Disclaimer: The following story is a purely fictional account. Two of the characters were inspired by real people, but any resemblance to their real-life counterparts or to anyone else is coincidental. The narrative contains male-on-male sex, bondage, S&M play, mind games, as well as a bit more. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so.
The author is grateful to slavebladeboi, and to Dilo Keith and McNickel, the inspiration for the afore-mentioned two characters and without whom the story would not exist. The ideas and suggestions of these three expert reviewers helped immeasurably to make this story what it is. Any remaining mistakes or implausibilities are my own doing.
Copyright © 2023 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author’s e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at https://powauthor.wordpress.com. The author welcomes feedback.
Dr. “NOOOO!!!”
Table of Contents
1 – First Contact
2 – Coffee And Conversation
3 – A Walk In The Woods
4 – Interlude
5 – Bingo
6 – Interlude
7 – Crag
8 – Hippos Go Berserk
9 – Interlude
10 – Recontact
11 – Training
12 – Show Time
13 – Dominance
1 – First Contact
“Unhhhhh… unhhhh… unh unh unhhh UNHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The man whose mouth had been wrapped around my dick for the last ten minutes took a brief break to rise up on his knees between my legs so he could shoot his own wad all over the dick he had been suckling on, coating it in sticky white globs and panting as he did. I was lying back on the bed with my head propped up on the pillows, so my raised mast made a pretty easy target and most of his juice hit its mark. Still, his initial shot went long and landed on my chest. While he was winding down from his orgasm and slacking the pace of his previously-frenzied strokes, I helpfully gathered the goop up with my finger and smeared it on a spot on my cock that he had missed.
Eventually he sank down to rest his ass on his heels, still breathing hard, but the moment he did I spoke up. “Uh uh,” I said, pointing toward my flagpole. “No time for a break. Now. While it’s fresh and hot.”
With obvious reluctance, he lowered his face back down to continue the work he had been performing before… only now with markedly less enthusiasm. Previously he had been sucking on a dick that was wet with only his own spit, and his balls had been full of horniness hormones that were liberally spilling into his bloodstream. Now, though, his wad had been shot. His balls were empty, and his hormones were telling him “ahh! Mission accomplished! Time to kick back and relax!” Which was precisely why now was the time that I wanted him to suck me off the rest of the way.
Pre-orgasm Will (I think that was his name, Will?) had agreed that this would be a hot fantasy to live out. Pre-orgasm Will knew that the moment his load was out, the last thing he would want to do was suck his own sperm back into his mouth. Pre-orgasm Will loved the idea of being “made” to do this, knowing that post-orgasm Will would not like the idea one bit. Well, sorry, post-orgasm Will, but you’re outvoted. Your pre-orgasm self and I agreed that this would be a very enjoyable thing for both of us. Too bad; get to work.
He opened his mouth up wide and took me inside, trying hard to touch nothing. A long moment while he worked up his nerve, and then I felt his lips close around the base of the shaft. Still no tongue action yet, but he would be tasting himself now, the sticky goo starting to smear itself all over his teeth and cheeks and gums. Then the tongue got to work and I felt the suction ramp up. He groaned and retched at the taste and I just got harder and harder with every sound he made.
“You missed some. I can feel it dribbling down my balls.” Post-orgasm Will made to lift himself off my dick but I held his head in place. “Reach for it,” I commanded him. He coughed once and made a sexy little choking sound, but then dutifully shoved his throat down harder onto my dick and stretched his tongue out to try to reach the tiny droplets that I may or may not have imagined feeling. More retching, more gagging. He lifted my balls up to help get them closer to his questing tongue tip, groped around for a bit, then I felt him back off, swallow once, and get back to work.
I had been pretty close before so it didn’t take long. It would have been nice to make the situation last a little longer so I could enjoy the sight and sound of his suffering more, but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. The post-orgasm glow fades pretty quickly and within a few minutes he’d be feeling frisky again. That was why it was important to seize the moment while it lasted.
I soon felt my own load boiling up from deep down inside and then a second gusher was spilling into Will’s mouth. He caught it all, didn’t spill a drop. Then, and only then, did I allow him up off my dick to collapse on the pillow next to me. We lay there together in silence for a bit, both breathing pretty hard though him more than me.
“Fuck,” he eventually said. I snickered. “Fuck indeed,” I agreed. He went on to talk about how hot that was, being “made” to suck dick when he didn’t want to. I made agreeable noises, but honestly I was just going through the motions. I understand the need for aftercare, particularly in S&M scenes. Helping the sub come back down to earth after being used hard is the kind and right thing to do, and I’m willing to put in the effort to keep things going smoothly. But this really wasn’t much of an S&M scene, just some authoritative talk and a bit of manual encouragement, not even enough to call “force”.
Deep down I was thinking this guy had served his purpose and I just wanted to send him on his way. The whole point of casual sex is the “casual” part, after all. If I wanted to talk about feelings or invest in building and sustaining a relationship… well, I’d have exactly that: a relationship. Heck, if I wanted to talk about feelings, I’d have a relationship with a woman. But I don’t. Not with anyone, and certainly not with this guy, whose name I didn’t even remember with enough certainty to risk using.
But aftercare is important and I had no place else to be, so I listened to him talk about how hot it felt to be “made” to suck a dick that was coated with his own fresh spunk. And I talked a bit about my own enjoyment of the experience, too. Yeah, it was fun reliving the moment, but honestly, as scenes go, it wasn’t all that intense. I mean, can you really even call it “sex” if no one gets tied up? But Will wasn’t into that stuff. He liked being bossed around, but not getting tied or tormented. Okay, fair enough, we’d found a way to spend some time that was fun for both of us. I got to dominate him, he got to serve me, all well and good.
Thankfully, he didn’t overstay his welcome and I didn’t have to drop any hints that it was time for him to find his pants and the door in whichever order. After about fifteen minutes, things drew to a natural conclusion and we amiably parted ways. A fine enough ending to a fine enough scene. And it was good. Not great, but good.
See, here’s my problem: sex with gay guys doesn’t really work for me.
Don’t get me wrong, I like gay guys well enough, which is a good thing since I am one. But I don’t like having sex with them, because the fuckers enjoy it. See, I’m not only gay, I’m a dom. A total top. And I’ve got the build to match. You might think that’s an ideal situation to be in because subs and switches outnumber guys like me pretty heavily. I could walk into any leather bar in the country and have my choice of the flock of willing submissives that would present themselves to me unasked. Gawd, listen to me, I sound like such an arrogant jerk! “Gee, wish I had your problems!” you could reasonably ask. Hear me out, though.
Unfortunately for me, all those eager subs just don’t appeal. I don’t want someone who’s going to “Yessir, thank you sir” me all night long. I want someone who will stand up to me, someone who will resist and even try to overtop me. I wouldn’t want him to succeed, of course! I would still want to come out on top, to best him at whatever display of resistance he puts up… but I want him to resist. I want there to be struggle and conflict and a battle of wills. That is much, much harder to find at a leather bar. Not impossible, of course. But a whole lot rarer.
It’s even tough to find what I want in porn, hard as that seems to believe. I’m sure you know what I mean, though. How many times have you watched a porn scene with a really promising setup, only to watch it turn out all wrong? I’m talking about the hitchhiker who accepts a ride from a driver who’s waving enough red flags to supply an entire Chinese New Year parade. Or the jogger ambushed and abducted while out on his run. Or the convict in the cell who gets noticed by the crooked guard. They all start off all “No! Help! Lemme go!” but five minutes in they’re moaning “fuck yeah!” and enthusiastically riding the dom’s dick like a rodeo bull.
I suppose that’s as it should be. These are actors, after all, and they’re delivering the product that most of their audience wants to see. I’m the odd man out, the guy who’s looking for something that’s rough not just around the edges, but rough right down to its core.
I’ve met a couple of guys who were willing to have encounters that worked out pretty well. The first was named Riley. He knew how to play the role of a reluctant bottom. Deep down, he enjoyed our play, but he could put on a very convincing show of appearing otherwise. We used to do these roleplay scenes – captured soldier and sadistic prison camp guard, or machine shop foreman and screwup new hire, or street thug and mugging victim. I’m not particularly talented at acting, but that was fine because my role was pretty much the same every time – issue orders and then either enforce obedience or inflict punishment for disobedience. That’s a role that comes naturally to me.
Riley, though, he really got into the characters he took on. When he was a captured soldier, he sincerely played the part. I always felt kind of silly at first interrogating him about his nonexistent “mission”, but he did his role so well that it made it easier for me to get into the scene. He paid attention to small details, too, like going outside and rubbing mud on his camo pants and his arms and his face before we’d begin. When I had him tied to the chair in the basement, little things like that made it easy to imagine that I really had captured him in the jungle instead of welcoming him in at the front door. More than half the time, in fact most of the time, these scenes would end with me getting off, either on his face or in his mouth or up his ass, but he would hold off, I guess to jerk off at the memory of the scene without affecting the scene itself? I never dug too deeply; the arrangement worked for us as it was without delving into the “why?” of it.
We had a good two years together and then he decided that he wanted to move to Oregon. Long-distance wasn’t going to work for either of us, so that was that. I still think of him from time to time, not in a sighing “oh, if only…” way, more in an “ah, good times, good times indeed” way.
The other guy who I see from time to time is named Luke. Comic book characters are his thing. He’ll dress up as, say, Deadpool, and I’ll string him up and clamp his nipples and dangle weights from his balls while I whale on his back with a flogger. He likes the outfits and the bondage but he’s not much into the roleplay aspect the way Riley was. I’m okay with that. I enjoy beating the hell out of his shoulders and ass and he gives me the feedback I want, namely a good solid “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!” while I dish out the abuse. Eventually he reaches his breaking point and the shouts turn to sobs and the tears come and then it’s time to get our dicks out and bring things to a happy ending.
I see Luke a couple times a year. We enjoy doing what we do where our interests overlap, but aside from that area, our tastes diverge too greatly. He’s really into the whole cosplay thing in its own right, for instance, not solely as an excuse to get tied up and thrashed. He goes to conventions and hangs out with other superheroes and furries and anime characters, and I’m just… yeah, no. It’s all good. He can do his thing, I can do mine, and sometimes those two things are the same and sometimes they aren’t.
So that explains my mindset as I was surfing for hookup partners a couple of weeks after that session with Probably-Will. I had hope – though only a tiny sliver of it – that I might be able to find someone who both likes dick and can put on a convincing show of hating it. A tall order, I know, and I wasn’t really expecting anything to come out of my scrolling through profiles. Why would this time be different from any of the times before?
I almost skipped over the one that turned out to be the golden nugget. The guy’s picture was nothing special and his one-sentence summary was… well, it was not promising. It said “Straight submissive man seeks gay dominant man for use, abuse”. I said “not promising”, but it sure seems like it would be, doesn’t it? A straight guy looking to be abused? Sounds ideal. A straight guy would be the perfect victim for me to sate my lust on. By definition, straight guys don’t crave dick, so if I were to feed mine to him, I would be guaranteed to get that choking, gagging, begging take-it-out-PLEASE reaction that I’m looking for.
But it’s a lie. Profiles like these are never written by men who are actually straight. Instead, they’re written by gay or bi guys who either are in denial about their dude-thirsting tendencies or who haven’t figured themselves out yet. Either way, the odds of getting an in-person meeting to take place are basically zip. These guys will never agree to a meetup. Instead they’ll talk up fantasies of being “forced” to do “nasty things” until they’ve got enough to blow their wads, then they disappear, leaving me frustrated that I’ve wasted my time with nothing to show for it.
So I mentally translated his profile to “repressed homo seeks fantasy jerkoff material but will bolt the instant things seem like they might get real” and almost scrolled on by. But I was feeling relaxed and in no particular hurry so I figured it might be fun to call his bluff. I pinged him with a message that said “Dominant gay man here seeking submissive hetero. Not interested in talking by text, let’s meet up to discuss in person. A public place, you choose date, time, location.” Clicked send. Your move, “straight” boy.
Further scrolling didn’t turn up anything new, so I found some porn to watch for ten minutes… okay, more like an hour because the world outside my windows had grown dark by the time the notification popped up on my screen: message from “substratum”. It said:
“Thank you for your response, Sir. To make sure I’ve understood You correctly, You want to set up a time to meet in a public place to discuss the parameters of any arrangement we might come to. Nothing beyond talk would happen at this meeting, and neither of us is committing to anything more than that for now. Have I understood Your intentions correctly? If not, please correct my misapprehensions, and if so, I will choose a time and place as You have instructed. Please allow me one day to make arrangements. Thank You, Sir.”
That was… not what I expected. First off, I was expecting no response at all, but secondly, if there was a response, I thought it would be an attempt to get me to provide him with the IM jerkoff fodder he was after. The last thing I expected was for him to seem to take me seriously. What was up with the thesaurus, though? “Parameters?” “Misapprehensions?” Also, the capital-letter “You”s and “Sir”s didn’t sit well. Too eager, too willing, the opposite of what I was looking for. But I figured sure, why not run with this and see where it goes. Worst that happens, I get coffee and conversation out of him. I sent him a quick “You have understood correctly,” and left the ball in his court.
2 – Coffee And Conversation
Ten AM, a Dunkin’ Donuts just like every other Dunkin’ Donuts. Late enough in the morning that the breakfast crush was past, but not so late that the place was deserted. If I were directing a porn flick, this is not the setting I would choose for the two main characters to have their meet-cute moment in. It lacks the punch of a darkened barroom after closing time or a deserted, crumbling warehouse strewn with rusting steel. But I was the one who had specified that this first meeting was just for talk in a public place. I couldn’t really complain that my so-called “straight” bottom boy had arranged for exactly that.
As for the so-called straight boy… either he would be here or he wouldn’t. If he was, then the odds of him actually being what he claimed he was would go up a little bit more. And if he wasn’t, well, I would treat myself to an extra muffin and assume I’d never hear from him again.
It didn’t take long to answer the question. As soon as I walked through the door, I spotted him. He had told me that he would be wearing a bright red shirt and holding a newspaper, which turned out to be a great pair of identifiers to use. The red shirt quickly caught my eye and the newspaper made it a sure match because a glance around the room was enough to show that no one else there was getting their news in day-old, ink-on-dried-wood-pulp format.
He knew who I was right away, too, because he was looking straight at me when I found him. I’d guess he was eyeing up everyone who walked through the door, ruling out half of them by gender and most of the other half by the fact that they went right to the counter and didn’t first take a minute to scan the room for red shirts and newspapers. I caught his eye and was pleased to see a hint of nervousness flicker across his face at the sight of me. That was a promising start, yes indeed.
I mentioned before that I have the build for a top. I like to think that I resemble Vin Diesel or Dwayne Johnson or Jason Momoa, and to a certain degree that’s true. I don’t have quite the good looks or the muscles those guys pack, but what I’ve got is not bad and I’m content with it. I have the height and I have the look that Mr. Diesel describes as being “of ambiguous ethnicity”. Put me in a polo shirt and khakis and I could pass just fine playing on the course at the Augusta National Golf Club in 1990; dress me in a sleeveless tank top and baggy shorts and those same golfers would wet themselves in fear on encountering me in the dark parking lot on their way home.
For this meeting I opted for the more conventionally respectable look, but the shirt was still tight across my chest and the sleeves hugged my biceps closely, leaving no room for doubt what was beneath the fabric. That sight would make a hungry gay bottom drool with anticipation, so the fact that this guy’s response – if my reading of that fleeting expression on his face was accurate – looked more like “oh, shit, what have I gotten myself into?”, then I was starting to feel better and better about this situation. What I hadn’t been able to figure out yet, and what continued to occupy my thoughts as I went up to the counter to fetch a coffee and a blueberry muffin, knowing his eyes would be glued to me the whole time, was: why? What was in it for him?
Cup and muffin in hand, I went over to join him at the table he had staked out with his newspaper. There were a few people nearby, a woman engrossed in her laptop two tables over and a couple talking animatedly three spots away on the other side, but the noise level in the shop was high enough that we would be able to talk without worrying about scandalizing the neighbors. He rose to greet me, and put out his hand to shake.
“Hi, I’m Owen. You must be Elias?” I nodded but didn’t say anything. Instead I held his hand firmly, not hard enough to make him wince but enough to let him feel the strength of the grip, while I let my eyes rove all the way down his body and then all the way back up again, making it clear that I was evaluating him like the piece of meat he was. Not a bad piece of meat, not bad at all. Smaller than me and skinnier, of course, but then few men are larger. The top of his head came up to my chin. Late thirties, maybe early forties, mouse-brown hair starting to thin just a tiny bit, good build, maybe a little bit soft but easy enough on the eye.
Only then did I answer. “Yes, that’s right. A pleasure to meet you, Owen.” One tiny extra squeeze on the word “pleasure”, then I let him go. He was unnerved, just as I had hoped he would be. Gay men are accustomed to having their bodies eyed up by other men. They enjoy it, or at least they do if they feel they have a body worth eyeing up. Straight men get uncomfortable when that happens. So far this guy was registering as straight in all the non-verbal ways I could think of to test him, so my curiosity was growing.
We sat down facing each other across the table and I took a sip of my coffee. “So, Owen, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself. I’m interested in learning about the man behind that profile writeup.”
“Ah, yes. Uh, sir. I, ah… pardon me, I’m a little nervous here.” A tiny chuckle. I took a bite of my muffin and watched him with a neutral expression on my face. “This is the first time I’ve done this so I haven’t had a whole lot of practice. I had a whole elevator speech planned but it has somehow gone straight out of my head.” I decided to take pity on him.
“You straight?” I asked.
He nodded, an abrupt jerk of the head. “Yes. Completely.”
“Not attracted to men at all?”
“That’s right. Sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir’.” It was good that the word was clearly an afterthought for him, not something that rolled off his tongue automatically, because I did not need yet another willing submissive. Still it was best to stop that behavior before it became a habit. “I think you know my next question, then?” I prompted.
“Right. Why.” I nodded with a “go on” look of encouragement and took another sip of coffee to make it clear I was done speaking. He did the same, stalling to collect his thoughts, perhaps.
“I am doing this to expand my horizons. Men and women differ, of course they’re different, god what a stupid, of course you know that, sorry…” he ground to a halt. I continued looking at him. He would either dig himself out of the hole his own nerves had dug for him or he wouldn’t; I’d already thrown him one lifeline. He paused to collect his thoughts and went on. “What I mean is, submitting to a man is different from submitting to a woman. While I enjoy submitting to women, and that’s where my main interest lies, there is always that, ah, clash where the man in a straight relationship is expected to be the stronger, more powerful, more assertive, more dominant one. It doesn’t have to be that way, of course, and for me and for many others it’s not the case, but there is cultural baggage all the same.
“Submitting to another man, though… that baggage isn’t there. With another man I can be expected to be the submissive one. A sufficiently large and strong man… and obviously you know you fit that description… could physically impose his will on me whether I cooperated or not and that is… intriguing to me. Looking at it from the outside, I mean.”
“From the outside?” I sort of had an idea what he might mean, but was curious to see if his idea matched mine.
He paused to take another sip of coffee. “I don’t know how deep you want me to go with this, but sometimes I feel like my situation is best described as there are two of me. One of them is living the experience and the other is watching and analyzing it. The one living the experience wants it but doesn’t want it, if that makes any sense? Like, in the abstract he wants discipline and orders to obey and punishment for breaking the rules and knows that at some point the abstract will become concrete, but he dreads the moment when those things actually happen. And the one watching, the analyzer, he’s like an anthropologist, he’s watching the one who’s living through it and taking notes on his reactions. He wants there to be infractions that bring on punishment because that provides something interesting for an anthropologist to study. Which is strange because the anthropologist will be living through the punishment too. I don’t think I’m doing a good job of explaining this. Does what I said make any sense?”
It kinda did, actually. Owen’s take on kink was no stranger than that of any of the other guys I’ve talked with. Everyone’s got his turn-ons and turn-offs. This was certainly less unusual than that guy from a couple of years ago who really, really, really wanted me to paint my skin blue before tying him up. Blue was his thing. (I declined, for the record. Blue is not my thing.) I’ve known a couple of guys who didn’t use the same words as Owen did to describe the two-self situation, but the concept was very similar. These guys would talk about getting themselves into situations they knew they would want to get out of and want me to be the heavy who keeps them in it. “It’s not bondage until you want out,” right? Sadly, none of them were local. No, that’s not true: Will sort of fit that mold, come to think of it, in that “make me lick my gunk off your dick” scene. Will’s desires were tame, though, and it sounded like Owen was looking for something heavier. Well, so was I. If Owen was saying what I thought he was saying, I could definitely see this working out.
I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I understand. You want to be forced, but you want to not want to be forced.” I played back in my mind the words I had just spoken out loud, then grinned and chuckled. “Hell, I’m doing a worse job than you are.”
He relaxed ever so slightly then with a little burst of breathy laughter. His words were coming strong and clear now, no hint of the hesitation he had shown at the start of the conversation. “No, you’ve got it just right. I want to submit, knowing that I will be made to do things I do not want to do. Things that will not be pleasant for me. But in submitting, I accept that those things will happen.”
“And do you have specific ideas in mind as to what those things might be?” This is the part I was expecting to get to in the text-chat portion of the interaction, the tawdry details of abasement and humiliation and “ooh, daddy, whip me, beat me, make me incur overdraft fees on my checking account!” But he surprised me again.
“Not really, no. I mean, vague ideas, of course. Sex would probably be involved. Which, honestly, looking at you, is pretty terrifying. That’s my anthropologist side speaking, of course. My sub side is quivering like a pigeon hoping the falcon will somehow not notice him. And yet, perversely, also hoping it does.”
That made me feel good. Very good indeed.
“But as for the details, no, not really. Some sort of bondage, some sort of discomfort or even pain, but really the details don’t matter. What matters to me is the act of submitting, of letting go of control, and one consequence of letting go of control is that I don’t get to say what happens next.”
I was getting happier and happier at what I was hearing. Meeting in person was the right call, for sure. If I had read these things on a screen I wouldn’t have believed him but hearing him say it to my face made it easier to accept that he meant it. I think I’m fairly good at reading people and he came across as genuine.
“Well, Owen, I can tell you that I like the sound of what I’m hearing. I am looking for exactly what you’re offering, which is the chance to inflict some male-on-male sex, and bondage, and discomfort, and even pain, on someone who doesn’t want it. I want to hurt you and push your limits, but not to the point where you’re actually harmed because I want you to keep coming back again and again for more. Even though you quote-hate it, right? I want to stretch you and bend you, but not break you. Sounds like your anthropologist and I can hash out some details, then your sub side is stuck with whatever the anthropologist agrees to on his behalf. Want to pick a time to meet? I can provide the place.”
“Ah, there is, uh, one more thing I need to mention. I’m not single.”
Ah, crap. Didn’t see that coming. Probably should have, but didn’t. Totally obvious: he was looking for someone to fill in the gaps of whatever he was missing in his sex life at home. “You have a girlfriend? Oh, yeah, that changes things. I don’t want to get in the middle, be something you have to hide on the side. Damn, that’s a shame. Definitely get in touch if you ever break up with her, though, okay man?”
I started to stand up but he gestured me back down. “No, no, it’s not like that. She’s on board with this. In fact, this whole thing is her idea.”
Seriously? I sat back down with a look of extreme skepticism on my face. “I dunno, man, something doesn’t sound right here.”
“No, it’s true,” he said. “The lady in my life has asked me to do this. I call her my Donna.” He pronounced it funny, not like the name but rather with an N so drawn out that it almost seemed like its own syllable: DAWN-n-nah.
“She is the dominant in my life and I serve her. She has had… intimate experiences with both men and women and she has expressed an interest in having me… ah… open up to… activities… possibilities… that I would not seek out on my own.”
He was starting to fumble for words again. Based on what he had said, though, I was starting to understand why. The analyst, the anthropologist, had been in charge of the conversation for the last several minutes. Now he was getting nervous again; the terrified pigeon was taking over, and the terrified pigeon wasn’t able to express its thoughts very articulately. Why the sudden change? The prospect of man sex? Was he looking at my large, well-muscled body and imagining it taking charge of his smaller one? Okay, I could play that angle up. “She wants to watch you get it on with a dude,” I said, giving just a hint of a leer.
“I… I’m not sure. Possibly? She tells me what to do but not always why to do it. The… in the past she has outsourced her control over me to others a few times, lending me out other female dommes. Now she thinks it is time for me to… ah… branch out.”
“Okay, this is setting off some alarm bells. Sounds like you’re in a position where you can’t make unilateral decisions and I definitely don’t want to be stepping on what your lady friend might consider to be her territory, so I’ll just –”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. She wanted to meet you before we set anything up. Ma’am?”
With that, he turned to his right, my left, and I suddenly realized that the woman sitting at the table beyond the one next to us had not been engrossed in her laptop while we had been talking after all, but had instead been listening to every word. I frantically tried to replay everything I had said in the hope that none of it was too hetero-dismissive or downright misogynistic, and suddenly I was the one on edge and nervous. This was unfamiliar territory!
She stood up and offered her hand for a shake, so I did the same, definitely holding back on the squeeze this time. “Hi, I’m Arianne.” She then came over and joined us at our table, setting the laptop down on the fourth chair. “I’m sorry to spring this on you by surprise. Please forgive the small deception. I’ve found that it helps me judge the character of a potential loaner dom for my submissive if he doesn’t realize I’m watching him.”
DAMN! How had I not noticed that! Usually I’m much better at observing my surroundings, reading the room. But no, Arianne’s surveillance hadn’t even registered in my brain. Maybe because she was a “she”? I would have to definitely ponder that at some point, but not now. I tried to get myself back under control and hoped that my lapse hadn’t been too visible.
“I take it I passed your inspection?” I asked.
“You did,” she said, without elaborating. When it became clear she wasn’t going to explain any further, I pushed. I needed to know. “What would it have taken to fail?”
“Noticing me,” she replied. Well! That made my failure to notice taste a little better!
Owen looked over at her and some sort of signal passed between them, then he picked up the explanation. “In, uh, our, well, in her experience… this is all brand new to me… ah, anyway. A large proportion of the men who respond to an ad from a dominant woman and her submissive man are looking to get into not his pants but hers. We therefore posted an ad from me, not from us, to try to improve the odds. She watched you while we talked and presumably saw that you paid her no attention at all, no subtle glances while supposedly sipping your coffee or sneak peeks while scratching your nose. She is a woman most men would consider attractive – and I certainly find her to be!” – this with a grin in her direction – “but you were focused entirely on, well, me. She would have concluded that it is me you are interested in and that it was safe for her to come join the discussion. Ma’am?”
Arianne nodded. How about that! She had been applying to me the same tests that I had been applying to her sub, only in reverse! I had been looking for non-verbal signs of straightness in him; she had been looking for signs of gayness in me. I had to cough up some grudging respect for that. Still did not make me feel any better about the things I hadn’t noticed, though! And Owen had flicked right back into anthropologist mode when he was speaking on behalf of his Donna: calm, steady words. This was getting interesting!
She was indeed a beautiful woman. She had the same sort of ambiguous-ethnicity thing going on as I did. In her case it manifested as a sort of olive-skinned, long-black-hair, could-be-white-could-be-Middle-Eastern-could-be-Asian look. Possibly even Polynesian or some combination of any or all of those. It was impossible to tell visually. She was dressed in well-fitted but not attention-grabbing clothes, with just a hint of makeup. I don’t know much about cosmetics and their usage, but I do know that when done right, makeup enhances a face’s beauty without being itself noticeable. The overall look was understated and gave off an air of competence, confidence, and poise. Even when leaning across the table to set the laptop down on the far side, her movements had been measured, precise, graceful, like a cat. Owen’s movements, on the other hand, were more birdlike, swift and sudden. Fitting metaphors for their relationship, I guess!
I directed the conversation back toward her. “So… what Owen told me is accurate, then? This is your idea, to broaden your sub’s horizons by lending him out to someone like me?”
“That, yes. There may be other possibilities as well.” I waited, but once again she did not elaborate further. This woman was not much of a talker, it seemed. Some sort of feminine-mystique thing, maybe? There was a moment of not-quite-awkward silence, which I filled before it could become full-on uncomfortable. I needed to get to where I was feeling back in charge again, back on familiar ground.
“I have to say… this is not a situation I ever expected to be in. I don’t mean any offense by this, but I have absolutely zero interest in lady parts in the bedroom and if either of you were thinking of anything like a three-person scenario either now or down the road, I am not the right guy to be that third person.” I saw Owen getting ready to interject so I steamed ahead. “Now from what your sub just said, that’s not on the table for you either, so it sounds like we’re on the same page. I do want to be clear up front about that, though. That’s a hard line for me, one I won’t cross.”
This time she didn’t even speak, just inclined her head at an angle and raised an eyebrow at me. Well, I’d made my point. “Now, I like what I see in your sub and I’m pretty sure I would enjoy getting my hands on him, but right now he’s as nervous as a trapped rabbit. Honestly, that’s very appealing, and if you decide that I’m the right man for this job you’re interviewing for, I hope he’s as tense and on edge when I’ve got him tied up as he is right now. But this meeting is not the time for that. Perhaps we could talk about anything else while we get to know each other and maybe he’ll calm down a bit.”
And so that’s what we did. Bit by bit, Owen started to relax and Arianne started to open up, though I don’t think she ever said more than three sentences in a row. I learned that she was a counselor who focused on relationship issues, both conventional marriages and other sorts of arrangements: polyamorous situations, kink-based relationships. Owen was actually “Doctor Owen”, a professor at West Chicago College with a Ph.D. in biology. That explained, or at least fit with, the way he sometimes sounded like a wikipedia article when he spoke. His particular research area was mycology, which I had to ask for a definition of. Turns out it means “fungi”, which only confused me more because he pronounced it “fun-jai” and I’ve always heard it as “fun-guy” before so there was a brief bit of Abbott-and-Costello routine until I figured out what he meant. After that I just avoided the word entirely, or tried to. I think I may have said “funguses” once in my attempts to not have to say the other form, but he politely didn’t wince. They in turn learned that I’m a personal trainer (which did not surprise them) and yoga instructor (which did; it always does when people learn that about me).
“So do you, like, go out into fields and exotic rain forests and such looking for new kinds of mushrooms?” I asked at one point.
Owen chuckled. “Well, I used to. There tend to be two types of researcher: those who like to get their hands dirty in the real world and those who are happier in a lab. I am definitely the second kind, but I have done my share of traipsing through swamps and forests gathering samples. There was a trip once to Croatan Forest in North Carolina… that was the worst! It’s like a smaller version of the Everglades where there really isn’t a clear boundary between land and water. You can’t walk easily, but you can’t get a canoe into all the places you want to get to either. I had wading pants on, but they only keep out so much. You’d need a full wetsuit to really stay clean and dry. I was finding mud in unexpected places for days after I got home from that trip!”
He paused to chuckle, looked down at his coffee cup and lifted it to take a sip. I glanced over at Arianne to see if she was thinking the same thought I was thinking. I tried to communicate in her style, using just a raised eyebrow to say “seems your boy doesn’t like gettin’ dirty. I can work with that.” She responded with an eyebrow movement of her own that I hoped meant “be my guest, I’d love to see what you come up with.” But it’s possible she thought our eyebrows were saying “I need a refill” and “Sure is hot outside.” Whatever messages they conveyed, Owen didn’t notice.
“But now I have grad students for that! They go out and get the samples and I spend my time with the gene sequencer and the scanning microscope. And writing, of course. Endless writing.”
By the time the lunch crowd started to filter in, we had had another coffee and pastry each and things were looking good on both sides. I definitely liked what I saw in Owen and as long as my interaction with Arianne could be kept at the handoff level, I could see this working out. They both seemed on board as well. Arianne’s body language was hard to read but I nevertheless got the sense I was making a good impression. Anthropologist Owen, toward the end, was able to talk without stammering about things that could be done to Terrified-Pigeon Owen. It was a promising beginning.
I had two more topics I wanted to get confirmation on, though, so as things were starting to feel like they were nearing a wrap-up point, I asked if Arianne minded if Owen and I took a walk around the parking lot. I even spelled out why: “I’ve only ever heard him speak while you were monitoring him. I just want to reassure myself that he’ll say the same things when you’re not around to hear.”
So off we went for a stroll around the building and I told him half-jokingly, “okay, if you need to be rescued, blink out S-O-S with your eyelids as we talk” but nope, he stuck to the same script even with his Donna out of earshot. “I have given her consent to do whatever she wants with me, within limits she and I have discussed,” he said. “If she decides to let you borrow me, I accept that even though it’s not what I would choose.”
“So that part when we first talked, where you said you wanted to expand your horizons… that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Your Donna is the one who wants to expand your horizons, right?”
“Yes, that’s more accurate. I mean, I sort of want to want it too, because she wants me to? But I also don’t.”
I stopped walking and spun to face him. He paused as well and I was able to look him in the eye. “Owen. Tell me truthfully here. How does the prospect of man sex really make you feel?”
He paused to gather his thoughts. “It’s complicated. There’s no short answer that doesn’t oversimplify. But in a few words: nervous, apprehensive… but also a bit intrigued.”
“Those are good words,” I said, stepping a little bit closer to him. He retreated, matching me step for step. “I like those words a lot.”
Finally I broke off eye contact and resumed walking. After one lap past the dumpsters I asked him to wait in the parking lot while I went back in to talk with Arianne alone.
“One more thing. If you decide to let me have a crack at Owen, you should know that one thing I am after is his fear. I want you to know that he is totally safe in my hands, but I want him to think there’s a chance I might be a raging, unpredictable maniac. Obviously, as time goes by and we have more sessions – if that’s something we all choose to do – then he’ll start to recognize a pattern where I’ll push him hard but he always comes through okay. Still, I think it’s important that the aftercare comes from you. You should be the one to help him back to reality after a scene is over. You bring him comfort; I bring him dread. I want his sphincter to clench up every time he sees me walk into a room. Is that an arrangement you can work with?”
“That meshes well with what I had in mind.” I had seen the slightest hint of a smile form upon her face when telling her I wanted his fear and again when talking about his sphincter clenching up, so I hoped this meant I had passed the interview and gotten the job.
“Excellent. Want to discuss details of a possible first scene now, or would you and Owen like to talk things over first?”
Sadly, she went with the second option, but I wasn’t too disappointed; I was pretty confident I’d get my hands on him before too long.
3 – A Walk In The Woods
Late afternoon toward the end of August in a wooded patch of southern Wisconsin. A car pulled up and stopped at the side of the road. For a long time, nothing happened. Then the door opened. A naked man slowly climbed out. He closed the door. The car drove off. The man glanced around, totally failing to notice me in my hiding place in a stand of brush.
There aren’t a whole lot of wooded patches in and around Chicago so it had taken a couple of hours for each of us to reach this place, but this was the setting I wanted to use for our first session. From age ten to fourteen I spent a week of each summer camping here at what was then called Camp Kenoboshogee. I lost interest in scouty things by the following year, and the camp closed down not too long after that, but at one point in my life, I had known these woods pretty darn well. Now, of course, more than fifteen years later things had changed a bit, as a brief recon trip to check the place out a couple of weeks ago had revealed. Still, it hadn’t changed too much. A decade or two isn’t all that much to a tree. One change: the land had a new owner since Camp Kenoboshogee closed, but I had checked and it turned out to be a bank in New York. Odds were very, very good that no one was going to care about, complain about, or even notice our presence here tonight.
It wasn’t Arianne’s first choice – she had something both closer and more conventionally dungeony in mind and was not a big fan of the outdoors. But that was the opening I used to convince her: Owen was also no fan of the outdoors, as he had made clear during our chat at Chez Dunkin. I preferred a situation that yanked him out of his comfort zone and I was glad when she agreed with that reasoning. And while this wasn’t exactly home for me either, I had felt an incredible sense of familiarity as I’d wandered around during that recon trip. It all came back to me without even trying to remember. Like, I would start out along a path and suddenly I would know where it would lead and how it would circle around back on another, as if the knowledge had been beamed into my brain. It was a very strange feeling! But a very useful one since that knowledge gave me yet one more advantage over Owen.
The other major point of negotiation was that she had wanted to monitor our first session together. Totally understandable; this was her property she was loaning out and she wanted to make sure I treated it with sufficient care. But I really didn’t like the idea of having a woman hovering nearby watching me feed my dick to a victim, even if it was her victim I was feeding it to. What we eventually agreed to was that I would wear one of those head-mounted cameras so she could watch through my eyes and hear through my ears. This I could accept. While total privacy would have been my preference, as long as she wasn’t right there in person with me while the dirty deed was done I could deal with it. We also did the STD-test dance where all three of us got checked and relayed the all-clear to the others. None of us wanted to catch anything unpleasant from anyone else.
The key part was that Owen knew nothing of the preparations that his Donna and I had put into this session. He knew that Arianne would be setting something up with me, and he would deduce from the bug check that she was planning on allowing me to swap sticky stuff with him, but he had no idea of the details or of the amount of planning that had gone into arranging this first date. From his point of view, this was all spontaneous and unplanned and he would react accordingly… and I would eat up every terrified, white-eyed, whimpering reaction he delivered.
She would have told him the rules: I was the hunter, he was the prey. If I caught him in an hour or less, I would get to fuck his ass as my reward. If he eluded me for an hour but I found him in the hour after that, my reward would be to fuck his face instead. And if he successfully avoided me for two hours, he was home free. Let me state up front as one of the two authors of this thoroughly-scripted event: there was exactly zero chance of that last option coming to pass.
So there he stood by the side of the road, looking around and trying to decide what to do. He had practically nothing to assist him. She had had him remove every stitch of clothing except for socks and shoes – he was bare-ass naked in the glow of the low-hanging sun. The only other item he wore was an ankle monitor, a GPS device locked around his leg that regularly broadcast his location. His Donna had told him this was for his safety. She didn’t fully trust me and wanted to be sure she could find him whatever may happen. That bit was actually her idea and I loved it because it would amp up his fear and uncertainty. What he didn’t know was that I also had a gadget tuned to that same ankle monitor and could also find him wherever he went.
His choices were the same choices any prey animal faced: run, hide, fight. His doctoral degree in mushroomology was useless to him here; in these woods he wasn’t going to be observing spore dispersal patterns or explaining mitosis to sleepy students or fine-tuning his next paper for publication. Here he was just an animal. His higher brain functions may never have lived an experience like this before, but his lower brain was the product of millions of years of evolutionary engineering. It knew what to do, and it would be filling his body with the appropriate chemicals to make him act in the way most likely to save his skin from the predator it knew was out there somewhere: me.
He climbed through a slightly-less-thick patch in the wall of bushes by the road. The brush is always thickest by the roadsides because that’s where the light reaches down to ground level. Once he got in under the canopy the obstacles around his feet thinned out a bit. This was both good and bad for him – good in that he could walk without getting scratches on his skin like the ones he had just inflicted upon himself in his passage through the thicket by the road; bad in that there were few ground-level hiding places. Too bad you can’t fly, little pigeon.
He tried, though. I watched him look up along a couple of tree trunks, evaluating the possibilities. He must have decided it was too unlikely to even attempt because he kept walking, eventually moving out of my view. I let him go. The monitoring gadget in my pocket would lead me straight to him when I was ready for him.
But I wasn’t ready for that. Scripted as this might be, I wanted to enjoy the thrill of the hunt a bit before closing in for the kill. I wanted to give him a fifteen-minute head start but I was just too keyed up and eager to begin, and so it was more like ten. I quietly stood up and emerged from my hiding place, then, to compensate for my early start, I set off at an angle to the direction Owen had disappeared in rather than pursuing him directly. My booted feet were not silent on the forest floor, but I didn’t care. If he heard me at this point, that was no big deal. Later on I would make sure that he knew I was coming for him.
I was feeling good, strong and confident, limber in the limbs. I was a city boy just as much as Owen was, but somehow I was in my element here. My prey was out there somewhere and I would find it and take it. I was the alpha, the top dog, the pinnacle of the food chain, and I was hungry, sooooooo damn hungry. My cock was pulsing and half-hard in my pants as I strode through the shade.
Ten minutes later it was time to let the prey know I was after him. I curved my path toward the direction he had gone and started calling out. “Doctor Ooooooooo-wen! Hey, doc, I know you’re out there! I’m coming for you! Come on, give me a clue! Tell me where you’re hiding! Squeal like the little piggy you are!” I hadn’t checked the GPS to see how near he was so I had no idea if my words reached his ears. Maybe he heard them; maybe not. Maybe all he heard was the growl of my voice, which I deliberately kept low and rumbling. Great for inducing stress, not so great for clarity of enunciation. Hopefully he would catch the title “doctor” at some point and it would have the desired effect of reminding him how totally useless his educational background was in this environment.
Only after I had been calling for a few minutes did I remember that Arianne was monitoring my words. I had a brief moment of oh-shit, but then remembered that she knew this was all scripted, even if I was ad-libbing the specific lines. It felt weird to have an audience, but I figured the best thing to do was try to put it out of my mind and just live the experience.
I passed a low-lying depression in the ground. There hadn’t been any recent rain so the forest floor was mostly dry, but in this patch there was moisture. A bit of mud stuck to my boots and I thought back to Riley and the way he looked so sexy when his soldier gear was all mudded up, so I paused to kneel down and get my own clothes a bit sloppy. Unlike Owen, I was fully decked out in location-appropriate clothing and gear. Drab colors with random patterns in tan and olive and grey, not full-on camouflage but close. The contrast in our outfits appealed to me: he was an animal; I was a man. There was a practical aspect, too, in that I had plenty of spacious pockets and loops and hooks for carrying whatever I might need to subdue my quarry. And until now, all of it was clean and dry. I scooped up a couple of handfuls of moist earth and started smearing. Not a full coating of mud, just a few splatters here and there on face, chest, arms, legs, all over. I liked it, both the look and the feel. As if I belonged out here, as if I’d been on the hunt for days rather than minutes.
More stalking, more taunting calls. What was my prey thinking right now? Alone, naked, scared, with nowhere to run and precious few hiding places? I started inspecting each one I found, looking at each clump of bushes, but none contained a quivering, shivering Ph.D. I checked the heights as well, just in case my prey had indeed sprouted wings and managed to reach the treetops in his adrenaline-fueled desperation to escape, but he was not there either.
Time to check the clock and the GPS device. While I was inside one of the bushy clumps, out of sight just in case he was nearby and watching, I broke out the tech and looked. My estimate of the time was good – half an hour – but about his location I was not even close. Either he had veered away on his initial flight from the dropoff point or I had misjudged my own trail through the forest. Or both. He was far enough away that he probably hadn’t heard me calling. Ah, well. I was disappointed with myself at first, but then recognized that this was actually good news. The script called for me to catch him during the last half hour, to maximize both his time spent in this scary environment as well as his hopes that he might actually win while still ensuring he did not, so this meant I would not have to stall quite so much. Of course, he didn’t have a watch, so I would need to let him know what the time was in my taunting shouts.
Off I went in the direction the device had indicated, making plenty of noise with my booted feet on the ground and my growling voice in the air. “Doctor Oooooooo-wen! Come out, come out, wherever you are! I’ve got a big surprise for you!” and so on. Big surprise indeed – my dick was still half-hard at the thought of what my prey must be feeling at this moment.
The forest canopy thinned and the underbrush grew correspondingly thicker. My quarry had found good territory for hiding. I broke out the GPS once more as I was getting near to his last location and it showed he had not moved, so I tucked the device out of sight and set off on a path that would take me near his hiding place, but not too near. He would see and hear me and think that I had no idea where he was. My dick grew a tiny bit stiffer at the anticipation of the moment of discovery.
“You know it’s hopeless,” I called as I drew near to him. “Give up now and I’ll go easy on you. Maybe even let you lube my dick up with your spit before I shove it up your ass. Mmmmm… bet that hole is clenched up niiiiice and tight right now. Can’t wait to feel that tight, tight squeeze. Come on, Doctor Owen. You know you can’t win. There’s still…” – a pause while I checked my watch – “… eighty minutes to go. You’ll never make it that long. Give up now and I promise I’ll make it not hurt toooo bad. Hell, you might even enjoy it.” Lies, all of it. I didn’t want him to give up – that would ruin the whole experience! I wanted him to stay hidden right where he was, thinking he was safe, until the moment when I “happened” to come across his safe space and bust it wide open, sending him scrambling and scurrying away from my stomping footsteps…
Damn, my dick was fully hard now so I grabbed my crotch and gave it a squeeze, knowing he was most likely peering out from behind some rock or branch, watching me prep the weapon of his destruction. I kept on walking, beating at the bushes that I passed, continuing to call out his name as I slowly moved away from him. When I was far enough away I ducked behind a tree trunk and checked the GPS once more. He still hadn’t moved. Good call, since clearly (from his perspective) his hiding place was an effective one. I sat down and leaned against the tree trunk, fantasizing about the scene that was to come.
Right now my prey would be feeling relief. He had seen his predator from a distance and gone undiscovered. But in about two minutes that relief would start to fade and be replaced with anxiety again. When I was visible and audible, he knew where I was, and though the sight and sound of me was terrifying, it was a known terror in a known location. But now I had gone silent and invisible. I could be anywhere. In about ten more minutes, his own imagination would scare him far more than my actual presence would.
But I couldn’t resist injecting my actual presence anyway. I waited ten minutes, idly stroking my dick, then checked the GPS once more – still in the same place. I set a course that would take me right past him, passing by on his other side this time, much closer to where he waited.
I walked silently this time, or as silently as I could given my lack of woodcraft skills and heavy boots. It was inevitable that I would step on twigs that would snap under my feet or pass through branches that made swishing noises against the khaki fabric covering my legs. But I tried to step irregularly so that the sounds would blend into the background as much as possible. As much as I had enjoyed strutting through the woods as top dog before, advertising my dominance with every step, this was good too: a silent hunter is an effective hunter.
As I drew near to his hiding place, I muttered quietly under my breath, knowing that the tone of my voice would reach his ears even if the actual words didn’t: “where the fuck are you, you little cocksucker? Goddamn little pig, gonna spit-roast your ass when I find you, gonna fuck you up so bad…”
His hiding place was a good one, so good that it would have been foolish of me not to check it out. But if I checked it, I would find him, and then it would be game over too soon. So I couldn’t check it, but I couldn’t pass it by without arousing his suspicion. If I had walked past that patch of rock and brush, he would have known something was amiss. Smart man that he is, he would probably – eventually, if his hammering heart would let him think clearly – figure out that I was toying with him, which would have reminded him that this was a game and therefore ruin the experience. So instead, while I was still several steps away, I whipped around as if I had heard something behind me. I stood there for a few seconds, staring intently back the direction I had come from, then made my way silently back toward the source of the imaginary sound.
Close encounter number two. Owen’s heart was no doubt attempting to leap out through his throat. My dick was attempting to do the same through my zipper.
I roamed the woods for a bit, killing time until the first hour had lapsed. I called out then, turning around and around as if I had no idea where he was. “Okay, Owen, congratulations, you managed to last an hour. Well done. Now give up and come out quietly like a good little piggy. Don’t make me have to flush you out.” Repeated a few times to ensure he heard. Thankfully, he did not surprise me by emerging from his hiding place.
I wandered off in the wrong direction to mess with his head some more, re-verified his location while I was out of sight, then slowly made my way back toward his clump of bushes. The sun was considerably lower and darkness would be setting in soon, even sooner here under the canopy than on the surrounding plains and fields. I was prepared for that, with a flashlight tucked away in one of my many pockets. He was not. More fear and helplessness on top of what he was already feeling.
An hour and twenty minutes in. Time to start the kill sequence. Things were starting to get dim so I pulled the flashlight out of my pocket and held it at the ready in my hand, not yet lit up. I had originally thought to head straight back to his lair but then realized that would not work – if I “found” him at close quarters his natural submissive nature would take over and he would give up. I needed to “discover” him at a distance and thus encourage him to run, so I circled around the area until I was downwind of him. There wasn’t much of a breeze under the leaves, but there was enough that this would be convincing. I hoped. When I was in place but still fairly far from his hideout, I bellowed a loud “Oh HO!” On went the flashlight, its beam waving around the bushes. “I SMELL FEAR!” The light wasn’t really necessary; there was still enough daylight to see well by, but the beam would tell him where my attention was focused. “Can’t disguise that scent, that is the stink of a terrified doctor rabbit! Where are you hiding, little rabbit? I know you’re close.” Pig, rabbit, pigeon… I wasn’t being consistent with my prey animals, but did not care a bit. Flick, flick, flick went the beam, darting from one clump of brush to the next until…
“AHA! FOUND YOU, DOC!” I probably wouldn’t have spotted him if I hadn’t known right where to look, but since I did he was easy to pick out. The beam of the flashlight lit up a patch of green leaves, brown branches… and pale skin. Poor fella didn’t have many resources available to him, but there was one he had in abundance – dirt – and he hadn’t even tried to disguise himself with it. Well, I would make sure to get him good and slopped up before I was done with him.
Owen didn’t move, thinking maybe that I was faking having found him? Or frozen with fear, perhaps? Well, I wanted a chase scene, and if he needed a bit of encouragement to make that happen, I could provide some. I tucked the flashlight away, pulled down my zipper and fished my erect dick out to poke through the hole as I slowly strode toward where he cowered. “You have two choices, little piggy. Since I missed my window to stick this up your ass, you’re going to have to get me off with your mouth. Now, I’m pretty horned up but I’m still a long way from shooting my load, and I’m gonna need some stimulation to get there. You can either provide that stimulation by choking and gagging on my dick or by getting my blood pumping some other way.” He finally started to emerge from the bushes. Even though I was still a good distance away, I could see that his skin was scratched all over from scraping through the stiff branches. Little red welts marked his whole body, as if he had been lashed by a tiny sadist wielding a finger-length flogger. He was shaking his head from side to side and I could see his lips forming the word “no” over and over, though no sound reached my ears. “So unless you want to spend the next half hour fighting your gag reflex and hoping I remember to let you breathe from time to time, I suggest you FUCKING RUN.”
He got the message. He turned tail and scrambled through the woods. I roared like a lion and set off after him, not running but covering a lot of ground with each stride. Tracking him was trivially easy – I could see him, I could hear his crashing footsteps, and the trail he left behind was blatantly clear. Every now and then some twist of the path would take him briefly out of visual range, but the sounds he was making always gave away his location, so there was never any danger that I would need to break out the GPS again. I could hear his rasping breath, the crunching of twigs beneath his feet, the scrape of leaves on skin, and I could even hear, from time to time, the word “no” that he kept repeating, sometimes switching things up with a “this can’t be happening” or an occasional “shit”.
I kept goading him on, never rushing but never slacking either. “That’s it, Doctor Piggy, move those little trotters. Keep it up for another half an hour and maybe you won’t have to choke on my dick after all.” Our chase was a lopsided one. Owen would scramble ahead, then pause to look behind to see how close I had come and maybe catch his breath for a moment. I, on the other hand, made steady, relentless progress toward him, dick still poking out in the air, hungry for the meat I would soon capture.
He tripped once and landed face down in the dirt, but picked himself up right away and kept plunging ahead. I had timed it well – night was falling fast and even in the five minutes since I had “found” him the woods had grown noticeably darker. This slowed him down, making it possible for me to keep pace with him even though he was scrambling and I was taking long, measured walking strides. This game was 100% rigged right down to the timing of the sunset. I slowed my pace a bit to prolong the chase so he’d be good and tired by the time I caught him.
Five minutes later the woods were dark indeed. Owen had tripped twice more over obstacles that were increasingly difficult to see; I had the flashlight to illuminate my own footing. Occasionally I would flick it at his fleeing back, lighting up his world with a crazily-shifting beam that probably made things worse for him instead of better. All the while I continued taunting him from behind with graphic threats of what was going to happen when I caught him.
All too soon, he tired, but I wasn’t ready for this stage to be over just yet. He stopped, chest heaving, lungs laboring for air, and turned toward me, arms raised in prelude to some sort of plea that I had no interest in hearing. Before he could get any words out, I cut him off and, from some twenty steps away, bellowed at the top of my lungs, “RUN YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”. Somehow he found a bit more fuel in the tank. He spun around, almost falling over again, and took off once more, but the end was near and we both knew it. To his credit, he kept going for another couple of minutes, but the combination of darkness and his exhaustion slowed him so much that I was able to catch up with him without ever having to break into a run myself.
I don’t think he knew I was right behind him until my hand closed around his arm because he jumped at the contact. I closed my fist and held tight, spinning him around to face me. I’d have loved to have tripped him and knocked him to the ground, but that could have injured him so instead I pulled his arm downward until he sank to his knees, wheezing and gasping for air. Then, with my other hand on his shoulder, I pushed him backward until he had to reach out for the ground with his free hand to ease his way down until he was lying on his back and staring up into the face of his conqueror.
“Got you, you little cocksucker.” I laid his hands out on either side of his head and pressed my knees into his upper arms, my legs straddling his chest. My dick, still throbbingly hard and sticking out from my open fly, was inches from his lips and he probably thought he was going to have to start providing it with service right away. But no, I had a few other humiliations in mind for him before that would happen.
First up was that slopping up I had thought about earlier. It was a shame that our chase hadn’t ended in that muddy patch I had come across earlier, but there was dirt to be found pretty much everywhere and he had worked up a good sweat while I had been running him. Dirt + water = mud, simple. I scooped up a nice-sized handful and pressed it into his chest, then rubbed it all over the parts of his body that I could reach – ribs, arms, sides. The combination turned to mud quickly enough. “There,” I told him as I worked. “Up close and personal with your favorite samples. Gotta be a few million spores in there, wouldn’t you say?”
He was still breathing too hard to form coherent sentences, but he tried, bless his academic little heart. “No… spores would be… airborne.” I was moving the moment the first syllable came out. By the time he wheezed out the last word my forearm was lying sideways across his throat. Not pushing hard, but applying enough pressure to let him know that I could apply a lot more. My face was right down against his as I spoke.
“You sure say ‘no’ a lot, doncha, doc? Heh. Doctor No.” It was an improvised line, just came to me on the spur of the moment, and I snickered at my own joke. “I like hearing you say it. Tells me I’m on the right track with what I’m doing. I want to hear a lot more ‘no’ out of you before the night is through. But doc, a tip? I don’t actually give a fuck how much mushroom shit is in that dirt. Save it for the classroom.”
I sat up, got a second handful of dirt and pressed it against his forehead, coating his scalp and cheeks with it. Then I flipped him over. His back was already muddy from where his sweaty body had lain in the dirt, and some twigs and leaves and random other scraps were stuck to his skin as well. I pushed his face down into the dirt and rolled it side to side a bit while he lay there unresisting. “There ya go, Doctor No. Now you look like the filthy pig you are.”
Time for some rope. I pulled a length out of one of my pockets, pulled his hands down behind the small of his back, and set about tying them together, nice and secure. Then I went to bind his feet, not directly together but with a short length of rope between so he would be hobbled but not completely immobilized. That’s when I “discovered” the ankle monitor.
“Oho! What’s this? Mommy’s keeping tabs on her pet, eh? Well, I don’t think I like that. I think Mommy doesn’t need to know what her pet gets up to when he’s off her leash and on mine.” Predictably, the first word out of his mouth was “no,” followed by some other protests, which I ignored because his words couldn’t stop me from whipping a knife out and slicing right through the band that secured it to his ankle. I tossed the thing off in a random direction, eating up the sound of terror in his gasping voice. He wouldn’t know that his every reaction was still visible to his Donna, at least as long as my face was pointed toward him, because the headset camera was small and discreet and well-hidden in the headband I was wearing. As far as he was concerned, I was going rogue, making this all the more real. And even though I knew it was all safe and scripted, I was still able to get swept up in the fantasy, living it as if it was reality. Because it was reality for Owen, and therefore for me through him.
Gawd, this was great! I had a straight man bound and helpless, mudded up and panting, totally at my mercy! And in a way that I wouldn’t get arrested for it afterward!
“Speaking of leashes…” I wrapped one more rope a couple of times around his neck, snug but not too tight, and left a good long lead on it. “Time to put some distance between you and that little tattletale. I don’t want Mommy coming by and interrupting us just when things are getting good.” I hauled him to his feet and we set off through the gloom. I got the flashlight out to pick my way across the forest floor, leading him to a spot I had picked out on my earlier recon trip, not too far from the road but not in sight of it. With every step, the security of his safety blanket receded further out of reach. I set a pace that was necessarily slow due to his hobbled feet, but I did make sure to tug on the leash plenty to remind him that the leisurely stroll was a privilege that could be revoked and turned into a far-less-pleasant drag at any moment. One hand for the flashlight and one for the rope meant none to massage my dick, still waving out through my opened fly, but it stayed good and hard anyway.
We reached the spot I had selected and I had him kneel down in front of a good thick-trunked tree. His stream of “no” had stopped; perhaps he had resigned himself to his fate. I loosened the ankle rope and re-tied it so that his legs went on either side of the tree, then wrapped the leash around the trunk and tied it to itself. He was attached to the tree at neck and ankles, hands pinned uselessly behind him, mouth at the perfect height for the job I needed it to do. The night was now fully dark so I walked a little way to the side and propped the flashlight up so it was illuminating his bound body. Then I knelt down in front of him, putting my face right up to his so he was once more breathing my breath.
“This your first time sucking dick, boy?”
He nodded, with difficulty since his neck was attached to the tree, then squeezed some words out. “Yessir.”
I slapped him, not too hard, but hard enough to get his attention. “Don’t ever call me ‘sir’.” He gulped and nodded. “That’s good. I want to explain what I’m looking for. I’ve had more than my fill of willing faggots eager to suck me off. I’m looking for someone who will hate every second of this. The more I see you hating it, the quicker it’ll get me off. You understand me, boy?”
He nodded again.
“Good. The other thing I want to call to your attention is how helpless you are. You’re tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere. You’re filthy and can’t even wipe your own face. You’re all alone out here. Your Donna can’t find you.” No need to mention she was seeing his face in clear closeup at this very moment. “There is no one around anywhere nearby to hear you shout for help, which you’re not going to be able to do in about thirty seconds anyway because my cock will be plugging your airhole. You’re not going to be able to dislodge that cock because of the way you’re tied, and because I am much, much stronger than you are. As I will demonstrate very shortly. You feeling helpless, boy?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper barely audible over the sighing of the breeze.
“Good. Now open up.”
I rose to my feet and he obediently parted his lips. I placed the tip of my dick on the tip of his tongue and let it rest there, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. He didn’t try to reject it or take it deeper but waited for me to make the next move, which, after half a minute or so, I did. Slowly, I pressed my hips toward his head, filling his mouth up until I felt the back of his throat. Time for that demonstration. I leaned my shoulder on the tree and reached down to grip his head with both hands. I held myself in that position until I felt him trying to squirm his head from side to side, which he couldn’t do. I waited for a few more seconds until his motions became truly frantic, then at last pulled back, withdrawing from his mouth completely. He gasped loudly. I didn’t have to explain to him because he clearly got the point: he would only have access to air when I allowed it.
After a few seconds to recover, I plunged back in and this time pistoned a bit. Every so often he would make that delightful little choking noise that I would sometimes hear from guys who were blowing me, when the dick tickles the back of the throat just enough to start up a gag reflex reaction but not bring on a full-blown spasm. The gay guys who made that sound were making it because they eagerly wanted to keep sucking and didn’t want to take a break; Owen was making it because he had no choice but to keep sucking. It was a beautiful sound, like he was singing an aria.
He began drooling, spit dribbling out the corners of his mouth and trickling down his chin. I only noticed when I felt some on my thigh during a forward plunge. That’s right, little piggy, slop yourself up even more. Every now and then I would block his airway long enough to get him stressed again, then ease up and let him breathe a moment before continuing.
He was not an expert cocksucker. I would have been surprised if he had been, and honestly, a bit disappointed too. But no, he was clearly inexperienced and had no idea what to do. And better yet, he didn’t want the dick in his mouth at all and so his efforts – pathetic as they were – were all devoted toward getting it out, not giving it pleasure. But none of that mattered because I was the one in control and could do anything that needed to be done without his assistance. No extra caresses of the tongue or suction from the throat necessary.
Of course, it was over and done all too soon. How could it not be after almost two hours of buildup? I was able to time it so that when I was nearing the peak, I did one of the push-and-hold maneuvers and let his frenzied struggles for air provide the last bit of stimulation I needed to get over the hump. Then pull out at the last second, enough to let him seize a quick gulp of air, then the dick went back in, filling his mouth with both its own bulk and the hot white fluid that began spurting out of it. I made sure not to thrust too deep; I wanted the thick, salty liquid to get all over the front of his mouth where he would taste it more fully.
I’m pretty sure he didn’t try to swallow any of it. If he did, it clearly didn’t work. Spooge came spilling out of the corners of his mouth following the tracks of the drool that had preceded it. When I was sated, I pulled my dick out of his mouth and gave it a few final strokes, milking the last wet droplets out and shaking them onto his cheeks. He was breathing raggedly, not quite sobbing but not not sobbing either. This had been a workout for him, stressing him both physically and emotionally. I almost wanted to give him a hug and help bring him back down to earth, but nope! That would be for Arianne to do! So instead I reached down and grabbed a handful of semen-soaked dirt from between his knees, lifted it up, and smeared it all over his chest.
“Good boy. We’ll make a half-decent cocksucker out of you yet.” I sure hoped not! He was perfect just the way he was.
Owen made an effort to pull himself together. I detached the neck and ankle ropes from the tree and got him back into his hobbled-captive configuration. I grabbed the flashlight once more and led him off through the woods again. The way was mostly clear until we got near the road where the brush was thicker. We pressed through and I tethered his neck rope to a sign, up nice and high so he couldn’t turn around and reach the knot with his bound hands.
“This is where we part ways, Doctor No. I’ll make sure to let your Donna know where to find you. She’s probably still in the area so it shouldn’t be more than five, ten minutes. Unless she forgot about you, of course.”
He said something in reply, but it was soft and lost in the sounds of crickets and other night noises. I turned and vanished through the wall of brush back into the woods. He would see the light bobbing and weaving as I strode away until at last it faded and he would be alone in the darkness. He would never see or hear me contact Arianne as I had just told him I would because I didn’t need to call her; she would already know the package was ready for pickup and would come get him as quickly or as slowly as she wished. Our first meeting at the Dunkin’ Donuts would be far, far from his mind right now. As far as he could tell, I had just vanished into the trees. Perhaps I lived there? Perhaps I was actually a forest-dwelling demon who only put on a human disguise when I was seeking fresh meat in suburban coffee shops? He would find such thoughts ludicrous in the light of day tomorrow, back safe and sound in his own familiar surroundings. But here in the night, they would not seem all that far-fetched. The thought made my dick perk up and consider, just for a moment, the possibility of a second go-around, but no, it was time to wrap things up.
The woods were definitely a different place at night, and if I hadn’t been feeling totally alpha male I might have gotten spooked just a bit. But instead my recent experience of being the dominant predator made the dark trees feel like my own private hunting ground. That reminded me of those long-ago camping trips when the other boys and I would play manhunt with flashlights after dark in these very woods. Ha! The version I just finished playing today was SOOOO much better than that pale imitation all those years ago!
I made my way back to the ankle monitor – easy enough to find even in the dark thanks to the handy GPS gadget – retrieved it, then went back to my own car, parked out of sight where Owen would never see it. On the way my phone dinged with a text from Arianne saying “got him”. Never one to waste words, that lady. I hoped she had remembered the tarp for him to sit on because otherwise her car seat was going to be a muddy mess. Of course she would have; she was a meticulous planner.
I toyed with the idea of spending the night right there in my car… I was spent! Traipsing around the woods was exhausting! But the prospect of my own bed was alluring enough to prompt me to make the two-hour trip back home before falling into it and passing out less than two minutes after walking through the door.
4 – Interlude
A couple of weeks later I got an invitation from Arianne to pay her a visit without Owen present.
I arrived to find a modest, tidy ranch home in Orland Hills, the kind of place that was probably thought of as posh and spacious fifty years ago but that today’s McMansion-dwelling suburbanites would consider cramped and a bit faded. It was a comfortable place, though, clearly well taken care of. Nice big tree in the front yard providing plenty of shade. Arianne welcomed me in and we settled down in the living room, which had a large window overlooking the front yard and some photos on the mantel of various people, presumably friends and family. I recognized a younger-looking Arianne in a couple of them, one in a group of people smiling in front of some Western-looking mesas and another with just her and another woman, maybe a sister, in front of the Eiffel Tower.
“As I mentioned in the e-mail,” she began after coffee was produced and we had exchanged some pleasantries, “I had the boy write up a review of his first session with you. His reaction raises an interesting question, which is why I thought it would be best to go over it together and then decide how to proceed.”
When I first got her message, I had hoped to persuade her to send Owen’s writeup prior to me coming over; I’m not usually a fan of meetings when an e-mail exchange would work. But her boy, her rules. I had a great time during that romp in the woods and was curious to see what my victim’s take on the proceedings was, so I sipped on my coffee and read through the papers – yes, physical papers – that she handed me.
My Donna, as you requested, here is a description of my reactions to events that transpired Friday last.
As you know, you provided me with little guidance what to expect. I would be meeting with Elias… or more accurately, trying to avoid meeting with Elias. A brief digression about that name… I don’t know what to call him! Speaking about him in third person causes me no trouble, but when speaking to him I don’t know what to say. He insists on not being called “sir”, which would be the title of respect I would expect to use when addressing a man in his role, but he has given me no other title to use, introducing himself only by his given name, which is what I suppose I should use but it feels disrespectful. And so I don’t use any title at all, which also feels disrespectful, but I get the impression that respect is not what he requires of me and so perhaps my approach is satisfactory. As long as I remember to not say “sir”.
To return to the point, Ma’am. After exiting your car and watching it disappear from view, I had only the vaguest of information to draw on as to what to expect. I took stock of my situation and knew that I would need to either run or hide. Hiding seemed by far the wiser option; running brought too much risk of drawing attention to myself and also premature exhaustion. So I attempted to find a place to hide.
Emotionally I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was feeling rather at sea at the prospect of being left naked and alone in an unfamiliar outdoor place. On the other hand, it stirred something deep within me, a feeling of self-reliance. I’ve had some experience with the outdoors on various field excursions, as well as camping trips as a boy. But those all involved supplies and logistics, whereas on this occasion I had no need to carry food or water or changes of clothing. Nothing at all, in fact. I am definitely grateful to have been allowed shoes – thank you for that, Ma’am!
I found what I thought was a good hiding place with plenty of concealing brush. Of course, the abundance of brush meant an abundance of scratches getting myself into the hiding spot. But the scratches were only a minor discomfort. Once in position, once the first few minutes of concealment had passed without disturbance, the main emotion I felt, if I am to be honest, was boredom.
I suppose I should have been feeling apprehension at the fact that Elias was out there somewhere, looking for me specifically, and I had no way of knowing where he was or when he might draw near. But in this case, out of sight was very much out of mind. I couldn’t easily move around, so I just lay still, trying to ignore the discomfort of lying on the bare ground and the pokings of various branches. It was not what I had in mind for a first scene with a male dom. This felt like more of a solo thing, as when in the past you have given me instructions to follow in your absence. I was putting myself into an uncomfortable position, but with no one else physically present, it felt like masturbation rather than any sort of shared experience.
Time passed as I waited in boredom and discomfort. I was uncertain how quickly time was passing. I figured it was elapsing more slowly than it felt due to the aforementioned boredom and discomfort, but had no reliable way to estimate. At a few points, I thought I heard a voice, which made my heart beat a bit more quickly, but I could never be sure if it was real or my imagination, and so I continued to wait. On more than one occasion I remember thinking “is this all there’s going to be?”
But after he came into view for the first time my thoughts made a swift U-turn. After a long while, I got my first sight of him passing nearby and heard him calling out. That made my heart really start to hammer. Then he disappeared again, but after that episode boredom was no longer an issue. After that I felt mostly suspense and tension. I had a moment when I merely wanted to be done with the whole thing. I nearly emerged from my spot and went looking for him because the waiting and suspense were more stressful than the thought of meekly submitting to whatever he had in mind for me. As you know, submission isn’t really second nature to me, it’s first nature!
But Elias had made it clear in our introductory meeting that he wanted me to demonstrate resistance, and so I knew giving up would not be well received. This provided a nice counterpoint: submission may come naturally to me, but the desire to avoid becoming the sexual conquest of a dominant man also comes naturally! I do understand, Ma’am, that this is something you want me to work on and stretch myself toward, and so I will because you wish it so. It is reassuring to know that this means it is okay for me to be uncomfortable with the idea; after all, if I were comfortable with the prospect, you would have no need to encourage me towards it. It would not be something you would require me to work on. Thus my discomfort is not something I should pretend doesn’t exist.
Or perhaps I am merely rationalizing why I desired to put off my encounter with my hunter for as long as possible.
In short, I remained in my hiding spot. It didn’t matter. He found me anyway, and at the worst possible time for my mental state. Dusk had fallen and I was starting to get my hopes up that I might manage to elude him for the full two hours simply by lying on an uncomfortable bed. And Ma’am… this is where the first of my misgivings enters the picture.
Elias had passed by my hiding place fairly closely twice before, and at a greater distance another three times. Then, when he found me, it was from a distance. He had a flashlight and shone it directly where I was hiding and I could not help but think he had been toying with me. That he had known where I was for some time and was only pretending to search, waiting to pounce just when my mind had gotten to the “almost safe!” point that it had.
Ma’am… I don’t know how he did it, but I am certain of this: he was feigning surprise when his flashlight beam landed on the spot where I was hiding. He knew exactly where I was. Somehow he learned my location without me knowing.
I know there are simple explanations. Perhaps he spotted me on one of his earlier passes and did not let on. Or perhaps you were working with him by feeding him information from that GPS anklet. I trust you, Ma’am, and if you tell me that you have information that I don’t and that there is no reason to be worried about what I observed, I will accept that. But in case this was news to you, then please know: he was not being honest with me. If that was with your permission, I accept it, but if it was without your knowledge, then this is information you need to have. He may have an agenda of his own that we do not know. As always, I defer to your judgment in matters of this nature.
He made me run next. This was a strain because of the dim light, the brush always ready to scratch at my skin, and the terror (and I don’t mind using that word, because that is what I was feeling by then) of my pursuer. Somehow in the space of those few seconds between discovery and command to flee, he transformed himself into the nightmare character from any scary movie. I was only too glad to try to escape, but it truly was like a nightmare where you can never run fast enough to escape the pursuer. My capture was inevitable and it was almost a relief to sink into submissive mode when no further avoidance was possible.
He next took great delight in getting dirt all over the parts of me that had not yet gotten dirty. This was, as I’m sure it was intended to be, humiliating and I was of my usual two minds about it: part of me was disgusted by the mess, and the other part was thrilled to be the object of abuse by a dominant figure. And it forestalled the part I was dreading, the part where his penis would get involved, although he had it on display and it was clear that the humiliations he was inflicting on me were having a motivational effect on him.
Then he surprised me by cutting off the anklet and tossing it aside. Ma’am, please tell me that you were in on that part of the scene? Because if not, that is the second of my misgivings. He actively sabotaged one of your safety precautions. I was horrified at the time but did not really have the capacity to think through possible explanations. It was only afterward that I thought that part might have been pre-arranged. I hope it was.
He tied me then, quite effectively, using thicker ropes than I am accustomed to being bound by, then dragged me off through the forest and eventually tied me to a tree. Ma’am, this was the part that came closest to what I was envisioning when we first started discussing having me submit to a dominant man: his irresistible physical power. When I submit to you or to one of your female friends, there is always a certain amount of implicit cooperation. I am not exceptionally strong for a man, but I am stronger than most women. If I were to struggle against you, I could probably prevent you from doing whatever you were attempting to get me to do. Until you have me suitably restrained, of course! Then I have no choice. That night in the forest, though, there was absolutely no way I could stop Elias from doing whatever he wanted to do to me, whether I was bound or free. I do not have the physical strength to even inconvenience him, let alone thwart him. He demonstrated that I could not escape from him by running or by hiding. He had total mastery of the situation and my cooperation was neither needed nor desired nor even the slightest bit relevant. That level of domination is alluring. It’s submission without the safety valve of “yes but if things get too tough I can always bail out,” which I admit to sometimes thinking. Submission on my terms rather than the terms of the one in charge. Well, not this time. This time I was totally and completely without choices and it was marvelous.
But then came the natural end game, and that was even more unpleasant than I had anticipated. The act of accepting his penis into my mouth was, at first, just a natural consequence of the mindset I described in the last paragraph. I had no choice in the matter and so of course I would do as he compelled me to do. Once again, my dual nature was on display. Part of me was repelled by the scent and taste and pressure of the phallus invading my mouth, while part of me was delighted at this most natural consequence of my willingness to submit and cede control of my own body to others. I was not in charge of deciding what went into my mouth. The anthropologist was nodding at how logically consistent this was while the rest of me was trying to shove the thing away.
The anthropologist got kicked to the curb once it became clear how a penis can be wielded as a weapon. Elias very much enjoyed using his organ to cut off my air supply and as you know, breath control games are not something I take delight in. Very quickly it became difficult to think of anything besides the physical sensations of craving air, needing to cough and gag, wanting to yank my hands free so I could fight him off. There was no time to think about the experience from a safely-removed distance; I was too busy trying to survive it.
And this is my second (or third) misgiving. Ma’am, I get the sense that he is a man of barely-restrained violence. There were a few times when I was convinced I was about to pass out and he took me right up to that edge before offering relief. He behaved in the manner of a sadist rather than a dominant, taking delight not in my submission but in my distress. This is exactly what he said at our planning meeting, but living through the experience was very, very different than talking about it. It was a frightening feeling, not something I want to repeat.
But my dislike of being a sadist’s toy is not the main reason for my discomfort. Ma’am, to put it bluntly: Elias has lied to us. Or at least to me. I caught him in at least one lie out there in the woods, possibly two, and now I no longer trust him because I don’t know the extent of his deception. You may have more information than I do. I sincerely hope that is the case. If it were up to me, I would suggest we seek a different man to work with on expanding my horizons and bid Elias farewell. If you wish otherwise, of course, then I will swallow hard and put myself forward once more. But if I am allowed a vote, it would be no.
Also, thank you for your kindness in bringing me out of my subspace after picking me up in your car. I was in a state of mind where “being a worthless nonentity who deserves to be tethered to a post and left to be eaten by wolves” was the natural logical progression. I appreciate you helping me regain my humanity after the scene was over. You have always been very good to me that way and I appreciate your thoughtfulness more than I can ever say.
Ma’am. I honor and abide by your wishes, as always. But after a first encounter with this man, I am not looking forward to a second. And I humbly ask that you investigate the reasons behind my misgivings before committing me to another session.
Respectfully yours,
Owen
“I see what you mean,” I said. “The mind games were almost too effective. He doesn’t want to play at all any more.”
“Exactly,” Arianne said. “The boy is smart. He picked up that you were messing with his head. But he doesn’t know the scope and so his imagination is producing a bigger web of deceit than actually exists. I have been ambiguous so far in my answers to his questions, saying that I needed to consult with you. But before we plan any sort of next session, I need to tell him something more definitive.”
“Right, right. How detailed do you need to be? Do you need to tell him exactly how scripted that jaunt in the woods was? Or can you say you spoke with me and have satisfied any concerns about his safety, and tell him to trust that?”
“The latter, more or less. I may toss him a bone in the form of a detail or two. The removal of the ankle monitor, for instance. I can tell him that I knew in advance that would happen. He already knows that I’m aware of the event because when I retrieved him after the scene ended, he was in my presence and the anklet wasn’t. I can tell him that I pre-approved that particular trick without letting on exactly how fully scripted the rest of the scene was.”
“Yeah, okay… he wrote that he already knows I was only faking surprise when I ‘discovered’ the monitor. But now he’ll know it’s a fake you had a hand in, which is better from his perspective because he trusts you completely and doesn’t trust me at all. He’ll probably deduce that you guided me to his hiding place, too, without you having to spell it out.”
“Exactly. Which amuses me because it’s wrong; I didn’t guide you to him. But he doesn’t need to know that you had a tracker of your own. Still, I think we should make the next scene be something with less head game and more straightforward dominance and submission. And perhaps you can tone down the intensity a bit. Hold off on anything he might perceive as life-threatening.”
“Right, yeah… I enjoyed scaring him, but that’s not essential. I can be happy if he’s just disgusted by the thought of what I’m doing rather than terrified of it. I’ve even got a good idea of what that next scene might be… it’d be no sex, no pain, no lying mind games, just straightforward dominance and humiliation. I’ll need to work it out with some friends of mine first, so lemme talk to them and get back to you?”
I told her what I had in mind and she agreed that would be a good lower-intensity scene for her boy. And by then she would have reassured Owen that she had investigated the events of the previous scene. “And then after he gets through the next scene unscathed he’ll be reassured that all the lies have been accounted for without ever actually accounting for them. Hey, I might get to be good at this ‘strategic ambiguity’ thing that you’ve mastered so well!”
In reply, she arched an eyebrow, but with clear self-referencing mockery in her expression. I giggled like a kid at the sight and she couldn’t hold the pose more than another second before she laughed too.
“Okay, that’s a good plan,” I said. “Aw, man, now I feel bad for the guy! Seems like I should have been there to help you patch him back together afterward. I broke him, after all. Only fair that I clean up after myself.”
“No,” she replied, “the aftercare is mine to handle, as we agreed.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. That makes sense. He’s your primary relationship, after all. I’m just a guest.”
“Oh, he’s not my primary relationship,” she informed me, which came as a bit of a jolt. “I am his primary partner, but it’s not a commutative thing.”
I flapped my jaw a little. “You mean… wait, no, I’m not following.”
“My primary relationship is with a woman named Madison.” She gestured at the photos lining the mantel. “That’s her in that photo in Paris. The thing with Owen exists because Madison and I have more of a partnership of equals rather than a dominant / submissive arrangement. With Owen I am fully the dominant one, and he is the submissive. He has no other relationship than the one with me, but he does not get all of my time and attention.”
Sister. I had actually assumed the woman in the photo was a sister, not a lover. Despite knowing that she liked the ladies, despite knowing that her counseling practice involved polyamorous folks, I charged ahead with my brain on autopilot, saw what I expected to see instead of what was actually there, and made a completely wrong assumption. Thankfully, only in my head. “Ahhh… that’s right… Owen did say that you were bisexual. I didn’t think through the implications.”
She frowned a bit. “Labels and categories often obscure more than they clarify. I actually consider myself a lesbian.”
I just sat there and blinked for a bit. The world of gay men… or at least the world of gay men that I live in… is very straightforward, very clearly defined: dudes who like dudes. Dicks and balls and hairy bodies. I thought that I was venturing out of that world into a larger but equally well-defined world: dudes who don’t like dudes. Straight men compelled to do gay things. What I had actually blundered into, I was learning, was something much more complicated where the borders were a lot fuzzier than I was used to, and honestly, a bit fuzzier than I was comfortable with. Like, if I put myself into this woman’s shoes, the equivalent would be: I get off on guys’ bodies, but I scratch the itch for dominance by tying up women? That just… no. That would not work for me. But it was pretty much what she was doing.
People, it seems, are not nearly as simple as I’d prefer to think they are.
“I… don’t think I’ll ever understand that,” I finally said. That was met with the mild change of head angle that I think was her way of not saying “I can explain it for you a thousand times, but I can never understand it for you.”
“But that’s okay, there’s a lot about this that I don’t understand. Like, I get that you want to be the one to comfort him afterward. He relies on you. What I don’t understand is what you get out of outsourcing the torment in the first place. I can’t imagine enjoying that if I were in your position! I’d want to be right there getting my hands dirty and lapping up the look in the guy’s eyes while I worked on him. How can you enjoy knowing that all the good stuff is happening when you’re not even there? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really glad this works for you because it’s working great for me, but I just don’t understand how it works for you.”
She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Let me see if I can explain it this way. Can you imagine enjoying a man’s suffering even if you’re not present to witness it?”
I shook my head. “No, I really can’t, I’ve gotta be –”
She interrupted me. “Suppose you tie him up and leave him to stew while you go off somewhere else for a while?”
“Well, I guess that’s good but I’d still rather –”
“How about if you tie him up for an overnight scene? Strap him down inside a horizontal box, make sure he’s got an air supply, maybe set a vibrator over his crotch so he’s constantly stimulated but if he comes it just keeps buzzing?”
“Okay, yeah, that’s hot and I could enjoy that without being –”
“Or what about this?” This steady string of interruptions was a major change from her usual strong-silent-type conversational style! “Suppose you’ve got him restrained on hands and knees in a cage with a machine poking a dildo in and out of his ass. You leave him for an hour to endure rather than sitting there watching the whole time. A hot scene?”
“Yes! Okay. You’re right. I admit it. All of those scenarios are good. But those are different from what’s happening here! With all the scenes you just described, I’m still the one in charge. I may not be physically present, but I’m the one who tied all the ropes and cinched down all the straps and set up all the gadgets. I’m the one who lined up the machine and turned it on. Those things aren’t in charge, it’s still my will directing them. They’re just tools, tools that I’m using to… tools that I…”
Once again, my words stopped flowing, only this time it wasn’t because she interrupted. No, it was because once again, my brain had been on auto-pilot and I had seen only what I expected to see. Now the implication of what I was saying – what she was leading me toward with those examples – had finally registered. I couldn’t say anything for at least half a minute, which is a really long time to be sitting there gawping at someone with your mouth hanging open like a fish.
When I could finally think of something to say, it was this. “You, madam, are a very, very dangerous woman, and I would be wise to be on my guard around you.”
She raised that damned eyebrow once again and this time there wasn’t a trace of self-mockery in her expression. We exchanged a few more thoughts before we said our goodbyes and I headed out, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too wrapped up in feeling the ground shift beneath my feet.
5 – Bingo
A couple of weeks after that I was kicking back in a different suburban neighborhood. The place was south of the city, down toward Chicago Heights, and was owned by my friends Dan and Keira. We used to live in the same neighborhood but then they moved away when their family started growing and they wanted a yard and a bit more room. These days I saw them less and less due to both distance and the way their lives were now focused on their kids rather than themselves, but we were still pretty close.
The yard was nice and big with some tall trees near a wide suburban street. The front walk was lined with flower beds that hosted daffodils in the spring, irises and vinca in the summer months, and chrysanthemums and asters now that September had arrived. The backyard was fenced in with a tall stockade of wooden slats, nicely shielding the interior from view.
The reason for the fence was lying at the floor by my feet: Shadow, a nine year old lab / pointer mix. Shadow was Dan and Keira’s “oldest child”; their other three kids were all younger and had two legs apiece. The humans were taking a long weekend trip to visit Keira’s parents for the Jewish holidays and since mom had allergies, it was best if Shadow stayed home. Thus, here I was: dog-sitting while they were away. This was Friday; I had arrived last night as the family was leaving, so Shadow had had plenty of time to adjust to me being her temporary family for a while. It wasn’t the first time I’d kept her company while her humans were away. I liked her and she seemed to like me, so it worked out.
Shadow was starting to slow down a bit now that she was getting older, but in her younger years she was plenty high-strung and even now still had a lot of energy. Before the fence went up out back, they could barely take her outside at all because the sight of anyone passing by would send her into a barking frenzy… and the house was on a corner so there were two sides exposed to traffic. The fence made a huge difference – having an opaque border for her territory made it easier for Shadow to ignore the sounds of skateboarders, delivery trucks, dog-walkers, and all those other threats that sent her into Hypervigilant Protector Mode every time one went by. Now it was possible to let her roam outside as much as she wanted and if there was any barking it was most likely due to a squirrel teasing her from a tree branch.
Now, Dan and Keira were aware that my tastes along romantic lines were quite a bit different from what they usually found in their white bread, heterosexual vanilla world. They were okay with that and didn’t judge me, just like I didn’t judge them (out loud) for being so conventional and boring! I made sure to clear my plans with them ahead of time, though, since this was their house. I did not intend to do anything that would be in-your-face startling to the neighbors, but you never know with some people. If some nosy Nellie decided to peer into that well-screened backyard over the fence using binoculars from her second-floor window and called Keira to report the scandalous goings-on that she “couldn’t help but accidentally notice”, I wanted Keira forewarned so she could reply with “oh, yeah, I know” rather than “you saw WHAT???”
Shadow heard the sound of the car in the driveway long before I did. She was up like a shot from a cannon and waiting at the front door, all taut like a bowstring. Only then did I hear the closing of a car door. It was tempting to go stand by the door and wait, but that was wrong: I wanted my arriving guest to be the one to do the waiting, right outside there on the porch. Shadow was going to just have to hold tight a little longer.
Eventually, the doorbell rang and Shadow went nuts. “NEW PEOPLE!” she barked. “NEW PEOPLE ARE HERE!” Then she spun around in circles and said it ten or twelve more times while I stood up from the sofa and ambled my way over to the door. Through the frosted glass panel beside the door I could make out two figures, one standing upright and one… not.
I grabbed Shadow by the collar, bent down to make sure I could keep her under control, and opened the door. “Arianne, great to see you!” I said. This was the first time I had seen her in person since the discussion that had ended so uncomfortably a couple of weeks previously, and I had resolved to pretend that I was totally fine with the idea that she regarded me as roughly equivalent to a dildo, while making absolutely clear in my own demeanor that I was no such thing. I was her peer, dammit, and I was going to assert that loud and clear without actually saying the words.
She greeted me back but made no move to approach the enthusiastically-barking bundle of fur having convulsions under my hand. (“NEW PEOPLE! RIGHT HERE, NEW PEOPLE ARE RIGHT HERE!” wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle) “Tell you what, come on in and stand there for about a minute. Shadow will calm down once she has a chance to say hi.” Arianne paid no attention to the dog, which was the best thing she could have done. Attention just rewards the behavior of freaking out when people arrive. Not that Shadow’s going to change at this age, but still. Shadow greeted her with sniffs and some excited whining, though I kept my hand on her collar to keep her from getting too close or jumping up. Once she had investigated Arianne, she turned her attention to the other new arrival who was still waiting out on the porch.
Owen was “standing” on the doorstep, if that’s the right word to describe his posture. He wasn’t upright in the usual sense but was instead down on hands and knees, which put his face right about at the level of Shadow’s. If Shadow was baffled at all by this situation she didn’t show it. She wanted to go inspect him but I held her back and gestured for Owen to enter, making the movement exaggeratedly large as one does when talking to dogs. “Come on in, Bingo, it’s okay.” Yeah: Bingo. That was the name I had decided to bestow on him for the duration of the weekend. “Come say hi to Shadow. Shadow, this is Bingo.” He gingerly crawled forward until he was far enough in that I could close the door. He was clothed, which was not my first choice, but Arianne had not been comfortable with the idea of leading him up the driveway bare-assed. I pointed out that it was September, the sun set early these days and the chance of him being spotted in the darkness was slim. Didn’t matter. Ah, well, it was probably for the best. One less chance for a nosy Ned to have an excuse to bother my friends on their trip.
Still, my goal for this weekend was that I was going to treat Owen as a dog 100% from start of scene to finish. As Shadow sniffed at him, then returned to check out Arianne again, I said “Aww, that’s cute, you’ve got him dressed up in people clothes.” Arianne made a visible effort to switch modes at the cue I’d handed her. Up until now, she and Owen had presumably been interacting with each other however they usually did. Talking, whatever. Then there would have been a weird transition as they got out of the car and approached the house. She would have exited the driver’s seat, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door. Dog paws can’t operate handles, after all. Then he would have crawled on all fours, presumably burning with humiliation, up the walkway to the door with his Donna by his side. No more words from you, dear pup. Barks only from this point on.
Now safely inside, she could fully commit to the role play too. “Ah, right,” she replied. “I think we can take the costume off now.” By which, we both understood, she meant “put the dog costume on.”
“You’re welcome to use one of the bedrooms upstairs if you’d like?” I offered. “Up the stairs, turn left, then last door on the right.” That was the main bedroom, where I had laid out the gear. The house was a split-level, so the entryway was a cramped space for four living creatures. Seven steps led up to the main part of the house, while six others led down to the lower half. Upstairs contained the kitchen across from the top of the stairs and an L-shaped room wrapped around it that was divided into a dining area and a living room off to the right. Three bedrooms and a bathroom were on the left. Downstairs was a rec room, two more bedrooms, and utility space. Arianne started up the half-flight of stairs, uttering “come” in a clipped tone and not bothering to look to see if her boy was following, because of course he was. Damn, the lady had poise and confidence!
Shadow was mournful watching them disappear, but understood that the NEW PEOPLE were still RIGHT HERE in the house so she would be seeing them again. When the bedroom door clicked shut, I let her loose and she trotted up the stairs after them, not bolting like she would have a minute earlier. She saw the closed door, knew that doorknobs were beyond her ability, and promptly put the issue out of mind, trotting back to lie in front of the sofa once more. Gotta love dogs for the way they live in the moment.
When Arianne next emerged from the bedroom, her companion was looking much more appropriate for his station. He wore no clothes at all, as is fitting for a canine companion. Instead he had a black and tan neoprene dog hood over his head, black mitts with matching tan paw prints locked around his fists, and black pads on his knees. (Sure, real dogs don’t wear kneepads, but I’m not a total monster.) He was walking slowly but confidently on all fours beside and slightly behind his mistress. Shadow got up once again to investigate, but much more calmly this time. She sniffed at Owen, er, I mean Bingo, front and sides and back, and was apparently satisfied with whatever she learned because she then disappeared off into the kitchen.
I knelt down and ruffled Bingo’s neoprene “fur” behind his neoprene ears. “Hey, boy, looking good! You gonna come stay with me and Shadow for a few days, yeah? Aw, you’re such a good boy, Bingo. Yes you are.” Was I being over the top campy? I sure was! I moved my hand down to scratch him on his neck, below where the hood ended so my fingernails were rubbing against his bare skin. Bingo, bless his heart, craned his head and leaned into the rub like a champ and even gave a contented little whine. Good boy, Bingo. Good boy.
I stood up then and talked with Arianne. “Did you feed him already?” She nodded. “OK, I’ve got food for the next two days, and toys, so we should be all set until you get back Sunday night. Two things before you go, though.” This little bit of show was for Owen’s benefit, of course, since once again his Donna and I had done our prepwork beforehand. “I know he doesn’t usually wear a collar, but just in case he gets loose in this unfamiliar neighborhood I want to make sure he’s got ID on.”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Arianne agreed. I reached into a cardboard box on the table at the end of the sofa and pulled out a good, thick chunk of chain, the kind where the metal that makes up the links of the chain is as thick as a pencil and the links themselves are as wide as a golf ball. A no-nonsense chain, in other words. The sort of chain where, when you’re wearing it, you know you’re wearing it. $59.99 from an online bondage supplier… or $3.00 per foot at your local hardware store. If I was going to be welding this chain on permanently, I’d want something high quality, but for a two-day scene the zinc-plated stuff from the hardware store was plenty good enough.
I also pulled out a heavy-duty lock from the same box and made sure to hold it (though trying not to be too obvious about it) so both Arianne and her pet could see that it had been personalized with the name “BINGO” emblazoned on the side (twelve bucks from Amazon).
I bent down next to Bingo and draped the chain over his neck, then clipped the two ends together beneath his chin with the word BINGO proudly facing forward. I had guessed the size right. The chain was loose enough to dangle just a bit, but nowhere near loose enough that it would be coming off without a key. Speaking of which…
“Here you go,” I said to Arianne, handing her both keys and making sure Bingo saw it. “You hang onto these so you can take the collar off when you pick him up again.” That’s right, pup. Even if I wanted to take that chain off you, I can’t once your Donna leaves. You’re stuck.
“Now, I see he’s not fixed,” I continued. “So, again, just in case he gets out and bolts…” I let the words trail off as I reached once more into the box. This time I pulled out a molded-resin chastity cage, the kind that had been 3D-printed into a very precise shape. The brown color didn’t quite match the trim on Bingo’s face and paws, but it was close.
Arianne knelt down in front of her boy. “I’ll keep him calm. Sometimes he gets antsy when the vet is messing around down there.” I smiled – the line was unscripted, an improv. Good for her, getting into the scene! I knelt down behind Bingo and slipped his cock and balls through the loop, then lubed up his shaft so I could slide the tube in place. The fit was a bit tight – I had to guess at the size with only Arianne’s words to go by, but too tight would be fine for only two days. He squirmed a bit while it was going on and I have no idea how much of that was roleplay and how much was due to having masculine fingers manhandling his dainty bits, but Arianne soothed him. The lock was one of those cylindrical kinds, so there was no satisfying click as it sealed shut, just a twist of the key. Once the key was out of the lock, I handed it over to Arianne to join the others.
“That should do it!” I said. Arianne stayed kneeling for a bit longer and talked to Bingo. “Now you be a good boy. I’ll see you Sunday.” Then, standing, “thanks so much, Elias, I appreciate you watching him for me.”
That part was scripted. So was the photo I then had them pose for. Arianne chose a stern, regal-looking expression; Bingo’s rubber face didn’t give him a choice. “No trouble! Two is just as easy as one, and I’m sure Shadow will be happy to have a friend to play with. You go have fun, and see you Sunday night.”
She gave Bingo a pat on the head and I walked her to the door. Bingo followed in his slow, plodding way but didn’t try to navigate the steps. He was going to have to at some point, but there was no need just now. Arianne waved one last time, then was off to her car. I closed the door and headed back upstairs. Shadow had appeared next to Bingo at the top of the steps, drawn by the sound of the door opening, but people departing didn’t trigger the same sort of frenzy that people arriving did.
“Well, here we are!” I said, then proceeded to completely ignore both dogs. That’s the way it works, right? When you’re dog-sitting, you don’t give the animals 24/7 attention. No, you feed them and water them and take them out for potty breaks. You go for walks and play with them for five or ten minutes at a stretch, but for the large majority of the day, you expect the dogs to manage their own business. They potter about, they nap, do whatever they do. When they want attention, they come up to you and nuzzle your legs or lick your hand and you fuss over them for a bit, then go back to ignoring them.
That was my intention for Owen this weekend. I was not going to treat him like a man pretending to be a dog; I was going to treat him like a dog. That meant this would be a no-sex weekend because while I have many kinks, bestiality is not one of them. There would almost certainly be opportunities for bondage, though, perhaps even punishment, because no dog is perfectly behaved. Heh heh. But mostly I would be just doing my own thing as if I were alone in the house, not altering my behavior for Bingo’s sake.
With a couple of adaptations. For one thing, the TV was off and would remain off for the duration. I didn’t want Bingo’s little doggy brain being troubled by words and images from the news shows or sports or entertainment that I would otherwise have had on as a way to pass the time. Instead, I sat down on the sofa again and picked up the magazine I had been leafing through before Bingo’s arrival – one of half a dozen sorta-recent issues of Yoga Journal that I’d been meaning to look at in a low-priority one-of-these-days way until, oops, six months had gone by. This weekend was a good time to get caught up.
Bingo stood there looking uncertain. As before, he had been dumped into a scene with me with very little information beforehand. Arianne would have told him I wanted him to be a dog for a weekend. She would have also told him it would be a safe time, that I wouldn’t be inflicting anything scary on him, including my dick. Aside from that, he was on his own to figure things out. What sort of dog did he want to be, for instance? Was he going to be a frisky puppy, constantly getting into trouble? A mature, relaxed animal who mostly kept to himself? A devoted, eager-to-please lapdog who thrived on attention? We would see, but I wouldn’t be giving him any cues.
This was a sort of meta-torment, I knew. As a natural submissive, he wanted instruction, commands to obey, structure, discipline. I was denying him that, and so he would be feeling lost and uncertain, not sure what he should do. My reason was this: I was de-centering Owen.
In a dom / sub scene, it may seem counter-intuitive but both participants are equally important, equally central to the action. They have different amounts of power, but the sub is as essential to the scene as the dom is. Think about it: how can you have a dom / sub scene with only one player? You can’t. Thus: this was not a dom / sub scene, it was a dehumanization scene. Owen would be experiencing the next 48 hours, but this event was not about him at all. I could take care of Shadow just fine without him here, and as much as possible, I would be doing the same things with two dogs as I would do with one. By treating him as not a sub but an animal, I was informing Bingo that his humanity had walked out the door with his Donna. Here, he was a pet. I would be giving him no instructions on how to be a pet any more than I would give an appliance instructions on how to wash clothes or keep food cold. He would have to figure it out.
(Of course, on yet another level, that was untrue: Owen was indeed central to this scene. While trying not to show it openly, I was actually keenly interested in once again knocking him out of his comfort zone and enjoying his responses. Layers upon layers upon layers!)
Bingo stood for a while on hands and knees at the top of the steps. Shadow meandered off to the kitchen again. Dinnertime was 5:00 sharp for her and she would suck down every scrap of food in her bowl in less than a minute like a nuclear-powered vacuum cleaner, but for a few hours afterward she would repeatedly go back in and check the area to see if there might be a molecule of food that she had missed. Hey, it could happen!
Watching Bingo out of my peripheral vision while pretending to read about the benefits of core balance for long-distance runners, I could practically see the gears turning beneath those perky ears. He’s not telling me what to do. What do I do? I’m supposed to be a dog. There’s another dog here. That dog can go where she wants. I probably can too. After a minute or so, Bingo came into the living room, tentatively and slowly. He sat down on his haunches some distance away, not quite looking at me just like I was not quite looking at him. After a minute or so, I looked up.
“Aw, are you sad that mom’s gone? She’ll be back. Hey, c’mere.” He crawled over and made to climb up onto the sofa next to me, but I pushed his head back down. “No, no dogs on the furniture, that’s a good boy.” I scratched his neck again and he settled in to be stroked. Shadow heard me talking and came in to investigate. If she was at all confused by this creature that smelled like a person but acted like a dog, she didn’t show it. She saw that scratches were being given and nosed her way in under my other hand until I had two happy, contented creatures, one on either side of each knee.
We kept that up for about five minutes and then I went back to my magazine. Arianne had arrived at 7:30, it was now about a quarter after eight. Shadow took a few steps to the far end of the sofa and plonked down in one of her usual spots on the floor; Bingo stayed where he was and lay down by my feet. A very bland, normal domestic scene in an average Midwestern suburban neighborhood. Sure, one of the dogs was a rubbered-up human with a cage on his dick, but aside from that we could be a Norman Rockwell painting.
I think Bingo might have dozed off; I know Shadow did. A little before 10:00 I got up and both dogs immediately perked to attention. “Okay, kiddies, bedtime. Let’s go potty.” Arianne would not have informed Bingo of the bathroom arrangements during his stay and I was looking forward to watching him figure things out.
Shadow was familiar with the routine and knew just what to do. She raced down the steps all the way to the lower level while Bingo and I took a bit longer to get there. I wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with the steps. Going up when he first got here was easy; going down on all fours is much tougher. It’s possible for a man to crawl forward down a flight of steps, and it helped that these were half-flights so a tumble would not result in a disastrously long fall, but if necessary, I would show him how to turn around and descend backwards.
It wasn’t necessary. Bingo took on the challenge face-first and succeeded, though he was careful and took his time about it. Good boy, Bingo. Then we were down on the bottom floor and caught up with Shadow, who was waiting by the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. I opened the door and she bounded out to find a good spot for a piddle. Bingo, however, balked.
“Come on, Bingo,” I urged from outside. “Time to go potty. Come on, boy.” He obediently came outside and was not happy about what I clearly expected of him: that he find a spot to lift a leg and spray. He crossed the concrete patio – that concrete was one of the main reasons why I had invested in the knee pads – then clearly didn’t like the texture and temperature of the grass. It had been a pleasant early fall day, temperatures up in the 70s, but clear and dry so when the sun went down the warmth had vanished quickly. Now it was perhaps 60 degrees and the grass would be feeling cool and damp on the skin of his legs.
“Don’t know where to go? Okay, I’ll show you,” I said, and walked over to the fence. I had the porch light on so it was possible to see… and I suspect Bingo was thinking it was also possible to be seen. He hadn’t seen the yard in the daylight and didn’t know how private it was. “Come here, boy. Over here.” He came, slowly. Yes, Owen. You know exactly what I expect from you. Can you make yourself do it? Shadow, long since finished, came nosing around to see what was going on.
He gave it a try, but without success. He even lifted his leg up. Alas, nothing came out. Whether it was the position, the overall environment, a shy bladder due to being watched by both me and Shadow and (for all he knew) other neighboring eyes… whatever it was, the pipe was blocked. I called him back over to check the fit of the cage just in case that was causing the problem. Nope, the fit was fine; the opening of the cage was lined up with the slit of his dick. So I sent him back out to try again but still nothing. And that was fine by me because it meant the next few hours would bring discomfort for him and perhaps even an opportunity for some punishment.
“Okay,” I said when it became clear waiting any longer would be pointless. “Let’s go back inside.” Shadow bounded in and disappeared while Bingo and I once again trailed far behind. I closed and locked the door, then turned off the outdoor light. Off we went, back upstairs and into Dan and Keira’s room where I was staying. I took care of my own potty needs, in a toilet like a human with a sink to wash up in afterward. Ordinarily I would have showered at this point, but that would leave Bingo alone for too long to potentially get into trouble… like perhaps the trouble of using human facilities to take care of his doggy needs… so I decided to skip it tonight.
Shadow settled down on her bed in the corner. I had laid out a nest of blankets for Bingo to use in a different corner and showed him where his spot was. Then I got undressed and climbed into the bed, used my phone for five minutes or so to get caught up on things, and turned out the light.
I’m pretty sure I was asleep quickly, as was Shadow, but Bingo was probably awake for a long while. That brief nap in the living room would have thrown off his timing and the nest on the floor would not have been very comfortable. A few minutes after the light went out, I could hear him scootching around, trying to use his paws to get one of the blankets up over his body. Alas, dogs have no thumbs, so grasping things is not easy. It’s a two-paw maneuver to move a blanket around. Eventually he settled down and not long after that I stopped noticing things.
I was in a half-doze when I became aware of the sound of water running. Oh, yeah, this was exactly what I had been hoping would happen! I was up out of bed in two seconds and at the bathroom door, which Bingo had closed but not locked. Through the door, into the bathroom, flip on the light switch, and there he was: up on his hind legs trying to hold a piece of toilet paper between his paws so he could dab at the cage that surrounded his doggy dick.
He was terrified, of course. I spoke before he could say anything and thus make his situation worse, pitching my voice to convey disappointment rather than anger. “Get down, Bingo. Down. Four on the floor, come on, you know better.” He obediently let the scrap of toilet paper fall and sank down onto his hands and knees, still spooked at what I might do to him. But dogs don’t learn from being scolded! No, to get a dog to do what you want him to do, positive reinforcement is a much more reliable learning technique. There would be no beating for this infraction.
Still, the time to teach the lesson is in the moment.
“That’s right. Now let’s go do potty the right way.” I clipped a leash to Bingo’s collar, led him down the stairs to the back door, and brought him out once more into the yard. Shadow was up, of course, roused by the light and the commotion, and followed us out where she unconcernedly made another donation to the lawn while I brought Bingo back to the spot I had decided would be his urinal.
It was chilly, and this time I had only slightly more fabric on than Bingo did, just a pair of boxer shorts, so I didn’t much feel like standing out here for long. Still, the lesson had to be made.
“Go potty, Bingo. Come on, go potty.” The poor dude was empty, of course, having just drained his bladder upstairs. I imagined the dilemma he had been in… lying there on the floor, feeling the need for release growing stronger and stronger with every dragging minute until finally he couldn’t stand it any more and took the risk that I was deeply enough asleep that he could get away with it. And he might have, but then the other dilemma caught up with him: to flush or not to flush? Flushing ran the risk that I would hear, which I did. But not flushing meant leaving a yellow bowl to be discovered in the morning. The hapless mutt really had no good options.
And now we were going to stand out here until he produced some piddle. Even a few drops would do, but we were not going back inside until he learned the proper spot to relieve himself.
And to his credit, he did it. There wasn’t much of course, but there was enough that I could lavish praise on him for figuring it out and we could go back inside. Good boy, Bingo. Very good boy. Nevertheless, I left the leash on and tied it to the leg of the dresser near Bingo’s bed when we got back inside. No need for him to have free run of the house. I glanced at the red numbers on the clock when I sank back under the covers to get warm again: 1:48 AM. Yeesh.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully and I let both dogs out once again first thing in the morning. Both went right to their assigned spots and did their business in the dewy grass. Number one only for both critters so far; I was curious to see how things might go with number two. Shadow’s usual time for that was in the afternoon, and I had no idea what schedule Bingo might be on, if any.
Breakfast was kibble for the critters and eggs with toast for me. Shadow wasn’t a fan of dry food and usually left most of it in her bowl. Today was no exception. She would pick at it if she got hungry during the day but mostly she held out for the good stuff at dinnertime. Bingo’s “kibble” was actually cereal, hard, crunchy nuggets of grains and nuts. But he ate it from a bowl on the floor exactly like Shadow’s, and had a water bowl as well to help wash it down. I liked this particular dog hood because it didn’t block the wearer’s mouth. It’s a clever design – it looks like it protrudes like a dog’s muzzle, but it’s not actually very long and there’s plenty of space beneath the snout. Looks good from above (the viewer’s usual vantage point when the wearer is on his knees) while still being functional. As such, Bingo could eat his meal without needing to use his paws. He bonked his nose into the bowl a lot, but he was apparently hungry and ate it all.
And after that we just did our thing. I played on my phone and plowed through two more magazines while Shadow and Bingo puttered around. And this was the second aspect of the meta-torment I was inflicting on him by not inflicting torment on him: Bingo was going to get bored.
The guy spends all of his day using his brain and his body. He teaches classes, he researches, he writes, he coordinates, he interacts with lots of different people, he Does All The Things. Here, there was nothing to do. Depending on what sort of attitude he took, this could either be liberating or debilitating. He could choose to treat this weekend as a mini-vacation where all his worries were tucked away out of reach, living in the moment the way a dog does. Or he could let the endless empty hours eat at his mind as if he were a prisoner in solitary confinement.
One thing I would not permit was any human behavior. No watching my phone while I fiddled on it, no reading over my shoulder, no speech. He dutifully cooperated during the morning and spent some time exploring the house, sometimes with Shadow either leading or trailing, sometimes on his own. Then, after Shadow got bored with that he initiated a game with her using my discarded shirt from yesterday, which was adorable. He came trotting out of the bedroom holding it in his mouth, then dangled it in front of Shadow, growling playfully to try to entice her into grabbing it for some tug-of-war. Shadow seemed too baffled to be interested, but I was greatly amused and cheered him on even though it didn’t work. I snagged some video to send to Arianne while he was at it. Eventually he dropped the shirt on the floor and I had to admire the “eff you” of that act, though I tried to show exasperation rather than laughter. “Fine,” he was telling me, “you deny me human privileges, that means I don’t have human responsibilities either. Have fun cleaning up after me!”
So it seemed he was choosing the “have fun with it” approach, at least for now. Once the sun was up and the day was warm, I took the dogs outside to frolic in the yard for a while on the side away from the potty zone. Shadow could run circles around Bingo, but he gamely tried to fetch the balls that I threw even though she always got to them first. Eventually I had the idea of getting a second ball out, throwing one for Shadow to retrieve, and then while she was distracted tossing the second one close to wherever Bingo was standing. He was so proud the first time he was able to pick it up in his mouth and hand it back to me! I got some more pics and videos to send to his Donna for her to enjoy. Then, of course, Shadow figured out what was going on and tried to get both balls at once, which was comical in a different way. Bingo guarded his ball fiercely. Alas, she got through his defenses at one point and after that I didn’t think it was a good idea for him to put that particular ball back in his mouth.
Shadow barked excitedly a few times during our play session, which made me realize I hadn’t heard any such sounds from Bingo yet. So I taught him to “speak”. He sounded at first like a human pretending to be a dog, but soon enough he got the hang of it and was making much more realistic noises.
Then back inside again to diddle around a bit more. Shadow taught Bingo how to go nuts at the arrival of the mailman, whose truck was loud enough that even my ears could hear it. The sound of his passage through the neighborhood drove her crazy every single day, and I am certain that she is convinced that only her diligent effort to repel him is what sends him fleeing day after day. Bingo gleefully joined in with the barking, though once again Shadow ran circles around him, up and down the stairs, to one window and then another. I had to shoo him off the sofa at one point – he climbed up to get a better look outside, which Shadow knows not to do. All this even though the guy never gets out of his truck! He leaves the mail in the box at the end of the driveway! Dopey mutts…
Then lunch. For me, I mean. Shadow took a few bites of the leftover kibble and Bingo made sad eyes at me when he realized I was not planning on feeding him anything. When he added a whimper as well I made a big show of relenting and giving him more of the cereal. “Oh, you poor thing, I know, we starve you around here, it’s disgraceful and downright cruel what you have to put up with. Okay, fine, if you’re that desperate you can have a little more.” Et cetera, et cetera.
A little after that Shadow gave her “I need to poop” yip, a particular sound Keira taught her to make when she wants to go outside. So out once more for another potty trip, this time with a bag in my hand to collect what came out. Still no #2 from Bingo. Maybe there was nothing inside or maybe he was holding it in, angling for another chance to do it human-style, but I was not going to give him that chance.
After we came back inside I headed off to the bathroom myself and when I got back, Shadow was nowhere to be seen, probably in the bedroom dozing, but Bingo was right in plain sight… sitting in what I had come to think of as “my” spot on the sofa. Not any old spot, but the exact spot where I was spending much of my time while here. I had informed him twice now, once last night and once during the Great Mailman Invasion, that dogs were not allowed on the furniture, and there he was, curled up with his head down on his front paws, eyes closed as if he was in the middle of a nap. Which he could not possibly be since three minutes earlier he had been piddling against the backyard fence. As with the dropping of my shirt, I suspected this was his way of giving me the finger through his paw mitts.
“Down, Bingo. C’mon, move.” He ignored me. I put my hand on his neck and grabbed his collar, giving the chain a gentle tug.
“I said move.” He lifted his head up, blinked, and then tried to reach his face around to where my hand was and give it a lick. The little fucker was making a game out of this!
“NO DOGS ON THE FURNITURE,” I snarled, trying to put real menace into my voice, and he stood up on his paws, still on the sofa, and goddam wiggled as if he was wagging his tail. Then he started yapping happy little barks just like he had learned to do out in the yard. Playtime! What marvelous fun! “DOWN!” I shouted, but he was having none of it. I tried to keep my face and attitude angry but inside I was laughing at how effective his little stunt was turning out to be.
So I had to break out my physical strength advantage. I gave the collar a long, steady pull until he was forced to get down off the sofa and back on the floor. “That’s it, down you go, come on.” Once he reached the floor, he stood up on his hind legs and pressed his paws against my waist, still barking merrily. “Knock it off, ya pest!” I pushed him away and he seemed to get the message.
Two minutes later he was back, having dug my shirt from yesterday out from where I had stashed it after the last time. Stupidly, I had put it on the dresser, which meant he could have reached it without standing fully erect, so I couldn’t accuse him of undoglike behavior. He ambled over to where I was sitting (in my spot, thank you) with the shirt dangling from between his teeth. He nudged it against my leg. Play with me! his little puppy eyes said. So I did for a few minutes, tugging on the shirt while he growled at me and I growled right back at him. I ended up down on the floor with him on my own hands and knees and we even wrestled a bit, which could very easily have led to a different form of wrestling, but I wanted to steer clear of that this time around.
I returned to the sofa and my magazine stash and he once again wandered around some more. Ten minutes later I looked up at him lying on the floor across the room, and the little bastard had gotten hold of one of my shoes and had yanked the lace mostly free. The shoes usually sat next to the front door. I would put them on when going downstairs to take the dogs outside, then take them off again before coming upstairs. And the mischievous imp had toddled off down the stairs, grabbed the shoe, presumably in his mouth, brought it back upstairs, and sat there right where I could have seen him if I had bothered to look, carefully using his teeth to tug the lace bit by bit out of the holes while holding the shoe between his paws. I have no doubt that if I hadn’t caught him at it he would have happily left that shoe right where it was once he had finished, discarded lace and all, then gone and fetched the other.
“Bingo, drop it! Drop that right now!” I got up and walked over toward him. He stood up, wiggling once again, shoe dangling from his mouth, ready and eager for another game of tug-of-war. Instead I pressed on his cheeks until he was forced to let the shoe fall, at which point I snatched it up. It was covered in drool. Okay, not covered, but a good amount of slobber had been delivered and a lot had soaked into the lace.
Hoist on my own petard, I think the saying goes. I had dehumanized him and he turned that back around on me, saying “I’m just a dumb dog, you can’t expect me to know any better.” I had de-centered him, and he brought himself right back to the center and forced me to pay attention to him.
I shook my finger at him. “Keep this up and I’m gonna chain you up out in the yard. Ya mangy fleabag.” Then I spent a good fifteen minutes making sure that everything I cared about was safely up high, well out of Bingo’s reach. I considered further dog-proofing. For instance, would he tip over the giant bag of Shadow’s kibble and then happily prance away? I didn’t think so – so far he had targeted things I owned, making clear that I was the focus of his canine retribution. I took my chances and left Don and Keira’s stuff alone. And it worked; he gave up after that. Shadow dozed through the whole incident.
Another hour or so of doing nothing and then it was time for a walk. It was part of Shadow’s routine but obviously Bingo couldn’t go parading around the neighborhood. And I was absolutely not going to leave him free to roam unattended, not after the stunts he pulled earlier. That left me with a problem: I couldn’t leave him alone and I couldn’t take him with me. I thought about asking a friend over, which would have been funny, the dog sitter needing a dog sitter. I even had the perfect friend in mind for the job: Peter, who would no doubt arrive fully leathered up. But that would not have been the right move. “Bingo” might have been fine with a temporary caretaker for half an hour, but Owen would be very put off by the idea, possibly even alarmed. One of the goals of this weekend was building trust after that last session, and handing him over to a stranger and then waltzing away would not accomplish that.
So instead, I chained him up in the backyard. Exactly as I had threatened to do.
Sure, I could probably have dumped him out in the yard and locked the door knowing that he would never risk trying to open the gate and escape, not bare-assed with those mitts locked around his fists. But what can I say, I like the look of a man in chains. So chains it would be.
Naturally, I didn’t explain any of this to Bingo. Dogs can comprehend simple commands but complex reasoning is lost on them. Instead I brought him outside and then attached his collar to a ten-foot-long piece of chain and locked the other end around a tree trunk by the fence. He could tell something was up, but all I said was “now you wait here and I’ll be back soon”. The look on his face as I headed into the house without him was mournful indeed.
He would be fine for thirty minutes, even without a water dish. He had his choice of shade or sunshine. He would have to drag the chain around wherever he wanted to go, which was inconvenient but not terrible. I had chosen a spot far from any furniture. He would be able to stand up on two legs and I’d never know, but he would not be able to sit down on a chair. It would do to keep him from regressing too much while I was away.
Shadow and I had a nice stroll around the neighborhood. We met someone who knew her but not me and I had to explain why Shadow was roaming around with an unfamiliar human. I would have loved to have had Bingo with me at that moment. But that would not have been wise.
We got back and went through the gate from the front yard to the back to find Bingo camped under his tree. Shadow ran to greet him as soon as I took the leash off and he greeted her right back. I left the dogs outside, Bingo still chained, while I ducked into the house for a quick shower, then brought them back in.
We killed a bit more time, but Shadow was antsy from being in pre-supper mode. The afternoon walk is usually when either Dan or Keira picks up their oldest from the bus stop after school, and Shadow knows this means dinner time is not far away. She does this little dance where she lifts up one front paw then the other in rapid succession, backing up a little like she’s moonwalking. It’s very cute the first time but after the twentieth or thirtieth repetition it loses its charm. I hollered at her a couple of times. “It’s only four thirty! Settle down!” but there was no stopping her. The whining started fifteen minutes later and by then Bingo was getting in on the action, having sensed yet another way to get back at me without breaking character for the role I was forcing him to play. He would come over and put a paw in my lap to get my attention, then look at me with sad whimpery eyes and whine piteously.
“I cannot believe you two!” I stormed, playing up the Annoyed Human persona they were pushing me into. “It’s like you’ve never eaten before in your lives!” All good fun, but honestly, this is why I don’t have pets of my own. Too much work, too much drama.
At 5:00 on the dot I got Shadow her canned food and heated up some beef and vegetable chunks for Bingo. I had originally thought something stew-like would be good, but then realized that he would make a mess of the neoprene hood trying to eat it. Better to stick with something dry but well-seasoned and provide plenty of water. Shadow was finished by the time Bingo’s meal was in his bowl and she was making a serious play for his food, so I shut her in the bedroom to give him a chance to eat in peace.
My own dinner arrived at the door about an hour later and I am not ashamed to admit that I offered the dogs tidbits from my hand there at the table, making them do tricks before giving them their treats. Keira used to seethe when I did that in Shadow’s younger years. “You’re teaching her bad habits!” Well, come on, spoiling the kids is like the second or third line item of a gay uncle’s job description! Owen obliged me with cheerful cooperation in holding up a mitted paw for a shake or rolling over on the floor. He must have still been in a good mood from having successfully tormented me earlier. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that the treats I was handing out were fried wontons. Why fried wontons? Oh, possibly because I had asked Arianne what Owen’s favorite foods were. Seems the boy’s a sucker for savory tidbits, he likes those better than either sweet desserts or salty snacks.
And so it went. Another lazy evening, another potty trip before bed, and another night with my two charges. Bingo was chained in place once more, partly to keep him from roaming around while I was sleeping and partly because, as I believe I mentioned, I like the look of a man in chains. He had plenty of slack to roll around, but he wouldn’t be moving very far from his nest of blankets on the floor.
Sunday went much the same way, but the atmosphere was subtly different. Bingo was less chipper. The playful, boundary-pushing pup from the day before was more subdued this morning. I think he had now experienced everything there was to experience of canine living and was ready to be done with it. He had exhausted the meager variety of doggy entertainment options and his human brain was craving more stimulation than it was getting. He wanted his phone back, he wanted his mobility back, he wanted his voice back. He probably hadn’t slept well on the floor the previous two nights. He was probably sore from crawling everywhere. And he probably had a big old pile o’ poop backed up inside since he stubbornly refused to dump it on the grass.
And honestly, I was ready to be done, too. I had burned through my stack of magazines and the phone games were starting to lose their appeal. I washed some dishes but aside from that there were no chores that needed to be done so by about midday I was just as bored as Bingo. Missing my regular workout routine left me with a lot of pent-up energy, so I filled some time by burning some of it off, running through a no-equipment workout session downstairs (keeping the dogs with me so one of them couldn’t get up to any mischief). I followed that up with some stretching and poses back upstairs in the living room. The exercise helped, but I was looking forward to getting back to my normal gym schedule.
Well, the end was in sight only a few hours away. I noted Bingo’s change in demeanor but didn’t act on it. I behaved the same as I had the previous day, occasionally playing with the pups, making sure they had water to drink and regular potty trips and occasional romps in the yard. Sadly, clouds had moved in and the temperature had dropped a bit. The hairy dog didn’t notice; the furless one was much more reluctant to go outside.
Well, he didn’t have a choice when walk time came. Back out to the yard he went while I took Shadow out for her neighborhood tour. I once again left him chained to the tree. The wind had picked up a bit and I felt the tiniest shred of remorse for leaving Owen chained out naked in the cold. So I rushed the walk a bit and got home sooner than yesterday. This time instead of returning into the yard through the gate we went into the house first and I went to fetch Bingo through the back door.
As a result, he didn’t hear me coming and I saw him through the glass before he realized I was there. And there he was, standing up on two legs. I opened the door and he immediately dropped to all fours but he knew I’d seen him. I had exactly the right punishment in mind and was honestly a bit surprised that it had taken almost to the end of the scene to need it.
I unchained Bingo from the tree and led him inside. Instead of giving him the run of the house, I kept the chain on and wrapped it around the railing once we got to the top of the steps. I made a detour to the bedroom and came back with four nice-sized lengths of rope.
“Now Bingo, you know you’re not supposed to stand up on your hind legs,” I told him as I started wrapping a rope around his thigh. “That’s not right. You need to stay down on all fours like a good dog.” I could feel him tensing at the phrase. He was ready to be done with doggery and here I was making it worse. How would he react? Would I need to get stern with him or would he master his rebelliousness and choose to submit?
The other ropes went in place. When I was finished, each thigh had multiple loops around it and so did each ankle. These were connected together, left to left and right to right so that he couldn’t straighten his legs past about ninety degrees. No more standing for you, Bingo. His stair-descending would also be compromised but that was probably fine; we could make it to Arianne’s 6:30 return without needing another potty trip.
“That’s better,” I told him, scratching his neck and unclipping the chain from his collar. “There’s a good dog.” He experimented a bit to see what his range of motion was, and then I could see the moment when he came to accept his new situation. Strange how that sometimes works with subs and prisoners: they need the firm hand of a dom or captor to keep them in line. When asked to control their own behavior, it stresses them. But force that control on them and they accept it much more easily. Seems paradoxical that they are liberated by restraint, but it makes total sense when you know how a sub’s mind works.
The one thing I hadn’t needed yet was the ball gag I had ready. That was for use the moment I heard a human word come out of his mouth, and I really expected it would have happened yesterday. Or even Friday night when I caught him in the bathroom – it must have taken a great deal of self control to stifle the “sorry, sir” that wanted to come bubbling up out through his lips. But he had managed it, which I was almost sorry about since I like the look of a gagged man almost as much as a chained one.
So we finished out the day. Shadow danced her before-dinner dance, though without Bingo’s contribution this time. They ate, I ate, we retired to the living room where Bingo lay listlessly on the floor. Time passed and then with no warning, Shadow leaped up and bounded down the stairs to the landing. I tell you, that dog’s hearing is keen. She stood there at the door, once again taut as a bowstring, until the bell rang and then the NEW PEOPLE ARE HERE barking frenzy began. Bingo perked up at this and made his way carefully down the stairs behind me.
“There’s my boy!” Arianne said upon entering. She bent down and gave him a shoulder hug while he positively beamed in her presence. Those puppy eyes were glowing with adoration. “How was he?” she asked.
“Just super,” I replied. “I think he’s very excited to see you, though. We had a fun visit but I bet he’s glad to be going home.” He wasn’t the only one – I was glad this was over too! Almost… I had one more night here with Shadow before Dan and Keira and their entourage returned tomorrow, but at least I could now turn on the TV.
We worked out that they would depart from the back door. That would give Owen a chance to get out of the dog costume in the privacy of the fenced-in yard while still giving me the satisfaction that he had spent 100% of his time here in canine mode. I escorted them down to the sliding door and saw them out. Arianne had brought a bag with his clothes in it and I wished them well, then closed the door and headed back upstairs before he could stand up and start changing into them. We would arrange for a gear handoff later, or who knows, maybe she would want to hang onto it for use another time?
All in all a good session, and hopefully it would help him trust me to see that I had kept my word and had a no-sex, no-pain session with him and thus agree to more of them. But I was hungry for something a little rougher next time. Hopefully he – and she – would consent to that as long as we spelled out what it would entail.
6 – Interlude
Owen once again wrote up a post-scene report for his Donna and she shared the results with me. This time it was a simple e-mail forward rather than an in-person meetup. I was pleased to see that my estimates of what he was thinking and feeling during this session were much closer to what he himself reported. He was indeed puzzled as to what he should do at first on Friday evening, then later that night suffered exactly the “to pee or not to pee, that is the question” dilemma I had predicted. Then on Saturday he fully embraced his situation and even had fun with it. That sassy stunt where he used my shirt as a toy, climbed up on the sofa, and mangled my shoe were all confirmed to be the “eff you” I thought they were – good for him! And good for me, too: I’ll take a spunky victim over one that mumbles “yessir sorry sir” any day.
I didn’t get to see much of how Owen and Arianne’s relationship worked, particularly how they interacted when I wasn’t there, but I got the sense they had a fairly traditional dom / sub thing going on. He wanted to please her and serve her and she was fine with being attended to and served. Whereas with me, he didn’t feel that same internal motivation. Our relationship worked more along the lines of grudging obedience, with me forcing him to obey and him seeing what he could get away with. Sometimes he could get away with nothing as in our first scene in the woods, but he still made the attempt and I was glad of that. What this second scene had taught him was that sometimes he could rebel and I would let him get away with defiance. Encourage it, even. That’s a tough balancing act and that’s what I was having such a hard time finding before: someone who would submit, but offer resistance, while still staying within the parameters of the scene we were playing. In this straight guy, I was finding what I couldn’t find elsewhere: someone who was willing to let me dominate him but who didn’t take it all in with groveling acceptance and pleas for more. I was really feeling good about the direction things were going and hoped I’d be seeing more of him.
He was willing to continue with the sessions, he wrote, so that was a good sign. For next time, he said he would prefer something a bit more along the line of a traditional dominant / submissive situation where I would supply him with instructions and direction, though he was careful to couch the request in suitably deferential language and say that whatever his Donna thought best would be the right and proper thing. I could gladly agree to that… as long as I got some of what I wanted too, which was that delicious straight-boy reluctance.
Anyway, back to his writeup. Saturday was good, but Sunday was a bit rougher for him. And honestly, I was starting to get bored myself by that point. This was a tame scene and it went on a long time. I wanted to either amp up the intensity or else bring it to an end. It was fun, but in hindsight, two days was a day too long for both of us. Next time a few hours some afternoon or evening would probably be better all around. He had this to say:
Sunday was definitely more difficult. I tried to find that same mental space as the day before, but it was not easy to do. My thoughts kept returning to all the duties I was neglecting and the colossal amount of work that would be waiting for me on my return. As indeed turned out to be the case. After I returned home from your place and showered to try to feel human again, I checked e-mails and DMs and messages from students on CAS and the amount was dauntingly large. I stayed up until about 2:30 responding to what messages I could, flagging others for later followup, and delegating still others elsewhere. Then I had to get up for a nine AM class the next day. Normally, six hours of sleep would be adequate, but I was already running a deficit from sleeping poorly on the floor the previous two nights. As a result, I was not at my best during the lecture. I did amuse myself by imagining Bingo there at the front of the classroom, barking explanations about the slides on the screen and wondering if my students’ comprehension might actually increase. That was an amusement I cannot share with any of my colleagues, or really anyone but you, my Donna.
I knew going into the weekend that the workload would be a problem but convinced myself it would be OK. In hindsight, I should have been more insistent about delaying. The start and end of the academic terms are simply too busy a time. December or May would definitely have been worse, but September and January are also not good months to drop off the grid for two whole days. And yet, Elias’s situation with his friends needing a dog-sitter was only possible that weekend and so I told myself I would be able to manage. Which I did, but it was a strain. I didn’t feel fully caught up until Friday or so. That is also why it has taken me so long to provide you with this synopsis. Thank you for your patience, Ma’am.
I definitely felt bad about that. I had pushed, knowing that I would only have access to that place at that time. The next time I was called upon to dog-sit might be six months or even a year away, so I pressured them and was now regretting it. I resolved to be more aware of Owen’s regular life next time. It was very easy to think of him as just Arianne’s Boy with no life of his own, as if her schedule was the only one I had to work around and he was just an object to be taken off a shelf when desired and put back when not. Reading those paragraphs made it clear I needed to do better if I wanted to keep borrowing him.
The next bit provided some other useful background knowledge.
At any rate, that was one factor weighing on my mind on Sunday. It’s hard to sink into a kink-enjoyment head space when the space in the head is already occupied with real-world issues. The other factor was physical. You know that I am somewhat bathroom shy. As I mentioned earlier, when Elias made it clear that first evening what Bingo’s bathroom arrangements would be, I could not make it work despite a moderately-full bladder. Unfortunate events ensued. Well, the bowel end was even worse. Saturday was not too bad but over time, the pipe started to fill up. As uncomfortable as I was with the growing pressure inside, I simply could not bring myself to try to unload it on the grass. It was not possible. It would have been difficult alone, but with Elias watching there was no way it was going to happen. I resolved to wait out the weekend until you would come for me and I could use my own facilities at my own home.
As a result, I was constantly distracted by the discomfort. It made me listless and not feel like moving at all, let alone like pretending to be a happy-go-lucky puppy. I could tell Elias sensed the difference in my attitude, but true to his pattern for the weekend, he left me to my own devices to work it out. I was angry at him for an hour or so until I realized how wrong that way of thinking was. Yes, a good domme should be mindful of her (or in this case his) sub’s condition. But a good sub’s role is to serve his domme, not to burden her with emotional problems that he could work through on his own. Within reason. I resolved to notify Elias if I ran into trouble that I couldn’t handle, but otherwise to manage on my own. Which worked out.
OK, good to know. The guy has issues around elimination. No problem. I’m not much into watersports or scat play, so no skin off my back there. I just need to ensure that at future play sessions he has access to private restroom facilities. Can do.
Of course, if I ever were to need a way to further torment him, he just gave it to me. I filed that away for future use, just in case. Also, I would need to re-emphasize that I was not particularly interested in that “serve his dom” bit. He could save that for his Donna; I was not looking to be served!
What he wrote next came very much as a surprise to me.
The boredom, though! That, coupled with the physical discomfort and the mental frustration of knowing there was so much else I could be doing with these idle hours and that I would be paying the price later… that was stressful. Mental exercises only got me so far; I was craving stimulation. Elias stubbornly (and as mentioned above, I’m sure deliberately) refused to turn on any sort of electronic audio or video distraction and made sure no printed material was left within my reach… or so he thought. Since I had free run of the house, I wandered off at one point. I suspect he marked my departure since he kept close tabs on me throughout my time there, but he gave no obvious indication of noticing. I wandered into one of the children’s bedrooms where – aha! – I found books on low shelves! I was so desperate for something to feed my mind that even books for toddlers would do. I made my way through four or five, including the formulaic but nevertheless gripping Miss Spider’s ABC, the charmingly whimsical Bear Snores On, and a couple of others I can’t remember now. It turns out that board books designed for immature humans are also perfect for canine humans with inflexible paws in place of thumbs and fingers. Much easier (and quieter!) to turn cardboard pages than paper.
Sadly, the brief episode of intellectual indulgence came to a sudden end right in the middle of Sandra Boynton’s iconic masterpiece Hippos Go Berserk. I had reached the central climactic moment when the hippos were, as a keen-eyed reader might infer from the title, going berserk when I heard movement from the living room. I panicked. There was no way to get the book back on the shelf both quickly and quietly with my mitted paws, so I shoved it under the bed and loped to the door, resigning myself to never learning how the story’s dramatic tension would resolve. Elias wasn’t there, but I knew I heard him stand up from the sofa so he was probably looking for me since it had been perhaps ten minutes since I wandered off. I crossed the hall into the bedroom where we slept and nosed around in there a while. When he still didn’t show, I eventually went back into the living room and he emerged from the kitchen as I passed by. I got a scratch on my neck and a “good boy, Bingo” as he went to sit back down.
I am almost certain he has no idea what a bad boy Bingo was shortly before that moment. And people claim foxes are sly… but then, animal stereotypes don’t always hold up in practice. People think of hippos as big and goofy and harmless, but they’re actually rather vicious beasts, with killer tusks. If a group of hippos really went berserk, the result would be very different from the innocent party depicted in Ms Boynton’s magnum opus.
That little scamp! Sure enough, I had no clue he had found contraband reading material! It made me wonder… was he aware that he had confessed?
I texted Arianne. “Does he know you share his scene write-ups with me?”
“I’ve never told him I do, but I’ve never told him it’s private either. I believe he assumes you’ll see what he writes.”
“You think that affects what he says?”
“Probably. The tone is slightly different from other assignments I’ve given him, but not by much. If there were anything too personal in it, I would redact before giving it to you.”
So the little bugger was bragging about his temporary escape from dogness! I could even remember that moment coming out of the kitchen after a snack. I knew he had gone down the hall, but I was monitoring the bathroom. Kids’ books weren’t on my radar at all. And I noticed he seemed perkier for an hour or so afterward. I thought he was just shaking off his funk, but no: he had gotten away with something!
Well. This was excellent. As I said before, a resistant sub is much more enticing to me than a cooperative one. Of course, that resistance must be punished, oh yes it must. I would find a way to turn this incident against him. It might not be right away, but at some point he would be under my thumb again and I would choose that moment to whip out the copy of Hippos Go Berserk that I would be ordering this very day so that I could dangle it in front of him as a prelude to whatever torment I was about to dish out.
Quite a bit of time passed before our next session. It was mid-October before we even started discussions as to what to do. I hooked up with a couple of guys in the meantime, standard willing, eager subs, and it was fine, but by the time Owen was ready for more I was itching to have another go at my favorite unwilling, not-at-all-eager submissive, this time for something more serious than a romp at a puppy park.
Arianne had a particular interest in making sure her boy got an actual male-on-male experience this time, or so she told me in a side chat. The blowjob from our jaunt through the woods was fine as far as it went, but the dog weekend featured no penises at all, and penis play was a big part of what she wanted for Owen. To put it bluntly, it was time for the lad to get right well fucked. A flesh-and-blood dick up his flesh-and-blood ass.
Yeah. I was on board with that.
All three of us agreed that a good location for a scene would be Crag, the leather club in Bridgeport. The place was open for playtime the third Saturday of each month, and while in theory all genders and orientations were welcome, in practice the clientele was mostly gay men. Perfect for giving Owen an introduction to the whole gay leather culture scene that he almost certainly knew very little about. A very up-close-and-personal introduction.
Another plus: the third Saturday of November was the one before Thanksgiving when the students at West Chicago College would all be heading home for a break. Both profs and students tended to mentally check out early, said Owen, so his work obligations would be light that day and all the following week. Excellent. We hammered out some details. He would come to my place and I would fit him out in the gear I wanted him to wear, and then we would go to Crag together. Still to be decided: would he be riding in the passenger seat or the trunk? Heh heh. I kid. My hatchback lacks a trunk, more’s the pity.
One thing I planned to include this time was a good old-fashioned flogging as a prelude to his good old-fashioned fucking. The severity of those depends a lot on the recipient’s experience; you wouldn’t thrash a first-timer the same way you would an experienced pro. I discreetly checked in with Arianne ahead of time to try to get a sense of how much Owen would be able to take.
A week before showtime, we all redid our STD checks and shared the all-clear results. After I got home from mine I headed over to my gear toybox to look for ideas about what to do to him. And wouldn’t you know it, there was my copy of Hippos Go Berserk near the top of the stash. I had ordered it back in September, tucked it into the toybox where I would be sure to see it when the time came (and where it looked completely out of place among the black leather and shiny steel), and then forgotten about it. For kicks, I gave it a read. And after I did, a big evil smile appeared on my face because I knew exactly how I would be using this half-read book as the centerpiece of a positively delicious payback for Owen’s transgression.
7 – Crag
Crag isn’t quite a bar and isn’t quite a club. It’s more of a co-op based in what used to be a manufacturing plant for railcar parts in the old industrial area in Bridgeport. The members pool their resources to have a shared space for play and equipment and they host public events like tonight’s once a month. I’m not a member, so I pay the high guest rate when I visit, which is not all that often. I tend to hang out at the bars farther north in Edgewater when I’m looking for leather companionship, but I’ve visited Crag a time or two before. Great atmosphere – huge high ceilings, big rooms to play in with echoey concrete walls in a lot of them. A good dungeon vibe. And unlike the Edgewood bars, the focus here was not on drinks or conversation, but on getting physical. The money the co-op brought in was not to make a profit for a business but instead got reinvested into either the space or the gear.
I was dressed in my best: black leather from hat to boots, tight in all the places I wanted to show off like waist, biceps, and thighs. Short-sleeved lambskin shirt under a zip-front vest (unzipped) with a jacket over top, also open at the front now that we were inside out of the chill. Hunter boots down below and a biker cap on my head and I was looking every inch the alpha top.
Owen was wearing black leather gear as well, and his clothing was also tight, but not quite in the same way as mine. He was dressed in a leather straitjacket and his arms were crossed in front of his belly with the straps continuing around behind his back and more running under his crotch to keep those arms right where they were. Also tight was the head harness / muzzle he had on, which kept his mouth clamped firmly shut. His eyes were uncovered so he could see just fine, and there was no gag in his mouth so he could speak, but his words came out heavily muffled. On his legs he wore chaps with a pair of shorts over the top. He had asked me when I was helping him get dressed if I had gotten confused – shouldn’t the shorts go on first? No, I informed him, because the shorts will be coming off not too long after we get inside. Definitely chaps first. Completing the ensemble was a leash leading from his collar to my fist. Just in case there was any possible doubt as to which of the two of us was in charge.
The only tricky part came at the door when I handed my bag over to be inspected. I wanted to make sure Owen didn’t see one particular item so that it would be a surprise when the time came. I sent him on ahead to wait inside since he wasn’t carrying anything. The guy who searched the bag gave me a “seriously?” look with his eyes when he came across the item in question, but I just did the Arianne ambiguous-eyebrow thing in reply. He didn’t say anything out loud since it obviously posed no threat and so Owen remained blissfully unaware of its existence.
We got in the door and the music filled our ears. I was relieved to find that the volume was reasonable. It was loud enough to feel energetic and excited, but not so loud as to stop you from having a conversation, or hearing your sub groan when the whip hits his back. A good balance.
We left our outer gear in the coat room – that would be my jacket and Owen’s shorts, which I had to peel down off his legs for him because obviously he couldn’t do it himself. Then we went out into the main room, me striding confidently, him doing his best to pretend not to be uncomfortable about flashing a full moon and a dangling dick to a roomful of guys who were all too happy to appreciate the show. He definitely got some attention as we walked slowly around, him following wherever I pulled his leash. We wandered around checking out what was on offer, both in the main room and the smaller individual rooms further back, one of which I had a reservation for in about an hour’s time. There were flogging stations, slings, cages, gimps fastened to posts, guys bent over fuckbenches, boot blacks… you name it, it was happening. As usual, it was mostly gay men, but here and there was the occasional female form, or one that didn’t fit neatly into one category or the other. Every once in a while I would turn around to look at what might have caught Owen’s attention. The guy was no stranger to kink so I figured most or all of this gear would be familiar to him, but the largely single-sex nature of the people using it would be new.
Eventually we had seen everything there was to be seen for a first pass and I brought us back into the main room. I suspect he didn’t realize that at least five men propositioned him for sex during our fifteen-minute tour of the place. He didn’t realize they were asking; he didn’t speak the language.
Well, that was easily enough fixed. I led him over to a corner where we leaned against a concrete wall. “So, your first gay leather cruise night. What do you think?”
“I definitely feel out of place.” His words were a little fuzzy through the muzzle but I could understand him just fine.
“Of course. And yet you don’t look out of place at all.” I pointed out other men who were in a similar state as he was – a guy (fully dressed) down on his knees at his master’s side; a guy in nothing but a jockstrap and leather collar; another with dick swinging free just like Owen’s, only his was hard. There were even two others in straitjackets, one very much like the one Owen had on and the other made of pale canvas. “You look like you fit in just fine.”
“But everyone here wants what’s on offer, whereas I definitely don’t. I can only ever be a visitor to this culture, never a part of it.”
“True. A good environment to let your anthropologist side out to study the natives, then. However, unlike some pale European visiting the Brazilian rain forest who can never possibly be mistaken for a local, here you can easily pass if you want to. I don’t expect you’ll want to, but you should still learn the language. It’s easy. There’s only a few phrases and most of it is non-verbal. Watch a few with me and I’ll translate.”
It didn’t take long. “There,” I said, nodding but not pointing. “Those two, the guy in the red hat and the one coming toward him. Watch as they pass each other.”
The two men I had pointed out were walking toward each other, the red-hatted one with his chest mostly exposed by his vest, the other in a tight grey T-shirt. They passed, then both turned around to face each other again, and then they started walking together toward one of the smaller rooms in the back.
“That was ‘want to have sex?’ accompanied by ‘sure’.”
Owen watched as the two disappeared around a corner. “Do they know each other?”
“Probably not. I mean, they might have seen each other around before, but they probably aren’t close buddies.”
“How…”
“Eye contact. If you see someone you like, you meet his eyes as you walk past. If he likes what he sees, he meets your eyes as well.”
“What? But I, when I was walking around a few minutes ago I was looking all around and I’m sure I made eye contact with several guys. Did every single one of them think I was asking him for sex?”
“No, there’s more to it. An ‘I want you’ eye contact lasts a long time, a lot longer than an ‘I acknowledge you exist’ eye contact. And the turn-around after passing made it clear for those two. If one or both hadn’t been interested, he wouldn’t have turned around. Since both turned, it was clear they wanted each other. It can also be communicated by touch, a hand on a shoulder or an ass while passing. As for you during our stroll, I counted five guys who would have happily taken you to a back room right that moment, but don’t worry. You didn’t accidentally offend anyone because the leash made it clear that you were not in a position to decide yes or no on your own. I said no for you. For now, at least, because your ass is mine tonight. How’s it feel to be a desired sex object, stud? A roomful of guys all eager to take you for a ride.” I squeezed his bare ass cheek to hammer the thought home for him.
Owen was flustered and his face reddened a bit. Gawd, I loved it! So uncomfortable in what was for me a warm and familiar environment. “But… it’s really that easy? Those two didn’t even talk to each other. How do they know what they’re going to do, I mean, who’s going to… which one will…”
“Top and bottom are probably the words you’re looking for. If you want to avoid the word ‘fuck,’ I mean.”
“Yeah. They couldn’t have worked that out in five seconds of eye contact. Could they?”
“They did. A lot of it is posture and attitude and dress. I’m guessing that the one with the red hat is probably going to top and the one in the grey shirt is probably going to bottom. But I could be wrong. And there are definitely times when you cruise someone and you guess wrong and end up with two tops or two bottoms and neither one is willing to switch roles. When that happens, you have a good laugh and move on. That brings us to the third useful phrase, which is ‘no, thanks,’ and that one you already know. If you don’t want someone, don’t lock eyes with him, and if he’s coming on to you by touch, keep it light and casual. ‘Ah, no thanks, man.’ No offense will be taken. It’s that simple.”
Owen and I watched as a couple more invitations played out. Two went nowhere – one guy turned around after a pass but the other didn’t. A third was a match. Owen saw the whole interaction from start to finish and was amazed at how little time it took.
“Two total strangers encountered each other and in less than ten seconds agreed to have sex.”
“Yup. Not how it works in the straight world, is it?”
He laughed. “Hell no! Those guys don’t know anything about each other. Not even their names!”
“And they probably won’t. You’ve got your Donna, so I’m guessing you’ve been out of the dating pool for a while, and I’ve never been in it, but my understanding is that straight guys either have to get extremely lucky on a hookup app or else invest hours of conversation and possibly multiple dinner dates to get to the point those two just did. It’s a different world here in this all-boys club. So… which one do you think is going to top?”
Owen pondered a bit and then said, “The guy in the hat?”
“Yeah, I’d agree. Why?”
“The way he was standing made him look larger.” I thought that was a good way to read the situation.
Just then a man came up dressed in obvious sub clothing, a rubber vest and pants and a fairly open rubber hood with big round holes for eyes and nose-mouth combo. “Excuse me, sir, please pardon the interruption, but do either you or your slave require service?” With that, he bowed his head, cast his eyes to the floor, and tucked his hands behind his back.
This was unexpected! But perfect timing. I glanced over at Owen who was clearly waiting for me to take charge of responding, so I did. I put my hand under the sub’s chin and lifted his head up. “Well, boy, as it turns out, I do. My captive here – ” I emphasized the word to make the correction clear “– is straight and I have so far been unable to get his dick hard.” True… I had never tried. “I wonder if you might be able to get him to stiffen up? Hands only for now.”
Rubberboy didn’t need to be told twice. He went down on his knees and started working on Owen’s dick and balls. I was very curious whether he’d be able to get results. He worked for a few minutes while I watched Owen standing there, totally out of his element, maybe trying to cooperate in the boy’s effort to get him hard but not quite sure. While the rubber guy worked, I was able to talk in Owen’s ear where the boy couldn’t hear over the music.
“And sometimes the proposition is even more direct than eye contact. Sometimes they walk right up and blatantly throw themselves at you.”
He replied; making conversation probably wasn’t getting his dick hard any faster. “You didn’t set this up? This wasn’t planned?”
“Nope. I don’t even know this guy, never saw him before. I hear that when straight guys learn just how easy it is to get laid when you go gay, more than a few of them convert.” No they don’t. And I’m sure Owen knew it. But it was fun to imagine anyway. “And the ones that don’t get extremely and frustratedly jealous. Now, in a few minutes I plan to tell him he can use his mouth. My understanding with Arianne is that that’s okay as long as there’s no fluid exchange, but if you feel differently, now is the time to opt out.”
He shook his head, then realized that was ambiguous and said “it’s alright.”
“Good. I don’t expect it’ll get to that point but just in case: do not shoot, is that clear, boy?”
“Yessir.” Then he caught himself. “Sorry!”
I gave him another Arianne Eyebrow Special and hoped he read it as “it’s fine this once, but don’t make a habit of it” but if all he caught was “the boss is annoyed, better watch out” that was alright too.
Several minutes in, Owen’s dick was slightly swollen but far from hard. The rubberboy was starting to get distressed.
“Hey, boy, you’re making progress. Maybe try using your mouth now, see if that can get this straight cock to wake up.” He went at it with gusto, sucking Owen’s dick inside and pulling hard. His fingers kept working Owen’s balls. Owen closed his eyes and I could see he was trying to will himself into the right mindset for an erection. I caught sight of a second subbish-looking fellow and beckoned him over. The rubberboy paused when he felt the new guy hovering over him and looked up. Owen opened his eyes at the interruption as well; I checked the state of his dick and saw that things were progressing but we still weren’t there yet.
“You feel like helping out here? My rubber friend and I are trying to get this straight boy’s dick hard, but he’s not cooperating. You feel like playing with his nipples, maybe try to help things along?”
“I’m in!” he replied. I unzipped the strategically-placed flaps on the straitjacket so that the new guy would have the access he needed, then moved myself around behind Owen. Now he was leaning against my body instead of the wall, and I was certain he could feel my own erection growing against his backside. I started stroking his head and neck, using my hands to both caress and press and nuzzling my face against his neck. Nice raspy stubble on my cheeks and chin, not at all like the smooth feminine flesh he was no doubt used to feeling.
Meanwhile, rubberboy was going to town on his dick with renewed enthusiasm while the new guy was squeezing and tweaking his tits through the open flaps. I ran my hand down Owen’s back to his ass and squeezed there, too, teasingly poking toward his hole but never quite fully getting there. Owen, for his part, seemed to give in. Maybe he was imagining lady parts, I didn’t need to know or care what he was thinking about, but between us all, it worked. I glanced around and down at the rubberboy’s lips and saw a fully-erect dick revealed when the rubberboy was on his backstroke. It was the first time I’d seen Owen’s dick hard. A nice, respectable endowment, sure to attract all sorts of attention he had no interest in. I figured we’d let things go a few minutes; there was little enough chance that Owen would get close to the edge, but before we got anywhere near that point…
“Why, Doctor McAllister! What an unexpected surprise to see you here!” Owen didn’t just jump at the voice, he flat-out lurched and I thought he might have fallen if I hadn’t had my arms around him. Once he was steady, I moved out from behind. Only then did I remember what Owen’s last name was and realize who the speaker was talking to. I knew it, but I never used it, so it wasn’t exactly at the top of my mind.
The speaker was a full-figured woman with silver-grey hair, dressed in leather and carrying it magnificently. Two other women stood at her heels. Her eyes sparkled with mirth – she knew full well what she was doing and had probably chosen her timing to have exactly the effect she was having. Both boys backed away from their tasks.
Owen tried to talk. “Um… hurp… Doctor Chen. I… oh, god…” He wasn’t speaking clearly to begin with and the muzzle made the sounds he produced basically unintelligible. His dick was pointing straight out into the air, glistening with the rubberboy’s spit.
“There, there, dear, I can see I’ve caught you at an awkward time. Don’t worry about introductions.” She directed her attention to me. “I’m Sun-Min Chen, so sorry to interrupt but I had to say a quick hello.”
“Elias Oliveira. I take it you know Owen?” The rubberboy and the nipple-tweaker were still there watching, the one on his knees and the other standing by the wall. I didn’t bother trying to introduce either of them since I had no idea who they were. Doctor Chen didn’t seem interested anyway. Owen’s dick was visibly sinking and deflating, getting smaller with each passing second.
“Oh, yes, we’ve known each other for, must be over five years now? He’s a charming fellow, has quite the reputation for wit and frivolity, and I can see it’s no different here. Well, I won’t keep you, but it was very nice meeting you, and marvelous running into you, Owen. See you later!” With that, she and her entourage strolled away and lost themselves in the crowd.
I looked down at Owen’s groin. His dick had completed its de-hardening and was now attempting to pull itself up to hide inside his bladder.
“I have to assume you were in on the planning of that,” he said.
“Me? No. I don’t even know who that was.”
He took a deep breath and visibly pulled himself together.
“Sun-Min is the head of the humanities department at the school where I work. I’m one of the science faculty but if I were an English teacher, she would be my boss. So, not directly in a supervisory role over me, but still someone higher up the hierarchy who has power over my career. She was on the board that decided whether or not I got tenure, for instance. Seeing her here… was… well… oh my god…” His words trailed off into muffled unintelligibility again.
“Yeah, I could tell.” I decided to cut Owen a break, give him a chance to recover. “Hey, rubberboy. Stand up. You did great there. What’s your name?”
“Bryson, sir.”
“Well, Bryson, you managed to get straightboy’s dick here to come to attention. Nice going. How about you son, what’s your name?”
“Andrew,” the nipple-tweaker responded, then added a hasty “sir”. It always rubs me wrong to be called that, but it’s the culture in places like this so I roll with it. Andrew was a thin fellow with only a token leather wristband. The rest of his clothes were normal daywear: white T-shirt, blue jeans, sneakers. His thin build made him look young, too young to be in a place like this but the door staff seemed pretty on the ball and were no doubt well-trained at spotting fake IDs, so he had to be of legal age. I suspect it’s more that I’ve gotten old enough that 20-somethings now look like kids to me.
“Great. I’m Master Elias, and my straight-boy captive for the evening is called Owen. Or Doctor McAllister, as we just heard a few minutes ago. I also like to call him Doctor NOOoooOOO! because he says that word a lot when I’m working him over and I love to hear him say it. I’m borrowing him tonight from his lady friend to give him a tour of how we do things here on the other side of the tracks. Later on I’m planning on giving him a good thrashing, then unloading my dick inside his guts, and I would sure enjoy having an audience to help him feel extra humiliated while that happens. You boys up for joining in?”
Yep. They sure were. Enthusiastically so. I turned my attention back to Owen.
“Of course, I’m not sure how much more humiliated we could make him feel than that woman just did. But we are gonna try, am I right?”
Bryson and Andrew, my new pair of devoted acolytes, gave a mighty “yes SIR!” and were thoroughly on board. I told them to meet me at 11:00 – 45 minutes away – right here and we’d get started. The boys wandered off.
“You need another few minutes, Doctor No? Or are you all recovered from that little surprise?”
“I’ll be okay. My Donna really didn’t plan that encounter with you?”
“She did not. Either Sun-Min’s presence here was an amazing coincidence, or your Donna has plans of her own that she did not see fit to make me aware of. I don’t think I need to tell you which of those two I think is more likely.”
He nodded, looking pensive. “Sun-Min knew exactly what she was doing. The code at work is we’re all on a first name basis in private but it’s title-last-name when students are present. By calling me what she did, she yanked me right out of this leather club and plonked me to the front of a lecture hall packed with students. That was… jarring. Wonder if I’ll still be employed on Monday?” He gave a dismissive little snort. “Well, no use worrying about that now, can’t do anything about it. Especially when there’s something more pressing to fret over. You, uh… you’re really going to, uh, use me as you just told those two you would?”
“I am indeed. And that much I did plan out with your lovely lady. You, my boy, are first going to find yourself turned into a punching bag. I am going to work that gut of yours over with my fists. And then I am going to turn you around and let a friend of mine demonstrate his flogging skills on your back. I understand you’ve had some experience with flogging but Peter is the best in the business. I suspect this will be another level beyond anything you’ve done before. And after that I am going to rig you up in a sling and split your ass like a piece of firewood. All in front of an audience of horned-up men who will drool over your bound-up body and appreciate your suffering as much as I will. Bonus points for all of us if you make it clear that you’re hating every minute of it.”
“I will definitely not need to fake that.”
“Indeed. To be clear, right now I expect you to obey orders like the submissive you love to be. But once the scene starts, and you’ll know when that is, I would appreciate your full, active resistance. Just like we did in the woods. I don’t want you to offer yourself to me, I want to take you by force. I will make sure you stay safe and unharmed, but I will also make sure you suffer. How’s the anthropologist doing?”
“He’s nodding and saying that this is exactly what he signed up for.”
“Good. And the terrified pigeon?”
“Is terrified.”
“Even better. Make sure you give that pigeon plenty of chance to show himself. That might make the ass-splitting portion go slightly faster.”
“Understood, s…” To his credit, he stopped himself before saying it. Good boy. It was a strange feeling, talking about the beating and fucking I would be administering to the victim himself. Very strange. Different from those talks I would have with Riley when we were setting up capture-and-interrogation scenes, because as much as Riley would protest while the scene was playing out, we both knew he was just as into it as I was. This was something else. This was like having a chat with a cow before it becomes your cheeseburger.
“One other question… tonight will be the first flesh-and-blood dick in your ass, correct?”
“Right. I’ve had toys up there before, but not the real thing.”
“Okay, good. Then you know how to minimize the discomfort of entry; make like you’re pushing something out. Remember that for later because I won’t remind you then. After all, I’m here to get off on your pain and your discomfort and your disgust. If you want to make it worse for yourself, I certainly won’t stop you.” I gave him a solid whack to the shoulder to prevent him from having to reply.
“All right. Time for you to practice picking up men. We’ve got two bystanders lined up for later, and Peter will be there to administer your flogging and he’s bringing a date, so that’s four. I’d like at least one more, two would be better, and I would like you to pick them out.” I began releasing him from the straitjacket and muzzle. “You’re getting the full gay experience tonight, which means inviting anonymous strangers to witness your upcoming not-quite-rape-but-pretty-damn-close-to-it. Use whatever criteria you want, but they must be male. Want a bear or a leather daddy type? Great, go find one. Want a twinky sub to watch your takedown instead? Okay by me. Whoever you pick, though, make sure he understands that the only one who’s going to be fucking your ass is me. I promised your Donna I’d make sure no one else gets to violate that hole.”
We eventually got him out of the straitjacket, leaving him bare-chested with only the chaps on his legs. He looked at the crowd, looked back at me leaning against the wall, then looked out at the crowd again. Then took a deep breath and off he went. I watched as he made his way along. He got cruised twice and both times averted his eyes almost comically quickly… and then the second time changed his mind and turned around to find the guy had turned as well and was gazing at him right around waist level. They came together; I couldn’t hear what was said but I saw Owen gesturing at me and the guy looked my way. Then they parted and Owen went back to roving. The dude must have been looking for something more immediate and hands-on.
After that I lost sight of him. I figured I’d let him roam for up to ten minutes. Didn’t want the boy to wander too long on his own. I had no fear he’d try to sneak out, not dressed like that. Besides, his Donna would make him pay if he bailed, of that I was certain. But I did want to make sure he didn’t get too lost in this strange place full of strange people. I stowed the straitjacket and muzzle in my bag while he was gone.
Turned out there was no need to chase him down. Back he came a couple of minutes later with not one but two men in tow… and I knew one of them! Not well, just a casual acquaintance. I pretended we had never met and he did the same.
“Master Elias, these men would like to watch you abuse and humiliate me later if that is acceptable to you.” Dang, well done, Owen! Nice turn of phrase, addressing me respectfully but in a way I couldn’t object to since that’s what I myself had told Bryson and Andrew to call me. Smartass bastard.
“Nice to meet you guys.” I shook hands with the guys and learned they were Chris (the one I had met before) and his friend Azzat. I couldn’t quite get a read on whether they were a couple, a couple-for-the-evening, or just happened to be standing near each other when Owen approached them. Didn’t really matter. We chatted a bit about what would go down later. I made sure to mention that we had Owen’s lady’s consent and thus Owen’s as well, and he confirmed it.
“So yeah, that’s the rough outline. Gutpunching, a good flogging, and then I’ll be sticking my prong into this straight boy’s tight little ass.” I grabbed the ass in question and gave it a good hard squeeze. I was so busy concentrating on gauging Chris and Azzat’s reactions and potential interest level that I almost missed what Owen said.
“If he can get it up.”
By the time I parsed his words and the meaning sank in and I whipped my head around to look at him, he was just finishing up a broad “you know how it is” nod toward Azzat. Pursed lips and an almost pitying look in his eyes.
I took a step closer to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pivoted him so I was standing behind him, facing toward our new friends with my arm wrapped around his throat. “Very funny, Doctor No,” I said from right behind his ear, loud enough for the others to hear. “You know I love when you get sassy with me. And you know I love making you pay the price for your sass, so I’m sure you took that into account when deciding to make that clever remark to our new friends here. I think it’s only fair these fine new friends should also get to help me take that price out of your hide later on, don’t you?” I grabbed his hair with my free hand and nodded his head forcibly up and down. “That’s right, doc, good boy,” I said as I let him go.
To the others I said, “OK, meet us back here at 11, half an hour, and we’ll get the show started. Right now I’m going to go help Owen get cleaned out before we begin.”
They headed away and I turned to Owen, who was looking a whole let less cocky. In fact, he seemed a little green around the gills, like he just swallowed a bug. “I’m impressed,” I told him. “I didn’t think you had a wisecrack like that in you.”
He didn’t reply right away. When he did it was a mumble almost too soft to hear over the thumping bass, his eyes gazing down at the floor. “I can’t believe I actually said that out loud. What the fuck was I thinking?”
“Hey, doc. Look at me.” It took him a couple of seconds, but he did. “I like the lip. I’d like to see you keep bringing the lip. Remember we’re working on two levels here, the in-scene and the meta-scene. In-scene I’m going to punish you for sassing me, but meta-scene you and I both know I was always going to thrash you anyway. The sass is just an excuse.”
“This is not how I normally behave. I’m sorr–”. I put my hand up.
“No apologizing. You behave a certain way around your Donna and that works for the two of you. But I want something different from you and you know it. It’s new to you and therefore uncomfortable, but you had no trouble giving me grief when Bingo was tearing my shoelaces apart, right? Go ahead and keep giving me grief. I like it.”
He took a moment, then nodded and seemed to get control of himself. After another half minute or so I beckoned him on and we headed off to the restrooms.
“Does ‘cleaned out’ mean what I suspect it means?” he asked when we were nearly there.
“If you suspect it means ‘enema’, then yes, you win a nice, gooshy prize.” Not strictly necessary before a butt-fucking, but a courtesy to the top and anyway, he was here for the whole gay experience. “Is this your first?”
“No, I’m familiar with them.”
“Good, good.”
As we entered the men’s room, Owen was a bit surprised to see a hooded man chained to one of the urinals with a funnel protruding from the hood, but he didn’t let it flummox him. Just one more weird creature here in Wonderland. No one was actively having sex, at least, which is never something you can take for granted.
I sent him into a stall with some wipes, a bulb, and a cup of warm water from the sink. Told him to clean the outside first, then repeatedly squirt, hold, and empty until the water came out clear, then tidy the exterior once more. Took him about ten minutes, during which time I made a brief exit to check out the room I’d arranged for – all in order. Back to the restroom where I hung around outside Owen’s stall while the human urinal got used twice. I emptied my own bladder, as well. Into porcelain. That other thing is not my kink.
Owen came out of the stall, tossed the wipes, cleaned the remaining gear, and handed it to me to stow in my bag. Then we went back to our waiting spot, slowly, stopping in various side rooms to take in the sights, sounds, and smells as we went. Ahh, leather heaven! By the time we got back, three of our posse were waiting for us and Andrew showed up two minutes later. I knew Peter and his date were in position because I had seen them there on my brief visit. All was ready.
Showtime.
8 – Hippos Go Berserk
We walked into the room I had booked, me leading the way, followed by Owen, then the rest. The room was just the right size for eight; we weren’t standing on top of each other but we weren’t dwarfed by a cavernous empty space either. Even with the gear we weren’t crowded. There was an X-frame near one wall and a sling hanging down near another, still leaving plenty of open room in the center for a man to, for instance, swing a whip while aiming it at that X-frame. We could even fit several other onlookers if people wanted to poke their heads in as Owen and I had done to others earlier.
My friend Peter was there. Peter, who I had considered bringing in as a substitute dog-sitter, Peter who was even taller than me (though not by much) and just as muscular. Peter, who was dressed in gorgeous black leather that highlighted those muscles and beautifully set off the deep brown skin of his face and arms. He was wearing sunglasses. I don’t like wearing those in dim spaces because I like to see things, but he liked the impact they had on others enough to not care about the effect they had on his own vision. His were the mirrored kind that didn’t block much light yet completely hid his eyes from view, making his face an expressionless mask. Hell, I felt a little bit intimidated at the sight of him and I knew the guy; Doctor No was no doubt looking at this massive stranger and thinking “oh shit how do I get out of here?”
Peter’s date was there as well. I didn’t know his name but he was looking pretty subby, all dressed up in a gimp suit with not a lick of skin visible. His eyes were hidden behind pinprick-hole padding so he could see out somewhat, but his face was even less readable than Peter’s.
We filed in and formed a rough circle around Owen, who was starting to realize that the mood had suddenly shifted from light, casual banter to deadly fucking serious.
“All right everyone, thank you so much for coming here and joining us. I’d like to present tonight’s victim: Owen, aka Doctor No, a straight man here tonight for a full-immersion experience in gay leatherland. I want to give him lots of chances to use the word that led to his nickname, so Owen: the scene starts when I say ‘go.’ From that point on, I expect you to resist and fight back and try your best to prevent me from doing what I plan to do to you. Make it good, because it really gets my juices flowing to watch you struggling against hopeless odds. Everyone else, our goal is to get Owen stripped down to his skin and strapped onto that X-frame facing the center of the room. If you don’t want to help pin him down, then at least stay out of the way so Peter and I can do it. I think the two of us can manage one scrawny straight runt, but the more hands to help, the better.”
I looked around to make sure everyone was paying attention. Then: “Everybody ready? Go.”
No one moved at first. No one except Peter and his gimp had been briefed on what to expect; none of these guys had been planning on being thrown into a bar brawl and so none of them had any idea what to do. Uncertainty and indecision ruled. I wasn’t going to be the first to move either. I wanted Owen to try to make a break for it. Which he did about three seconds after I spoke, bright boy that he is. He quickly assessed the situation and realized that with everyone else standing around wondering what to do, he had a brief window of opportunity to take the initiative and he seized it. He glanced right and left and determined his chances looked best between Andrew and Azzat. It was a smart move – those two were the smallest of the men surrounding him and Andrew in particular looked like he would collapse like a Kleenex if charged, which is exactly what happened. Azzat made a half-hearted grab, but Owen was able to pull free and get past him. Then everyone else unfroze as well, all at once. Suddenly my prey found himself outside the rapidly-disintegrating circle of men and had much more room to move.
I made my own move, but rather than going after the prey, I stepped to the doorway to block the room’s only exit. Peter started making his way toward Owen and the gimp circled around to one side, both moving in the same manner I had used when pursuing Owen in the forest: slowly, steadily, in no rush but impossible to stop.
“Nowhere to run, doc!” I called from the doorway. “Nowhere to hide!” He gave it a good try, though, and it lasted long enough that some of the other guys started getting into it. They would have made lousy hunters on the savanna, their movements almost random and not at all coordinated with each other, at least at first. Andrew, in particular, sought to stay as far from the center of the chase as he could. Chris and Bryson meandered around a bit, then had the idea to try to cut off Owen’s escape routes by going wherever Peter wasn’t, which was good pack hunter thinking. But only Peter was moving with tiger-like grace, swift and sure while Owen fled like a rabbit. Just like in the woods that time…
“That’s right, little rabbit!” I called. “Run, rabbit, run!” Why not remind him of his previous stint as a prey animal? Get him into the right mindset. He was quick like a rabbit, for sure, and made a circuit of the room in his attempts to evade the pursuing hunters.
Peter herded the prey toward the door where I was waiting, the gimp blocking the path to the center of the room and the rest trailing behind. I slipped to one side to make it look as though there was an opening and sure enough, Owen went for it. BAM. I slid right back the other direction and blocked his way, and then he was trapped between Peter’s body and mine and a second later we were grappling. Once again I had to be careful about getting him down onto the floor without injuring him, but we got it done. Not a very long chase scene but it sure set the mood. And over the noise of the struggle and the sounds of the other hunters I could hear Owen muttering, almost to himself. “No, wait… fuck… no…” That’s it, doc. You’re singin’ my favorite song.
The others all gathered around at this point, much bolder now that the quarry was down. Hands were everywhere. Owen strained to curl up into a ball and we slowly, painstakingly stretched his limbs out until he was lying flat on his back. Soon enough I was holding his arms up over his head and Peter was straddling his stomach, which left Bryson, Chris, and the gimp to start undoing the fastenings of his shoes and the chaps and start shimmying them off. The guys spoke in quick bursts. “Grab that ‘K?” and “lift him up a bit” and “just toss it” and I loved the way they were getting into the spirit of things, treating Owen like a mannequin that needed to be moved rather than a person capable of moving for himself. Meanwhile, Azzat hovered at one side and Andrew was standing further away, looking more and more like this was not quite the scene he thought it was going to be. I could only spare him a brief glance, though, because Owen kept trying to pull his arms loose.
In about two minutes, the prey was naked and we needed to move him over to the X-frame. I took both arms, Bryson and Chris each took a leg, and we lifted him up off the floor. He squirmed and bucked and almost kicked free of Bryson’s grip, but then Peter moved in and wrapped an arm around Owen’s waist, which reduced his ability to thrash until Bryson could get a better hold. Then we made our poorly-synchronized, stumbling way over to the frame.
“Keep a good hold of those legs,” I called. “I don’t want him kicking anyone.” We tipped Owen’s body upright with his back toward the frame. Peter moved in to press Owen against the frame with his own body while the others kept a grip on his ankles down by the floor. I handed one of Owen’s arms to the gimp and lifted the other up to where I could get a cuff wrapped around it.
“That’s right, little rabbit,” I crooned to him while I worked on his arm. “Keep struggling, but you’re stuck now.” He gave his arm a fierce yank and almost slipped it free, but I kept my grip and brought it back under control.
Have you ever tried to restrain a struggling victim? It is hard work and it takes a lot longer than rigging up a cooperative one. After I failed twice to get a cuff wrapped around his wrist, Peter reached up with one massive arm and grabbed Owen’s forearm. That provided the extra stability I needed and then it took only half a minute to get the cuff snugged down and locked to the frame. Then I moved over to the other side and got the other arm locked down much more quickly since the gimp was holding it still.
After that it was all over. Owen put up a bit of token resistance to the securing of his feet, but it was hopeless and he knew it. He turned his attention from the struggle to steeling himself for the blows to come. When the last restraint was in place, we stepped back as a group to admire our work. Every one of us was breathing hard, including the victim. Owen stood secured to the X-frame, arms up over his head but not stretched too tightly, ankles attached to the feet of the frame with a bit of slack so that his feet could move a bit but not much. The illusion of freedom: room to squirm but no room to escape. And best of all for the humiliation of any straight man: he was naked with seven clothed men all staring at his exposed body.
Oops, no, only six starers. Andrew must have slipped out the door while the rest of us were busy. Not his scene, it seemed. That was fine; consent works in all directions and if he wasn’t interested in this level of roughness, then it was best for everyone if he went to go find something more to his liking. We still had enough of an audience present and more could very well trickle in over time.
“You look fuckin’ hot like that, Doctor No. Fuckin’ hot indeed.” I stepped forward and ran my hand down his flank. He quivered under my touch. “Hey, c’mere Chris,” I called, picking one of the onlookers at random. “Put your hand here. Feel that? That’s involuntary shuddering. Our boy here is nervous. You can’t fake that kind of quiver. Bryson, come have a feel.” Pretty soon all six of us were there running our hands or gloves over his skin. “Oh, yeah, feel that twitching,” someone commented, and “mmmm… so tight…” and “you seem a little tense, boy!” and various other appreciative comments. One straight boy whose nervous anticipation had driven him to helpless tremors at the thought of the ordeal to come, served up for our group’s enjoyment.
I took a small swing at his belly then, nothing more than a tap of my loose fist on his abs. Then another, slightly harder. And then another. By the third impact I had his attention. The others began to back away one by one as I stepped up the speed of my swings. By about the tenth hit I was seeing him clench his abs before impact, bracing himself for the blows.
There are two ways to go about a gut-punch scene. Well, lots of ways, I guess, but for me the main difference is: vision or not? Each style has its appeal. When the punching bag can see the blows coming, he tenses up his abs before impact, which protects his innards at the cost of eventually tiring out his muscles, leading to increased soreness there not just from the punches but also from the constant clenching. When he’s blindfolded, that happens less. He may try to keep his body tensed up in preparation for a blow he can’t see coming, but eventually he has to relax and that’s when you can land a punch that sinks lower into his belly, squashing things inside a little more. That leads to a different sort of sensation.
Here Owen could see exactly what I was doing so he knew when to clench and when to relax and catch a breath, and before long we had reached a rhythm together. One blow, pause, then a quick series of three, then another, then a long pause to let him breathe, then start again, varying the details of the rhythm but keeping the general flow steady. I alternated between watching the target – Owen’s navel – and his eyes, which he mostly kept focused on my fists, though sometimes he would squeeze them shut briefly, then open them again quickly when he realized he couldn’t see what I was doing.
Every once in a while I would pause long enough for him to look up at my face, wondering what was going on. Nothing going on. Just taking a break because a relentless assault is less effective than an intermittent one. I loved hearing the involuntary grunting sounds he would make as air was forced up out his windpipe, brief little noises that he couldn’t help but make.
After a few minutes I had worked up a bit of a sweat, and so had Owen. Something else had started to get worked up, too, something at the front of my pants. I stepped back and undid my fly, allowing my dick to poke out. Owen watched, his eyes still focused on my hands, which were down at waist level. He saw what I was showing him and then his eyes rose up to meet mine. Without letting my eyes leave Owen’s, I called “Hey, Azzat. You remember the boy here made a wisecrack earlier? You remember what that wisecrack was?”
I could hear the grin in Azzat’s voice. “Sure do. That boy insulted your manhood, I believe.”
“He most surely did. You wanna take a crack at him? Help me defend my honor here?”
“It would be my pleasure.” I walked around behind Owen and pressed myself close against the frame so that my cock was sticking right up against his ass between the wooden legs of the X-frame. Azzat took my former place in front and wound up to take a swing.
I held my hand up to stop him. “Hang on there one sec. Let’s make sure all the guys here know what the boy’s getting punished for. Doctor No, I want you to repeat the smartass remark you made earlier.” I watched the others all arrayed in a loose half-circle watching. From my left it was Peter, his gimp, Chris, and Bryson, all eagerly focused on Owen’s splayed body and tense posture. I hoped Owen’s anthropologist side was aware enough of what was going on to appreciate the spectacle his body was making. His terrified pigeon side was definitely ascendent, though.
To his credit, Owen didn’t pretend to not know what I was talking about. He missed, though, saying with a shaky voice “I said that you might not be able to get hard.”
“You’re mumbling, doc. Say it nice and loud. Use the exact words you said before. I told Azzat I was planning to fuck your ass later and you said…?”
He took a deep breath and said it. “If he can get it up.” While he was pulling air in, I caught Azzat’s eye and made a punching motion with my fist. Azzat was just a hair slow catching my intention but he got it. The blow landed half a second after Owen finished speaking.
“Say it again,” I said. Owen repeated the line and this time Azzat landed the punch right on the word “up”.
“Again.” A dozen times in all, and with each repetition the word “up” sounded less and less like a word and more like a cough. Poor Owen – it’s tough to focus on speaking loudly and clearly while protectively tensing your abs at the same time. My dick spent the entire time probing around his taut ass cheeks.
I gave him a brief break. “Chris, you were there for that incident too. You wanna take a few cracks at him for me?” He did. Something about his stance as he was lining up, though, made me wary. I cued Owen up to speak his line again and sure enough, the first blow landed pretty hard. Owen tried to fold in on himself at the impact.
“Hey, Chris, you mind taking it down a notch? I need this douchebag to last a good long time tonight.” Thankfully, he got the hint. I didn’t want to be overtly correcting a fellow tormentor in front of the prey; he needed to think it was him against a unified front. Owen would maybe think back on this incident tomorrow and realize I had been protecting him and responsibly looking out for his safety, but hopefully for the moment he was too busy remembering to breathe. Chris’s next punches were much more reasonable and the scene went on.
Bryson took a turn next. He had the opposite problem – didn’t punch hard enough. I hoped Owen appreciated the break. Then the gimp gave it a go and only Peter held off. By the end, Owen’s belly had turned several interesting shades of red.
“So Doctor No,” I said to wrap things up. “You want to tell the fine gentlemen here what’s been poking into your ass the whole time they’ve been beating you up?”
“Your dick, Master Elias,” he said, fully humbled.
“And what condition is that dick in?”
“It’s hard, Master Elias.”
“Any further doubts as to what’s going to be happening to your ass later on?”
“No, Master Elias. No doubts.”
“Good boy. I’m looking forward to delivering that fucking, but before we get to that, there is another matter to take care of.”
I released Owen’s wrists one by one from the X-frame and clipped them together in front of him. He could have easily undone the clips but with six of us standing there he wouldn’t have a chance to do anything more and he didn’t try. I then took a while to get his legs detached from the frame, not from incompetence but to give Owen a chance to shake some sensation back into his hands in case they needed it. Eventually, and with the help of Chris and Bryson, I got the boy turned around with his face toward the X-frame. We reattached his legs, then clipped his hands to the frame’s overhead arms once again. Meanwhile, I could hear Peter getting warmed up for his main role in this show.
Man, I was really looking forward to this!
With Owen secured, I went over to my bag and extracted the item I had so carefully hidden from him when we were going through security. I held it stashed behind my back so no one in the room would see it. The other guys were chatting, waiting for the next round to start. Except the gimp, who hadn’t spoken a word since I’d seen him. Maybe he had a gag in place under that hood?
Peter was taking a few practice swings with the tool of his trade: a braided cat-o-nine-tails. As long as his arm, one third of it handle and the rest flexible strips of nasty bite. When working out the details of tonight’s scene, I had originally told Peter that I had something else in mind: a good, long singletail. I wanted the kind of scene that you see in old Westerns or movies about the British navy. The kind of flogging where the tormenter stands several paces away from his target, winds up with a massive swing, and lands the whisker-thin strip of leather squarely on its mark with a deafening CRACKKK.
Unfortunately, Peter pointed out that for the quantity of strokes I had in mind, that wasn’t going to work. A singletail was the sort of tool where you might deliver ten, fifteen strokes and the victim would be screaming and sobbing by the end. I intended somewhat more strokes than that for Owen. Peter recommended the cat instead as a better fit. It made sense and I abandoned my mental movie scene in favor of his more practical suggestion.
I took up my position in front of Owen, the hidden item still stashed behind my back. “Gentlemen,” I called, “if you would please gather around, we have a bit more punishment to administer due to an offense Doctor No committed back in September.” With that, I brought my hand out in front and made sure the item I was holding – Hippos Go Berserk – was clearly visible to Owen and the men standing behind him. Owen’s eyes went satisfyingly wide and I waited a few seconds to let the thoughts bubble up in his head. How does he know? Oh, shit, I wrote it down and he read it. What does this mean? What’s he going to do next? All those good worrisome thoughts.
“I see you recognize this, boy. Tell the men behind you what this is.”
He took a second to compose himself, then muttered, “It’s a book –”
“Loud and clear, boy.”
“It’s a book that I read some of when I wasn’t supposed to.” Good and clear, well done, Owen. Concise, too. No need to get into the doggie details. The others, of course, were all baffled at how this could be relevant.
“That’s right. I understand you didn’t get to read the whole thing last time, is that correct?”
“Yes, Master Elias.”
“You only got halfway through. You never got to see how the book ends. Well, tonight you will. You are going to read this book from start to finish, cover to cover. You are going to read it good and loud and clear so that everyone in this room can hear you. Understand?”
“Yes, Master Elias.”
“And one more thing. Every time you say a number, my friend Master Peter is going to deliver that number of lashes to your back.”
I could see the gears start to turn in his head. Hippos Go Berserk is a counting book. From what he had read before, he would know that in the first half it runs up through the numbers from one to nine, then pauses for a hippo party, and that was as far as he got. A bright sciencey guy like him probably knew immediately what the sum came to though I had needed some time to work it out: 45 strokes. What he didn’t know was: what was in the second half of the book, the part he hadn’t had a chance to read? That’s what would make him nervous. Perhaps it continued all the way to 20? A hundred? A thousand? No, this was a book for very young kids, pre-readers, he would think. It wouldn’t go that high.
Would it?
I opened the book to the first stiff cardboard page and held it up in front of him. “Nice and loud, doc.” He took a deep breath and started.
“ONE HIPPO, ALL ALONE.”
Peter was ready. I didn’t even look because I knew I didn’t need to confirm. He was standing in the right place, his arm was limbered up, he’d gotten the measure of the distance. When Owen’s voice stopped, he waited just a second or two, then started his swing and with a satisfying THWACK the cat landed on Owen’s shoulders. I watched Owen’s face from my position right in front of him, drinking up the sensations I could see written in his expressions.
I should say this: Peter is the most accomplished whipsman I have ever met. Now, pretty much anyone can swing a flogger. It’s sort of like a piano that way – anyone with functional arms can cause a piano to make noise. Some people can get it to make beautiful music. And a very, very few elite performers can make the instrument sing in ways you have to hear to believe.
That was Peter with a whip in his hand. Anyone can use a whip to hit something; some people can wield it well. But Peter turned the thing into an art form. If we had gone with my original idea of using the singletail, Owen would have ended up with perfectly symmetrical, perfectly evenly spaced stripes across his back and ribs. Peter’s ability to place his strokes was that good, even from six feet away.
He also had a gift of knowing how to connect with his victim, an almost telepathic way of knowing the victim’s state of mind. I had shared Arianne’s description of Owen’s previous flogging experience with Peter, but he really didn’t need it. His intuitive connection would inform him of how hard he could push, and that was another reason why he had recommended the cat. The cat gave him more fine-grained control over the impact, and he would be watching and listening to Owen to know how to adapt his strokes to play the tune he wanted. It might seem like there’s not much to vary – hit hard, hit soft, or somewhere in between. But that’s true of piano keys as well.
Owen was Peter’s piano. I was holding the sheet music. Play on.
I turned the page. Owen dutifully read and recited. “CALLS TWO HIPPOS ON THE PHONE.” Two more thwacks delivered across his shoulders with enough pause between them to let him savor the feel of the first before the second came. Another piano metaphor Peter had taught me, which I had used earlier while punching Owen’s gut: the space between impacts is like the silence between notes. They are essential to the music. If Peter were to just whale away in a constant barrage, it would be like static, not a melody. The pause was necessary to make Owen sing the way Peter wanted him to.
Next page. “THREE HIPPOS AT THE DOOR.” Three more impacts, all deliberately spaced. “BRING ALONG ANOTHER FOUR.” Owen was starting to take longer and longer breaks before reading each page, gearing up each time for one more stroke than the last. I made sure to hold the book so he could only see the relevant page until it was time to move on to the next, using one hand to cover up either the left half of the book or the right as needed.
On we climbed, five, six, seven, eight, nine, taking longer and longer each time to deliver the count. The audience – Chris, Azzat, and Bryson, though probably not the gimp – started getting into it and began chanting out the numbers as Peter landed the blows, starting over at one for each set. Owen was twitching under the impacts and toward the end of the higher numbers Peter started really pushing. He would start out each new set at a medium strength, then crescendo up to something fiercely strong for the last one in the series.
Owen was putty in Peter’s hands. He would pause for as long as two minutes to recover before reading the next page and thus triggering the next set to begin. I didn’t rush him; I didn’t care if the onlookers got antsy. I just drank in the look on his face and the mix of determination and despair in his beautiful eyes.
While this was going on, other watchers began to trickle in, perhaps drawn by the noise or perhaps just wandering around looking for something interesting. I even saw Sun-Min and her friends peek in at the door, but Owen wouldn’t have been able to see them, and they moved along after a minute or two. By the time Owen reached nine, he had acquired four more onlookers who had arranged themselves alongside the others. The newcomers quickly picked up on the pattern and counted out the strokes along with everyone else. It was a real community affair.
At last Owen got a break. We reached the middle of the book, the hippos had assembled, it was party time. He read through two full rhyming couplets without encountering a single number, voice a little wavery but still strong and loud. “ALL THROUGH THE HIPPO NIGHT, HIPPOS PLAY WITH GREAT DELIGHT. BUT AT THE HIPPO BREAK OF DAY, THE HIPPOS ALL MUST GO AWAY.”
Then I turned the page and I could see the relief wash over him. The hippos all leave: first nine of them depart, then eight, and so on. We’re counting back down to one again! The despair in his eyes faded away into the background and the determination shone through. It wouldn’t be easy – he still had to face nine more series of blows. But this time the counts would be decreasing with each set instead of increasing. It would get easier. He would make it.
He read the next page out loud and then braced himself. Peter went somewhat less than full force on him, maybe 70 or 80 percent. I could see his thinking – when the sets got down to three and two and one, that would be the time to make each stroke count. He still ramped it up within each set, though. Smaller cycles of lesser to greater intensity within the overall large cycle.
Down the numbers went. Owen grew exultant as the end drew near. His voice was fully strong as he called out the last few. “THREE HIPPOS SAY GOOD DAY.” Three mighty blows that shook him where he stood, but he remained unbroken. “THE LAST TWO HIPPOS GO THEIR WAY.” Two more. The audience counted them and looked ready to break out in applause.
“ONE HIPPO, ALONE ONCE MORE…” One last powerful shot to the shoulders. The audience called it, then started clapping and cheering.
I moved my hand off the last page and watched Owen’s face as the book’s final words were revealed. It was priceless. The group of noisemakers didn’t notice for a while. It took a bit of time for the cheering to die down, but eventually they noticed that Peter hadn’t moved. He was still standing there fully focused, ready to keep swinging. The clamor and chatter slowly died away. When all was silent at last, with the puzzled onlookers wondering what was happening, Owen took a deep breath and looked me right in the eye while he spoke just as loud and clear as ever.
“…MISSES THE OTHER FORTY-FOUR.”
The onlookers boggled. I heard a loud “Ohhhh, SNAP!” and also a “That is HARSH!” and a few other things, but mostly I was focused on watching Owen as he prepared to take the punishment. And Peter really let him have it. No pretense of spacing things out. The piano player was laying his whole arm down sideways on the keys to thunderous effect. Owen winced but kept control as the lashes kept coming.
This is where Peter really shone. Someone else might have cranked the intensity up to eleven for the final barrage, but Peter knew better. He kept the pressure on but I could see he was not putting his full strength into it. He was going to push Owen hard, but not so hard as to break him. We wanted this evening to end in a fucking, not in a hospital.
After ten strokes, Peter paused for a half a minute and gave Owen a chance to breathe. Then he laid down the next set of strokes. By that point the onlookers had gotten themselves together and began counting again starting at eleven.
Owen tried to keep quiet during the second set but he just couldn’t hold it in, not with the crowd of spectators chanting out numbers in the teens knowing that meant there were far too many more still to come. He began gasping, then crying out, and once the dam burst there was no containing the flood of sound. Peter took another pause at twenty, then delivered two more sets the same way while Owen squirmed and hollered and yanked at his wrists, trying to spin his body around to avoid the pummeling but trapped where he stood.
Peter delivered the final four strokes one at a time with maybe ten seconds’ pause between each, just strong and powerful enough to push Owen to his absolute limit without going past it. The onlookers counted them out, not quite fully drowning out Owen’s cries as each blow landed, and of course by now the hubbub had drawn several more spectators into the room.
“FORTY-ONE!” they shouted. “FORTY-TWO! FORTY-THREE!” When number forty-four landed, the cheering began again. I dropped the book to the floor and started setting Owen loose. Peter and the gimp came and helped as well. We got him down in ten seconds. I grabbed him, gently, and held him in a hug, my arms safely down around his waist below where the flogger had struck. “Good man,” I murmured into his hair as he leaned into me, letting me support his weight for him. “You did it. You took it all. I’m proud of you.” Yeah, aftercare was supposed to be Arianne’s job, but she wasn’t here and he needed it now. Peter came and embraced us both as well from the side, also taking care not to touch the impact zone of Owen’s shoulders. He said the same sorts of soothing words. “You did great, man. Well done. You took everything I gave you like a champ.”
Whatever strength Owen had drawn on to get him through the ordeal, now that it was over his defenses collapsed and he started sobbing. Peter and I mostly shielded him from the others’ view and kept up the soothing stream of reassurance. There was plenty of general hubbub in the room now with at least a dozen people talking, describing the setup for those who had arrived late and reliving the surprise twist at the end of the story, so it was easy for Owen to go unnoticed despite being the star of the show.
After about five minutes he had pulled himself back together enough to feel able to speak. He pulled away and looked at me. “I don’t know whether I should say ‘thank you’ or ‘fuck you’,” he said. I snickered.
Then he turned to Peter. “Thank you, sir. You are clearly the expert Master Elias said you were. I appreciate you taking me through that the way you did.”
Peter nodded. “A pleasure working on you,” he replied.
With that, we figured it was safe to let others come by, and they did. Bryson wanted to have Peter take a crack at him, but Peter begged off, saying he needed a break. (After swinging that thing 134 times, yeah, I bet he needed a break!) Chris and Azzat and various strangers came by to congratulate Owen on his stamina and the way he held his head up high when announcing that last line. I was proud of him for that too.
But the evening was not over! “Hey, Owen, don’t forget… your ass is mine tonight. Take some time to recover first, though. I bet some of the other guys will want to take a ride in the sling before we rig you up in it. You can either hang out here or we can find you a quiet spot to chill.” I went off to see if I could find two volunteers for the sling, one to be horizontal and the other vertical. It wasn’t hard to do. I also made sure to spread the word that the straight boy was going to get fucked in about half an hour, so feel free to stick around to watch and humiliate.
Owen decided to stay put. He started off standing by himself, watching two complete strangers fuck while more strangers looked on. Looking for tips on how to handle things when his turn came, perhaps? Or just the anthropologist noting the strange mating rituals of this foreign tribe? But then I saw Chris go over to join him and they got to chatting, and then a couple of the newcomers joined in, one with his hand down his pants as he watched the duo on the sling. There was my straight boy, hangin’ with his homoboys and looking for all the world like he belonged in this gay world.
When the first set of slingers had finished up, they cleared the way for another pair… no, a trio – a third guy took up a position over at the head end. The guy in the sling slid up so his head dangled off the edge, then stayed that way, tipped uncomfortably backward for a long while as he satisfied a top at each end. Meanwhile, Bryson succeeded in finding someone besides Peter to give him a whupping and took Owen’s former spot on the X-frame. He kept his rubber gear on. That dulls the sting of the impact but you can still get a good slow burn of heat built up with enough force and repetition. Owen watched it all; I did too, but I also watched Owen.
After the second set of sling users cleared out, I claimed it. Owen had had his intermission; time for his next act. I went and waded through the group that had surrounded him, parting bodies so I could take him by the arm. “Come on, doc,” I said as I led him over to the sling. “I got a load that needs shooting. You gonna cooperate or do I need to get rough with you again?” I would happily have wrestled him into that sling, but he was all subbish and obedient and voluntarily laid himself down on it.
I fastened the wrist and ankle cuffs that he was still wearing to the supporting chains. He was facing the ceiling with both arms and legs stretched up and secured in place. Not a stressful or painful position, but one that would reinforce any feelings of helplessness he might be having.
And it seemed he was having such feelings – I noticed he was quivering again. The activity that had so far been safely off in the future had arrived. I put my hand on his chest, bent down next to his ear and said softly, “Nervous, boy?” He nodded, perhaps not trusting himself to speak. If he was expecting reassurance, I was not about to offer any, not now. I had done the good-dom assurances earlier; I had kept my promise that he would come through the beating and the flogging safely; now it was bad-dom time. He would not come to harm but his distress was delicious and I could feel my erection returning at the sight of it. “That’s good. I like that. I like that very much.” I squeezed his pecs with my hand while I spoke.
Chris and the others who had assembled around him earlier followed us over to the sling. Bryson was done getting his back warmed so I called him over along with Azzat and anyone else who wanted to come. Peter and his gimp were long gone; I hadn’t expected them to stay. We ended up with a good-sized group, six or seven guys standing around his restrained body. I wondered what was going through his head. Was he feeling comfort from being surrounded by these guys he had been coolly relaxing with earlier, soothed by having a band of brothers? Or was he feeling like they had turned on him, as if he were the prized pet turkey on a farm, adored and pampered and cherished, only now Thanksgiving Day has arrived and it’s time to get stuffed? I would have to wait to read his review later to find out. He was probably sinking into his subby mindspace; I could see the quivering in his limbs easing up.
“Bryson, you did a great job getting Dr. No nice and hard before, how about helping him out again.” Bryson bent down over Owen’s dick and started sucking it to life. “If any of the rest of you guys ever felt like shooting your load onto a straight man’s bare chest and face while he’s taking a dick up his ass, now’s your chance to do it. Try to keep it out of his eyes and mouth and nose, though, ‘k? Aim for his cheeks and chin. Nipples are a good target too.”
As before, it took Bryson a few minutes to get Owen to stiffen up, but he managed it. “Nice job, boy,” I told him and he stepped back looking proud with a respectful “thank you, sir”. I took hold of Owen’s dick and gave it a squeeze. It was nice and firm so I stroked it up and down a few times. “It’s your lucky night, doc. You get to shoot a load too. After all the rest of us have had a go.”
I was primed and ready. The condom was already in place. I lubed him up, lubed myself up, and took aim. Pressed the tip up against his tight sphincter and slowly, slowly, slowly, tried to open him up. Chris had his dick out and was stroking it over Owen’s right nipple. The guy next to him, the one who had had his hand down his pants earlier, unzipped and got his own out as well. I found myself enjoying the fact that I didn’t know his name. True anonymous gay sex. Bryson clearly wanted to get his mouth back onto Owen’s cock but I was blocking his access, and not just with my body. My lubed-up hand was on Owen’s dick and I was squeezing it to try to keep it erect, but I was losing the battle. Seemed the doc was putting all his effort into trying to open up his hole so I wouldn’t tear it apart and he didn’t have enough focus left to keep the erection going.
Fine by me. I could humiliate him either way: with shriveled dick in front of a bunch of horny erect gay men, or dick helplessly erect in front of a bunch of horny erect gay men, both would work equally well. I kept my hand on his cock while it slowly deflated so he knew I was aware it was deflating.
Meanwhile, I pressed more and more insistently at his hole, which was loosening up but not quickly. “Come on, doc, open up there,” I crooned. “You know it’s gonna happen sooner or later.” There was occasional encouragement from the handful of guys standing around, mostly the word “fuck” phrased in various tones. Hands were grabbing at Owen’s chest, arms, chin, thighs, anywhere they could reach. Chained as he was, there was nothing he could do to stop them.
Ah, I felt something give. Ever so slowly, I pressed and felt the passage open up until I could bury myself completely inside him. I let out a soft growl of contentment, rumbling satisfaction deep in my throat.
“How’s that feel, doc? You like that?” He didn’t answer at first. “It’s okay, answer true. You like that dick up your ass?”
“No,” he finally whispered. Good lad. I didn’t want to start pumping yet, wanted to give him some time to get used to the feeling, let his muscles relax and adapt, so I kept talking.
“That’s right, Doctor No, you don’t. Half of the guys here, maybe more, would love to be in your place, but they aren’t, it’s all you. These guys, they’d pop a boner at the feel of a cockhead tickling their prostate, but not you. Not you. Look at this.” I nodded down to call the group’s attention to his now-soft cock. “This limp dick is as clear as evidence can get that you are as straight as they come. But your straight ass is all mine tonight, doc. All mine.”
With that I started to move, very slowly in and out, squeezing and massaging his soft dick while doing it. “How you doing, Chris, you getting close? Maybe the smell of fresh cum will help wake straight-boy’s dick up. You think you could deposit a load on his cheek? Rub it in so he gets the scent nice and close?”
“Aw, fuck, yeah, I can do that.” He started pumping furiously. With that the guy on the other side, another stranger, opened his fly and started stroking too. I gradually increased the pace, still keeping it steady. Owen groaned a bit, somewhat unevenly as the force of my movements picked up and the thrusting pushed air out through his throat.
Honestly, fucking an ass doesn’t do much for me. I much prefer mouth action for the sheer physical sensation that a tongue can provide. But when it comes to owning a sub, nothing compares to a good rectal reaming to get the message across. And that, in turn, works for me more than the physical sensations do. I loooove that feeling of filling up another man’s innards with my dick, not because it makes my dick feel good – which it does although that’s not the main pleasure – but because I know that he’s feeling helpless and vulnerable and thoroughly dominated. That’s what I get off on during a fucking, and it’s why the hungry eager bottoms aren’t my first choice. They love being fucked, they get off on the sensation, and that erodes my enjoyment.
Not Owen. He was not enjoying this at all, rather he was enduring just as he had endured the flogging. I could even see the same expression on his face, mostly determination to overcome this challenge so as to not disappoint himself or his Donna, but every once in a while a flicker of “oh please let this be over soon” at some particularly unpleasant sensation.
Faster now. Chris was yanking frantically, the tip of his dick bobbing right next to Owen’s face, his hand a blur. His neighbor on the opposite side of Owen’s face was going at it more languidly, dick just as hard but with less frenzy. One of the other nameless ones pulled his out as well as I watched. There was too much to keep track of but it was all working: Owen, the straight man impaled on the end of my rod, was about to get showered in semen surrounded by a crowd of hungry gay hornballs.
I closed my eyes a bit, savoring the feelings, then opened them again because I didn’t want to miss drinking in Owen’s expressions. His own eyes were closed when I looked and his face said that he was deeply lost in whatever he needed to do to make it through the next five or ten minutes.
He kept them closed as Chris began to gasp and pant and grunt, and then there was a squirt of liquid that landed just north of Owen’s ear. A second jolt hit his neck and then the rest was dribble that Chris wiped onto Owen’s cheek with his cockhead. Bryson slid in and smeared the goop around further, coating Owen’s skin and hair with it. The dude on the other side erupted not long afterward and Bryson, who had apparently decided he was the Official Team Spooge Massager, slid over to make sure none of that load dripped away either.
I was loving it. The audience participation was all unplanned and impromptu but unfolding nicely. The guys were keeping up a low level of chatter, mostly “yeah” and “fuck” and wordless groans and grunts, a nice chorus of music to screw to. Every money shot earned louder calls of encouragement and enjoyment, like a baseball team cheering on a scoring runner only our bats are way more fun to swing. I could feel myself getting closer and tried to hurry things along. Much as I enjoyed tormenting Owen, this was his first time and I didn’t want to leave his rectum raw and bleeding. Same as with the flogging – put him through the wringer but make sure he comes out unscathed. That way he’ll be willing to keep coming back for more.
Two more squirtings from two more unknown horny homos hit Owen on his torso, one at his right nipple and one down on the left side of his abs. Bryson did his thing again and Owen was well and truly covered in the smeared-on gunk from four orgasms, a first-class cum dump. I could have made it last a minute or so longer but it was time to wrap things up so I pulled out, yanked off the condom, and started pumping. I half-noticed Azzat had worked his way in between two other guys on my left and was working his meat fast and furious, but then I stopped paying attention because my own load was coming out. I tried to aim it onto Owen’s limp cock and fuzzy balls and did a pretty good job but that kind of thing is never very accurate.
It wasn’t the sort of “time lost all meaning” orgasm where your mind goes away for a while; I had been too focused on delivering exactly the right level of torment to let myself lose control and get caught up in the sensation. But even so it was a pretty darn good one. Owen felt his ass come unplugged and opened his eyes, sensing that the end was near… or at least he must have done so at some point because when I opened my eyes he was looking into my face with an expression that said “is it over? Please tell me it’s over” but knowing it was not yet over.
Ideally, I would have applied a fresh condom, stuck my still-hard dick right back into his ass and made him get hard like that. Sadly, this was not a porn flick and there’s no way my dick would have cooperated more than a minute or two. Instead I pressed my pelvis up against his ass so he could at least feel the tool that had been plowing him moments before and keep the memory fresh in his head. Then I grabbed his jizz-coated cock and began squeezing to try to coax it to life.
“C’mon, Doctor No. Time to make that dick say ‘yes’.” The gathered crowd wanted to see him get it up, too, and there were hands pawing all over him, tracing lines in the drying juice on his chest and belly and face. “It ain’t over until you add your load to what’s already there, and I don’t care if it takes you till dawn to get it done.” Another lie – I was ready to go home but I would never ever let him know that! Besides, the crowd would lose interest if it went on too long and the crowd was essential to the atmosphere.
It took a few minutes. By the time his cock was hard enough to stroke rather than squeeze, the lube I had been using had gotten dry and sticky and needed replenishing. Fortunately plenty more (the kind that gets squirted out of a plastic tube instead of a fleshy one) was at hand and I could restock with only two seconds’ break. The guys kept their enthusiasm up, even the ones who had already shot and were probably feeling like me, ready to go take a nap or at least sit down. But they stayed at it. While I was coaxing my bound boy toward climax, Azzat finished emptying his balls onto his abs, then the last of the unknown admirers did likewise. Bryson made sure to paint the new deliveries in places not yet covered by the old. Owen was going to be completely covered in a thin pale crust by the time this was all said and done.
I have no idea what sort of mental image Owen used to get himself up to and over the edge. Whatever it was worked. I felt his dick growing extra plump and firm in my fist and then he was breathing hard and flexing his thighs and all of a sudden there it was: one load of hot straight-boy sperm delivered onto a belly that was already fully slimed with previous not-so-straight offerings. He convulsed in the straps as he shot, lifting his ass up off the sling and supporting his weight by his arms and legs briefly before relaxing his muscles and settling back down. The crowd brought it home, too, clapping and cheering for tonight’s victim / star.
Tempting as it was to keep stroking and squeezing, maybe do a bit of post-orgasm apple polishing on that sensitive head, I was kind. I slowed the strokes gradually until I was delivering long, slow compressions from base to tip, urging the last droplets out through the slit while he wriggled like a fish on a line before I finally let him go. I released the ankle straps and Chris saw what I was doing and kindly unfastened the wrist restraints. Owen lowered his arms to his chest and curled his legs up in a fetal position over his belly. He looked absolutely wiped.
He rested for a bit while I hung around making sure everything was okay, and also making sure to enthusiastically thank everyone who had participated in Owen’s takedown. Once he was up and out of the sling and standing on wobbly legs, I dug his street clothes out of my bag so he could wear those home rather than chaps and a straitjacket. Then we started stowing the gear away, and some of the guys even helped, which was kind of them. We knocked around for ten or fifteen minutes afterward and then got on our way. Owen was safely back home by 1:30.
“One last instruction,” I said as he got out of my car. “I want your Donna to see the evidence. Don’t shower that stuff off until she’s had a chance to check you out, got it? Go see her tomorrow, or at the very least set up a video call. I want to let her know that we gayed you up real good tonight.”
He nodded. “Understood. I will.”
“All right. Good night.”
“Good night.” Owen closed the door and moved to go inside.
I rolled down the window. “Oh, and Owen?” He turned back and I held his gaze for a few long seconds. Then: “Thank you.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome… sir.” That last word was delivered with a devilish glint in his eye as he backed away from the car.
“Ah, fuck off!”
“Yes, SIR!” he shouted, practically skipping to the door. “Right away, SIR!”
“Fuckin’ hetero bastard…” I grumbled, smiling, as I pulled out and headed for home.
9 – Interlude
I got the usual post-scene writeup about a week later. No surprises this time, for me at least. Not so for Owen. It was satisfying to read his account of how the hippo book brought him not one but two surprises, the first when he saw it and realized he was busted, and then the second at the reveal of the big number at the end. I was glad that plan had worked out. Very satisfying.
Arianne added her own commentary as well, saying that this was indeed the sort of scene she had been looking for for her sub and thanking me for providing it. Thanking me! I made sure to thank her right back and let her know that I would be delighted to keep performing such services for the two of them.
After that, things went quiet. The winter holidays rolled around and while I was hoping to catch some time with Owen while he didn’t have any classes to worry about, it was not to be. I wrote them saying I had some availability, but they did not. Understandable. That’s just too busy a time of year; everybody has family obligations and work parties and travel and other gatherings and commitments in December. No problem.
Then January came and I knew that was a bad time for him because it was start of term so I didn’t reach out. But then February passed as well without a word from either of them and I started to get a little bit worried. I wasn’t celibate in the meantime, not by any means. I met up once with Luke, my cosplay friend, and with a couple other familiar play pals as well. But it was Owen I was thirsting for, Owen and that unique blend of “yes, but no” that only he could give me.
In early March I pinged Arianne once more to see if she wanted to try to set something up. The reply was… well, it was disheartening.
“Things are still kind of busy. I’ll get in touch if that changes.”
That hit hard. I mean… wow. “If” that changes. Not “when”. And “busy” is polite-speak for “I either can’t or don’t want to make time for you.” That was a classic “slow fade” move right there. That’s the kind of message you send a friend when you don’t want to hang around with them any more but you don’t want to cause a big scene. I’ll be honest, it hurt a bit – I thought we were just getting started!
But I knew I was the third wheel on their bicycle; the two of them had each other and for Arianne at least I was just a rent-a-dick, a commodity easily replaced by another warm male body, or set aside in favor of a silicone equivalent. I was not in a good state of mind after reading that message. I didn’t show that, of course. I sent back a cheerful and polite “Okay, sounds good, I’ll be here whenever” but inside I was feeling pretty lousy about it. And of course I second-guessed myself for hours afterward. I tossed and turned a lot that night regretting my reply: did I come across as too eager? Maybe I should have gone with just “k”? Or maybe the opposite, maybe I should have been more eager, shown real interest? I wrote and discarded a dozen different drafts in my head there in the darkness.
What can I say? I liked the guy! I wanted to keep seeing him. I liked working him over, I liked the way he responded with that delicious mix of distaste and acceptance. And the sass! He was just beginning to learn how to get mouthy with me so I would have an excuse to punish him for it. Such a shame to break it off when things were going so well.
And I’ll admit I did not like the feeling of rejection. Over the years I had gotten used to guys throwing themselves at me because of my looks and my build. Sure, there were times when I sought out someone who wasn’t interested back, but those were mostly passing whims at a club, not something I was emotionally invested in. This was different. In Owen I had found something that was very hard to come by anywhere else. I wanted more of that. I wanted more of him. But he was not mine to take, I could only express my interest and then wait.
Over the next month or so, I arranged for a few hookups online and also went to the clubs again, not to Crag but rather back to my usual haunts in Edgewater. At the clubs I had some enjoyable scenes with some willing subs, got to demonstrate my own flogging prowess, not quite up to Peter’s level but still nothing to be ashamed of. With the online hookups I admit I went a bit crazy with two of the guys. Nothing that would get me arrested, but I thought that lashing out at someone might improve my state of mind, so I tried to find guys who wanted to be lashed out at. In both “grimer” and “fag4alphabuse” I found exactly that. On two separate occasions I humiliated, mistreated, and otherwise tormented guys who craved everything I handed them and more.
At one point I had fag4alphabuse lying face-up on the floor under my feet. I was making him lick my toes while I told him what a useless, hopeless wretch he was, couldn’t even suck toes right. All this with a cigar in my hand, and I don’t even smoke. I just wanted to be able to command him to open up his mouth so I could use it as an ashtray, tapping the thing so the burnt scraps would fall onto his tongue from high enough up that he wouldn’t get scorched.
It was an attempt to do some over-the-top dominating, figuring that by really pushing the intensity I might get close to some of that rush that Owen could make me feel. With Owen it was easy to spark a reaction of disgust, however well he might try to camouflage it with subbish acceptance. He simply didn’t like dudes or dicks. With these guys, though, I needed to scale up the domination by a big factor to try to get close to the same feeling. It worked, or at least came close. I got to the point where the subs I was working over were genuinely less than human in my eyes, less than animals even, more like vermin. They loved it, and I enjoyed it too. Excess was an adequate substitute, enough to compensate for my innate lack of desire for such willing pig-bottoms.
The best thing I could do was get my mind off the unavailable and be satisfied with what was at hand. I had no choice; the decision was Owen’s and Arianne’s to make. We live, we change, we move on.
And then one day…
10 – Recontact
Late April. I was idly surfing for hookup partners again, not expecting much on a Tuesday evening, wondering if I should invite grimer over later in the week to see if he was up for having me squash his junk with my booted feet again. That had been a good scene but I figured I’d see what else might be available before hitting him up.
My phone dinged with an incoming message… from the contact that I still had labeled as “substratum”, Owen’s online kink name. I opened it up.
“Hi, Elias. Sorry to bother you. I need to ask you a favor. Would like to ask in person. Can I come by some time?”
Uh, hell yeah he could. But I waited two whole minutes before responding just to prove I wasn’t as eager as I actually was. I don’t think I could have made it three.
“Sure! I’ve got time between 3 and 6 tomorrow, or any time Thursday evening.” I almost added “Or now if you want” but was able to hold back. Eau de Desperation is not an appealing cologne.
His response came after the perfect interval: just long enough for him to read what I had written, mash out a reply, and hit send. “Great. I’ll come by around 5 tomorrow. Thanks.”
“See you then,” I replied, then proceeded to spend the next entire night and day wondering what sort of favor he wanted and speculating about what it might be. If any of the folks in my Wednesday 10AM Sculpt And Shape class or my 1:30 Core Strength workout session wondered where my brain was, they graciously didn’t ask.
When he arrived at the door, it was with a bit of a frazzled look about him. Given the season, maybe that was due to the end-of-term exams approaching, but I didn’t think so. The sense I got was more that I was the source of his unease, so I tried to keep things light and comfortable. I brought him inside and sat him down on my sofa, got him something to drink. All very cordial, no indication that the last time I saw him he had been impaled on my dick.
“Thank you,” he said once he was settled in. “I wasn’t sure if you would be available. It has been a while, I know.”
“Hey, I’m happy you’re here. Always happy to see you, in fact.”
“Thanks.”
There was a pause, then we both spoke over each other. “I wasn’t sure how to…” ran mid-air into “You mentioned something about…?” and then we both stopped and there was the usual awkward chuckling back-and-forth as we tried to re-learn how to converse. Strange how uncomfortable this was given how we had last left things! But that was five months ago and the long time between apparently put us back into the realm of needing an icebreaker to get back to where we were.
I thought about going over and planting a kiss on his lips, thinking that ought to shake out any awkwardness in a heartbeat. But that felt wrong, so I just mutely gave him an “after you” gesture to indicate I would keep quiet and he should speak.
“I… I need to ask… my Donna has given me… well, ultimatum isn’t the right word… maybe a… a boundary. Yes, she has set a boundary. I need to…”
I tried to keep my body language open and encouraging. Hands in lap, arms relaxed and not crossed. Eyes slightly wide, chin raised to show interest. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts, and then they all came out in a tumbling rush.
“She has put conditions on intercourse. We don’t do a lot of traditional, conventional, penis-in-vagina sex. That is usually reserved as a rare reward for me, or a treat for a special occasion. My Donna has informed me that… that… well, this is where I need to ask for your help.”
“Dude, the answer is almost certainly going to be yes, I will happily help you out.” Ambitious words and I hoped I would be able to follow through on them. “I just don’t know what you’re asking for yet?”
“She told me that I am only allowed to put my cock inside her if I have got a cock inside me at the same time. A, um, a real one. I am only allowed to fuck if I am simultaneously being fucked, in other words. Which means I need help. I was wondering if… you would… maybe…?”
“Hang on. If I recall correctly, you deflated instantly the last time my dick was in your ass.”
The poor guy looked miserable. “I know. Not just yours, either. I find it difficult to get hard with anything up there, and believe me I’ve been practicing.”
“With other tops?”
“What? Oh! No, with toys. So far she has not loaned me out to any other men. Please don’t even suggest it to her!”
That made me feel good and it probably showed on my face. I had suddenly gotten worried that Arianne had replaced me with some other stud for her boy. I mean, I had certainly thought about it in the abstract plenty of times, of how to her I was just a dildo with legs, easily swapped out for another, but somehow I never made the next logical leap to picturing Owen getting it on with a dude other than me. Then suddenly the thought was planted front and center in my head. Shame on me for having the reaction I did. I certainly hadn’t been “faithful” and had zero right to expect any such thing from him. Still, it’s where my mind first went. But the thought was moot because that wasn’t it; he had said toys. Dildos, plugs. I tried to replace the relieved expression that was probably all over my face with one of concern and doubt.
“Hmm. You know… one of the things I liked about fucking you that time was the way that it did not get you hard. You’re asking me to help train you out of that reaction?”
“Right. It’s the only way I’ll ever get access to her. Unless she changes her mind, which is unlikely.”
“Is this a one-time thing, do you know? Just the next time? Or is it a long-term from-now-on rule?”
“Next time only. I asked because that same thought occurred to me, too. I have wondered, though only half-seriously, whether she thinks I won’t be able to do it. Maybe she wants me to try and fail, and then the humiliation of that failure would of course make me less likely to ever succeed on a later attempt, and then she can turn the responsibility for the fact that I never get this particular reward again around and put it on my shoulders, when I know that it’s her desire as well, she has never been all that much into… um… I’m sorry, this might be more detail than you want to hear.”
“I think I get what you’re saying. She used the word ‘lesbian’ to describe herself to me once, so I’m guessing she prefers her dicks to be battery-powered rather than made of meat?”
“I believe that is the case, yes.”
“Right. So she puts you in a no-win situation, setting you up so that you fail in a way that gets her the outcome she prefers anyway.”
He mulled that over a short while. “I don’t know, honestly. I don’t think she’s that devious. If she didn’t want to grant me access, she could simply tell me ‘no’ and she knows I would accept that without question or complaint.”
“Well, you know her best and I could be wrong, but I think you have to admit she can be that devious. And in this case I think she is. I think she’s messing with your mind, my friend. We’ve both seen how she’s capable of that. I think this is carefully crafted and deliberate.”
Owen nodded slowly. “I can’t rule that out.”
I clapped my hands together. “Well good news, then. Yes, I will help you. I can’t say I’m thrilled about it. Right now you possess a trait that I can find nowhere else – you let me fuck you but you don’t like it when I do. You’re asking me to help you change that. It’d be like taking a sledgehammer to Michelangelo’s David, you want me to destroy a work of art!”
He immediately backpedaled. “Sorry! No, I’m sorry I as–”
I shushed him with my hands. “No, it’s fine, it’s fine. I suspect that whatever changes we manage to accomplish, they won’t stick. Your distaste for dick seems too deep-seated and innate to be fundamentally changed. I think the best we’ll be able to do is a workaround. Something that gets you past this hurdle. But who knows, maybe I’m wrong, maybe this experience will flip you to my team permanently, heh heh. I’m willing to take the chance.”
He looked relieved. Now was the time to push.
“But I want something in exchange.” His eyes instantly clouded and his forehead crinkled with worry. “If we can get you to successfully complete this quest Her Ladyship has sent you on, I want in return… three more sessions with you.” I smiled to let him know I wasn’t asking for anything outrageous. “Three sessions where I get to do things my way and if I decide to fuck your ass during those sessions, an erection on your part will be neither needed nor desired. Deal?”
“Deal,” he agreed. “I mean, I’ll have to ask my Donna, of course, but I expect she’ll agree to that. Gulp.” It was cute the way he said the word “gulp” out loud.
“Good. I’ve missed you these past few months. If temporarily marring a work of art is what it takes to get my hands on you again, that’s a price I’m willing to pay.”
We chatted about a few other things. I half-jokingly suggested we could get work on his problem right then and there, fully ready to stop joking immediately if he even hinted at a yes, but he begged off. “I really can’t stay. My grader flaked on me so I have to review a hundred and fifty summaries of Morgan’s experiments on eye color inheritance in Drosophila.”
I nodded. “Now that job I will not help you with; I’m not even going to pretend I know where Drossofalah is or what Morgan was doing there. Oh, but hey, speaking of work… how did things turn out with that colleague of yours we ran into. Doctor Chen, was it?”
“Ah, yes. I asked my Donna about that and she confirmed it was her hand that had set that up. For a few weeks afterward I wondered if Sun-Min would turn out to be another loaner domme I would be sent out to provide service for, but it never happened. Eventually I asked again and my Donna told me there would be no follow up. It was just the one time thing at Crag to shake me up. Well, as you know, that sure worked.”
“How did she even know you two were connected?”
“I guess they met at some sort of event she and Madison went to where polyamory was the theme, or one of the themes. This was a while ago, at least a year. Somehow the college came up in conversation and my Donna made the connection. Then she held on to the thought until she could put it to good use.”
“Well, she nailed it. But no trouble for you at work?”
“None. I figured the best thing to do was act as normal as possible when I next saw Sun-Min, not say a word about it and hope she did the same, and that’s exactly what happened. Neither of us has ever mentioned it.”
“A good outcome. But you realize: this is just more evidence of what I said before about your current conundrum: your lady is messing with your head.”
He looked down at his feet and heaved a great, deep sigh. “I know.”
11 – Training
“That’s it… doing great… stay relaxed… keep breathing, focus on your breathing… don’t force it, let it happen when it feels right.”
It was totally obvious in hindsight and yet I hadn’t seen it coming: teaching a straight man how to open his hole to accept a gigantic plug is remarkably similar to teaching a yoga class. Both involve not just physical movement but also mental control. Both require patience: success cannot be rushed and racing toward some imaginary finish line only makes that line recede into the distance. And, bluntly, both involve stretching. Wonder how many takers I’d get if I offered a course called something like “Tantric Dilation” after the 8PM spin class?
The same techniques I would use at the studio came effortlessly to mind as I helped Owen get used to larger and larger objects in his ass. We worked with plugs at first so he could work on acclimating himself to the sensation of fullness.
Once it was in, we would hit play on whatever video we had queued up. The porn wasn’t strictly necessary but I figured it would help. I tried not to laugh at what came up sometimes. I had never spent a whole lot of time browsing straight porn before and the women in them… wow, some of them just seemed unreal. Like cartoons. I suppose that’s true of some gay porn, too. Every once in a while you’ll find ones that feature two hairy hyper-swole brutes going to town on each other. Weird how I find that sort of exaggerated masculinity hot, but their female counterparts with volleyball breasts, pencil waists, and enormous wide eyes… those looked cheesy and fake to me, unerotic not just because I was gay but artificial to the point that I couldn’t imagine how straight guys could see them as sexy either.
The experience made me wonder a lot about porn in ways I had never thought about before, particularly as it applied to my lesbian and straight-sub friends. Like: lesbian porn, for instance. I knew enough to know that a lot of that is tailored toward the straight male eye’s viewing pleasure. Presumably there was also porn out there that was designed for actual lesbians to enjoy. But there was no way I would know how to spot the difference, or filter it out from a search result set.
Anyway, I digress. The porn Owen and I most often used for these sessions involved dominant women and submissive men. That I could actually enjoy with him, particularly if the subs were – or at least pretended to be – suffering. Even better (for me, at least) if the domme was off-screen! Just a voice coming in from the side somewhere. Then we could both watch the same scene and get equal enjoyment from it.
“Would she allow you to use a cock ring?” I asked during one scene that showed a male sub wearing exactly that to enhance his rigidity.
“Hmm, I dunno. I’ll ask.” The answer turned out to be no – she wanted him hard without artificial support. Okay.
The sessions started once his summer break began. Twice a week plus “homework” for him to complete on his own time. I would let Owen put the plug in himself rather than me doing it for him. He got more control over the speed and force that way. Then we would do whatever it took to coax his dick to life. It was a gradual process and every bit of it rubbed me the wrong way. He needed to become relaxed around me so that he could get into the right mindset to feel those nice sexy feels, and I helped to keep things light and casual and tried to encourage that sexy vibe, aiming for a fun atmosphere, just two chill dudes doin’ their chill dude thing. And all the while stomping down on that little voice in my head that said “stop! You’re ruining him!” I wanted him to be afraid of me, at least a little bit! I wanted that fear to prevent him from getting hard in my presence! And yet I swallowed that down and helped him normalize the idea that he could get it up with me there and all would be well.
The “homework” sessions stopped on the third week because he had reached a point where he was comfortable enough having his ass filled that he could stiffen up just fine. We added a third in-person session for the next week and by then we had repeated the process enough that it was becoming part of his muscle memory. Just like with any skill, when you first learn it, you think you’ve learned it, but you haven’t really learned it until you can do it without thinking. That requires repetition, sometimes to the point of boredom because you think “I’ve done this so often I could do it in my sleep.” Yeah. That’s exactly the goal. So that when the time for the real thing comes and your mind is distracted by fifty other things, your body can take over and do what it knows how to do.
So over and over Owen and I would pop a plug up his butt, cue up the vid, and do some stroking together. Straight-dude style where it’s fine to jerk off together but you never dare touch the other guy’s junk. Man, what a limited world those guys live in…
Then we shifted from plugs to dildos and I started to get more hands-on. We’d start with me holding the rubber dong in place while he got stiff, then I’d start pumping it in and out, nice and slow. The movement and friction create a different sensation than a plug, and sure enough it took him a couple of tries to adapt. We tried a variety of positions each time: lying on his back, standing up, lying on his side, kneeling dog-style, bent at the waist while standing.
We would add restraints, too. Because whether applied by masculine or feminine hands, restraint was something Owen loved from the bottom of his bottomy heart. A collar, either leather or chain. Ropes or cuffs around his ankles or wrists. A hood. Various combinations of those. The thing that worked best though…
“Do you have any gags?” he asked during one session.
Do I have any gags. Please.
I dug through my toy box and unearthed ball gags of varying sizes, a ring gag that holds the mouth open without blocking it, a bit gag, two stubby little penises attached to face-covering leather, and one of those clever dental gags with a ratchet mechanism that lets you set the width of the boy’s oral opening with targeted precision. “Take your pick.”
He chose the largest ball gag first. We got it fastened in place and I learned that his cock had some mysterious internal connection to his jaw. He shot his wad within two minutes of starting back up after the gag went in. It seemed I had barely started pumping the shaft in and out of his ass while he lay on his back stroking himself when suddenly he was tensing up and breathing hard and boom, the gusher came squirting out all over his belly. The speed of the climax seemed to surprise even him.
I held the silicone dong deep in his guts while the last shudders of orgasm coursed through him, wanting to see what he had to say about this turn of events but knowing there was no way he could tell me at the moment. I didn’t want to rush the removal because he needed to get used to handling an anal invader in the post-orgasm-glow stage, which can feel different from the pre-orgasm stage. Okay, also because I loved making the guy uncomfortable.
I held it there while he unfastened the strap behind his head and eased the giant ball out of his mouth. “That… came on very fast. I did… not expect that,” he said, still breathing a bit heavily.
“Uh, me neither,” I replied. “I guess you’ve got a thing for gags.”
“I do. That’s why I thought it would help here. I just –” he let out a big whoof of air “didn’t expect it to help that much. That quickly.”
“It certainly did.” I slid the dildo in and out a tiny amount, slowly. “So. Tell me. How did the dildo affect the orgasm?”
I could see he was uncomfortable and I tried to hold him right at that balance point where he noticed it but it wasn’t too much for him to take. I didn’t want to push him hard enough that he would ask me to remove the thing so I watched his eyes and tried to judge his tolerance for more torment based on what I saw there while we talked. Whenever he looked like he was about to crack, I stopped moving it, then gradually eased it into motion again a few seconds later, keeping him right on that line between “can-cope” and “can’t”. It’s one of my favorite things to do to a sub after he shoots: put him on the spot in some way, then watch him wrestle with himself about whether to ask me to end the scene. I like to see how long I can draw that moment out.
“Um. It was definitely different. I could feel the pulses in my ass. It was like… wow, I don’t know. Like trying to suppress a sneeze but failing, maybe? Like, the muscles that make the orgasm go were doing their thing, but they were… oh… wow, that… okay. They were pressed up against an unyielding obstacle, so they couldn’t work the way they normally… oh man.” Heh heh. College prof was trying to lecture to the hall but something kept distracting him.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds about right. So now you know what to expect. Maybe take a little longer with the buildup next time? We are trying to develop a skill here?”
“Yessi… yes. Sorry.”
I took pity on him and eased the schlong out, then we called it quits for the day. Next time we tried a smaller gag and that had the desired effect of boosting the erotic factor but not too much. He got more and more used to the sensations of anal play, and his confidence was boosted too. “I can do this. I can actually do this!”
“Of course you can!” I replied cheerfully while desperately hoping that all this work would be undoable but fearing it would not.
The next step was to transition from a fake dick to a real one. Mine, specifically. I will not lie and say I wasn’t worried about my own ability to perform. Man, wouldn’t that suck if his joking prediction back at Crag turned out to be true! Truly though, the fact that he was starting to enjoy this, or at least not dread it, was a bit deflationary for me. Fortunately, not too much so and I was still able to do what needed to be done.
Once again, we tried a variety of positions: upright, horizontal, face to face, and face to back. This time he adapted fairly quickly. I had thought having my large, hairy, unfeminine body so close to his would give him trouble, but we had done this enough times that my presence was comforting (dammit!) and familiar (fuck!) for him. Soon enough he was riding my dick with his own pole sticking straight out, just like the subbiest of bottom boys you can imagine (nooo!!!).
He even got to the point of orgasm twice more. Once using his hands and then at the next session by sticking his dick into one of those masturbator tubes I’d fastened to the bed. Stroking yourself to climax is different from thrusting hands-free to climax so if thrusting was the goal, then thrusting is what we needed to work on. The gag in his mouth helped, as did the chain around his neck that I kept grabbing and pulling whenever I needed better leverage. His hands were kept cuffed safely behind him to prevent caught-up-in-the-moment dick touching, which meant they got in my way a bit but not so much as to stop me from doing the deed.
And he did it. My Doctor No had become Doctor I Got This. With a smile fixed on my face, I congratulated Owen on his achievement while quietly mourning my loss.
12 – Show Time
Once again I arrived at the modest, tidy ranch home in Orland Hills with the big tree in the front yard. It was a hot, sticky June evening not quite one year since I had first met Arianne and Owen at that Dunkin’ Donuts. Despite the heat, I had opted to dress up in formal leathers for the evening since this event had the feeling of a special occasion. I was wearing the same lambskin shirt from our date at Crag, but without the vest. Over top of that I had gone with my leather equivalent of a sport coat, all black with subtle grey stripes running stylishly down the sleeves. The pants had matching grey stripes and so did the leather jockstrap inside them. The stripes on that last item were not currently visible but at some point this evening they would be. At these temperatures I would have been very comfortable if the jock had been all I was wearing; I was dripping inside my second skin!
I rang the bell and heard barking. I didn’t remember seeing a dog the last time I was here, but maybe I had missed it, or perhaps the dog was new. Then footsteps, and then the door swung open and the barking grew louder. I looked down and saw…
“Bingo! Ha! Hey, boy, good to see you!” Owen was there in his dog ensemble: tan hood, collar with nametag, and not a lick of clothing. I stepped inside, knelt down and gave him a big doggie-style hug and a scratch. He licked at my face from under the neoprene muzzle and whined happily. I gave him ten or fifteen seconds of greeting, then stood back up to greet Arianne. She had also decided to dress up, wearing a leather suit in equal parts red and white. She must have had it custom-made because the fit was flawless, tight in some places, loose and flowing in others, and I couldn’t even guess what kind of skill it takes to make leather look “flowing”. A very impressive sight.
“Arianne, it’s wonderful to see you. That outfit is amazing.”
“Good to see you too, Elias. You cut a fine figure yourself. Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Thanks for inviting me. I see the boy is looking well.”
“That he is. He has been in dog mode all day and has been eagerly awaiting your arrival because he knows he’ll be allowed to become human again now that you’re here.”
“Aw, so soon? He can’t stay in dog mode a while longer?”
“Well, he could, but then I’d have to serve the drinks and snacks myself and that’s really more his role. You may stand.”
I had a moment’s confusion. If I had been sitting down, I would have instinctively started to rise on hearing those words and then had an awkward situation to cover up when I realized she hadn’t been talking to me. She hadn’t changed her tone of voice or the direction she was facing, but somehow her demeanor made it clear that those words were a command, and Owen knew it was aimed at him. He rose to his feet with a “thank you, Ma’am.”
Once he was up, I realized that he was wearing something else from his previous stint as a dog. I commented on it as the three of us made our way to the living room. “Has he had the chastity cage on all day as well?”
“Well, yes, but not just today. That has been on for the last two weeks.”
“Two weeks! Ah, now I understand why he hasn’t come over for more practice sessions lately.”
“Exactly. Don’t worry, though – we took it off and gave him a good cleaning a few hours ago, so there shouldn’t be any unpleasant odor later when it comes off again. Now, what would you like to drink?”
“Well, I don’t usually like to mix alcohol and kink… how about an iced tea?”
“Very good. I’ll have the same. Come in, have a seat.”
We sat down while Owen went off to, presumably, the kitchen. I once again noticed how keenly attuned he was to his Donna. She hadn’t ever told him to go get the drinks; it was obvious from context. She knew he would be paying attention to her every word and so there was no need to say “Owen, go do X,” or watch him to ensure that he did it. He would notice, understand, and get it done. It was fascinating for me to see that kind of submission in action here in Owen’s native habitat. Very different from what I sought from him, or from what most of the doms I knew would do. In my world it would be a gutteral “boy, go fetch some fuckin’ iced tea, NOW!” This was far more subtle.
Thankfully, the house was air-conditioned and I could already feel myself becoming less sticky under the leathers. Arianne and I chatted for a bit about nothing – the weather, the drive over, how Madison was doing.
“She won’t be joining us?” I asked.
“No, Owen is entirely my toy. She has her own side projects and we try not to overlap.”
At that point, Owen returned, minus the puppy hood and the “Bingo” nametag but still wearing the collar, now fixed shut with a plain padlock. He was bearing a tray that he placed on the table at our knees. Two frosty glasses of iced tea, one plate of finely-sliced vegetables and dip, some crackers, some spreadable cheese. I wasn’t particularly hungry, having eaten dinner before gearing up to come over here, but it would have been rude not to partake. As I was sipping from my glass, Owen spoke to Arianne.
“Will there be anything more, Ma’am?”
“No. You may go to your spot.”
With that, he walked to the corner of the room where a plant was suspended from a chain hanging from a hook set into the ceiling. He carefully removed the plant and set it aside. Then he opened a nearby drawer and removed a padlock and a pair of handcuffs. Fascinated, I watched as he used the lock to attach his collar to the dangling chain, standing up on his toes to do it. The padlock was under his chin, so his head was forced backward such that all he could see was the ceiling overhead. Then he cuffed his hands behind his back and stood with his chest pointing toward us, trying hard to remain as still and quiet as possible though he could never succeed, not up on his toes like that with no way to keep his balance except by yanking on his neck.
I realized Arianne had asked me something that I had totally missed, focused as I was on her boy’s willing self-torture.
“I’m sorry… I got distracted.” I nodded over toward Owen. “I, uh, love what you’ve done with the place.” That earned me a tiny hint of smile. “What were you saying?”
“I was just curious how your work is going. Owen mentioned that things were busy at the studio.”
“Ah, yes, that’s true. It’s a good problem to have, but I’m thinking I’m going to need to open up some extra sessions if things stay this busy. Doing that has its own set of complications, of course, like…”
And that’s how the first part of the evening went. Arianne and I sat and talked for thirty minutes about my work, her work, Owen’s work (!), travel, the upcoming Pride In The Park festival… all sorts of things. Meanwhile, Owen hung there for what must have felt like hours to him. It’s not easy to stay up on your toes like that, but he had no option. The suspension point was too high for him to set his heels fully on the ground, so he could either stand up on his toes as high as he could go and get some relief for his neck, or he could sink down and ease his leg muscles at the cost of added strain on his collar. That’s how it went at first. As time went on and his body stretched, he was able to set his heels down, though that had to seriously hurt because he never kept them down for very long. I kept glancing over to appreciate the view; I don’t think Arianne looked his way even once.
That reminded me of the last conversation she and I had had in this very room, when we had discussed the pros and cons of absentee torment. And here it was playing out right in front of me. I wanted to run over and lap up Owen’s suffering, hovering over him and perhaps making it worse… or even making it temporarily better only to then return him to his regular state of torment. I wanted to be involved. Meanwhile, Arianne was perfectly content to sip tea and nibble on crackers, completely ignoring him. Such different ways of thinking! And yet neither of us was right or wrong, we just had different approaches toward our shared interest.
Eventually she stood up and I did the same, not quite certain what to expect. She went over and unlocked the handcuffs, then handed Owen a key so he could unlock the padlock at his neck. Once free, he replaced all the gear in the drawer and re-hung the plant from the chain that had been choking him for the last half hour.
“I’m going to go upstairs and get ready. I’ll send Owen back down for you when it’s time. It should be about ten or fifteen minutes. The bathroom is over there if you need it. Is there anything else I can have him get you while you wait? Another tea, perhaps?”
“No, thank you, I’ll be fine.” I hoped. I was suddenly feeling out of my element. So far this evening had felt more like a fancy dinner party than a bondage fuck session… well, except for the decoration in the corner. It would take some doing to get myself out of my current smile-and-make-pleasant-chitchat head space and into one more boner-oriented. Having ten or fifteen minutes to make that transition was a good thing.
Arianne and Owen disappeared through a door and I heard the creaking of footsteps on a staircase. I decided that using the bathroom was probably a prudent idea, so I emptied out and washed up, then decided to wash up more thoroughly. I had showered and deodorized before getting dressed to come here, but my car had been baking out in the sun all day and its air conditioning was not in peak condition so the drive over had left me somewhat sticky. While the rank stench of mansweat would have been fine for one of my usual scenes, here it felt out of place, like breaking wind at an opera. I shrugged off my jacket and removed my shirt, then gave my armpits a quick toilet paper sponge bath. Things didn’t seem too smelly there but I still felt better after having done it. I let them dry a minute, flushed my sponges, then got my clothes back on.
After that it was just a matter of waiting for Owen. And working on that change of headspace. Remembering our last scene at Crag together helped, the one before I had destroyed him by rendering him able to get hard while being fucked. I thought back to how he looked there on that X-frame, waiting for the next punch to hit his gut, and then the “fuck you, I can take it” expression in his eyes as Peter lashed his back, and the vulnerable way he lay there in the sling all coated with drying man-milk. Oh, yeahhhhh… that helped set the mood. And the woods scene, too! I thought back to what it felt like to stalk him through the slowly-darkening forest, remembering that alpha-dom sensation of being the top local predator with Owen as my prey.
Yeah. I could feel a tightness in the jockstrap. Those thoughts were what I needed. They would get me through the next stage of this evening’s entertainment.
I heard the creaking of the stairs again and a few moments later Owen entered through the door, holding his hands behind his back. “Master Elias, if you would please come this way.” He turned to lead me and I saw that his hands weren’t held behind him, they were cuffed behind him. Nice! I followed him down a hallway, up the stairs, and into a bedroom. What I saw when I got there reminded me all over again that I was in a different world.
Candles glowing softly. Burgundy velvet. Ornately-decorated plush cushions. A bed with posts at the corners and gauzy hangings at the top. Gilt trim on the carved wooden furnishings. Electric lights in sconces along the walls, turned down low. A few decorations that at first seemed out of place and yet somehow actually were perfect for the atmosphere. On one wall was a framed print of a dark tower with storm clouds looming overhead. On another hung a wooden mask with gaping empty eyes and a fierce expression. Over on a windowsill was a large stuffed bird, all black like a crow or a raven, either a real work of taxidermy or else a very convincing replica. Hidden away almost as afterthoughts were clues that this was an active play space: a hook set in the ceiling, the end of a coil of rope poking out of a not-quite-closed drawer, a larger-than-strictly-necessary mirror. A rich fragrance hung in the air, noticeable but not overpowering, and I had no idea what it was or where it was coming from.
It was right yet wrong, familiar yet alien. Bondage environments, in my experience, are made up of the bare concrete of Crag, or of the steel of prison cells, or of plain walls arrayed with rows of gear. Industrial-looking, institutional, thoroughly practical. This was not that. This was opulent, this was sumptuous, clearly a space designed for eroticism and bondage – there was no doubt in my mind what those bedposts were used for – but in a different style from what I knew. Different, but still recognizable: I had seen such places in the femdom porn Owen and I had watched during his ass training. The settings in some of those clips might have been modeled after female-controlled spaces like this one. Or vice-versa.
Arianne lay on the bed, no longer wearing her leather suit but propped up on pillows and artfully draped in sheets.
“Hello again, Elias. Owen, I’d like you to help our guest get comfortable by removing his jacket and shirt. Confirm with him, of course, before beginning.”
Elias turned to me. “Master Elias, may I please remove your jacket and shirt for you?”
Well, well. I never had a personal valet before. Particularly one in handcuffs. It would be interesting to see how he would attempt to accomplish his assigned task. The jacket was hanging open so there wouldn’t be any fastenings to fiddle with, but the shirt had snap closures that were done up all the way except for the topmost one. How would he deal with that? “You may.”
He approached and nuzzled his face into my chest, taking the open seam of the jacket between his lips and gently lifting it to the side. Then he repeated the process on the other side until the leather was hanging only loosely over my shoulders. His attentions were tender and surprisingly sensual. Once again I was struck by the difference from my usual approach, which was to unceremoniously remove any unneeded clothing and toss it aside so the scene could begin. Owen, under Arianne’s instruction, was making the clothing removal part of the scene, which had obviously already begun.
He turned his body to one side, allowing his hands to slide over and grab the cuff at my right wrist. He worked it over the knuckles until the sleeve could slide freely, then did the same to my left. The second time, he kept pulling and eventually the jacket slid down under the pull of gravity (though I helped it along with a couple of subtle shrugs) and he caught it in his hands. He worked his hands up along the sleeve until he reached the neck, gave the jacket a shake so it hung more or less naturally, then draped it neatly over a chair.
Then it was time for the shirt. He once more dove in toward my chest with his face and I could feel him working at the snaps with his lips and teeth. Tender, gentle nibbles weren’t going to get the job done here, he needed to really pull to separate those snaps. Pretty easy to do with hands; not easy at all with lips. He started with the one beneath my chin and got nowhere with it, so after a half minute of trying he took another approach. He turned around and began working the bottom one with his hands. The first one popped free easily. So did the next. The third one was a bit too high for him to reach so I bent down just a bit to help him out.
“Oh, please don’t lower yourself,” Arianne said. “He can work it out on his own. Or fail to.” Ah. So that was the game here. That, at least, was familiar territory for me.
“Very well,” I agreed and stood upright once more. He managed the third button fine once he got himself in a position to reach it, straining his arms a bit upward. The fourth took some doing but it also came free eventually. That left the top two and there was no way he was going to be able to manage those with the same technique. His arms simply could not flex to get his hands high enough.
He turned back around to face my chest and nuzzled into it once more. I would definitely have to think about incorporating this into my own future play – I was getting hard from the light, teasing touches and also the prospect of failure to accomplish the task and the ensuing excuse for punishment to follow.
He tried holding one hem of the shirt with his hands while working the snap with his mouth. No dice. The hem at my waist was too far away from the snap so no matter how hard he pulled, it was never enough. After a minute or so of that he asked me, face still buried in my chest, “Master Elias, may I ask you to please move to stand against the wall? I would like to press against you but I don’t want to nudge you off balance.” I glanced over at Arianne to see if she had any objection, whether this counted as helping him too much. I took her raised eyebrow to mean it was my call to make, so I agreed.
With my back against the wall, he could press his shoulder against my chest and thus hold the leather of the shirt in place at a point much closer to the snap, which he continued to pull at with his mouth. This time he was able to apply enough force to pop it free and the last two snaps were undone in short order. He repeated the process of using his lips to nudge the seams out over my shoulders, then had me step away from the wall so he could get behind me and grab the collar in his mouth so he could slide the shirt down my arms. He draped the shirt over the jacket when he was done, then went to stand at attention at the foot of the bed.
Yeah. I was definitely going to have to have a sub undress me like that again some time. Hot stuff!
“Boots next, then pants,” Arianne instructed. Owen approached and once again asked my permission to undress me, which I granted. He knelt down to unlace my boots, then discovered that sitting was easier and more stable. I had to help, of course, by lifting each leg at the appropriate time. I suppose I could have sat down, but that wouldn’t have been any better. I am convinced that there does not exist a sexy way to take boots off. It’s awkward and ungainly no matter how it’s done. Shirts, yes. Shirts can make for a very effective strip-tease. Boots cannot. My semi-erection faded as I tried to keep my balance.
Owen stood back up and worked my belt loose with his hands, then the button and zipper. Down the pants went and I once again stepped out of them. That was slightly more graceful than the boots, but neither came close to the eroticism of how he had worked that shirt free. His hot breath had gone right through the leather straight to my nipples.
“Very good. Last piece. Mouth only,” Arianne directed.
Owen turned to me. “Master Elias, may I please remove your jock?”
“Go ahead.”
He knelt and began working at the two snaps with his teeth. These didn’t require quite as much force as the shirt so there was a chance he’d be able to manage it. After a short while, though, I got the sense that he wasn’t really trying all that hard. No, his chin and jaw kept pressing against the contents of the jock far more often than could be coincidence. He was mashing on me, trying to get me hard! Well, it was working. I had a man down on his knees in front of me under orders to undress me with his mouth. Yeah, that was enough to fuel a hard-on by itself. Having the mouth massage my dick in the process was just gravy.
Eventually he got the top snap undone, and then the bottom one, and then he began working the zipper. The contents inside were about ready to burst through the leather. Slowly, he pulled the zip down with his teeth. Once the gap was large enough, the full-grown snake inside reared out through it and got him right between the eyes. He shifted to the side then and pulled the various straps down bit by bit, one by one, until at last the whole thing was low enough that it slid to the floor. I stepped out. He bent down to retrieve it, discovered he couldn’t get down that low, lay down on his side to grab it between his lips, then painstakingly worked his way back up to his knees. He carried the discarded jock over to the chair where my other clothes were and deposited it there.
“Come here,” Arianne commanded. Once again I almost responded to that voice, so clearly accustomed to being obeyed, but I did not. By now I had recognized the pattern: Owen received orders; I received requests with words like “please” thrown in. Thus, any please-less ones were Owen’s to obey. He stood up and walked to the side of the bed, where he stood facing toward her, eyes straight ahead.
“You’re going to get a treat tonight,” she purred at him.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” he responded.
“Why are you getting this treat?” she continued, somewhere halfway between the purr and her command voice.
“Because you wish it, Ma’am. No other reason. Nothing I have done is a factor. Nothing I can do is ever a factor. You dispense rewards when you wish, for whatever reasons you wish. My duty is, as always, to cherish and adore you, to anticipate and respond to your needs and desires, and to accept rewards, corrections, and punishments as you see fit to administer them.”
“And how do you attend to your duty?” This had the feeling of a formula, a ritual. Owen was not making these words up on the spot. This must be some sort of vow he had previously taken, one that was being renewed now, or at least brought up to remind him of it.
“With my full heart, Ma’am. It is my greatest joy to serve you and I ask only that you allow me to continue serving you.”
“Very well. I accept your continued service. Now let’s see about that reward.” With that, she produced the key to the chastity cage and slipped it into the lock. It turned smoothly and she withdrew the cylinder, then gently eased the cage off his fully-soft shaft. The ball ring came off next and his dick was free to swing.
“Show me what you have learned from Master Elias.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He walked over to me near the corner of the far side of the bed, then sank to his knees. “Master Elias, may I help refresh your erection and then ask you to fill me?” I looked down – sure enough, my erection indeed needed refreshing. I had drooped quite a bit during the ceremony since the removal of the jockstrap.
“Go ahead, boy,” I told him. He opened his mouth and pulled me in. His tongue was warm against my dick, his breath hot on my pelvis. I’d have enjoyed some fingers working my balls, but remembered that his were locked away where he couldn’t use them and that was erection-inspiring in a different but just-as-effective way. Before long I was fully stiffened up again. He didn’t stop, though, but continued sucking and doing a fine job of it. too. (When did he learn to give a decent blow job? I certainly didn’t teach him that skill! The too-smart-for-his-own-good boy must have done his own research and practicing.) I didn’t try to stress him, didn’t grab his head and force myself in deep enough to block his air. Instead I let him set the pace and the depth and gave myself over to being attended to, much as he attended to my clothing earlier.
Enjoyable as it was, the mouthwork was only intended to be the warmup act. Eventually he pulled away, then moved to a dressing table where he deftly fetched a condom, opened it up, and then returned to roll it down over my dripping cock, working completely behind his back. Then he fetched some lube, coated my shaft and his hole, and it was time.
“Master Elias, I must ask that you not touch my penis. My Donna has made it clear that I may only receive this reward if I am able to get erect without any additional stimulation other than what you provide with your cock.”
“Understood, boy. Now turn around.” He did. He bent over the foot of the bed, facing toward his Donna, and exposed his ass to me, hands up at the small of his back. I stepped up and took aim. After all our practice sessions, Owen was now well versed at loosening up and the only lingering question I had was whether Arianne’s presence would affect his ability to do that. It did not. He opened up and soon I was buried hilt-deep in his warm, welcoming hole.
I wanted to give him as much opportunity as possible to get himself hard so I kept it slow to start, just pressing in deep and holding it there. I growled a bit way down low in my throat, a rumbling sound of contentment. Slowly, slowly, I began to move, pulling back and then pushing forward again. I was mostly upright while he was bent over, so I was able to grab hold of the connecting chain between his handcuffs and lift his wrists up away from his back, putting strain on his shoulders. I figured his submissive mind would automatically convert that relatively gentle discomfort into erotic thoughts that would help his erection along.
For the same reason, a little while later I let go of the cuffs and grabbed his Bingo neck chain as well, lifting his head up and back. By now the pace of my thrusts had picked up a bit, still far from full speed but Owen would be feeling the friction and the changing sensations against his prostate.
“Is this what you wanted to see from your slave?” I asked Arianne, who was watching us with unreadable eyes. “Drilled from behind by a man twice his size?” Yeah, 1.3 times on a good day. I was big, but not that big. Just another way to get Owen feeling subby, as if he wasn’t already long gone there already. She murmured something in reply, but I couldn’t hear what it was. Something didn’t feel right about continuing to talk dirty, so I quit. That fart-in-an-opera-house feeling again; it would have felt right and proper to trash talk the boy in my usual haunts, calling him a worthless bitch or a faggot and mocking him for his tiny endowment. All of that felt wrong here in this elegant place under these very different circumstances so I limited myself to deep, wordless growls.
I let go of the collar and he dropped back down to the bed. It occurred to me to wonder: how was I going to know if and when he was ready? Then I realized that I didn’t need to – if I lifted his head again, Arianne would have all the view she needed and she could make the call. So I did, hoisting him up for a short while every minute or two and enjoying the little choking noises he made every time I did.
On perhaps the fourth or fifth lift, things changed. Arianne stirred herself from her nest of gauzy sheets and came knee-walking toward us across the bed. This was my first view of her naked body, and while the sight did nothing to entice me, it also did nothing to unentice me, which was certainly atypical for me. Even on that awkward uneven surface she moved with the same catlike grace I had noticed at our first meeting, all motions completely controlled and confident.
“Are you ready for your reward?” she asked Owen as she came near. I continued holding his head up for him.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he gasped. “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“Hold him still, please, Elias.” Which I understood to mean “hold still, Elias”, so I stopped pumping. I held myself pressed deep into him, forcing the tops of his thighs forward against the edge of the mattress. Arianne opened up a second condom and applied it to Owen’s dick, so clearly he had been able to wake it up. Good for him! A bit of lube went on and then Arianne arranged herself so that her legs went out to either side of the two-man sculpture that Owen and I were forming. She slid forward and adjusted things to her liking, and then Owen emitted a groan of his own, kind of like the growls I had been producing but in a more tenor range. “Thank you, Ma’am!” he said again.
“You can lower him down, please.” I let Owen fall slowly forward until his upper body was lying on top of hers. His hands were still no use to him but I could see his head moving around across every part of her that his mouth could reach. I felt him twitch his hips, thrusting himself rhythmically forward, so I started pumping again. We got our timing synchronized so that our efforts coincided. It wasn’t the easiest of positions to work in, but I kept myself stuck to him like glue to prevent any possibility of popping free.
We pumped and pushed, grunted and growled. I would occasionally smack him on his ass or grab his chained wrists to lift them up again. He seemed utterly lost in his reward. I have to think that if I got to do one of my favorite things on only very rare occasions that I would treasure it as he was clearly doing. I didn’t want to rush him, therefore. It was probably for the best that I wasn’t likely to be able to shoot under these conditions. I mean, it would probably have been possible, but I was swept up in the sheer physicality of enjoying the boy without need for an orgasm that would have taken a shift of mental gears to get to. I was focused on Owen’s needs rather than my own, on making sure this episode worked for him.
It gave me a new appreciation for how out of his element he had been in all the places I had taken him – the woods, Dan and Keira’s house, Crag – and how he had managed to cope despite being a fish out of water. I had new appreciation in particular for the fact that he had been able to achieve orgasm in that sling, surrounded by men and coated with their drippings, so soon after receiving his first fucking. None of that was natural for him any more than the setting I currently found myself in was natural for me. Yet he had done it and I was pretty sure I was not going to be able to. Which was fine, this scene wasn’t about me. No one would object if I shot a load too, but no one was going to mind if I didn’t. Or compel me to try if I didn’t want to. So: major admiration for the man and his ability to deliver under pressure. To thrive, even. He had reserves in him that I hadn’t even realized until now when the shoe was on the other foot.
So I kept thrusting, knowing that I could keep it up a good long time with no risk of going over the edge before Owen did and thus ruining things when my softening dick would force me to withdraw. The boy could take as long as he wanted to claim his reward. Every once in a while I would lift him up by the neck chain again so he could look down on his Donna and worship her from above, then let him down again after half a minute or so.
Still, as the time continued to pass I began to wonder if maybe he wanted to get to the finish line but was having trouble doing so? I couldn’t be sure, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I knew that the only way I would be able to get there would be to pull out and use my hands for those last few strokes. What if he was feeling the same way? What if the stimulation he was getting from the front wasn’t enough to overcome what I was making him feel from behind? Sure, we had practiced this, but not much. He had only shot twice, after all, during our training sessions, and only one of those was hands-free…
No, wait. Not twice. Three times.
I knew what to do. If it worked, great, and if not, no one would even need to know what I had tried. The next time I hoisted him up by the chain I followed up by wrapping my arm around his neck, then lifting it higher so my forearm was in front of his mouth. “Mmm, open up, fucker,” I growl-whispered into his ear, and he did. His mouth opened wide and I shoved my whole arm sideways between his teeth. I applied pressure in two directions, pressing his head forward with my left hand behind his head and backward with my right arm in his mouth. His jaw got wedged further and further apart and his breathing grew frantic with air whistling in and out of his nose. It was hard to focus on maintaining our hip rhythm and the makeshift gag pressure at the same time, particularly as his leg muscles gave out and his stroke pace fell apart completely. I kept up the rhythm myself, driving my dick into Owen’s ass and necessarily pushing his forward into Arianne, then releasing.
Fortunately I didn’t have to keep it up for long. Perhaps fifteen seconds after I started stretching his jaw, his body seized up and clenched and I could tell he was in the throes of a massive climax. I pulled my arm free and then let my dick slip out as well so he could savor the rest of the experience in whatever way felt best for him. Which he did while I tried to wait as unobtrusively as possible. He pumped a few more times, then collapsed forward onto his Donna, who received him with an embrace while he gave a few more thrusts, each one feebler than the last as the post-orgasm glow and hypersensitivity set in.
“Thank you, Ma’am. Thank you so much,” I heard him say at barely more than a whisper. Then he twisted around and tried to look at me. “And thank you, Sir.”
Some later time I would whup him good for that, but for the moment I merely replied, “You’re welcome, boy.”
13 – Dominance
Then it was cleanup time. Owen and I shed the condoms and washed up in one bathroom while Arianne used another. After that we all piled onto the bed for a few minutes of afterglow. That bed was comfortable! So soft, like lying on air. Arianne asked if I wanted Owen to finish me off, but I didn’t want to put him through that, so I declined. There was one thing I wanted to know, though…
“Why does he call you his Donna?”
Not surprisingly, Owen answered even though I had addressed the question to Arianne. “It’s from Latin, through Italian. It just means ‘lady’. I thought that she deserved to have her own unique title, something special that would set her apart from any other lady or mistress we might encounter. Or that she might loan me out to. She consented to allow me to refer to her by that title.”
Okay, fair enough. We lingered a bit longer in the bed’s soft embrace, slowly coming down from our earlier high. But there was one other topic I wanted to bring up, and for this one I couldn’t have Owen doing the talking. Eventually I said, “Arianne, I wonder if I could have some time to talk to you alone?”
“All right. Owen, go downstairs. Come back in, hmm, fifteen minutes. If we need more time, I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He got up off the bed and slipped out through the door. I waited until I heard the creaking of the staircase.
“You are an amazing woman,” I said.
“Well. Thank you. You were amazing yourself.”
“Thanks, but I’m not talking about tonight. Or not just tonight. Let me spin out a hypothetical situation for you.
“I used to think that domination was all about the physical. I’m a big, strong guy and so it never really occurred to me that it could be any other way. Domination meant intimidation and, if that failed, using brute strength to force the other guy to submit and obey.
“What I learned from you and Owen is a different approach. You dominate him in a way that seemed invisible to me when we first met. Your control over him is complete and yet at first I couldn’t even see how you were doing it. Then I realized that you aren’t doing it, he’s doing it. He wants to obey you and make you happy. He worships you. His attention is always focused on you even when you’re not there. That’s rarer in the gay world. It happens but there’s almost always something physical to back it up, even if it’s just a token collar to indicate which one is the sub. Yours is the only relationship I’ve seen that takes the idea to the level that you do. You control him not with force but desire. You make him want what you want.
“That much was clear from that meeting at the coffee shop. Owen didn’t want a male dom for himself. He only wanted one to please you, even though he wasn’t happy about the idea. He was willing to submit to something he had no desire for, even actively disliked, because there was something else he wanted more: your pleasure and your approval. And I thought I understood what that meant, but I really didn’t. I didn’t get my first clue until the day I first came to this house and we had that discussion about using tools to inflict torment at a distance. So here’s where the hypothetical starts.
“What if there was a woman whose area of expertise was domination, but in a way so subtle that the one being dominated didn’t even realize it was happening? And what if this woman, who describes herself as a lesbian and therefore can be assumed to be primarily interested in women sexually, is able to satisfy her craving for domination by using her skills on men? What might that look like?”
“This is an interesting hypothetical, Mr. Oliveira,” she said, her voice either bland with innocent curiosity or else masking some hidden thoughts I could not even guess at.
“I’m glad you think so. It took a while, but I eventually realized it might look exactly like what happened tonight. I didn’t even figure it out fully until about halfway through Owen’s ass-training sessions, and it’s possible I still don’t have it fully figured out. Or that I’m entirely mistaken, which is why this whole idea is a hypothetical.
“I’m sure you remember one of the things I said at our first meeting because I was pretty blunt about it. Possibly to the point of rudeness. It was something along the lines of how I have no interest in the ladies sexually, so if the two of you were looking for an eventual threesome, I was the wrong guy for it. I made that point very clear, as I recall.”
I paused to gesture around the room, taking in the bed, the handcuffs still out on the dresser from where Owen left them, the candles still burning with a warm glow, the scent of musk and sex.
“And yet, here we are.”
“Indeed. Here we are,” she agreed.
“In this hypothetical scenario, I have to wonder… did the master manipulator plan this from the start almost a year ago, taking that clearly-stated boundary as a challenge? Or was it more of an impulse thing, an instinctive sensing of what to do with no ultimate goal in mind and then seizing an opportunity when one arose? I think the first case is more likely. This manipulator would have known that she had something I desired – namely, possession of a submissive man who can provide me with something I can’t obtain any other way. And she would have wondered what price she might extract from me in exchange.
“This hypothetical manipulator was very skilled with her technique, too, dishing out enough of the drug she wanted to addict me to until I was hooked. Then, without warning, she stopped the supply. I’m sure she knew how eager I would be to get that supply flowing again. But she offered no explanation for the denial and instead made me wait. She made me wait long enough to desperately want a hit of that drug again, but not so long that I could work my way through the withdrawal and stop craving it. Then, only then, did she relent… only this time, the drug wasn’t offered freely. There was a price to pay: to violate the one clearly-stated boundary I had laid out. That wasn’t stated so directly, no. The price came camouflaged in innocent-sounding, unrelated misdirections.
“But I was willing to pay it. Not just willing, I was glad. I still am. Even after I worked out what was going on, even knowing what she was doing to me, I would do it all over again exactly the same way. And that puts me, a man who has always considered himself a total top, a dom among doms, in exactly the same state as Owen, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to do as you desire.”
I stopped talking and we lay there in silence for half a minute or so. Then, “A fascinating speculation, Mr. Oliveira.” Twice with the “Mr. Oliveira” now. Either my fascinating speculation was hitting home or she was politely indulging my whimsical fantasy. Again her voice gave me no hint which it was.
“I thought so too. Of course, I could be completely and totally wrong. It’s possible this evening really was all about Owen and his training, or it could be about some goal of yours that I can’t even begin to guess at. I could be looking at events from a self-centered perspective and jumping to absurd conclusions that I have no evidence for. That’s why it’s only a speculation, and why I will never ask you how accurate you think my speculation is.”
I looked over at her. “Besides, there’s another reason I won’t ask.”
“What’s that?”
“If I did, the only answer I would get would be some ambiguous murk accompanied by that damn raised eyebrow and I’d still have no clue!”
She didn’t laugh, but she did crack a hint of a smile, enough to lighten the seriousness a bit.
“Well then,” she said. “No need to answer a question that wasn’t asked. Owen’s due back any minute. I thought I might ask him to put your clothes back on the same way he took them off. Would you be agreeable to that?”
“Absolutely! I don’t think he’s going to be able to manage it, though. Putting on is a lot tougher than taking off.”
“I know. That’s the outcome I’m hoping for.”
I chuckled quietly and then said “You really are a pro at this. Please know that when I call you a supreme bitch, I mean it as the highest of all possible compliments.”
Her response?
You got it. The eyebrow.
Since then we’ve settled into a routine of sorts. I get to see my boy four or five, maybe six times a year, about once every two or three months depending on how busy his work schedule is and what else he and his Donna have going on. That’s enough for me, no withdrawal symptoms from the heady drug that is Owen McAllister, aka Doctor No.
And he returned to being Doctor No! Seems it took him a whole lot of mental discipline and effort to be able to get hard with a rod up his ass. Without any incentive to invest the effort, he fell right back into his pre-training ways. Now on the occasions when I fuck him, he gets this delicious look on his face where his eyes are squinched up tight and his mouth is screwed into a purse-lipped frown and he just tries to endure for however long it lasts. Absolute gold.
I haven’t yet had an invitation to another command performance for Arianne. She’s a patient woman who plans for the long term, so I’m sure one of these days, she’ll summon, and then I’ll have to decide whether the price she’s asking is one I’m willing to pay. It probably will be, but we’ll see. Seems like Owen and I both managed to broaden our horizons through this experience. I’ve learned obedience without submission, and he has learned submission without obedience. And he’s getting pretty good at it.
Mostly we play the sorts of interrogation games that I used to enjoy with Riley before he left for Oregon. Owen will have some sort of mildly-embarrassing secret about Arianne in mind, something like “one day when she was in seventh grade, a substitute teacher mispronounced her name as ‘Adrian’ and kids kept calling her that for the rest of the year”. Low stakes, but so specific that I’d never guess it by chance. He comes by, we talk for a bit, then head down to the playroom.
And then I try to torture it out of him.
If he’s feeling feisty, which he usually is, at least at the start, then the sass will come out in ways Arianne would never tolerate from him, and that he would never want to deliver to her anyway. He’ll insult my ancestry, my masculinity, my intelligence, my knot-tying skills, the wrinkles starting to form around the corners of my eyes, whatever he can think of. And I, in return, counter with increased torment right off the bat. No slow ramp-up for you, not if you’re going to compare my dick to a string bean and my balls to BB gun pellets! Let’s see how mouthy you are with alligator clamps on your nipples, tough guy.
We set a time limit. Sometimes he wins and holds out until we reach that limit. Then he goes home with his pride intact. But more often I manage to break him and make him spill the secret, and then I call Arianne and ask if I got it right. If so, I win and I get rewarded, which means Owen gets punished, usually something to do with my dick and one of his orifices. Arianne also punishes him later for caving under pressure. And Owen, deep down, loves the punishment, however much he might protest otherwise when the ring gag is in his mouth and my dick is sliding unhindered toward his throat. That’s probably why he lets me win so often.
Oh, one more funny story. I took him back to Crag on their November date exactly one year after our first visit there. A little anniversary commemoration of sorts. We happened to run into Azzat who reared up in surprise and shouted, “Oh my god! Hippo Man!”
It turns out that Hippos Go Berserk had become something of a rite of passage there at the club. When new members or guests would visit who did not know the story, they would be asked if they wanted to take the “hippo challenge”. If yes, they would be tied to the same X-frame Owen had used and the events would proceed from there, using that very same book that I had dropped and forgotten all about, but that someone had thought to save for future use. Owen as The Original Hippo Man was quite the celebrity that night!
They asked him if he wanted to take the challenge again, but he begged off and I couldn’t really blame him. The real challenge comes from the surprise at the end, and you can’t live the same surprise twice. And of course the mood was totally different because when Owen went through it, the audience was just as surprised as he was, but in this new version the audience was all in on the secret, which meant the victim would have to be blind and deaf to not pick up that something fishy was going on. Still: good fun.
Owen did agree to deliver the flogging to the first enthusiastic victim of the evening, kind of like throwing out a ceremonial pitch at a ballgame. He complained afterward that his arm was sore from all the swinging. There really was only one suitable response to that, so, nice guy that I am, I gave it to him. I offered him sympathy, a compassionate ear…
… and then a few other aches, pains, and discomforts to help him take his mind off his arm!