This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of BDSM among adult 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!
If you enjoy this site, be cool and click the "Donate" link at the top of the index and contribute to maintain it! (Nifty is a 501-c-3 non-profit organization.)
Looking for more of my stories? I'm honored. Look for "Jeff Moses" on Nifty's Authors page. And feedback is always welcome!
Authors retain rights to and title to their submitted works. (Please consult Nifty's submission guidelines for more information.)
THE COLLAR
I suppose I should start at the beginning. I'm kinky. I sometimes suspect that all of us are (I certainly hope so), but no matter. Like most boys, I grew up keeping my kinks very much to myself. I had sex, of course, with a lot of good-looking guys. After, I'd go back home and fantasize that they were torturing me, or that I was their slave, or--again, no matter. In my bed, late at night, they did all sorts of things. But if I actually saw a butch guy in a motorcycle jacket, or if they looked rough or intimidating, I slipped into the background. I was a coward. I admit it.
Everything changed when I found the collar. I was in one of those stores full of individual stalls where folks tried to sell bric-a-brac, old books and magazines, wobbly furniture: the sorts of things their heirs would otherwise put out with the trash. The best thing about these places is that no two are alike: there is always the allure of a possible treasure. I found a box of perfectly good saw blades once, and a denim shirt that fit like it was painted on, and the Russian version of an Erector set.
Anyhow, I was poking around in a store I'd never been to before, half-way between my home town and Dubuque, and suddenly, there it was: an old dog collar. It was leather, with worn metal studs I'd never seen before: small, almost round heads with flattened tops. It was an inch-and-a-half wide, with a worn, square steel roller buckle that could be locked. And it was heavy: the leather was at least three-eighths-of-an-inch thick, warm black in color, and--this is the most important part, maybe--it smelled delicious. It smelled pungent, earthy and somehow, warm. A bit more intense, and it would have been too much, but as it was, I found it irresistible. I glanced around to see if anyone might see me, but there was no one, so I put it around my neck: it fit perfectly. I bought it.
That night, I hurried to bed, buckled it on and filled the darkness with the bodies of perfect men: leather-covered, harnessed, booted, dangerous. I imagined myself naked and at their mercy, bought at a slave market in some dystopian land, taken to a nightmarish dungeon filled with instruments of bondage and torture. Juice flew from my rigid cock. This night's fantasy made my previous efforts seem tame, vague and trivial. I kept the collar in my nightstand. I wore it almost every night, and each night the fantasies seemed richer, more powerful. I searched the bars for men like those in my dream, but when I saw one, my stomach still clenched. I was still a coward.
Halloween came. I decided to wear the collar to a Halloween party at the bar on Payne street. It had a name, of course, something like "The Marquis," but everyone just called it the bar on Payne street. It wasn't a "theme" bar. It attracted a peculiar mix: men like those I dreamt of, as well as drag queens, sweater boys, college kids and tired drunks. Lots of new arrivals came to the bar on Payne street until they got familiar with other bars that catered more to their specific tastes. The best thing about the bar on Payne street, for me, was that it was within walking distance, if I cut across the huge parking lot behind the multiplex.
I wore the collar because it was Halloween. Because I could still say "no thanks" if one of the men I wanted and feared approached me. Because it looked damn good, frankly, with my torn jeans and that denim shirt I mentioned. I wore my high tops, since they were my best shoes for dancing. Just for the hell of it, I greased my hair and combed it like a fifties high-schooler. My hair is black, and the grease gave it sharp highlights. I don't know why I'd never tried this particular combination before: everything seemed to come together perfectly.
The bar on Payne street was crowded. The management had announced a pumpkin-carving contest, and the entries, each tagged with a number, lined the room. We were invited to vote for our favorite--one vote per drink. Some pumpkins were adorable, others were terrifying, and a few were gallery-quality works. I was trying to figure out how one of these last had been carved, when a voice behind me said "Hi." It was deep, almost melodic, and I turned to discover it belonged a man about six inches taller than me, in black leather from neck to boots. His hair was short, almost military, and he had--or appeared to have, it might have been make-up--a nice growth of stubble on his face. He was, in fact, almost exactly like one of my fantasy men, except that his privates, of course, were covered.
I smiled. "Happy Halloween," I said, raising my beer bottle.
He raised his, as well, and we clinked them. "Name's Howie," he said, grinning.
I introduced myself, and the two of us slipped into a quiet corner. "I like the way you look," he said.
"I, ah...you look pretty good yourself, Howie."
"Thanks. Best thing about Halloween is that it happens in the fall. No way I could wear this much leather in the summer."
"So..." I groped for a response. "You like leather?" Pathetic.
"Of course! It feels natural, you know?" He leaned toward me, and our eyes met. "Nothing under these skins but mine."
"Don't know which I'd rather lick more." I couldn't believe I had said that.
Howie's face broke into a dazzling smile. "Wanna blow this pop stand? Come up to my place for a little private party?"
I shrugged. "Lead the way." How in the hell could two beers have loosened me up so much? Dazed but happy, I followed Howie out of the bar on Payne street, climbed on his bike, wrapped my arms around him, and closed my eyes against the wind. The ride didn't last long; the feel of his body under the leather was intoxicating. He lived in an attic apartment in one of those neighborhoods you're usually glad you don't live in--unless you're with a guy like Howie. As soon as we got upstairs, he pressed me against the door and started unbuttoning my shirt.
"I think you and I are going to have a yummy night," he said, and I could feel his voice rumbling in his chest. He started to roll my nipples. His fingers were calloused, hard, and his grip was strong. I wanted to embrace him, but just as I started to move my arms, he rumbled, "Put your hands behind your back, boy."
I obeyed: one of my fantasies was about to come to life. And I wasn't scared! He peeled my shirt off, left it hanging behind me, on my wrists, and went back to my tits. He worked them harder, and a sort of electric thrill ran up my chest. He undid my jeans, pushed them down until they were like hobbles around my ankles, then led me by my tits to a chain hanging from the roof beam. He pulled my head to his and forced his tongue into my mouth. The stubble was real.
I felt him attach the chain to my collar. "Strip," he said. "Don't turn around," he ordered, and walked away. I concentrated on getting my clothes off, which was somewhat difficult, since I couldn't bend down. I managed to get my left shoe off, so I could free my leg from my jeans and balance on it while I got my right shoe off and my leg free. Finally, all that remained was my left sock.
"You're not stripped, punk!" Suddenly, Howie was behind me. He growled, slapping my butt. "You better learn to follow orders, boy."
"Yes, Sir," I said. My voice sounded surprisingly confident, given the circumstances.
Howie pulled my leg back and peeled off my sock while I struggled to balance on my right foot. He came into my line of sight and gathered my discarded clothing. He'd exchanged his leather pants for chaps, and I watched the play of his ass muscles as he carried my clothes to the corner of the room and tossed them to the floor. He turned and started toward me, and I stared at his cock: it was partly erect, and thick. I was fascinated, imagining how much longer it would be in a few seconds.
He grabbed two leather bag-like things from a drawer and put them on my hands. Now, he could put my hands anywhere he wanted, and I would be unable to use my fingers. My cock swelled. He knelt in front of it and wrapped a harness around it, separating my cock and balls into three discrete targets for his fingers to pinch, stroke and squeeze. He pressed his body against me as he rose and disconnected the chain from my collar. "Kneel," he commanded.
"Yes, Sir."
"Lick my balls, boy!"
"Yes, Sir!" The smell and taste of his crotch were overwhelming. We were perfectly positioned for me to caress every bit of his ball sack.
He moaned. "Yeah, kid. Make me feel good."
And I did, for the rest of the night. He took my mouth and my ass. He put me on all fours and guided me around the room with a horsewhip until my ass and sides were burning. He stretched me out on the bed and tortured my tits, then fucked my face again. Things happened, my body swirled with erotic pain, I was raped, sucked his toes, licked his ass. My body was covered in cum, his and mine, and we awoke more or less stuck together.
"You," Howie announced as I emerged from the bathroom, "are fuckin' HOT!" He handed me a cup of coffee. I started to drink it, and realized I was still wearing my collar--I'd even showered with it around my neck. I put the cup down and reached for the buckle.
"Hey, man. This is...wait a mo. Would you mind leaving the collar on? It looks...you look hot, like I said."
So I did. He fed us a nice breakfast. He was almost as reluctant to let me dress as I was. At last, he gave me a ride back to my place. "You're hot," he said again, as I got off of his bike. "Don't be a stranger." And he roared away. I undid my collar and peeled it off my neck. The morning air felt good, but as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I suddenly realized how exhausted I was. I stripped as soon as I got inside, flopped down on the bed, and slept until mid-afternoon.
My work is...uneventful. I suppose if you were to try to describe my job--I was a file clerk--that would be the first word that would pop into your head, or at least the first G-rated one. About the most exciting thing that can happen to a file clerk is discovering a misplaced file. Lower case, whispered "whee," right? I was really looking forward to the weekend. I decided to wear more or less the same--no, exactly the same outfit Friday night. But this time, instead of my usual y-fronts, I decided on a jock strap.
I was headed for the bar on Payne street when I suddenly changed my mind and hopped on a bus headed downtown. I got a few stares, and more quickly averted glances, as I headed for an empty seat near the back. It was the collar, of course. I was puzzled by my lack of embarrassment, when I suddenly realized that those people were not part of my life. Those perfectly nice people had no more right to pass judgement on me than I had to pass judgement on them. We each had our secrets, our hungers and fears. We were a random crowd, sharing no more than a bus ride, and I wished evil on no one.
I was headed for a place called The Black Hole--after the astronomical phenomenon, of course. Its clientele and reputation were entirely coincidental, and I walked into the place smiling. The doorman was sullen, but waved me past without hesitation, and I dove into a red-lit room alive with men in leather, denim and plaid flannel. Motorcycle gear predominated, but there were some would-be soldiers and a few city cowboys, as well. I felt eyes on me, as probably always happens to newcomers in places like The Black Hole. My eyes studied them, as well. I felt the pounding rhythm of music, just loud enough to keep everyone braced for the unexpected. I ordered a beer, then drifted through the crowd with no particular goal, until I got to the far wall. I leaned against it, like other available men, sipped my beer, and enjoyed the view.
It didn't take long. "Nice outfit," he said, then "Juan," and held out his hand. I straightened up so we were eye to eye, and we shook. His grip was impressive. Juan was wearing a sleeveless red shirt, the sort with extra-large armholes that showed off his lats--which were impressive. His arms were impressive as well. All of him, in fact, promised power.
"Nice to meet you."
"You come here a lot?"
"First time."
"Looking for a playmate?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Call me Boss and follow me out of this dump."
Juan, surprisingly, drove a sportscar. He was, in fact, the owner of a small construction company, and lived in a very nice house overlooking the river. And he'd put together a very impressive basement playroom. I was stripped--except for the collar, of course--subjected to a very thorough cavity search, given an orange jumpsuit, and tossed into a jail cell. At least, it sure as hell looked like a jail cell, with bars, a cot, even a heavily armored toilet.
"This is my prison, punk, and you do what I say. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
Juan grabbed the jumpsuit and pulled me to the bars. "Mistake number one, punk. You call me Boss, got it?"
"Yessir, Boss. Whatever you say, Boss."
"Better. Just remember: you're dirt. You're scum, you're shit stuck to the bottom of my boots. Got it!?"
"Yessir, Boss! I'm scum, Boss."
"Now get down on your fuckin' knees with your face on my floor and your hands behind your back."
"Yessir, Boss."
"Spread out your goddamn knees! Wider! Get your lousy ass lower! I want you to melt into my floor!
"Yessir, Boss."
Juan put his foot through the bars and pressed my head down. "Lick my floor, you piece of shit!"
"Yessir, Boss."
I heard Juan walking away. "You just keep licking my floor, cumface! I'll be back!"
"Yessir, Boss," I replied, as well as I could. The floor was actually pretty clean. I had a suspicion I'd be scrubbing it before my sentence was up. During our ride, had Juan informed me that he liked to keep his prisoners for at least twenty-four hours, if I was up for that. I'd agreed, while a tiny part of my brain watched in amazement.
Time passed, like they say. I don't know how much, or how long. Juan had twenty-four hours, at least, and I had no idea how much of my sentence was left. At least twenty-three, twenty-three-and-a-half, maybe. I had nothing to do but wait, and stay in position.
Juan returned. "Kneel up and keep your knees wide, punk!"
"Yessir, Boss." I obeyed. The Boss was wearing a snug sheriff's uniform and jack boots.
"Push your crotch out! Put your hands on the floor behind you and show me your goddamn crotch!"
"Yessir--"
"Push, you pathetic piece of shit. Get it up!"
"Yessir, Boss." I was bent so far back it was hard to get the words out.
"You like your uniform, punk?"
"Yessir, Boss."
"Well, you don't deserve it. Strip!"
I got naked as quickly as I could, while the Boss counted seconds.
"That's my property, punk! You fold it nice and put it on your bunk!" He continued to count.
"Yessir, Boss."
"A goddamn minute! You wasted a goddamn minute of my time, punk. Get back on your knees!"
"Yessir, Boss."
"Back up, you stupid shit, so I can open this cell!"
"Yessir, Boss."
I backed up, and the Boss stomped into the cell. He hooked a leash to my collar. "Might as well use this, long as you're already wearing it," he snarled, and led me out of the cell. "Stand up, turn around and face the cell!"
"Yessir, Boss."
"Spread out your puny legs, punk. Grab the bars and spread your legs!"
Yessir, Boss!" I felt him cuffing my ankles to the bars.
"Reach up! Spread out your goddamn arms and grab the bars. Stretch, dammit!"
"Yessir, Boss." Juan put his foot on a crosspiece, pulled himself up, and quickly cuffed my hands. The cuffs were painfully tight on my wrists and ankles. I heard him walk away, then return.
"You wasted a minute of my time, punk," he whispered in my ear. Then he draped a flogger over my head and dragged it slowly down my back. "That's sixty strokes. I don't want to hear a sound out of you, or there'll be more. Understand, punk?"
"Yessir, Boss."
"You just shut up and take it!" He stepped back. I heard him shuffle around a little, getting into position, and then the first blow fell across my upper back. I was pretty sure he wasn't swinging as hard as he could--at least, not yet.
Juan was very good at flogging. I tried to keep count, but it was like some sort of weird hypnosis, and I got lost in the growing pain, in the warmth, in the rhythm of blows that seemed to match my heartbeat. It got harder and harder to hold back a scream. I was panting, gasping, whimpering. The blows continued.
"No more, Boss," I pleaded, holding back a sob. But I'd broken the silence, and the words poured out. "I can't take any more. Please, Boss. "I'll do whatever you want, Boss. Please stop."
The Boss grabbed my hair and pulled it back. "You gonna be my bitch, punk? You ready to do whatever I tell you, punk? Really?"
"Yessir, Boss. I'm ready, Boss."
"What if I tell you I want you to suck my cock?"
"I'll suck your cock, Boss. Whatever you say!"
The Boss walked away. He returned and released me from the bars. "Let's see if you know how to suck cock, punk. Hands behind you!"
He cuffed my hands behind my back. "Kneel!" I obeyed. "Beg for it, punk!"
"Please fuck my face, Boss. Please use me, make yourself feel good, Boss. I'm begging you, Boss. Fuck me!" Even in my fantasies, I'd never said anything like that. But the words flowed out, effortlessly.
"That's what I like to hear, punk. Open your face!"
I think there was a hint of genuine surprise in Juan's voice: somehow, I must have been giving him exactly what he wanted. I watched him lower his zipper and pull out his cock. It appeared short, but that may have been because it was thick--almost beer-can thick--and I was a little worried about taking it.
Juan grabbed my head and slammed his cock into my mouth with no warm-up. There was no more time to be worried--and no more reason. Somehow, I was handling it. I spasmed a moment when he hit my gag reflex, but got it under control quickly enough.
The Boss raped my face. He ordered me not to swallow until I'd tasted it. He shot all over my face and told me to let it dry there. He gave me back the coveralls, cuffed me to the cot, locked the cell and left me in the dark.
Juan's mini-jail had no windows to the real world, so I had no idea what time it was out there. It didn't really matter, of course. I was Juan's prisoner for twenty-four hours. Unless, of course, he was a nut and I would never be able to leave! I felt my cock start to grow. I couldn't do anything about it, of course, being secured to the cot, flat on my back. "Juan--Boss," I muttered, "you are wicked!" I smiled, and fell asleep.
The Boss raped me two more times over the next few hours, leaving my ass stretched far enough for some of his cum to dribble out. He made me clean the toilet, then flogged me for not doing it perfectly. He made me lick his jackboots and his ass. He loaded heavy bags of sand on my back and made me crawl around the basement. He made me scrub the floor of my cell. Twice. He took a picture of my face, front and profile, made me jerk off and swallow my own cum, then "released" me and drove me home, desperate for a nice, hot shower. "You get into any more trouble, you can spend another night in jail," he laughed, and pulled away.
I showered and flopped down on the bed, not sure if I'd have the energy to hit The Black Hole, or even my living room, before Sunday morning.
I woke about two o'clock in the morning, desperate to piss. I caught my face and upper body in the mirror, and slid the collar around my neck, inspecting it. On impulse, I unbuckled it to press it to my nose, just to see if that intoxicating scent was still there. It was, and I set the collar on the edge of the sink reluctantly, intending to shower. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with pain.
My whole back was on fire. I couldn't control my bladder, and sprayed piss all over the bathroom. I struggled not to scream, coughed, choked and fell to the floor, trembling. I heard a thud, and saw that I'd knocked the collar off the sink, as well. I grabbed it and for some reason pressed it close, inhaling deeply.
The scent seemed to ease the pain. I sat up and buckled the collar around my neck again. I was aching, exhausted, and wet with piss, but the pain was almost entirely gone. I stood and did my best to study my back in the mirror. The marks of the flogging were clear, there were even places where the skin was broken. But there was very little pain, more like a mild sunburn.
I got into the shower reluctantly. I just wanted to wash off the piss and go back to bed. The water stung my back, the soap stung the abrasions on my wrists and ankles. I let the water run for a few minutes, got out and dried off, decided to push the towel around the floor to mop up at least some of the urine. Then I went back to bed.
I got up shortly after noon, ravenous. I threw on my bathrobe and slippers and whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast. I poured myself orange juice and made coffee. I read the Sunday paper as the sun set, cleaned up as little as possible, and went back to bed. In the morning, I dressed for work and finally took the collar off. There was still a little pain, but a quick check in the mirror, and a more careful check using a hand mirror and the full-length mirror on my closet door, showed that my back was almost entirely healed. I took a last sniff of my collar and headed to work.
Monday nights, the bars are relatively quiet. I decided to go to a movie instead, then came home, stripped, put my collar back on, and spent a good forty-five minutes pleasuring myself in the dark.
"It must be some sort of psychological thing," I told myself, sitting at my uncomfortable desk in the file room, Tuesday morning. It remained just as inexplicable, but with a label like "psychological thing," I could put the mystery on a back shelf, or file it under "Later."
In the meantime, there was the bar on Payne street, or The Black Hole. Or, for that matter, the three other bars in town that promised interesting playmates, to say nothing of a few further out that I'd never visited. But Juan was going to be hard to beat. Hard to beat being beaten hard by. I allowed myself a giggle, then tackled the manila stack in the In box. The Black Hole, I decided, simply because the first file on the stack was a "B." I left my office in its usual tidy way, headed home for supper, and changed.
"Hi, punk."
Despite the friendly tone, I recognized the voice. "Hey, Boss. How're you doing?"
Juan grinned. "A-okay, man. Look, there's somebody who wants to meet you."
I followed Juan across the bar, toward a tall, pale man entirely dressed in black. Not leather, not even Johnny-Cash-style fitted clothes, but a loose-fitting smock-like shirt and black trousers. His feet were covered in black socks, and he was wearing some sort of cloth slip-on shoes.
"This is the guy I was telling you about, Patrick."
Patrick scanned me with his eyes the same way the FAA Security guy scans you at the airport, then offered his hand. Against his light-absorbing clothes, it looked ashen, but his grip was firm. "Two of my friends and I are having a little get-together this weekend, and we like to invite a bottom to play with us. Juan tells me that you might be interested."
"I might," I said cautiously. Things were still pretty vague.
"We play a sort of game. You choose a secret, we try to force you to reveal it. We've a rather well-equipped torture chamber for that purpose."
"So...you're looking for a guy who's into pain?"
Patrick nodded. "We know what we're doing, of course: you won't wind up dead or hospitalized. But, based on prior experience, you may be out of circulation for a few days. No exchanges of body fluids, no permanent damage. Can't guarantee that there won't be any blood, but it will be minimal. No photos or recording allowed. And you're always free to reveal your secret. Still, we hope you'll get into the game enough to give us a challenge or two."
"Three on one?"
Patrick nodded.
"What's the secret? I mean, what sort of secret--"
"Previous guests have used sequences of random numbers, biblical texts, obscure poems--you're to make it challenging. Write it down and seal it in an envelope. That way, you'll know it's futile to admit to a phony secret. One of us will open the envelope and, if you're playing a trick, the two remaining players will keep at you." Patrick smiled, and for a moment his face appeared perfectly ordinary. "Each of us has spent time on the bottom, so we know what the limits are. Interested?"
"Just out of curiosity, what if I never reveal the secret?"
Patrick smiled again. "We have twelve hours to work on you. In the highly unlikely event that you manage to keep the secret, well, we'll invite you to join our little group."
I turned to Juan. "You vouch for these guys?"
Juan nodded. "I'll know where you are and who you're playing with. And if you want to tell somebody else, that's cool, too."
"Can I keep my collar on?"
"We usually..." Patrick started, then studied my face for a moment and nodded agreement. "Fair enough. We can work around that. Here's my number. Let me know within twenty-four hours. If I don't hear from you..." he shrugged. "This whole thing is entirely voluntary. Whatever you decide, it's been a pleasure chatting." Patrick turned away and floated through the crowd. Somewhere near the street door, he disappeared.
I turned to Juan. "Really? You think I'd be into that?"
"I thought you might be into it. No pressure. Forget the whole thing and shop around, if you want." He waved his hand over the whole crowd. "Or if you'd rather get busted again, let me know," he grinned.
My nocturnal fantasies suddenly involved three tormentors. I called Patrick as early as I decently could, Wednesday morning. He told me where to meet them, reminded me about the "secret," and asked if I had any questions. "No," I replied. My voice was calm, but my cock was swelling. Wednesday evening, I decided to heighten the game by not playing with myself for the rest of the week. Instead, I watched television: old movies butchered by commercials.
I showed up as instructed Saturday evening, just at six o'clock. The address was a warehouse, indistinguishable from any other in the neighborhood. I knocked, and the door opened with a deep screaming sound. Patrick greeted me warmly, and I handed him the envelope with my secret in it. "There's a bathroom over there, and a locker. Leave your clothes. There's a pair of flip-flops you can wear until. Come out when you're ready."
The bathroom was fitted with a douche hose. Even though I'd already cleaned out, I used it, just because. I showered, and looked at my body. The bathroom had some strategically placed adjustable mirrors, so I got a better look at myself than most folks. Finally, clean and naked--except for my collar and the flip-flops--I came out of the restroom to find that Patrick had changed into some sort of robe. I began to wonder if this was some kind of religious thing. Patrick put a canvas bag over my head, led me to an elevator, and down we went.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, Patrick gave me an unexpected push, and I fell into a pair of strong--very strong--arms. I was gripped tightly. The flip-flops disappeared. I was dragged across the floor. My arms were locked into thick leather cuffs and pulled out and up. At the same time, my legs were shackled and pulled apart. So far, except for the leather shackles, it wasn't all that different from what Juan had done.
"Tell us the secret, and we'll release you," Patrick said.
"No," I answered. There was a sort of clicking sound, and my arms were pulled tighter. I was standing on the balls of my feet now.
"Tell us the secret, and we'll release you," Patrick repeated. I suspected I was going to hear that quite a few times, over the next twelve hours.
"No." More clicks, and I was suspended. The cuffs were designed with a piece of leather to cling to, so the pressure was not entirely on my wrists. The bag was pulled off. The room was set up as a torture chamber all right, complete with torches. It wasn't exactly as I'd imagined it, but I saw many of the instruments I'd imagined. That was the important part. My tormentors wore animal masks. The wolf, I guessed, was Patrick, still in the black robe. The tiger was in a rust-colored robe, and the--what? A crow, maybe, or a raven. I've never known exactly how to tell them apart. Anyhow, he was in gray.
They moved toward me soundlessly: they were all wearing some sort of cloth footgear. The crow and the tiger were holding floggers. "Tell us the secret," Patrick--the wolf--said. "This is your last chance."
"No," I said.
The crow struck the first blow. "One," the Wolf said. The Tiger struck. "Two." Back and forth the two of them went, striking my body everywhere except my head and crotch, while the wolf kept score. I could see my torturers, so I knew they weren't putting their whole bodies into the whipping, but it was still hurting like hell by the time the Wolf got to fifty. He put his hand up. "Tell us the secret, or it will not go well for you."
"No."
The Tiger and the Crow went back to work, and in a few minutes, I was moaning. "Tell us!" the Wolf demanded.
"No," I gasped.
The next time the Wolf spoke, I was sobbing. Still, I managed to say "No."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, to my surprise, the pressure on my limbs was released. The Wolf and the Crow steadied me, as the Tiger undid my bonds. My hands and feet burned, as the blood once again flowed freely through them. I was taken to a cubical box, and lowered into it. Immediately, the top closed on me. "Tell us the secret, or you will be crushed."
"No!" I began to think they might torture it out of me, but not yet. Not quite yet.
The top of the box began to lower. I shifted my position and braced myself to resist the lid. It made no difference. It continued to drop. "Tell us the secret!" The voice was distorted, but still the Wolf's.
"No" I said, as loudly as I could. The lid slipped lower. Soon, I was sitting on the sides of my feet, with my toes turned inward. The pressure continued, slowly, until my shoulders were almost touching my knees, and my "No's" were reduced to defiant gasps. Just as I began to fear I might pass out, the pressure eased. The top slowly rose until it was free of the box, and Wolf and Tiger lifted me out. "I can't stand up," I said, as loudly as I could.
To my surprise, Tiger massaged my shoulders for a moment.
"You need to lie down," Crow said, and Tiger and Wolf quickly deposited me on the rack. They held me down while Crow restrained my wrists. Then Tiger and Wolf restrained my legs. There was enough slack that I actually felt comfortable.
Crow began working my cock. As soon as I was erect, he stepped back, and Wolf clamped some sort of board around the base of my scrotum. I couldn't see what he was doing, but I felt him push my balls to the limits of their sack, then tie them apart. Next, he began tying my cock against the board with what felt like rawhide laces. Then, I heard a sort of clicking noise and something went into my piss slit. I jerked my pelvis instinctively, but only managed to work whatever was penetrating me further into my urethra.
Crow hovered over my face. "Tell us the secret," he said gently. "So we won't have to hurt you more."
"No," I said, firmly.
Crow put his fingers on my left tit. Tiger put his fingers on my right, and they began squeezing them. As I expected, their fingers began squeezing harder, then pulling and twisting. It felt good, at first, and my cock started to grow, swallowing more of that damn rod, or whatever it was.
Wolf held a pair of clamps in front of my face, then dropped them onto my chest. Crow and Tiger promptly attached them to my tits, then ran a cord from the chain between them to a hook on the bench near my ankles. Then, they backed away from my body.
"Tell us the secret," Wolf said, from somewhere beyond my head.
"No."
As I expected, Wolf turned the wheel, pulling my arms just slightly. But it was enough to tighten the cord pulling at my tits.
"Tell us the secret," Crow said, gently.
"No."
I felt Tiger do something to the cock and ball restraint. "Tell us the secret," said, almost growling.
"No."
Wolf turned the wheel again and my body slipped, just slightly. But the cock and ball restraint didn't. Instead, my junk was pulled against it, and the rod penetrated further. I gasped.
"Tell us the secret," Wolf said.
"No."
Wolf turned the wheel. The pressure on my crotch and my tits increased. The rod penetrated further. My cock demonstrated considerable stupidity by growing a bit longer. "Tell us the secret."
"No."
Wolf turned the wheel, and I gasped: it was beginning to feel like my package was going to be torn off. My tormentors gathered, whispering. Crow came forward and spoke, gently. "You have completed the first hour," he said. "We are going to have to work you harder. You have only to tell us the secret to end the torment. Do you understand?"
"Yeah. I'm not telling."
"Very well. You will."
I suddenly realized that Tiger was standing near my feet, holding some sort of stick. He waved it through the air, generating a breathy whistle. Suddenly, he struck the sole of my left foot. I expected him to demand the secret. Instead, he waved the stick again, then struck my right foot. I jerked instinctively. My tits burned. The rod in my cock took on a life of its own for a moment, pulling back and then pushing in. Tiger kept striking my feet; there was no pattern. Sometimes, he struck with a number of short blows; sometimes he struck hard. Sometimes he went for my right sole, other times for my left. The pain was growing intense. This was a form of torture I'd read about, but never experienced. I could see why it worked.
"Tell us the secret," Crow said.
"No!" The answer was almost as much a cry as a word. And I was only an hour in.
"Tell us your secret," Crow said. I could see his hand, high above my crotch.
"No."
Crow began to lower his hand as Tiger began to strike me with an increasingly rapid rhythm, until the blows seemed to become one, somehow. Then, I felt Crow's hand on my nuts, and the blows on my feet stopped abruptly. The pain, however, did not: my feet were in flames, I could feel each blood vessel, each muscle. I tried to wiggle my big toe, and it was almost as if Tiger had hit me again. I decided not to flex my feet.
Crow was probing my nuts, pulling the sack, massaging them, pressing them onto the board. Tell us your secret," he said. "You know what will happen if you don't." And he pressed my balls harder.
"No," I said. But I knew this was it: everyone's balls are his weak spot, right? Your whole nervous system is dedicated to protecting them.
Now Wolf was standing next to me, on the opposite side of the table. He flicked my right nut. Crow flicked my left nut. Right, left, back and forth maybe a dozen times. "Tell us your secret," Wolf whispered, and it was almost as if his voice was inside my head.
"No," I said. As I expected, the flicks got harder, were replaced by slaps--light, but undeniably painful.
"Tell us your secret," Crow said.
"No."
"Tell us your secret," Wolf said, slapping my right testicle between each word, each stroke just a bit harder.
"No." It was almost as if I was conditioning myself to respond to pain by saying "no." No doubt, this was not what these fiends intended.
"Tell us your secret," Crow attacked my left testicle with the same rhythmic strikes.
"No."
Crow moved away as Wolf moved up to my tits. Tiger joined him on the other side, and handed Wolf a pair of latex gloves. Then, while Wolf pulled them on, Tiger set a shallow glass bowl full of liquid on my chest. Wolf reached into the bowl, then rubbed the liquid onto my right tit, while Crow did the same to my left. I quickly realized from the smell that the liquid was alcohol. Wolf held a needle in front of my face. "Tell us your secret," he purred.
"No," I answered, then watched as the needle moved down to my tit, and the end pressed against it.
"Tell us your secret."
"No." I braced myself, held my breath, felt the needle penetrate my right tit, felt its tip pierce the flesh on the far side.
"Tell us your secret," Tiger said, holding another needle in front of me.
"No," I said, and the second needle worked its way through my left tit.
"Tell us your secret," Tiger repeated. At the same time, I felt another needle pressed against my right tit.
"No." The needle pierced my tit, at right angles to the first one. I'd no idea I had such a reservoir of endorphins. Tiger asked, I said "No" again, and the second needle went into my left tit.
Next, my tormentors tied strings around each tit, under the needles. Crow replaced Tiger. "Tell us your secret!" Crow and Wolf said, together, and it was as if some malevolent god was speaking.
"N-no!" I made myself say. What the hell was I doing? How much more could I take?
Crow and Wolf pulled the strings up and tied them to hooks hanging from a bar about a foot above my chest. "Tell us your secret," they chorused again.
"No," I said, but it sounded more like a plea.
The bar lifted, pulling the strings that pulled the needles that tortured my nipples. They asked, and I refused. They splashed alcohol on my tits and I cried out. They smiled, and asked, and I heard myself say "No" once more. The second hour was over.
I was caged, crouching, with my neck through a hole in the bars so my head was exposed. I felt something being pressed into my ass, and then beginning to pump slowly in and out of me, accompanied by a low humming. "Tell us your secret!"
"No."
The three of them stood around the cage, just watching me. I tried to turn my head to see what they were up to, but I couldn't see. Then I felt a sting on the top of my butt. Then I felt another sting. A hot sting. A line of stings. Wax. It had to be burning wax. They worked their way up my back, slowly covering it. Wax ran down the sides of my body, burning its way to the bottom of the cage. And every once in a while, they let the wax cool and asked me to tell them my secret.
"No."
The waxing continued until it reached the edge of my collar.
"Tell us your secret."
"No."
Tiger put a hook in my nostrils and tied it to the top of the cage, forcing my head up. He asked for my secret. I said No. He put on a condom. "Tell us your secret."
"No."
Tiger fucked my face. Crow asked. I said No, and he fucked my face, and then it was Wolf's turn. Through it all, the dildo kept pounding me at an increasing speed. My cock was erect, leaking pre-cum. One of my tormentors reached between the bars and grabbed my nuts. Another demand, another refusal. They attached a parachute cuff and began adding weights. The fucking machine started the weights swinging and still I said No. they peeled the wax off. It felt like my skin was coming with it. They asked for my secret.
"No."
They fucked my face again, and the third hour ended.
They carried me to a cell, cuffed me to a bunk, and left me in utter darkness. Time passed. My body hurt too much to really sleep, and--as if they knew when I was drifting off--one of them asked The Question. "No," I groaned. I could feel my voice weakening. "It will never end, you know," Wolf said, gently, "until we know your secret. Please tell us your secret, and we'll clean you up and let you sleep in a real bed, with clean sheets, and if you wish, one of us will sleep with you. Imagine that. Imagine no more torture, no more pain, no more questions. There is only one you must answer, now, to end your suffering. What is your secret?"
"No," I wept.
The fourth hour ended.
I was flogged again, this time suspended by my ankles. It felt like the whip was working its way under my skin.
"No."
They asked me again, each of them, standing on my body. "No," I gasped, as each of them asked, then stepped onto me.
I was caged again, machine-fucked again, while my face was pressed into a pan of water. Somehow, they knew how long to wait before they raised my head and asked, and I said "No," and was plunged into the water again.
The fifth hour ended.
They took me up to another floor: a huge, nearly empty space, harnessed me to a cart, led me around the room. "No." Wolf climbed into the cart, Crow, then Tiger urged me around the room. "No." Tiger stood in the cart with Wolf. "No." The three of them, Wolf cracking a buggy whip over my head and onto my back while Crow ordered me to go forward, to turn right, to turn left. "No," I gasped at each turn. My breath was ragged, my legs ached. "No." I was reduced to crawling. "No."
The sixth hour ended. Incredibly, I was half-way through.
The seventh hour was nightmarishly simple. I held up a weight bar. The weight was attached to my balls by a series of ropes and pullies. Lowering the weight pulled on my balls. Lowering my whole body choked me with my collar. A pound at a time, after each "No," the weight on the bar increased until my muscles were screaming. I was released and laid on the torture bench. This time, I had to hold my legs at an angle of perhaps twenty degrees between two horizontal wires while I was questioned. Striking either wire sent an agonizing jolt through my balls. Lastly, I was bent. I stood, arms and legs secured to something behind me, while something else, I knew not what, pressed against my back, pushing my torso forward. And after each push, when I said "No," I was struck with the flogger.
I spent the eighth hour in the cell again, shackled to the bunk and kept from sleeping by the Question.
I stumbled from the cell to a heavy chair. I was seated on a metal dildo, strapped in, legs spread painfully wide, and wires were attached to my nipples, balls and to a metal rod that was poked deep into my cock. At each step of my bondage, I was asked if I was ready to reveal my secret, and I said "No." At last, the preparations were complete. The three sadists sat comfortably some six feet away, each holding a small controller.
"Tell me your secret," Wolf said, in the gentle voice I was finding more terrifying than any other.
"No." My tits tingled, not unpleasantly.
"Tell us your secret," Tiger said, almost as if bored.
"No." And a similar tingle went through my cock.
"Tell us your secret!" Crow snapped.
"No." This time, the tingle was confined to my ass.
The tingles became shocks, then jolts, then triggered increasingly painful muscle spasms as the questioning continued. They let me scream between interrogations. At one point, to my surprise, Tiger walked over to me and used a stethoscope to monitor my heartbeat for a minute. Then, he took a blood sample and left the room while Crow and Wolf waited for his return. He was back in a few minutes, took his seat, and said, "You are in good health. Now tell me your secret."
"No." My cock was suddenly on fire. They played with me then, combining their signals, firing one after the other, intensifying them and lengthening them. I waited for the Question, even prayed for it, after a fashion, but they seemed simply to be enjoying my agony.
At last, they stopped. "Tell us your secret," Wolf urged. "Don't make us continue this."
I shook my head. "No," I answered. The hellish combinations continued, longer, I think, this time. "NO!" I screamed when it stopped, unsure which of them had spoken, if in fact anyone had. I was awakened by a spongeful of cold water against my face and neck, released from the chair, and dragged back to the cell.
This time, it wasn't dark. It was, instead, impossibly bright. At the same time, a musical phrase was repeated, over and over again, at high volume. It ended, each time promising a conclusion, but instead began again. I was brought out of the cell and whipped, this time with a birch cane, then returned to the cell. I don't know if they even asked the Question. I don't recall if I was told how much time had passed. They put my head in water again, made me carry heavy bags of sand from one side of the room to the other, then back again. I remember hearing myself say "No," over and over, so they must have been asking the Question, whatever it was.
I was bound to a post. My arms were shackled above my head, my feet shackled behind the post. There was a rod of some sort pressed against my asshole. My body began to sink onto it until I was suspended by my wrists and impaled on the shaft. Wolf approached, hands gloved, carrying a branding iron. Crow was to his left, Tiger to his right.
Tell us your secret," they said, in unison.
I forced my chest toward the iron as well as I could. "No," I sobbed.
I woke in a hospital bed, in a room that seemed appropriately institutional. Wolf, or rather Patrick, came into the room. "You okay?" he said.
I shivered at the gentle tone I'd learned to fear. I thought about the question, examined my body. "Yeah," I said, at last, astonished. "I think so." I reached for my neck. The collar was still there.
"Colin--Tiger wanted to take it off, but you didn't have the key on you, and I--we didn't think we should try to cut it off. You obviously treasure it a great deal."
I nodded, and pulled the sheet down. I was dressed in one of those disposable paper gowns. "Can I see?"
"It's not pretty. You're doing fine, but you look like you've been through a small war. Can you sit up?"
I did, slowly, while every muscle protested. Just as I succeeded, Colin and the man who must have been Crow came in. "Don't push it," the man I assumed to be Colin said.
"I'm not," Patrick assured him.
"He's not," I smiled. Even my face hurt. "Can one of you help get this damn gown off?"
"You asked for it," Patrick said. Colin stood nearby as I got my to my feet and Patrick undid the ties. With their help, I walked to a full-length mirror and looked at myself.
"Holy shit!" I gasped. My body was a mass of bruises and whip marks. I carefully felt my balls. They were sore, but not unbearably so. I studied my chest. "No brand?"
"No. We thought about that for a finale, but...we have our limits, too," the man who must have been Crow said. "Oh! I haven't introduced myself. Name's Austin." And he held out his hand and we shook. "So tell me," Austin went on. "What the hell was that damn secret?"
"No way," I said. "I'm not going to tell you until I know for sure the twelfth hour is over."
"Dammit!" Patrick laughed. He glanced at his watch. "Thirty-four seconds. Thirty-three." Colin and Austin counted with him to zero. "That's it. Twelve hours. We'll take you to get something to eat, whenever you're ready, so you can see for yourself."
The helped me to dress, slowly. We took the elevator to street level and climbed into a car. "Cake and Steak about the closest place. It's one of those chain sit-down restaurants, a family place, so you should probably take off your collar," Austin said.
"Can't," I reminded them. "The key's at home. But after what I've been through, it's a badge of honor. So maybe we should go somewhere else."
"Mad Mary's?" Colin said.
"Perfect," I smiled, and off we went. At Mad Mary's, the three of them would probably be the oddballs.
We got a booth and ordered lunch. "Okay," Austin said. "Satisfied that the twelve hours is up?"
I nodded.
"So what's the secret?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, come on, man! You won! The damn envelope's back at the warehouse!" Patrick pressed.
"I told you. I don't know." I smiled at their puzzled expressions. "That's what's written on the paper. 'I don't know.' That's the first part, anyhow."
Austin laughed. "Brilliant! You're in the club!"
"About that. Did you guys all go through that?"
"Of course!" Austin said. "Right, guys?"
"No." Patrick turned to me. "A little of it. Some of the easy stuff, like the flogging. We had to learn how to do it. A little time on the rack, a little time in the cell with that damn music. But you're the first bottom to make it through the whole ordeal."
"That being the case," I said, "I'll join your club if the three of you can make it through."
The server interrupted with our food, and we dove in. Mad Mary's makes damn good food. You might not think so, from the décor and some of the patrons, but I recommend it, if you're kinky. Still, it wasn't good enough to stop the conversation. One by one, I looked at my tormentors. And one by one, they focused with laser-like attention on their meals.
"Well, guys," I said, when I was finished. "This has been fun, but I guess I'll be on my way. Oh, yeah. The rest of the secret is 'I don't take my collar off.'" And since then, except now and again to polish it, I haven't.