Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2017 14:51:21 -0500 From: Jeff Moses Subject: Fred Begins This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of BDSM sex between adult males. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV. Please play safe--I don't want to lose any fans! If you enjoy this site (which you probably do since you're here!) be cool and click the Donate link at the top of the index to make a contribution to maintain it! Authors retain rights to and title to their submitted works. (Please consult Nifty's submission guidelines for more information.) FRED BEGINS I'm scared shitless. Okay, everybody's scared their first time. But this place...these guys? Come on! They're only real estate agents and paint salesmen and bookkeepers and such--they're just people. They're going to stare at me. But isn't that why you go to a gay bar, after all? What if they laugh at me? What? You've never been laughed at before? You'll survive. And saying all this to myself, I stepped into Chaynz. Chaynz is a gay leather bar on a corner in the warehouse area, near the interstate bus station. The building's brickwork has seen better days; the sign is illuminated by two floodlights that aren't aimed quite right. It has a reputation as a rough place, where guys gather who are into stuff like tying you up, maybe whipping you, or at least spanking you; where there's a lot of "take my dick, cocksucker" and not a lot of "oh dearest, how I love you." It's macho! It's leather! It's dark and sinister! It's gym-toned bodies battling for the best lighting! And you almost never hear a high-pitched "oh, you are such a bitch!" Just inside the door, there's a bouncer, a sort of unshaved Charon, to keep out the riff-raff--that is, guys who can't prove they're old enough, or are too drunk, or who aren't wearing leather. What he says, goes. There's a rumor that he's actually straight, but nobody's sure. I'm not a small guy: I work out--some--and I'm six feet tall, even without my boots. I've got a leather jacket and new chaps that hug my legs and make the crotch of my jeans stick out, just like they're supposed to, and I'm wearing my lineman's boots. I'm not a lineman, of course. I found the boots at a second-hand store and fell in love with them: they're black, with rawhide laces, and they're fifteen inches tall. You can't see that, because they're under the chaps, but if you know the style, you can guess. Right now though, I've magically turned back to being a scrawny, twelve-year-old sissy. Eyes glance at me through the smoky haze. It's the last century, when it was still cool to smoke, and bars allowed it. You could even buy a pack from the bartender, if you could afford the extra service charge. I have this funny feeling I'm about to be eaten alive. I slide through the crowd to the bar and order a Miller, just because it's the first beer bottle I see. I feel like I'm already drunk from the smoke and the smell of leather, and underneath that, the smell of men. Chaynz is a long rectangular space. The bar is on the front half, maybe, of one long wall. The cruising rail is an irregularly lit little shelf directly across from it on the opposite wall, just deep enough to hold a drink, where you stand if you're looking for somebody, or looking to be looked at. Further on, just where the cruising rail ends, there's a toilet. It's a rest room, and it's up to the sanitary code, but the sign defiantly says "Toilet." Between the toilet and the end of the bar, there's a section of floor that rises two steps. There's two pool tables back there, and a couple of pinball machines, back to back along the left wall. Beyond that is the emergency exit and a wall of beer cases. Between the wall of beer cases and the actual back wall of the building is a pitch-dark space I guess you could call the groping area--although a hell of a lot more than groping happens back there, some nights. Most of the lights in the place are red, except for the bright pools along the cruising rail, and the unnatural green of the pool tables. The bar area is brighter so you can get a better look at whoever you're buying a drink for, to see if it's worth it. They sell a lot of beer, but the bartenders know how mix up a pretty powerful Tom Collins, if you want. And there's a lot of top-shelf scotch, for what's supposed to be a rough-and-tumble biker bar. But this is my first time in Chaynz, and my view is nowhere near as organized as I've described. Instead, it's a sea of leather and beards and laughter and some pretty intense necking along the cruising rail. "First time?" I turn to the voice, which is coming from an almost ordinary guy sitting on the stool next to me. "What makes you think so?" "Well, for one thing, you've been standing there with your mouth open for maybe two minutes, and you haven't touched your beer." He's smiling. "Name's Harry," he goes on, and holds out his hand. I take a drink. We shake hands, and his grip is stronger than I expected. "Fred," I reply. My voice sounds feeble. "New in town?" "No." Take a drink. "No, I've been here for almost a year. Harry." "You'd a thunk I'd have noticed you before now," he frowns. "Oh, well I don't get here much. Down here. Much." Another drink. Harry leans close: I can smell his aftershave. "Fred, level with me." He's smiling. "Is this your first time in a leather bar?" I nod, and gulp more beer. A tiny smile of self-satisfaction flashes across Harry's face. "I'm from Omaha, myself. Moved here about a year ago--I guess just about the same time you did. Couldn't wait to get down and dirty. First time I walked in here, it felt like home. Of course, it was a Tuesday, and the place wasn't very crowded. Would have needed two more guys to hold a funeral." "Pretty busy tonight." Another mouthful of beer. "It's Friday. Wait 'til midnight: you won't be able to move. I don't know how a guy can pick up a trick when it's that crowded. This is about as much as I can handle, to be honest." "There's a lot of guys--" swig of beer, swallow "--here." "Yep. You got a bike?" he asks, nodding at my chaps. "No," I say, a little embarrassed--but hell, the lights are red, maybe he won't notice. "Neither do I--I bet there's fewer than a dozen real bikers here. It's all dress-up." "Yeah." Shit, I've finished the beer. "Can I buy you another?" "Nah. Thanks, but--" "I'm not trying to pick you up, Fred. Just being sociable." Harry waves his hand, the bartender nods, and another Miller appears. Magic. "I want..." I swallow a mouthful of beer. "Thanks. I just came here to look, tonight, I guess. Sort of get familiar with the place." Drink beer. "So, what are you looking for, Fred?" Another mouthful of beer. I'm swallowing so fast it could be piss and I wouldn't notice. "Shit, I don't know what I want. I mean, I do, sort of, but..." "Lots of fantasies, not much action?" Something about Harry makes me trust him--or maybe it's just that I have to talk to somebody. "I thought I was hot stuff, back in Battle Creek. But..." I wave my bottle at the crowd. "Battle Creek? The cereal place? Kellogg's?" "Yeah." "There a lot of leather in Battle Creek?" "There's not a lot of anything in Battle Creek, Harry--except cereal." Harry laughs, so now I know I've made a joke, so I laugh, too. "So, this is pretty new for you, I guess," Harry says, and his voice is actually gentle. "Yeah." Drink beer. Confession time. "I been in town almost a year, and I've been meeting guys, uptown you know, but not...I have a pair of handcuffs, but every time I bring them out, guys freak, it seems." Drink beer. "So there's been sex, but it's been pretty vanilla. They tell me, 'Go downtown and check out Chaynz.' So here I am, finally." Beer. "Maybe I do want to make a pass at you, Fred. You have any idea what you're into? Fantasies? What do you want to do with those handcuffs? Or would you rather wear them?" Beer. Two swigs. Belch. "Sorry." "No sweat," Harry laughs again, and I really like his laugh, somehow. But he's waiting for an answer. "The truth?" Drink beer. "You want the truth?" Harry turns serious. "Always, Fred. Always tell the truth in here." He shifts on his stool and I move a little closer. "What I really want...I'm kind of afraid to say it, actually." "You rarely get what you don't ask for, in my experience." True. I drink more beer and force the words out like one long word. "I want somebody to chain me up and have sex all over me." But Harry understands. "Bondage, huh?" I nod. "Being helpless, at the mercy of some big leather guy?" I nod again. Is there something about his eyes? "You really want to give him the choice, or are you looking for somebody to do you specific?" "Specific?" "See, if you're really a bottom, you sort of give yourself to a Top, and trust that both of you will have a good time. But if you have a sort of script in your mind, where you're helpless but he only does what you want, well...there's a difference, you know?" "Yeah, I guess." Drink. "But once you're helpless, all cuffed to a bed or something..." "That's the chance you take. That's why you always tell the truth, in here." I start picking at the label on my bottle. "If you know it. The truth, I mean." Fred studies me for a moment, takes a drink. "You like chains?" I nod. "Shackles and stuff, like in medieval dungeons, or police type, jails maybe, like those handcuffs?" Beer. I have to force the word out. "Dungeons." "Torture?" "I don't know! I mean I think so, maybe, but...torture hurts!" "That's true." Harry nods. "There's guys that just want to be tied up and left alone. You one of those?" I shake my head. "No. I've done that, but..." I look at him, almost pleading, hoping he understands. Hoping he won't laugh at me. "Okay, Fred, here goes," and he sets his bottle down. "If you're ready to explore a little bit, I have a dungeon. It's a basement, but I got it fixed up like--a little like a dungeon. I would like to show it to you. Maybe chain you up in it. I can't say I'll fulfill all your fantasies, because I don't have much of a clue about them. But it's a start." "I can suck and fuck and that stuff--I mean, I'm not a virgin. I'm not that...pathetic." Swig. "I am pathetic, though, huh?" "No." His face is close to mine. "You're a beginner. Everyone in this damn bar was where you are, once." He leans back a little. I don't move. "Even me. Now, I gotta be honest. A lot of these guys aren't much into beginners. They've moved beyond that. It can happen pretty quick. But they all had to start somewhere. Just like you." "I guess," I say, pulling my eyes off of him and looking around. "But..." "You're a bottom. You know that much, right?" I nod. "This is your first time in a leather bar, and you've got balls enough to just come out and say you're a bottom. That's not bad, for a beginner." "Thanks." I think about that for a second and actually smile. "Thanks, Harry!" "Now. Would you like another beer, or do you want to sneak out of here, or do you want to go and chat with somebody else? Or are you ballsy enough to come home with me and see my dungeon?" "I'm ballsy, Harry." I say it fast, before I have a chance to think about it. Harry slips off the stool--he's actually about my height, I realize--bike jacket, jeans snug over a well- developed lower body, and a tight-fitting Chaynz tee-shirt--and he puts his arm around my shoulders. "Come with me, Fred the beginner. I think we're going to have a lot of fun!" We move into the crowd and then somehow we're out of the bar and at his truck before he says, "Hey! What about your car?" "I took the bus." Harry looks at me. "Dressed like that?" I nod. "Impressive, Fred the beginner. You are ballsy. Hop in." We talk about things like our jobs, and what hometown bars were like, and how boring and dull Battle Creek and Omaha are. And before I know it, we pull into the driveway of a pretty ordinary little bungalow. Fred opens the door and ushers me inside. "Bathroom's through there. How you feel about cleaning out your butt?" "Huh?" "Butt sex is a lot more fun if your cock doesn't have to share the space, if you know what I mean. There's an attachment in the shower. Want me to show you?" I just nod. "Strip, then." Harry strips quickly. He has a decent build, good shoulders and pecs under a nice layer of hair. He gets into the shower, turns on the water and a little tube thing, tests the temperature, and pushes it into his ass while my eyes almost fall out of my head. "Shouldn't be much up there. I took a good shit before I went to Chaynz." A few seconds later, he steps out of the shower and sits on the toilet; the water comes out, and he studies it. "See. All clean." And I look into the bowl, and it is. "Your turn." I take a deep breath, get into the shower and quickly rinse myself down. "Okay, Fred the beginner, bend over and spread your cheeks." I do, and feel the stream of water against my hole. I do my best to relax, and Harry slips the tube into me. I feel myself filling up--way up. "Uh, Harry?" "Full?" "Yeah!" "Okay. Try not to lose any water until you get to the toilet." I more or less succeed, and we inspect the water. Fred shakes his head, I nod and get back into the shower: flush, rinse, repeat. By the time I'm done with the third number two, the whole thing seems about as ordinary as washing my hands. "Would you rather be a naked prisoner, or do you want to wear your gear? Nice boots, by the way." "Thanks. I guess I should go naked, though, huh?" "Whatever turns you on, Fred. Seriously." Harry is pulling his boots back on. They're biker boots, and they look well-used. "Those are pretty nice, too," I say, deciding to stay naked. "Take a closer look, boy," Harry says, with a little edge in his voice. I get the hint and kneel down. "Kiss 'em." I kiss the boots. "They're kind of dirty. Want to lick them clean?" I start licking. I'd done this before, at a party that turned out to be a disappointment. But this is different: this is serious business. Harry lets me work on the boots while he puts his chaps back on. His cock and balls hang free, now. "Okay, boy, stand up!" "Yessir." Harry smiles. "Good. You know your place. Let's go downstairs." He points to a door, I open it, and there they are: ordinary stairs. I have to confess, I was somehow expecting huge spider webs and stone, or something. When we get to the bottom, more disappointment: an ordinary water heater and a washer and dryer. "On your knees, boy!" Fred growls. "When you go into my dungeon, you crawl." "Yessir." "Follow me." "Yessir." He leads me past the water heater and unlocks a door I hadn't noticed. I crawl through and wait while he latches it behind us, then turns the lights on. They're mostly red and yellow, so the room sort of glows, like maybe people think Hell might look. There's a lot to take in: two of the walls are actually stone, and there's a long table with chains hanging from it, and a post that could be a whipping post, and-- Harry's standing in front of me, holding a metal collar and a chain. "Ready, boy?" he says, softly. I just stare at the collar and chain and nod. The collar is black metal--iron, maybe--a little more than a quarter-inch thick, maybe two inches wide. I feel my cock growing. "Ready?" He--Harry--Sir says, sharper this time. "Yes or No, boy!" "Yessir," I say, and watch him squat down and hold the collar in front of my face. "Kiss it, boy." I do, tasting and smelling the metal. The inside edges are rounded. Sir opens the collar in front of my face, then lowers it to my neck. He puts it around my neck and closes it, and I shiver. As he locks it, I feel the "click" in my cock. Finally. It's happening. He takes his hands away, and the collar settles around the base of my neck. The dark metal chain is hanging down along my chest, snaking along the floor to the base of the post. It's happened. Sir stands up. "I'm going to chain you in a standing spread eagle, boy!" "Yessir." "I do anything you're too scared of, you have permission to speak. Otherwise, you only speak when you're spoken to, or you'll be punished. Understand, boy?" "Yessir." Harr--Sir unhooks a rope, and a metal pipe drops down. Two chains with cuffs at their ends are hanging from it. "Stand up. Right between those chains." "Yessir." Sir stands behind me and I watch him close the cuffs, one on each wrist. I feel his chaps brush against my ass. "Spread your legs, boy!" He squats and cuffs one ankle to the post. "Yessir." Getting the other leg spread is a little trickier than I expect, and I have to steady myself on the bar holding my wrists. I feel Sir cuff my other leg. Then, he goes back to the rope and pulls it, raising my arms above my head. He keeps pulling until my arms are stretched all the way up and out. The chain from my collar hangs down and touches the left side of my cock, hard and cold. There's something against the wall that looks like a modified weight bench. My heart is pounding. Sir stands in front of me and puts on a pair of thin leather gloves. "Easy, boy," he whispers. He starts stroking my body, gently massaging my shoulders. He moves behind me, presses his body against mine and wraps his arms around me, rubbing my chest, working his way down to my legs. He rises in front of me. He opens my mouth and feels my tongue and my teeth, pushes his leather-gloved hand further in until I start to gag. He pulls the glove out, and drool runs down my chest. He grips the base of my cock with one hand, and presses the spit-covered finger of the other hand against my asshole, teasing it. He moves my cock from side to side, then holds it up against my belly while he rolls my balls in his other hand. Then he pushes my stiff cock down all the way and holds it there for a few moments. I gasp. I can feel the urethra pinched, somehow. Then he releases the cock and walks away. "I'm going to torture you now, boy. Just a little." I swallow. "Yessir." A moment later, he's standing in front of me with what looks like a piece of belt attached to a handle. He presses the belt against my mouth. "Kiss the strap, boy." "Yessir." The strap sort of muffles my answer. I smell the leather. I kiss it. Sir drags the strap around my body, over my shoulders, across my chest, down to my cock, between my legs, and up my ass. Then the strap disappears for a moment, and then it strikes my butt. "Count the blows, boy!" "One, Sir." He pauses for a few seconds that seem to last forever, then strikes the other cheek. "Two, Sir." He drags the strap slowly across my upper back: "Three, Sir." The blows get harder as he goes. "Four, Sir." He works his way down my chest, on either side of the chain hanging from my collar. Seven and Eight are aimed at my tits. The collar taps the bottom of my skull every once in a while, just to remind me it's there. Sir is headed for my crotch. By Twelve my voice is shaking. The sharpest blow yet falls across my abdomen, just above my dick, and my heart is pounding. "Thirteen, S-sir!" He moves behind me again, and I wait. Is he done? Thirteen could be a symbolic-- An even heavier blow falls across my ass. "Four-fourteen, S-sir!" I gasp, and my legs are trembling. I catch my breath and another blow falls across my ass from the other side. "FIFTEEN, SIR!" I yell, and I am hanging by my shacked wrists. The pain of the metal edges pressing against the base of my hands is unexpected, but it distracts me for a moment from my throbbing butt. Sir is facing me again, and holds the strap up to my mouth. "Kiss it again, boy." "Yessir." My voice is still a little shaky, and I kiss the damn thing. Sir steps away, then returns holding a wedge-shaped plastic thing. He presses it against my lips and I open my mouth to receive it. "Wrong hole, boy. You never seen something like this before?" There's a little surprise in his voice. I hang my head in shame. "No, Sir." "It's a butt plug. Just lick it. Get it nice and slick." I obey, and a few seconds later he pulls it away and disappears behind me. He spreads my cheeks. I feel something slippery pressing against my hole. "Relax, boy. It's going in, no matter what you do." It's easy, at first, but as it goes deeper, it gets bigger, stretching my hole. I start breathing faster. "Relax your asshole, boy." It stretches me a little more. "Push like you're shitting." I try, but now it's painful, bigger than any cock I can remember, and it's still growing. I can't take this! It's impossible. He's tearing my hole apart! It's...It's in! And my sphincter closes around it. The pain ebbs and I feel...full. "Now, kiss me, boy!" Sir presses his lips against mine and grabs the back of my head. He forces his tongue into my mouth, finds mine, and somehow manages to slap it, sort of. It's incredible: an invasion, an attack, powerful and anything but loving. He releases me at last and stands facing me, arms crossed. "Well?" I'm panting for air. "Thank you, Sir." And I really mean it. "Your cock seems to be liking it," Harry says, and I realize just how hard it's gotten. I struggle a little bit in my chains, waving it around, smiling at my captor. "You may speak, boy." "Thank you, Sir," I repeat. "I'm really helpless." I wonder if anyone else in my position has ever smiled as much as I'm smiling. "We're going to play a little game, boy. " I watch him walk to a small cabinet near the door, open it and take something out. I brace myself. He goes over to the rope and lowers my arms a little. "You right-handed, or left?" "Right-handed, Sir." He releases my right hand, then hands me a small clipboard, paper and a pencil, and an envelope. "Write something on the paper--nothing elaborate, just a couple of words, or a number. Don't show it to me. Put it in the envelope and seal it." "Yessir." It's awkward: I have to hold the clip board with my mouth while I write, then remove the paper and stuff it into the envelope. I almost drop the clipboard at least once, but eventually I've done as instructed. I hand everything back to him. He clips the envelope to the clipboard and hangs it on a nail near the door. "Here's how we play. I'm going to torture you again. And I'm going to force you to tell me what you wrote. The longer you hold out, the more I torture you. Understand?" "Yessir." "One more thing. Remember stroke Fifteen?" "Yessir. I sure do, Sir." "Good. Because if you tell me what's in the envelope before time's up, you're going to get more of those. A lot more. How long can you hold out?" "I don't know, Sir." "Ten minutes?" "I think I can hold out for longer than that, Sir." "Twenty?" "I think so, Sir." I actually couldn't come up with anything twenty minutes long, but it's shorter than a TV show, so... "We'll say fifteen minutes." He walks back to the cabinet. "I'll set the timer, and we'll start after you're in place." "Yessir." Harry kneels down in front of me and unlocks the leg irons, then lets my arms down. They feel strange as the blood supply normalizes. My left hand feels briefly like it's swelling. Harry unlocks the cuff. "Kneel, boy." "Yessir." The butt plug shifts in my ass. The chain from my collar makes a little pile between my legs. "Lick my boots, boy. Show me how grateful you are for this." "Yessir." I lick enthusiastically, smelling the boots, tasting the leather, working my tongue along the edges of the stitching, and where the sole meets the upper. I'm not sure how long I'm down there. I just keep licking, all of my attention on the boots. "Enough. Crawl over to my table!" "Yessir." I crawl, the collar tugs, and I hear the chain behind me, sliding along the floor. "When I say go, you have three seconds to get on the table, flat on your back, feet at that end. Understand?" "Yessir." "Go! One. Two. Three." Sir is fair. He's probably thinking "Mississippi" between each number. But I don't quite make it. Did it in five or six, maybe. "You failed!" Sir shouts. "Get off my table and try again, boy!" "Yessir!" Once again, Sir counts. I do, as well, silently. This time, I do it in five seconds. "You're pathetic!" Sir yells--he's angry! "Get back to the floor! Last chance, you pathetic..." His voice pours over my kneeling body like fire. I brace myself to spring. "Go! One. Two. Three." I did it! It was almost four by my count, but it's good enough for Sir. "Reach for the corners and spread your legs, boy!" "Yessir." Sir quickly shackles my ankles and wrists. He puts the chain attached to the collar on a hook, or something, at the end of the table, so it's out of the way, but I'm still his captive. I feel the wood under me, my dick is swollen and stiff: Sir has managed to bring another of my fantasies to life. "I'm starting the timer, boy!" he says, from across the room. Then he walks toward me, making his steps loud. He gets to the table and circles it, studying my body--my helpless body! I'm panting with excitement. Sir's hands drift over my chest, his fingers seize my tits, and he squeezes them, watching my face, smiling at my sudden gasp. He moves to my armpits, and yanks a few hairs out, first from the left, then the right. The sensation is more surprising than painful. Then his fingers trail to my crotch and he does it again and I yelp. He grips my thigh and digs his fingers into the muscle. The pain is surprising, spreading along the whole side of my upper leg. He releases it, slaps it--hard--and moves around the table to do the same thing to the other leg. He tests each calf, the same way: Sir knows precisely where to dig his fingers in to unleash more pain. Sir moves away, then returns with clover clamps and puts them on my tits, yanking the chain between them to make sure they're firmly in place. I expect him to ask what I'd written, but he steps away again, and then I feel him putting some sort of leather and metal harness on my cock and balls, hugging the shaft, pulling the balls out and apart. It's not painful, but it's snug, and I know it will become uncomfortable soon. He moves away again, and returns with a can of spring clothespins, which he begins to place all over my body, many of them in neat rows. Every once in a while, he yanks the clover clips. He's silent, focused on his work. When is he going to ask what's in the envelope? Now, he's running strings through the clothespin springs, and I think I know what's coming. He adds more clothespins between my toes, along the outside of my ears, and on my nostrils. Finally, he pins the underside of my cock. He admires his work for what feels like at least a minute, then puts his fingers on either side of one of the clothespins. He works the skin away from the jaws so less and less flesh is being pinched, and the pain climbs to a sharp climax as the pin pops off. He puts his fingers along another pin. "What did you write on the paper?" he says finally, softly, and then begins pulling the flesh from the second pin. I don't answer, of course, and the second pin pops off. He chooses a third clothespin and repeats the question. Again and again he asks, always the same words, always in the same soft voice. Again and again pins sting as they snap off my flesh. I remain silent. Suddenly, he removes the clover clamps. The rubber ends of the clamps release my nipples reluctantly. Just as the pain begins to fade, he turns the clamps ninety degrees and reattaches them, then returns to the clothespins. This time, he picks up one of the strings. "What did you write on the paper?" I don't answer, and he pulls the string. The clothespins attached to it fly off my body, leaving a streak of pain down the right side of my torso. My body pulls at the restraints, and more of the loose clothespins pop off. Sir picks up a second string. "What did you write on the paper?" I don't answer, and another row of clothespins rips from the inside of my left leg. Sir picks up a third string and asks again. I'm silent, and a row of clothespins is torn from the left side of my body, in a line of fire from my navel to my left armpit. "What did you write on the paper?" He's holding three strings. I close my eyes and don't reply. Nothing happens. I open my eyes, finally. Clothespins fly off my body like rats snapping at my flesh. "Fuck!" I say, as the pain ebbs. "It gets worse from here, boy. What did you write on the paper?" I shake my head in defiance, and he stretches my skin until all the clothespins are off, except the ones gripping the underside of my cock. He presses his fingers along the shaft. "What did you write on the paper?" "I'll never tell!" Sir's fingers tighten, the skin is pulled tight, and the clothespins fly. "I'll never tell!" I scream. "Enough of this foolishness," Sir snaps, holding a pair of alligator clips in front of my face. "Tell me, or these go on your tits." I am silent. I am terrified. The clover clamps come off, and I feel the sting in my tits as the blood supply is restored. What is Sir waiting for? Then, I feel his fingers squeezing my sore tits. "What did you write on the paper?" I am silent, and the alligator clamps bite into my tits. "Oh, god!" I hadn't expected so much pain. "What did you write on the paper?" "I'll never tell," I hiss. Sir holds up a large turnbuckle with screw eyes on each end. He sets the turnbuckle on my chest and ties one of the alligator clips to each screw eye. He tightens the turnbuckle, and the screw eyes move closer together, tugging at the alligator clips. "What did you write on the paper?" I press my lips together and shake my head. Sir turns the thing again, pulling the clamps closer. My nostrils flare as I pull air in, holding my mouth shut. I shake my head again. Another turn. And another. "I'll never tell!" I scream. Sir moves his hand to my balls, strikes them. "What did you write on the paper?" I shake my head, frantically. Sir strikes my balls again. I shake my head. He moves away from the table and returns with some lube. He begins to stroke my dick. "Think," he says, "Think of how much worse the pain will be after you cum. You should try not to cum." At the same time, his hands are working some sort of diabolical magic on my shaft. "What did you write on the paper?" he asks. He's right, of course. Whatever he does after I cum, even if it's exactly what he did before, is going to hurt much more. How much time have I got left? Is it worth being pounded with the slapper? I'm screwed. Don't cum. Don't cum. "I'll never tell!" He wipes his hand on my leg, then adjusts the turnbuckle to pull the alligator clips tighter. "Oh, god!" I can stop this. I can say, "Harry, it's too much!" any time. Or I can hold out a little longer. How much time is left? Did the damn timer already go off and neither of us heard it? Sir is massaging my cock and balls again, and it feels wonderful--but I can't cum. Not with my tits like this. Not with whatever else he's got planned. "Have you ever been sounded?" "Huh?" "Has anyone ever put a metal shaft into your penis? Like a catheter?" "N-no, Sir." He teases my piss hole. "I have some. Real thin ones, all the way up to almost finger-sized. What did you write on the paper?" "I'll never tell." I'm suddenly terrified. I'm trying not to cry. He's stroking my shaft and squeezing my nuts--hard. "What did you write on the paper?" "I'll...oh, god! I'll never--" Despite everything I can do, my cock explodes. Cum flies everywhere, splashing down on both of us. For a moment, I'm lost in the feeling of release, and it's like there's nothing but his hand and my cock. The timer goes off, and Harry's loosening the alligator clips. "This is going to hurt, I'm afraid. Ready?" "Yessir." I'm not, really but--my chest is on fire! "I'll never tell, I'll never tell, I'll never tell," I'm screaming, then weeping. Sir releases my hands, then the harness on my cock and balls, and finally my feet. Then he's hugging me and I'm crying into his chest. "We're done, Fred. It's all right. It's all right. You won, Fred. You're not a beginner any more. It's all right. Just breathe. Just breathe." I gradually regain control over my body. I look down at my tits, expecting to see blood and hanging flesh, but there's nothing but red skin, and rows of redder dots. "I've got some aloe in the cupboard. It will help with the pain. Can you sit for a--" "Don't leave me! Hold me a little longer. Please? Sir?" I'm begging him, I'm actually begging him to stay. "I won't leave, Fred. I'll stay right here as long as you need. You did damn well, for the first time. You are hot!" The world is beginning to seem normal, again. "Really, Harry--Sir?" "Just Harry, Fred. Yes, really. You did great, holding off like that! I'm...amazed." "I didn't, though." I smile. "That's what I wrote on the paper: 'I'll never tell.' I wanted to be sure I could-- would...make it through, one way or another." "Damn you," Harry laughs. "You've got balls, but you're a dumbass!" "Yeah. My sister got the brains." And everything is normal again. Harry helps me off the table. I'm pretty wobbly, but feeling stronger by the minute. "You had enough? Ready to go upstairs? I've got a guest room. You can sleep it off." I'm surprised at his offer. "Are we done?" "It's up to you, Fred." "You didn't...I point to his cock. "You want to fuck me? Make me give you a blow job?" He smiles. "Yeah," he admits. "But if you're pooped..." "What's that, Sir?" I point to the modified weight bench against the wall. I already know the answer. "You sure?" "Please? I want you to fuck me. I mean, I'm all clean and everything, you know?" "Okay, stud." He picks up the chain. "I'll have to take this off, if you want the whole package." I run my hands around the collar. "Can we wait until...I don't want to be free, yet." "Your wish is my command," Harry laughs. He holds the chain and leads me over to the bench. "Pull it away from the wall, slave!" "Yes, Sir." I pull it away from the wall. "Further!" His voice fills the dungeon. "I want to be able to walk all the way around it, slave!" "Yessir." "Lie down. Cock and balls hanging in the notch." He points at one end of the bench, and I take my position, gasping as my tits touch the surface. "Problem?" and he's immediately Harry. "Tits." "Be right back." He returns moments later with a small jar. I stand, straddling the bench, and he takes a finger full of some sort of goo. "Relax. It may be a little cold, but you'll start feeling better right away. It's aloe." He spreads it gently on my tits, and they actually do start feeling better. I get down on the bench again, and feel only the pressure, not the stinging pain. "How's that?" Harry whispers. "Wow! Miracle goo!" "Aloe, Fred. Native American remedy. It's actually from a cactus." He wraps a heavy leather strap around my waist, then guides my legs into position and secures my ankles. I'm actually almost kneeling on two cushions, and my legs are spread wide. Then he's doing something with my cock. It feels like he's strapping it into the notch. No way my nuts are going anywhere. "You're bound, now--can't get away. So I'm taking the collar off." He works quickly, and there's another collar around my neck almost immediately. This one is rigidly attached to the bench and holds my head in place. "There. Happy?" "Yes, Sir." "You are insatiable, boy." "Yes, Sir." Harry squats down to secure my wrists at the bottom of the bench's legs, almost to the floor. Then he stands in front of my imprisoned head, and my Master is looming over me. "Okay, you little fuck. I'm horny as hell, and you're going to do something about it!" "Yes, Sir." He stands in front of me and grabs my hair. "Open up! And I better not feel any teeth!" He plunges his cock into my mouth. "Suck me, you little whore!" My poor dick is beginning to get hard again, which is amazing. But it's time to pay attention to Sir's rather impressive cock. It's fatter than any other I've encountered, and long enough to hit my gag reflex well before Sir's crotch hits my face--an easy six inches, and probably more. There's only one way to find out, so I get down to business. Sir is almost gentle, at first, exploring. Then, he begins to pick up a little speed, and goes deep. The collar keeps me from moving my head much, so I'm at his mercy. Pretty soon, he's playing my mouth like he's known it for years, and my cock is definitely reacting. I try to hump it a little, but it's trapped. Damn! Sir pulls out. "You want more, cocksucker?" "Yes, Sir." "Beg for it, then!" "Yessir. Please, Sir, may I suck your beautiful cock, Sir?" "What are you, punk?" "Um...your slave, Sir?" "And who owns you?" "You do, Sir." "So whose mouth is that?" "Please, Sir, may your slave use this mouth to suck your cock, Sir?" "That's better, slave! And start calling me Master!" "Yes, Master!" I stretch my head toward his cock, reach for it with my tongue. "Nice, slave. You want this cock, don't you?" "Oh yes, Master! Please rape this slave's face with your gorgeous cock!" Part of me is worried that I've gone a little far, but Master is smiling. He waves the shaft back and forth, slapping my face, while I try to get it into my mouth. Eventually, he lets me catch it, then plunges deep, well into my throat. "Oh god," I'm thinking, "don't let him cum yet!" His shaft feels huge, and I can't wait to feel it in my ass. "Yeah! That's not bad, cocksucker!" Master pulls out, and tips my head back so it's tight against the collar. "But you've got another hole for me, don't you, slave?" "Yes, Master. Please fuck this slave's asshole, Master." "Sure you can take it?" "I don't have any choice, Master. Please be gentle--I mean, if you want to be, Master." Master laughs, and gets between my legs. "Relax your hole, slave! Time to open you up!" His fingers grab the butt plug and start to pull. I manage to relax my hole. He keeps pulling. "Shit it out, asshole!" And then, miraculously, it's out! "Thank you, Master!" I say, through the pain. Then, to my surprise, he's tonguing my hole. "Oh, Master! Thank you, Master. That feels...that makes your slave feel so good! Oh, yeah, Master. Fuck that hole, please. Your slave begs you to fuck that hole!" My imprisoned cock and balls are getting desperate. In response, Master slaps my left cheek and shoves some lube into my asshole. He holds my legs as he gets into position and guides his shaft into place. Then, he starts pushing. I relax my hole and feel it easing in, then feel the bulk of it stretching me wide. I want to push back against him and take the rest of it in, but I can't. I'm helpless, again. "Yeah, cunt! Take it!" Master drives his pole deep into me, and my poor dick gets hard as a rock. He's slow and steady at first, almost all the way out, then all the way in, back and forth. And then his crotch is starting to slam against my cheeks, and somehow he's going even deeper, and I'm groaning with lust. He picks up his pace, grabs the strap around my waist for more leverage. He's doing it: he's raping me, taking my hole, possessing it, like a slave's hole should be, owning it! I want to cum, I'm aching to cum, but my cock is locked down, trapped. "Take. My. Cock!" he commands, a powerful thrust accompanying each word. "Take. My. Cock. You. Damn. Slave. WHORE!" and wave after wave of juice pours into me. "Thank you, Master! Thank you, thank you!" I cry, more animal sounds than words, and despite the impossibility of moving my cock, it shoots. It shoots so hard I swear I can hear my cum striking the floor. And then Master is on top of me, panting, and I feel his hair-covered chest muscles on my back, and at last feel his shaft slowly sliding out of my hole. For a short while, we simply lie there, his weight holding me down while my heartbeat gradually slows to a normal pace. And I can feel Harry's heart doing the same. "Oh, my god! Fred, your ass is incredible." "So's your cock, Master Harry." And we untangle ourselves, and Harry releases me, and we climb upstairs like it was a mountain and collapse together on his bed. "Well, Fred, what'd you learn about yourself?" "That I'm a bottom, but I already knew that, and that I'm not really into pain, or maybe I am if the Top is hot enough and knows what he's doing--" I snuggle, pressing my face into Harry's armpit. "And that I really like chains, and mostly being helpless. Oh! And being on my knees naked in front of a guy in leather, licking his boots. That's fun, too. And cuddling, after." "Well, Fred the beginner--no, Fred the hot bottom!--I think you are going to make someone a hell of a lover." "Someday...You know, there's room for a sling down there." I really like the sound of Harry's laugh.