by Richard Della
Lonny was bored. No two ways about it. Here it was Friday, again—he’d worked all week in that confining office with those horrible old biddies and so-called straights and he wanted some relief. But, he didn’t have anything lined up for the weekend and his best friend, Russ, had just left on a vacation. Lonny and Russ had parted company with a few “quickies.” but the fucks were too frantic and the sucks were too automatic—Lonny still felt unfulfilled.
“My sex life ain’t worth shit,” he mused, as he laid his almost naked body on the bed. Lonny was wearing only a pair of Jockey briefs. He puffed up a pillow and, after his head was nestled into its comfort, he thought “Maybe my luck will change. Maybe tonight. I’ll drop by some of the old haunts. I’m tired of these goddamn one-night stands—AND the bar scene. But sometimes It’s better than a hand job. Cruising does have its possibilities.” Lonny stretched out, relaxed, and slowly dozed off while thinking about these things.
At ten o’clock, Lonny awoke, refreshed from his short nap but still horny. HorniER, in fact, because he saw the head of his prick peeking up at him from under the waistband of his briefs, demanding attention. He stroked it playfully but, when he checked the clock and saw the lateness of the hour, he poked his throbber back into his underwear and said, aloud, “Later for you, baby.” He got up from the bed, walked into the bathroom, stripped his Jockeys off and got into the shower.
Lonny was twenty-one, now—an age which implied total sexual freedom. His mirror told him that he was in fine physical condition—he’d maintained it through weight-lifting and morning exercises—and he considered that much of his masculine beauty was due to his being born, bred and raised in the hot Nebraska sun. His “country-boy” naiveté had vanished long ago, and he couldn’t remember the last time some stud had humiliated him by saying he had “corn in his ears.”
After toweling himself dry, and spending a few minutes re-admiring his tanned youthful body in the mirror, Lonny donned fresh underwear and socks. This was followed by a black tank-top and just “tight-enough” Levis that did little to hide the masculinity of Lonny’s thick thighs. He posed and pranced in the mirror, and whipped on the wide black leather belt Russ had given him at Christmas. He buckled it tighter than usual. The white athletic socks slipped easily into the black leather Wellington boots he chose to wear, and the outfit was finished off by a Levi jacket. Its buttons were the same gun-metal bullet-butts as on the fly of his jeans.
“Good God,” he whispered to himself, when he saw his bod full-length in the mirror, “I look like I’m getting into ‘Leather’.” But, as he smiled at himself in the mirror, he thought “they all wear this—wide belt, watch and wrist straps, big boots, Levis. Most guys did the Leatherman’s dress code. It’s ‘in’. I’ll go to a leather bar, tonight. See what happens. What the hell! I’d wind up there eventually anyway.”
What was the name of that place? Russ had told him about it. Oh, yeah—the Falcon’s Den. On the waterfront. “Goddamnit,” Lonny said to his mirror-twin—“I’m entitled to some fun, ain’t I? A few drinks? Raunchin’ with some studs? What Russ doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” When Lonny left his rooms and turned out the light, a quick glance back revealed his wall mirror to be a sheet of black slate. Though Lonny had temporarily put it out of his mind, the fact that he and Russ had done a little more than the usual flashed back at him from the black mirror—a bit of slapping around with a leather belt, for instance, and another scene in which Lonny had let himself be tied down to the bed with a long rope, and then “worked on.” It had been fun, of a sort.
“That’ll be $1.65,” said the cab driver upon reaching Lonny’s destination. “You do know what you’re getting into, don’t you?”
Lonny looked at the driver. He was young and blonde and wore a knowing smile on his face.
As Lonny paid the cabbie, he said “I don’t think it’s any of your business, is it?”
“Who’s to say? Up to now my business has been your business. If you wanna go in that place—go ahead. I don’t give advice. Not for $1.65.”
After the cab had driven off, Lonny, alone in the night, looked at the building that housed the Falcon’s Den. It was a nondescript run-down structure with nothing but a tiny neon sign that blinked “Falcon’s Den” over a decrepit doorway. Two leather-clad figures emerged from that doorway as he watched, arms around each other. There was no mistaking the sheen of moonlight on the black leather duds of these two figures.
Lonny was greeted by what, at first, seemed to be total blackness when he entered the Falcon’s Den. As his eyes adjusted to the little light that prevailed, he saw the dim bar area and several dark figures standing off to one side. Far to the rear of the bar there was a “room” (or space) which seemed to be flooded with other colors, apparently from tinted lights. Oddly enough, it was totally empty.
Sitting on a stool at the rear of the bar, Lonny ordered e Scotch and water from the bare-chested muscular bartender who, coincidentally, wore a long chain around his neck. As the blackness of the bar cleared to his eyes, Lonny was able to see better the other patrons of the bar: black leather attire, studded belts, and key chains hung left or right to (apparently) denote status.
His first drink drunk, Lonny ordered another. His initial nervousness was passing but he knew he was being observed and watched. He was cruising, though, so what the hell did it matter? While he sipped his drink, several studs sat next to him, guzzled their drinks quickly and stalked off into the darkness, smiling at Lonny as they left. Other men came and went with equal speed.
Lonny felt the urge to take a leak so walked into the restroom which he found to be well-lit, and pissed into an old porcelain urinal that must have dated back to the early 1900s. Before he had a chance to shake the last few drops of piss off his cock, a large booted foot plunked itself down on the lip of the trough at his direct left. When Lonny turned his head to look at the owner of the black leather boot, he saw a man about thirty or thirty-five years of age with curly black hair and a FuManchu moustache. The thick moustache curled downward around a full-lipped mouth that graced a tanned and rugged, yet handsome, face. The man spoke.
“I know that look.” The man with the boots had a deep voice.
“What? What look?” asked Lonny.
“You need something.” said the man, “and I know what it is.”
Lonny was bewildered by both the man’s words and his domineering stare which never wavered from Lonny’s eyes. The man was so close to him, Lonny could feel his body warmth radiating from under the leather jacket, and while he fumbled to get his prick back inside his jeans, he noticed the stud lower his gaze to look momentarily and very deliberately. The leatherman grinned in such a way that Lonny felt a surge of embarrassment although he was not normally embarrassed at being seen taking a leak. Keeping one foot on the lip of the urinal, the man edged slightly in back of Lonny thus barring Lonny’s exit effectively.
“Did you see that black Harley out front?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, added “It’s mine.”
“Yeah, I saw it,” Lonny said.
“That’s part of what you need, baby, and what you want. I’ll be done here in about five minutes as soon as I take a hot crap. You be waitin’ for me by my bike if you wanta go for a ride.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I don’t give a French fuck if you stay here, babe, but you won’t get what you really need unless you’re on that Harley in five minutes. Comprende?” The man dropped his foot back to the piss-stained floorboards. “Don’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” he added, “just let me see ya be there waitin’ for me when I walk out.”
Back in the bar, Lonny gulped another swift drink to steady himself. He didn’t know what to make of the scene in the restroom; it was as if the leatherman could see into his innermost thoughts. The drinks were starting to take effect, now, and this fact, combined with Lonny’s new- found interest in this leather world, the stranger’s intense interest in him and the obvious sexual desirability of the man, elevated Lonny’s spirits. He suddenly took on a devil-may-care attitude and said to himself “Why not go with this guy? Might be exciting—at least it’ll be different.”
Still, when Lonny walked outside the Falcon’s Den to stand by the big black machine, he knew there were other powerful influences at work. He didn’t know what they were but sensed there was more than ordinary sexual urges involved. These strange urges told him that he must be waiting by the Harley when the stranger came out of the bar.
It was a short wait. The stranger emerged and walked panther-like towards Lonny—a tall vision in black leather, swaggering and totally masculine. He nodded at Lonny, showing no surprise at seeing him there, climbed onto the bike and started it up. He motioned for Lonny to board in back of him. Without a word, Lonny mounted the vehicle, donned the extra helmet the man had brought along—evidently to be worn by whomever he picked up that night—and with a scream of black rubber from the oversized tires, the shiny black steed roared off into the night.
Lonny clutched the wide studded belt at his new-found friend’s waist and pulled his torso up close to the man’s rear. Lonny’s crotch was tight against the stranger’s leather-clad butt and even with the wind racing past him. he felt gloriously warm, part of which came from the alcoholic glow but part, also, from the anticipation of experiencing something new and exciting. He felt so secure and “right” sitting in back of this authoritative- looking and sounding leatherman, he was totally unaware of the passage of time as they drove along the highway, over bridges and past rows of houses which were no more than a blur to Lonny.
Eventually, the bike-master steered them off the main road and Lonny realized he was lost. It was like driving through a tunnel because the huge trees that bordered the lonely road branched over it thickly, cutting out all moonlight. Lonny was being taken for a ride, indeed!—far from civilization, where untold and unknown things could be performed in utter isolation and privacy. Soon, the bike was turned again and, now at a slower pace, drove along a dirt road even farther into the black forest. Lonny had not noticed any signposts anywhere—it appeared that to reach the destination this man was taking him to, one had to know the way. The aura of secrecy was a cold finger on the back of Lonny’s neck. He shivered involuntarily.
After the huge bike stopped, and its purring motor coughed into silence, both Lonny and the stranger dismounted. With the aid of a flashlight, the man guided Lonny to an old run-down garage-like building. What little Lonny could see before entering implied that it had two stories and was relatively large. He also saw electric wires running from a nearby pole to a bracket above the door—even this far out in the woods, the leatherman had evidently considered electricity a necessity. They walked in, their boots clumping on the old wooden stairs and floor, and, once inside, climbed up a flight of stairs to the second story. When the stranger flicked on the lights, they came on very dimly, subdued either through a lighting control device or. simply, because of very low-watt light bulbs—Lonny didn’t know which. Though the place was still relatively shadowy, Lonny saw it to be a large room with beamed ceilings braced along the walls by large poles. What little furniture there was was solid and massive.
“Uh, say mister,” Lonny said quietly, “can I ask your name?”
The man showed the trace of a frown when he answered, “I have no name as far as you’re concerned, punk. You just think of me as ‘The Master’—got that? THE Master—capital T, capital M. From now until I’m done working with you, I don’t want you to speak unless I ask you something or tell you to speak. Understand? When you do say something—when you’re allowed to, that is—every statement must be followed by the word ‘Master’, or the word ‘sir’. Am I making myself clear?”
Lonny gulped. “Yes sir.”
“Now I’m going to get some of my working gear. When I return, I want to see you stripped and down on your knees, with head bowed. We both know why we’re here, so we may as well get on with it.” He left the room.
Lonny knew from the man’s tone of voice he meant business. Since he was entirely new to the leather scene, Lonny thought it best to do as ordered and learn as he went along. He quickly peeled his clothes off and knelt on the uncarpeted floor with head bowed in what he hoped was a suitably-respectful position.
When the Master returned, all Lonny could see were knee-high black leather boots, a different pair than had been worn on the bike ride. Though they were clean, they were made of rough leather and thus didn’t shine. The master stomped over to the kneeling Lonny, grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head upwards. A thick, close- fitting dog collar was buckled around Lonny’s neck and, while this was being done, Lonny had a good view of the man’s lower body. His new Master was wearing only a tight and bulging leather codpiece strapped on around his waist and under his crotch. Lonny’s eyes rlvetted them-selves to the enormous sack of leather and his mouth began to water in anticipation of actually seeing what was underneath.
The Master noticed Lonny’s wide-eyed gaze and cupped his hairy hand around the bursting genital sack—“Ya gotta earn this, babe. Ya can’t have it till you’ve sweated for it.” And with that statement, he began the long process of buckling a complex body harness onto Lonny’s quivering frame. Straps went over his shoulders, across his chest, across his belly, around his waist, under his crotch, and up his back. Included in the process was the placement of a heavy metal cock ring on Lonny’s cock and balls, which ring also served as a connecting device for the belly and crotch straps. The various straps were buckled tightly and Lonny noticed a fair number of D-rings attached to the leather harness at various points.
A set of heavy, thick leather straps were then put on Lonny’s wrists and around his ankles—they also sported several D-rlngs. The Master, using a short length of chain, hooked Lonny’s arms together in back of him almost as if he was using handcuffs.
“Now,” said the man, “since you looked up when you weren’t supposed to, I’m gonna have to do something to ya.” He donned a pair of supple Cabretta leather gloves and began to rove them lightly over Lonny’s body. “Let’s see now—what’ll I do?” The gloved fingers pinched Lonny’s nipples which were exposed through the metal rings used for connecting the chest straps. The pinching gradually changed from titillating to painful and Lonny could almost feel his nipples begin to swell up.
One gloved hand slipped down over Lonny’s stomach and gently took hold of his hard prick. It began to squeeze and pull. Then the other was put into the action and Lonny felt the Master’s thumb and middle finger squeezing his scrotum so as to separate his balls. The fingers came together, in contact except for the thin membrane of Lonny’s ball-bag between them. He pinched and pulled downwards. It felt to Lonny as if the Master was examining him and testing certain parts of his body. After some more minutes of this painful stretching examination, the Master ordered Lonny to kneel again.
“Lean your head back, face up,” the man said. When Lonny had done as he was told, the Master stepped forward and straddled Lonny’s upturned face so that his hairy sweaty crotch grazed Lonny’s nose. “Use your tongue and lick whatever you see.”
Lonny began to lick the hairy crotch and the bottom of the leather ball-sack. The aroma of the warm genitally-rlpe leather almost stung his nostrils, and the vague smell of the Master’s farty asshole wafted into them as well. The man squatted a bit, separating the cheeks of his hard muscular ass and Lonny, upon seeing the exposed fur- ringed asshole, knew he had to lick it. The rancid semisweet taste of shit tainted Lonny’s tongue and he winced at the strength of the odor, but continued his task. After fifteen minutes, his neck began to ache from the strain but it wasn’t over yet. The Master backed up a few inches, grabbed Lonny by the head and forced his face directly onto the bulging leather codpiece. Lonny wanted so much to get inside it and taste of the fat cock throbbing underneath the jock but he had to be satisfied with having the leather rugged around his face teaslngly, tantalizingly.
Lonny’s pleasant thoughts were soon interrupted. The Leathermaster attached a leash to his dog collar and pulled him to a small room at the end of the big room. Inside the room there was nothing but a toilet and from the rank stench, the young man guessed it hadn’t been flushed in a long time. He was right, for when he was made to kneel in front of the basin and could look down into the bowl, he saw it was full of shit and piss that had made the water cloudy and yellowish-brown. A chain was hooked to the right and left D-rings on his dog collar and looped around the base of the toilet, pulling Lonny’s head down till it was within four inches of the surface of the stinking water. Leather straps were buckled in back of his knees and they, too, were secured to the toilet base. He was completely immobile. He tried to maneuver himself into a more comfortable position, but it was hopeless. From behind him, he heard the Master chuckle.
“This is your bedroom. Good night!” The man left the room and locked the door behind him. Lonny also heard several slide-bolts being slammed into place. “Hardly necessary,” he thought, but the extra locks certainly added to his sense of total confinement.
Lonny began to know what true isolation was. He stared down into the rotten mass of piss and shit—It must have taken a week to deposit that much and it probably came from more than one man. Within a half-hour, his olfactory nerves dulled to the continuous foetor of the bowl and even though he could not escape the general stench, it at least died down to an acceptable level. His position was far from comfortable, however—he could not move from the kneeling position, strapped and chained down as he was, nor did he dare let his head relax. If he did, it would fall into the indescribable mass of human waste, the ammoniatic vapors of which were so strong they made his eyes water. He found that if he stretched his neck and head forward, the chain holding his neck would slacken and he could rest his head on the rim of the toilet directly below the tank. And thus, with great discomfort, Lonny was able to get some fitful sleep.
* * *
Lonny was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps and the loud unbolting of the door. He was groggy and still half-asleep but he felt the presence of the Master standing in the doorway casting a dark shadow across his back. Without a word, the neck chain and leg straps were undone, followed by a yank on the leash.
“I’m ready to begin your trainin’, now,” said the man.
“I’m tired,” Lonny whined. “I couldn’t sleep very well or stretch out and…”
“You were not given permission to speak!” roared the Master.
Lonny was literally dragged by the leash from the toilet and his harness rings were quickly attached to chains dangling from the ceiling beams. By the use of a pulley arrangement, he was hoisted by the wrists and shoulders into a swinging suspension. Then, both ankles were linked to chains attached to the floor, about three feet apart, and the pulleys drawn tight.
“Couldn’t stretch out, huh?” sneered the Master. “Well, we’ll see that ya get all the goddamn stretchin’ ya need, baby.”
The pressure on Lonny’s wrists and ankles was intense, but despite the pain, he remained silent, knowing that any talk would only mean additional punishment. Even though his head remained bowed, Lonny was high enough in the air to be able to look down and see the Master and see that he was again wearing the high black boots and leather codpiece of the night before. But now he also wore a half-hood of black leather—just enough to cover his eyes and the bridge of his nose. The lower part of his face was still in view.
A tight leather ball-stretcher was buckled around the top of Lonny’s scrotum, forcing his nuts to bulge out. This wasn’t particularly painful, so Lonny wondered what the reason for the ball-stretching device was. He soon found out. A large canvas bag with a wide opening at the top was hung by a hook from the D-ring on the ball-stretcher. It didn’t weigh much so there was still no discomfort. But then, the master hung another canvas bag about Lonny’s neck, and this one was heavy. It was filled with sand and it tapered down into a thin neck that hung directly over the wide mouth of the other sack attached to his testicles. The Master opened the bottom of the funnel and Lonny heard the fine rain of sand begin to trickle into the lower bag.
“A living hour glass! That’s what you are, punk. There’s sand in the top part and it takes an hour for it to sift down into the lower one. In fifteen minutes, you’ll feel the weight hangin’ from your nuts—In half an hour, it’ll get uncomfortable, and near the end of the hour, you’re gonna be cryin’ and moanin’. As for me I’m gonna sit right over here and watch—and enjoy myself.”
Slowly, and almost imperceptibly, the weight around Lonny’s neck began to diminish while the weight hanging from his balls increased. His balls began to be pulled downwards very, very gradually. He could look down into the upper sack and see the sand sinking into a small depression at the center. After fifteen minutes, Lonny definitely was aware of the tension growing between his legs. Though the room was not overly warm, sweat broke out on his forehead and he felt it dripping down his sides from his underarms. A glance over at his Master, who was sitting sprawled in a huge leather chair watching the torture, gave no hint as to what the man was thinking. His eyes could not be seen, and his mouth was expressionless.
After some more sand had filtered down into the lower bag, Lonny let out a low moan. “That’s what I want to hear,” the Master said, “not talk: just moans and groans—and later, screams.” The man arose from his leather throne and inspected the “hour-glass” device, looking into the bottom bag to see how much sand had accumulated. He gave it a slight push which set it to swinging painfully from Lonny’s stretched-out nuts. Lonny whined.
Time went by and the sand flowed. The tension and the pain increased to a point that Lonny thought unbearable, but each time he thought he’d reached the top plateau of pain, it got worse—and worse again. At last he began to moan loudly and his whimpering and whining became grunts and restrained screams of pain.
“That’s more like it,” said the Master. “Ya still got seven minutes to go. Yell all you fuckin’ want—there ain’t nobody within miles o’ this place to hear ya. Besides, I like to hear my slaves yellin’.”
Lonny yelled.
When the sand had finally sifted into the lower sack, the Master unhooked it from the ball-stretcher and poured the sand back into the upper bag.
“Oh, no,” Lonny groaned.
“Oh, yes,” said the Master. “One more time.”
By the end of the second hour, Lonny had run out of tears. They had dried on his cheeks leaving faint white streaks of salt. When he was undone from suspension, he rested on the floor, breathing heavily, his arms and legs aching, and his balls sore from the terrible ordeal of stretching they’d just undergone.
The Master snapped his fingers and, when Lonny looked up, he saw that the man had now removed the leather jock—his cock and balls were in plain sight and the cock was in a state of raging pulsing erection. “Time for my blow-job,” the Master growled. “Crawl over here, between my legs.”
With the chains still dangling from his wrists, Lonny crawled towards the Master, but his ankle restraints held him back. The Master remained silent—apparently Lonny was supposed to keep trying to slide forward along the floor. He went through the motions, but made no progress.
“C’mon, c’mon,” said the Master. “Look at what’s waiting for ya.” He dandled his hard prick in one hand. “What’s the matter?”
“My ankles, sir. They’re still chained to the floor, sir. Will you release me, please, master?”
‘Hmmm. You’re learnln’ good,” said the man, and proceeded to undo Lonny’s feet.
When Lonny was finally kneeling between the Master’s outspread legs as the latter sat in the leather chair with his long engorged cock inches from Lonny’s lips, the man said ”1 like it done in a certain way—with me directin’.” He picked up a leather quirt from the side-table—it looked to be about one-and-a-half feet long and thick as a razor strop. The double flaps at the spanking end were two inches wide and it had a heavy handle that would fit well into a large hand. The master tapped Lonny on his left shoulder with the quirt’s handle.
“When I tap you there,” he said, “you suck and lick my balls. A tap on the right shoulder means you lick and kiss the head of my cock, and that also involves running your tongue-tip through the piss-split. Remember that. A tap on the head means the real McCoy—you take my cock in your mouth and suck on it. Any mistakes, and you’ll feel this.” He slapped the heavy quirt hard on Lonny’s naked butt as Lonny winced at the sharp sting.
The quirt-handle grazed his left shoulder and the Master splayed his legs apart further and leaned back into the chair to make himself more comfortable. Lonny moved in between the man’s muscular thighs and quickly began to suck and lave the ovoid orbs and hairy sack, licking them as he had never licked a man’s balls before. The thick brownish hair tangled itself into spit-curls as he licked and washed and Lonny could feel the Master’s scrotal skin contract and crawl involuntarily from the stimulation. Around the balls, under and over them, into the cleavage, and into the junctures of the scrotum with the thighs Lonny’s tongue worked—wet and warm and pleasing the Master. After perhaps fifteen minutes, Lonny felt the touch of the whip-handle on his right shoulder.
He raised up a bit in order to get his mouth into the proper position. The great cock head was now drizzling with juice. Lonny licked it up gently and ran the surface of his tongue along the underside of the Master’s penis, tickling the cloven globes of the glans carefully so as not to over-stimulate the “hot button.” The skin of the head gleamed in the dim light, swollen into a tightness approximating a fat plum about to split from ripeness. Backing away a few inches, Lonny saw that the piss slit was stretched wide open by the extreme distention—the open cock-mouth was so big he could have stuck his little finger into it. Instead, he stuck his tongue-tip into it, and rubbed it back and forth. The man groaned in pleasure. Using only his tongue, Lonny laved the plump head of his Master’s cock, using up-and-down motions, back-and- forth motions, insertions of the tip into the ureter, and round-about licks that wet the entire surface of the flared organ. The leather man let out a long, low moan—“Uuuunnnnnhhhhhhh”—the deep rutting sounds of sexual ecstasy.
Since no further orders were given by the tap of the quirt-handle, Lonny continued licking and slurplng over the Master’s cock head. Glandular juice continued to drool from the slit, all of which Lonny sucked in with kiss-like slurps, not daring to actually mouth the huge cock until ordered to do so. Now, finally, Lonny was feeling the true essence of the scene—this was it. Master and slave conjoined in the most basic acts of life. Lonny’s cock was rock-hard and ached for release—despite the tortures of the last ten hours, the pleasurable tingle in his balls foretold the rising of his sperm—It was going to have to come out soon, and (Lonny assumed) it would shoot without physical stimulation. His excitement had grown to a point that he never had thought achievable.
He was tapped on the head.
“At last,” Lonny thought! “Now I can open wide and take it, and suck on this beautiful male thing—and love it.” He began to fuck his mouth over the Master’s cock—back and forth—in and out—tasting, licking, sinking his cheeks inward in hard vacuuming pressure. Even at the wild pace Lonny used, he could feel the fat barrel of the man’s penis stiffen even more—it felt now like an unripe cucumber in his mouth.
Suddenly, the quirt descended onto Lonny’s back. Again. Again. Hard, stinging, painful. He sensed he wasn’t being beaten for any disobedience but because the Master was feeling the uncontrollable passion that preceded orgasm.
“Go—go—go,” grunted the leatherman. The quirt slapped down on Lonny’s ass in rhythm with the chanted command. The hot sting of leather only served to make Lonny more aroused and he now sucked with ardor, feeling the beginnings of a sexual climax building within himself. The growing sensation was so beautiful he felt like crying again—not from pain, this time, but from the intense pleasure. When the Master began to shoot, and inseminate Lonny’s mouth with thick, hot semen, Lonny erupted. His cum sprayed out onto the wooden floor between he knees, and he convulsed in the throes of mindless pleasure that men call “orgasm.”
The Master’s spouting semen was sucked in, swallowed, and guzzled. Every spurt was savored and gulped like premium wine. Lonny sucked on for several minutes after the last shot had been fired, “cleaning the gun barrel” as they called it.
“That was good,” the Master said. “Damn good. I’ll make a good slave out of you, yet. Now, stand up.”
Lonny stood.
“Bend over and grab your ankles!”
Lonny complied with the order. Was he going to be fucked? Surely, the Master couldn’t get it up that quick after such a thorough blow-job! No—the Master had something else in mind, and Lonny soon felt it—the nudge of the blunt end of a huge greased dildo being forced into his anus.
Other than feeling a gloved finger being intruded into his ass an inch or two, Lonny was not prepared for the feeling of the big dildo slipping up inside him. He grunted—“Ugh”—and thought to himself how trite that expression was. Nevertheless, no word was better to use at this point than “ugh.”
Once the fat dildo had been slipped in all the way, Lonny was chained to the wall, the D-rings on his harness supplying the anchors for the taut links of chain. He ended up in a hunched bent-over position, unable to sit down on the floor and unable to stand upright. The dildo shoved up his rectum was secured in place by the tight ass-strap of the harness he wore.
“That’ll set you up for later,” the Master said.
“Master, sir,” Lonny said, “I haven’t eaten. I’m hungry, sir.”
“You’ve eaten all you’re going to eat until later,” answered the dark voice. “My cum was your breakfast. Digest it! It’s good for you!”
The master grabbed his leather jacket and pants, which had been hanging on hooks near the door, donned them, and left.
It was Saturday afternoon, now. Lonny had had nothing to eat since Friday night when he chewed that doughy pizza at the “Pizza Stop”… that is, unless the load of cum from his Master’s cock didn’t count. Bent over, with muscles aching, and that dildo-sausage shoved up his butt, Lonny was the epitome of discomfort. His bones and his muscles ached—he felt the need to shit, but obviously he couldn’t. The urge to piss was likewise blocked by the internal pressure of the huge dildo clamping his tubes shut by its very size. In some ways, it felt good; in other ways, it was punishing. One part of him wanted to escape this mess, but another part nagged—“Hang on—It’s good for you—it’s what you need—this is what you want.”
What Lonny didn’t want was to be looked at by three other studs—apparently all buddies of his Master—who tromped into the room with the man, himself, and chuckled at Lonny’s position.
“Jesus—have you fucked him, yet?” asked one voice.
“Naw,” said the Master. “Tomorrow. He does OK by the suck, though. Any o’ you guys want to use him?”
“I’d rip him open if you’d let me, Mike,” said one of the men, “but I thought you were going to give us a little entertainment. Get on it, man. I didn’t come here to look at no punk slave with a prod up his ass! Do something to him! Hurt him a little.”
Another male voice chimed in—“Does he hurt good?”
“Fair,” said the Master. Lonny now knew the Master’s first name was “Mike.”
“What do you guys say we bring the iron out?”
“OK with me,” said one of the men, and his approval was echoed by the other two.
The “Iron” turned out to be a metal table of body-length contoured and curved to hold the shape of a prone body. Where the head rested, a set of straps dangled loosely, and at the base, there were two deep indentations obviously meant to be used as foot-braces. Sticking up from the base of the table was a metal pole about four feet long; at its upper end, hanging from an extended hook, was a large enema can—the first one Lonny had ever seen. A rubber tube hung from the bottom of the can and it was tipped with a thick syringe with a bulb-like enlargement half-way down its length. When Lonny turned his head to look at the strange device, the most ominous part of it seemed to be that enema syringe, but then he noticed the electric cord dangling from some unseen connection underneath the table. It passed through his mind that the word “iron” implied heat.
Within minutes, Lonny had been unchained, the body harness undone from his shivering frame, and the huge dildo slipped out of his rectum. He struggled a bit when placed on the metal “table” but the strength of his captors was much more than he could possibly hope to combat. His head was secured to the head-rest with the leather straps, and his feet were placed into the built-In braces, also strapped in tightly. One of the men went into another room and returned shortly with a pail of water which he poured into the enema can hanging four feet over Lonny’s lower legs, and Mike, the Master, began to insert the fat syringe into Lonny’s rectum. It slipped in easily due to the stretching caused by the dildo and Lonny felt the enlarged midsection pop in. Mike tugged on it after it was inserted and, apparently satisfied that it would not slip out without a good yank, stepped back and grinned at Lonny.
“I don’t normally explain things to new slaves,” said Mike to Lonny, “but since you’re brand new at the scene, I want you to know what’s going to happen. Besides, knowing will make you squirm more. When I plug this thing into the socket, the part your ass is resting on will get hot—real hot. If your butt touches it when it’s really goin’, it’ll scorch. That’s why we call it the ‘Iron.’ To avoid the pain, you only have to raise up your mid-section—that’s why there are foot-braces to push against. Just keep your back arched and up, and you won’t get burned. But—and this is a big ’but’—when you raise up to avoid bein’ scorched, you have to tense your muscles. One of these muscles is your anal muscle. You’ll tighten it up and it’ll squeeze the tube you’re wearin’. When you squeeze it, it forces a one-way valve to open up inside the tube, and the water starts goin’ up your insides. And because of the wide bulb that’s holdin’ the tube up your ass, the water can’t come out—not until we pull the thing out of ya.”
Lonny began to sweat. One of the other leathermen walked over to him and looked straight down at his face.
“So you takes your choice, kid,” the man said, “either you take the water and avoid gettin’ burnt… or you avoid the enema and get your goddamn butt broiled. I think you’ll end up taking the water, but it’s gonna hurt. The can holds a gallon and if you take that much, i’m gonna pour in some more for ya.”
Mike plugged the heating element into a wall socket. Lonny felt the heat under his butt almost immediately as the metal began to warm. It got warmer—then it got hot—then hotter. He raised himself up with a strain of muscle, pushing with his feet and stiffening his back and neck. Sure enough, when his anus tightened due to the muscular strain, he felt it clench on the syringe and the water began to flow into his colon. It came fast and the initial discomfort quickly changed into a gut-filling anxiety. He lowered his butt in order to relax his sphincter, but he came too close to the now-searing surface of the metal. He groaned from the hot pain and raised his ass again only to feel the enema flow start again.
A quick look at his audience showed Lonny they were drinking beer and watching his struggles with obvious delight. Mike sat in the leather throne, while another stud stood in back of it, resting an elbow on the head rest. The other two sat cross-legged on the floor.
The internal pressure grew until it felt he was going to rupture, so Lonny had no choice but to lower his butt and try to relax just above the surface of the “Iron.” Again, it didn’t work. His skin sizzled on the overheated metal. He yelped and the pain made him arch upwards stronger than before—an act that only caused the enema can to lower its level all the more. Lonny had no idea how much water had gushed up into his intestines—two quarts?—two-and-a-half? The cramps were terrible, but the heat waves radiating from under his ass told him that the consequences of relaxing and stopping the flow of water were more terrible than taking the full enema. He began to cry and plead for mercy.
All he got was applause. “Would you varmints knock it off,” Mike shouted, “you’re scarin’ the poor baby to death, clappin’ your hands like that.” Mike got up and walked over to the tortured and writhing Lonny and placed a hand on his shoulder. This was the first sign of affection Lonny had been shown—well, maybe a little. It helped him. Mike told him to relax and concentrate on taking the water for him. He said it was good for Lonny to hurt, and it would be over shortly. That bit of reassurance gave Lonny the help he needed. He gritted his teeth as the pain ever increased. An occasional “oomph” and “ahh” would come out of the twisting form as the man clapped and continued stroking their cocks.
Very shortly, all three men except Mike were standing over Lonny, stroking their cocks. Almost simultaneously, they began to shoot their loads all over Lonny’s twisting torso. They came for several minutes as it was all Lonny could do to keep from screaming as the water cramped and stretched his guts. The men had all collapsed back on the floor, and the enema flow stopped—not because the can was empty, but because the internal pressure of Lonny’s guts reached that point beyond which it could not proceed. His guts were filled to the bursting point. His back-pressure now equaled that of the gravity forcing the water from the can into his bowels. His lower belly was distended like that of a pregnant female and a finger tapped on it would have created a “thump” sound. Though Lonny had to keep his body in the arched position, he knew the ordeal was basically over. Soon, his Master or one of the other men would let him loose. They had to—the scene had reached its end—unless they wanted him to sit on the “Iron” and scar himself for life.
Lonny was right. Once the scene was obviously over, he was undone from the metal bed, the plug was pulled, and the syringe pulled out of his ass.
Lonny looked down at his cock. It was erect. Despite the situation, his prick speared into the air like a TV-tower. His brain told him that he was being tortured in a most cruel and unfair manner, yet his prick implied intense physical arousal. Was this what he needed? Was this what he wanted? Painful and humiliating submission? “NO,” he thought, “this can’t be it.” Yet, there was that shudder of pleasure which he could not deny—a pleasure that seemed to stem from his tortured submissiveness. “Maybe this is it,” he thought, again. “Maybe this is what I need—what I want.” Writhing on the floor, Lonny gave his audience a good show as he shot his shit, the stomach cramps making him double over in agony. All he could say, over and over again, was “Oh, Oh, Oh.” The three studs, plus his Master, looked down at him, interested only in his reactions.
“Chee-sus,” said one of the men, “he made a mess, didn’t he? You gonna make him clean it up?”
“Goddamn right,” growled Mike.
Fortunately for Lonny, most of the shitty water had run through the separations in the floorboards. He guessed that the first floor of the “house” he was in was probably an old storage room or long-unused garage. Despite the general ache of his entire body and the stinging burns on his ass. he wiped up the floor with old newspapers, using the water bucket for a receptacle. He was not permitted to clean himself off, however.
Five minutes later, Lonny was shackled by his wrists and ankles to four floor bolts, spread-eagled on his back, and a table was placed next to him. Mike brought in a large glass bowl and set it on the table. The leather dildo was re-greased and tamped back into Lonny’s tortured asshole and the body harness replaced. Mike grinned wide. “Hey,” he shouted at the other three leathermen, “any o’ you pricks gotta piss??”
“Christ. I sure do,” said one. and the other two agreed, making comments about all the beer they had been drinking that day.
“It’s a long ride over to Chuck’s, ya know,” said Mike, “so you’d better unload it now before we leave.”
The four men whipped out their cocks immodestly and began to urinate into the bowl, their streams of hot piss blending together where they met into one big flow. “I hear he’s got five new guys for the fist-fucking party, tonight,” said one of the men.
“Yeah!” Mike responded. “Young college studs. They’ve never had it done to ‘em before and are hot to have a hand up their butts. There’s gonna be a big football player there I wanta work over. But which one o’ you guys wants to fist me?”
“I’ll do it for ya,” said one of the pissers. “I got the hairiest arms, and you like that, don’t ya?”
Mike nodded while he grunted out the last dribbles of piss into the bowl. The others finished, stuffed their cocks back into their pants and buttoned up. Lonny noted that none of them wore pants with zippers; whether the pants were Levis or made of leather, they all sported shiny metal buttons.
Lonny’s new master then dug a gag device out of a drawer in the table and shoved it into his mouth. It was a “piss-gag” something Lonny and his roommate, Russ, had once seen pictured in an S-M magazine. Inside his mouth, the tongue-depressor portion of the gag pressed down on his tongue and a short length of rigid tubing intruded between his teeth, making it impossible for him to close his mouth completely. The outer portion was merely a heavy leather strap that fit over the lips and was strapped and buckled tightly around the back of his head. There was a long clear plastic tube dangling from a small faucet at the base of the bowl and the master fitted the end of this tube to the opening in the piss gag, forcing it in so that it fit tightly.
“This is your dinner—all two quarts of it,” he said and turned on the faucet letting the still steaming liquid begin its Journey—a trip that would end in Lonny’s belly. The first spurt of it hit his tongue—salty, musky, vaguely tasting like beer. “This fuckin’ bowl better be good and empty by the time I get back.”
Just before the leathermen left, Mike turned on a small tensor light by the bowl of piss and maneuvered the small plastic shade so that the light gleamed directly into the bowl. The other lights were turned off leaving the glowing bowl of golden urine the only source of illumination in the room.
“You can watch it goin’ into ya, this way,” Mike added, “and the lightbulb will keep the piss good and warm for ya—all the way down to the last drop.” He and the others left, laughing loudly, and Lonny soon heard the roar of the departing motorcycles as his master and his cohorts, whose piss he was now drinking, headed for the all-night fist-fucking party.
Lonny gulped down more and more piss. It seemed to be getting out of control now but he found that by closing off his throat through conscious effort, he was able to slow down the flow and actually make H stop. The pressure was not nearly as great as that that had come from the enema can—the piss bowl was only about two feet above the level of his mouth.
Now alone, and with some measure of control over what was happening to him, Lonny was able to ponder his current state. Here he was: bound, gagged and dildoed, burned and whipped, and forced to enter into acts that would have nauseated him before, but now left him strangely content. It was obvious to him that he was grooving on this slave-and-master scone, and he was already developing a silent affection for Mike—that worshipful respect that only a real masochist can feel for his demanding master, that only a true submissive feels in the presence of a virile dominant, and which permits him to endure almost anything painful or degrading when administered by that certain master.
“I think I’ve found it,” Lonny thought, “what I needed all along was the leather scene.”
The discomfort of the dildo up his rectum was impossible to ignore, as was the pain of the scorched butt, but as Lonny began to think of them as marks of the Master placed on him and in him to serve as constant reminders of the departed man, the pains began to take on aspects of pleasure. He realized he still had work to do—that bowl of piss had to be drained completely. Lonny began to drink it slowly and resolutely, watching the level in the shining bowl slowly lower as he felt his stomach gurgle and fill. Once more, he became terribly aroused, when he thought of the four heavy-hung cocks that had poured out that piss, all hanging together and squirting at the same time, and considered that he was drinking a mixture of urine that had come from the bodies and bladders of four different super-males. If only he could reach down and play with his erect cock! If only he could just rub it a little—but he knew this was part of the scene: sexual arousal without possibility of release.
By regulating the flow of hot piss with his throat, Lonny took almost an hour to drink it all down. The full two quarts of ripe bladder-Juice now lay in his sloshing belly, slowly being digested into his system—many hours later, he would release it once again through his own prick. Now feeling the tiring effects of the last hours, Lonny gratefully fell asleep, glad that he was at least lying down. He was to awake several hours later with a raging urge to piss and could do nothing but let it shoot, wetting his belly, thighs and genitals, and then try to go back to sleep with his butt resting on the piss-soaked floor.
When Lonny awoke, it was mid-morning, and the Master was standing over him, naked, with his huge prick jutting out from his magnificent physique—Lonny’s upward gaze settled on the underside of the thick cock and its tightly-stretched frenum that connected the head to the bulging shaft. Lonny heeded to relieve himself desperately again; the rest of the piss he’d drunk last night was screaming in his bladder to be let loose. Unable to speak because the gag was still in place, he could only look up pleadingly at the great-cocked leatherman.
He was quite surprised when the Master squatted by him and undid his ankle and wrist restraints from the floor bolts, then removed the harness and the dildo. Only the dog collar and leash was left in place together with the wrist and ankle restraint straps.
As well, the piss gag was left in place, but disconnected from the tube. Lonny guessed he was going to be “fed” again, probably directly from the Master’s own cock. Well, that was fine with him—he was willing and ready.
Pulling on the leash, Mike bade Lonny to crawl (not walk) behind him into another room which opened off the main “work” area. Lonny saw it to be a regular bathroom with tub, sink, and toilet, whereas the room in which he’d been chained Friday night held only the shit-filled toilet. This bathroom was merely adequate, however, and held no frills or fineries—just the basic necessities of a bathroom.
Mike sat on the toilet. Was he going to shit? Lonny soon found out that he was, for a pull on the dog collar bade him crawl over to kneel between the Master’s spread-apart legs. The man attached a rubber cup to his cock head and the long red-rubber tube that hung from it was inserted into the opening of Lonny’s piss-gag. Without a word being said, Mike began to shit—and piss. Naturally, via the tube, Lonny took the piss in a semi-direct way from his Master’s flowing penis. He didn’t flinch or try to restrict the flow, but gulped it down hungrily.
When Mike had finished shitting, he unrolled some toilet paper and handed it to Lonny, looking into his face with an expression that meant only one thing—Lonny was to wipe the Master’s ass. He proceeded to do so with care and with great pleasure.
The leatherman let about a foot of hot water run into the bathtub and added some bubbling soap to it. “All right, Fido,” he said to Lonny, “it’s time to wash the dog. Get into the tub.”
Lonny squatted in the tub of lovely warm water on his hands and knees, as a dog would do, and us gag was removed. The Master then began to wash his body as if he was a dog, using a rough brush. Lonny flinched when the brush touched his burned ass, but was pleasantly surprised when his Master used only very light and tender strokes on the pained flesh. Two soapy fingers were used to wash out his rectum, and during the course of the bath, all residues of piss, shit, and sweat were removed from the rest of his body. Even his face was washed. When the Master had finished, he let the dirty water out of the tub and turned on the shower to rinse off Lonny’s soap- covered body.
After Lonny had dried himself (an act the Master was apparently not about to do), he was led by the replaced dog collar and leash, on all fours, out of the bathroom and into a kitchen. From a pot on the small but serviceable stove, the naked leatherman poured a thick oatmeal into a large doggie dish and set it on the floor. He poured some sugar into it and dropped in a large dollop of butter mixing it all together as he squatted before Lonny. The great prick had softened a bit now, its piss hard-on having died down, and dangling juicily between his thick muscular thighs. If Lonny had been given a choice as to what to eat—the oatmeal or the male meat—he’d have had a hard time deciding. Not having “eaten” anything since Friday night, except piss, Lonny was famished.
The leatherman slipped on his high black boots, which had been standing on the kitchen floor, and perched his butt on a small black leather-padded stool. He dipped the entire toe of one boot into the oatmeal and lifted it out again, offering it to Lonny. “Eat from my boot, ‘Fido’,” he ordered.
Lonny licked at the mush-covered boot, licking off all the hot gruel he could, and then the boot was dropped into the dish again, re-arising covered with the oatmeal. Lonny ate some more, not stopping until the boot was shiny with his spit. The entire bowl was consumed in this manner over a period of fifteen minutes until only a small amount was left. Lonny was ordered to dig his face down into the bowl and lick this residue up.
As he licked his lips, Lonny spied the Master’s cock—It was roaring hard again. But then, so was his own. “Boot-breakfast” had proved highly arousing for both master and slave. “That’s enough,” said Mike. “I want to fuck, now.”
Lonny was pulled by the leash into the Master’s bedroom—the first time he’s been in there since arriving at this lonely place. He was ordered to squat face down on the bed and, once in place, the Master brought Lonny’s wrist down under him and between his legs. The wrist restraints were quickly locked onto the ankle restraints so that Lonny was forced into a triangular shape, the apex of which was his red butt, high in the air and cheeks spread to expose the inflamed asshole. The Master looked down with a wide smile at the puffy anal ring, the result of many hours of irritation by the leather dildo which had worked to loosen and slacken the delicate membranes, and knew that this would be a “soft entrance.”
“In he goes,” he grunted, positioning his throbbing cock at the center of Lonny’s budding un-puckered anus, and began his slide. As each inch of cock was slowly inserted, Lonny thrilled at the sensation of the Master’s warm hard body encircling him, drawing him into its ventral side with strong arms and legs that slowly wrapped around him, and listened to his rapidly accented breathing.
“I’m the only real man within miles o’ here,” the leatherman said, “and I’m diggin’ my cock into ya. Don’t ya think that’s kinda iInterestinnterestin’?”
“Yes, master.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“What do you want me to do? Tell me.”
“Fuck me, sir. Fuck me hard. All the way. I love your cock. I love it in me. I want you to fuck hard. Please master.”
Soon, Lonny was completely impaled. The dildo had indeed done its work of loosening him up. He felt little or no pain as the blunt-headed cock began to ram away up his rectum, in and out, accompanied by Mike’s incoherent mutterings. Lonny was being royally fucked and his fucker was an expert at brute fucking. The feeling was very “live” in a vibrant way and Lonny’s own body rocked back and forth in counter-rhythm to Mike’s thrusts, helping each forward insertion to slam home as deeply as possible.
The bucking rhythms became more intense, and the speed of the fuck accelerated. Lonny’s own cock was about to explode, so when his Master gave one hard arching thrust and he knew the volcano was erupting inside him, he himself released his excited load onto the bedsheet. The Master’s prick spouted again and again deeply inside him, coating his tender rectum with thick, hot semen throughout its entire length.
A few tender moments ensued as Mike groaned and ran his hands lovingly over Lonny’s back and butt, almost as if in adulation, and their sweat-laden bodies clung stickily together at the points of contact. Lonny wondered if, perhaps, it might not be in order to exchange a few manly kisses—as such a scene might have ended between Russ and himself—but it was not to be. Except for those few brief seconds of semi-physical love after the fuck, Lonny was not to know if his Master had any gentle feelings in his psyche. It was if the room had a sign on it—“No kissing allowed.”
Before he hardly had time to realize it, Lonny was undone from his bonds, restraints and collar, and ordered to dress. The Master also donned his leather duds, doing so in a manner which almost implied he wasn’t aware that Lonny was in the same room. He neither looked at Lonny, nor spoke to him, but acted as if he was alone. Only when both had dressed did he say “C’mon—let’s get you back to town.”
During the long ride back to town, Lonny could almost feel the semen in his ass jiggling over each bump in the road. He held on to Mike as he had that Friday night—so long ago, it seemed—but the excitement was over now. The black leather figure sitting in front of him and guiding the roaring bike was aloof and silent.
Lonny finally got up enough courage, after they’d been riding for a while, to ask if he would be seeing the leather Master again. “NO SECONDS,” was the shouted reply over Mike’s shoulder—shouted to combat the wind that whistled noisily past their ears and the rumble of the black Harley underneath them. Lonny felt a pang of let-down. Those words were so abrupt—“No seconds.”
The motorcycle pulled up to a bus zone on the edge of the city and Lonny dismounted.
Mike said, “You’ll understand eventually, kid. Some day. I gotta have new mouths and assholes all the time. It ain’t you. You were OK. But I can’t see you again. If you stay with the scene for a while, you’ll ‘comprende.’ In another time, another place, it might’ve been different. Between us, I mean. But it ain’t. If I see you again—In a bar—it’ll be ’ol’ buddy night’—a few drinks and some talk—but that’ll be all.”
“Is it that way with all of you?” Lonny asked.
“No. Not all of us,” Mike answered quietly. “We’re not all the same. But, look—see this bike? It goes because I start it, and tend it, and oil it, and keep it clean. You do the same for yourself, kid—either with guys like me, or with others. You just step on the gas and go. Does that make sense?”
“I’m not sure.” Lonny looked at the Master he was losing with loving eyes. He knew he’d find new ones, but this man he was talking to was the first one—and there was always something special about any “first one.”
The bus Lonny would have to take to get back home appeared around the corner. Frantically, Lonny reached into his pockets and found a scrap of paper on which he scribbled his phone number. He handed it to the man on the bike. “You may not need this, but, If you ever do, please use it—please call me.”
The leatherman looked at the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. “Don’t hold your breath. But sometime maybe, I might call. Next month—next year. Shee-it! I gotta go!” Mike revved-up the big bike and drove off. Lonny stood there, waiting for the deadly bus that would take him back to the old world, trying to collect his thoughts. He was still dazed by the abruptness of it all, but now that he knew, more or less, what it was all about—this S-M scene—he figured he’d never be bored again.
Before the bus reached him, however, and swallowed him up into anonymity once more, the leatherman swooped back on his hot machine. He squealed to a stop in front of Lonny. Mike reached out a thick-gloved hand and caressed Lonny’s chin—“One more thing,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Lonny.”
“See ya, Lonny,” the man said, and roared off into the dry morning air.
