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Introduction:

One man's incredible month of sex, and the twisted aftermath.
CHAPTER SEVEN


I met Danny at The Wing Hut on Monday night. Nine p.m. Danny was holding our favorite table. As I approached I could see his scorecard on the round table top. With three empty beer bottles. A fourth in his hand. Oh. Oh. Not good. I was expecting to see two names on Danny’s scorecard. There were none.

The four Amigos were using golf scorecards to record our game. From the Wisconsin Breeze Golf and Country Club. Two cards each, eighteen holes per card. For a total of thirty-six holes. Holes. How appropriate.

How many holes could we plug?

How many holes-in-one could we sink?

There were thirty-one days in December. Therefore, two scorecards were required. We had crossed out the last five holes on card number two. They would not be needed.

I had filled my card out accordingly. Hole number one, Lisa. Hole number two, Jenna. I also gave the girls their attraction rating and their sexual fun rating. We had agreed to be diligent in our documentation. One had to be careful when chasing the record.

Hole number one read Lisa, six point five for body, face, and over all attraction, and a six for fun in the sack. Hole number two read Jenna, six and six point five. I tossed my scorecard on the table for Danny to peruse. He didn’t bother. I could see his depression along with the empty bottles.

I was kind of shocked when he admitted his failure. Was he ever pissed. At both himself and his ex.

What? Women couldn’t fuck while they were on the rags? Says who?

Danny dumped her the next day.

Danny was the guy who had brought us this big sexcapade story from the internet, and he had a tough time grasping the fact he was already out. Day one. Day one and done. Pathetic. Of course I called him a no-fuck loser, which didn’t help matters. I bought him his next two beers and a plate of wings.

He seemed to be calming down when his ex walked into the place. She was a looker all right. Twenty-four years old, short to medium height, long dark hair. Nice face, small ass and small tits. About a seven, perhaps seven and a half on the scale. She looked hot tonight. Angry hot. At Danny. She had already been drinking, drowning her sorrows from the big breakup.

What sorrows?

They had only been together for two weeks. Actually, three times total, in those two weeks. Not exactly a lifetime commitment. Especially for one of the Four Amigos.

Too bad about the rag thing though. What a bummer. Women and their stupid problems. Whatever, not my problem.

Susie blew past our table, calling Danny an ignorant jackass or something. Danny ignored her. He was thinking. About his failure, I suppose.

I was busy doing some thinking of my own. I had done some research on this supposed California sex record. The criterion was one chick for each twenty-four hour calendar day. This meant my two-for methodology was a sound and accepted principal. One before midnight, and one after midnight. I would be doing as many doubles as I could. Maybe some triples, for the fun of it. Perhaps, I would drive the thirty-one day total through the roof. Put it out of reach for the next stud.

“Why not her?” Danny slurred.

“Who’s her?” I responded, not sure what we were talking about.

Danny spit out the words.

“Little Miss No Fuck Susie,” he answered.

I nearly chicken wing choked.

“Susie? Your girl?”

“I’m done with the bitch. She’s already drunk. Go ahead and do her. If you can. You have to get by the rag thing though.”

Yes. As does she.

Wait.

What?

I shook my head out. Danny’s girl? What?

“Are you serious dude?” I questioned.

“Yep. Go for it. Do her at her place. The bitch. You don’t want her shit all over your sheets.”

I was surprised as hell, but then I wasn’t. The Amigos rolled as a team. Bros before hoes and all.

I had never done a raggedy doll before, but I knew there would many firsts during the big quest. Actually, a lot of firsts. Fat chicks. Married chicks. Sisters. Kinky stuff. Sex in cars. Sex in bars. Something. Anything. Everything. The thirty-one girl in a row quest was bound to uncover a whole bunch of new shit.

I had never done an ex-girlfriend raggedly doll. Definitely a first. Danny finished his plate of wings and stood up to leave. I stood up as well.

“Stay,” Danny said. “Tell me how it goes. Good luck. I’m out of here.”

We shook hands, he left, and I sat back down. Not stunned. Yes stunned.

What other sacrifices would be made for the cause?

I looked around the Wing Hut. The cheap pitchers were going down fast. Loud laughter and shouting and good times and the hook up game being played at full speed. Loud music covered the sports chatter from the flat screens.

I caught little Susie’s eyes across the bar. I gave her the sympathy look. She was eyeballing lonesome me, possibly wondering where Danny went. She was alone in her world. Despite her two female drinking buddies, she had lost her man and was in the vulnerable zone. I had only met her once before, but I could offer her my condolences, or some such shit. Talk to her. Be there for her. Listen to her. The things a guy has to do to get laid. Later, Susie, I will get back to you.

I had to scope the place for number four. Susie would be my Monday, my number three. I wanted to bag Tuesday as well. Right after midnight. Then get to bed. Tomorrow was another work day.

Low and behold, number four crossed through my field of vision. This waitress was new. Brand new. Shiny as a penny. She sure was. I had never seen her before. My cock sensor began to tingle. Here in our town, new was exciting. I pricked up.

She moved in a mysterious way, the swaying, sensual walk.

Long, hard, bare legs. Nice to see in the dark, cold of winter.

Gorgeous ass.

Older than me, maybe twenty-nine or thirty. Immaculately maintained. Lots of aerobics and road work. Long blonde hair in corn rolls, beautiful face and smile. Tanned. I could watch her sling beer and wings all night. This chick was at least an eight, some might argue, an eight point five.

The age thing worked perfectly. If she was interested, she would make a quick decision and pull the trigger. I thought a little more about the older chicks. The married chicks. They would fuck and then throw me out. To get back to their lives, their kids and their obligations. Good for them. Good for my mission. Yes, a couple of ringed ladies would be a nice fit for me. The domestic set. There might be an attraction there, after all.

The new girl walked by my empty table. Stopped. Charlene was the name on her tag. Wow. She was good looking. The eight point five became a nine. The usual hellos and nice to meet you and chitchat and what time to you get off tonight ended with Charlene promising to drop by my place at midnight. I gave her brief directions on a napkin. As she walked away, her ass swayed a little extra for my benefit, and my head swayed with it. The nine rating turned into a ten. Yes it did. A long, lean, rock solid ten.

It was time to move on Susie.

Susie was good and drunk; my offer to drive her home was met with such an appreciation for her wounded psyche. Nice of me, she kept repeating, ad nausea. Easy Susie, I’m not such a nice guy, as you will find out very soon. If you remember anything of this night. Which you probably won’t.

Susie was pretty when she was sober, not pretty when she was drunk and displaced. I will be generous and give her a seven. As the car ride began, she snuggled over beside me. Her seat belt off, the alarm beeping quietly, I simply turned the music up louder. A small hand found my thigh and began the comfort rub. Maybe she thought I was Danny. Maybe she was very drunk. Didn’t matter. My sympathetic arm was around Susie’s shoulder, rubbing her neck, fondling her hair, showing her the way down. The zip of the zipper and the warm, wet mouth indicated Susie was already getting over her ex. Or pretending I was him.

Should have gone to hers, but back at my place, we got down to it. The rag thing made everything a lot more slippery. Her panties resembled a small diaper. Gross. Sick me for attempting this.

As I drove into her, the blood began to splatter. I didn’t mind the sensation, but the smell was overpowering. Nasty. A bleeding deer. Then the smell controlled itself, settling at a feral level. I got used to it quickly. The red on my white sheets was, different. Exotic. Dangerous.

Ten minutes later we were finished. Susie was in danger of falling asleep on my bed. No way, number three. Tick went the counter in my brain. You need to be stepping girl. I got her dressed, not fun; it was always better undressing them. Got her shoed up and jacketed and bundled back out to the car. I had Susie home in record time, despite her sniffling and clinging and ‘nobody loves me’ bullshit.

I needed to get back to my place for the cake. Charlene. I checked the time. The new girl was on her way. I had enough time to shower the raggedy girl off my crotch, stomach and legs.

Twelve minutes after my shower, Charlene was at the door.

Did she ever look hot.

Her work outfit was on, except for the footwear. The work shoes were gone. Replaced with heeled ankle boots. The heel was enough to amplify every muscle and curve in her legs. My apartment once again screamed sex, bloody sex, and I cringed as I inhaled. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care. We didn’t make it out of the kitchen before it started. Charlene was an animal. A gorgeous animal. By the time we stumbled into the bedroom, she was naked, save her boots. Her boots were staying on.

I was about to shove her down onto the bed when I saw the dark stained mess from the raggedly girl. I should have listened to Danny. Taken her to her place.

Ah crap, who cares?

What was the Def Leppard song?

Animal?

The bloody sheet reminded me of an animal kill. Me doing the killing.

I pushed Charlene into the mess and climbed on. Because I had shot about twenty-five minutes earlier, my cock was hard but staying in the neutral zone. I was able to saw at Charlene for a good fifteen minutes. I pulled off once to give her some tongue. Very sweet tasting. Something about matching pheromones. I could have eaten her all night, but she yanked me up by the hair. Once again the begging oozed out of a girl’s mouth.

‘Fuck me please’.

Sure babe, if you insist.

I grabbed her by the boots and folded her up. Damn. I scolded myself for not having a video system running. This Charlene was hot. Smoking hot. Fuck me senseless. I did. The poor girl thrashed and cried and screamed and of course, she saw god.

It was me after all.

We collapsed in a heap when I blew, soaked and spent. Another cunt’s blood all over her back. Awesome.
The slayer, in action.

Check. Number four. Four up, four down.

Charlene, I could get used to. I was actually thinking of her as girlfriend material. I would love to parade her around my bar and buddy circuit. I don’t believe we scratched the surface of our mutual sex-ploration.
Sad. Duty would be calling me soon. I had a long way to go before taking her again. The long way being, twenty-seven more days.

Well, not necessarily.

I could get together with Charlene regardless of my quest.

She wouldn’t count any further on the scorecard, but she would always be my magic number four.




CHAPTER EIGHT


Two full weeks have passed since my infamous debut. The fag was right. I came back. I am in the parking lot across the street from the House of God. Slowly sipping a can of beer. I am not going to get hammered this time. I am not going to lose control of my bodily strength and functions. I am not going to be ‘servicing’ anybody tonight. I am here for redemption. For answers.
To some exceedingly disturbing questions.

About me.

About what happened to me.

For two weeks, I have replayed in my mind, what went down on ‘the’ night. Okay. Bad choice of words. I mean, what went down, other than me. The four beers in the parking lot. The two beers I brought in. The twenty dollar, no-tip drink at the bar. Things got fuzzy then. A basketball game on a giant television screen. The Lakers and the Clippers. Superman and Steve Nash. Talking to the leather pants fag in the bar. The ugly Pit Bull Man dragging the towel man with the stupid name away, at the end of a dog leash. Too unbelievable. Me, back in the small mirror room. Where the memory thing got fuzzy.

Me in the mirror room with Stevie.

Was I actually kissing the guy? On the mouth?

Damn, he was such a girl. The lips, the face, the tongue, the shaggy hair. The ass. The leather girl ass. Suddenly, I was immobile, kneeling, and his cock was in my mouth. I was sucking on his long white cock as the sensation of separation took me away. Even now, I am separated from the ugly fact a cock had been in my mouth. It wasn’t me doing it. Not the everyday me. It was the other me. The dumb ass who was taking a walk on the wild side. This was the only way my brain could deal with it. Good thing I spent most of my life as the normal me.

Still not making sense, but making sense enough to survive this bad episode of my life. This is the sickest part. The domination. I recall him with fistfuls of my hair, forcing his cock down my throat. Pumping his leather ass, wearing those big black boots. I was choking, suffocating, trying to heave my guts out, trying to breathe, trying to stay alive. The salty, hot taste of his cum, staying with me for three days. Shit sakes. What an idiot I was.

Why would I allow this?

The straight me? The sick me? Any me?

Why?

Right this second, and every single time I have thought about this over the past two weeks, my cock is stirring. It must be the domination thing, or the super submissive, punk ass thing. I am not sure which. I know it’s not the fag thing or the gay thing. Not at all. Unless the two me’s are intertwining. I can only hope this is not the case.

I have always loved chicks in tight leather pants. High boots. Lots of jewelry and bling. Wet painted lips. Big lips. Stevie had big lips. Soft, puffy lips. Girl lips. Stevie had jewelry in his nipples.

What was with my nipples?

Never, had a nipple touch driven an erection. It certainly had two weeks ago. I had jerked off twice in the last week as a result of rubbing my own nipples. Standing in my shower. Hot water cascading down my back.

It can’t be a fag thing.

Sure.

What about the kissing?

I was kissing a fag. On the mouth. With my tongue. Moaning. Loudly. Exaggerated. The men in the hallway could hear us. With my near exploding cock. Then my cock did explode. In my pants. My cock exploded when Stevie shot into my throat. I think. Not exactly sure, when in this scenario, my cock blew.

Stop kidding myself. I know when I came. I think about it. I have thought about it for two weeks. I came while a guy fucked my throat.

Why isn’t this simple true fact, a fag thing?

Because of the separation. The wall between the two worlds. As long as the two worlds don’t crossover. I would have to make sure they didn’t.

I would have to make sure the fag thing, never happens again.

The last chick I tried to nail was wearing latex pants. Over a year ago. Not leather, but latex. Something hotter than leather. The spread at her crotch was legendary. I had never quite seen this before. Wide and tight. Shiny and black and edible.

How did this play out for me?

Not good. She was the one who sent me down this path.

I shook my head. The bitch.

I paused.

Honest to god, two weeks ago?

I thought in my brain, in my mind, in my soul, I was necking with a chick.

Those puffy lips, the smooth, curvy, tight leather ass.

Definitely, a chick.

Now, here I was, back at the House of God, the return visit. Across the street, sitting in my car, dark outside, late in the evening. Watching the perverts and the desperadoes and the old chicken hawks going in. It was much busier tonight at the club and on the street outside. More vehicular traffic and more foot traffic. The convenience store next door was open, bringing people very close to the House of God front door. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get past those junk food buyers, and slip in unnoticed. I best pop a second beer to up the bravery level.

A lot of time crawling on the net has opened my eyes. Curiosity might end up killing this cat. The House of God is a true S & M Club. Domination. Submission. Pain. Pleasure. No holds barred. Quite hard core in fact. The leash and chain were fully explained. Pretty frightening stuff. Pretty disgusting stuff. I was lucky to get out with a load in my belly. Much worse could have happened to me. Especially in the condition I was in.

This was a lifestyle choice for these freaks?

Men offering themselves up as worthless little fuck toys?

Men ascending to positions of domination?

Collars for the weaklings?

Leashes for the masters of the universe?

One master reigning above all?

Yes, God himself held the throne in this house. Some yo-yo who called himself God, any-way. He was legendary in the seedy gay underbelly. There was a blurry picture of the exalted one on the internet. It showed him sitting on some kind of throne. Clad head to toe in leather and studs, his face covered in a mask, the hair long, flowing and blonde. Rumors of his gifts and powers were the subject of much chatter on the web. Great. More bullshit in a bullshit world.

I watched the pedestrian flow. I had not noticed the convenience store on New Year’s night. It must have been closed with lights out. Not now. The place was lit up, resembling a Christmas tree. Flashing lotto ticket signage. Cigarette logos. Beer logos. Potato chip logos. Soft drink logos. Look at the riff-raff going in and out. Spending dollars and quarters on junk. Flabby, unhealthy purchases by weak people. I adjust my car radio up and pop a third beer. I might have to run a gauntlet to get into the club tonight.

Speaking of weak people, how did I dissolve into such a pathetic condition two weeks ago?

How did it happen?

Granted, I had consumed an awful lot of booze, and I had been off the bottle for a long, long time.

Did the booze shock drop me into such a feeble, submissive state?

Could have.

Whenever I have gone over the line on the booze, the result has been aggression, slapping some jackass or pounding some pussy, and then straight to sleepy land. None of this weak-kneed, no muscle response, swooning, submission bullshit. I researched the magic blue bottle Stevie had stuck in my nose. Some type of nitrate, allowing complete relaxation by thinning your blood. Apparently popular in the fag culture. You could buy hundreds of brands, styles and flavors on the net. Or in any sex shop. The tag line on the bottle was to sniff and relax. Mostly relax your ass.

Bottom line was, what the hell came over me?

I have drank twenty-four beer in the past and not fallen apart. I have pounded back shooters and whiskeys until the cows came home, and not fallen apart.

So, what gave?

I don’t know. I am here to find out. I crack my fourth can of Bud.

The plan for tonight had been to stop at two beers and head in. The lingering kids and cigarette buyers are preventing this from happening. I am into my fourth beer because I have to get in there tonight. I have to go back into the House of God and prove something to myself. Fourteen days ago was definitely, a one of. One of those impossible synergies of not drinking, then drinking too fast, seeking drastic answers to a giant problem, and whatever else happened to be running through the cosmos. All colliding in the crazy, mufti-mirrored room. Perhaps the multiple mirrored surfaces refracted enough shit to create some kind of sick wormhole.

Perhaps.

Another thread was running through all of this. The black leather pants. The bulge in the black leather pants. The touch and feel of those pants on my fingers. Mysterious. Hot. Erotic. In fact. Look at what I am wearing tonight. I smile as I gaze down.

My own pair of black leather pants. Beautiful. Tailor made for my shape. The smell of them. The crackling of the animal skin when I pulled on the pants in the sex shop change room. The instant hard on. The power I felt surging through me. I fully understand why Stevie the fag was so cocky. A bulge in the front of a pair of leather pants is the same as a nice, tight spread on a chick. It fans the hunger of anybody who possesses a sexual bone in their body. Same sex or opposite sex, I don’t think it matters.

Did I say that?

I did. Because leather was animal. Animal was sex. Raw, passionate, aggressive, dominating sex. One animal over another. One animal eating another. The way it has always been. The food chain, exemplified.

These magical leather pants are the reason I am having a tough time strapping it on and walking across the street, through the malingering junk food buyers, and pulling open the door to the House of God S & M club. This is a tough neighborhood. I don’t need to be singled out or highlighted as a fag. Because I am not a fag.

Remember, two Decembers ago, I nailed thirty-one chicks in thirty-one days. For sure some kind of American stud record. Probably a world record. Nothing has shown up on the net or anywhere since to eclipse my accomplishment. I know I am not a fag. No fag could ever achieve such a task. Ever.

Things then went off the rails.

Badly.

Barren. Nothing. Empty. Dead. Faded. Gun-less.

I am not a fag. I am not a sick, disgusting, worthless piece of twisted garbage. I am con-fused. I am working my way back.

By starting at a more primitive level?

I don’t know. I know things aren’t right. Haven’t been right. Haven’t been right since the last day of last year. Something is going on here, something I have to see through.

Perhaps what I am, all stripped down and bare, is an animal. Maybe animals sometimes do strange things to other animals. I once saw a bunny rabbit humping a cat. Maybe the bunny rabbits do deserve their reputations.

Nevertheless, strange things are not for me. Two weeks ago was an aberration. A sick aberration. I am going into this place tonight. I am going to watch the hungry creatures as they wit-tingly or unwittingly lose their inhibitions and find the magnetic pull of my new leather hide. Then, because I am not a fag, I will leave them all hanging and walk out unscathed. To show myself the truth. The aberration known as my last visit, will never happen again. I will not go untouched on tonight’s journey, because I know the fingers and hands will be glomming to my crotch and ass. They will not be able to help themselves. They will be sick with desire. Desire for me. I will smile, probably laugh at them, and leave.

I put the fourth beer can down. It is empty. There are two cans left from the six pack. Two shiny silver cans with clear plastic nooses around their necks. The parking lot is chock full of cars. The pleasure seekers have parked on both sides of the street in front of the club. In fact, as I crane my neck up and down the street, there are no parking spots left. The House of God is full of worshipers tonight. This reminds me, if faggot Stevie is in, first thing I am going to do is tell him to go fuck himself. Whatever was going on with me two weeks ago, he sure took advantage.

I am thinking, he owes me one.

Yes. He owes me a blow job.

To even the score.

How does this work?

It just does.

How else do you even the score when you have sucked somebody’s cock?

The answer?

He has to blow you. Simple. There is no other way. Because ‘sorry’ doesn’t work. ‘Let’s forget it happened’ doesn’t work. Beating the shit out of him doesn’t work. No, Stevie needs to blow me to erase this thing from my life. It has nothing to do with me being a fag. It simply levels the playing field. I blew him. He blows me. Negative one, plus one, equals zero. And therefore, it never happened. The math was sound.

He doesn’t need to be cruising through life with a big one-up on the straight guy. Telling his fag buddies a straight guy blew him. Building his reputation on my stupidity. Even though he is a fag, he is a guy. Guys love to brag about their conquests. And a straight guy as good looking as me, as physically imposing as me, would be an incredible, once in a lifetime conquest for a fag like Stevie. I sure as shit didn’t need a dirty little secret in my closet. Spilling out into the world, should asshole Stevie ever walk into my life again. No, he didn’t need a one-up on me.

Once he was done swallowing the meat and sucking back my juice, we would be even. Then he would tell me all about this god character. Had to admit, I was somewhat intrigued by this mystery. God was, after all, one of my fellow leather gang members. A legend with legendary powers.

The damn curiosity thing was running rampant within me.

To put a nice hetero punctuation on this entire situation, I might beat the shit out of Stevie anyway. He will understand fully, who the boss is.

Good plan.




CHAPTER NINE


I look out the windshield towards the club. Busy on the street. Too much of a gauntlet to run. I shake my head. What a pansy. For good reason. I am thinking about the website for the House of God. They actually advertise the sick crap on the upper floor which I have not yet seen. Things such as iron crosses and chain slings. Oil pits and water pits. Whatever the hell those things were used for. Once I got inside I might be doing some browsing. Since I was here anyway.

Wasn’t there a sign leading up to the second floor stating ‘Bathroom Attire Only’?

There was.

I would have to strip off my leather pants, and my new stomping boots to get in. Yes. The second of three purchases I had made the same day. Two from the sex shop. The boots came from the Army Surplus store. Four towns over. An hour away from my home. Nobody could know. Nobody could ever know.

The leather pants were three hundred bucks. The boots were two fifty. Tall and black with a gleaming silver buckle. Two inch heels. True, fag stomping boots. The extra height from the boots certainly added swagger to one’s walk. These boots put me at six foot three, to go with my two hundred and ten pounds. Unlike Stevie’s, my boots were brand new, shiny and unmarked. His were filthy, worn and ratty. Used. His stupid pants were also used. I bet he never took them off.

I popped can number five and took a long pull. The passersby continued to slide in and out of the convenience store. I felt in my pocket for purchase number three. The small brown bottle. The chick at the sex store said this was a very powerful brand. One sniff and the inhaler would float out to Lotus Land, and stay there for five or ten minutes. Enough time to get done what shouldn’t be done. The chick had laughed when she said it. She had laughed a lot and been very helpful on the pants purchase. Her hands had been everywhere. Making sure the pants fit. Her hands cupped and pressed and held. She was good.

I had almost been aroused by her. Almost. I had definitely been aroused by the pants.

The sex shop chick was probably forty years old, but she had held up very well. Her ass and tits and big hair looked to be fifteen years younger. The only thing giving her away was her face. The face of time and worry, and stress and life. Once I had the pants on she quickly morphed from polite clerk to attentive serf. Ah, the power of the pants. Perhaps when this little adventure was over, I would return to the lady at the sex shop and nail her to the desk. Yeah, I could do her a favor.

I pulled the little bottle out of my front pocket. The picture on the bottle was of a steroid enhanced Batman. Again, black leather cape and pants. The black leather thing was certainly a theme in this world. I put the bottle away. I shot down can number five and grabbed up number six. Folks continued to mingle on the street. Braver souls than I crossed on through and continued to snake into the front door of the club. True outed fags. Nothing to worry about for them. Nothing to hide any longer.

Could their lives suck any more?

Suck. Suck. Suck. Exactly why they were here. To do some sucking.

I sighed. Not for this dude. No thanks. Once. Only once. The erasure would come tonight. Then it will have never happened.

Three hours of driving is what it took to get me here. Three hours. Three hours of my stupid life. Plus gas money. It would take three more hours to drive home. Plus more gas money. Plus my outfit. Plus the nitrate bottle. Plus the motel two weeks ago. Plus the entry fee to the club. Twice. Plus the two six packs of beer. Plus the booze inside the club.

If this was such nothing, why was the expense sheet adding up so quickly?

Plus, the two weeks wasted since I had last been here. Thinking, stewing, figuring. Wondering what the hell had happened. A time investment, to go with the brain power investment, and the cash investment. Suddenly, this was something major.

As I got closer to the House of God on tonight’s trip in, something weird began to overtake me. I began to slip away from what I was, from the mess I was leaving behind, from the life I was leaving behind. I was side stepping into this new version of me. With the black leather pants and the boots. Forging into new territory, so to speak. Into a new identity. Into a new me. Free and clear and with no preconceptions. Separating myself, from myself.

Weird.

Or some sort of survival mechanism?

I checked the clock on the dashboard. Almost midnight. I couldn’t wait any longer. I put forty bucks in my pocket. No, make it forty-five. If I was feeling generous, I might tip the barkeep, if it was the same guy. After all, last time I was here he made a tasty drink for me. He certainly knew his job.

I slid my wallet into the glove box. I ripped into can number six, tipped it up, and gulped the whole thing down. A loud belch and I was ready. I scooped up the empty cans and got out of my car. Into the trunk the cans went. I looked around the street, both ways and across. A slight break in the traffic, only a few folks scattered about. I moved across the roadway, feeling paranoid about the outfit, and anxious about the door I would soon be entering.

Conversely, I was also full of myself because of the outfit I was wearing. I felt big and strong and invincible. Nothing was going to happen tonight. Nothing I didn’t want to happen. I felt as if I were a SWAT cop, decked out in war gear. Bulletproof.

I ignored a few stares and was sure I heard a snicker as I made it to the front door of the House of God. The snicker would have sent me scurrying back to my car, two weeks ago. Not this night. Not wearing this outfit. I pulled the door open, wondering why they didn’t have a private or more discreet entrance. A more discreet entrance would have saved me six beers and the beginning of a good buzz.

There were no questions from behind the smoked glass as I pulled out my twenty. There was no sheet of paper pushed towards me to sign. They must remember me. Or, with the hot leather pants and boots, I resembled a regular.

The door buzzed and in I went. Immediately, I was overpowered by the warmth and humidity of the inside air. Body sweat and foreign smells once again assaulted my senses. I grabbed the white towel and room key off the counter. Not a rookie anymore.

I looked around.

This time, the place was packed. Both the seating area and the bar. I leaned over the bar and motioned to the tender. It was the same guy. He nodded towards me, a questioning look on his face. As if he knew me but couldn’t quite place me. He was staring up and down at my leathers, and then he smiled, recognizing the cheap rookie who had stiffed him. I pulled out a twenty and a fiver. Put them on the bar. He walked over grabbing a large glass from underneath the bar. Without a word, he dropped in ice cubes, then five shots of vodka, then the fresh squeezed juice, then the finale, the perfectly cut, powder coated wedge of orange.

He placed the drink on a coaster in front of me. Grabbed both bills off the bar. No fooling around with the cheap rookie. This time, he was taking his tip. The tender drifted off, looking after other customers. The porno was rocking on the big screens. Most of the patrons were over forty. Over fifty. Some over sixty. How ridiculous. Go home, you old losers. Thank god, most of them were fully clothed, but there were at least a dozen toweled men. Most of the toweled men were leashed. I checked my room key. Room one two niner.

Again? What was the probability of getting the same room?

Oh well. I wouldn’t be here long. A quick stroll through the maze to tease the horny throng, then a peek around the second floor. If Stevie wasn’t around to ‘talk’ to, I was out of here.

Why the hell had I ordered the drink then?

Wasted another twenty-five bucks?

No idea.

I sipped at my drink and watched the throng of morons. What a bunch of screw-ups.

Hey dudes? Why not try some pussy?

Much better for you. Ask me. Look what they did for me. Look what I did for them.

I wasn’t going there again, was I?

Someone was tight up against my back, grinding against my ass.

What the hell?

I turned around. It was Stevie the fag.

Grinding against my leather ass with his leather bulge. My first instinct was to plug him in the mouth. I actually had my fist cocked.

Hold on one second. I have something else for his stupid mouth.

Seeing his superior mug, why didn’t I lace him one?

Would I let any other guy on the planet do this to me?

Dry hump my ass?

At a bar? At McDonald’s? At the grocery store?

How could I answer this question?

The answer of course, is no.

In this fag club, the answer is also yes.

Damn confusing.

This was the atmosphere, the vibe running through this place. If you came into this type of place, you either rolled with it, or you left. I wasn’t ready to leave. I hadn’t yet got what I came for. What a sad justification for allowing a guy to rub his crotch against my ass. Don’t I know it. Good old pathetic me.

“You’re back for more he says,” smiling the conqueror’s smile.

I take a large wallop from the glass. It is already three quarters empty. I set the glass down.

“Yes. I think you owe me one.”

Stevie was eyeballing the new me. I could tell he was impressed. Two could play the leather domination game. My look was richer, cleaner and brighter, and much hotter. I could tell by the hungry stares I was getting from the crowd in the bar.

Why did stares from gay men matter one tiny iota?

They didn’t. Except in here. Confusing, I know. Damn confusing to me.

My costume was on. The role playing was on. The game was on.

Stevie had the look of surprise all over his face.

Who’s the bitch now, Stevie boy?

Stevie picked up my drink, and tossed the rest of it back. The smarmy prick. Trying to dominate with these insignificant little actions.

“Are you in one twenty-nine again?”

How could he possibly know?

“I am.”

Stevie looked into my glass, empty save the orange slice and the ice cubes.

“Are you going to finish this?” he asked.

Yes I was. It was my damn drink. I fished out the orange wedge and chewed it back. Immediately my lips and tongue began to tingle. We were in tight at the bar when I felt a full out hand cover my crotch. The hand stayed, the fingers caressing and exploring. My cock leapt to attention. Holy shit.

Stevie leaned in close to my ear. He brushed his lips on my earlobe, and then pushed his tongue into my ear canal. All the while, holding onto my crotch. I was mortified.

Excited?

Chills flew up and down my spine. My knees weakened. I felt sudden terror.

What if someone saw?

Someone who? Someone I knew? From home?

Couldn’t happen. Not in here. Impossible. There was nobody in this place who knew me. I was Mr. Anonymous. I had left me in the car, back about an hour from this city.

Yes, everybody in the bar was watching. Think about it. Two studs in leather going at it. Of course they were watching. Every fag in the bar was watching. Wishing. Dreaming.

Did it make me feel good, being the center of attention? The center of desire? Everybody here wanting me?

“Can’t wait to get some of this,” Stevie hissed. “You look hot.”

He stepped away, relinquishing his grip. My pants were bulging, the leather stretched and shiny. I looked damn good.

“Ten minutes, your room,” Stevie smiled.

I felt disgusted and grossed out. The daytime world said, ‘Be disgusted’. This underground world said, ‘It’s the way it is’. My mind was sliding between the two worlds.

Off Stevie went, slowly making his way through the packed bar. I could see cheap and lascivious hands fondling at his ass and legs as he bumped through. The same fate awaited me. Especially with my new outfit. Especially with my thick bulge. Oh well, a small price to pay. It was time to even the score with the fag. Get some info about this god character. Tour the upstairs. Then walk away.

For sure, the prime directive was to even up with the fag. Since I couldn’t erase the despicable happening of two weeks ago, I could reverse the scenario and somehow cancel it out completely. Great logic.

Didn’t make a lot of sense, but it did make some.




CHAPTER TEN


It is Wednesday night at our usual place. The Double Eagle. It is near eleven o’clock. Three of us together. Myself, Rico of second night failure fame, and Donny, my fellow trooper. Danny has been thinking about Susie, and he is pissed at me. Perhaps he was too hasty breaking up with her, blah, blah, blah. Well, he’ll get over it.

Bros before hoes, right?

Wasn’t she a wee bit of a hoe, fucking me the day after they broke up?

I had my scorecard out and ready. Hole three, Susie, seven, seven. Hole four, Charlene, ten, ten. The boys were very interested in this ten, ten chick. As was I. Interested in seeing her again. Many times again.

Trouble was brewing at our table. The black cloud of failure had taken the second of the Four Amigos. Rico the stallion is embarrassed about his quick exit. He wasn’t talking much, mostly brooding. It was Donny and I left to carry the torch for the men of the world. I looked at Donny’s scorecard. High-fived him. Rico scowled at us. The ‘fuck you both’ scowl.

“Well, who is it tonight?” Donny asked.

I sat back in my chair smiling. This was going to be classic. I was sipping a tall, frosty beer and looked too relaxed. I picked up my scorecard and a pencil. Began to print. Hole number five. Meena. Seven, and seven.

“Already got one in the bag,” I answered, the giant smile spreading across my face.

“What?” Donny exclaimed.

I handed the updated scorecard across the table. He looked at it.

“You’re kidding me!”

Not at all, pal, not at all.

Meena was my number five. The new girl moving into my condo block. Apparently a student. An oriental girl. Another first. The raggedy girl had been a first, and this Oriental girl would be a first. The Oriental would be much cleaner though. A meticulous race of people. Meena was another small one. Tiny, actually. Barely five foot tall. Almost no weight to speak of. Very pretty. Perfect, smooth face. Giant eyes. A China doll. Ridiculous high heeled shoes. Her jeans would fit a twelve year old. I loved her tight look. The raw, perpetually hungry look. Haggard and gaunt. Earned her a seven for the scorecard.

Her tiny father spent the day helping her move in. I pitched in after work as any Good Samaritan would. Wee dad and I hauled furniture up two flights of stairs for two solid hours. Then dad had to leave, thanking me profusely for the help. No problem daddy. I have a feeling your little girl will be thanking me later. The vibes flowing between us were apparent.

This was bonus. I didn’t have to go out hunting. This one was going to fall right into my lap. She did. After helping to arrange her furniture and put her dishes away and build the frame to her bed. Since daddy had left, little Meena had been enjoying her four pack of wine coolers. Anybody as small as her wasn’t going to be holding much together after four coolers. Finally, we were done the moving job. No cable yet for the TV, no internet hookup for her laptop. Her and me, and no coolers left.

It was only eight o’clock.

I took her on a tour of our four story building. Showed her each floor, whoopee, they were all the same. The underground parking and lockers were kind of cool, dark and mysterious. I noticed her clinging tight against me down there in the dark, her heels clicking against the cold concrete. The sound gave my cock a warm feeling.

Outside in the back common space, she actually took my arm in hers. We walked around the rock gardens and fountain, stopping to count the orange and white fish barely moving in the water. While pretty to look at, the water must have been freezing. The bubbling fountain was the only thing keeping the ice from forming. We moved back into the building and I offered to show her my place. Of course she was game.

On my big leather couch we sat, my television had cable, and I had lots of booze. We each had a beer, my first, her first, but her fifth actual drink. This wasn’t going to be fair. In no time, she was in my lap. I stroked her long, shiny black hair as she tentatively pawed at my crotch. As soon as my cock began to stir beneath my zipper, she made her move. The tiny fingers, the zip-per down, the digging in the pants, the freeing of the cock. She sat back as she pulled it out.

I don’t think she was expecting something this size. I mean, the thing looked gigantic in her baby hand. She stroked it, staring in amazement. When I got to thinking.

How was I going to get this monster into her?

What did I have in the bathroom? Or bedroom?

Yes. The lube tube from the summer. Used only once. The chick with the rash problem. Ugh. Anyway, the lube might work. Had to try it.

Meena finished up her beer and got down to business. Her little mouth slid over the head of my cock. She was game, but she wasn’t ready for prime time. She sucked and lapped at the head, it was all she could do. She moved up to my face, trying to kiss me on the mouth. Nice. Kiss me with my cock all over your mouth. Whatever. I obliged and the kissing began to turn her on. She began to moan, and wiggle, and for fuck sakes, she was nearly orgasming!

I easily picked her up, carried her into the bedroom, and lay her on the newly laundered sheets. The sheets were stained; the blood would not come out entirely. No big deal. As this quest continued, who knew what would end up on these sheets. The sheets would be heading to the trash bin on New Year’s Day.

I dropped my jeans, underwear and shirt, and pulled Meena’s clothes off. She had the body of a twelve year old boy. I rifled through a drawer, finding the lube. Climbed over the ‘still moaning from the kissing session’ Meena, and straddled her China doll face. I dropped my cock head back in her mouth, letting her fumble away on the smooth beast. With my hand I squeezed a big blob of jelly out of the tube. I pulled my cock out of her mouth and lay down over her. She pushed up on her elbows, ready for more necking. I let her kiss at my mouth again, which became furious tonguing, which begat her moaning, and wiggling, and groaning.

My grease covered fingers found her wet hole. One finger slipped in with the grease. No problem. Then a second finger. The necking continued. The grease was crackling and smacking as I worked. Two fingers were tight. Three fingers made it full. Packed full. I worked the three fingers. Meena was moaning loudly. I pulled my fingers out and pushed her back on the bed. Leaving her sucking at air with her mouth and tongue. I squeezed the jelly over my cock. Rubbing it from knob to base. Back and forth, the jelly noisy and loud from the friction. I put the tube at her pussy and squeezed more in.

Put my cock up against the door, and carefully began to push. A look of terror crossed her face as the violation began. Not officially a violation, but a big, juicy white man’s cock. Going into a little Oriental girl’s baby pussy. Those Asian dudes must have tiny dicks, if all their women were this tight.

When my cock-head pushed into her, she gasped. I stopped to let her accustom. After a minute, she slowly began to move down on me. I watched from atop, amazed as my long shaft slid into her lily white body. She was doing all the work. Of course, I had supplied the prime meat. She kept taking me, two inches, then three, then five. Then six. Seven. Eight. Finally, all of it.

All of it was in her!

Good girl. Was I impressed. With her.

I have always been impressed with myself.

This was pretty cool. Giant me on top, impaling this little eighty pound waif.

I would have ripped the shit out of her, but she was a neighbor. Her tiny, little old man might be from a Triad. Who knows. I definitely liked Meena, and she definitely impressed me with her spunk. Fuck, if I was a chick and I saw my cock, I would run for the hills.

I watched Meena pull back, and then move down. She got herself a good rhythm going. I pushed her legs apart, spreading her nice and wide. To my surprise, she reached up and grabbed at her legs, keeping them apart as she slid her pussy up and down my pole. I needed a camera for this. This chick was awesome. Soon, she was sliding back, nearly falling off my cock, my swollen knob the only thing keeping her on. Then she was sliding down to my balls. With every thwack, she yelped in pain or pleasure, or both.

This was a giant psychological victory for her race, since our creator had not designed the two of us to be fuckmates. With the yelps came moaning, and as she gobbled up my cock with her pussy, my brain saw something else. I was impaling another victim, eating another animal. Good thought. Too good for my brain. Too good for my balls.

I began to cum, lifting Meena clean off the bed. I actually had her in my arms, bouncing her on my cock. She screamed in orgasm, and pain, thrashing at me, a wounded beast. A very small wounded beast. As the juice poured out the end of my cock, the counter clicked to five. Five up, five down.

I felt bad for the next Oriental dude who tried her. Meena was cored out. The next guy would feel as if he was driving a Mini Cooper into a triple garage. The inadequacy factor would be off the charts for this dude. He might be diving off a tall building before the night ended.

Sucks to be him.

Awesome to be me.

There. My story was done. Took the high five from Rico. Sat back in my wooden chair. The bar action swirled around us. I watched a touch of panic spread across Donny’s face. I was officially done for the night. I eyeballed my watch. Fifty-two minutes left in this day.

Donny best get a move on.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


I began to move through the crowd, clutching my towel and key. As expected, the hands began to reach for my midsection. Both front and back. While creepy, it did feel empowering. As if I was walking amid my underlings. The underlings, with hands outstretched, were trying to touch the mighty one.

I exited the bar area into the maze. Again it was much darker in here, and the music thumped loudly. The maze was as confusing as it had been two weeks ago. A few wrong turns, a dead end, open doorways, desperately horny old men, and many gropes were endured before I found my room.

I keyed the door and went in. I turned to shut the door behind me. A fag around my age was kneeling on his towel, cock in his hand, licking his lips at me. I paused for a second. Caressed the bulge at the front of my pants. Toying with him. The urge to kick his teeth in was pressing. The kneeling fag began to shuffle towards me. Mouth and tongue busy. A hungry boy. No, not your turn tonight, buddy. Not tonight or ever. This is for Stevie.

I shut the door behind me, shutting the kneeler out. The tingle in my mouth and tongue had spread to my face. I slapped my face. Slapped it again. Totally numb. I vaguely remembered this numb face situation from last time.

Get it together, dude.

Be wary of this evil place. Be damn careful in all I do.

In fact, why not leave?

Chock up the last visit as an experiment gone wrong. Take the loss.

Who cares if I came in my pants? While sucking a punk’s cock?

Only two people know; the punk, and me. Let it go.

Does it matter in the grand scheme of life? Does it?

Start now and minimize the damage. Contain it. Put it away forever. I can wear my eighties leather pants to a house party, maybe score some forty-five year old chick with memories of how hot she used to be. For Christ sake, in the here and now, let this nonsense go.

Stop. Turn around. Leave.

My mind was giving me good advice. I was going to consider the advice carefully. Because it was exactly what I should do.

However.

Two people did know I had sucked a cock. One of them was me.

Instead of leaving, I turned up the lights. Mirror, mirror on every wall, watch and see how far I fall. I could see my reflection in the glass in front of me. Behind me. Beside me. On the other side of me. I looked awesome. I took off my jacket and sweatshirt. Tossed them in the locker with my car keys. I looked back at the mirror. It was steamy in here tonight. Already, sweat was beading up on my chest and stomach. The picture I was seeing looked hot.

Where was Miss Latex tonight?

I could probably give her a good going over. The sharp mouthed bitch. Fuck her stupid ass-hole cunt.

I pulled the glass bottle from my pocket. I was excited. This was also new. The bottle, the pants and the shiny black boots. There was one more new thing. I had not worn any underwear tonight. The old chick at the sex shop had said no underwear, ever, under leather pants. The whole point of leather pants was sex on the table. You had to be ready for the sex, whenever and wherever it came from. It was the ‘code’ of the leather pants. No problem, honey. No problem at all. I looked at the bulge in my pants. If I was a fag, I know what I would be doing to me. Good thought, idiot.

I cracked the seal from around the brown glass bottle. Twisted off the top. Put the bottle to my nostril. Curious. Plugged my other nostril. Here goes. Anxious.

What would this shit do to me?

I hesitated. Reached over and toggled the light up. Higher. Higher. The beams flashed around the room, creating a blazing vortex.

I looked hard at myself. I paused.

Should I leave?

This isn’t my thing. Call last week a walk on the wild side. A silly experiment. Not a life-style. Certainly not a lifestyle I wanted to live. Not if it took six cans of beer, five shots of vodka, and this leather costume to accomplish.

Although, the costume looked awfully good. The fags out in the bar and in the tight hall-ways couldn’t keep their hands off me. Is this what I wanted? Fags with their hands all over me?

No. Not at all.

I remain paused.

What to do? Do I stop, or do I go?

I am an animal. Look at me. Look at my dangerous black hide. I am here. In the underground. A dangerous animal in the dangerous underground. There is one other thing about the costume. The costume helps take away the real me. In the costume, I am somebody else. Free to do something else. Anything else. It is not me I see in the mirror.

The bottle is open.

I am leaving shortly, am I not?

Just try it.

What can happen?

I tip the lights back down a notch, and inhale deeply, nice and slow. I am following the directions on the bottle. I reverse nostrils and repeat. Recap the bottle and set it in on the night table.

A sickly, sweet chemical aroma fills my little room. Then a rapping at the door. I open up. Stevie pushes into the tight room. Quickly, he pulls his shirt over his head. Both of us, shirtless. Same as the last time we were here.
Stevie closes the door.

Finally I exhale, the chemical blowing out my nose and mouth. Stevie smiles widely. A mischievous smile. What is up with the faggot?

The thumping started deep in my brain box. Rattled through my body and flushed through my groin. I felt my knees buckle. Stevie pressed me back against the mirror wall. Before I could think, our mouths joined together. I sucked at his tongue as he pushed into my throat. I felt his hands on my leathered ass and smiled to myself. See, Stevie the fag cannot resist me. I will have my way with him and erase the events of two weeks ago. My hands gripped his leathered ass as we frenched and sucked at each other. The temperature shot up in the room as the pounding grew in my head and crotch. Our bodies were soaked as we slid and slipped against each other.

I felt a wave of surrender begin to wash through me. As it had, two weeks ago.

What was happening to me?

I fought against this ridiculous urge to submit. Our leather crotches mashed together and my mind took off. As hot as I was in my new pants, Stevie was just as hot in his. I couldn’t imagine how hot we looked together.

Why would I imagine something as stupid as this? As gay as this?

What was wrong with me?

It was the damn leather. I had fingered him through the hole in the mirror two weeks ago. Because of the black leather. Curious. Stupid.

Since when is another guy, hot?

We broke our embrace and Stevie slipped to his knees. Here we go. Finally.

I looked down at him, his white fingers pulling at my zipper, caressing my legs, reaching for my boots. He looked up at me with hunger in his eyes. Hunger, for my cock. My cock which was thumping in my pants. Commando style. No underwear. Pull down the zipper and enjoy the bare cock, you little faggot.

My zipper went down. My pants were sliding off my sweat soaked ass. Out came my cock. Throbbing and leaden with weight. My cock was as long as Stevie’s, but thicker. Angry. Veined. A second from blowing to pieces, and strangely, not close to blowing to pieces. As my cock throbbed, my body continued to weaken. My leathers were crumpling down on my big stomping boots, the rest of me totally exposed. Stevie stood, reached over and tipped the lighting up. Higher. Higher yet.

I looked at my cock.

Holy shit! My cock had never been this thick. Ever.

It looked and felt like somebody else’s cock.

Stevie picked up my bottle, removed the cap and slipped it under my nose. The chemical smell wafted up, and I inhaled deeply. Inhaled again. For some reason, I inhaled a third time.

In about ten seconds I was going to punish this faggot. Shove my giant, engorged cock into his mouth, then down his throat. Empty a bucket of slime into his scrawny belly. This fag was about to be owned. By me
.
Even up was just around the corner.


More chapters will be added every Monday. Stay tuned, and thanks to all for reading this incredible, true story of Derek Helton's 'December to Remember'.

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224 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-14 20:00:51
how about tiny teeny lou? silly fake braggarts!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-13 16:49:48
can we call you little Lou? little Lou-Lou??

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-07 05:47:51
Wow this story was so hot! if you wanna trade pics hit me up at 786-512-3195 18/m/ huge cock, my name is Luis but you can call me Big Lou

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-06 05:03:24
I agree. the leather will be an appealing piece of attire for a long time to come.

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-03 19:39:29
leather will not go away. the best material for young pants.

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