This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of BDSM. 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! (And if you have any feedback, feel free to drop me an email.)
If you enjoy this site, be cool and click the "Donate" link at the top of the index and make a contribution to maintain it!
Authors retain rights to and title to their submitted works. (Please consult Nifty's submission guidelines for more information.)
I Found Paradise
For a moment, it was as if everything was glowing, as if I'd been taken into some sort of Wonderland. I think I actually stopped breathing. Then Master Joe ordered me to get into the cage. I obeyed, and as I turned around to face the door, I saw Master Joe locking it. I ran my hands down the bars: cold metal surrounded me on all sides. Master Joe crouched in front of me: leather vest, harness, heavy tan work boots. He pressed his body against the front of the cage, and I stared at his erect cock, thrust through the bars. "Suck it, boy," he ordered, and I shifted my body into position. "Suck it!" he repeated, more sharply, and grabbed my hair.
Oh, yeah. I forgot. "Yes, Master Joe!" I said quickly. That was one of the rules: I had to say "Yes, Master," whenever I was given an order. I swirled my tongue around the head of his cock, then wrapped my lips around the shaft as he pulled my head tight between the bars, against his crotch. There was only so far I could go, with the cage between us. It was sort of like previewing a movie.
The whole thing was like a movie, starring me. It began last spring, when I met Kent at the Athens. Kent was boyish, lanky, pleasant, cute as they come, and--unlike me--not shy. Two hours later, I was lying in his bed, both of us sweaty from sex that was, if vanilla, at least energetic. We remained fuck buddies for the rest of the summer, gradually revealing more and more of ourselves to each other. I admitted to having a "thing" for boots; Kent was into nibbling on my tits until I couldn't take it anymore. We both liked wrestling--not the formal high school kind, but the rough and tumble, all over the bedroom floor kind. One night, he tied my hands behind my back with the belt of his bathrobe and "made" me suck him off. I loved it. I confessed that I had a fantasy of being imprisoned, somehow, bound and forced to serve some sexy master. He confessed to wanting to have a slave to massage and serve him, but "ropes and chains and all that stuff would just get in the way." So he was the pasha and I was his slave; he was the pirate captain and I was the cabin boy; he was the frat boy and I his pledge. It was fun--sometimes he would at least anchor my leg to the bed--but we both knew it was a compromise. So one early autumn night, he took me to Chaynz.
Chaynz was our local leather bar, and although I knew about it, I'd never had the guts to actually go there. Looking back on it, that was stupid: the guys at Chaynz were just guys like me: sales clerks, carpenters, bus drivers and accountants, the usual random crowd. But once inside Chaynz, in the red-lit dimness, smoky back then with a hovering scent of spilt beer, surrounded by guys who looked massive in motorcycle jackets, denim shirts opened to the waist, studded collars and Doc Martins or biker boots, it was easy to get deep into my fantasies.
We'd just finished a pin-ball game. I suspect Kent let me win, just to build up my confidence. Suddenly, he urged me toward the bar. "Hey, Joe! This is Bucky. Bucky, this is my friend, Joe."
"Hi," I smiled. My throat was tight. Kent's friend was wearing a skin-tight tee-shirt, glowing white, and the shadows on it left no doubt that he was built. His arm muscles stretched the sleeves to their limit. He was actually about my height, but even so, it felt like he loomed over me. Faded, skin-tight jeans clung to his powerful legs. He was wearing worn, tan work boots. His hair was dark, curly, and just a little too long, and his smile was hypnotic.
"Hi, Bucky," Joe said, grinning and holding out his hand. I met the strength of his grip--that was something my father had taught me. "Let 'em know you're just as strong as they are," he said. I wasn't, though. At that moment, I was putty in his hands, as they say. "This your first time at Chaynz?" Joe's voice was a rich baritone. Sexy.
I nodded. "Yeah," I managed to say.
"I remember my first time in a place like this," Joe said, as the three of us squeezed together at the bar. "It was like coming home. Kind of a brotherhood. What are you drinking?"
"You don't have to--"
"Yes, I do. Beer?" I nodded, and Joe signaled the bartender. "Someday, you'll be the old hand who meets a first-timer, and you'll do the buying. That's the way it works," he smiled, looked into my eyes. It felt like I'd suddenly acquired a big brother, or something. "How long have you known Kent?"
I turned to Kent--who had disappeared. After a moment of confusion, I turned back to Joe. "We met last spring," I replied.
"Kent's a sweetie," Joe smiled. "We worked together last summer. Too bad he's not into leather."
"Yeah," I said, because it seemed like the right thing to say.
"Watch out for him, kid--he's trash!" a deep voice warned from behind me.
I turned, startled, as Joe laughed. "That's Mike--he's an expert on trash."
"You should know," Mike replied, grabbing Joe and kissing him. "Sorry I'm late."
"Mike, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is my husband, Mike."
"Hi," I said, and we shook hands. Square jaw, broad neck, crew cut. Mike's five o'clock shadow was visible even in the dim light of the bar. His brown eyes looked impossibly deep. He was in full motorcycle leathers, and I wanted to lick him. He was a bit shorter than me, but he was solid muscle--made Joe look almost average. I found out later that he'd been the skinny kid that got bullied through elementary school, until he met a gym teacher who took him under his wing and basically rebuilt him. He never forgot about being that skinny kid, though: I've never felt safer, no matter what he was doing to me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The three of us talked, and drank, and I talked about Kent, which led to my fantasies, which led to the cage I was in, stark naked with my mouth full of Master Joe. He face-fucked me for a few more minutes, then stood. "Put your hands behind your back, boy!" he commanded.
"Yes, Master Joe," I replied. He reached through the bars above me and cuffed my wrists. My cock got harder.
"That's better," Master Joe said, crouching and pushing his cock through the bars again. "Now get back to work." Before I could say "Yes, Master," my mouth was full of him again. "Listen up, boy. You belong to us for the night. We're going to work you over real good, and fuck you like crazy. You have no choice, understand? You do what you're told, or you get punished. Got it?"
I grunted, trying to get his cock deeper into my throat.
Footsteps. Bootsteps, actually, and the door to the Masters' basement playroom opened. "My turn," Master Mike growled.
"Help yourself," Master Joe replied, sliding his cock from my mouth and moving away.
Master Mike was still in full bike gear, but there was nothing in the way of his cock now, and he'd removed his shirt and added a black leather harness with silver buckles and rings. "Suck me, boy!" he snapped.
"Yes, Master Mike," I said, and stretched my lips around his fat shaft. It started to grow in my mouth, and kept growing, right past my gag reflex. I learned to control my gag reflex years ago, but it was still there, and Master Mike promised to be porn-movie big. I felt him moving sort of strangely, and then I felt a collar being buckled around my neck. I heard a lock click, and I did my best to get more of Master Mike into me.
"He might be fun," Master Mike growled. After a few more plunges into my face, he rose and stepped back. "Get him out here where we can get a good look at him!"
Master Joe unlocked the cage. "Crawl out, boy! Move it!"
"Yes, Master." It was a little tricky, getting out of the cage with my hands cuffed behind me, but I obeyed, aiming for Master Joe's motorcycle boots.
"Looks like a toad," Master Mike laughed, resting a boot on my back and forcing me to put my head to the floor. His heavy boot held me down, but I wasn't close enough to his other boot to lick it.
Master Joe's boots reappeared. "I want to fuck that face some more. Kneel up!" he ordered. Master Mike's boot disappeared.
"Yes, Master Joe." I knelt up, mouth opened. I could see Master Mike behind Master Joe, watching, fondling his balls, stepping away.
"You really want my cock, don't you, boy?" Master Joe waved the shaft in front of my face.
"Yes, Master Joe."
"Don't worry. You'll get it." He moved a step closer and slapped my face with his cock: left cheek, right cheek, raised it and let it drop against my nose, kept swinging it at me while I tried to get it into my mouth. "Suck me, boy!" he teased, poking my cheek. "Show me you want it!"
I was suddenly aware of cold metal cuffs closing around my ankles. That was the moment it somehow got real. I was actually helpless and completely at the mercy of two leather Tops. They had my life in their hands. We'd met less than what? Two hours ago, maybe. I didn't even know exactly what part of town I was in. Kent had given me a ride to Chaynz; I'd clung to Master Mike's back as we rode through the night to the house he and his husband owned. My clothes, wallet, keys--all the things that connected me with the ordinary world--were somewhere upstairs. My world now was this dungeon playroom. My gods were these two Masters. I was terrified, and thrilled, and almost at the point of fainting. Only the blows from Master Joe's stone-hard cock kept me going. I was as alive as I could possibly be.
I was bent over the cage. My collar was hooked to it, and my hands were pulled up behind me, tied to the collar. My legs were spread, ankles chained to the corner bars. Master Mike held a butt plug in front of my face, commanded me to lick it, and then, when I opened my mouth to suck it, pulled it away. "Wrong hole, boy," he laughed, passing the butt plug to Master Joe.
Master Joe's fingers greased my asshole, probed and stretched it: first one, then two, three, four fingers worked their way in, while Master Mike stroked my back gently. Then I felt Master Joe's fingers disappear, and the tip of the butt plug replaced them, smooth, gradually widening, stretching my hole, slowly but relentlessly.
Master Mike's voice was soft, even gentle, as he continued his massage. "Relax, boy. It's going in, no matter what you do. Take it. Relax your hole and take it." He pressed a bottle of amyl under my nose so I could get a hit. "You can do it, boy." Now he was stroking my ass, gradually spreading my cheeks. "If I say you can do it, you can. Let it happen, boy," he whispered.
But it was too much, too big, too painful. Even the poppers didn't help. I was splitting apart, I had to be, I wasn't ready, I started to scream--and suddenly, the widest part was inside, and my asshole snapped around the narrow shaft. It felt for a moment as if the thing was going to shoot up my rectum all the way to my stomach, and then it settled into place. The pain faded. It was in. I did it! "Thank you, Master Joe! Thank you, Master Mike," I gasped.
"Good boy," Master Mike answered. "Good little asshole slave."
Master Joe gripped the base of the plug and shook it. "See, slaveboy? That wasn't so bad, was it?"
I struggled to speak: all of me was swallowed by the quaking in my hole. "No, Master Joe," I lied. But I did it!
They released me from the cage, ankles first. Master Joe gripped the back of my neck below the collar, turned me toward the middle of the room, pushed me forward. The butt plug was massive, insistent, as I walked. Master Joe stopped me in the middle of the room, and I stood motionless while Master Mike untied my hands. I watched my Masters buckle leather cuffs around my wrists and raise them above my head. I watched them fasten the cuffs to chains hanging from the beam above me. I watched them put a stretcher bar between my ankles, forcing my legs apart, stretching my arms. Just as breathing was getting difficult, they stopped and stood, Master Joe in front of me and Master Mike tight behind me. I felt Master Mike's breath in my hair. Master Joe looked at my face and I dropped my gaze to the floor. I was spread-eagled, helpless and naked between them.
"Traces of Kent," Master Joe laughed, flicking his finger against my left tit. He pinched my tits, rolled them in his fingers. "Feel good, boy?" he said.
"Yes, Master," I gasped. Master Mike moved away, then reappeared next to Master Joe. "Ever seen these?" he asked, dangling two metal clips in front of me.
"Yes, Master Mike. Kent had some."
"Good." As Master Joe stepped back, Master Mike attached one clamp to each of my tits. I gasped. He smiled. "Thing I like about these, the harder you pull on them, the tighter they grip." He gave each one a pull, to demonstrate. I winced. "Yeah," Master Mike's smile was wicked. Master Joe handed him two lead fishing weights, which he attached to the clips. Then, he abruptly dug his fingers into my sides, tickling me. I half-laughed, half spat in surprise. The weights swung. Master Mike, surprised by the spray of saliva, slapped me. The weights tugged my tits again. "What the hell was that!?" he snapped. "Did you fucking spit at me, boy?"
Master Mike was angry! "No, Master Mike! It was an accident, Master! I swear!"
Master Mike went after my sides again, tickling while I struggled helplessly. Every move made the weights swing more, of course. "Did you spit at me?" he roared.
"Yes, Master! I'm sorry, Master. Forgive me, Master!" I gasped, fighting my laughter and failing.
"You think that's funny, boy?" Master Joe said, moving behind me and adding his fingers to Master Mike's.
"Forgive me, Masters!" I pleaded--or tried to, anyway, tugging at my arms and legs while the weights tugged at my tits. My Masters stopped after what seemed like forever and stood stone-faced while I caught my breath and regained my balance. Then, they started in again, and again, just when I thought I was about to pass out, they stopped. Master Mike knelt in front of me, tugging my balls, snapped a leather cone around them, and added a weight to the chains that met below the cone.
Then, they started in again, and this time both my tits and my balls were tormented as they attacked me with feather-light touches. "Please, Masters! Please! I can't take any more!"
"You belong to us, don't you, boy?" Master Joe said, and I nodded vigorously.
"Yes, Masters! I'm your slave, Masters!!"
And I was, and the tickling stopped. Master Mike adjusted the spreader bar so I could move my legs closer, giving myself some slack. I got a few breaths, then slumped, all my weight on my wrists. It hurt like hell, but my legs were trembling in relief. Master Mike removed the weights. "I'm going to take the clamps off your tits, boy. Brace yourself!"
First the right, then the left. The rubber, or whatever it was on the tips, let go of my flesh reluctantly, and rivers of pain washed over me. Then tears.
"How're you doing, boy?" Master Mike said.
I was surprised at the sudden softness in his voice. I nodded. "I don't--I feel..." The three of us were suddenly one, not even breathing, waiting. "It's okay," I said at last. I looked at the two of them. "Don't...Let's keep going." Part of me seemed detached, watching, amazed but somehow not frightened.
My Masters lowered me gently. "Kneel, boy," Master Joe said. "Give me your hands. I'm going to cuff them again." At the same time, I felt Master Mike replacing the spreader bar with my irons. '"Lick my boots now, boy." Master Joe's command was firm, but not threatening, and I lowered my head to his work boots. The leather was worn, not as smooth as the black leather boots in all the porn that I'd collected. The seam that rounded the toe felt huge. I found the valley between sole and upper, followed it back and forth, pressed my mouth against the bulge at the toe, licking and sucking. Master Joe's voice rolled down from the heavens. "You like that, don't you, boot boy?"
"Yes, Master Joe," I answered, keeping my mouth as close to the boot as possible.
"Other boot," Master Joe said. I shifted position slightly and went to work. My cock was so hard it was aching. Master Mike moved next to Master Joe and my field of vision was filled with boots. I smelled, licked, sucked, slobbered over them, letting my fetish take over. I rolled over on my back and begged to lick the soles, to feel the boots on my face.
"Holy crap!" Master Mike laughed. "You are really into boots, aren't you, boy?"
"Yes, Master Mike. Thank you, Master Mike." And as soon as I said that, the boots were withdrawn. I actually whimpered.
"If you're a good little slave, you can have some more, later," Master Joe chuckled. He uncuffed my wrists. "Now, get your ass into that sling."
"Yes, Master Joe." I scrambled to obey. The sling was a web of heavy, black leather. The butt end hung from the ceiling. The head end hung from pullies, so it could be raised and lowered. My Masters moved with precision, one on each side, as they secured my ankles and wrists. Then, they lowered my head to crotch height.
"Make love to my balls, cocksucker," Master Mike ordered, dropping them onto my forehead and sliding them to my lips. I inhaled deeply. I read somewhere that smells get to the animal part of our brain faster than sound or sight, that we react to smells almost before we know we're smelling something. The scent of Master Mike's crotch filled me, a powerful blend of leather and man-sweat. I took his balls eagerly. They were massive, filling my mouth. I worked them carefully with my tongue: there wasn't much room to maneuver. His hands gripped my throat, thumbs between my collar and my chin. "Thatta boy, cocksucker. You worship those balls."
I made noises I intended to be "Yes, Master Mike," hoping he would understand that I was trying to follow instructions.
His hands tightened. "Oh, yeah. Make love to them, boy."
Once again, I was made aware of my helpless situation. I struggled for breath, but kept myself focused on Master Mike's nuts. Pleasing them was my only hope. My cock had gone soft, but as soon as I realized that, it began to swell, eager--hell, desperate for attention.
Master Mike released my throat. His thumbs forced my mouth open, and he carefully pulled his nuts free, letting them rest across my nose. At the same time, I felt Master Joe pulling at the butt plug. My anus tightened in surprise. "Shit it out, boy," Master Joe ordered, and slowly and surely we got the thing out. "You can clean it later, slave," Master Joe growled, dropping it on my stomach. My Masters slowly circled me, studying me like a piece of meat. Once, twice. Then they stopped. Master Joe's cock rested on my face, and I felt Master Mike's hands on my thighs.
Master Joe did something with the sling, and my head fell back. He slid his cock into my mouth, slowly easing it in and out, teasing himself.
Master Mike's cock fell against my nuts, reminding me how massive it was, then slid down until it was pressed against my hole. "Let me in, slave," he said, in a soft voice that left me with no choice, and began to ease his rod forward. I reminded myself that I had taken the butt plug, which was now gently rolling on top of my belly button. I relaxed and tried to focus all my attention on the cock in my mouth, teasing it with my tongue, pressing my cheeks against it. I heard a pleased groan from Master Joe. And then, Master Mike gripped my sides, and he was in. I yielded to my Masters, one smooth tunnel of flesh, while they pressed into me from either end, pacing their strokes to meet each other, toying with my tits at the same time.
Master Mike tugged at my nuts, and I felt his hand on my cock. "No cumming without permission, cocksucker," he growled. I fought like hell to obey, but it was just too much. Cum exploded from my shaft, flew up and rained down on me.
"You're in trouble, now," Master Mike growled, as his own strokes picked up speed while I struggled to get some air.
Master Joe just kept on pumping. Unfortunately, I'm one of those guys who gets incredibly sensitive after he shoots, so I was jerking and squirming, groaning and gasping. The butt plug fell off my body and bounced across the floor.
"Holy crap!" Master Mike yelled, and his cock exploded. (He told me later it was the vibrations from my groaning that did it.) And Master Joe just kept stroking and fucking until I finally stopped struggling. And then he came as well, shot after shot. His cock slid slowly out of my throat, and I tried to probe his piss slit with my tongue for the last bit of juice. Master Mike took a little longer easing his way out of my ass, but at last I felt his corona against my anus, and then he was out.
I was limp as a rag as Master Joe raised the head end of the sling and the two of them tipped me out of it. I staggered across the floor and knelt, half pushed and half crawling into the cage.
"Hey, boy."
I blinked. I tried to turn over. Where the hell--
"Wake up, boot boy." The voice was sharper, louder.
"Huh?"
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!"
Master Mike! "Yes, Master," I said as I tried to untangle myself. Somehow, I'd managed to get one leg between the bars, and my right shoulder felt like it was about to pop out of joint.
"Pull your leg in, so I can open the cage."
"Yes, Master Mike." It took a few seconds to obey: the whole idea of turning my foot seemed awfully complicated. But at last, the cage was opened.
"Come on out."
"Yes, Master Mike."
"Follow me," he commanded, turning and walking towards a heavy wooden chair. He sat, and I crawled to a stop in front of him. He spread his legs a bit. "Come here." I licked my lips. I really needed a drink, if I was going to suck cock. To my surprise, though, Master Mike turned me around, so my back was to him. "Sit," he said. I obeyed.
"What's your name?" Master Mike said gently, as he massaged my shoulders.
"Boot boy, Mas--"
"No, your name out there. In the world."
"Bucky," I said, confused. "It's actually Bruce, but nobody calls me that. I hate Bruce. Master Mike," I added, hastily.
"You having a good time, Bucky?"
"You mean here? Now? This?" I waved my arm to indicate the dungeon. "Is that what you mean, Master Mike?"
"Yes. You liking it?"
"Yes, Master. It's scary, sort of, but...I never thought--fantasies, of course, jack-off fantasies..." I tipped my head back, to see Master Mike looking down at me.
"It's supposed to make you want more, go deeper, open yourself. Does that make any sense?"
"Yes, Master Mike. Yeah. It's like some kind of a drug trip. Or hypnosis, maybe."
"You're a very good bottom, Bucky. Did you know that?"
"I am?"
"Hotter than fuck. We just don't want to push you too far."
"Too far?"
"For a beginner. We want to see you again. And maybe again and again. You're quite a find."
I laid my head on Mike's thigh. "You know how you eat something for the first time, but it's like it's what you always wanted? Like the first time you taste coffee ice cream, or something? That's what this is. It's almost like the first time I had sex with another guy."
Mike stroked my head. "You want to stay for more? You got anything going for Sunday?"
It took me a few seconds to figure out what 'Sunday' was. "No. Not really. I usually do laundry, but it can wait."
"Okay, slave. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to get back in that cage, and go back to sleep. Understand, slave?"
I scrambled back to my knees in front of him. "Yes, Master Mike. Thank you, Master Mike."
"Get moving, slave! Hustle!" Master Mike roared, and I crawled back to my cage as quickly as I could, the sound of Master Mike's boots loud behind me. The ache in my shoulder was gone.
I was stretched out on the bondage table. My tits were clamped, and the chain between the clamps was in my mouth, held in place by a ball gag. My cock and balls were trussed up and swollen. My Masters were sitting on stools on either side, enjoying a late-night snack, which was spread out on my torso. They'd given me a taste of the bastinado across my feet, to show me what would happen if I spilled anything. Consequently, I was laying as still as humanly possible. I was also very, very hungry.
"What do you think?" Master Joe asked. "Should we keep him?"
"He's holding up pretty good, so far," Master Mike answered. "But the night is young, and we haven't even tried whipping him, yet."
"Think he could handle a spanking?"
"Maybe. Might be worth a try." Master Mike closed his eyes. "Getting a picture in my head."
"Nice rosy ass?"
"Something like that. Sort of a reward and punishment at the same time."
"Huh. Sounds kinky." Master Joe sighed. "Kinky's fun."
"Sure is," Master Mike laughed, plunging a chip into a bowl of dip and nearly tipping it. "Hey, fuckhole! Not that you have anything to say about it, but you feel like some more abuse?"
I should have felt exhausted. I did feel exhausted. They'd made me do exercises, put tit clamps on my nostrils and steered me around the room on my hands and knees with fifty pounds of chain hanging off me, and "allowed" me to lick the sweat out of their armpits and their asses after they forced me to beg for permission. They made me put on a little show, fucking myself with some dildos. All that before stretching me out on the bondage table and turning me into a snack bar. I was exhausted, except for my goddam dick, which was eager for more.
So they cleared me off, took me off the table, shackled my ankles again, and allowed me to lick the plates and bowls clean. My masters also gave me a pan of water to drink, which I needed. While I was doing that, Master Mike positioned a heavy chair in front of the sling, turned to the side. Master Joe raised the head of the sling. When everything was ready, Master Joe locked my hands behind my back and steered me to Master Mike, who was sitting on the chair, waiting. While Master Joe got into the sling, Master Mike put me across his thighs with my cock between his legs, in spanking position. I found my face on Master Joe's work boots once again. I started licking, and Master Mike started spanking.
"You go ahead and cry, boot boy, but you be sure you lick your tears and snot off my boots. Understand?"
"Yes, Master Joe." I kept licking while my ass got hotter. Master Mike's hands must have been made of steel, or something, and they just kept falling. And my dick kept sliding in and out of his leather-covered legs, which were soon slick with pre-cum. So I cried. I blubbered like a baby, I let everything out, I dumped the last of my masculinity and swam in the pain. I licked Master Joe's boots, tears, snot and all. Somewhere in that fire, I came, but it didn't matter. Nothing did, except the boots and my ass.
And then it was over. I was on my knees before my Masters, head back and eyes closed, while they shot all over my face and made me rub it in. Then, once again, I was caged, while the Masters went up to bed. They left the stub of a candle flickering in the middle of the floor. I was asleep before it guttered out.
In the morning, Master Joe let me out of the cage, and he and Master Mike watched me dress, aching and bruised. They walked me gently upstairs, where Kent was waiting to take me home. I missed work, of course, and dragged my way through the week, looking forward Friday night, and Chaynz.