Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 8
Friday
I sent Mark an authoritative, succinct e-mail today:Boy,
Be at my place promptly at 6:30 on Saturday.
Wear your boots and a white cotton jock.
Daddy Doug
Saturday
Brad and I slept most of the morning, then went out for a late lunch. I felt some trepidation about my impending date, but didn’t discuss it with him. Would Mark and I have a good experience? Also, Brad took fierce pride in being independent, but, in actuality, would he be hurt if I grew close to another man? I hugged him tightly when we got home.
A few minutes before 6:30 the bell rang. Mark stood outside the iron gate, a nervous smile on his face. He wore boots and tight jeans, with his black leather jacket slung over his shoulder. I led him to the foyer.
“Kneel!” I said.
He knelt before me, head bowed. I put a chain collar around his neck and secured it with a lock.
I took his head in my hands and looked into his eyes. “You belong to me for the night.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around my thighs and buried his head in my crotch. I was already hard. Very hard. Brad smiled at our tableau from the end of the hall, and gave me a thumbs-up sign.
Mark and I strode to dinner hand in hand. At the restaurant he touched his collar and smiled. “It feels good to wear this.”
“I know. I’ve worn them myself.” I was pleased that he was relaxing into a submissive role, even in public.
“Will the party be crowded?”
“Probably. But it won’t matter. I’ll have you blindfolded, so you can get into your own space.”
“I’m in good hands.” He put his hand on my thigh, and slowly rubbed back and forth.
“Enough talking,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
I held Mark close on our way to the party house. As we approached the three-story wooden building, we passed the neighboring gospel church. I pointed to a large, neatly lettered sign hanging adjacent to the church’s front door. “Everyone Welcome. Something Good Is Going to Happen to You.” It was a mere five feet from the party house. We laughed, and entered the house.
I checked us in. We both undressed, putting the bulk of our clothes in plain paper sacks and handing them to the attendant. Mark kept on a white jock and boots, as I had requested. I wore black leather shorts and combat boots. Mark disappeared into the small bathroom with a douche syringe in hand. Does he expect to get fucked tonight? I wondered.
It was my turn to use the bathroom. While pissing, I overheard Mark introducing himself to one of the crew as a newcomer. “Oh boy, a virgin,” was the reply. I hurried from the bathroom.
“Take the toy bag,” I told him.
We went downstairs to the dungeon. The large, dimly lit room contained several bondage tables, a small jail cell, a rack, and several whipping stations. The music had just begun, raucous disco with an intimidating beat. “Shit!” I muttered. It would be difficult to maintain my own whipping rhythm and impossible to hear nuances in Mark’s breathing. The air was warm, almost fetid. Even this early in the evening it smelled like a men’s locker room; the carpeting gave up memories of past glories.
The few early arrivals scanned us with curiosity. I was proud to have a good-looking boy in tow.
We stopped before the seven-foot-tall cross. It was X-shaped, constructed from four-inch-wide wooden planks. Four heavy, shiny eyebolts protruded from its extremities. “This is it,” I said.
Mark ran his hand over the rough wood and looked at me with a soulful gaze in his puppy eyes. “I’ve been waiting for this.” He hugged me tightly.
I returned the hug. We savored the anticipation. I kissed him lightly on the lips and forehead, thought for a moment, and stepped back.
“Take off your jock,” I ordered.
He obeyed. I opened my toy bag, pulled out a black leather jock with metallic studs, and held the pouch over Mark’s nose and mouth. He inhaled deeply.
“I’ve worn this during important scenes,” I said. “It’s very special. I want you to have it for tonight.”
He stepped into it and tightened the waist clasps. I put two matching biceps bands around his upper arms and a matching wristband on his right wrist. I stepped back and looked at him, and said, “You look sexy, leatherboy.” Mark beamed, looked at his wristband, and ran his hand languidly over the jock pouch.
I knelt before my bag and removed two large carabiners. Each held a half-dozen whips by their hand straps. I placed the whips in a line to the left of the cross. “Feel free to touch these, to get to know them before we start,” I said.
Mark picked up a long, red deerskin flogger. “That one has over fifty tails,” I said. “Put these on.” I handed him four black leather restraints.
He put them on his wrists and ankles while I finished fussing with my whips. I didn’t unpack my four-foot single-tail whip, which looked like a short bullwhip. No sense in frightening him with that.
I tightened the restraints and led him to the cross. I had him stand spread-eagled, and secured his legs and wrists to the cross with short lengths of rope. I put a towel in the crotch of the cross in case he needed to rest his head. He sighed, smiled at me, and said, “Thank you.”
I secured his thighs and waist firmly to the cross with flat red and black rope. He turned his head and watched my every move. He obviously had a hard-on.
I walked around the cross, looked into his eyes, and rubbed his crotch with my knee. “If you need anything, like water, or if you have to pee, or if the restraints are bothering you, let me know.”
“Safe words?” he asked.
“Don’t need them,” I said. “I’ll read your body language.” I kissed him on the lips and put a fleece-lined leather blindfold over his eyes. “Have a great trip, boy.”
He shuddered. I strode behind him and ran my hands softly across his shoulders and back, barely touching his skin. He was trembling. I gently massaged his legs and kneaded his shoulders. His breathing relaxed. I took my softest deerskin flogger and held the tails to his nose. He took a deep breath, and when I dragged the tails across his back, his entire body quivered, like a startled doe. His hard-on wilted. Beads of sweat coursed from his armpits, down his side, glistening in the shadows of his ribcage. I resisted the temptation to lick him dry.
Won’t get very far tonight, I thought. But that’s not what’s it’s about. We’ll have a special time, wherever we go.
I lazily hit him with the flogger, first one shoulder, then the other, barely touching him. He tightened his back and shoulder muscles. “Breathe,” I said. “Flow into it.” I stood by his side and used my right hand for flogging, while my left hand caressed his back between blows. His skin was warm and yielding to my touch. He eased into his bondage, letting the ropes take his weight.
I moved behind him and the whip took on a life of its own, as I danced about his back, savoring the sight of him from every possible angle. I used one hand, then the other, as I covered his back with blows of slowly increasing intensity. I was floating, and he was becoming more comfortable with the sensations, stretching and arching his back.
I teased him by backing off, decreasing the frequency and lightening the blows, then gradually increasing to a higher peak than before. We played with this oscillating motion, until we reached a point where I was putting as much power as possible behind the whip.
I could hear him crying, despite the loud music. I flogged him until his weeping subsided, then mopped his brow and kissed him. “You’re doing well, boy,” I whispered.
I unloosened his wrist restraints and wrapped his hands around the cross at waist level. “You’ll be more comfortable in this position.”
Mark smiled and pursed his lips. I kissed him again.
I grabbed the large, red deerskin flogger and leaned against him, smothering his entire body with mine. I ground my crotch between his asscheeks, and he wiggled his hips. “This is your friend,” I murmured as I stood back and dragged the whip sensuously across his shoulders, the tails lying flat. Then I let the tails dangle loosely, their tips lightly tap-tapping his skin as they danced around his back. Mark arched his back, the supple muscles undulating under his smooth white skin.
I began with a quick, light, figure-eight motion that gave the illusion of his back being completely covered by the heavy whip. Mark moaned and ground his crotch into the cross. He probably had a hard-on; I certainly did.
I swung the whip over my head to get more power into the blows. It landed with a resounding thud, and Mark flinched and shook his shoulders. “Come on, boy! You can take it, boy!” I shouted. “Yes, Sir!” he yelled back.
By this time a crowd of eight or ten men had gathered around our play space. A silent Greek chorus. I’m playing to the gallery, I thought. One man, obviously not encumbered with an overabundance of dungeon etiquette, inched his way into our scene to get a better view of Mark’s back. I “accidentally” brushed him with the tips of the whip. He backed off.
Mark was sobbing.
“Go for it, boy,” I commanded. “You’re at the bottom of a filthy river. Swim through the mucky water to the light at the surface. Go for it!” I kept pelting him.
He clenched his fists and shook the cross with his writhing. The loud banging of the cross against the rafters drew a few more onlookers. His sobs turned to growls, and he collapsed into the cross.
I walked over to him and ran my fingers over his back. I blew on the glowing skin, and he melted into the ropes. Then I took a sip of water and squirted it onto his shoulders.
“Oh, Jesus,” he mumbled.
In the background, Daddy Jim was working on his third or fourth boy of the evening, cycling through his repertoire of callused hands, paddles, and canes. The boy’s shrieks played a strident counterpoint to the cacophonous disco music.
I laughed. “How are you doing, boy?” I asked Mark.
“Good,” he sighed.
It was time for the heavy flogger, my old standby. I let Mark sniff it. He moved his head in small arcs, inhaling deeply, drawing in the aroma, trying to capture the essence of the leather. I dragged the tails across his back, letting them slide down to his butt. Then I gently swung the whip so that its tails curled up between his legs, with the tips caressing the front of his jock. He breathed heavily and arched his back. I continued for a few minutes, then knelt behind him, running my tongue over his smooth ass. He stuck his butt out and wiggled provocatively. I gave his bottom a few light slaps while squeezing his hard-on in the confines of his jock.
I stepped back and swung the whip in large arcs, pelting his back with none-too-gentle blows. He yelped, and I put my weight behind the whip. I felt I was stirring thick soup in a pot, churning it to a frenzy. Mark danced on his feet, as much as the bondage would allow.
I reached for the red whip. I used both whips in interlocking figure eights, covering his back with a moiré pattern of red and black as he squirmed and howled. I continued with a trance-inducing steady beat for a long time. Mark finally slumped against the cross, his head leaning on the towel. He was elsewhere. I thought, This is what S/M is about, a spiritual journey.
At last he raised his head. I placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, boy.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” I put my thumb in his mouth. He sucked it while I used my other hand to flog him with both whips simultaneously. I struck him harder, and he sucked my thumb more wildly. I was getting hard again.
“I want you to take five, boy,” I ordered.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Count them out.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I struck. “One, Sir!”
I struck again, harder. “Two, Sir.”
I backed up and used only the leather whip. “Aaaah, three, Sir!” he yelled.
I waited till Mark’s breathing subsided. “Shit! Four.”
“One more,” I said.
I hit as hard as I could, almost flinging myself at him.
“Five.”
I threw the whip into my case and went to him. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” he sobbed. We stayed frozen together for several minutes, until his crying subsided. I held a towel to his face. “Blow your nose.” He did, and I wiped away the snot. I brushed his hair and offered him water. He nodded and took a quick gulp. “You OK?” I asked. “Yes, Daddy,” he replied. “Let’s keep going.”
I shot a glance at two men, both tops, sitting quietly three or four feet away from Mark’s head. They had been scrutinizing his face, watching every reaction. One gave me a thumbs-up sign.
I walked behind Mark and ran my fingernails down his back. He groaned and flexed his back muscles. I dug my nails in and pinched his skin. After a few light slaps, I chose a cat-o-nine tails that would produce a sharp, stinging sensation, in opposition to the thudding of the floggers. Its long, braided black handle was like a slightly flexible billy club. I placed it between Mark’s asscheeks and worked it back and forth, rubbing his balls from behind. He let out a loud squeal, and arched his back.
I began with a light flick of the wrist, the tails just brushing his back. He moved his shoulders erotically in time with my strokes. I hit harder, backed off, and struck harder again. Mark was with me. We danced a beautiful pas de deux, in and out of misty trees. The whip flew from one hand to the other, overhand, backhand, in swirling arcs as his back muscles twitched and undulated. I was in a trance—the whips were an unconscious extension of me.
Welts appeared. I went to figure eights, fiercely striking each shoulder. I had been in Mark’s position, and knew this hurt like hell. Mark was crying, his gulping sobs almost becoming screams. He dug his arms into the cross and shook it with his contortions. I had tears in my eyes, as well.
“Just a little while longer,” I shouted. “Three, two, one,” I counted, as I quickly landed three hard blows. I ran to him, and covered his hot back with my sweaty chest. I timed my gulping breaths to match his sobs. I didn’t wait long, however.
This boy had traveled farther than any beginner I had played with. Nonetheless, I didn’t think our trip was over.
“Now for the single tail,” I whispered in his ear.
I kissed him on the lips. “Stand up straight, and don’t arch your back,” I told him.
I pulled out the four-foot whip and cracked it a few times. It sounded like gunshots. A half-dozen men hurriedly came to the perimeter of our small circle, probably hoping to see blood drawn during this uncommon scene.
I held the tail a few inches from the end and brushed it along Mark’s back with a painting motion. He flicked his back muscles, as if trying to discourage a persistent fly. Then I took aim and made a few practice flicks, drawing closer to him. He flinched each time he felt the air movement from the whip. Finally it landed. “Fuck,” he yelped. I gave him a few more of these, and said, “Here it comes.” I let him have it. The whip landed full force, and I knew a searing pain would follow. He screamed. A comet-shaped dot appeared on his back. I stood perfectly still, hands hanging in front of me, holding the whip taut, hardly breathing, giving him a few seconds to recover. He tensed and relaxed. I gave him another heavy blow on the other side of his back. We alternated like this for a few minutes, until his back had ten dots on it. I went over to him.
“We’re done,” I said. “What would you like now?”
He didn’t hesitate. “More.”
Long red streaks were beginning to appear on Mark’s back. I gave him a heavy stroke, just short of cutting the skin. The gallery was undoubtedly disappointed. “One more to even it up,” I said. I paused, savoring the sight of this boy who had journeyed so far. Then I struck for the final time. He let out a primordial howl, rising from his gut to an earsplitting crescendo, gradually decreasing to body-wrenching sobs.
I flung the whip into my case and wrapped my hands around his chest. My torso again melded into his back. I untied the ropes circling his waist and freed his hands and feet. I lowered the spotlight and whispered into his ear, “Hold onto me, and sit down.”
We sat at the foot of the cross. “Keep your eyes closed,” I directed, and slowly removed his blindfold. I held my hands over his eyes and said, “Slowly open.”
He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly.
“Welcome back,” I said, kissing the tears on his cheeks. He was trembling, and he smelled like a mixture of fear, transcendence, and relief. I wrapped him in towels and he curled in a fetal position, head in my lap. I caressed his dank hair for several minutes.
“We’re going upstairs,” I finally said.
“I need to pee real bad,” he whimpered. I led him to the bathroom. As we passed through the kitchen, I noticed Brad talking to a small group of men. He grinned at me, nodded, and gave me yet another thumbs-up sign.
Mark and I climbed two flights of stairs to the living room. I wrapped him in a warm blanket, and we lay together, alone on a pile of bearskin rugs.
We lay in silence for a long time, arms and legs intertwined. Finally, Mark opened his eyes and looked at me. “That was amazing. It was as if you were in my head. Every time I thought I couldn’t take any more, you backed off, and then pushed me further. But I was afraid you were going to fuck me at the cross.”
I smiled. Mark raised himself on one elbow and ran his fingers leisurely over my chest, from nipple to nipple. I purred and he kissed them. They hardened. He bit them, and my dick hardened. He grabbed my nipple rings and tugged while he ran his tongue along the center of my chest to my abdomen, lingering at my navel. I gasped and giggled. He pulled my shorts and jock down to my knees, his eyes searching mine. I breathed deeply and relaxed. He kissed my cock and took it in his mouth. He licked, slurped, bit, teased. To my surprise, he completely swallowed my long shaft. I began to thrust my hips, and Mark stopped and sat up.
He grabbed a condom and placed in on my dick. Using only his mouth, he completely unrolled it. He squatted over me and stuck his lube-coated index finger up his own butthole. Then he sat on my cock. His supple sphincter muscles grabbed and massaged my shaft as he slowly raised and lowered himself. It felt as if his butthole were giving me a blowjob.
