MISERY KNOWS NO BOUNDS: Stretching Rack (and Related) Blog

           (The following is a recollection of my first bondage experience, which also took place on the rack, a few years ago at age 28. All photos included are from that session. By sharing this, I hope that others who have not yet engaged in bondage with another may find something herein to inspire them to find a safe partner for play, that others who are just discovering their own bondage fantasies may find further acceptance of themselves, and that I may come further to grips with my own interests. Thank you all for taking the time to read. I hope there is something positive here for everyone!)

Wow! Just wow, was the only way I could phrase myself in the immediate aftermath as I went upstairs to sleep for the night. I couldn’t stop saying it to myself either. I was blown away, so to speak. That’s not to hype it up. There are several things I discovered about making fantasy a reality, but so many sensations were felt at once and the intensity such that my reaction was near to being stunned—in a very good way. I had just been stretched and worked over on a rack, something not many people get to say. Moreover, it was my first BDSM experience, one that was long craved for. I’ll save the detailed description of what it’s actually like to be mechanically stretched for a future post, so for now I’ll focus mainly on the events that surrounded the racking.

I’ve had bondage fantasies since puberty, perhaps even before then if I delve deep enough into my memory. Some people discover it. Others seem born with it, for lack of better analysis. I probably belong to the latter category. As a youth, it was my primary if not my sole sexual fixation. I mentally explored various aspects of it. Tickling, whipping, edging, nipple play, CBT, and others. Some I abandoned, or grew out of, if you will. Others I maintained or acquired, but the one that never left me was the excitement of being spread-eagled and, more intensely, stretched out. I have attempted endlessly to understand it, and those musings will probably generate a future blog post too, so I won’t write discourse over it now. What matters to the story is that I was intrigued and thrilled by bondage.

Always searching for new material, which disappointingly has never been in great quantities, I at some point stumbled on a collection of videos online of men, ranging from older to college-aged, being stretched on a gentleman’s private rack. I was completely captivated by their experiences, and the videos right away became my go-to for racking fantasies. For years I watched them and lived vicariously through these men. I imagined what it must be like, and listening to them groan under every adjustment on their bodies, their ribs heaving and stomachs tightening, spoke to its tough and grueling nature.  I wondered how much I could take. I wondered what I would look like on the rack. I wondered how much more pleasing sexual activity would feel in that condition. Eventually, one gets to the point where fantasy and imagination is no longer good enough.

I finally decided to make contact. Almost on a complete whim, I sent an email to the uploader explaining my desire to be on the rack. To my glee, and nervousness, he responded. We wrote on and off for over a year, detailing these desires and exploring one another through prose. The fact that he lived in another state was no obstacle to me. He suggested flying, but I insisted I drive there since the route was one I had taken many times before, for other purposes, and was quite comfortable with road-trips, especially on familiar highways. Eventually, we set aside a weekend for me to stay with him.

I left home as if there was nothing unusual at my destination. I was traveling, and that was my reality for the moment, but I did kill time happily postulating the scenario. As I drew nearer his location and the travel time turned from hours into minutes, the fact of what I was about to do really began sinking in. Where was I going to be in an hour? Two hours? I gripped the steering wheel. Uncertainty and excitement blended, feeding off each other even. I laughed here and there, perhaps to ease my fears, as I reflected on the absurdity of my actions.

Needless to say, it was possibly dangerous what I was doing. I knew it very well at the time. Though our correspondence had been entirely cordial and encouraging, and gave no hint anywhere that safety was dubious, it was not incontrovertible evidence that danger did not lurk behind the words. I didn’t know what my host looked like, or even knew his real name. He always signed off as the Rack Master, and I simply addressed him by that title. All of his videos too ended before showing any release of the men from the rack, and my mind conjured all sorts of awful fates that may have befell them. Questions bombarded me as my journey drew to a close, and I told myself that at the first sign something might be wrong, I would back out. Despite my worry, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. A life-long fantasy was about to be real, and that somehow superseded any concerns.

The Rack Master and I agreed to meet up at the parking lot of a local restaurant. My host apparently had the same caution toward me and wanted to size me up just the same as I wanted to see him. We rolled our windows down and greeted one another for the first time face-to-face. The signs were good to me. His vehicle was as well-kept as he was. I figured any dilapidation might hint at some less than ideal psychology. But despite the amiable introduction, which was very reassuring, I still maintained my guard and vigilance.

Encouraged, I imagine, by his own favorable first impression of me, we rolled up our windows and I followed him to his home. He invited me to park my truck in the garage too, maybe to keep it hidden from nosy neighbors or maybe just to be kind. It didn’t matter to me. In any case, it was show time. The home was beautiful, just as maintained as his vehicle and himself, and much too large for one man, I might add. We relaxed on his sofa while we discussed the coming event. I kept a close eye out for any discouraging signs, anything that might suggest I should leave, but none came and I was feeling comfortable with my decision to be here.

After setting up the parameters of our session, he led me down into his basement, unfinished but, again, clean and as organized as an unfinished basement might be. Off to the side was a spare room. He revealed a key and unlocked the door to it. Clearly this was his most personal place, like a section of his soul, hidden—but only just so—from unwelcomed intrusion or discovery. Only a few were allowed inside, and we stepped into its darkness. He flicked on the lights. A deep red luminance filled the space, looking like the interior of a photo room or a submarine, revealing the impressive collection of bondage toys and instruments, which was more than I would’ve guessed. As interesting as they all were, and shortly to be given a tour of them, I only cared about the rack, and that’s right where my eyes went. It was the same rack I had seen in his videos, resting lengthwise against the wall with winches at either end of it. I had thought it might be surreal to see it finally in person, but it was surprisingly normal. I didn’t think much on all the guys who had been worked over on it. All that mattered was my own time with it, and I felt as though it belonged to me now, or maybe I belonged to it! The rack has a presence all its own.

My host showed me around, elaborating on the options. Gags, plugs, masks, clamps, whips, and more. It’s a strange experience pilfering through unpleasant items to be used voluntarily on your own body. There was a cage too, a Saint Andrew’s cross, and metals rings in the ceiling presumably for whippings.

With nothing more to say concerning the gear and having solidified what “extracurricular” activities would take place, it was time to get started. I stripped naked, betraying an erection I already generated. He touched me, tested me, plucked a nipple. He requested that I be masked, at least for a time. Personally, I would’ve preferred to see what was going on, entirely for sexual reasons, but I wanted to accommodate his own wishes too. This was for both of us anyways. I imagined he had his own kinks and so I let him shroud my vision with a face mask, even if there were risks, turning the episode from a visual and physical experience for me into a purely physical one.

We started first on the Saint Andrew’s cross. Personally, I was eager for the rack, but he must have had other things in mind, perhaps to go a little easier on me first—to warm me up, as it were—before the more arduous ordeal. In the darkness of the blindfold, I listened to him lay the cross horizontally from the rack to another nearby table. He then led me to it and nursed my body and limbs onto the beams. Securing me spread-eagled, he petted and stroked my torso. The Rack Master then brought out the electro set and secured the ringed nodes around my erect penis, one at the base and the other just below the hood of the head. At lower levels, it was actually quite pleasurable, like a warmth everywhere around the genital. At medium levels, it felt like little ropes snaking through the thin skin of my penis. And at higher levels, well, it just stings and bites. He fluctuated the intensity, testing how long I’d last under each. I don’t recall how much time passed, but eventually he packed up his gear, released my limbs, and helped me rise off the beams.

This was it. He removed the cross, propping it against the wall, and took me to the rack. Following his lead, I sat down on it. I had to give a little jump backward because the tabletop was just a little taller than waist height. With legs dangling off the edge, I waited while he wrapped my wrists and ankles in large, leather cuffs. He then directed me to move back and lay down in parallel with the sides of the rack. I marveled at my position, but my mind was quite calm. I was almost going through it like motions in a rehearsed stage play. One by one, he attached the cuffs to ropes that trailed from the winches. There was no backing out now.

He stretched up my arms, the wood ratchet clicking as the notches passed by, until there was a light tension through them. Going to the other end, he finished the job by drawing out my legs. There I was, completely sprawled out and naked. The thought didn’t stimulate me as much as I would’ve guessed, yet neither did it shame me. It was as banal and as natural as any other fact. If there had been a point at which to completely back out, I technically passed it. There was no backing out now, tied up and no longer able to help myself. From here on out, everything would be on trust with the Rack Master. He had me, and could do whatever pleased him. Yet, as scary a reality as that might have been, I wasn’t bothered by it. I had full trust in him by then, and the assumption that nothing bad would happen—possibly still drawing from naïveté—was my one comfort.

The Rack Master wasn’t going to waste time. He wrapped a leather gag around my testicles, for added effect. He then turned the winches another notch. His hands explored my body, sliding all along its length, tweaking my nipples, and kneading my genitals. Another notch, both ends.

With only the darkness of the blindfold to look at, I could only listen to him move around the room, around the rack, and guess at his intentions. I heard him leave for a moment. When he returned, I felt the particular effect of a needled pinwheel against my skin. For some people, it tickles. More sensitive individuals might feel stung. For me, it’s somewhere in between, like a nibbling as it walks along the flesh, heightening the senses and stimulating the body. There was no place he did not roll it, watching my reactions as new regions were reached and explored. Stretched out, one can only take what comes his way, and he finds his physical reactions are severely limited. Another notch, and probably another, maybe more.

I don’t remember fully, and I don’t know how far I was stretched, but I suddenly panicked. The effects of racking can overwhelm both mind and body. I became fiercely worried, and I asked that he loosen me. Without question, he quickly got to work undoing the winches. I relaxed, gathering myself while I lie there. But immediately, my pride was hurt. I shouldn’t have caved so quickly. I wanted to be tougher, stronger. I finally thought about the other guys who had been here before me. I couldn’t let them show me up. In a minute or two, before anything more had been undone, I asked that we go again. He confirmed my wish and I soon felt the rack tightening up again, myself along with it.

Once he worked me up to the stretch he felt best with, the Rack Master wheeled the electro set over to the rack on a serving table. He fitted the nodes around my penis. I braced. It was tough enough loosely spread on the cross, but stretched firm on the rack? With a twist of the dials, electricity coursed through my nether region, sometimes soft and comforting, other times suddenly biting in rhythmic, gnawing waves. He made me jump a few times, as much as anyone can jump on the rack, that is. How long we went, I cannot say, but I fought my best to endure the session, my hands and feet held far away from me. Electro is a mental test, and I wasn’t going to cave.

He would occasionally ask me how I was doing. Not quite in that way, however. More like “Are you ready for another stretch, boy?” Keeping in spirit with my renewed resolve after feeling like I chickened out earlier, I always insisted on taking more whenever he asked. The Rack Master was happy to oblige, and my body was wrung tighter still every time.

At some time, I heard him leave the rack again. I don’t recall if he removed the electro nodes at this point, but it’s not quite relevant; they’ll return soon. I heard the Rack Master lay something besides me and open it up. There was the clinking of metal as he sifted through his options. I knew what they were: sounding rods.

Like electro, I had never been sounded before, except for some experimentation on myself many years earlier in my teens. I prepared myself for yet another new experience. He made his selection and smeared lubricant across the rod's surface. I felt him grip my penis with one hand and, holding the rod in the other, began penetrating my urethra with it. The Rack Master slowly, steadily, gradually worked it downward. I could feel its tip sliding deeper and deeper until it was very nearly between my legs. He waited a moment, letting me absorb this unnatural condition on my body. He then worked it up and down a bit. After a while, he removed it, which rather strung, and replaced it with a rod of a larger gauge. Lubricating that one too, he inserted the new one just like the first until it was just barely poking outside my penis.

Sounding is neither necessarily pleasurable nor painful, at least for me, but is alluring mostly for the idea of being invaded in that capacity. It’s only downside for me is that it may hurt to urinate for a day or two afterwards, but it’s a consequence I don’t mind trading for the excitement and thrill that comes with being sounded.

Not overlooking an opportunity, the Rack Master decided to use the metal rod to further effect. Leaving it in place, he wrapped the electro rings around my penis again, if he had not actually removed them already. Electricity tickled my skin, agitated further by the metallic rod. I grunted through it. I discovered the brain can only focus on so much and I had to mentally jump from sensation to sensation. The sound, the electricity, the pinwheel (which had never been fully set aside), the play on my nipples, the various effects of the rack on my body, it was all so overwhelming!

At this point, he finally pulled the mask off my face. “Go ahead! Take a look at yourself,” he said. Stretched out, it was difficult even to lift my own head so I could see beyond my chest, but I could get it high enough to spy my erect penis, or at least half of it, with the sounding rod jutting from my urethra and the uppermost electro ring hugging below its head.

As freakish as it may have looked, I loved it. I set my head back down and braced for more. After who knows how long, the Rack Master removed the rod and the electro nodes. He knew he had stoked my libido to breaking point. Spreading lubricant on his palms, he took up my penis and began massaging it. His hands were remarkably smooth in their strokes. I became lost in myself.

In a few minutes, at last, I ejaculated to paralyzing sublimity, one made even more exhilarating by the intense stretch across my body. All the sensations that had been exercised on me during the session culminated to this point.

I relaxed, or at least as much as the rack would let me. With adrenaline gone, the pain induced by the rack was all I could feel now, and the Rack Master quickly started reversing its winches to release me. Lying there, coming to grips with my realigned body, I was speechless, so elated was I. Dumbstruck might be a good word for it too. Rising off my back, I found myself shaking and shuddering uncontrollably, as if I were cold or fearful, but I felt neither of those. It was the body's way of saying it went through a high level of stress, via the rack of course. It brought to my attention that the body seems to have as much a mind of its own as does the mind itself. Once my limbs calmed down, with Rack Master’s kindly attention, I reinserted myself into my clothes and we talked about the session before retiring for the night. To my astonishment, I discovered we had been in his dungeon for three hours, a significant amount of that time I spent on the rack, perhaps as much as two hours. Closing the guest bedroom door behind me, all I could repeat to myself was “Wow!”

I’m pretty sure I went to bed smiling.

I had spent years, in fact almost all my sexual life, fantasizing about the rack. I finally got to live it! There was no anger at not having tried to actualize it earlier in time, although that would’ve been nice. I was only happy that it had finally happened and lived up to an extremely exciting evening. There were some things I had learned about fantasy versus reality, however. Fantasy is always the most rousing of the two. When you’re there, when it’s real, it’s still really good—great, in fact—but fantasy is very nearly not an accurate reflection of the real world. It’s a hyper-reflection, and for as long as I had dreamed about the rack, it seemed so normal in real life. Something similar can be said of sex, after I had experienced for the first time and, of course, since then; sex is pretty good, but it wasn’t what everyone said it would be, or as transcendental as they claimed. Nonetheless, the intensity level of the rack did not fail at all. It delivered the most gratifying sexual experience I had ever had up to that time, and it continues to do so for me.

Most important of all was the session itself. I felt safe throughout my time with the Rack Master, never once questioning the scenario. Whatever fears I had walked in with were rendered completely unfounded. His conduct showed me everything I need to know about a bondage session; that the concerns and wellbeing of the submissive are paramount, that no safety or wish is violated, that communication between sub and dominant is continuous, and with these things an amazing and uplifting experience can be had for everyone involved.

The next day, I had to leave early to begin my journey home. Plus, the Rack Master had business to see to, so there wasn’t time to do even a quick session, despite my pleading to go at it one more time. Nonetheless, I was more than satisfied and drove the interstate in a flurry of happy thought. A life-long fascination had been experienced. I knew now what it was actually like, and I was definitely coming back for more!