on.  With a sharply
intaken breath, Tom shoved the gag in all the way, packing the older man's
mouth fully with its soft folds.  He paused again, staring down at the
other man, who returned his gaze, his eyes wide and intent, his jaws spread
wide by the huge mass of soft white cloth stopping up his mouth.
	Colton nodded again in encouragement and grunted into the gag.
	"Mmmmph.  Ummhummmmmph!"
	Reassured, Tom took up the folded handkerchief and bound it over
the older man's stuffed up mouth.  With great care he fitted the wide,
thick band between Colton's nose and chin, forming a seal over his
distended lips.  Slowly he wrapped the long wings of the bandage over the
other man's bearded cheeks.  With trembling fingers that fumbled more than
once, he pulled the ends of the handkerchief into a knot at the back of the
man's head, tying the knot as tightly as he possibly could.  And right
then, as he finished gagging his hero, gagging him for real and with the
man's own handkerchiefs, and as he himself gave a moan that he could not
hold back, to Tom's horror his stiff sex shivered without his even touching
it and his hot cum burst out in a thick stain into his chinos.  In the
confused ecstasy of that moment, he staggered against the other man,
gripping his shoulders with hard hands, his eyes blind, his ears ringing.
He felt tears, of shame, of joy, of fear brimming from his eyes.  With a
gasp, he forced himself upright and faced the older man.  Colton stood
gazing up, seemingly calm and yet intent.  As soon as Tom's eyes met his,
he nodded vigorously, lifting his heavy brows.  "Mmmmph.  Mmmmugummmmmph."
He mumbled and grunted, still nodding at the younger man, attempting to
reassure him through the muffling gag.  Tom stared, so overwhelmed for the
moment that all he could do was look.  Colton was the image of all his
fantasies.  He was tightly bound, his hands tied behind his back and his
arms lashed closely down to his sides, the white rope pulled in taut coils
around him.  From his coat pocket, above the band of closely laid rope, the
big handkerchief of navy and green paisley silk rose up in a great puffy
dollop of color on the man's chest.  The gag looked cruelly effective.  It
was clear that the huge wad of handkerchiefs stuffing his mouth forced his
jaws wide apart, and the handkerchief bound around his head compressed his
cheeks and was strained in tightly creased folds into the hard knot at the
base of his skull.  The man looked utterly vulnerable, helpless to defend
himself, brutally gagged and silenced, completely the victim of
circumstances beyond his control.
	Tom swallowed hard, staring at the other man.  Then, frightened by
what he was doing but unable to stop himself, he reached to unfasten the
fly of Colton's trousers.  Colton nodded at him quickly, his expression
transmuted to pleading now, and he moaned into his gag, thrusting his hips
against Tom's hand.  Encouraged, Tom reached inside and found the older
man's cock was rigid and hot in his groin.  Trembling and yet eager, Tom
pulled his companion's cock from his pants and then, taking it firmly into
his hand, began to stroke it rapidly.
	"Mmmmmph!  Mugulummmmmph!  Mmmmmmmmmph!"  As Tom rubbed the other
man's stiff cock, Colton grunted and moaned into his huge gag.  He jerked
several times, his head flung back, and then, with a muffled yell, he came,
his thick gism leaping out of his cock in a ropy stream.  He staggered, and
Tom quickly took him into his arms and guided him over to his bed, seating
him on its side.  Then he stood back and gazed once more at the man before
him, overwhelmed by the sight.  Colton looked up at him, his expression a
bit dazed, but his eyes searching for Tom's, and he nodded at the younger
man, and moaned softly through his gag.
 Tom opened his fly and grabbed his cock, which was stiff once more, and he
began to jerk himself off.  He tried desperately to control his excitement,
to slow down his hurling response, to savor his pleasure.  Before him,
Colton sat on the bed.  The older man's dark eyes went from his companion's
face to his rapidly pumping hands and back, taking in the younger man's
barely controlled compulsion.  Tom stared down at him.  He could hardly
believe what he saw, his handsome, beloved professor, helpless and
silenced.  Bound tightly with rope, rope he, Tom himself, had tied him
with.  Gagged cruelly with handkerchiefs, the man's own handkerchiefs, and
with a gag that he, Tom himself, had stuffed and secured into his mouth.
Dressed as Tom loved a man to be dressed, with that big silk handkerchief
lolling in a great puff from the man's chest pocket.  He stared at the man
as he jacked his rigid cock, unable to exercise any control now, simply
jerking in wild hurry at his stiff member.  He gave a yell, his eyes boring
into the man in front of him, and his cum burst from his cock in a
painfully explosive stream.  With a groan, Tom found himself sinking to the
floor.  As he leaned forward, his head came to rest on Colton's knee, and
he rubbed his cheek against the rough wool of the man's trousers.  He
reached up and grasped the man's legs, and then he pulled himself slowly
half upright, still kneeling, but looking now up into the other man's face.
	Colton gazed down at him.  Tightly and effectively gagged as he
was, he could only alternately nod and shake his head at his young
companion, and moan softly into the thick wad of his own handkerchiefs
filling his mouth.  Slowly, Tom pulled himself up to sit beside the other
man.  He was almost numb at that moment, struggling to take in the events
of the past hour.  Colton was turned to look at him, his eyes tender.  With
trembling fingers, Tom untied the knot in the handkerchief bound round the
older man's head.  He placed the handkerchief on the bed behind them and
then reached to gently draw the huge gag from Colton's mouth.
	Colton sighed and worked his jaws slightly.  Then he turned to Tom,
a wide but rather shaky smile on his face.  "That . that was pretty
wonderful, Tom," he said quietly.
	"Really?" Tom was so on edge that his voice squeaked. He cleared
his throat.  "Did you enjoy it, really . Jim?"
	"Are you kidding, Tom?  Migod, yes!  That was great.  I don't know
. I've thought about this sort of thing before, not as much as you have, I
guess," he added with a grin, "but, well . yeah, I've thought about it.  It
was quite an experience." He looked at Tom intently but still smiling.
"Something .  I'd like us to do again.  And . and again, Tom.  If you
would?" He raised one eyebrow.
	Tom closed his eyes, and he felt the hot tears leaking from under
his lids.
	"Oh geez," he said in a harsh whisper.  "O geez, o geez."  He began
to cry quietly.
	"Tom," Colton said softly.  "It's Ok, really, it's OK.  I thought
you would want to . O, heck, I can't hold you when I'm all tied up like
this, O Tom, it's OK, son, really ."
	Tom looked at the other man, at his expression of anxiety and pain,
and flung himself on him, gripping him tightly in his arms.
	"O geez, Jim, O geez, I want to do it again right now, I never
thought you would want to, I thought it would be just, you know, something
to try, not that you'd want ." His voice died off.  He was too confused and
yet he felt an unreasoning happiness rising up in him too strong to resist.
	"You OK?" Colton said softly.
	Tom gripped him tighter and nodded against his neck.
	Colton nodded in return.  Then, for a long moment, they remained
still, Colton bound and clasped tight in the younger man's arms.  Tom
slowly pulled a little away and gazed down at the older man.
	"What, Tom?" Colton smiled gently at him.
	Tom shook his head.
	"Please, Tom, trust me?"
	Tom swallowed.  "It's just ."
	Colton nodded, eyebrows raised.
	"I want to . to gag you . again.  And . just look at you.  You look
. O geez, Jim, you look just exactly like I always imagined you would look,
so handsome and so sexy, all tied up and gagged like that.  I want to just
look at you and look at you and look at you, forever!"
	Colton chuckled.  "What man could resist?  Especially when he's all
tied up, like me?"  And then he added gently, "Tom, of course you can gag
me again.  Do it, I want you to do it.  Gag me really well, and keep me
gagged.  There's a whole drawerful of handkerchiefs over there for you to
do it with.  And .  maybe you'd want to use a belt to tie my feet, too?"
	Tom looked up quickly.  Then he nodded.
	"And do you ." Colton hesitated and then went on with a shy smile.
"Do you want me to struggle a bit, and try to yell into my gag?"
	Tom blushed and avoided the other man's eyes, but he nodded.
	Colton nodded.  "Well then, son . aren't you going to gag me?"
	Tom took up the huge wad of handkerchiefs and, after a moment's
hesitation, slowly stuffed it again into the other man's mouth.  Colton
submitted to being gagged once more eagerly, opening his mouth wide and
taking in the whole huge ball of soft cloth.  He gazed up at his companion
intently as the younger man bound the wide-folded handkerchief over his
mouth again, pulling it if anything more tightly and knotting it off with
cruel severity behind his head.
	"Mmmmmmmmph!!!  Mugulummmmmmph!!  Mmmmmmmmmmph!!"
	Tom took the bound and gagged man tightly into his embrace and held
him for a long moment.  Then he slowly released him.  For another long
moment, he stared into his eyes, and then he got up to retrieve the belt
and several more handkerchiefs from the man's dresser.

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