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JUNE 2005

Cruel Fate

By David C.

I noticed him right away because of his sneakers. I always notice sneakers—not in a good way.

"Hey," he said, raising his half-empty beer bottle and tipping it to me. Thin wrists, good manicure, clean shave. He smiled a little, perfect teeth unnaturally bright in the blacklight. Preppy haircut. Trying too damn hard to look like Tom Cruise did in 1984. Sweatshirt, clean designer jeans, nice and neat. What the fuck is he doing here?

"Hey," I responded and kept walking without breaking stride. I made sure to step on his toes with my heel as I passed. Didn't bother looking to see the shock on his face. Take a note, asshole: get some steel-toes. You need steel-toes in this bar, or at least some good engineer or combat boots. That's the minimum. I'll respect bare feet, but not fucking sneakers.

"So who's your friend?" the bartender asked me.

"I dunno, some kid. Whiskey water," I said.

He got a glass and started pouring. "College kid?" he asked.

"Probably. I said one word to him, that's it," I said, picking up my glass. "Ain't gonna bother with a tourist." I took a sniff. "Put some whiskey in this, man."

The bartender grinned and poured the whiskey in to overflowing. "He comes here once in a while. Could be worse; he could be wearing rayon."

I slapped a five down and started another circle of the bar. It was just early autumn, still warm, warmer with the forest fires outside the city. Still, nearly every guy had a leather jacket and chaps, some full leather trousers. Lots of hats, too, despite the heat; shiny-brimmed commander's hats and black leather ball caps. And hankies, of course. Lots of light-blue rights, of course. Lots of dark-blues and reds. The occasional gray. Fewer yellows than usual for a Friday. The same guy with brown-right who goes home alone every night. More than a few with red in both pockets; they'd fist themselves if they could, I'm sure.

And me? Black left. Bare headed, thinning, touch of gray. Sleeveless leather shirt under my biker jacket. And I was wearing my well-worn leather trousers with the snap-off codpiece. And a cigar, smoked down to a nub in danger of lighting my bushy beard. Touch of gray there, too; I was nearing forty-five then. The black hanky in the left pocket was serious, by the way. No backrubs tonight; I was out to make some marks. I'd get some negotiations, of course, especially from the gray-rights. Negotiations always came down to one point: can't you just tie me up and skip the rough stuff? My answer was always, No, tying you up is just the beginning. They'd move on to their next mark pretty quick. The conversation floated along the same themes all night; anyone who wasn't talking about the forest fires was trying to size someone up.

About an hour later, as I was watching a pool game, the kid glided up beside me, silent in his sneakers. His beer was about a third full. I was on my fourth whiskey.

"Busy night," he said. Sharp consonants; he must've taken a speech class. You could hear him plainly over the murmurings around the pool table.

"For a Friday," I replied, without turning my head. The shooter sank the two in the corner.

The kid extended his hand. "I'm—"

"Quiet," I said. The shooter tried to bank the six, and missed cleanly.

"So what are you into?" he asked, trying to lower his voice below the din. Not trying hard enough. Drawing attention.

I took a quick drag on the cigar and turned to him, so I could puff a little smoke in his face as I answered. "I'm flagging black left. You know what that means?"

He shrugged.

"It means," I said, turning my attention back to the game, "that I'm out of your league." The shooter cracked the twelve into the side pocket.

"Oh. Riiight," he said, with enough sarcasm to save him some face.

"Where's your real bar? Your real hangout?"

"I . . . well, I go to all the bars," he sputtered.

"Sweater bars with ferns, right? Someplace to kill time before you hit the discos?" A pause. The ten ball rolled gently into the corner pocket.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.


"I'm on my fourth beer," he chirped. I glanced over; his beer bottle had the same corner torn off the label as the one he had an hour ago. 

"Great," I said.

"I guess I'm a little drunk," the kid said with a forced attempt at a laugh. A clumsy shot botched what should have been an easy sink on the thirteen ball.

"Uh huh," I said, more of a groan. The shooter set up his next shot.

"You know, I usually go for guys my age. I don't normally go for old guys like you. Not my type." The shot was too strong, breaking a knot of balls but sinking the eight. Game over.

I drained my glass, let the liquor warm up in my mouth a second, then spat the mouthful in his face. He shuddered a little, wiped his face, and stared at me in disbelief.

"Well," I said with a smile, "at least I can still make you moist." The crowd roared with laughter as I popped a new cigar in my mouth and the kid scattered off.

"Good game," I heard someone say as I headed off to circle the bar again.

After midnight, I switched over to plain water. I continued to circle. Same faces, same flags. Busy for a Friday, but not my sort of business. It was a tough work week and I was tired. I could hang it up for tonight, jack off if I wanted, and save the black hanky for the Saturday crowd.

I hit the john on my way out. Two free urinals, not counting the one blocked by the guy getting a blow job. I ripped off my codpiece and started the stream. Right on cue, it seems, a slender hand set a familiar-looking beer bottle on the urinal next to me and unzipped the fly of his designer jeans. His still-wet sweatshirt was tied by the sleeves around his neck.

"Man, what a night," the kid said. He barely dribbled anything into the urinal. He glanced over at me. At my dick.

The stream hadn't completely stopped when I turned to him abruptly. I think I got a few drops on his precious sneakers. "Why don't you just drop and suck it?" I said. It wasn't an invitation; it was a threat.

"I—I—" the kid stammered.

I shook the last drops into the urinal. "What the hell do you want?" I demanded as I snapped the codpiece back on. "You already said I'm not your type. You don't do a damn thing for me, either. Why the hell don't you drop it?"

"Well," he said, quickly zipping up, "I guess . . . I just . . . I must be really drunk, I guess. I've had six beers tonight. I never drink that much."

I reached over and picked up his bottle. Still a third full. "This is warm," I said. "It has the same corner torn off the label as the one you had three hours ago. You've been carrying the same damn bottle all night." I tossed the bottle in the trash and turned to leave.

"Could you drive me home?" he blurted suddenly. Oh, man, this was getting irritating. The guy getting blown chuckled in sympathy. I turned and glared at him. "I mean, you're leaving right now anyway, right?"

"Yeah, I'm outta here," I said.

"Would you drive me home? Please?" There was an earnestness about the way he said "please." But the kid still had an agenda.

"Sure," I said, and walked out. I didn't look back; I figured if he was serious, he'd follow me right to my truck without my encouragement. I was a little surprised when I got to my truck, turned, and saw the kid there. He looked older in the streetlight, for some reason. At least he was persistent. May be some potential here, I thought.

"You live in town?" I asked.

"Near campus," he said. So he is a college guy. "But . . ."

I arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"I was hoping to check out your place," he said, putting gravity on "your place." Yeah, like I'm going to let you into my playroom. You'd shit your pants before I got the first restraint on.

"No," I said bluntly and crushed out the last of my cigar on the pavement.

"But I'd really like—" He cut his sentence short. There was a car horn off in the distance.

I'd never played out of spite before. I'd never screwed anyone I had no respect for at all. But, I reasoned, he's obviously never done anything like I'm about to do to him. So this will be a new experience for both of us.

"You're not worth going to my place," I said plainly, lighting up a new cigar. "But I've got something else in mind. Know what I do? I'm an insurance adjustor. I go out and look at damaged houses for insurance claims. With the forest fires around the hills, it's been a busy week. But there's also no one around up there for miles. And I've got a spot in mind. It's about a half-hour drive. Hop in if you want; in the back, not the cab. You're not a passenger," I said, stepping in and slamming the door shut. "You're cargo."

I turned over the engine, and the truck roared with life. I was a little surprised when I felt his weight shake the truck as he tumbled in. The challenge, it seemed, was accepted. In no time, I was on the highway, heading for the dull red glow of the hills to the east.

The drive gave me time to collect my thoughts. At first I dreamed about seriously abusing the little fuck, maybe crack a rib, definitely beat his ass to the bleeding point. But then the words "Safe, Sane, Consensual" wandered back into my brainpan, and that wasn't really an option. So what would that leave? The kid probably just wants a hand job, I thought. That definitely wasn't gonna happen.

The glow became brighter as I hit the hills, like city lights on an overcast night. I checked the rearview mirror. I could see the kid in the fiery glow, huddled in the cargo bed, trying to keep warm. What was he doing in that bar, I thought. He wasn't just there to gawk, like I thought at first. No, he was doing some serious cruising. And he's pretending to be drunk so he can say later he didn't really know what he was doing. And he let an abusive stranger take him out of the city. So I reasoned he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe he was a danger freak. Either way, I'd put even money that he knew just what black-hanky-left means.

I pulled onto the forest roads, past the emergency markers. The going on these steep gravel roads was tough, anyway, but having them covered with ashes and charred bits of wood just made it tougher. The whole hillside was stripped of trees, with twisted, blackened stumps remaining. The whole countryside stank of smoke, and the odd black smoke cloud would roll through my headlights.

Finally I rolled up to the spot I had in mind. In its day, this was a steel-framed house, tall and proud. I'd assessed it two days ago as a total loss. All that was left was the frame, the concrete floor and a brick chimney in the far end. Its skeleton was silhouetted in the orange glow of the fires. When I cut the engine, I could barely hear the roar of the flames in the distance.

I grabbed three bags off the floor of the cab. One was empty. One held my dirty workclothes from earlier this evening. The third was the leather travel bag holding my tools of the trade. The kid was standing there dumbly as I stepped out of the truck. I pointed to the house's remains. "Move," I said. We walked carefully; God only knows what you could step on out here. The kid had to be really careful in his sneakers.

"Wow," the kid said. "There's nothing left up here."

"Yep," I said. "Total loss."

"These people lost everything." His sympathy seemed real.

"Yeah, fate's a bitch," I agreed.

"What will all these people do?" he asked, stepping onto the concrete.

"They'll do the best they can with what they've got." I stepped into what must've been the living room and set down the full bags, keeping the empty one in my hand. The floor had been cleared earlier this week, and it was still fairly clean. There were stacks of charred wood in one corner, propped against the naked steel frame. I tossed some in the fireplace and tossed my lit cigar in. The wood was dry to the point of being brittle, and caught fire quickly. The glow let me see the kid better; he looked anxious.

I tossed him the empty bag. "Strip," I said, "and put your clothes in the bag." He stared at me for a silent moment.

"I'd really—"

"Strip," I said again. "Strip completely, put all your clothes in the bag. That goes for your sneakers, too." Now there was real fear in his eyes, and he stood stiff and paralyzed. "It's not up for debate, asshole," I growled. "Do as I say, or you're on your own as far as getting home."

He finally bent over and started to untie his shoelaces. I let him take his time. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks. He slid off his jeans and his plain cotton BVD's, then pulled off his shirt and sweatshirt, and stuffed them all in the bag. The results weren't worth the wait. He was pretty thin, just about hairless, except for the dark smudge of his pubic patch. His dick was below average, his nutsack undersized. His chest was flat, almost hollow. No muscle tone; didn't do a hard day's work in his life. He'll need skills to compensate, I thought.

"So what do you think black-hanky-left means?" I asked. The kid shrugged.

I snapped my codpiece off and stuck it in my jacket pocket. My thick, nine-inch-uncut dick swayed as I clomped over to him. "Kneel, and get busy," I said.

"What?" he said stupidly.

"Suck my dick," I said. My nine inches almost brushed up against his sad little tool.

"I don't do that. I mean, I have to sing tomorrow."

I placed my right hand squarely on top of the kid's head and hardly needed to push to get him on his knees. My left hand squeezed around the base, swelling the shaft and making the scrotum seem huge. "Start sucking."

"I can't!" he protested. "I just don't do that with guys!"

"You do now, kid."

"No! I mean, I'm straight! Really!"

"You're so fucking drunk now, you don't know what you're doing. Right?"

"I'm . . . I can't . . ."

"We're alone up here," I said, more gently. "No one will see you, no one will know. And I don't believe for a second you've never done this. Do a good job, and you'll be rewarded."

The kid stared at the meat hanging in front of his nose. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, like a little kid eating something he hates. He opened his jaw wide and took about half the shaft in. It was the worst blow job I ever had; no suction, no tongue action, not even a lot of spit to help it glide. I could see him squinting in the firelight. I could feel him resisting. I placed a gloved hand over each of his ears and commanded him to hold still. I pulled his head onto my dick slowly. As the tip of his nose touched my thick pubic patch, his whole body shuddered and the horrible gurgling sound of the gag reflex rumbled strong enough for me to feel it. I let him off and he coughed horribly.

"Stop fighting this," I said. I crushed his face into my crotch. "Breathe," I said. The kid started panting, so I pulled his jaw shut. "Breathe through your nose. Deep. Get used to the smell." He breathed quick and sharp at first, trying not to breathe in the manscent. But he calmed down, his breathing slowed, and he moved his nose deeper into my bush, breathing deeply. I knew he was ready to continue when I felt some drool drip from the corner of his mouth and run down my dick.

"Better," I said. "Now start sucking again." He took the dick into his waiting, watering mouth. No resistance, but still no action. "Suck," I said, "clamp your lips shut and actually suck it. Use your tongue. Eat that dick." The kid was giving it the ol' college try . . . that is, doing such a bad job that only his lack of experience made it forgivable. A halfhearted back and forth motion was all he could manage. "Listen," I said, "focus on the head of the dick. When I pull out, poke the dickhead with the tip of your tongue. When I thrust, wrap the base of your tongue around it." He tried, and failed; too many instructions, I thought. And the gag reflex was still there. "Try to swallow it, right down the back of your throat. That'll keep you from gagging." I might as well've been speaking Greek, 'cause he couldn't do it to save his life. A tiny gag each time.

I'd really had enough when I felt his incisors lightly scrape my shaft. I pulled out and slapped him hard across the face. "No teeth, ever," I snarled. "That was a lousy job, kid. This ain't like blowing your dorm room buddies; I've got standards, y'know."

"I'm not in the dorms," he panted, "I'm in a frat. Alpha Pi Beta."

Good for you, I thought as I unzipped my leather bag. "We're gonna have to find something else for you to do. I can't trust you with a damn bit of responsibility." I noticed that there was a hint of hardness in the kid's cock.

"Couldn't . . . couldn't we just jack each other off?" he whined.

That ticked me off. "No, we're not going to just jack each other off," I said plainly. When I pulled two sets of steel handcuffs from the bag and the kid saw them glitter in the firelight, his eyes widened.

"No! No, you can't!" he yelped and tried to scurry away, barefoot and bareassed. I was on top of him in a flash. The kid really fought hard, trying to curl into a ball to keep his wrists free from those awful cuffs. But I'd been doing construction since before I was his age, and moved on to the real heavy work of clearing disaster sites after just a few years. The kid was helpless against my strength. I wrestled his right arm out from him and snapped the cuff around it. He whimpered pathetically as I dragged him over to the steel frame of the living room doorway. He howled with fear and shame as I locked the other end into the frame, leaving his arm hoisted above his head. He fought me again as I pulled out his left wrist and slowly ratcheted the cuff on, each click sounding out the loss of his freedom. He pulled down with all his might to keep me from locking the last cuff into the doorframe. His best wasn't nearly enough, and I had him secured and helpless in seconds. I stepped back and looked him over. His eyes were filled with terror, but his dick stood straight up against his groin, carved of stone.

"Aagh!" he cried, struggling against his bonds. "Let me go!"

"I like you where you are. You'll stay there 'til I say you can come down."

"Please!" he pleaded. "Let me go! I don't want to do this!"

I casually reached down and brushed a gloved finger on the moist tip of his cock. His whole body contorted in a wild spasm of pure pleasure. "You seem fine where you are."

He continued struggling. "Let me goooo . . ." he moaned, almost in tears.

I placed a gloved hand around his thin face and locked his eyes on mine. He froze. "The more you struggle, the more chance you'll have of hurting yourself." I narrowed my eyes. "One more time," I asked, "what does black-hanky-left mean?"

"I don't know," he cried, his voice ragged.

"I bet you do," I countered. I let go of his face and looked him over. With his arms stretched over his head, his nipples were stretched into neat brown ovals. I rubbed one gently with my leather-clad thumb and he bucked against his restraints. "You like that?" I asked.

"No!" he shouted, as a drop of his dick juice splashed into the ashes. "Playing with nipples is . . . that's something you do with girls!"

Christ, could the kid be more dense? I clamped my hands on his ribs and pressed my mouth against his right nipple. He let out a throaty gasp as I tongued it, running my nicotine-soaked taste buds over the nipple's virgin tip. When I sucked the nipple into my mouth and teased it with my canine teeth, the kid really lost control and kicked. Even if the kick had landed somewhere vital, it wouldn't've hurt me, but I backed off just the same.

"Don't do that," he panted.

"You're not in charge here," I said. I went back to my bag. My leg cuffs weren't long enough for this job, so I brought out the leg irons. The length of chain barely cleared the edges of the doorway. The kid tried to fight as I locked the irons around his ankles, but he was exhausted from fighting off the handcuffs earlier, and he was pretty weak to begin with. I had him locked upright, spread-eagled and naked.

He looked at me with urgency. "Unlock me. Let me go. I want to go home," he said with a strained voice. His little cock was still standing at attention, the true barometer for the soul.

His pleading was music to my ears. "What was that?" I asked.

"I want to go home," he said patiently. Yeah, he actually said it. This was the moment I'd been waiting for.

I walked to the bags of clothes; the bag with my clothes and the one with his were identical. My workclothes were in rough shape; the pants were really filthy with ashes, and I'd torn my workshirt. I wouldn't miss them.

"You want your clothes?" I asked, holding the bag up to his face. I wished I'd had a camera to catch the look on his face when I tossed the bag into the fire. "Too bad," I deadpanned.

His whole body slackened with hopelessness as the bag burned, and I resumed our session right where we left off. I squeezed his ribcage and bore down on his nipple again. He moaned as I lightly rolled the skin between my molars, a moan of desperation and delight. He let out a sharp cry as I bit down suddenly with my canines, and continued to protest as I mashed up the tender, sensitive flesh in my mouth. Being trussed up like he was, there was nothing he could do about it, and his protests slackened as his strength ebbed. I moved to the other nipple and repeated the process. My one hand pinched his enflamed tit between my thumb and forefinger while my other hand moved to his back, caressing at first along the spine, then running along the sharp cleft of his ass. As I chewed harder, I started lightly slapping the asscheek, then spanked it with a brutal rhythm. I stepped back after a few minutes. His nipples were as swollen as his cock, and both pulsed visibly. Time for the big finish, I thought.

The winds had shifted, and the forest fires were making their way back toward us. They were approaching the foot of our hill, then could go no further; nothing left on our hill to burn. The roar of the flames grew louder, the light brighter. A pair of cargo helicopters clacked overhead, rushing water in a futile attempt to dowse the flames. I pulled off my jacket and stuck my gloves in the epaulet. I plucked a condom out of my pocket. As I rolled it onto my semi-erect dick, the kid was in a serious panic.

"No!" he cried. "No no no! I never— I can't do that"


"You're going to try to fuck me!"


"Guys can't do that! I can't— Help! Help!" he screamed.

"No one can hear you. Knock it off."

"Please!" he whined, his eyes really full of tears now. "Please don't! No one's ever— I can't do it!" For all his protests, his cock was still locked upright.

I pulled a bottle of lube from my bag and greased up my fingers, then his ass. Tight, but not impossible. He whimpered slightly, but his whimpering died down as my fingertip rubbed the candy button of his prostate. His cock dripped. I rubbed a generous portion of lube on my sheathed dick and pressed it against his hole. After a little maneuvering, the head got in. And that's when the kid really screamed. Not joy, not panic, just pain. I pulled out and checked his cock; sure enough, it had deflated a little. He grunted against the pain, and soon calmed down. This was going to be a challenge.

"So now we find the real problem," I said. "You want a dick up your ass, but you just can't deal with it."

"That's not what I want," he countered. "Only total fags want that."

"So what are you?" I asked and looked him in the face. "Your little dick tells me you're a fag."

"No," he grunted. "I'm a guy. I don't go for that."

"What're you so damn afraid of? You afraid your frat buddies will find out?" He looked at me in serious silence. "Let them find out. So what?"

"No," he said. "They can't ever know."

"They will," I said. "You think they won't know?" I placed my bare hand over his pubic patch and yanked hard. He gasped. "I've got some electric clippers in my bag. I could shave this off. How would you explain that to your brothers? Showing up in the showers with a shaved dick?"

He closed his eyes. "No. Please don't."

"See, if I fuck you, no one will know but you and me. But resist me, and I'll shave off that bush of yours. Then they'll all start guessing about you."

"I'm not a fag," he said quietly.

"Of course you're not." I returned to my bag and pulled out my traveling flogger, the 24" deerskin number. "Your problem is that your pain threshold is too low. A good beating will raise it, and then when I fuck you it'll be fun for both of us.

"No, nooo . . ." he moaned. But just looking at the flogger put some steel back in his cock. I started with two playful swipes against his swollen nipples, and his cock jerked upward in two stiff spasms.

I moved behind him and started swatting away on his back with an even, martial rhythm. He howled at first, but that was just distress; I knew I wasn't hitting him that hard. He calmed down after a few minutes; his resistance slackened and he soon learned to arch his back into the blows. After about twenty minutes of this, he was taking it like a pro. I picked up the pace slightly and laid into him harder, moving the blows to the small of the back and the buttocks. He adapted quickly, locking himself rigid against the flogger and relaxing in perfect sync. He grunted and groaned for the harder blows, but the grunts weren't driven by pain. He was crossing over, more quickly and completely than I'd thought possible. Heat and smoke rose up from the valleys. Sweat dripped off my arms and forehead. The sweat covering his pale skin glistened in the firelight. I got harder and harder watching him take the lash, anticipate it, live for it. The harder I slammed into him with the flogger, the more he threw himself into it. I considered having some fun with him, using something from my bag to mess with his head. Locking a collar around his neck. Snapping a parachute around his balls and stringing on weights. I could switch over to my steel-tipped cat and mark him up like I wanted.

No, I thought. Stay on target. Time for the big finish. I took one last crack at him with all my strength and wrapped the flogger around my wet neck. He panted, deep breaths of physical exhaustion. I squirted a big handful of lube into my hand and slapped it directly into his buttcrack. One quick stroke of lube on my raging hard-on, and I rammed myself into his ass with one stroke. He cried out; surprise, but not pain. I slapped my lubed hand against his chest and smeared it against his nipples. My clean hand locked against his moist forehead as I pulled his head hard against my shoulder and bit into his collarbone while I fucked him. Mindless, savage thrusts, straight up his tight, churning asshole. The winds picked up from the east and blew back the smoke, revealing hot yellow flames just a mile or so away. The heat went straight through us, the wind howled and the flames bellowed. I crushed myself against his body as it pulled against the restraints. The steel frame sagged slightly. With a few sharp thrusts up his ass, I started to jerk and shudder, the tip of my dick buzzed with sensation, and the dam holding my semen in burst, flooding his insides with hot lather. We roared in unison, roars of men falling down a deep, dark hole. Involuntary animal instinct, white-hot and all-powerful.

The winds died slightly, and the shifting smoke hid the flames as they consumed the last of the forest below. My dick eased out and slapped against my thigh. I peeled off the full condom and tossed it out. The kid hung slack in his bonds. I got him to stand upright to take the pressure off his wrists. I unclamped the leg irons first, then when I unlocked the cuffs, he fell to his hands and knees, staring forward blankly. As I unlocked the cuffs from the frame above his head, I saw what he stared at: a long, pearly trail of cum splashed on the sooty concrete shined in the dying firelight. Damned if I could tell what was going through his mind as he gazed at it.

I set his bag of clothes down next to him. "Get dressed," I said. I squeezed the last of the fluid out of my softening shaft and snapped my codpiece back in place. The kid still sat like a stupid animal. "They're your clothes. Go ahead and get dressed." Slowly, numbly, he started pulling out his clothes. As he dressed, I paced the blackened floor, gradually getting my senses back. Finally, he tied his sneakers and headed back for the truck without a word.

I let him in the cab this time. The clock said quarter past three; hardly any time, by my standards. It was a quiet drive. The kid just stared out the window for the ride home, saying nothing.

I knew where fraternity row was, and took the direct route. I stopped for a red light, the last traffic light before campus, on a dead-quiet road when the kid suddenly said, "That never happened before."

"What, the flogging or the fucking?"

"I never shot before," he said glumly.

"You mean, you never shot without anyone touching your dick?"

"I never shot before," he said, distressed. "Only when I jack myself off. Never . . . I've tried women and guys; nothing. Now . . ." His voice trailed off before returning with conviction. "You made me into a fag."

The conversation was more tired than I was. "Yeah, I made you a fag; fine." I thought about it, and the accusation pissed me off. I turned to him. "Didja think maybe the reason you never shot before was that what we did was what you really wanted? Deep down? or not so deep down? If I were you, I'd think about what I was doing in that bar in the first place. You knew what would get you off. You needed this."

He continued staring out his window. "I don't want to be like this," he mumbled.

"Well, that's a damn shame. But you are like this. You can fight it if you want, jack off every night and never try this again. But you'd never get off like that again. You can even be one of those tie-wearing respectable faggots. But you'd never really be okay with it, 'cause that ain't what you are."

"I just want to lead a normal life," he said.

"That's not the hand you were dealt. Deal with it." The light turned green and I pulled onto fraternity row. "Which was your house again?" I asked.

"Black-hanky-left means heavy sadist," the kid said, still looking out the window.

"Right," I said. "Did you know that back in the bar, or did you figure it out while I was beating you?"

He turned to me, stonefaced. "Why did you bring me out there?" he asked.

I pulled over and thought about it a moment. "I wanted to teach you a lesson."

"A lesson?"

"I wanted to grudge-fuck you. Abuse you. Teach you what flagging black means. But you already knew, didn't you?"

"How did you get into leather in the first place? Did someone teach you a lesson?"

"No," I said. "I just got into it. I'd always wanted to get into it."

"What if you didn't know that was what you wanted?" he asked.

I had to really think about this. "I don't know what I'd do," I said with dead honesty.

The kid looked out the window. "This is close enough," he said, stepping out of the truck. "Good night, sir," he said as he slammed the door and trudged off to one of the tidy, ivy-covered houses.

I got home, peeled off my leathers, toweled off and lay in bed drifting off to sleep before it occurred to me that I never told him to call me "Sir."

The kid never came back to the bar. I figured he'd tried out the leather thing and rejected it. The months turned into monotonous years. Four and a half years passed and as my fiftieth birthday loomed, I decided to go to Mid-Atlantic Leather in Washington. Seeing the hotel lobby packed wall-to-wall with leathermen is sure a sight for sore eyes. And that's where I saw him next.

He was in leather, of course. Baseball cap, shiny chaps hugging threadbare blue jeans, shiny engineer boots. Biker jacket tucked under an arm, black leather tank top. And a chain collar around his neck, held fast by a small padlock. He had a military buzzcut, a goatee and a little muscle tone, plus a hint of chest hair poking out. He was in close tow behind an older guy with only his face visible through his full leathers; a really rough-looking face. By pure coincidence, I was wearing the same sleeveless shirt and codpiece trousers from those years before. I was going to go have a chat, but I lost him in the crowd.

Late that night, I was in the D.C. Eagle, packed wall-to-wall with the M.A.L. crowd, when he came to me. He'd lost the jeans and wore a leather jockstrap with a detachable codpiece, a harness, and a studded leather brace around his right bicep. He had a silver 10-gauge horseshoe dangling in his right nipple. He also wore a thick leather collar with a "Master" padlock dangling down front.

"Hey," he said, tipping his half-empty beer toward me.

"Hey," I said. "It's been a while. What? three years?"

"Closer to five."

"You seem to be doing okay. I saw you in the lobby earlier with some guy."

"Yeah, he's here tonight. He gave me permission to come talk to you."

"I didn't see you 'round the bar at all. Back home, I mean."

"No, I didn't go back."

"In five years?"

"Well, I graduated. Moved on. Figured stuff out. You know." I nodded. "You still single?" he asked.

The question caught me off-guard. "Yeah," I said.

"Huh," he said, honest surprise, not mocking.

"You know, I never got your name, back then," I said.

He smiled slightly, then knelt before me and ripped off my codpiece. He sank my entire cock into his mouth effortlessly. Excellent suction, good use of the tongue, and jaw action without teeth. That was one well-trained mouth, with a good five-years experience going into that blow job. I heard him snap off his own codpiece. Then he hugged me around my legs, a codpiece in each hand as he rammed his face into my groin full-force. I strained to watch him in the dark red bar light. I breathed deep the bar smoke and started to groan. The crush of bodies was the only thing holding me up. I laid a gloved hand on each of his ears and started to facefuck him. He kept his throat muscles going full-tilt, no sign of gagging. I stiffened to the breaking point and abruptly shot, letting out a loud, dull growl as the crowd whistled and grunted in approval. I slowly relaxed and pulled out. He didn't lose a drop, sucked out the last of my balljuice and started snapping my codpiece back on. I looked down and saw a trail of spent jism on the bar floor pointing back to his semi-erect, clean-shaven cock. Once again, he'd shot without being touched. Impressive.

"Are you gonna be in trouble for that?" I asked, pointing to the mess he'd made.

"Naw," he said cheerfully, snapping on his own codpiece. "I can do that ten times a night . . . if my guy wants me to." He stood up, and we looked at each other with mutual respect. "Have a good weekend, Sir," he said.

"You too." He was lost in the crowd instantly. I looked for him, but he was well-camouflaged in the sea of black leather. There must've been a thousand guys packed in tonight. I was amazed he'd blended in so well. Five years ago, he was the odd man out. But he'd found his feet.

For some reason, I remembered something he'd said those years ago. "What if you didn't know that this was what you wanted?" I'd never thought about it. Not 'til now. I put my hands in my pockets and found a hole. I thought, it's time to retire these pants. Time for some new leathers.

Out of the crowd, I noticed a pair of eyes on me. A guy in his late twenties, wearing a thick gray sweater, slacks and fancy Italian shoes. Clean-shaven, with more gel than hair on top of his head. He smiled nervously, then turned to the bar.

I forced my way over in time to hear him say, "Another one of these," to the bartender, holding up an empty beer bottle.

I yanked the bottle from his hand and chucked it in the barrel. "Make that two whiskey waters," I corrected.

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This story originally appeared in the Spring 2002 issue of The Battering Ram, newsletter of the Rochester Rams, M.C. It is reprinted with permission of the author.

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Copyright © 2002 David C. All rights reserved.
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