Macho Sluts, page 36
Only his boots glittered, and that was a mirror-bright shine, the kind that takes months of work to complete. Even a USMC drill instructor can’t force someone to get that kind of sheen on a pair of boots. It takes constant caressing. Your brush has to touch the boots as often and as lightly as you touch someone who has just made you fall in love. He had never been in love, but his boots were perfect. He kept his pants tucked into them. They went up to the knee, glossy as a frozen lake at midnight.
The absence of right/left signals should also have made him conspicuous. Instead, he was often discounted as a tourist or an amateur. Only one youngster, drunk enough to think he was the most attractive boy in the bar and thus immune to snubs, ever had the nerve to accost him and demand, “What are you?”
The spoiler replied (perhaps amused because of what he was planning to turn himself into for the sake of his latest conquest), “A man.”
“No, I mean what are you into? Which role do you play?”
“I don’t play,” he said. The look in his eye momentarily sobered the curious, intoxicated kid; made him want to ask another, better question. But those eyes were too deep, it was too far to fall—so he chose instead to get drunk enough to fall off his bar stool. Not that the spoiler noticed; taking out the trash was not his job.
Why did he take such care with his dress if he intended to travel incognito? If he did not want to be recognized, groped, and drooled over, why was he a regular in all the grimy Mafia firetraps that pandered to compulsive cocksuckers, gay bikers, fetishists, bondage freaks, masochists, expert handballers, and other sexually bent, homomasculine men the good Catholic mobsters saw only as a horde of spendthrift drunks and perverts? Every scene attracts a certain number of voyeurs, those too timid, alienated, or unattractive to participate. You might call him a voyeur since he spent most of his time looking and listening. But he was a watchdog, not a spectator. He paid attention to the scene. He knew the names and histories of most of the topmen who shared his specialized tastes. He could predict their behavior better than a seasoned bartender. And he selected some of them to be cut out of the herd.
His selection was made for him by a signal that socked directly through his eyes or ears or nose into his gut. His balls would roll as their pouch shrank, pumping blood into his dick so fast that it started leaking even before he got hard. Any number of things could trigger the signal. It could be the inborn authority in a tone of voice, a certain sure grip that revealed a talent for handling objects and men who wanted to be objects, an offhanded way of revealing esoteric abilities and interests. An expression of the mere need to control or dominate was not enough to throw this punch into his guts; too many people try to act like lifeguards because they are drowning themselves.
One night, the stars were in a favorable conjunction for completing a drama the spoiler had been hankering after for months. He found himself being agreeable to a young man who had never been in “this kind of place” before. He was sandy-blond, clean-shaven, with a trim body that looked fit because he was moderately active and under twenty-five. He said his name was Curt, and he had borrowed these chaps from his roommate; did they fit? As soon as the spoiler realized this good-looking kid was a complete novice, he realized he was the perfect lure, and began to turn him into his pawn. He also forgot his name.
The newcomer did not know why he was telling this plain, unsmiling leatherman about his bizarre, secret fantasies, asking him questions and accepting his suggestions. He did not know he was nervous and needed to be patted on the head and pointed in the right direction. It was easy to confess his lack of experience and his longstanding fascination with leather. Like most other raw recruits, he thought leather was synonymous with S/M, and S/M meant being whipped. He did not know how rare this ritual actually is. The grave stranger was knowledgeable and reassuring. He drew verbal thumbnail sketches of the half-dozen tops who were hunting in the bar that night, and told him which one he needed to meet—an older man, graying at the temples, with the build of a boxer and sad eyes. His name was Roger, and he had a protective instinct toward novices; it was almost a reflex for him to take a courteous one home.
Before he could say “whips and chains,” Curt was leaning his head on the master’s chest and whispering, “Sir, may I buy you a beer, sir?” The gesture was too touching, the offer too well-bred to be rejected. When the boy returned with the cold, sweaty bottle, he was ordered to tell his story. It came out easily, since he had rehearsed it in the corner with the sympathetic stranger. He was not surprised when the big man put a hand around his throat and guided him down to the floor until he knelt with his cheek pressed against the warm denim that covered the master’s cock. Curt wrapped his arms around the thighs encased in latigo, smelling of motor oil, and felt that he had come home. But he was surprised when the stranger (he had already forgotten exactly what he looked like) loomed near and inquired if he, “the boy,” had given offense to the master.
Roger scowled and said he had not known the boy was in anyone else’s service. Before the pawn could deny this, the stranger said, “Sir, he is not in my service. But I pointed you out to him and suggested he introduce himself. I would hold myself responsible if you were not pleased.” Placated, the master relaxed, and the upshot of the matter was that all three of them left the bar together, to game in one of the city’s better-equipped arenas.
This master’s forte was whipping. In his black room, he had a large collection of English hunting crops, nautical cats, Scottish tawses, monks’ flails, and Australian quirts on display under glass. The spoiler gave each one a separate scrutiny and made a quiet comment or two that showed his appreciation of their history and construction. These implements were not for use. But the walls of the master’s inner sanctum were hung with enough modern copies to flog the entire mutinous crew of an aircraft carrier.
The room was clean, but somber. These walls could never forget what they had witnessed, and made the visitor feel an obligation to live up to their memories. Wooden beams ran the length of the ceiling, massive enough to support any load hauled into space by the greasy sets of block and tackle that hung here and there. A vertical beam equipped with large, iron rings stood alone in the center of the room. In one corner, there was a waist-high device that a man could be comfortably bent over and bound to by a strap buckled across his back. It looked like a huge, ancient butcher’s block and was authentically stained. In another corner was a waist-high Barkley bench, the width of a human torso, minimally padded, with a hole in the center.
To his credit, the young man stayed, something that is not easy for a novice to do the first time he finds what he is looking for. For a fleeting moment, he hoped that he would be bound face to face with the stranger who was (he finally realized) responsible for his presence here. Surely it would be easier to take what was coming if he had a companion, someone more experienced who would encourage him and share the pain. But the stranger had taken care to keep his relationship to the master ambiguous. He had been respectful, but not servile. The master had not laid a hand on him.
Now, the boy found that the first direct order of the evening was addressed to him alone. He had wanted his obligations cut in half; instead, he imagined they were doubled. After all, there were two pairs of boots to trample and crush him (which he licked), two pairs of hands to bless and terrify him (which he cringed from and kissed), two wills bent against his own (symbolized by the hard flesh he was briefly allowed to expose, cloak in rubber, and worship). He was too green to understand the hierarchy. Only one of these men was the master, taking the ultimate control and responsibility. The other acted only as his tool, his assistant. Roger was, ironically, too experienced (or jaded) to imagine that the power could be distributed any other way in his own dungeon.
Out of compassion, the master bade the novice stretch out on the table, with his cock and balls dangling through a hole. This would save him the embarrassment of buckling knees. Yielding to panic, the prone boy said, “Please, sir, don’t tie my hands.” “All right,” the master rumbled, and used three feet of rawhide to bind his nuts in such a way that he could not take them with him if he wanted to escape.
They began with their hands, one set gloved in thin kid, the other sheathed the old-fashioned way, in tight black silk. The boy was massaged, kneaded, pummeled, then tapped, given a series of slaps that began with light glancing blows and ended with hard smacks that landed deep in his flesh. He was allowed to rest, stroked, made hard until he plunged against the bench trying to fuck empty air, then assaulted by hands that smashed into him, broke him apart, went right through him.
While he cried, the masters broached fresh cans of beer and ordered their thoughts. When the work resumed, the spoiler knelt under the table of his own accord, rolled a prophylactic over the disembodied shaft that pointed at the floor, then captured the pawn’s bound and aching parts in his mouth. While he worked the length of the cock (swollen to the bursting point) within his throat, he stretched and prodded the well-restrained nuts, choking in their sac, full of fluids they could not release. The master selected a black-and-red cat-o’-nine-tails from the wall, a standard enough instrument. But this one had been made especially for him by Fred Norman, and the braiding was (or course) superlative. The round tails were tight, thin, and faster than thought.
The pawn thought nothing of it. He had never imagined anything else, other than a belt, perhaps, being used to whip someone. It had never even occurred to him that some whips are made better than others. The master’s collection had seemed a bit gimmicky to him, a butch version of his granny’s knick-knacks. His memories of the only corporal punishment he had ever received—a few hand-spankings given to him as a child—were vague. Lucky for him, the spoiler had told him specifically to be very honest with the master about just how much of a beginner he was.
Roger was a laconic man. He spoke freely only to the accompaniment of some object falling on naked flesh. The conversation addressed to his new victim was carried on for the benefit of the whip, to make sure Curt stayed put long enough to let its nine tails drink enough sweat and pain to keep it well fed until he took if from the wall again. Whips that are not used can become as lonely as kept women on Christmas Eve. So he explained to the young man what he was doing and why, urging him to pay attention to it, learn from it, even enjoy it. He paused frequently to allow Curt’s body to absorb this new knowledge before his mind could take it away.
Under the table, the spoiler had ceased to suck actively on the pawn’s cock, and simply kept his throat open around it. The whip cracks made the boy go up and down like a bridegroom, feeding his unseen comforter the whole length of his manhood at every burning, intolerable, indescribable stroke.
Again, to his credit, the young man persisted. He did not beg to be released (though he did beg for a reprieve). He did not lose his temper or revile his tormenters. He struggled with his pain, willing (though not wise enough) to savor it. But he began to see what transcendence might be possible, what god he might someday be fit to serve.
The spoiler had suddenly pulled away and stood up. His pawn had almost come, and he would not allow that, even if the boy’s cock had not been trussed up, and the orgasm would not have damaged it. The master was running his silk-clad hands over the bruised scarlet skin, murmuring like a groom soothing a jumpy horse. He had no more use for the boy, so he was tender. He could tell that Curt couldn’t take much more, and he was not interested in continuing at the present level. It would have taken days of this sort of work to make his arm just a little tired, and nowadays, exhaustion was the chief thing he got out of flogging.
Normally, at this point in the scene he would offer the subject’s ass to the other master, if one were present. Most bottoms got pissy if there wasn’t some kind of sex at the end of a scene, and he personally found it distasteful. There was a limit to pretense, after all, a limit to what you could give someone who was not your heart’s desire. But the spoiler had anticipated this and deflected the invitation.
“My turn,” he said, drawing a whip from his shirt. It had been wrapped around his waist, hidden until now. He had been lucky to wear it on this night’s jaunt.
This occasioned some alarm on one face, some curiosity on the other. “Be my guest,” said the master, and went to hold up the wall and commune with a small, brown cigar. This was the man who had pointed the boy in his direction. Perhaps Curt had capabilities the master had not sensed.
The spoiler shook out a dog quirt. It was a single length of light tan leather, plaited in David Morgan’s workshop, thirty-nine inches in length. Of that, ten inches were the cracker of braided black cord. Sweat had started to darken its handle and the inside of the wrist strap. It was a signal whip, intended to make a rhythmic noise that would set the pace for a dog team. It could also be used to alert the lead dog to change direction, or break up a fight. It was not used to punish huskies, who had such thick fur and hides that they would have simply grinned the way dogs do when people do something foolish, and continued about their noisy bad-dog business. But a boy’s skin is not nearly as thick as a wolfdog’s, as Curt was about to learn.
The spoiler told his pawn all of this because he wanted the master to know that they shared a love for the original context out of which the classic whips—working tools—came, the métier they occupied before being appropriated for sexual purposes. He did not realize that the boy was also listening, hungry for any sort of clue about why he was here and what it all meant. Tops should guard their tongues around bottoms once a scene has begun. An offhand remark can burn like a brand in a receptive mind for years after it is flippantly uttered, and someone can shape his life to obtain a similar piece of praise again, or prove that a rebuke was undeserved. A top who is not similarly vulnerable will probably remain a mediocrity. An aroused bottom is an oracle.
“You’ll want him standing up, then,” the master said in his gravelly bass, and he undid the cock-and-ball bondage with a single tug on a loose end. He hustled the boy to his feet and slapped his front up against the smooth wood of the pillar. This time, the necessity for bondage was not questioned. The boy had longed for something to pull against while he was on the Barkley bench, some way to express his distress that would not put an end to the scene. He was surprised when the master buckled his discarded chaps around his waist, leaving his ass naked, and zipped up the legs. Curt had not seen the interaction behind his back, when the master had held up a weightlifter’s kidney belt, and the spoiler had indicated he needed his body to be protected more completely by taking the boy’s borrowed leather from the pile of clothing folded in the corner.
“I’m still getting the hang of this,” the spoiler murmured apologetically.
The master inclined his head. He rarely met a top who cared to go to school, and the admission of apprenticeship charmed him. Anybody can pick up a whip and then try to chop wood with it. It’s not a very effective way to keep warm in winter, and it rarely heats anybody else up, either.
The spoiler did not start by cracking the whip. He trailed it over the tense back, stepped away, grasped it by the middle, and whirled the end of it lightly across the surface, warming it. Gradually he let his hand slip closer to the handle, increasing the force of his strokes. Not until the boy’s back was well reddened did he move far enough away to use the entire length of the quirt. It looked like throwing a baseball—he seemed to be hurling something at the boy, but the whip stayed in his hand, and only a fireball of pain flew free and hit like a grenade.
When a whip is cracked, the tip of it is going faster than the speed of sound. So Curt may be excused for feeling that each scream was being torn from his throat and praying that his next breath would be his last.
He could have taken even this if he had not had to take it alone. But the stranger who had been so helpful did not speak to him, and he could not see his face. The pain had no purpose, it was madness, he was being taught things he did not want to know—why men broke under torture, how much you can suffer and still live, the sublime indifference of the sky from blue to black and to blue again; finally, that he was alone with this knowledge—alone, alone, alone with pain.
The spoiler did not intend to send the young man spinning through the existential void. True, he felt little or nothing for this piece of bait, but that was not his fault. This novice did not have any of the qualities that aroused him—for example, a good-humored willingness to make others suffer if they would not obey. The category of beginner, virgin, or chicken was erotically neutral and empty for the spoiler. That was why he did not speak to the boy or establish empathy with him. They had nothing to say to one another. Whatever agony or ecstasy fired the boy’s synapses were immaterial; no electricity would jump the gap between them.
This performance was for the master, whose eyes were glazing over as he watched Curt’s fit, young body being painted with red streaks and welts. He did not have to imagine what it felt like. He could remember. More than that, he was experiencing a rare, intense pleasure from watching someone else work. Only at major tribal gatherings like Inferno did he get a chance to see tops whose working style pleased him. Even when he co-topped, he usually found respectful, unobtrusive ways to relegate his partner’s activities to his peripheral vision. Not only was he eagerly watching this sober, quiet dude cut the kid to ribbons, he had a roaring hard-on and thought that if it went much longer he was going to come in his pants like a teenager.
Just before the master’s excitement built to that point, Curt broke. They untied the sobbing kid, threw a bucket of cold water on him, gave him his clothes and a Valium, and called a cab to take him home. The master was so put off by this display of cowardice and bad manners (and by his own frustrating sensation of coitus interruptus) that he did not notice that the boy said an effusive goodbye to the other man’s boots and ignored his own. This whipped-dog devotion saddened the spoiler, but he was relieved that the ex-novice was leaving. He might get what he really wanted now. It could not take place in front of a witness.
