Chapter 5: False Hope and the Long Day
The man with the scruffy beard laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not a mocking one. Just a short, surprised exhale that turned into a chuckle as he straightened up and looked at Gerard's face. Then he put his hands back in his pockets and took a step backward, off the path, onto the grass.
"Man," he said. "You almost had me."
Gerard said nothing.
"I mean, thieves. Seriously. That's the best you could come up with?"
The man shook his head, still smiling, and then he turned and jogged away down the path. His footsteps faded into the soft mulch, and then there was nothing but the crows and the wind and the distant hum of a Saturday morning.
Gerard stared at the empty path.
His wrists were aflame. The ropes had settled into his skin, no longer just pressing but digging, finding the grooves they would carve if he stayed here long enough. His shoulders had gone numb an hour ago, which was somehow worse than the pain. Numbness meant damage he couldn't feel yet.
The chain between the clamps swayed with every breath. Left, right, left. Each swing pulled at his nipples, which had gone from sharp pain to a dull, constant throb to something raw and electric, like live wires embedded in his flesh.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. The sun was higher now. He could see it through the canopy, a bright coin climbing toward noon.
The next man came twenty minutes later.
Middle-aged. Gray at the temples. Walking a small dog on a retractable leash. He stopped when he saw Gerard and stood there for a long time, saying nothing. The dog sniffed at the base of the oak, uninterested in the naked man tied to it.
"You need help?" the man finally asked.
"Thieves," Gerard said. The word came out flat. He'd said it before. He'd say it again. "They took my clothes. Left me here."
The man's eyes traveled down Gerard's body—the hairy chest, the chain, the steel clamps, the half-hard cock that hung between his thighs. His expression didn't change.
"Thieves," he repeated.
"Ja."
"And they just... left you like this."
"Ja."
The man walked closer. His dog followed, leash extending, sniffing at Gerard's bare foot. Gerard felt the cold nose against his toes and flinched.
"Hold still," the man said.
He reached out. His fingers found the chain, lifted it, examined the clamps. Then he let it drop, and the sudden weight pulled at Gerard's nipples and he bit down on his tongue to keep from making noise.
"Interesting choice for thieves," the man said. "Steel clamps. Rope. Looks almost intentional."
"I do not know what they intended."
"No. I suppose you don't."
The man's hand moved to Gerard's chest. His palm was warm, dry, calloused at the base of the fingers. He ran it over the hair, down to the left nipple, and squeezed—not hard, but enough to compress the already-trapped flesh against the steel teeth.
Gerard's breath hitched. His body jerked against the ropes.
"Yes sir," he said.
The man smiled. It was a thin smile, almost apologetic.
"You're very well trained," he said. "For a man who was just robbed."
He withdrew his hand. Tugged the leash. Walked away without looking back.
Gerard sagged against the bark. His heart was pounding. His nipples were screaming. The chain swung, and swung, and swung.
The sun crawled across the sky.
A jogger passed without stopping. A teenager with headphones slowed down, stared, took a photo with his phone, and kept walking. A man in a business suit, clearly late for something, glanced at Gerard and then looked away so fast it was like he hadn't seen anything at all.
Then came the one who took his time.
He was big. Broad shoulders, thick neck, hands like shovels. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans stained with what looked like motor oil. He stopped in front of Gerard and crossed his arms.
"Thieves?" he said.
"Ja."
"Bullshit."
Gerard said nothing.
"I've seen this before," the man said. "Or something like it. You're doing a scene. Some kind of bet or punishment or whatever. You're not in any real danger, and you're not going to call for help, and you're not going to tell me the truth."
Gerard met his eyes. "I am telling you the truth."
"No. You're not."
The man stepped closer. His hand came up, and before Gerard could react, he grabbed the chain and yanked it hard.
The clamps tore at Gerard's nipples. White light exploded behind his eyes. A sound came out of him—a raw, animal groan that echoed off the trees and made the crows scatter.
"Yes sir," he choked.
The man held the chain taut for three seconds. Four. Five. Then he let go.
Gerard's whole body slumped. Sweat poured down his face, into his beard. His chest was on fire.
"I know what you are," the man said. "And I know what you're doing. But I'm not going to help you. You want to get free? Figure it out yourself."
He walked away.
Gerard hung there, breathing hard. The chain swung. The clamps bit. Time passed.
The afternoon brought more of the same. A man with a dog who stopped and asked questions and then left. A man who touched Gerard's back—ran his fingers over the welts, traced the lines of pain like he was reading braille—and said "yes sir" back to Gerard when Gerard said it to him.
That one was strange. That one lingered.
He was older, maybe fifty, with silver hair and a soft voice. He stood in front of Gerard and looked at him for a long time without speaking. Then he walked around behind the oak and ran his hands over Gerard's back, down his spine, over the welted skin that still throbbed from the night before.
"These are fresh," he said quietly. "Someone did this to you recently."
Gerard said nothing.
The man's hands moved lower. They cupped Gerard's ass, squeezed, held. Then they slid around to the front, and found Gerard's cock, which was half-hard despite everything—or maybe because of everything.
"You're enjoying this," the man said.
"No."
"You're hard."
"That is not the same thing."
The man laughed softly. His hand stroked once, twice, slow and deliberate. Gerard gritted his teeth. His hips twitched. He hated his body in that moment, hated the way it responded, hated the way his cock filled under the man's touch.
"Yes sir," he said. The words came out rough, scraped.
The man didn't stop. He kept stroking, steady and patient, until Gerard's breathing changed and his thighs tensed and the chain swung faster with every rapid heartbeat.
Then he pulled his hand away.
"Not today," he said. "But you're interesting. Maybe I'll see you again."
He walked away. Gerard sagged against the tree, shaking, his cock aching and unsatisfied. The sun was past its peak now. The shadows were getting longer.
His arms had gone from numb to something worse. The ropes hadn't loosened, but his shoulders had rolled forward, pulled by the weight of his own body, and now his chest was compressed and his breathing was shallow. Every inhale made the clamps bite. Every exhale made the chain swing.
His feet were cold and muddy. His knees trembled. He'd been standing for hours.
The path stayed busy. More joggers. More dog walkers. A man with a stroller who didn't stop. A man on a bike who did, briefly, and then pedaled away. Two men walking together who looked at Gerard and laughed and kept going.
The sun dropped. The shadows stretched. The air got colder.
Not the gentle cool of evening settling over the forest, but a sharp, biting chill that crawled up from the ground and wrapped itself around Gerard's bare legs. His feet had gone numb hours ago, the mud between his toes now frozen into a gritty crust. His fingers, bound beside him, had lost all feeling somewhere around mid-afternoon and hadn't come back.
The path was empty now.
No joggers. No dog walkers. No curious strangers with wandering hands. Just the oak, and the ropes, and the chain swinging between the clamps with every shallow breath Gerard took.
The sun had disappeared behind the treeline twenty minutes ago. The sky had gone from orange to purple to a deep, bruised blue. The crows had stopped calling. Even the wind had died, leaving the grove in a silence so complete it felt like the world had ended.
Gerard closed his eyes.
He'd failed.
The realization settled over him like a second skin, heavy and inescapable. Twelve hours. Twelve hours of standing, of waiting, of saying "yes sir" to every touch, of repeating the same lie until his throat was raw. Twelve hours, and not one man had cut him down.
The man with the scruffy beard had laughed and jogged away. The man in the flannel shirt had called bullshit and walked off. The silver-haired man had touched him, stroked him, brought him to the edge of something, and then left him hanging. They'd all looked. Some had touched. None had helped.
He'd done everything right. He'd followed the rules. He'd said the words. He'd endured.
And it hadn't been enough.
His shoulders had rolled forward so far his chest was concave, ribs pressing against skin, lungs struggling for space. The clamps had stopped being pain and become something else—a constant, grinding pressure that radiated through his entire torso. His nipples were raw, swollen, probably bleeding. He couldn't tell anymore. He couldn't feel anything except the cold and the weight and the slow, creeping certainty that he was going to be here for a long, long time.
Headlights swept across the trees.
Gerard's eyes snapped open. Hope—stupid, irrational hope—flared in his chest. He craned his neck, trying to see through the darkness, trying to make out the shape of the vehicle.
The engine cut. A door opened. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunching on fallen leaves.
Adrien stepped into view.
He was silhouetted against the last light, tall and broad, his silver hair catching the faint glow of a distant streetlamp. He stopped ten feet away and stood there, arms crossed, looking at Gerard the way a farmer looks at a sick animal.
"You're still here," Adrien said.
"I am still here."
"No one freed you."
"No one freed me."
Adrien nodded slowly. He walked closer, close enough that Gerard could see his face—the smooth skin, the pale eyes, the expression that was neither disappointed nor surprised. Just... patient.
"How many?" Adrien asked.
"How many what?"
"How many men stopped?"
Gerard thought about it. His brain was slow, sluggish, frozen. "Seven. Maybe eight."
"And none of them cut you down."
"No."
"They touched you, though."
"Yes."
"How many?"
Gerard closed his eyes. He didn't want to count. The numbers were there, waiting, but answering meant reliving every hand, every squeeze, every stroke. The man who grabbed the chain and pulled. The man who ran his fingers over the welts and called them fresh. The man who stroked his cock until he was hard and aching and then walked away.
"Four," he said finally. "Four touched me."
Adrien was silent for a moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something flat and white—a piece of cardboard, maybe twelve inches square, with words written on it in thick black marker.
He set it on the ground beside Gerard's feet.
Gerard looked down. The letters were simple, blocky, impossible to miss.
FREE USE.
"What is that," Gerard said. Not a question. A statement.
"A sign."
"I can see that it is a sign."
"It's for anyone who comes by tonight."
Gerard stared at the words. They didn't make sense. They made too much sense. The cold was inside him now, not just on his skin but in his bones, in his blood, in the slow, terrible understanding that was starting to form in the back of his mind.
"Tonight," he repeated.
"You failed the task," Adrien said. "I gave you until dark. It's past dark. You're still tied up."
"The men did not free me. That is not my fault."
"No. It's not."
Adrien crouched down, bringing his face level with Gerard's. His eyes were calm, steady, utterly without malice. That was the worst part. He wasn't angry. He wasn't punishing Gerard out of cruelty or spite or even disappointment. He was simply... continuing.
"You stay here tonight," he said. "The ropes stay on. The clamps stay on. Anyone who walks by is free to use you. You don't resist. You don't complain. You say 'yes sir' to anything they want."
Gerard's throat tightened. "Anything."
"Anything."
"And if someone tries to free me?"
Adrien's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then you tell them it's a publicity stunt. You're an actor. There's a camera crew coming. It's all staged. They'll get in trouble if they interfere."
Gerard couldn't lie. That was the rule. That was always the rule. He'd told the thieves' story all day and it had felt like swallowing glass every single time. Now Adrien wanted him to tell a different lie, a bigger one, a lie that would keep him here until morning.
"No," he said.
Adrien's expression didn't change. "No?"
"I cannot tell that lie."
"You told the other one."
"That was different."
"How?"
Gerard didn't have an answer. He just had the truth, solid and immovable, sitting in his chest like a stone.
"I do not lie," he said. "I told the thieves story because you told me to. But I do not lie again."
Adrien stood. He looked down at Gerard—at the ropes, the clamps, the sign at his feet—and then he turned and walked back toward his car.
"Then I suppose you'll have to figure it out," he said over his shoulder. "You know where I live. You know how to get home. Find your own way out."
The car door opened. Closed. The engine started.
Gerard watched the headlights swing across the trees, sweep over the oak, and then disappear down the gravel track. The sound of the engine faded. The forest went quiet again.
He was alone.
The sign sat at his feet, white and stark in the darkness. FREE USE. Two words that told anyone who walked by exactly what they were allowed to do. No rules. No limits. No need to ask permission, because the permission was already there, printed in permanent marker and laid out like an offering.
Gerard tested the ropes. They held. He tested them again, pulling harder, wrenching his shoulders, and the bark scraped his back and the clamps bit deeper and nothing moved.
He was stuck.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time had stopped meaning anything. The cold was everywhere now—in his feet, his legs, his chest, his hands. The chain between the clamps felt like ice against his skin. The welts on his back had gone from burning to aching to a dull, distant throb.
He closed his eyes.
Footsteps on the path.
Gerard's eyes flew open. A shape was moving toward him through the darkness—human, male, walking slow. A phone flashlight clicked on, swept across the oak, stopped on Gerard's face.
"Jesus," the voice said.
Gerard said nothing.
The man stepped closer. The light moved down Gerard's body—chest, stomach, cock, legs. It paused on the sign.
"Free use," the man read aloud. He laughed. "What the hell is this?"
"I am tied up," Gerard said. His voice was hoarse, cracked from hours of silence.
"Yeah. I can see that." The man stepped closer. He was younger than Gerard, maybe early twenties, with a backward cap and a hoodie that looked too big for him. "You okay, man?"
"I am fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I am fine."
The man crouched down. His flashlight illuminated the clamps, the chain, the raw, swollen flesh around them. "What happened to you?"
Gerard opened his mouth. The lie was right there—thieves, jump, clothes stolen—but Adrien had changed the rules. Now there was a new lie. Publicity stunt. Camera crew. All staged.
He couldn't say either one.
"I am here by choice," he said.
The man blinked. "What?"
"I chose this. I am not in danger. You do not need to help me."
"Then why are you telling me not to help you?"
Gerard had no answer for that.
The man stood up. He looked around—at the dark path, the trees, the empty forest—and then he looked back at Gerard.
"You mind if I...?" He gestured vaguely at Gerard's body, at the sign.
Gerard closed his eyes. The rules. Adrien's rules. He was still bound by them, even now, even in the dark.
"No," he said. "I do not mind."
The man's hand found his chest. Fingers in the hair, thumb brushing over the raw, swollen nipple beside the clamp. Gerard's whole body jerked.
"Yes sir," he whispered.
The man took his time.
He started with Gerard's chest, fingers threading through the thick hair, thumbs circling the swollen flesh around the clamps without quite touching the steel. Gerard's breath came in short, controlled pulls through his nose. The cold had numbed him everywhere except there—there, the pain was sharp and immediate and impossible to ignore.
"You're shaking," the man said.
"Cold."
"Sure it is."
The man's hands moved lower. They traced the ridges of Gerard's stomach, the trail of hair that ran from navel to groin, the jut of his hipbones. Then they wrapped around his cock, which had been soft and shrunken from hours in the cold, and began to work it slowly.
Gerard's jaw clenched. His hips twitched forward, an involuntary response he couldn't stop.
"Yes sir," he said. The words tasted like copper.
The man stroked him until he was half-hard, until the blood started flowing again and the cold receded from that one part of his body. Then he let go and stepped back.
"That's enough for now," he said. "I'll be back."
He walked away. His footsteps faded. The flashlight beam disappeared into the trees.
Gerard hung there, breathing, his cock still half-hard and aching. The chain swung between the clamps. The sign sat at his feet, white and terrible.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came in fragments. Not real sleep—just a drifting, a letting-go of consciousness that lasted seconds or minutes before something pulled him back. The cold. The pain. The sound of his own breathing.
Then footsteps.
Gerard's eyes opened. A new shape was approaching—taller than the last, broader through the shoulders. The flashlight stayed off this time. The man walked by memory, by the faint glow of the moon through the clouds.
"You the free use guy?" the voice asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
No preamble. No questions. The man stepped behind the oak, and Gerard felt hands on his back—rough, calloused, impatient. They slid down his spine, over the welts that had scabbed in the cold, and kept going.
They cupped his ass.
Gerard tensed. The ropes bit into his wrists. The chain swung, pulling at his nipples, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making noise.
The man's fingers spread him open. Explored. Pressed.
Gerard's cock jerked. It was involuntary—a physical response he couldn't control, couldn't stop, couldn't even understand. His body was doing things without his permission. The precum started as a bead at the tip, then a trickle, then a steady leak that dripped down his shaft and onto the frozen ground.
"You like that," the man said. Not a question.
"Yes sir."
The man laughed. Low and quiet. He kept going—one hand on Gerard's ass, fingers working, the other wrapping around Gerard's leaking cock from behind. The angle was wrong and the grip was too tight and it hurt in a way that made Gerard's thighs tremble.
"You're dripping," the man said. "That's disgusting."
"Yes sir."
"Keep dripping. I want to see how much you can make."
Gerard closed his eyes. He thought about the pine grove. The branch. The way the chain had slid free when he'd jumped. He thought about Adrien's face, calm and patient, setting the sign on the ground like it was nothing.
The man kept working him. The precum kept leaking. His cock was hard now, painfully hard, and the man's grip hadn't loosened. Gerard's hips were moving on their own, small thrusts into the man's fist that he couldn't stop.
"That's it," the man said. "Fuck yourself on my hand."
Gerard didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat had closed up, and all he could do was breathe through his nose and try not to think about anything at all.
The man pulled his hand away. Gerard heard him wipe it on something—his jeans, maybe—and then the footsteps receded.
"Thanks," the voice called back. "I'll tell my friends."
Gerard sagged against the oak. His cock was still hard, still leaking, still aching. The cold hit him again, sharper now, and he realized that his body had been warm for the first time in hours and now it was freezing.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep again. Fragments. Drifting. The cold pulling him under, the pain pulling him back.
Hands.
Gerard's eyes snapped open. A different man—he could tell by the smell, by the shape, by the way the hands grabbed him without hesitation. Fingers found the clamps, twisted them, and Gerard's whole body arched off the tree.
Barely a second passed before the man shoved two fingers into Gerard's mouth, hooking his cheek and yanking his head to the side.
"Shut up," the man said.
Gerard hadn't made a sound. But he understood. He stayed quiet.
The man released the clamps and moved behind the oak. His hands found Gerard's ass again—different technique, harder, more demanding. He pressed his fingers against Gerard's hole and pushed.
Gerard's breath hitched. His body resisted, but the man didn't stop. He pushed harder, dry and rough, and Gerard's shoulders strained against the ropes as he tried to pull away.
"Don't," the man said.
Gerard stopped moving. The fingers worked their way in, and the pain was different from the clamps—deeper, more invasive, a violation that made his stomach turn. But his cock didn't care. His cock was leaking again, dripping down his shaft, responding to touch even when his mind was screaming no.
The man fucked him with his fingers for a long time. Fast, then slow, then fast again. He added a third finger, and Gerard made a sound he couldn't swallow—a raw, choked noise that echoed off the trees.
"Quiet," the man said.
Gerard was quiet.
When the man finished, he pulled his fingers out and wiped them on Gerard's thigh. Then he walked away without a word.
Gerard hung there. His cock was painfully hard. His hole was raw and burning. His nipples were swollen around the clamps, the flesh dark and angry in the moonlight.
He didn't know what time it was. He didn't know how many men had come. He didn't know anything except the cold and the pain and the slow, creeping realization that this night would never end.
Sleep.
A slap.
Gerard's eyes flew open. A new man stood in front of him, hand raised. The slap landed on his chest—hard, flat, right across the nipples and clamps. Gerard's whole body convulsed.
"Wake up," the man said.
Gerard was awake. He was very awake.
The man slapped him again. Then again. Chest, stomach, thighs, arms. Each slap landed with a crack that echoed through the grove. Gerard's skin burned. His muscles twitched. His cock—traitor that it was—started to harden again.
"Every inch," the man said. "That's what the sign should say."
He slapped Gerard's face. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to sting. Gerard's head snapped to the side.
"Yes sir."
The man slapped his chest again. His stomach. His inner thighs. He worked his way down Gerard's body, methodical and unhurried, until every inch of skin was red and stinging and alive.
Then he stepped back.
"No one's coming to save you," he said. "You know that, right?"
Gerard didn't answer.
"Just so you know."
The man walked away.
Gerard closed his eyes. The cold returned. The pain returned. His body was a map of everything that had been done to it—the welts on his back, the raw flesh around his nipples, the ache in his ass, the sting on every inch of his skin.
Sleep.
Hands.
Gerard's eyes opened. Another man. Different from the others—older, slower, more deliberate. He touched Gerard's face first, cupped his jaw, turned his head from side to side like he was examining livestock.
"You're a mess," he said.
"Yes sir."
The man ran his hands over Gerard's body. Not demanding, not rough—just slow, exploratory, like he was memorizing the shape of every wound. He found the clamps and traced the swollen flesh around them. He found the welts and pressed them until Gerard hissed. He found Gerard's cock, still half-hard and leaking, and held it without stroking.
"You must be exhausted," the man said.
"Yes sir."
"And you're still hard."
"I cannot help it."
"No. I suppose you can't."
The man released him. Stepped back. Looked at Gerard for a long moment.
"I'm not going to touch you," he said. "I just wanted to see."
He walked away.
Gerard stared after him. The chain swung. The sign sat at his feet, white and stark, and he realized he'd lost count of how many men had come. It didn't matter. The number didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the cold and the darkness and the stretch of hours that still lay ahead.
Sleep.
A slap. A hand on his ass. A mouth on his neck. A cock pushed against his lips. Another hand on his cock. Another. Another. Another.
Gerard stopped counting. He stopped thinking. He became a body—just a body, just flesh and bone and nerve endings, responding to touch because touch was all there was. The precum leaked from his cock in a steady stream. His ass was raw and wet. His nipples had gone from pain to numbness to something else entirely, a constant thrum of sensation that had no name.
He said "yes sir" so many times the words lost meaning. He said it to hands and mouths and cocks and fingers. He said it to the darkness. He said it to the cold. He said it to the oak tree, its bark rough against his back, its branches creaking overhead.
At some point, he fell asleep again. And at some point, he woke to another hand, another body, another person using him.
The sky started to lighten.
Gerard didn't notice at first. He was too far gone—too cold, too tired, too hollowed out. But the gray turned to pink, and the pink turned to gold, and the shadows on the path grew shorter.
The sun rose.
Gerard hung there, naked and shivering, his body a ruin of red marks and raw skin. The clamps were still on his nipples, the chain still swinging. The ropes were still tight around his wrists and ankles. The sign was still at his feet, though it had fallen over in the night and now lay face-down in the mud.
He couldn't feel his hands. He couldn't feel his feet. His cock was soft and sore, and dried precum crusted the hair on his stomach and thighs.
Footsteps on the path.
Gerard didn't open his eyes. He couldn't. He was too tired. He just hung there, breathing slow and shallow, and waited for whoever it was to touch him.
The footsteps stopped.