This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of sex between men. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV. Please play safe--I don't want to lose any fans!
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Getting Chris
I followed Brad up the steps to The Tower--to the playroom we'd made above our garage. He was wearing a black leather jock strap that framed his ass perfectly. I'd been lusting after Brad since we were in high school. It was corny, frankly: bookish faggot follows football jock around like a hungry dog, until finally, one night he got just drunk enough to face-fuck me.
Then the planet turned, as they say. We graduated. I got a job in a second-hand athletic equipment store and started giving my body the attention it deserved, worked my way up to manager; Brad moved away, got into construction carpentry and worked his way up to crew chief.
Another turn, and Brad finally figured out he was gay, and found me and we became a couple and bought a house, and now I was following him to The Tower, staring at that fine dimpled butt, wearing my brown leather jeans with the snap-off fly and the body harness Brad loved, and my 16-inch lineman's boots. And it was Friday night and we had the whole weekend to play.
The lights in The Tower are flicker bulbs, so the whole thing has a kind of medieval feel. We can be noisy, if we want to, and the only window has been covered over, so it's really like entering another world. It smells different from the rest of the place, too. I think it smells like sex. "On your knees, slave!" I commanded.
Brad turned, a little too slowly, and looked me in the eye. "No," he said, and his voice was deep and soft.
"You're my slave!" I protested.
"No," he said again, and took a step toward me. Before I could say anything, I felt his hands on my shoulders, iron-strong, pressing me down. "Down, boy," he said in that same irresistible voice, and I sank to my knees.
"You're a tyrant," he said. "But your reign is over!"
"What!?"
Somehow, he was behind me, and his hand was over my mouth and he was pulling the back of my head into his crotch. "Silence! Your life is in my hands. Obey me or I'll beat the crap out of you! And remember--you taught me punishment, dog!"
I could only grunt agreement. He pushed me to the floor, and his foot was on my back. "Get your clothes off!"
I fumbled at my waist, tried to reach my boots to undo the laces, but He would not raise his foot.
"Strip!" he thundered.
"Please," I said. "Your foot--"
"Who are you talking to, toad?"
"My ... my Master?"
"Yes! Get to the cage!" He lifted his foot and prodded and kicked me toward the small cage under the eave. Seconds later, I was locked in. "Now strip! You have no right to wear anything!"
"Yes, Master!" It was a challenge, getting stripped in a cage so small I could barely turn around. But I could feel His eyes on me, and then hear His scornful sneer. "One," he said, then "Two," and he counted the seconds, eighteen of them, before I was kneeling, naked and caged.
"You're pathetic!" he laughed, and unlocked the cage. "Stay!" He walked across the floor to the leather-upholstered chair and sat. "Crawl! Come!" He watched me scramble to Him, then kneel with my face on the floor. He thrust a foot under my forehead. "Lick my feet, faggot!"
I went to work and felt His other foot on my head, and I was where I belonged, the queer punk at the mercy of the high school bully-god. I admit it was strange, at first, admitting I'd liked being called all those hateful names, but I did like it, somehow. I am a queer, a faggot, all those things, and He's forced me to--no, helped me to embrace them. It makes no sense, of course. I've no idea why we all keep expecting sex to make sense, come to think of it. We're perfectly content to like potato chips, or chocolate ice cream, without worrying about why!
"Keep licking, bitch! Get that tongue between my toes, boy! You're doing what you're made for, boy, making me feel good. You like to make me feel good, don't you, boy?"
"Yes, Master!"
"You like being down there. That's where you belong, isn't it, faggot?"
"Yes, Master!"
"Show me! Work that tongue!"
"Yes, Master!!" It's hard to stop thinking, to put everything aside except His feet, to explore the toenails and see if they're trimmed close, to discover once again how the taste is unexpected, because it's His taste. I roll over and lick the bottoms of His feet and He spreads my own spit around my face, warm, then cool when His foot's gone elsewhere. He puts His feet together, squeezes my nostrils together and almost smothers me. His power!
"My pits stink, faggot! Lick 'em!"
He clasps His hands behind His head as I scramble into position, pressing my face into the hairy hollow. He drops His arm, trapping me in His sweat, leaving me with nothing mobile but my tongue, every breath His pungent smell. I am gasping when He releases me and pushes me to His other pit. I have only a moment to inhale before I'm trapped again. The stink is delicious.
At last He pushes me away. He stands, and I look up at His crotch, at the darkness between His legs where the leather strap disappears between His cheeks.
"Lick my ass, faggot!"
I scramble to my knees and begin, licking up from the crease where the back of His leg meets His butt, licking and kissing, moving closer to the crack, almost daring to tease.
He steps away, turns around, drops the leather jock strap and kicks it into my face, then turns back. "Get your faggot face in there, boy! You know you want it!"
I press my face into the valley between His buttocks, pull them apart and feel Him leaning back, just enough. I lick, from the back of His ball sack up to the small of His back, spread the flesh further, press my face deeper until at last the tip of my tongue finds His hole and He moans. The smell of leather and sweat is almost overwhelming, and I realize that my queer cock is rigid. My tongue, stretching and stiffened, works its way into His hole, drawing another moan.
"Hot damn, faggot! I love that faggot tongue! Work it!" I do what I can, and we're a triangle, with me leaning forward and Him leaning back and my tongue and his asshole the apex. And then, too soon, he pulls away and I fall forward onto my hands and knees. "Sit up, doggy!" I do. "Roll over, doggy!" I do.
"Beg, doggy!" I rise to my knees, hands hanging in front of my chest, and whimper. From somewhere, He produces a ball and throws it. "Fetch, doggy!"
I scramble after it as it bounces around the room, off one leg of the bondage table, off the corner of the cage, toward the rail that protects the stair opening. I grab it in my teeth before it stops rolling and hurry back, sit up with the ball in my mouth and my hands hanging at chest level again. He pats my head and takes the ball. He throws it, this time bouncing it off the sloping ceiling. I chase it, He throws it, I fetch until I am gasping for breath.
"On your feet, faggot! Over there! Hands up!" I stand, chest heaving, while He ties my hands to ropes hung from the ceiling, then watch him cross the room to the spreader.
I hate the spreader. It was his idea, but he was its first victim, to be fair. It's just a polished two-by-two about five feet long, but it's rigged so the prisoner has to stand on it. The only way to ease the pain is to pull myself up by the ropes that hold my wrists. He likes this position: my entire body is available for His games. He begins by slapping my face, once on each cheek. "You a fag?"
"Yes, Master."
Two more slaps. "Say it, faggot!"
"I'm a faggot, Master."
Two more slaps. "Yeah. I know." He leaves me for a moment, then returns with the nipple clamps, two clover clamps with little hooks to hold weights. I can handle a pound, now. "How long did it take you to strip, boy?"
"Eighteen seconds, Master."
"I think it was twenty."
"Twenty, Master." It wasn't, I'm sure. It doesn't matter. He's a bully.
Again, He walks away. This time, He returns with His slapper, twelve inches of belt leather attached to a handle He made Himself. "One," He says, and the first blow lands across my stomach. "One, Master," I reply. "Two," He says, striking my right leg, and "Two, Master," I reply. And on He goes, each blow a bit harder, the weights on my tits swinging in response. "Don't look at Me," He commands. He slowly circles my body, striking my butt and my back and my arms, my chest and my calves, to twenty.
I am burning, glowing. "Thank you, Master."
He grabs my hair and forces my head back and presses our mouths together and kisses me, violently, and while I cannot speak He releases the tit clamps. He releases one arm, and walks to His chair. "Get over here, boy!"
Shit! I can do it, hoisting myself enough to get the two-by-two under my tied arm so I can undo my wrist, then controlling my fall until I am on the ground and able, by stretching to my limit, to release one foot. While I struggle, He teases me: "Punk! Sissy! Weakling! Pussy!" All the mockeries of school days: I can remember His younger voice when He said some of them. He's a bully.
At last, free, I crawl to him. "Hands behind your back, bitch! Suck my cock," He commands, spreading His legs, and I crawl into position. I take His shaft, worship it with my tongue and lips, slide them along each side, above, below, before taking the end in my mouth, licking and sucking without pressing forward until I feel His hands on my head. I pretend to resist, so He will force my head onto Him. He pulls me to His crotch, drives His cock forward, calls me His bitch, holds me until my lungs are empty. He stands, lifting me with Him, using me, and I can feel Him panting as His ejaculation builds and then He pushes me back and covers my face with His cum. "Rub it in," He says, and I massage it into my face. "Lick your hands," He says, and I do, like a grateful dog.
He retrieves two bottles of soda from an ice chest, hands one to me, and sits. "Wow," he says, smiling. I crawl to him and lean against his leg while he strokes my hair. "You like?"
"God, yes."
"I can't believe you like this shit!"
"Neither can I, babe, but I do."
"I love that you like this shit!"
Me, too. A bully, after all, needs a victim.