Date: Sun, 03 Dec 2000 21:42:04 -0800
From: East Bay Barber <ebaybarber@hotmail.com>
Subject: Jason, chapter 1

Jason
Copyright 2000

Chapter 1

I have a large, three-bedroom townhouse.  My company has a program of
putting new college graduates on two- to three-month projects at up to four
divisions, until they find assignments they like and divisions who want to
hire them.  These grads need temporary housing for their short stints.  So
far, it's been a match made in heaven for me.

You see, all of these new college graduates are young.  Many are male.  Some
of them are good looking.  Some of the good-looking ones are gay, or at
least bendable.  And I can interview them before I rent them a room.  So
far, my instincts, or gaydar have been pretty good-in the four years I've
been renting rooms I've had fourteen grads stay with me.  Eight were gay; I
made it with all of them.  Three more were "bendable"; at least I was able
to bend them.  Let me tell you about one of the gay ones.  I trained him
well.

I caught a glimpse of Jason in the office hall on his first day of work at
our division, and knew that he had to me my next conquest-make that boarder.
  Jason was 22 and very blond.  He had a swimmer's body (it turns out he had
grown up in an island off Vancouver and had spent a lot of time working on
fishing boats and swimming and scuba diving-all good exercise-and it showed.
  Jason was just under six feet tall.  Jason had fair skin to go with his
blond mop of hair ("I burn easily, then tan," Jason told me at one point
during his stay.  Jason had a tan line to die for, I was to see; he
obviously wore VERY small suits, hardly more than thongs.)  Jason had
sparkling blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, and almost no facial hair ("I shave
once a week, whether I need to or not," Jason also told me.  THAT was to
change, as you'll see.  Jason would be shaving more than once a week-if he
knew what was good for him-although, to tell the truth, he'd only be shaving
his FACE once a week).  All in all, Jason was a finely put-together young
man, the kind to get one's juices flowing.

Within minutes of first seeing Jason I had hurried to the Personnel office
to remind them that I had a room for rent.  You see, I knew all of the
short-timers, well, all of the CUTE ones, so I knew Jason was new and, I
hoped, looking for a place to stay for a couple of months.  Jason gave me a
call at my cube, came up and introduced himself.  After I'd described my
townhouse, his bedroom and its furniture, and the townhouse complex I lived
in (large pool, nice club house with a small gym, and only a ten-minute
commute from our office), he agreed to move in, with the room sight unseen.

From the beginning Jason showed off a cocky side.  The first weekend Jason
lived with me was nice enough to use the townhouse pool.  Jason wore a
relatively modest pair of Speedos (e.g., you couldn't see any of the public
hair above his cock), but they were still kind of skimpy.  Jason and I swam
a few laps (well, I swam a few, he swam a lot-showing off or keeping his
body developed-who cares, both worked).  No sooner had Jason gotten out of
the pool and was toweling off then he took hold of the ends of his towel,
gave it a twist, and started snapping it at me, sassing me all the while.

That was, by the way, the first time I'd seen his chest; it was well worth
the wait.  He had a great set of lungs, as they say, tapering to a narrow
waist.  His arms weren't overdeveloped; he came by his muscles honestly, not
through hours in the gym.  His chest was nearly hairless, just a small patch
between two perky tits and a small patch around his navel, with the
requisite treasure trail disappearing downward into his trunks and towards
the treasure.  Jason's legs were well muscled, again through hard, physical
labor, not artificially on some gym machine.

Jason's bantering and baiting continued that first week.  He'd sass me first
thing in the morning, at work whenever he saw me, then started in again on
our way home.  I decided something had to be done, this "boy" had to learn
some manners.  It only remained to decide when, and how.

Jason and I weren't able to swim again; it was too cool after work, then the
weather turned and it was too cool during the day as well.  Jason decided we
would stay in shape by jogging.  We started out with three miles (I'd run
track in college, so three miles was easy), and within a couple of weeks
were up to six miles.

One night soon after we started jogging I got a cramp in one leg.  I slowed
up, trying to work it out, and even managed to do a couple of miles before
heading for home.  Jason, of course, razzed me about giving up, being a
pussy, a wimp, then headed off to finish his six miles.  I decided that
tonight would be the night Jason would get his come-uppance, the start of
his training.

I got home, took off my shirt and wiped my face, then grabbed a magazine and
sat down to rest my sore leg (the magazine was The Economist, not Playguy or
In Touch.  I was not obviously out in those days; I didn't have a rainbow
sticker on my car, nor did I even own a rainbow flag for another few years).

A short while later Jason came in.  He, too, took off his shirt and was
wiping his face (god, what a hot chest!)  Jason immediately started in on me
again.  He positioned himself in front of me and, without warning, started
jumping in and trying to slap the sides of my face and calling me a wimp, a
wuss, and other so on.  A big grin was almost frozen on his face as he took
wicked delight in hassling me.

I managed to block most of his blows with my arms.  Then he switched tactics
and started grabbing at my arms, trying to pull me out of my chair.  "Wanna
wrestle?" he taunted.  "Come on, let's fight.  What's the matter, are you
chicken?"  I looked up as he continued, "Bock, bock.  Chicken.  You're too
chicken to fight"

I had a sudden revelation on how I'd get back at Jason, though he was
younger and stronger.  Smiling to myself at the plan I just thought up, I
responded, in between Jason's bantering, "You're too strong for me to
wrestle.  You're younger, and faster, and stronger.  Of course I don't want
to fight you.  I know I'd lose."

Jason made his first mistake of the evening.  He put one arm behind his back
and said, "I'll fight you and only use one hand.  I'll take you on that way.
  Still chicken?  Bock, bock, bock."  He slapped at me with his other hand.

"Can you beat me with one hand TIED behind your back?" I asked.

"Sure, I can beat you, even with one hand tied behind my back," this cocky
young man confidently responded.  "I'll take you on.  Come on, let's go.
Let's wrestle.  Bock, bock!"

I said, "Wait here.  I'll be back in a moment."  I left the puzzled Jason
and headed downstairs.  Now, I occasionally get into bondage scenes (I WAS
gay, after all; I just wasn't out to very many people).  I have some nice
ropes, and I know how to use them.  I selected a couple, a twenty-foot long
piece and a smaller, four-foot one-that one was for later.  I headed back to
the living room where I'd left Jason.

Jason looked at me as I walked back in, carrying the coils of rope.  I
surreptitiously set the shorter rope aside, then started tying a bowline a
few feet from one end of the long rope.  "Come here," I directed Jason, "And
turn around.  You said you'd fight me with one hand tied behind your back,
so let's go.  Which arm do you want tied up?"

Jason still sounded confident as he responded, "My left one."  He kept
hassling me, about how he was going to whip my ass even with his arm tied
behind his back.  But he came over to me.  If he was puzzled, or thought it
strange that I'd actually have rope and want to tie him up, he was too
jazzed, too confident, to say anything.  Good; I wanted him off balance.

I stood behind Jason, studying his muscular back and tight buns, which I
could almost see through the cloth of his sweat pants.  I took hold of his
RIGHT hand.  I slipped the loop over his hand and up to his shoulder.

"What's up," Jason asked, puzzled.

"I need something to tie your hand to,"  I replied.  "I could tie a loop
around your neck, but that's not a good idea.  So I'm making a harness
around your shoulders so I can tie your hand back there."  Jason nodded,
satisfied with my answer.  Again, he was too into it to even question how
I'd know about such things.  And little did he know my other plans.

I won't bore you with the details of my rope tricks; I'll just report the
results.  Jason soon had loops of rope under his arms and around both
shoulders, connected moderately tightly across both his chest and back
(remember, his chest was bare-he'd taken his shirt off when he'd come in
from jogging-so I didn't have to worry about getting his shirt off him
later).  Likewise, I couldn't hold things in place with ropes through his
crotch-how would I get his sweats off?  So I made do.  I'd left a three-foot
length of rope hanging down from Jason's right shoulder in back.

Only now did I take Jason's left wrist and bend his arm.  I slipped the rope
around his wrist, then started pulling upward, like I had him in a
hammerlock.  I kept pulling his wrist higher until Jason said, "Ouch.  That
hurts.  Not so high."  I loosened the rope but a fraction, then tied his
wrist.  The rope was not tight enough to cut off the circulation in his
hand, but it was tight enough not to slip.  He wasn't going to get that rope
off without help.  And I'd made sure his arm was bent slightly upward
already, the better to hammerlock him with.

Finally I was satisfied with my bondage work.  I stepped in front of Jason.
Without warning, I reached up and started slapping first one side of his
face, then the other.  The fight could start!

"Hey!" Jason called out, and the fight began.