| The Outlaw's Revenge | ||
| He was a fucking asshole.
Fortunately that was precisely what I was looking for. I have to say that I had very strong doubts about whether to tell you any of this. In the first place, what I did was wrong, however it may have turned out; there’s no getting around that. I acted in exactly the depraved fashion that I’m always telling the public we leatherfolk don’t. So, as much as I know you’ll enjoy hearing what happened, don’t ever follow my bad ex-ample. If I ever find out that you did, I’ll hunt you down and kill you. (Just kidding. But don’t.) If he had insisted firmly enough I would have had to let him go. If I had later found myself doing life for kidnapping I would have had no reason to complain. The fact that things didn’t turn out that way doesn’t make any of it right. As it happens, though, things didn’t turn out that way. A lot of leather bars have had a dismal comedown in the last few years. Even as the style has become trendy with all the sweater queens and disco bunnies, the number of leather brothers seems to be decreasing. I’d rather see my bars move toward the mainstream than fold, but it’s dishearten-ing. When I started seeing more vanilla boys than leathermen, and even a sprinkling of TV’s, I said to a manager I knew, “When this place is 100% tourists, they won’t have any reason to come here any more.” He shrugged and agreed, but we both realized there wasn’t much of anything he could do about it. I’ve always recognized that we have an obligation to do a certain amount of community education, and I’ve spent a lot of time patiently talking to nervous or disdainful or impudent civilians. It isn’t very rewarding. And I guess my annoyance was starting to get to me. He was a good-looking boy, and trading on the fact, and fairly drunk. He had walked by me, reached up to pat my cap, and told me I looked really hot. I was actually surprised; I hadn’t realized how far things had come. Since he was drunk, I gave him one chance to get away safely. Of course he mistook my restraint for acceptance, and a few minutes later he’d made a circuit and was back. “God, you’re hot. Don’t you want to take me off to your dungeon and fuck me?” He batted his vacant blues and flashed an orthodontic smile. He was totally smitten with himself, and took it for granted that I was too. “Maybe.” I decided that I was going to do just that. I don’t know why it happened to be this particular airhead that pushed me over the edge; just his good luck, I suppose. For the first time in a very long life in leather, I was going to take a man by lies and force, and act out all those fantasies of rape and violation that my brothers and I never allowed in our real play. He and his goddamned sisters had decided that they wanted to enter our world. Well, I was going to honor that request. It wasn’t hard to play him, despite my lack of experience. I decided that it would be enough if I could get him into my van, although I’d rather keep conning him until I had him in the house. All I had to do was to let him think that I was as enraptured by him as he was. He was a standard surfer clone—I had an impulse to look for the line the mold had left. I knew that his friends and his tricks were always assuring him that he could model underwear or do porn films, and he’d never doubt them. He was perhaps five foot seven and compensating. The blond hair was mid-length, carefully arranged to look spontaneous. The chest and belly looked good; no doubt he spent a lot of time on them. His shirt was unbuttoned, and I smiled at him as I pulled it open for a look. He proudly tight-ened the abs. The nipples were adequate. (I hadn’t yet given any thought to how long I was going to keep him, but I was certainly going to see that they grew substantially.) I was pleased with the fair skin; it should take a beautiful whip mark. I could already picture an intricate pattern of welts along his belly, ass, and thighs, and I started really warming up to this project. He was pushing his basket for all it was worth, but it remained unimpressive; not that I cared. I was hoping for low hangers, but we’d see. “You’re a very good-looking boy.” He preened fatuously. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a leatherman. Have you had much experience in the scene?” He leaned into me and clumsily patted my chest for emphasis. “Honey, I’ve had experience with everything!” “So, what kind of scene do you prefer?” “Oh, I like lots of leather and chains and chaps and dildoes. I’m really into it.” “I see.” I realized that I’d better head him out before he passed. “Would you like to see my dungeon?” He stretched up to whisper in my ear, although it came out in normal tones. “Yes! Let’s go there and you can take my clothes off and we’ll lie on the floor and 69 in the dark!” “You’d better not drive. Why don’t you ride with me, and I can bring you back for your car after-ward.” His eyes narrowed, so I gave his crotch an easy squeeze and turned on the smile again. “I’ll bet you’re really something in a scene.” This was what he expected. “You’re sure right about that, Sweetie! Come on, and I’ll show you some action you’ll never forget!” He passed in my van and lay slumped awkwardly against the door, snoring and dribbling. The tobacco reek from his breath, skin, and clothes revolted me, but I took pleasure in picturing him quitting cold turkey. I was very gentle as I helped him out and into the house. I didn’t want him coming fully awake; he was easier to handle this way, and he’d have no idea of where he was. So far, so good. The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had endured as best I could. I wished I had a cap and bells to plant on his head. I brought him down to my blackroom and stripped him. I put an air mattress on the table, got a blanket, and got him settled there without really waking him. Before long he was out cold again, and then I manacled his wrists and ankles, leaving enough rope so that he could move around a little. Once I had him trussed I set up the camcorder and microphone, turned up the lights just enough to be able to see him, and left him to sleep it off. He wouldn’t know it, but I’d be keeping an eye on him to make sure that he was OK. (He wasn’t exactly a careful drinker. Among other possibilities I could picture him heaving and starting to drown in his own vomit.) He had never really woken up after he nodded off in the truck. I knew that he wouldn’t have a clue to where he was or how long he’d been there. The soundproofing had never really been tested, but I was confident it would hold. I went to bed happy. We were going to have a good time over the next day—or maybe week, or longer. He slept about six hours, longer than I’d expected. I spotted him on the monitor when he woke up, trying to stretch and discovering his bonds, and then I heard the predictable routine: uncertainty, fear, rage, and panic. I suppose it wasn’t the ideal environment to nurse a hangover. He didn’t strike me as very articulate; get most men scared and pissed off and they’ll do a hell of a lot better. I let him go on until he worked his way back to an exhausted silence before I went down to say hello. I opened the door very quietly and stepped in, taking a position over the head of the cot. He jumped when he realized that I was standing there watching him. “What the hell’s going on here? Get me out of these ropes, you crazy fucker!” “Gee, don’t you remember? You wanted to come and play with me in my blackroom. And here you are.” “You fucking psychopath! Get me the fuck out of here! I’ll have you busted, you crazy bastard! And where the fuck are my clothes?” He strug-gled uselessly with the ropes. I wondered if he was dumb enough to think that he was going to get anywhere by tugging on them. I waited patiently until his shouting, swearing, arguing, and then pleading dribbled down to silence again. Then I slowly and deliberately slipped off my belt and let him have one really hard, right across the belly. That started him up again, and once again I let him talk himself out. It was funny in its own way. He wasn’t quite sure whether to threaten me or bargain with me, and the way he kept veering back and forth between the two neither one was very convincing. He seemed to be surprisingly slow to appreciate his position. I didn’t move or say a word or change my expression. When he finally ran out of steam I paused for a moment, looking him over dispassionately. Then I just waded in and kept at him, working his belly and his tits and the insides of those beautiful thighs. He danced around like a shrimp on a grid-dle, and between the pain and the fear he pissed all over himself. Before long there weren’t any words left in his screams. I was having a really good time. I kept it up until I’d fully indulged myself. It was all a new experience for him, of course, and he got really punchy on the mix of adrenaline and endorphins. Good. He was starting his education before he even knew it. When I finally stopped, he kept screaming for a bit and then just stared at me glassy-eyed in a terrified and very focused silence. I smiled broadly at him. “I’ll be back. Don’t go ‘way,” and I left him there and went to fix his break-fast. The first time I set him down in front of his bowl of Alpo he refused to eat it. (I suppose the silly twit might have thought that he couldn’t possibly do it.) I didn’t give him time to mull it over. I strung him up, whipped his ass raw, and left him to fast for another two hours. I guess he’d given the matter some thought while he was waiting. The second time he pushed his face right into it and lapped it up with an air of grim determination. He couldn’t use his hands; for mealtimes I put mitts on them and fastened a two-foot steel bar between his wrists. (For safety’s sake—my safety—I ran a short tight bungee cord from the middle of the bar to his balls.) I had lightly salted his Alpo, and he innocently and greedily lapped up the water in his dish both times that I refilled it. Then I strung him up again. I had found that I liked him vertical. Maybe he wasn’t that dumb to begin with, or maybe his adventures were sharpening his wits. His eyes widened in sudden understanding as soon as I took out the catheter, and even before I slipped it in and clamped it he was squirming in anticipation of what was coming. I popped in a pair of earplugs, just for effect, and left him in the dark to ponder his slowly distend-ing bladder with no distractions. Then I started trying to plan a training program. I may have been act-ing crazy, but I wasn’t too far gone to be thinking about him the way that I would about any other slave. It was hard for me, though, because ordinarily I would never have taken in a silly bimbo like him to begin with. All my other boys had been committed to their own training, and had been carefully screened before we started. What could I list as his good points? Excellent body. Understands basic English. He was the most sorry-assed excuse for a slave that I could imagine, not that I’d given him much opportunity to prove himself. And yet...If he was so hopeless, why was I so wrapped up in him? I hadn’t forgotten the revenge that had been my only reason to bring him home. Oh, yes, he was going to learn better manners. But there was something more. A little lesson in etiquette hardly warranted putting my balls on the chopping block. Why had he made me act so crazy? Was he the real thing, and deviously setting me up to give him the rough ride of his dreams? No way. He was the flaky Twinkie he seemed to be, and nothing more. But still...I see now that a Master and slave might have started a con-versation between us that neither of us was yet aware of. Whatever. Regardless of the metaphysics, it was time to check up on him. OK, I screwed up a little on my timing. By the time I got back his bursting bladder was sending his body into spasms, and when I released the clamp he screamed through his gag as the flow started. I drained him into a large can, and he almost filled it. When he was done I took out the gag and raised the can to his mouth. He had enough spirit left to try to refuse it; he clamped his lips together and screwed his eyes shut tight, waiting to get hurt. But I merely shrugged and said mildly, “It won’t taste any better cold”—the usual line, but he wouldn’t have heard it before. At that he lost it completely, as I had hoped he might. His eyes gushed out a stream as thick and hot as the piss he had just pumped through the catheter, and he started howling as if I’d just shot his dog. I tilted the can up to his lips, and he gulped it down without a struggle between gasping racking sobs. He really was pathetic. He sounded utterly forlorn, and I couldn’t help remembering how hopelessly out of his league he was. Thank God my bottoms never find out what an easy touch I really am. I was perilously close to spoiling him, but I was damned if I’d throw away everything that I’d worked and he’d suffered for. I tossed the dregs in his face and left him hanging in the dark, wailing like a cat in heat and stinking of his own piss. I let him marinate for a good long while before I went down to clean him off. As soon as the spray from the hose hit him he started mumbling “Thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir,” over and over like a mantra, and when my hand got close to his face he pushed forward and tried to lick it. We seemed to be making progress. I decided it was time to take him through his next hurdle. Laymen just don’t appreciate the fine judgment that a top needs, or the hazards that we expose ourselves to. He may have seemed to have caved in, but I was wondering if I was going to get my cock bitten off. I had estimated the odds and decided against the orthodontist’s wedge that would have kept him from closing his jaws, and he turned out to be OK without it. He was badly in need of a little comfort by now, so I presented it as a reward, and it did soothe him when he wasn’t getting punished for fucking up. I kept an impassive face, but I wasn’t rough with him. I toweled him off and then untied him and sat him down at my feet. I shucked my jeans and pushed his face into me, and he got right to work. I put my hand on his head, gently, and he started shaking and crying, although he had enough sense not to stop. I let him go for a while. When he was racked so hard he was struggling to keep his balance, I picked him up and cradled him in my arms. I pushed his mouth onto a nipple, and he latched onto it like a starving runt. I kept him there until he got most of it out. When he was down to a soft whimper I put him down again and he got back to work. He tongued my crotch slowly and thoughtfully; it took him a full five minutes to do my fork and balls. When he finally got to the tip of my shaft, I took his head, firmly but not violently, and fed him. After not too much time and coaching he was kissing hair. When he’d gotten me off to my satisfaction I picked him up again and carried him up to the kitchen, where I deposited him on a blanket in the cor-ner while I got his supper; he curled up and kept quiet just as I wanted him to. When I put down his water dish he gave me a quick anxious look, but he kept his mouth shut, so I didn’t punish him. He emptied it and licked his food dish clean. I wiped his face off with a warm facecloth and then took him to the john and sat him on the pot. I gave him plenty of time. When he was done I wiped him, carried him into the bedroom, and put him down on the rug at the foot of my bed. “Get some rest; you’re going to need it.” He grabbed my legs and started babbling. “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. Oh, please, Sir, can i be your slave? i mean really, Sir, i want to serve you and be your boy and do whatever you want and...” Without a word I picked him up, sat on the bed, pulled him over me, and gave him twenty hard ones. He whimpered, and screamed a few times toward the end, but he didn’t try to talk any more. When I was done I pushed him down onto the rug again. He bowed down and licked my boots. I chained his collar to the foot of the bed and left him there. I went back and gave him his enema at 23:00. I kept at it until he was passing a clear fluid. He got whipped for not holding it as long as I wanted, but otherwise everything went normally. He was obviously puzzled when I chained him back up by his rug and left him there. I came for him around midnight; he was dozing. I unhooked him and threw him over my shoulder and carried him down to the blackroom. I had the sling set up and the gloves and the Crisco laid out, and a plastic tarp on the floor to catch his drippings. He knew what was coming, and he whim-pered and clung to me as I tied him into the sling, but he didn’t plead or try to fight me. I started with a long, slow, carefully paced whipping. He was be-wildered that it wasn’t hurting more, but I think he was learning to go with the flow. I got him on a good strong endorphin high before I slipped on the gloves. I had no idea how much experience he had, and didn’t really care, but I went slowly and massaged him thoroughly as I went. I was going to teach him to beg for it. He got hard before I had three fingers in, and I paused from time to time to slap his cock around, which only stiffened it more. No matter how slowly you go, it’s painful—and scary—the first time you open a boy up. He knew that it was going to happen and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. I considered giving him a few breathing lessons, but I had my limits. He was going to submit to me on his own, with no more coddling. As I pushed my knuckles through, his face got really white and he clenched his teeth. I didn’t pause that long before continuing, but he was rock hard again when I started the final push. He screamed as I forced myself into him, but by God he was straining his legs open and thrusting against me to take it. I could see how surprised he was when I slid in and the pain abruptly subsided down to the background. I worked him a long time, carefully and thoroughly. I counted three times that he shot over the next two hours, but that wasn’t that important. I could see from his face that he’d found that place outside time and fear and pain and his own body. He gave himself up to me voluptuously and serenely, with all his petty silliness cleaned away. I was as far as a man could get from the anger I’d felt. I stayed bonded with him and kept him on his quest until I came back to myself a little and realized that his beginner’s body was reach-ing its limits. I took him down the way I’d taken him, slowly and carefully. The bliss on his face fed mine. I was ready to put a hand on his mouth to keep him silent, but I didn’t need to. I wiped him off and picked him up and brought him to the john and bathed him and dried him and took him to bed. He slept in my arms like the dead, but his hands never left my chest and my crotch. I lay there trying to think while he slept. Where did we go from here? Obviously I had to throw him back. I might have been pleased with myself over his progress (and I was), but of course I didn’t have the resources to keep him, and he had to have some kind of life with family and buddies and a job and such. I tried without much success to tell myself that I didn’t give a damn what the experience had done to him. So what if he’d tasted bliss, as he certainly had? You don’t become an Olympian your first day in the pool. He might remember it for a long time, and even try to recreate it with a string of would-be Masters, but he was still a dumb Twinkie; that hadn’t changed in one night. Of course I had another worry to entertain me: Would he finger me when I let him go? I had no idea, and I certainly couldn’t blame him if he did. I developed a lively appreciation of how thoroughly I’d fucked up. What sweet irony if I did twenty to life with a cellmate I couldn’t fight off. So I had to let him go. I did decide that he wasn’t going to know it un-til it happened. In the morning I fed him, got him dressed, and tossed him in the van. He had timidly started on me about what he could do for me in the way of housework and personal service, but I wasn’t even interested enough to discipline him, and he eventually shut up on his own. He was sniveling as I drove him back to the bar. I guess I really am a sadist; when we got there and he begged me to keep him, I kicked him out. I caught a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror as I left, sitting hunched over on the front step crying. He was still sitting there when I swung back around half an hour later. I pushed the passenger door open and whistled, and his frantic rush into the cab did credit to his training, and to his motivation. I pushed his face into my crotch and snapped his collar back on as he got to work. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with a live-in slave; the little bastard is going to have to find ways to make himself useful, and even so it won’t be easy to keep him. As Portnoy’s mother said, the trouble with me is, I’m too good. |
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