Short update to say I'm not hanging somewhere

The Breath Control Network has been down for a couple of days, at least, as of this writing. In fact, the entire host it resides on, grou.ps, is down. As disappointing as the network has been lately in general, it doesn't get much more disappointing than not being up at all.

I should update my list of links in this blog. Sites come and go, especially on Tumblr.

As usual, I have one or two stories in my head trying to find their way into words on the computer. Sorry to say, they are not trying very hard.

I'll link to a very horny story by cbrdrew, which I discovered last week. It has a lot to like:
- Hallow's Eve Gallows, part 1
- Hallow's Eve Gallows, part 2

Vignette

Written 13 December 1996. It might have been on the old blog, I don't remember.

The man on the horse has five pairs of eyes on him, hard unforgiving eyes shaded by cowboy hats. His own cowboy hat lies on the ground over there. The breeze brushes his bare chest, ruffling the fur there. His hands are tied behind his back with rough hemp rope. Another rope circles his neck and runs up to and over the branch over his head, down to the tree trunk where it's tied off with a solid knot. The posse surrounding him glares, waiting. The five of them are in leather chaps, dusty boots, work shirts and dusters. They've stripped the man of his shirt and chaps, leaving him in his jeans and boots.

The horse shifts under the man's weight. The man has his head bowed a little, sometimes looking up into the eyes of the posse that had captured him. He fought them at first but there were too many, they were too strong, and they had him on the ground and tied up fairly quickly. The rifles that they held on him helped convince him that there wasn't much he could do now. Well, he knew they'd be coming for him someday, and he'd die an outlaw's death on the end of the posse's rope.

So he sits and waits. His heart thumps loudly. Even though he knew it was coming, dying isn't something that's easy to meet calmly. Still, he's not begging for mercy. He's silent, knowing that whatever he has to say now would be wasted on the ears of the posse. He notices the warmth and hardness in the crotch of his jeans. He'd heard that getting hanged could excite a man. So far, strangely enough, it looked to be true. He'd seen a hanging once, a judicial one in town, and he remembered the sight of the victim dangling limp at the end of the rope for a long time.

The leader of the posse comes up and asks for any last words. The outlaw is silent. The leader waits a moment, then with his hat swats the horse on the rump and yells. The horse bolts. The man instinctively squeezes the flanks of the horse in an effort to stay on. But the rope pulls him off the back of the horse. He swings wildly back and forth in wide arcs. The swinging serves to set the knot tighter around the outlaw's neck. His pendulum motions wane. He's trying not to kick or struggle much, because his throat is almost closed off now with only a little air getting through his tortured windpipe. But panic finally grips him, and the dance starts. He stretches for the ground, kicking a little. He tries to pull his hands free from the ungiving rope holding his wrists behind him. His mouth opens wider but he only gags. His face reddens and his eyes bulge. Soon he's not making any sound—the noose has closed tightly around his neck, admitting no air to his straining lungs. His struggles are more frantic now. The posse just watches from about 10 feet away, most still mounted on their horses. One surreptitiously rubs his own crotch with the stock of his rifle once or twice.

The man does a fine rope dance, his dusty boots kicking at the air while he jerks and spasms trying to get free. His motions change slightly, and soon the posse sees a dark spot grow on the man's jeans around where the bulge in his crotch is. At about the same time, his eyes turn glassy and he loses consciousness. He's still fighting though, boots still dancing, but his efforts are ineffective and losing momentum. After a few more minutes, his spasms subside into twitches, then one more twitch and he sags limp on the noose-rope. A bigger dark stain grows now on his jeans as his bladder lets go and he pisses himself.

The leader of the posse motions and they ride away, satisfied that the man they leave hanging from the tree will no longer rustle their herds. In the quiet of the late afternoon, the only noise is an occasional creak of the rope as the outlaw hangs nearly still. His face is frozen with mouth slack, head canted to one side by the rope. He almost looks peaceful now, dangling from the noose. The toes of his boots point downward toward the grass; their only movement now comes when the wind comes up.

Tomorrow the sheriff will ride this way and find the outlaw, who'll be cold and stiff by morning. The sheriff will have his deputies dig a grave right there. They'll cut the outlaw down and dump him in the grave, still wearing the rope around his wrists and his noose. He'll be face down, and they'll shovel the dirt onto his back. When they finish, they'll ride away, leaving the outlaw to his unmarked grave in the middle of the prairie.

Story: Intoxication

Looky here, a new story! Writing was completed 27 May 2018, but I've been working on it since February 2018..

It's another Saturday night in the frontier town of Dinkins Creek. You drink at the saloon and have a good time, and then around closing time you head back to where you're bunking on the far side of town, boots scuffling up dust on the streets as you go. You think, “maybe I had a little more whiskey than usual, but damn it was good....” It's a little out of your way, but you take a detour to walk by the gallows on the north side of town.

Four weeks ago, they hanged a guy who raped and killed a woman. Of course the whole town turned out to watch as the sheriff, a preacher, and the hangman prepared the man and then dropped him through the trap, giving him a six-foot ride to a broken neck. The crowd started breaking up a few minutes after the drop, having seen what they wanted to see, but you and a few others stayed until the doc came out with a short ladder and his stethoscope to listen to the guy's chest. When the doc declared that death had indeed occurred, the man was lowered from the gallows and put in a pine box. Later that night, you had your beers at Dolan's saloon, where a few people were still discussing the hanging but most were not. Then you decided to walk by the gallows on your way to your bunk. When you saw the gallows that night, it looked as if nothing had ever happened. You just looked around for a few minutes, thinking about the event you'd witnessed, then moved on.

Story: Too Easy

Another really old story, this time from 1997 with a few minor edits today. Part of it was true back in the day. I haven't done much self-bondage lately though. Maybe I should.

I got home from work late, because of too much work to do and too much traffic. I needed some escape. I decided that my special little ritual would be just the thing. Off came the work clothes, socks, underwear, watch. When I was naked, I felt immediately better and my cock woke up and started growing. I dug out everything I needed from the cabinet by the bed, then got on the bed to get started.

First was a six-foot length of rope which I used to tie around my ankles. I used another slightly longer rope to tie my legs just below my knees. I took a shorter rope and bound up my cock, with a couple of extra loops around my balls to stretch them out. I had a good boner going so I tied the rope tighter so that everything would stay tied if I got soft later. Then I fastened my leather restraints around both wrists, leaving the lock on the bed ready for later.

Story: Indians and Cowboys

One last story from the old blog. This one was posted in 2000 there, and I'm resisting the urge to edit it now. You'll tell me if it needs anything, right?

He was clad only in a deerskin breechclout and moccasins, and he was hanging from a thick limb of an old oak tree a long way from town. His brown body twisted slowly in the light summer breeze that also blew through his long dark hair. His wrists were bound with rawhide behind his back, and his fingers were now curled and stiff above his ass.

The posse who lynched this Indian rode off a short while ago. I was watching them from a nearby ridge. I don't know any more about why they strung him up, except that he was Indian and the posse had it in for Indians. They stuck around long enough to make sure he was dead, then took off for town. I waited until I knew they were at least a quarter mile away before I made my way down to the hanging tree.

It was eerie quiet, which made the creaking of the noose-rope even louder. The toes of the Indian's moccasins pointed almost straight down to the ground that was about 3 feet away. He was a good-looking guy, with long straight black hair and a slender, sinewy brown body that was a little dirty from the roughing-up he got from the posse before they strung him up. His head was cocked to one side by the knot in the noose, and he was slack-jawed and staring with blank eyes at the ground. I dunno why, but it was exciting to be there, this close to the dead Indian, even though I was afraid the posse would come back, or worse, the Indian's friends maybe.

Story: Just Lookin'

The file data says this was published to my old site in July 2002, but I think the story is older than that. I've only lightly edited it, although I suspect I could do a lot more if I took the time. It still got me horny as is, so I'll post it and come back to it later.

It was one of those beautiful early October days when the weather is incredible—sunny and warm, kind of the last gasp of summer. I decided to reward myself for a long week of work by going for a walk around some weedy fields near my house. They're abandoned, haven't been plowed in years, and you see a lot of little birds and interesting flowers. And then there is the old barn off on one side of the big field. When I was younger it was a great place to explore. And a great place to get into trouble. I admit I had some crotch-swelling thoughts about what I could do in that barn today.

I wandered around the fields and woods for about an hour, not paying much attention to the wildlife because I was thinking too much about getting to the barn for a hot jack-off session. It was so warm I was shirtless, which always turns me on a little more. So I walked through the tall weeds toward the barn. It was old, had lost some of its boards. A couple of the doors were gone or hanging askew. The weeds were pretty short closer to the barn, so I guess I was pretty quiet. I scanned the area to see if there was anyone nearby, but like usual the place looked deserted. So I entered the barn.

It was cool, well-lit because of the holes in the walls. In the front room of the barn were some small piles of hay, a couple of old buckets, but not much else. This barn had been abandoned as long as the fields had. Which is what made the noise I heard startle me. It came from the back room of the barn and it sounded like something had dropped, then someone said "shit." I froze. When a minute passed and I didn't hear anything else, I quickly ducked out of the barn.

But I was curious.

Return to the Old Barn

Another story from my old website that hasn't been posted here yet.

(originally posted 2 July 2002)

I was driving around on probably the last warm day of summer, out in the country where I used to live. It was bringing back lots of memories from when I was younger, before I moved away and started working and all. I stopped at a couple of places, just to see if they were different from way back when, and of course they were. There was one more place I wanted to see, so I drove past where my parents used to live to the old abandoned barn.

The barn sat in the middle of a property that used to be a working farm, with a house and other outbuildings. But now the house was gone, the fields were overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, and the only outbuilding left was the barn. Even it was considerably more run-down than I remembered it, with a few holes in the wooden walls and some missing shingles on the roof. It was tall, and I remembered that it had a good-sized loft in the west end.

I pulled onto the property and drove far enough in to where some overgrown shrubs hid my truck from passing cars. The gas station across the road was even abandoned now, which made the area look even more desolate than before. I got out and walked slowly up to the barn, taking my time and surveying the surrounding field as I walked.

The big rolling door was wide open, just like it always was. I walked in, and felt as if I'd stepped back fifteen years. There was old clumps of straw on the floor, a bucket rusting in the corner, some other unidentified stuff scattered around. I saw the loft, with the rungs up one wall leading up to it. I climbed up partway, and it was much the same as before, not much there. The roof was riddled with strips of bright light. If it hadn't been dry around here lately, there would probably be puddles or damp spots on the floor.

There were two small rooms in the middle of the barn, under the front of the loft, and then an opening to a big room in the back. I walked toward the back room. The concrete floor became dirt back there, and a small window cast very little light into the space. The ceiling was partly gone ’ the main reason why I'd never ventured into the loft ’ and you could see through past the big log beams to the roof. It was very quiet. It brought back memories, arousing ones.

I walked back toward the front and into the little rooms. The first room led you to a doorway to the second room. Both were small, with concrete block walls and concrete floors, and the ceiling was in better shape than in the big dark room but still constructed of the log beams and floorboards on top of them. I got to the second room, which had a window with no glass, and remembered everything.