The Leather Jacket (or how I came to dominate a leather cop)
Ever since I first realized I was attracted to men, I was always fascinated by extremely masculine men who were older than me. As I approached 30, I found myself drawn more and more to tough looking men in leather, preferably in their mid 40's or early 50's, although I had limited experience with "rough sex". Noticing this trend in my cruising, my friends had bought me a leather vest and a leather biker's cap for my 29th birthday. Already a regular at some of the semi-tough "western bars", where I was already going home regularly with studs in leather, now that I had some leather of my own, I decided to start going to REAL leather bars - the kind of place where there were rows of bad-ass motorcycles parked out front. Just walking PAST one of these bars would give me a hard on.
My favorite place had a bartender who scared the living shit out of me, and who I immediately fell in love with. I think that if Max had offered me a night in his dungeon, I would literally have let him do anything to my body he wanted, except cover my eyes, since he was one of the most ruggedly handsome men I had ever seen. I'd spend part of each night at the bar staring lustfully at the hairy musclestud, who every time he served me a drink growled at me "I ain't got no interest in a fucking useless young punk virgin beginner like you. So leave me the fuck alone, candy ass."
However, Max made sure to always stand and flex a little so that I got a good view of his body, in skin tight leather pants and a minimalist vest, until finally some other hot stud came along to distract me from my lustful attentions to him. And I was easily distracted. I didn't have the money to be better than an average tipper, so Max must have enjoyed teasing me. On the other hand, he often would introduce me to Tops who WERE interested in beginners, so maybe he actually liked me. I never asked, since i preferred his rude and rough verbal abuse of me.
When I first started going to the leather bars, I wasn't sure what I wanted to find there. I knew I wanted a hot, older, masculine man, and hoped he would be hairy. Other than that, I was confused. The first time I walked into a leather bar, I knew I was in the right place; I was fucking at home. The sight of all those hyper-masculine men in leather gave me an instant hard on as soon as I walked into the door. The smell of the leather, the testosterone, the man-sweat, the cigars and the faint whiff of dried cum with a hint of old piss acted like a drug that made me lose my inhibitions.
I began having wild sexual adventures with the men who picked me up. I even began to get a little picky, holding out for an older guy, or a stud with a hairy body, who was talking to someone else instead of settling for the first halfway exciting man to proposition me. I had learned that MY being almost 30 had as much attraction to some of these men as THEIR being over 40 was to me. During my adventures in rough sex, I discovered, to my immense surprise, that I was a natural born top, although I have to confess that I really did enjoy the few times the tables got turned on me and I ended up tied up and gagged, getting my well spanked ass fucked hard.
Other nights, I would end joining a group of men I was getting to know from the bar, mostly former tricks, in going to the MineShaft after the bars closed. That gave me quite an education in REAL rough sex. It was there that I learned my favorite rough sex activity - fisting a hot man long and slow and deep. If the stud was really into it, I'd really open him up and get both my fists into his guts. Less than a year after my first visit to a leather bar, I was giving regular demos of double fisting with a couple of my regulars at the MineShaft.
Interestingly, even after he found out that I was a Top and found out fro some of the bottoms I used that I was actually pretty good at it; even after watching one of my double fisting demonstrations on a man who had never been fisted until that night; even when many of the Tops and Masters began to treat me as an equal, Max continued to treat me like shit, and I found that I fucking loved it. I was a regular at the bar for five years before we had our first serious conversation. When he began to start treating me nicer, I asked him to go back to his verbal abuse - I confessed to him that they way he treated me like shit in public was a turn on, although I didn't mind having a serious conversation in quiet away from the bar when we spoke as equals. WE developed a strange sort of friendship, based on mutual respect, and my continued deep sexual attraction to the man. I knew that there was no chance of my ever having sex with the leatherstud of my dreams, but at least his verbal teasing of me as a friend gave me the illusion. (The possibility of our sharing a bottom was VERY low. He preferred his bottoms to be experienced, that's true, but blond or red headed, hairless, small framed and young or young looking. And did I mention hairless? He actually would ask any boi to do a total body shave if he wanted to be considered as a slave. Our tastes were just too different to enjoy a bottom together.)
What I desperately I wanted during that first year as a top was a really hot well worn leather jacket, but all the ones I saw were too expensive for my limited budget, even used ones, since I had a really shitty job back then. One Friday night, I got out of work late. I was very horny, and realized that I needed was some really rough action. I kept some cruising clothes in my bottom desk drawer, so after changed in my office, I dropped off my suit at the dry cleaners, so I could head for my favorite leather bar down near the Hudson River docks.
I have to honest: I was still pretty shy back then, so I usually would drop into a western type bar and throw back a couple of beers until I had the "courage" to cruise a REAL leather bar. Hell, I had to be a quarter ways towards drunk to even swagger into "my" leather bar - just past pleasantly buzzed, but not really stoned. On the other hand, once I got there, I knew how to milk my drinks, having learned my lesson at a different leather bar the hard way. by passing out drunk one night. I ended up waking up tied to the bed of a really skinny, hairless queen who was younger than me, and using me in ways I prefer not to remember!
Sometimes I got lucky in the first, western bar and found a man there who was also looking for rough sex, but usually I had to walk seven or eight dark, deserted blocks along a highway on the riverside to the leather bar that I had made my home, from where most of the other gay bars were located. In those days, there was a real risk of fag bashing in that stretch of street; it happened almost daily. I was verbally abused from passing cars from New Jersey more than once; I suspect that being 6' tall and built like a football player was the reason it remained verbal. The fact that I ignored them might have also helped.
The last time that I was at my "regular" leather bar, my "bottom for the weekend" took me to his nearby apartment, which turned out to be across the street from a gay western bar I had never gone into. It was fairly new; the neighborhood around there was becoming increasingly gay. I had noticed then that it was close to the subway station nearest the leather bar and across the street from a bus stop on a line directly from my job, so I decided to have my "warm up" drinks at this bar the next time I went cruising. So on this particular Friday night, I headed to this bar.
It was still very early for the leather bar. No one would be in the place until 10, anyway, and even after a leisurely dinner and the bus trip downtown, it was still just past 8:15. I just hoped there would be ONE man worth LOOKING at in the place. The chances of meeting a hot man to talk to, or even better fuck, at that hour in a western bar I didn't know seemed sort of slim to me.
Sure enough, the place was pretty empty when I came in. I bought a beer from the hot bartender, a hairy man with a handlebar mustache, around 45, who was dressed as a cowboy, complete with the boots and hat, and a fringed brown leather vest with no shirt that showed off his very nice body. He even had a Texas drawl, which I have always found really sexy. I wandered around the place, exchanging looks with the bartender, who seemed interested in me. Well, at least there was one stud worth looking at in the bar. If he hadn't been the fucking bartender, I'd be buying the man a drink as soon as I had a few beers in me to make me less shy. None of the other patrons particularly caught my eye. Don't get me wrong; they were hot enough, but all too young, or in couples on obvious dates.
I was actually pleasantly surprised by the place. It had a warm, homey atmosphere and wasn't over decorated. It was well lit enough to actually see who you were talking to, but dark enough to not intimate. The music was set to not be overwhelmingly loud, so you could actually hold a conversation with other men. There were places to sit other than the bar, and a few slightly isolated alcoves where a couple could.. well, get to know each other better before deciding if they wanted to go home together.
After a couple of beers, purchased with some more flirting from the bartender, I had to take a piss, so I went to the men's room. I began to wonder when the hot bartender got off duty - not all bars have the same shifts. When I came out, I noticed a bulletin board next to the toilet door. I read through the hand written notices, and one stood out. It read: "FOR SALE. Used authentic NYC police leather jacket." It was in my size, and it was only $35, an amount I actually had with me. I could buy the jacket, and still have a few more beers.
Of course, that would be it for the weekend - I'd have to stay home, broke, but happy with a new leather jacket. The ad said to talk to the bartender. I went back to him, and asked him about the leather jacket. He gave me a closer appraising look, and obviously liked the look of the husky young stud standing before him even more than the little flirting we had done. He bought me a beer. We chatted. He asked me why I wanted a leather jacket. I told him about my growing awareness of being a leather top, and how I also enjoyed my few times on the bottom.
"I've been looking for a used leather jacket I can afford, and this one sounds perfect."
"Do you have a fantasy of pretending to be a real cop."
"Fuck, no. I'm just interested is a well-broken in leather jacket I can afford on my shit salary. I've been looking for six months. If I buy this jacket, I'll end up broke for the weekend, but happy as a fucking pig in shit."
He grinned at me, "I'll call the jacket's owner for you." After a short phone call, he came back to tell me the owner of the jacket would be there in 5 minutes, and bought me another beer as we flirted some more. Since he was so fucking hot, and his keys flagged him bottom, my hand was quickly across the bar and inside his vest, pulling on his long nipples. I had never fucked a guy wearing cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, and was considering if it was worth hanging around all those hours until closing time. (I had asked and found out he worked until then.) He looked like he'd be a good kisser and a real screamer. I like screamers. No, I take that back; I LOVE screamers when we have the privacy; or are in a backroom where we can put on a good show.
I had pulled his head to me and was thrusting my tongue into his mouth when someone sat down at the barstool next to me and quietly greeted the bartender in a sexy, deep voice. I turned, and a cop was sitting next to me. A real fucking cop, complete with badge, walky-talky and a gun. An inch or two taller than my 6`, he was extremely good looking and totally masculine, with a mustache. He was wearing a new leather police jacket. He was thinner than me by quite a few pounds, but had broad shoulders. He appeared to be about 10 years older than me, which I found to be the right age for my tastes. He had put a large shopping bag on the floor between us.
Sam, the bartender, introduced me to Paul, the cop, who ordered a beer, since he was off duty. We went over some of the same questions that Sam had asked me. Then we talked about ourselves.
Paul revealed that, like me, he was primarily a top who didn't mind losing to a hot, dominant stud at times. He explained to me that he had begun to lift weights nine months earlier as a challenge from another gay cop, to see who could get bigger muscles in one year. Eventually there were six gay cops in on the bet; a straight cop who was a serious lifter and heard about the contest from his gay partner who wasn't in on the bet offered to act as judge. Since he started working out, he had lost 5 pants sizes, and gained 3 chest sizes, and the jacket no longer fit him, so he had had a replacement custom made. "I realize that I will probably have to have another one made by the end of the year. But since I intend to win the prize money.... Hell, even if I don't win, I'm so proud of my progress, I won't mind the cost of a third jacket. I just didn't look good anymore in the old jacket. Fuck, I can barely get my arms into it!"
"I wanted my old jacket to have a `good home' with a hot young stud, new to the leather scene, who would appreciate it, so I asked Sam to screen the guys for me. I wanted the guy to be masculine; if he was a top or bottom didn't matter to me, as long as he was a real MAN. A lot of guys have asked about the jacket. YOU are the first one Sam thought was man enough for my jacket. I agree with his judgment, Ike. Want to try it on?"
He helped me take my old denim jacket and leather vest off, and showed me the zip out winter lining of the leather jacket, which he removed and put back in the bag, since the bar was hot, and the night warm. He slipped the jacket on me, and he and Sam nodded in approval. "Why don't we go in the men's room so you can look in the mirror, Ike?" Paul suggested. He opened the door for me, and as I passed him, I felt his hand run over my ass in their tight jeans. I looked over my shoulder at him and winked, and he slapped my ass hard as he grinned back I was shocked by how hot I looked in the jacket. Paul lifted the front of my t-shirt over my head, saying "You should get the full effect." His hand wandered around my hairy chest as he did this. What could I do? I grabbed him in my arms, and kissed him. Our tongues dueled, and I grabbed his ass as he grabbed mine. We ground our growing hardons against each other.
I pulled away to see how I looked. I had never looked so fucking hot! Paul had pushed back my shirt so it was beneath the jacket, and the leather of his new jacket rubbing on my chest had made my nipples stand up hard. I ran a hand over my chest, and pinched my nipple. I turned; Paul had zipped open his jacket, and was taking off his tie. I helped him unbutton his shirt, revealing an extremely hairy and muscular chest. We stared into each other's eyes as we stood there, manhandling each other's nipples. We went from teasing to downright torture real fast. We ignored a guy who came in to use the urinal. My chest was on fire, but I wanted to see if I could hold out and win this battle of wills. To be honest, at this point, I didn't give a flying fuck if I won or lost. I knew that I was in for a hot fucking night with this manly cop, but my preference was to be doing the fucking of that hard and beautiful muscle man-ass.
The contest of wills went on for quite a few minutes. We became aware that the other guy who had been using the toilet was jerking off as we fought for dominance. To be honest, it just made me hotter, and I later found out it had the same effect on Paul. I was almost ready to give up when Paul broke eye contact and let go of my nipples. I pulled him into my arms and gave him a bear hug. The grunts of the guy jerking off made us turn; we watched him shoot his big load into his hand, which he licked clean as we three laughed.
As we walked back to the bar, I slipped my hand into Paul's back pocket possessively. Sam grinned when he saw how disheveled we were, and our red and swollen nipples, along with my hand on Paul's ass, made it obvious what had gone on in the men's room - and why we had been in there for so fucking long. We sat and drank another beer with Sam, and I paid Paul his $35. He showed me an inner pocket in the jacket, where he had put the original police patches from the jacket, and reminded me that it is a crime to wear them in public if you are not a member of the Force. While we chatted, touching each other lightly all over our clothed bodies, the two of us got hotter and hotter for each other, and finally Paul said: "I live two blocks from here. Want to come over and christen the jacket?"
"How would we do that?"
"By shooting a load of cum on it!" I eagerly agreed. We both gave Sam lingering goodbye kisses; I made a date with Sam for his next night off, Wednesday, then we left.
Paul led the way up the narrow steps to his third floor walk up in what was actually a commercial building. He explained that the only other full time tenant was also into rough sex, so we could feel free to make all the noise we wanted that night. I played with his hard, muscular ass as we walked up the stairs, and as he opened the door to his apartment, I could see the pre-cum leaking out of the fabric of his uniform pants. There was a nice wet stain on the crotch of my jeans, too, since I wasn't wearing any underwear.
As soon as the door closed, I pulled Paul into my arms, and thrust my tongue down his willing throat. After a long, hot kiss, he pulled away and grinned at me. "I want to make something clear, Ike. You won top position tonight. If we continue to see each other, that will not be a permanent situation. We would find ways to determine who is top dog each time we got together. I'm just letting you know this so I can plan what I want from tonight if its gonna be a one night stand. But I really am hoping its not a one nighter." He gave me a sexy, insolent grin. "You`re a hot fucker, and I want my chance to get even."
As I thought about his proposition, I watched him strut over to a sort of safe and lock away his gun and walk-talky. I got a good look at his ass - and knew I wanted to be around this man more than this one night. "I think that sounds like a good plan, Paul. Even though most of the time I prefer to be the top, with the right guy, like you, I find that not knowing how things will end up very exciting. And I can't imagine why I wouldn't want to see a hell of a lot more of you, you hot fucker. I'm more worried that my relative lack of experience will be a disappointment to you."
"Don't worry, Ike. I'm going to tell you my absolute limits, and my biggest turn ons. As long as we both have a hot time, things should work out great." Paul's limits included piss, shit and blood or any permanent marking. "I've never been fisted, but would only consider letting an experienced fisting top introduce that to me, if he really turned me on and I had developed a trust in him." That comment was not totally out of left field - Paul had noticed the red hanky in my left pocket. I just wasn't sure if he was telling me it was on the agenda yet. And I wasn't sure I wanted to break in a virgin that night. Or if he had the right sort of grease in the house.
Paul took me into the big bedroom. A sturdy king-sized four-poster bed, with heavy rings and some chains hanging from the frame dominated the room. He told me that he liked bondage and moderate discipline, and verbal abuse turned him on a lot. "I'm very secure in my identity as a man, so it turns me on to be abused about my masculinity and being gay. You can call me all the ugly insult words - they get me hot. And I would really like it if we both wore our leather jackets most of the time. I haven't met the right guy until tonight to christen MY new jacket, either, so we're doing a double header, so to speak. I'm ready to start if you are, Ike. Oh, fuck, yeah, I almost forgot the most important thing: the security code: if I say 'Peace' three times, it means you have gone too far and should stop. 'Stop!' just means that you're fucking hurting me, but I want more. Any questions?"
"Yeah. How do those handcuffs work, you fucking faggot asshole?" It felt weird to use the word - I hadn't spoken it since my closeted teen years, but Paul had asked for the insults words, and I saw his dick jump in his pants when I used the word. I would have to try it before I added it to my list of "limits" or "turn ons".
"I will show you, Sir," and he demonstrated the techniques of cuffing a man, and how to unlock the cuffs, showing me a half dozen places where he kept spare keys and spare cuffs for convenience. He showed me his collection of "toys", and where the lube and poppers were stored. He had a large can of Crisco, a quarter used. The hot fucker failed to mention that he knew how to fist a stud himself.
I nodded, kicked off my shoes, and took off my jacket just to remove my shirt. I loved the heavy feel and the smell of the jacket. I sprawled in a deep easy chair, and snarled at Paul. "Strip for you new Master, you fuck-up asshole pig. Make me hot if you can, you sorry excuse for a man." Paul turned on the radio, and to some hot jazz began to strip. I noticed a box of cigars on the table next to the chair. Although I usually smoked cigarettes, I lit a stogie and Paul's eyes lit up. I saw that I had another key to getting the big cop super-hot. I leaned back in the chair to enjoyed the show as I puffed on his excellent quality cigar.
Paul really knew how to move his well-built body. He slid off his jacket, and placed it on the bed. He very slowly removed his long sleeved shirt, revealing more of the very brawny and hairy body that I had partially seen in the men's room. Kicking off his shoes, he slowly lowered his pants, his ass wiggling in time to the music towards me as he bent to take them off. I was happy to see that he was wearing a jock strap, because I love jock straps, and I love fucking men wearing a jock strap. He danced closer to me and jiggled his hairy, muscular ass in my face. I leaned forward and bit down hard on one cheek, while I slapped the other one a few times.
"Thank you, Master, Sir!"
When he started to lower the jock strap, I snarled "Leave it on, ass wipe. I'm not interested in you pathetic little faggot dick right now."
"Yes, Sir, Master." He returned to the bed and made a show of slowly and sensuously slipping his leather jacket on. He then stood with his legs apart, his arms behind his back, and looked at the floor. "I hope that was adequate, Master."
I grunted, "Just barely, shithead, but I guess it'll have to do for now, queer boy." I got up and walked over to my slave for the night. I ran my hands over his great body, pinching and slapping him all over. If he had only known that I had never spent the night with a man with such a beautiful, powerfully built body, or such a handsome, masculine face! Hell, I had never TOUCHED such a flawless example of manhood. A year earlier, I would have never TRIED to top this man; he could have done anything to me. Hell, I would never have dreamed of TALKING to him!
Now I had grown in the world of leathersex to the point where I knew what I wanted. Tonight, it was to totally control this hairy, masculine muscle cop. I was flying high without any drugs. As far as I was concerned, Paul was a close to a perfect man as I had ever met. I put a pair of heavy tit-clamps on his prominent nipples, adding weights until he groaned. Although I liked him in the leather jacket, I wanted to spend some time admiring his well developed body. I took off his jacket, and pushed him to his knees. I had him put his hands behind his head, and cuffed him. The sight of this muscular cop at my mercy really turned me on, and I had to sit down and smoke my cigar a little to calm down. I ordered him to stand up and slowly turn and flex for me, as I glared at him the entire time, my heart pounding at the show.
It was time to start the action. "You stupid faggot! You're not turning me on. I'm gonna fucking punish you now!" I pushed him face down on the bed and manacled his ankles to the posts of the bed. Then I picked up a leather paddle. Each whack on his ass brought a grunt, followed by "Thank you, Master, sir!" Cursing while I insulting his manhood, I kept going, building up a sweat in my leather jacket. The resulting smell was really hot and sexy.
"The only reason you began to lift weights is because you know that inside you're really a little fucking queen, and not a man at all! You think if you look like a REAL fucking man, people won`t notice you're just a queer faggot pig!" Paul's ass was turning bright red, and it took him longer to thank me each time. I decided not to push him to a limit, and stopped. I saw a very fat butt plug that I doubted I would be able to take in MY ass sitting next to the bed. I placed it next to his face, and began greasing it. Paul licked his lips in anticipation. I grinned, knowing that I was on the right path. I took the plug and rammed it into his ass. He screamed "No, Master, please!", but didn't use the code. Hell, he hadn't even gotten as far as "STOP!" I could see the muscles of his ass fighting to adjust to the massive invader. I rammed it back and forth through the tight muscle of his ass ring. He continued to beg me for mercy, getting louder as I pulled that butt plug in and out. Oh, do I love a screamer! And here was one with an apartment which allowed us to make all the noise we wanted. The more I worked that butt plug, the louder he got.
Ramming the plug in tight, I uncuffed his wrists and ankles and told him to stand up. I threw his leather jacket at him, snapping "Put the fucking jacket on, you worthless lump of pig shit!" I noticed that my verbal abuse was causing Paul to leak large amounts of pre-cum through the fabric of his jockstrap. He hurried to obey, then looked me in the eye. I backhanded him in the face. I hit him harder than I had intended, and he ended up falling on the bed. "Who told you that you could look at me, fag boy?", I barked.
"I'm sorry, Master." I had him get on all fours on the floor. I took a long piece of rope, and put the middle of it between his teeth. I reached for a riding crop, and climbed on his back. I hadn't realized I was so inventive! Perhaps the earlier idea of sex with Sam in his chaps and boots and cowboy hat had inspired me.
"Give me a ride, scumbag!" It was so hot to have sexy, muscular stud be my pony and I knew this was a game he could NOT win. Eventually he would get tired. Then I would punish him. I whipped his ass with riding crop to make him speed up; used the rope to guide him around the apartment. I verbally abused him the entire time. I found new things to call him: a hog-ass; pony-pussy-boy; whip-pig.
After 10 minutes, Paul finally collapsed to the floor, causing me to fall off his back. "See, for all that weight lifting, you're a fucking weakling after all, fag boy!" Cursing him, I grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. I dragged him to the bed. Well, he followed me, scrambling. I manacled his wrists to the posts, then pulled off his jockstrap, dripping with his pre-cum. I manacled his legs to the opposite post so that they were about a foot off the mattress, causing his legs, crotch and lower belly to be off the bed. I took the jockstrap and forced it into his mouth. I treasured the look of fear on his face when I removed his ability to tell me when to stop hurting him, but my plan was such that I was sure we would be OK.
I had noticed a vase filled with an assortment of different sized and shaped feathers next to the bed. I put a handful of them in front of his face. He shook his head, but I could see the twinkle in his eye. I was willing to bet he had used these feathers on slaves in the past, but I doubted he had ever experienced the torture himself. I blindfolded him with a leather hood. I began to tickle him with various feathers, attacking different parts of his body at random. I pulled out the butt plug, and put feathers in his now well stretched hole. I put the tips of a feather in his ears, and ran a large feather along his neck. I tickled under his arms, behind his balls, and along his cock. I worked the tip of a small feather into his piss hole. Paul went wild, fighting against his bonds, screaming into his gag. I watched him, and when it looked like he was close to cumming, I stopped.
I relit my cigar and let him hang like that for a few minutes. I was close to cumming myself, so I knew the main course had to start. I release his wrists, letting him fall to the bed, then cuffed him again, hands over his head on the bed. Leaving the hood on, I pulled the jockstrap out of his mouth, which allowed him to thank me. I leaned near his head and blew cigar smoke in his face. "I ONLY fuck well whipped red asses, faggot. You man enough to take it, BOY?"
"I am, Master. Please prepare my faggot ass for your beautiful cock, Master. Please take me!" I pulled a cat-o-nine tails from the wall, and ran it over his ass cheeks. He shivered in anticipation. I started with light blows, to warm him up. When his ass was nice and pink, I began to wallop his ass with that cat. He pleaded with me to stop, to have mercy. He screamed; he hollered; he yelled! I loved every minute of it! Hell, the man almost fucking YODELED! Did I mention that I'm quite a screamer myself? Even as a top? I let myself go. I screamed almost as much as him; curses, insults, and just screams of passion. The sweat built up inside my jacket, and the smell was like a strong drug to me. His humble expressions of thanks became harder to choke out, but I planned to take him to his limit this time. His breathing became ragged, and finally, he whispered "Peace" three times. I dropped the cat and kissed his ass cheeks gently a half dozen times, to let him know I was pleased with him. I took off the hood and released the restraints, the stogie between my teeth.
"Are you ready for you Master to take your man-pussy, queer boy?"
"Yes. please, Master. Fuck my faggot ass. Make me yours."
"Beg for it, scum-bucket!"
"Please, Master, make me your fag bitch. Ram your hard cock into my guts and fill me with your seed, Sir, then christen my jacket for me. Every time I wear the jacket it will remind me of your big, hot load in my ass, and of the great gawddamned session we had! Hell, of one of the hottest session I've EVER fucking had! Bottom OR top!"
"I can't hear you, BOY! What is it you want from your Master?"
"Fuck the mother-fucking shit out of my faggot ass, Master. Ream me a new fucking asshole! PLEASE?!?!?", he shouted.
I flipped him on his back, so I could look at his handsome face while I fucked him. There was NO way I would EVER fuck this man doggy style. (I never did.) His face was flushed, but his leaking hard 8" cock told me how much he had enjoyed the scene. "Oh, Master, I love a real man fucking me with a cigar in his mouth!" I grinned around the stogie, then I put his legs on my shoulders, and teased his well greased ass with my cock.
He whimpered his frustration, and I slapped his face "Shut the fuck up, you mother-fucking worthless ass-wipe son-of-a-bitch." I had reached my own limit with the gay insults.
"Yes, Sir. Sorry Master." I grabbed his face, and I stared into his eyes while I sneered at him. While he was busy looking into my eyes, I hunched my hips, and my cock slid into that well stretched ass up to the hilt.
He screamed, "Yes, gawddamit! Yes, Master!" and used his ass muscles to clamp down on my cock when it was balls deep into his guts. Suddenly, his ass was as tight as a virgin's.
I howled, "Oh, yeah, work that prick in your hot fucking hole!" I screamed along with him. We were putting on quite a concert.
I began to fuck him, starting slowly but rapidly building up speed as he yelled "Faster, faster, please, Master." In a few minutes I was slamming into him with all my strength. Now each thrust brought a grunt from him: half pleasure and half pain. He had to use his hands to keep from sliding across the sheet into the headboard. Every once in a while, an ash would fall from the cigar onto his chest, and he's scream in pleasure.
"Master, I'm gonna have to shoot my load! I can't help it, Master." Knowing how close I was to losing control, I put the cigar in a large ashtray I had placed at the head of the bed for just this moment. I grabbed his rock hard pole, gave it a few hard tugs, and his load shot all over my jacket front. The spasms in his ass were just too much for me. With a roar, I unloaded my first two mighty blasts in his tight ass, then remembered to pull out and get the rest of the shots on his jacket. And there were a lot of shots - I hadn't cum that much in years! Paul reached up and spread his cum load all over my jacket. Grinning, I did the same to his jacket. I had him roll over, and I used a finger to collect some more of my cum from his ass, and spread that on the back of the jacket.
We collapsed into a pile on the bed, kissing deeply. "That was great. I've used the feathers on other guys before, but I've never been on the receiving end before! I thought I'd die from the tickling! You know Ike, that's the second time your jacket has been christened with cop cum. When it was new, I had a straight partner who was a real hot stud. I had a bad case of the hots for him, and he was aware of it, and sort of got off on it. He was a real fucking cock tease. When I bought the jacket, I explained the custom in the leather community of christening a new leather jacket with the cum of a hot stud, and my plans to cruise that weekend to find the perfect stud to do it. To my surprise, he offered HIS load of sperm. I thought he was joking, but he said that as long as he didn't have to do anything back to me, he'd be happy to finally give me what I've been after for so long for my 'ritual'. Then I remembered his wife was pregnant, and I asked him when was the last time he got laid. He blushed and whispered Four weeks. Im ready to do just about anything to get my rocks off, and I figure sex with my male partner ain't technically cheating on Lorraine.' I was so hot for his body, I wasn't about to debate situational ethics with him. I brought him here, and for the first time in his life he got a blow job from a guy, which he told me he loved. When I got him good and hot, I sat on his dick and milked his load up. He went wild! When he warned me he was about to cum, I pulled off his cock, and knelt on the floor with my back to him, asking him to shoot on the jacket. He shot such a big load, some of it flew over my shoulder and landed on the front!"
I didn't have to worry about being broke that weekend; Paul had the weekend off, and in the morning he decided that he wanted to keep going on the same terms as the night before all weekend if I was willing. Willing??? WILLING???? WAS THE MAN CRAZY??? To my surprise, not only was he one of the most handsome, masculine, built men in the world, the big fucker could fucking COOK!
We didn't just have rough sex; we actually made slow, gentle love to each other for four hours on Saturday afternoon. It was the first time that Paul fucked my ass, after eating it for over an hour. Man, did I scream, then; he hadn't shaved that day. He gave me a few hints as to some things he found exciting, and I tried some new tortures on him, most of them I found exciting. One actually turned me off, although I discovered later I could do it to a man I didn't know, and it excited me to do it to a man I found that I didn't like once I started working on him. He loved my invented insults, even if some of them made absolutely no sense.
We literally didn't leave the apartment until Monday. On Sunday morning, Paul had found an old dress shirt and some old underwear that fit me, so I knew I could pick up my suit from the cleaners on the way to work, changing in the tailor's dressing room. (He was used to that - I had done that before.) Sunday afternoon his neighbor stopped by; he wanted to meet the man who made Paul scream so much, and screamed just as much while doing it. He was a man I had spoken to dozens of times at the bar, but since he was a total top who I found only moderately hot, I had never accepted any of his invitations, suspecting that one night when I was horny enough, and there was no other options available, I might. When I finally did, three years later, it was with the understanding that we would fight for top: I won. He loved our one weekend together - he discovered that he is ALSO a screamer.
Paul and I dated for over 2 years, and I also dated the bartender, Sam, in a much less complicated relationship. (Yes, he was into getting fucked with his boots, vest and hat on, and yes, he was a real LOUD screamer! And he loved to have me do him in back rooms to put on a sex show, punctuated by his screams. Which just got me MORE dates.) Sam loved to service leather studs, which was why he was friends with Paul in the first place. Paul and I even did a number of three way sessions with him, taking turns plugging the hot and hairy cowboy bartender at both ends, expanding his limits and introducing him to increasingly rougher sex, to his surprise. We even began taking him to leather bars, where he met his first Master.
It took Paul three more weekend long dates as my slave to finally realize that his nipples were just more sensitive than mine, so he could never win at that contest. Although we had discussed a number of fairly even contests of will to decide top for the night, he insisted after that last nipple torture loss that we wrestle for top the next time. We both knew he was stronger, taller and heavier than me, and that I was going to probably lose, but I agreed, eager to finally see what he was like as a Master. I gave him a good, sweaty and hard fought match, but in the end I lost, and it was my turn to experience the feather torture! Oh, it was heaven and it was hell!
As we began dating, I became Paul's personal "cheerleader" and inspiration in the body building contest, since one of the things he had me do when HE was Master was worship his muscles. I was so genuine in my admiration of his beautiful body, and in my enthusiasm for his increasing muscles, that Paul drew strength from me even when I was not with him. Strength to do just ONE more set at the gym or to add 20 more pounds to the barbell. In turn, he got me to start joining him at the gym, and I became a bit of a muscle bear. One of my happiest nights was when Paul got on his knees and enthusiastically worshipped MY growing muscles!
Paul expanded a number of my limits, and I did the same to him. After six months, he asked me over dinner one night to introduce him later to my fists in his ass. It was a limit I could never find the courage to go past, even trusting Paul and having watched him expertly fist men when we went to the MineShaft together as a couple. I always suspected that the fact that I limited him to three fingers was one of the reasons we ended up breaking up in the end, although we stayed friends and would share bottoms we both wanted if we met them at the same time.
All his hard work paid off: Paul was the winner in the body building bet. He won enough money for that third leather jacket (which he really did need by then), and to buy me my first pair of chaps. By that time, we were both sleeping with just each other and Sam. We would go to back rooms together for group action, or to leather bars to bring home a bottom to share, but other than that, it was just the two of us and Sam. Paul had bought me the chaps MAINLY as a gift for himself: he had wanted to fuck me in a pair of chaps since we met. The fact that I got to keep them and use them was a reward for inspiring him for working harder in the contest.
Oh yes. Since I was working out, I outgrew MY leather jacket just like Paul had outgrown it in the first place. So Paul gave me the "temporary" one he had worn while bulking up for the contest, which he had replaced with the third jacket. A few weekends later we had picked up a hot and hairy younger bottom stud to share who complained that he couldn't afford a hot leather jacket like ours when we got back to Paul's apartment. We looked at each other, and I asked him if he had $35. An hour later, the kid found us christening his "new" leather jacket (my first one) with double loads of cum as we pulled out of each end of him to shoot on the jacket.
The judge of the bet wasn't totally straight, by the way. He was married and bisexual, but not interested in his gay partner, so he had never told him he swung both ways so he wouldn't frustrate his gay partner, who was turned on by his muscular body. In fact, he only slept with other closeted cops until the night of the contest judging. That night he decided that he WAS interested in Paul as the winner of the bet. He was also interested in me when we met at the judging event, where Paul and I were obviously a couple. The "straight" cop spent quite a quite few nights learning about rough sex from two leathermen muscle bear tops in leather police jackets and chaps, both smoking cigars as they stretched his limits - and his hairy muscle-ass.
Copyright2010 "Ike"
This story may not be sold, nor made part of any collection, without prior consent from the author, who can be reached at oldtimer25@Gmail.com
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