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Author's Note: This is a true story, re-told as accurately as any event can be a decade and half later. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, as well as the rest of us.
THE ELEVATOR, THE FIRE STAIR, AND THE LIGHT WELL
If you've never been to IML, just imagine a pop-up bathhouse taking over a huge downtown hotel.
Every Memorial Day weekend, guys from all over the US (and much of the world!) come together in Chicago for four or five days of camaraderie and debauchery. At some point in the weekend, most of these guys will take a stroll through the Leather Mart, checking out the booths selling dildoes or rubbergear or porn or masks or slings or leather or lube or any manner of fun things, while simultaneously checking out the vendors themselves AND their fellow IMLers. Some of these guys will attend the official IML competitions to cheer on their favorite IML contenders (and ogle man flesh). A handful of these guys will even compete to win the title of International Mr. Leather (think Miss America, but with chaps and chains and a broader, butch-er concept of beauty).
For many of us horny sluts, however, the competition is a sideshow. For us, IML is first and foremost an opportunity for sex: lots of sex, group sex, sex in most of its piggier and kinkier varieties.
One year when I was in my early 40s, IML was held at the Palmer House, a grand old hotel from the 1920s that occupies a full city block in the Chicago Loop. The center of its lobby is an elegant two-story court with a richly-painted vaulted ceiling that harkens back to the Italian Renaissance. The space was retro even in the `20s, the kind of place where you'd imagine gilded-age robber barons sipping brandy and sucking on cigars.
That Thursday as I arrived to check into my room the court had been cleared of furniture, and a big bar had been erected right in the middle. Clear plastic wrap covered the carpets, and instead of robber barons, the court was packed with half-naked guys, plastic cups in hand. There were guys in uniforms and guys in leather, guys bare to the waist, smooth guys and hairy guys, guys in leather harnesses, collared guys with leashes clipped to their collars, older guys, younger guys, guys with their bare ass hanging out of their chaps . . . all chatting and drinking and kissing their hellos under the Renaissance ceiling. This was at 4:00 in the afternoon; the convention hadn't even fully occupied the hotel yet.
My hubby and I got our room keys and skirted the crowd to reach the elevator lobby, a large square space beyond the court with banks of elevators covering three walls. As we stood waiting to go up, a door slid open and a man with his son (maybe six years old?) got off. It was clear that they were NOT there for IML.
The little boy turned to his father and asked,
"Daddy, why are there so many policeman?"
I suspect daddy did not manage to devise a satisfactory answer as he hustled his boy swiftly away.
By the following morning all the guests who remained in the hotel were there for IML, which led to a certain . . . relaxation of decorum. During the day, with the cleaning staff around, IMLers were on (mostly) good behavior. Doors might be left slightly ajar, signaling an openness to `visitors', but it was rare to see a door propped fully open, giving the random passerby a clear view of a random guy kneeling naked on his bed, ass aimed at the doorway, offering a silent invitation to whomever was interested. As I said, such a thing was rare; I wouldn't say it was non-existent.
Later in the evening, things got less decorous.
Friday night I returned to the hotel after five hours at a fisting party on the north side. It was around 3:00 am, and security was checking for room keys before letting people into the square elevator lobby. This is roughly equivalent to turning away a few tipsy people from a bar that is already packed with sloppy drunks.
I had spent the fisting party naked except for boots and a harness, which I still had on under my warmer, less conspicuous traveling clothes. I suppose I looked like a businessman who'd slipped off his coat and tie before heading out for a night on the town.
I stepped into the elevator, thinking only of taking my well-fisted ass to bed. There was already a handful of people in the elevator from the floor below, one of them a nice-looking dirty blond, in his 40s, wearing only boots, a leather vest that showed off his compact, fit body, and a jockstrap with a pair of chaps that left his smooth, pale ass exposed for all to see (and feel). The blond in the chaps looked me up and down and said teasingly,
"Are you sure you're in the right hotel?"
I responded (with what counts as `banter' at 3:00 am),
"Well, I just came from a fisting orgy AND I have a harness on under this, so I think I'm ok."
He laughed and got off at the twelfth floor.
Apparently I was so tired I had forgotten to push the button for my floor, because the cab rose a few floors, stopped to pick up people a floor below my room and then headed back down. The cab stopped again at the twelfth floor, the doors opened, and there was Mr. Blond in Chaps, chatting with a little cluster of leather boys. He noticed I was still in the elevator and said,
"Enjoying the ride?"
I laughed and rode down to the lobby, where people got off, people got on, and I made damn sure to push the button for my floor.
As the elevator rose, it stopped yet again at the twelfth floor. Mr. Blond in Chaps hadn't moved, and when he saw that I hadn't moved either (other than up and down), he laughed out loud. I thought, "Fuck this; it's IML" and stepped off the elevator.
We introduced ourselves; Mr. Blond in Chaps was named Wally and turned out to be visiting from neighboring (and neighborly) Wisconsin. We stood around with the leather boys and chatted a bit, my hand cupping Wally's bare butt and tickling his hole, which was unsurprisingly slick with lube. Tickling progressed to discreet fingering. In the twelfth floor elevator lobby of the Palmer House. Near potted palm trees and a banquette upholstered in red velvet.
Someone in the little cluster wanted a drink `from the tap', and one of the other leather boys was up for providing the beverage, so the rest of us made a protective circle around them (to maintain plausible deniability vis a vis any security cameras). The piss pig dropped to his knees, unzipped the guy's fly, hauled out his cock, wrapped his lips around it and guzzled down all he had to offer without losing a drop.
I thought it was hilarious.
As we chatted further, Wally and I established that A) he would like a fist up his ass and B) I was well qualified to provide that fist and C) both of us had roommates in our rooms who were already asleep and would not appreciate being awakened by Crisco-fueled grunting.
Thus it was that we found ourselves (at 3:30 a.m.!) in a fire stair, with rubber gloves, a wad of paper towels and a can of Crisco from Wally's room. The space was not romantic: harsh fluorescent lighting, dirty white walls, metal stairs. There was not a speck of carpeting, potted palms or red velvet, but it was available and camera-free.
Wally `assumed the stance' halfway up the stairs, bent over in a shallow squat, feet wide apart, one hand on the railing for balance. His butt was soft and nicely rounded, not so different from my own, with a slightly wrinkled hole that did not look even remotely large enough to take a hand.
But I had confidence it would.
As I stood behind him on the stairs, I couldn't resist leaning forward and sticking my tongue in his hole before it got too greasy. I tasted something salty that I suspect was cum, but I didn't ask and he didn't tell. As I chowed down on his ass, two or three people brushed by us on the stair. I guess if you didn't want to wait for an elevator, this was the easiest way to get to someone's room or back to your own. I heard one person laugh as they passed, and someone else say "Nice!", but my attention was focused on the smooth cheeks pressed against my face.
I came up for air, pulled on a glove, and dipped my fingers in the Crisco. I gently pushed a big glob of the stuff into Wally's hole, followed by one finger, then two. He opened up quickly, and before I knew it I had three fingers in there and then four.
I took my time going from four to five . . . massaging his hole, gently stretching it, letting his muscles relax against the controlled but constant pressure I was applying to the ring . . . but given the hour (and the location) I didn't take TOO much time! Soon enough, the widest part of my hand made it past the tightest part of his hole, and I felt my hand slide smoothly up inside him. I gave him a few moments to adjust, then started exploring, seeing how he reacted to a slow twist or a slight tug, pushing in a little deeper, pulling partway out. Wally was making happy grunting noises so I knew I was doing well. As more people squeezed past us there was more laughter, at least one "Get a room!", and a couple of guys who lingered to watch the show.
I played in his hole for a little longer, then sent him off to bed with a promise to reconnect the following day.
Saturday afternoon I brought my hubby, Melchor, down to Wally's room, where Wally introduced us to his two friends who were sharing the hotel room: Dan and Gerry.
Dan was Asian American, a few years (or maybe several years) older than me, but his trim, firm, smooth body and unlined face gave him an ageless quality. He felt quiet but friendly and welcoming.
Gerry was the youngest and prettiest of the three roommates: Irish/Italian, with a perky little ass and a small, lean body covered in bountiful swirls of dark hair that contrasted strongly with his pale skin. He was fucking adorable and adorably fuckable.
Melchor started making out with Wally (who was not wearing chaps, or much of anything). I started making out with Dan, feeling up his smooth body. I dropped to my knees and sucked his cock, then lay back on one of the beds. Dan slipped on a condom and gave me a good fuck. I enjoyed the look and feel of his smooth torso and the expressions of pleasurable concentration that transformed his impassive face.
Out of the corner of my eye I got a glimpse of Wally sucking Melchor's fat Puerto Rican cock, but I was too focused on Dan to really follow what my hubby was up to. He's a big boy and can take care of himself (and whomever he's with).
Dan knew what to do to keep a fuck interesting, with frequent changeups in rhythm and depth. Eventually he screwed up his eyes and blew a load into the rubber, then pulled out and rolled over to rest.
I caught my breath, thanked him, and wandered over to Gerry, who had been on his computer most of this time, half-watching the action in the room. He was absent-mindedly playing with his half-hard cock, which I started licking, making it longer and harder until he suddenly shifted his hips and pulled his knees up to give me proper access to his pert little ass. I took the hint and ate his hole till it was sloppy and he was moaning deliciously. Eating ass tends to make me hard. It definitely did so on this occasion. He moved to all fours and took my cock in his mouth. I gently facefucked him before I suited up and slid in his ass.
Gerry was a born bottom. He liked to get fucked, HARD, and I was happy to oblige. I jackhammered his ass to hell in multiple positions: on all fours, face to face, and from the side. He just moaned and squirmed and took everything I had to give. Eventually he was spreadeagled on the bed, face down, as I played pile driver on his hole, my whole body weight punching the full length of my cock into him with each thrust. The bed was squeaking, and Gerry was squeaking, and my dick would have been squeaking if his ass hadn't been so sloppy with lube and slime.
When I needed to catch my breath, Melchor took over, fucking him just as hard (I know how THAT feels, and it's a very nice feeling). We traded back and forth several times, pounding away at his hole the whole time. Gerry took it all.
I eventually left Gerry to Melchor's tender care and, not wanting to neglect our host, joined Wally on the big bed at the other end of the room. We were soon at it, kissing and sucking and rimming. I fucked him, enjoying the feel of his firm body wrapped in my arms as I pistoned into his soft, welcoming ass.
Then we moved on to fisting. My hand went exploring again where it had been early that morning, and with a comfy bed and no one climbing past us we were better able to focus. I gave him a thorough fisting, then rolled over to take his fist. He knew what he was doing, and though my hole was sore from the four fists I'd taken the night before, he got his hand into me without difficulty and soon had me feeling relaxed and happy and very open.
At this point there came an unexpected knock at the door. Not an official-sounding This is the management' knock, but not a tentative Would you mind terribly if I bothered you?' kind of knock either. This knock seemed to say, `Little pig, little pig, let me come in!'
Dan opened the door discreetly, and a short, chunky, well-tanned latino swaggered in. Despite his smooth skin, there was something about his stocky build and lack of boyishness that made me peg him as a bear. He announced,
"I saw you guys from my room, and it looked like you were having fun. I figured I'd come check it out."
This makes sense if you know the hotel. Because the Palmer House occupies a full city block, the upper floors have a sort of an H shape with extra legs in the middle (back to back `E's?) so that every room can have a window. Your window either faces a street or, like Wally's, it looks across a light well, giving you a view of (and into) other hotel rooms. Since IMLers occupied every room in the hotel, no one in Wally's room had bothered to pull down the shades or close the curtains. Mr. Latino Bear had looked across the light well from his room, seen us in action, and invited himself over.
Classic IML!
Mr. Latino Bear turned out to be a visitor from Texas named Al, and given his twang, I assume he was born there. He obviously had no problem asking for whatever he wanted, and I came to realize that he viewed the asking part as optional. Since short, chunky, dark-skinned latinos are squarely on my `nice' list (especially when they're a little naughty) I was happy to welcome Al to Wally's room and take on the task of doing whatever he wanted.
Initially this meant dropping to my knees and getting face fucked as he peeled off the minimal clothing he had thrown on to walk over from his room. Al had an ordinary dick, but he knew how to use it, and it was a size that I could deep throat comfortably.
After a bit of face fucking, he tossed me on the bed and prepared to fuck my ass. I insisted on a condom, and it did not stop him giving me a good fuck. I was enjoying the pleasure of a dick in my ass and also enjoying the pleasure that he obviously took in being in charge.
After fucking me for a bit, Al asked if I had any gel cock rings. We dug up two from various sources (with six pigs in the room, there were multiple options), and he used them to flatten his ball sack against his cock, pushing his balls toward the head of his cock so they stuck out just beyond the gel rings, tight against the underside of his cock.
Al lubed up this combination of cock and balls and worked the whole thing into my hole, fucking me with both his cock and balls inside me, my ass ring tight against the gel cock rings. It was a strange feeling, big and knobby, but as an old hand at fisting I have no problem with big knobby things rubbing my rectum from the inside.
I sensed that the party in the room was winding down, with nearly everyone having cum or being ready to head elsewhere. I was not done with my Tejano bear, so I invited him back to my room. Melchor gave me a smile and an eyeroll and said he was heading for the Leather Mart and would catch up with me later.
Back in my room I quickly got naked (again), and Al immediately started greasing up his fist. His hand slid in easily. He was as aggressive in his fisting as everything else, sawing his fist back and forth in my gut, pulling it all the way out and pushing it back in as a tightly balled fist, and then pushing in deeper. His aggressiveness turned me on but also made me a little nervous, and I found myself wishing he'd take a moment for kissing or a bit of tenderness and not be so strictly focused on my hole (much as I liked it!).
He slid a finger in next to his wrist, then another, then another, and I realized he was trying to double fist me. I'd taken two hands at the same time from a handful of guys, but it only works for me if the top has small hands. I decided to trust that Al had small hands, so when he had worked his way to four fingers and a thumb, I bore down like I was taking a shit. He pushed, trying to slide the second hand in next to the hand that was already inside me. (The trick to doubling is to get the fat part of the second hand past the sphincter despite the fact that the first hand's wrist is already occupying a significant amount of real estate in that very same neighborhood.)
I felt my hole stretch and stretch. Getting two hands inside even a well-trained butt is often impossible, but in this case I chose to believe it was possible . . . and somehow it became so. I felt his second hand slide past the tight point of the ring, and suddenly he had both his hands fully inside me. The hands felt big but plausible in the comparatively accommodating volume of my rectum, while his two wrists were giving my sphincter a serious stretch. The sensation when being double fisted is extreme, and there's often an interesting mental contest between Yay me! I managed to take two fists!!' and Wow, that is really intense' and `Am I actually enjoying this? Do I even want this?'
Al's two hands didn't stay in for long. It was almost like he wanted to double fist me to say that he had done it . . . which was not so different from my wanting to be double fisted so I could know that I had taken it. Once inside, he wiggled his hands a bit, until with an involuntary spasm I shat them out (which is a remarkably intense and somewhat painful feeling in itself).
At this point Al said `thanks', washed his hands, and walked out as casually as he'd walked in. I realized he never kissed me or even touched my dick in the whole encounter.
I was left feeling a bit discombobulated, various addled thoughts chasing around my mind: Wow, he just picked me up, used me, and dropped me when he was done' . . . Why didn't I get his number' . . . `Do I even want his number?' . . . but as I shook my head in bewilderment I had one thought that was unambiguously clear:
"This is SUCH an IML story!"