There were other guys I met up with at various time, with some it worked well, with others not at all.
One of the ones with whom it didn't work wrote to me out of the blue saying he seen my notice in the Ball Club Quarterly and would very much like to meet. I naturally assumed he was a member too and responded enthusiastically when I called him. We arranged to meet on my next trip. The day we were to meet was hot, exceptionally hot for fall, up around the 90's I'd say. I found his apartment building, right over the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel at 32nd Street as a matter of fact. It was a walk up, he was on the fourth floor so I was pretty hot by the time I got to his door. He opened the door wearing nothing but an under vest which might once have been white, but that was a long time ago. Not a good start. He led me into his lounge and flopped down in an easy chair leaving me standing.
"Take a seat," he said pointing to a couch on the other side of the room. Clearly we weren't going to get to know each other at that distance. Not good. He complained bitterly about the heat for several minutes then asked if I'd like a drink.
"Do you have any white wine?" I asked
"Wine? No..."
"A beer?"
"Beer? No."
"So what have you got?" I asked.
"I might have a soda," he said slowly rousing himself from the chair. He complained all the way to the kitchen, opened the fridge door and peered inside. I wasn't a big fridge and I could see from where I was sitting that it was practically empty. "No...don't have any soda."
By this time I pretty pissed off, it was a hot day, certainly a day to have something cold to drink in the apartment. There was a 7/11 right across from his building, but he hadn't made the effort. "So you don't have anything." I said letting my irritation show I'm afraid.
"Water?" he asked looking sheepish. "But I'm all out of ice...well it's been so hot..."
I got up and left. In fact I wasn't sorry to get away, sex with a guy in a dirty vest didn't appeal to me one bit.
There was another guy with whom it did work, although at first it didn't look promising. He lived in an apartment a bit further south on the East side, at 30th and 2nd Avenue. I got his phone number from the Ball Club listing and gave him a call. His name was Tom, but to avoid confusion I'll call him Thomas. I could tell right from the start that he had severe reservations about meeting up with a stranger even though I was going to be the bottom and he was going to be in control. Eventually he said that he had to be very careful about allowing strangers into his apartment.
"You know there's a lot of ..." he hesitated. "Well you could say rough trade around this city." This irked me some, I didn't think of myself as "rough trade."
"Well if you've looked at the listing you'll see that I'm an airline pilot," I said. "And if you doubt it give Ken Schein a call. He'll vouch for me." (Ken ran the Ball Club and published a quarterly news letter, The BCQ.)
"Oh if you know Ken then that's just fine. No problem, but one has to take precautions these days." So we put the misunderstanding behind us and agreed to meet later that night.
His apartment was in a huge complex which covered three city blocks. Two towering apartment blocks running east-west, and two lower north-south structures. The two apartment buildings were not aligned, the one to the north was further to the west of the southern one. Each tower was most of a block wide and there was a landscaped space of about a hundred yards between them. (You can see the complex if you have access to Google Earth, navigate to 2nd Avenue at 29th Street in Manhattan, with the terrain overlay on you'll see it all in detail.) Even from the outside I could see that this was one up-market complex. Inside there was an extremely elegant lobby, two uniformed flunkeys behind a huge desk on which there was a prominent notice, "ALL guests must be announced." When I asked for Thomas both men looked at me with undisguised interest. I felt as though they'd each stripped me naked and would undoubtedly be comparing notes as soon as I got into the elevator.
'They obviously know this guy... and they know what I've come for,' I thought. 'Well what of it?' I did wonder if either or both of them ever went up to the top floor for a bit of fun, quite probably I'd say. The elevator was as luxurious as the lobby, the ride was brief, and Thomas met me when the door opened. After his remarks about the rough trade I'd taken the trouble to dress in a pair of smart pants and a gray, suede leather jacket, and I'd bought a good bottle of white wine just to prove my point. He got the message and immediately apologized again for the misunderstanding. Thomas was about sixty I'd say, maybe sixty-five, certainly rather older than he'd said in his notice in the BCQ. Not that it bothered me, I'd rather be in the hands of an older man who has plenty of experience than a younger one who's trying things out!
Thomas's apartment was on the eastern end of the north building. Inside the apartment there was a divider with glass and crystal objects between the door to his apartment and the spacious lounge. The room was about 40 feet long and maybe 20 feet wide, the far wall was glass from floor to ceiling. Had Thomas' apartment been on the north side of this building he'd have had a magnificent view of Midtown: on the south side of the other tower the view would have been all the way down to the Wall Street area. But being on the south side of the north tower the view beyond the vast sheet of glass was the other tower of the complex. Many of those apartments had their curtains wide open and were on full view as we were too. However, his accommodation was undoubtedly luxurious, the place reeked of money, he clearly had exquisite good taste, but I couldn't help comparing it to an aquarium. We sat in the lounge for a while chatting. He was in publishing, near the top of the food chain in a big NY office, but was thinking of re-locating to San Francisco where he would be top dog. He asked if I'd been to San Francisco and what would I think of the move? Well I had been, and although the gay scene was at least as good, possibly better, I'd never choose to live there. Too cold in summer, wet in winter, and just too much fog! Fortunately he didn't launch into his favourite airline ordeal story, nor did he ask about the dire situations I'd survived. When at length he suggested we move through to the games room, I was more than ready. He led me through a bedroom where I was relieved to see that the curtains were closed. We stripped, he was well built, I hope I'll look as good at that age. And he seemed well pleased when he saw what I had to offer. On the far side of the bedroom was what looked like a closet, however when he opened the door I could see a well lit playroom with plenty of shining steel bits and pieces. This room too was on the south side of the building, and had the same floor to ceiling windows. The curtains were closed which was just as well because we'd have had a potential audience of hundreds I'd say. Set right in the middle of the room was a big, black, diagonal cross. My pulse rate soared, I'd always wanted to be tied to a diagonal cross, I'd fantasized about it, balls so exposed, so vulnerable, so delightful! He positioned me with my back against the cross, I spread my legs wide to show him I was ready, my rigid penis showed that I was willing. He knelt in front of me and started with my right ankle, tied it with rope, real, old-fashioned, hemp rope, that was good, and he wound it up and up almost to my knee. Next my left one. With each turn of the rope I became more vulnerable. When he'd secured my legs he stood up. He stared into my eyes from just a foot away.
"You alright Boy?" he asked.
"Yes Sir, thank you Sir," I replied. And I think I sounded confident too. My balls were going to be beaten, I wanted it, I'd take it well.
When he tied my arms he wound the rope all the way from my wrists almost to my shoulders which had the effect of pinning me back against the wood. Next he slipped a hood over my head and I was in darkness. His hands wandered all over my body, not just my genitals, up my arms, down my legs. It was almost as though I was being felt by a blind man, and it was also very stimulating. When his hand brushed against my penis I felt the slick, wet pre-cum smear cross my hips. When his fingers took my balls I realized that they too were wet, really wet, all the way back to my hole. He kept up this stroking, teasing, caressing for the longest time. I needed pain, really craved it, I wanted to beg him to hurt my balls, but that would have been wrong, a bottom must submit, not control. After an absolute age I felt him lean against my body, he was naked of course, and now he was hard too.
"I have a friend who lives in the South Tower," he said very quietly. His fingers pulled my balls way down stretching the sac to the limit. It hurt, it was good. "He likes to watch... Would you mind if I let him watch?"
"Sir, I am your slave for the night Sir. If you want him to watch I cannot object Sir." I naturally assumed that the man was already somewhere in the apartment, or that he was going to call him and tell him to come on over.
"Thank you boy," he murmured. "He lets me watch when he has a boy... It's a real turn-on..." He stepped away from me. I expected to hear the door open, but a moment later I heard an altogether different sound, the curtains being drawn aside! And the sound of the runners on the track went on and on. Even though I couldn't see a thing I knew that I was now on full view to at least the top two or three floors of the South Tower. My blood ran cold. I wondered if we'd hear sirens? Would that give me time to get free and dressed before the police arrived? My cock was beginning to wilt by the time I felt his hands on my balls again.
"Don't worry... We've done this many times... " he said obviously sensing my worries. "This is New York... Nobody gives a damn!" He was clearly able to read my mind via my penis. His fingers took my mind off the cops, he was really applying pressure to my testicles, giving them a vigorous work-out. He was standing to one side, slightly to my right and using only his right hand to slap and pull my balls. That meant one thing, he was standing there so that his friend could see what was happening. My cock surged strongly.
"Sir...does he have binoculars?" I asked.
"No boy." I felt sort of disappointed. If I was turned on by watching guys having sex in the next building I'd buy a pair of binoculars. "He has a telescope...and it's hooked up to a camcorder. But don't worry, he'll never ask your name."
'Oh God!' I thought. For a moment I was shocked, but then the moment passed. I thrust my hips forward and held my balls up as high as I could, if I was going to be filmed I wanted it to look good.
After a lot of manual ball work Thomas used an elastic bandage to bind my cock and balls. As I told you Vincent had done this to me so I knew how good it was going to be. As he wound the bandage around and around forcing the balls up the length of my shaft the pressure on my nuts increased. By the time he tied the bandage off at the tip of my cock I was in agony. And probably the best thing about this torture is that you are the main instrument of inflicting the pain. The ache in your balls makes you flex your cock, and flexing your cock makes the pain even worse. Within a couple of minutes my guts were just awash with that glorious pain that only flows from tortured testicles. Yet he wasn't even touching me. It was just me struggling to absorb the pain that I was inflicting, and Thomas, and his friend, and God alone knows how many others watching. I cannot tell you how alone I felt even though I knew there was an audience of at least two.
After an eternity of this self-inflicted pain he undid the bandage, not all the way, but enough to expose my aching balls and most of the shaft of my penis. My scrotum was still stretched tight, and my cock rigid too. The next thing I felt was a rapid series of very sharp pricks which ran up the centre line of my sac to the base of my cock. These were so sharp that at first I was sure he'd used a needle, but they came in very quick succession and I couldn't imagine how he'd been able to use it so fast and in a straight line too. I was still puzzled when the next series of pricks ran from the base of my penis up the length of the urethra. Man that had me struggling! Over and over again he drew these lines of little stings across my genitals. The pain was very sharp, but also very brief so it wasn't scary, but each time he did this I bucked and wrenched at the ropes. When he finally stopped this torture and fondled my balls they were so wet and slick with pre-cum it felt as though they'd been lubricated with KY jelly. For a short time I was left hanging from the cross wondering what he would do next. I couldn't hear him moving around in the room, the floor was thickly carpeted. I heard a door open and close, then silence. When I felt the thongs of a cat brush against my cock I knew what he wanted. From the time that Thomas started to work on my balls he hadn't said a word, but now he put me on the spot.
"I want to whip you boy... Are you willing to take a whipping?" When you're asked this by a guy you've only just met for the first time it's tricky. "No" could bring the session to an abrupt end: "Yes" could get me into very heavy pain.
"Sir..." I said thinking furiously, "I am willing to take a whipping, but I must ask you not to leave any obvious marks that would cause trouble for me when I get home." (I have always told all the men I have had sex with that I am married, made it very clear from the start.)
"No, I won't leave marks,"
"Yes Sir, I'll take the whip." 'What the hell,' I thought, 'I've taken the sambok so this won't be any worse that that and if he's not going to leave marks go for it, let him do it.'
"Thank you boy," he said very quietly in my ear. I had my back to the cross so naturally I expected him to use the whip on my cock and balls, but Thomas released my arms and legs. "Turn around boy," he said stroking my back all the way down to my butt. He re-secured my arms and legs then I felt his lips kissing my buns. He was muttering something about how smooth I was, how firm, how tender, and how much he wanted to whip them. I turned and leaned against the wood, my cock was just under the join, I could feel the roughness of the wood against the head. It was a turn on for me, I wanted him to start, but I was also anxious lest he go too far and leave marks. Eventually the kissing stopped. I pushed my butt back to show I was ready. The first stroke wasn't too hard, in fact it wasn't hard enough for me. I tilted my ass up and made encouraging sounds from under the hood. He took the cue and the next stroke was just right, it stung, it got me dripping too. We played a duet, my body and his whip. Very soon I didn't even care about marks, I just wanted to be stung. I spread my cheeks, Thomas saw that and laid the thongs straight down the middle. I was way through the pain barrier when I heard him whisper close to my ear.
"I want your balls boy... Will you let me whip your cock and balls?" This was exactly what I wanted him to do too.
"Sir tonight they're yours... If you want to whip them please do it."
"I can't tell you how much of a turn on it is when a man lets me whip his balls. Thank you... Thank you..." I felt his head between my legs, his lips touched the back of my scrotum as he kissed it over and over again.
Once again I was released, turned around and re-secured. This time he didn't just tie my ankles and wrists, he secured each limb with several straps so that I was totally immobile. It felt good, but my anxiety returned as I wondered if I'd got myself in too deep. When the whipping started he used light flicking strokes, down on my cock and up from between my legs to get at the balls. Once again he was doing it too lightly. I'd have lifted them up to encourage him to hit harder, but couldn't move at all, so, even though I know that bottoms are not supposed to control I broke the rule.
"Please Sir... Don't tease me... Whip them Sir..." He took me at my word. For the next few minutes my penis and testicles were raked, up and down, side to side, it soon felt as though they were being burned with a flame.
Suddenly the whipping stopped. Thomas started ripping the bindings from my arms and legs. I was totally surprised and briefly wondered if he had cut me, maybe I was bleeding. But it wasn't anything like that. As soon as I was free he guided me towards the window, turned me around then told me to kneel on the floor.
"Get down, down on all fours." I got down into the "doggy position. His hands turned me a bit, I guessed it was to give his friend a better view. Without being told I lowered my head to the floor and spread my legs as wide as I could. Once again he kissed my butt all over.
"Thank you boy... Thank you boy..." he kept muttering quietly between kisses. When the kissing stopped the whipping started again. He struck from every angle, up between my legs to take the genitals, down across my back to get at my hole, and from the sides to sting my tits. I was in heaven when I felt the splattering on my back. A moment later he threw down the whip and his hands were spreading his jism all over my back and my balls. When his tongue probed my hole as his hands were working my balls I couldn't hold out any longer.
"I've got to come... Please Sir...can I come Sir?" I asked urgently.
""Yes, yes boy...let it come... Give it to me..." One hand went to my cock and caught most of the flow which he then spread all over my chest and down on to my balls which were already slippery with pre-cum and his semen too. "Oh God... Oh God that was so good...so good...so good," he whispered as his hands smeared both our bodies. I'd given all I had, I needed him to stop, but his hand continued to pump on my cock.
"Please Sir...I can't... There's no more..." He took no notice. He alternated between working my balls with both hands and my penis as the other continued to squeeze and pull on my nuts. I wasn't tied down, I could have broken away I suppose, but I didn't so I guess I must have been turned on by what he was doing even though I felt I'd given him all my juice. His hands became more vigorous, my balls began to ache, really ache, and when that happened I wanted it, I wanted him to wring more semen from my them. Once I had that thought I knew I was going to come again for him. Instead of protesting I began to encourage him, begging him to hurt my balls, to slap them, to do anything he wanted to them. When the semen spurted again my testicles flooded my whole body with the most glorious pain. I was in ecstasy, still didn't want him to stop. He'd caught the semen in his right hand and now he took both our balls in his hands, worked all four together using the semen as a lubricant. We must have been there in front of the window for at least thirty minutes after the first climax before he reluctantly let me go. Within seconds the phone rang, Thomas answered, it was his friend in the South Tower. After a short conversation I was surprised when Thomas held the phone out to me. His friend wanted to thank me, it was strange, rather embarrassing really, talking to a guy who'd watched us having sex, filming it too. Most voyeurs just look from a distance without ever connecting with the people they're spying on, and yet I was talking to this guy, he was telling me how much he'd enjoyed watching us, what a good view he'd had, that he'd taped it and would re-live the pleasure each time he viewed the tape. As I say it was strange, and made all the more strange in that neither he nor Thomas ever told me his name.
When I got off the phone we took a shower together. I washed his balls and his cock reared up hard again. It looked like he wanted more, but when I started to pump gently on it he stopped me.
"No boy," he said, "That was the best I've had in a long time. It's just thinking about it that's getting me hard, I've got nothing more to give.
"I didn't think I had anything more either," I said.
"Ah, but you're a lot younger than I am boy," he said.
We shared the bottle of wine I'd brought, we talked about San Francisco, and New York. My balls continued to ache beautifully, were still aching as I walked back to the hotel much later that night. He did in fact move to San Francisco, we corresponded for a while. For several months he was convinced that he'd made a dreadful mistake. Just as I'd told him the city was cold in summer, wet in winter, and too foggy, but in his last letter he'd found a circle of friends with similar tastes and sounded much happier.