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THERE IS NO WHY
There is no "why," really. I suppose there's some guy, somewhere in a room full of books, tearing his hair out trying to find the "why," but why? I mean, what difference does it make? I'd still feel exactly the same way, and so would Emmet. So what?
It's not that I don't like fucking--I love fucking. But I started beating my meat when I was eleven or so, and I started fucking with other guys when I was just seventeen ("You know what I mean.") So there's not a lot of surprises left, when it comes to the finale. But getting there? That's the part that I keep finding new, even though Emmet and I have done this, it seems, forever.
The first thing is, I never know when--okay, I do, but it's like weather: you're never really sure what's going to happen until the wind picks up. We both come home beat, often as not. Managing the building supplies department in a do-it-yourself "home care center," and accounts supervision for a law firm can be tough jobs. But some nights, just about when I get supper on the table, he comes out of the bedroom wearing those faded 501's and his biker boots and a sleeveless jean jacket, and suddenly, all sorts of energy bubbles up from somewhere.
He grabs the paper, maybe, or sorts through the mail, if I haven't already done that, while I race to the bathroom to strip and clean my ass. I lie on the bed on my back, my cock already growing, feeling my heart beat and listening to the sounds coming from the living room. And from the rest of the house, and outside the house, and everywhere. And I stare at this one spot on the ceiling that looks exactly like every other spot, except it doesn't--not now. And then I hear a door open in the hall, and a box open, and some rattling, and his footsteps heading down the hall and there he is at the bedroom door: this rough-looking bully.
He puts everything down and starts lighting the candles, and then he turns off the ceiling light and the room is...different.
The bully moves slowly, teasing me. The first thing is the leg irons, heavy dark ones we picked up in London, years ago. We've got several varieties of leg irons: Smith and Wesson police cuffs, some from the Civil War--reproductions, actually, but pretty good ones--a pair that look like they came from some southern chain gang, but these old iron ones are my favorites. They've got a tongue on one end and a lock body on the other, so they just snap closed and they're locked. He holds one cuff up over my face so the other one just dangles, barely touching me. "Here we go, punk," he says, with his wicked smile. He moves to the end of the bed and closes the irons around my ankles. They're always cool, at first, heavy, solid.
The wrist cuffs come next, and they're sort of a clue to what's coming. We've got some pairs that are linked like handcuffs, and some that have short chains hanging from them, and some that just have staples welded to them so he can lock things on. Sometimes, he locks the cuffs to my collar. Tonight, he takes a length of chain and wraps it around me like a belt, and locks the cuffs to that, not quite under my back, so I can't really reach anything.
He smiles while slaps my face, pinches my tits, and squeezes my nuts. "You gonna let me do that, punk? You gonna try and stop me? Or do you want me to make you hurt?" If I try to sit up, he pushes me down. If I try to talk, he slaps my face again. After a few minutes of this, he turns away and comes back with the collar. We have a lot of collars, too, from the one with the integral lock in the hinge to one made out of spring steel with no hinge but just a pair of holes at the ends to slip a padlock through. We've got leather collars, too: humiliating like dog collars. They each have a different feel. The leather ones are more comfortable if I'm going to be active, but the thick iron one with the integral lock is my favorite. It feels heavy, and like it's never going to come off. If we didn't have jobs and families and normal social stuff, it wouldn't come off. It's got four staples, evenly spaced, so the bully can attach the wrist cuffs to the back of the collar, or to each side, or to the front. This time, he runs a short length of chain from the front of the collar to the chain belt my wrists are locked to, so I can't move my wrists by working the belt around. We've got some nasty metal cock toys, as well: a nice, thick cock ring, and a heavier ball stretcher that keeps my nuts away from my dick. "You thank me for touching your faggot prick, punk," he orders, while he puts these bindings on me.
"Thank you."
He slaps my face. "You call me 'Sir' if I let you talk to me! Understand, punk?"
"Yes, Sir." This is one of Emmet's favorite games. He's got lots of names for himself: Master, Boss, your Lordship, Captain, Chief, Sarge--and he keeps switching from one to another. So naturally, I get screwed up now and again, which gives the bully another reason to punish me. Sometimes he punishes me for using the wrong name, even if I don't make a mistake, by switching in mid-stream. The bully is really unfair.
The bully checks all the metal, then orders me to turn around, head to foot, which is a lot harder now that I'm chained up. While I struggle, he keeps jabbing and shouting at me to "move it, punk!" When I'm finally in the position he wants, the bully locks my ankle irons to the head of the bed, and runs a chain from the back of my collar to the foot end. Now, I'm not going anywhere, and I'm looking up at him from crotch height.
"Know what you are, punk?" the bully snarls.
"A punk, Sir."
He yanks my tit. "My punk, dumbass! You're my punk. You belong to me, understand?"
"Yes, Sir. I'm your punk, Sir."
"And what am I going to do to you, shitface?"
"Whatever you want to, Sir."
"You're damn right, faggot." I always get a little upset when he uses words like "faggot," or "queer," but we've talked about it, and he says that's what he wants from me: a little resistance, a little anger, just to underscore how helpless I am. We know we're both faggots, if it comes to that, and proud of it--except times like this.
"Beg me to use your fag mouth, punk!" And at the same time, he yanks my hair.
"Please, Sir. Use my mouth, Sir." Another, sharper yank. "What kind of mouth?"
"My fag mouth, Sir. Please use my fag mouth, Sir." I'm starting to sink into the scene: Emmet's becoming every bully I ever ran into when I was a kid, the tough boys with muscles pressing against their clothes and sneers on their faces, the boys that I'd find myself thinking about when I jacked off in my bedroom. Didn't make sense then, doesn't now. There's no Why.
The bully climbs onto the bed, knees straddling my chest. "Kiss my ass, punk!"
"Yes, Sir." I obey: once on each cheek. The bully's glutes are good and tight.
"Thank me!"
"Yes, Sir. Thank you for letting me kiss your ass, Sir."
"Lick it!"
"Yes, Sir! Thank you for--"
"Shut up and get to it, bitch!" Like I said, the bully doesn't play fair. So I get to it, licking like crazy, getting my tongue on every inch of ass it can reach. The bully spreads his cheeks. "Get your fag tongue in there, punk! Show me you love my ass!"
I don't try to answer, just plunge my tongue into his crack. He smells of sweat.
"You like that, punk. Your little prick's getting all excited!"
True, that!
"Find my hole, punk! Eat my goddam ass, faggot!"
I find the bully's asshole and he settles in on my face. I can tell he's pounding his cock: his balls are hitting my neck.
"Oh, yeah, shitface! You eat that ass! Get your fag tongue in there and make me feel good!" He grabs my tits. "Deeper, punk! Deeper!"
I tug at the irons, struggle to move my legs, which I can't, of course. I try to move my hands, as if I could defend myself, but there's no way. We don't do scat, but every once in a while, a tiny piece of shit makes its way into my mouth. I hate that, but it's not like I have any choice. I don't have any choices at all: the Bully is in charge.
After a few minutes, or maybe half-an-hour; I can't tell, really, the Bully swings around and sort of drops his crotch onto my face and orders me to lick it. His balls almost smother me, but I damn well better keep licking, or the Bully will tear me apart! He backs off a little, so he can slap my face with his rod, which is big, and hard. "You love that, don't you, punk? You love getting beat with my rod, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir! Thank you for--" But it's impossible to talk: the Bully's rod is everywhere! Now, he's fucking my face, shoving his huge cock down my helpless throat, using me like...a faggot, I guess. It's what I'm supposed to do, why the Bully has me chained up here: so He can use me. Of course, I'm not exactly thinking that. It's more like I'm feeling it. Like this is where I'm supposed to be, under the Bully's control. He stops shy of cumming, though. He's not done, yet.
"You got tits like a girl, faggot. You know what I do with girls' tits, punk?"
"Whatever you want, Sir."
"Damn right, punk. You know what I'm going to do with your tits?"
"Whatever you want, Sir."
"Beg me!"
"Please mess with my tits, Sir. Do whatever you want, Sir!"
"Don't worry, punk. That's exactly what I'm gonna do!" And He bites my tits: short, sharp nips, jabs of pain.
The pain shoots through my chest. I gasp and grit my teeth and whimper with the pain. But I can't do anything about it, about any of it, since the Bully has me at His mercy. His ass bumps my dick, reminds me of the metal that's gripping it. My balls are so hot. I can't do anything about it, though, because I'm all chained up. And that just makes them hotter.
The Bully sits up on my hips, my cock barely brushing His back. He grabs my tits between His thumbs and forefingers and pulls. "You like this, don't you, punk?"
"Yes, Master--" Oh, shit!
"What did you call me, shitface? What did you say?"
"I-I-I called you Master, Sir. I fucked up, Sir."
"You damn right you fucked up, punk!" The Bully's practically yelling at me. He gives my tits a vicious yank. "Better give you something to help you remember!" He's off the bed and back so fast I can't believe it, with tit clamps. The kind He chose are the kind you can adjust, from just-holding-on to hurts- like-hell, and the Bully gets a lot closer to hurts-like-hell.
"I'm sorry, Sir! Please, Sir, it hurts!"
"It's supposed to, you dumbass faggot!"
"I promise I won't screw up again, Sir. I swear it!"
"Let's just make sure." And he tightens the clamps.
"Mercy, Sir! Please, Sir. I swear I won't do it again, Sir." There are tears in my voice.
"What if I like it, punk?" His voice is soft, soft and cruel. "I am your fucking Master, ain't I?"
"Yes, Sir! You're my Master, Sir!"
"Then you better start calling me Master, faggot!"
"Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!" The Bully's not playing fair, but He sets the rules, so it's fair.
"What do you say, punk?" And He tightens the clips a little more.
"Thank you, Master! Thank you for punishing me, Master!" Tears, again. I have to fight to get the words out.
"Thatta boy, punk. My cock's real hard, punk. What should I do with it. Huh?"
"Whatever you wish, Master."
"What if I want to fuck your faggot ass?"
"Yes, Master, you can fuck my faggot ass, Master!"
"You want to feel my rod up there, don't you, punk?"
"Yes, Master. Please fuck my ass, Master!"
"You asked for it, punk!" In a flash, my ankle irons are freed from the bed, and my Master connects them to the chain between the belt and my collar. I feel the Bully's finger shoving lube up my butt, and seconds later, His cock. It feels huge, in there. He's got His hands on my tits, too, flicking the goddam clamps until my whole chest is on fire. And all the time He's pounding my poor ass.
No words, now. Not from me. Only moans and cries. My balls hurt, my cock feels like it's going to split open. I'm nothing but asshole and screaming tits. I'm nothing. Nothing.
The Bully, my Master, finishes, driving His rod deep into me; it throbs in rhythm with the waves of agony from my chest. Master relaxes His grip, slowly pulls out, unlocks my legs and then locks them to the bed again. He climbs onto the bed, towering over me, nudges my tits, my nuts, my face with His boots, presses His right boot onto my face. "Lick it, punk. Clean my boots!"
I obey. My cock is actually going soft. Why not? I can't use it, maybe I don't deserve to use it. There is no why. My tongue works its way between the treads. I may do this forever. I worry about the other boot. It needs cleaning, too.
I don't get to do that, though. Master sits on the edge of the bed, pulls off His boots, pulls off His socks, wads them up and stuffs them into my mouth. "Going to take the tit clamps off now, punk," He says. "Don't want you waking the neighbors."
The socks are sour-tasting, but I'm grateful: I can scream, now. While the muffled screams fade to whimpers and the pain becomes manageable, Master moves away from the bed, leaves me gasping for air. I close my eyes and sink for a moment into darkness, and then He is back. He pulls the socks away. He pulls a leather hood over my head. It's laced at the side, so He can tighten it without raising my head. He puts a ball gag into my mouth. He shows me a small paddle, and I shake my head. No, Master. Please don't, Master. He blindfolds me, so He can't read my eyes.
He presses my cock up against my belly, and presses the paddle against my nuts. "Going to hurt you now, punk," He says in that terrifying soft voice, and I brace myself for the blows. At first, they're almost gentle, the paddle perhaps a hair's width away at the top of each stroke. I close my eyes behind the blindfold, and the blows get stronger. I hate this, and my cock is hard again. Please let it be from Master's touch. Please don't let it be the pain, but it is the pain, or more the helplessness that the pain is proving. I moan and shake my head frantically, but it does no good. Master is training me, teaching me to take more pain. Again, I remind myself that there is no Why. There are only the waves of pain and the explosion of cum from my cock, and a while later Master's voice. "Jesus, you came gallons," it says, and removes the gag, and then smears my cum all over my body and puts its hand on my mouth so I can lick it clean. Gently now, it removes the irons from my cock. Gently now, it unlocks the chain that connects my collar to the belt and the chain that connects my collar to the bed. It frees my leg irons from the bed, and unties the hood and peels it off and lifts my torso and holds me, kissing my sweaty face and saying, over and over again, "You are so hot, Danny."
Who, I wonder for a moment, is Danny? And then he swims up from the depths of me and would hug Emmet, were his hands not chained, and I feel the collar as I nuzzle Emmet's neck and whisper, "I love you so fucking much," and then he releases my hands at last, so I can stroke his chest, and his face with its day's growth of beard.
The collar comes off last, and I miss it immediately. We shower, washing each other, sucking each other. Emmet has recharged and I swallow him gratefully, and we dry each other off and go to bed and kiss until we fall asleep. There will be time in the morning to put everything away.