In the Bar
You come in to the bar behind me, not looking up. As we pass the long
gantlet of at the bar, you glance up furtively, even though you've been
instructed not to make eye contact, but then quickly lower your gaze when
you notice one or two looking at your basket or ass. You're in ripped jeans,
so artfully ripped that there's more skin exposed than covered, especially
across your tight white butt. The black hanky tucked into your right jean
pocket does a better job of covering skin than the denim. A leather band
around your right wrist is carved with my name. Your T-shirt is just as
shredded under your leather vest, revealing the ring in your nipple, and
your hard-on is clearly visible in your jeans.
The hard-on is there largely because I've strapped you into a gates-of-hell
before we left the house - three rings around your cock, and straps that
encircle your nuts, making your scrotum hard and tight. The scrotal straps
are lined with small points, just sharp enough to dig in when you move. Your
thoughts alternated between lust and terror all the way here on the bike,
and each thought of lust made you a little harder, and the strap around your
cock kept you that way. I'd also jammed a medium-sized buttplug into your
ass after putting the gates on you, and then lifted your jeans and neatly
zipped you in, grinning at you. "This ought to make the bike ride more
interesting," I said.
So here we are. I settle onto a stool, order seltzer - you know I don't
drink - and motion you to sit, but you shake your head, blushing, as the
plug is still vibrating in your ass. "Sit down," I order you.
"Please, sir, no," you say, not wanting to struggle awkwardly onto the
barstool. This attracts the attention of the next to us, and they make a
few jeering comments about disobedient and whether or not your ass is
too sore to sit on. I freeze them with first a glare and then an evil grin.
"Actually," I say in an offhand way, "the hasn't been beaten for a
week. I've been so busy. I'm sure he's craving it by now. Is that why you're
disobeying me, boy? To me off so I'll beat the snot out of you?"
"No, sir," you retort, stung. "I-" I'd never do that, you almost say, and
then see the glint of humor in my eye and lower your head.
"Maybe you'd like to show the nice why you don't want to sit down?" I
ask, my voice first silk and then hardening into steel. "Pull down your
pants and turn around."
You hesitate - you figured we'd hang around enough for you to feel safer
before I start asking you to expose yourself - but then, accustomed to
obedience, you do it, unzipping your jeans. You cock springs out, stiff and
trapped in rings of metal and leather. You know better than to touch it in
front of me. Then, slowly, you turn around.
"Bend over and spread your ass cheeks," I tell you, casually. You do it,
showing off the black rubber end of the plug buried in your ass. There are
noises, chuckles and comments, from the men. One of them asks about getting
a piece later and I answer noncommittally, directing their attention to your
piercings and nice quadricep musculature. You're still in position, cheeks
spread, cock hard with the heat of the eyes on you. One walks around you
like he would a prize horse, and then asks to see your nipple ring. I yank
you up by the hair like I would an inanimate object - you know to keep your
hands clutching your ass - and show him, pouring a little cold seltzer over
your dick to make you squirm. It's freezing, and you cry out, but the blood
supply can't escape. I retreat to my barstool.
"All right," I say. "You don't have to sit on the stool. Pull up a piece of
floor." I motion to the not-very-clean tile at my feet. You look at it,
decide it's the better alternative, and lower yourself, gasping when your
bare ass hits cold floor. You curl up there, jeans down around your knees,
leaning against the barstool and my boot. I chat with the around us, and
at some point hand you down a beer, stroking your cropped head like I would
a pet.
More gather; you're looking through a forest of boots. Combat boots,
engineer boots, shiny and gleaming or crusted with the road. The around
you block out the light; they glance down at you, but otherwise ignore you.
I negotiate with them, using offhand jargon you hardly understand, and then
I reach a decision and rise, dislodging you. I snap my fingers and you're on
your feet. "Pull up your pants and come," I order, and you do.
We go into the back of the bar, to a darkened booth. The form a circle
around and behind you; you can smell sweat and leather and feel their breath
on your back. You glance at me, in front of you, meeting my eyes with
apprehension your spine feels and your cock does not. It's almost painfully
hard. "Strip," I tell you.
You do, shucking the boots and tattered jeans and T-shirt. The vest you
fold carefully, hand to me. The floor is cold under your bare feet, and you
shiver a little. "Get down," I say, with a flick of my hand, and you drop to
hands and knees on the tile, ass in the air like I like you to be. Like you
like to be. I walk behind you and prod at your taut ballsack with my boot,
and you gasp and bite your lip as I hit the tiny spikes in it. "I've been
telling these nice all sorts of good things about you," I say, my voice
dripping with evil. "I've been telling them that you're an excellent
cocksucker, and that you can take more pain than any of their boys. I've
told them that you love to be fucked. They have their doubts. Are you going
to prove it to them, or make a liar out of me?" My boot digs into your balls
again, and you shudder, gritting your teeth.
"I will - I mean I do, sir," you stammer.
"You do what?" I ask, amused at your confusion.
"I - I love to be fucked, sir. And I love to suck cock, and I'll suck
anyone's cock that you tell me to," you force out. My boot is still pressing
into the spiked straps, so you press back into it just to make a point. "And
I can - uh! - take more pain than anyone, sir," you say through gritted teeth.
One of the laughs, unpleasantly. "Boy's a bit too proud of himself,
there. Maybe he needs to be taken down a peg." They circle around you;
you're aware of all of them like a pack of wolves focusing on prey. You've
made me hard; my cock is straining against my pants, so I unzip and pull it
out.
"You can start now," I tell you. Taking your head by the hair, I jerk it up
and shove myself into your automatically-opening mouth, thrusting down your
throat until my balls slap against your chin. I fuck your face roughly,
watching tears run down your cheeks as you try to keep your throat open. Not
wanting to come yet, I pull out after a minute and sit in the booth,
dragging you under the table by your hair. It's dark under there, dark and
dusty, and you can't see anything, but you feel my hands on your body,
positioning you. "Turn around," I tell you, and you get your rump between my
knees. I pull out the buttplug and slide in my cock.
Your ass is warm and tight, and I yank you back and forth in the dim light,
enjoying the feel of your wet and clinging insides on my cock. I motion ot
another to sit oppposite me and he does, taking your chin in his hand
and guiding your mouth to his dick. We get a rhythm going, shoving you back
and forth on our cocks, pinned between them. He comes abruptly, shooting
come down your throat which you swallow, well-trained, and slides out, to be
immediately replaced by another who picks up where he leaves off. A
moment later I come in your ass and then pull out; you feel me moving away
but can't turn your head to plead with the large cock thrusting down it.
Someone else's knees slide in past your rump and a new cock is forced into
your ass, so fast that my come doesn't have time to leak out.
You lose count of the cocks after a while, down on all fours in the
darkness under the table. The world is reduced to the scratch of pubic hair
and the taste of come, the friction of dicks in your holes. Then, just as
you are sure your jaw is going to crack, both finish at once and I haul
you out from under the table, dusty and whimpering. I bend you over and slam
you down on it, shoving the buttplug back into your ass to keep you open and
seal in the come of half a dozen men. I spread your legs with the toe of my
boot, grabbing your still-hard cock. I know you can't come without something
touching it, and I know you're in agony from the tension, but I only give
you a few light, teasing strokes. You moan and cry out, clenching your fists
and beating them on the tabletop. We all laugh at your predicament, and then
you hear the click of a cliplink as I unhook my whip.
"Are you ready to get hurt, boy?" I say, running the braid through my
fingers. I didn't bring a cat, you know that. It's the signal whip, the
four-foot single-tail with the bloodstains on it; I've been carrying it
coiled up on my belt. I make a loop with it and slap it against my boot,
waiting.
"Yes, sir," you choke out. "Please beat me, sir!" You're ready, as I knew
you would be. You're trembling from wanting it.
"I don't have to tie you up, do I?" I ask you. "You'll stay right there
where you're told, won't you?" You nod, several times, quickly.
"Clear!" I say, and the circle of back away, out of your line of
vision. Suddenly it's just you and me again, you and me and the whip. I
crack it experimentally in the air, and you flinch. I laugh, and you flinch
again. Then just when you wandering if something is wrong, I let fly.
Crack! A white-hot line of pain sizzles across your ass, and you scream.
There is total silence in the bar, and you realize belatedly that everyone
must be watching you. Then the next stroke hits you, and you scream again.
There's no warm-up this time, no working you up with strokes of the cat,
just lightning strikes of pain that come too close together for you to take
a breath. You run out of breath, somewhere along the line, and you can't
even scream, just gasp over and over as the whip marks your back and ass.
Then, as quickly as it started, it is over, and you realize you are hugging
the table, panting.
I move closer, lean over you to hold you for a moment until your breathing
slows, and then I shove you back under the table again. You barely know what
hit you before another cock is shoved into your mouth. A hand removes your
buttplug again, and a cock fills your ass once more, and the parade resumes.
The beating was only an intermission. This time several of the cocks are
fresh from your own ass. You can't fast enough to take their come,
and by the time I drag you out from under the table again, you're dribbling
and smeared with it.
You're slammed down on the table again, your black-and-blue and dripping
ass shown off to the entire bar, and I judge you're loose and sloppy enough
to work with. I pull a rubber glove out of my pocket and snap it onto my
hand, and then begin to work it into your ass. Rivulets of come leak out
around my hand as I get all four fingers into you on the first try, then my
thumb a moment later. I your asshole out even more, feeling you
contract around my hand as my knuckles pass the sphincter, hearing you cry
out weakly, thrusting your hips vainly forward. I pull out, twist my hand,
and get my folded knuckles into your hole, and before you can cry out again
my fist is in you and you're impaled on my arm. You're writhing on it now,
moaning, your cock nearly purple with blood.
I begin to fuck you slowly with my left hand, but my right is fumbling in
my pocket for something else. I pull out my knife and it clicks open; you
hear it, and go completely still, which is an effort since I'm still
slamming into your ass. You bite down into your own wrist as I lay the knife
to your back and start to cut. The design is a spiral, done curve by curve,
marking over the scars of older, half-healed cuttings. Blood begins to
trickle down your sides, smearing on the tabletop. I lean forward, my hand
still jammed in your ass, and lick it up as it spills, the metallic taste
sharp on my tongue. There is respectful silence behind us as I feast.
Then I slowly pull my fist out and peel off the glove. You're gasping,
sobbing, I can taste your pain like sweet sourness. I hold out the knife to
you and you kiss the blade, and I put it away. Then I reposition you,
manhandling you into place, on your back on the table with your head off the
edge facing me, cuffing your hands behind you so they rest beneath you. I
motion to one of the guys, who climbs up on the seat with a length of chain,
hanging it from one of the ubiquitous eyebolts in the place. Then I attach
the other end of the chain to your gates-of-hell harness; the chain's not
quite long enough, so you have to arch your hips up. Your pelvis is held off
the ground by the straps around your cock and balls, and they bounce, tight
and distended, as your asshole drips onto the table.
I've gotten very hard from cutting you and drinking your blood, and I want
some pressure on my cock again, so I force it into your mouth. At the angle
your head is hanging off the table, I can fuck your throat until my balls
slap against your face, cutting your windpipe off with each stroke. "You
just keep that cock," I tell you. "Don't bite down, no matter what
happens." Then I borrow a small plastic with evil sharp strands from
another guy and start to beat the hell out of your cock and ballsack while
I'm fucking your face. You scream around my cock and choke, but I don't let
up. welts form on them, and then vicious purple. I move to your
chest and whip your nipples, then back to your crotch. You writhe, bent in a
painful arch, unable to move far or get enough breath to scream again, feet
sliding on the wet, smeared tabletop. When I come, I shove my cock as far as
it will go down your throat, feeling you clench convulsively around me.
I pull out and you gasp for breath, and I undo the chain, flipping you
over. I'm flushed and gasping myself, but still able to manhandle you. "Look
at that mess you made!" I tell you sharply, shoving your face in the puddle
of come on the tabletop. "Lick it up!" You do, sobbing, and then you are
pulled off the table and flung to the floor. I undo your cuffs and you fall
forward, whimpering.
"You want to come, don't you, boy?" It's a rhetorical question; your cock
must be agony, bruised and welted and still hard. "Do it, then. Come on the
floor, and then lick it up like a good puppy. This is the only chance you
get. If you don't come now, you wear that thing for another week with no
coming allowed." You know I mean it, and you start jerking off like the end
of the world was coming. It only takes you about a minute, and then you
dutifully clean your come off the floor with your tongue.
Then I haul you to your feet and send you off to the bathroom to wash the
buttplug and yourself. I know damn well that there are more in there,
and that sending a naked come-covered in alone is tantamount to throwing
bait to a school of sharks. I'll wait a few minutes, I think, and then come
watch the show......
Raven Kaldera
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