April 24 th
I’ve got my diaries back. Vomit told me she hasn’t read them. She seemed a bit more distant than usual even though we kept in touch. Had she read them, I’d have lost my balls by now. Then again, perhaps she’s plotting my slow and methodical demise. You never know with that woman.
For the sake of completeness, and for the sake of my own memory:
– arrived in Australia
– started working in Australia
– got in trouble with the authorities in Australia
– had to go through paperwork Hell to placate the authorities in Australia
– Elsie got fed up with it all (I knew she’d expect more from me than Vomit had alluded to)
– Adrian fell for that perfect surfer boy
– no reasons left to stay in Australia.
Enough of that.
July 6 th
Paperwork Hell in the UK seems to be dealt with. Possibly. (Unlikely though. I’m sure city council will invent half a dozen extra forms just to spite me.) Also spotted the first commercial reference to Christmas. “Book your Christmas table now, and get 20% off!” The fine print includes the word “inflation”. Of course it does.
December 12 th
Life is getting expensive and punters rare. Damn these short days and this gloomy weather. Not a winning combination. I’ve managed to stash away some moolah, but my private pile of plastic tender has been thinning. And Christmas, season of excess and expense, is coming. What isn’t coming this year, for Christmas (one has to be precise with one’s wording in certain circumstances), is Vomit’s mother (as I’m sure as fuck that Vomit’s mother will be cumming a lot more this year). She’s off for the holidays to some far off country with her lover, another steroid-inflated weightlifter in his 60s. May they merrily slurp endless lakes of booze on the West African coast and get malaria. Vomit’s invited an aunt instead. I always forget her name and call her Agatha. Fits well enough. She’s going to help with the cooking. An excellent excuse to shirk my duties.
December 13 th
I had planned to use the playroom today, which, as usual, led to bargaining, bartering, haggling, and death threats. Vomit – without my knowing – had arranged a playdate with a friend of hers, but business gets precedence over mere dilettantism, even if it incurs threats to my balls. (So far, she’s never acted upon her promises to remove one or the other by some gruesome and protracted procedure.) The Gods of Impeccable Timing and Double Bookings seem to have decided that whenever I need the playroom, Vomit lays claim to it as well. Perhaps we really should start some google group and synchronise our schedules or something similarly newfangled. Anyway, I told Vomit it’d be free after five.
The guy was late. I’d reckoned he’d be late. This lateness was factored in. What was also factored in was a longer session than planned and far more clean-up than usual. All in all, after allowing for every largesse and contingency to stray into my calculations, the playroom should have been vacated and spotless by three thirty.
By three thirty, the wanker hadn’t arrived.
By four thirty, I got a text. He’d be there in twenty minutes. Was I still available?
What to do, what to do?
After a nail-biting 20 seconds I said I was available and knew the instant I sent the text that I’d regret sending it.
He arrived at five to five; Vomit, however, still wasn’t there. I whisked the guy into the playroom, strapped him down to the fuck/paddling-bench, and had just about laced the isolation hood tight when I heard Vomit and some other cackling woman enter the hall while shouting wild obscenities to a third, and considering the pronouns they used (when they didn’t use the neuter), male party. I tried to reason with her, but what followed was bargaining, bartering, haggling, and more threats to the well-being of my testicles.
“What’s he here for?” Vomit’s friend asked, pointing to the playroom's door.
“Arse work. Rough fuck,” I said. “Some spanking. Nothing exotic.”
“Is he cute?”
I shrugged.
“Is he hooded?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine then,” she said and barged in. “Strip,” she said to her sub, “and kneel. In a corner, face to the wall.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“And you,” she said to me, “you do as told.”
I wanted to object, but my retracting scrotum urged me to comply with Vomit’s scowl.
The doing as told, initially, was sitting in the settee. Half an hour later, the bitch (and in this situation, for once, I don’t mean Vomit), summoned me in. The punter’s bottom was glowing red (a most professional colour, I must admit), and his arse sloppy. More or less how he’d be looking had I been working on him. Large slimy plugs were arranged by increasing size in a neat row. (That was better than me. I just tossed them aside.) Vomit was fucking his face. The ladies had been doling out some good work. I nodded in approbation. The bitch couldn’t help but beam. The sub was still kneeling in a corner.
“That sorry excuse for a boy there needs punishment,” she said. “You strap him him up somewhere. Make sure you can get to its cock. And make sure he can see us fucking your mark. I’ll give you instructions when you’re done.”
To the A-frame we went. The lad, I only now saw, had one of those tiny plastic chastity things locked on; his hairless parts in and around it were bulging white. A thick string a pre had oozed from the tip of his smothered cock and was now dangling from his balls. A lot more was smeared all over his thighs. The boy was wet. He wasn’t much my type – nothing personal – and I couldn’t really see why Vomit wanted to work him over. Her habit was to take only the most scrumptious boys over to our playroom to rile me up. When he was strapped in, the bitch ordered me to gag him.
“He gets whiny when you tease him in chastity,” she said (which made him whine), went back to one of the shelves, grabbed one of Vomit’s eye-watering fantasy/monster dildoes, strapped it into her strap-on harness, and without as much as a warning, ploughed straight into the punter’s arse. He squealed. He also got very, very hard. He was, I had to admit (albeit begrudgingly), in good hands.
“Take that massager over there,” the bitch said, nodding towards the shelves, “and work on his cage. He hates that.”
The boy spittled around the gag, and – not even respectfully (strategic error, if you ask me) – tried to bargain with the bitch. Not that, he said. You’d told me you’d let me out, he said. Please, please, please, I need an unlock. And so on. She ignored him. I plugged in the wand, set it to lowish, and started working on the boy’s gunky balls. Good thing he was gagged. He was loud. He also was making noises that would melt even the iciest of icebergs. I was hard in seconds. Vomit blushed and gurgled. The bitch started oozing. The punter, earplugged, remained unaffected (I don’t know whether I had to envy him or not). Vomit started fucking his face harder and I could see and hear she was about to cum. Both bitches came. No sense of control.
The boy closed his eyes and started to fuck the vibrator.
“Don’t you dare cum,” the bitch said, “or your balls will regret it for the rest of the year!” No wonder she’s a friend of Vomit’s.
The pheromone-like effect of his moans tripled. If he kept this up, and I saw no reason why he wouldn’t, I’d need a wank soon. Or I’d cum in my jeans.
As if one moaning boy weren't enough, the punter got needy as well, but the bitches gave no sign of attending to his cock. He hadn’t asked me for any cock work either, but I always try to give my clients a happy ending. They tend to appreciate that (would you believe it?). In fact, the bitches were slowing down. They seemed satiated. The punter objected, but the cunts plopped down their respective dildoes, sighed some more, and headed for the door, dragging their feet. So much for women and their infinite orgasms.
“Need a fag,” Vomit said.
“Sure,” I said.
“Keep teasing him,” the bitch told me. “Don’t you dare stop.” She sounded dreamy and distant.
“Sure,” I said again. The door closed.
First I had to take care of the punter. I got out our twelve horsepower fucking machine, picked up the dildo that the bitch had been using on him, strapped the monster in, shoved it up the punter’s arse, and set the machine to ram-course. The bugger seemed to enjoy that.
Back to the boy and his lush moans. I could only take five more minutes of massaging his desperately needy, dripping, plastic bulge. I had to cum. The more urgent his need got, the more it turned me on. Now, this is usually the case, but this was something else. No wonder the bitch kept him in that state. If she could sell his moans as pills, she’d be a billionaire. I tied the cord of the massager to his collar, let the vibrating head dangle just above and in front of his cage, and set it to low. Any movement and it’d swing off course. I’d seen plenty of subs go mad with need and frustration at that set-up, but never seen anyone cum that way.
The punter’s mouth was free. I decided it would make a good spot for me to cum in. Because I’m not a monster, I slid a vibrating bullet around his cock. He appreciated, but wanted more. I had no time to attend to him. Chastity boy was turning me on to the point of failure. I’d barely unzipped that, watching him writhe and moan and plead and fuck the air in that tiny, bulging, dripping plastic cage, the vibrator swinging out of reach the moment he thought he’d get close, I came in the punter’s mouth. That he didn’t appreciate, but I decided it fell well within the broader definition of what one might consider amounts to a rough fuck. I made him swallow. I tried not to collapse, but my legs didn’t half function. Fuck I was knackered. I sat down.
The lazy bitches returned after another solid twenty minutes. The punter had just cum, and so had I, again – much to chastity boy’s chagrin, still fucking the tantalising massager. The room was thick with the stench of many satisfying orgasms, except his. His moans had got even more liquefying. Good I’d got used to them.
While the bitches got chastity boy cooled down and out to the living room – he seemed strangely compliant –, I started to unfasten the punter. We had the customary chit chat (“How did you manage to spit-roast and paddle me at the same time?” “Magic,” I said.), I showed him the shower, and I joined the bitches and their no longer blubbering but purring boy for a much needed fag.
We talked about nothing much when the punter got back, who seemed startled by the sheer number of half-naked weirdos lounging in the living room. “You were late,” I said, “and these good people need the playroom as well.” I heard gears grinding in his skull but he didn’t seem to put two and two together. He handed me over the 200 quid and left.
Vomit claimed she and her friend had earned part of the proceedings. I told her to fuck off. She threatened to invite Carl for Christmas. That settled matters. The cunt.
December 14 th
“Bet you can’t make me cum mate.”
Barely legal boy. Wants a cheap wank. I’ve heard this hundreds of times.
“How much?”
“A tenner.”
“Fuck off.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty five,” I said, but too late. He doesn’t answer. Shit. He must have caught I gave it too much thought. I’m in dire need of customers. He’s smiling now. I don’t like him.
“Twenty,” he says, “but tell you what. If you can make me cum again tomorrow, I double that.”
“Suuure,” I say.
“Ok. Where?”
“No,” I say, “fuck off,” and I turn away.
“I’ll pay in advance.”
“So. You give me 60 quid today if I make you cum now and again tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
Too easy.
“Right. Follow me.”
I go to one of my spots, unzip the guy, and start tossing him off. He struggles a bit, but nothing much. Within a minute he cums.
“Same place, same time, tomorrow?” he says.
“Sure,” I say and amble off with a trio of crumpled 20s.
Dec. 15.
Fuck me, he’s found me.
“You weren’t there,” he says.
“Business got in the way,” I lie. “Follow me.”
We go to another spot, and I do pretty much the same thing. He struggles a bit more this time, and I pin him against the wall. More resistance. I grab him by the balls, he whelps, I crouch down and start sucking him off. He cums within seconds.
“There,” I tell him.
He’s panting.
“God you’re good,” he says.
I shrug and go away.
“Hey,” he shouts back.
“What?”
“I bet you a 100 quid you can’t make me cum tomorrow.”
“Where’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He fumbles in his pocket and gets out a crumpled wad of tenners. Ten of them. “See you tomorrow then.”
I’m staying home tomorrow. I’ve earned it.
16.
Guess who rang the bell? Bet-you-can’t-make-me-cum guy. Vomit opened the door, as I wasn’t expecting anyone (neither was she, but I feigned paraplegia).
“Robert home?” he said.
Vomit hesitated. I swear the guy can smell hesitation.
“No,” she said.
“Sure he is.”
“Fuck off,” she said.
“Tell him to come and see me,” he said before she’d managed to slam the door closed.
“Who’s the creep?” she asked me.
“Insistent customer.”
“Well you’d better deal with him. How did he find out where you live? Did you get followed again? And how does he even know your name? I told you before that…”
She was still going at it when I left. I hung round my turf for about an hour, half that time in pissing winter rain, before the plonker turned up.
“Last time I’m doing this,” I said, pushed him against the wall behind the old glue factory, and started tossing him off matter of factly. His resistance was risible to the point it irritated me. I didn’t even have to use my mouth. He came in under a minute.
“Do you get off on being shoved against a wall and tossed off?” I asked.
“Not particularly.”
“You’re not even trying not to cum. Anyway. I’m not the one who should be complaining.” I lit a fag and moved on.
“Same thing tomorrow?” he said.
“Nah. I’ve got other fish to fry. ‘Tis soon the merry happy season of Yuletide. I have to prepare myself mentally.”
“Double or nothing,” he said. I’d almost rounded the corner.
“What?”
“I give you 200 quid now and if you make me cum tomorrow you can keep it. If you don’t, you give me everything back.”
I hesitated. He knew.
“Nope,” I said anyway.
“Five hundred.”
How could I resist.
“And when you say everything, you mean, everything?”
He nodded. “The whole 660 quid,” he said.
Needless to say I hesitated again. Needless to say I accepted as well.
17.
Needless to say that he came within seconds. Same thing, double or nothing and all, tomorrow? Sure! (We’re at £1660 now.)
18
Double or nothing came and came again. We should be at 3660, but to make it easier he rounded that off to 4000. He’s mad. Vomit’s urged me to dump the money on the bank. He knows where I live and what my name is, it’s a lot of cash, and, according to her, with his buzz-cut and nasty round face, he’s an unsavoury type. We might well get burgled at some point. She’s sure he’s got connections with other even less savoury types with buzz-cuts, round faces, scars all over, and missing front teeth. She’s going to install doorbell cameras.
19
Double or nothing came again. 10000, for ease of calculation. This beggars imagination. Numbers turn into abstractions.
20.
Last time, he’d said yesterday, as this was costing him too much. “You reckon?”, I’d said.
Today I took him under the bridge and started tossing him off. He didn’t get hard. Pushed him against the wall. He grunted. Harsher wank. Nothing.
“You’re gonna have to use your mouth,” he taunted.
I did. It did nothing. Slight panic now. I could feel my armpits prick. Dragged him to the playroom. At first he seemed to object, but he didn’t resist physically. He was strapped down fast enough. I decided to take my time – one can afford to take one’s time for 20k.
Slow strokes over his thighs, getting teasingly closer to his balls every time. I noticed a slight nudge of his cock when I finally started fondling his balls, which is what I did for the next hour or so. Feathers, brushes, fake ermine, rubber, lubed fingers, tongue; his balls got the whole lot. It got him sloppy. This made me hopeful, but it was far from enough.
If he can’t get hard like that, it’s time for the vacuum pump. That’ll get him hard, and it did, but the moment I got it off he deflated.
Panic now. I used my mouth, my hands, I fucked him (now he struggled – he really didn’t want that), unfurled my entire repertoire over his nipples, all to no avail. Vibrators four at a time, vibrating plug (more objections), inflatable gag, I called Cas of the irresistible home-made milker. I earplugged and hooded the guy and we both worked on him. Electro, if anything, made it all much worse. Vomit came in, I told her what the problem was and she gave a hand as well (after scolding me, of course).
The guy was now being fondled by three experts in making cocks squirt against their will, and all we got was a mild – so mild we were all debating whether it had happened at all – gyration (I hate that word) of his pelvis (but this is exactly what his pelvis did: gyrate, once).
After a monster four hour session, we gave up. I gave him his money back (which – more scolding from Vomit – I hadn’t put on the bank), tossed him out, and went to have a loud and ugly sob into my pillow.
December 22 nd
Vomit had to appeal to my good taste. This is a first. An up and coming photographer (and old friend of hers I understand) was displaying his latest work. She wants to buy a piece as an investment. He’s still cheap, she said.
Off to the art centre she dragged me. God have they managed to wreck the place in a few years. I used to fuck boys in the countless dusty broom closets or under and behind tatty set pieces for plays or under the stage. (As I once did during the Scottish Play. Some people thought the panting and moaning were part of the show). The whole edifice used to reek of the 70s and was a red-bricked labyrinth to all but the initiated. I knew it like my back pocket. It’s now all white and bright with LEDs and stripped down wide open, connected spaces. As the architect explained on a little plaque in the hall: “Connected Spaces Connect People”. I felt ill.
The pictures were meh. Knowing Vomit’s taste, I’d been expecting explicit hard-core porn, and a few prints, with some ill will, could be considered a smidgeon risqué but nothing more. At a glance I told Vomit not to bother but she clung on to me, which didn’t allow me to leave. She really ‘felt’ (her emphasis) that rhino cosplayer with the dragon dildo, she said to the photographer. I made gagging noises, shook her off, and left her in search of booze. All I found was orange juice and water. And then I found him.
Angelic. Innocence incarnate. Deep-brown deer-like eyes under long luscious eyelashes. Plump, cock-sucking lips – crimson, rose-petal-like, if ever there were crimson rose-petal-like cock-sucking lips. Long curls of blond hair draping over his shoulders. Tight, very faded jeans, a cute bulge nuzzling within, glorious thighs, noticeable but unobtrusive musculature under a baggy, featureless black hoody. He licked his lips like cows lick their salt-blocks: unencumbered, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, and with relish. His, I could now see, is a cock licking tongue. His are cock-nibbling teeth. I was sure his palate and throat were a five star wellness spa and resort for cocks too. I was rehearsing my best-worn pick up line (“Fancy a fuck under the –”) when Vomit interrupted me with a rude tug on my right arm. I spilled half a glass of orange juice.
“What, woman?”
“I asked you something.”
Did she?
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, go for it. It’s your money.”
“You dim witted imbecile,” she hissed. People around us looked anyway.
She hauled me to one of the pictures, not the rhino one, but something that looked like a slimy ball-pit with three piles of translucent alien eggs in it. Pregnant men with gasmasks and huge green tentacles for cocks were farting them out. Apart from one pixel-sharp metal bit in the bottom right gasmask the whole scene was soft-focussed and someone had overworked the mist machine. Far too bright and saturated to my taste, but I’m sure she ‘felt’ (my emphasis) this one deeply as well, just like the rhino portrait. And it matched her hair to perfection.
“It’d certainly look good in the loo,” I said and dodged the slap I saw coming.
“Robert, for fuck’s sake, you’re insufferable.”
The photographer smiled with some reserve. I hadn’t seen him sneak up to us. Thin guy in tight, boring clothing. His sleeves and trouser legs were four inches short. Round, tortoiseshell designer glasses.
“It’s gorgeous, Reginald,” Vomit cooed. “This imbecile is a philistine.”
Well, this philistine, in any case, got back to where he last saw the only piece of art in this forsaken gallery and guess what, the philistine didn’t get there before someone, this time an underdressed photographer, tugged on the philistine’s arm. The philistine didn’t spill orange juice this time, but he was getting antsy.
“Yeah?” the philistine said.
“Just a word of warning,” he said. He didn’t mean it badly, his face was one of slight concern, but it certainly came out wrong. The man saturated his tone as much as his prints. “I see you’ve been looking at Luke.”
“Who’s Luke? The black hoodie boy?”
He nodded. “Stay away from him.”
“Erm…”
“Just… stay away from him. Or you’ll regret it.” With that he left and went back to Vomit who now seemed to be particularly taken by one of the black and white scenes (a V6 engine, head removed, being penetrated by five flaccid-ish cocks; the cockless cylinder (top left) had an orchid growing out of it; how allegoric). Luke came sauntering towards me. He’d been leafing through a catalogue, and at every turn of a page he licked his fingers. Perfect.
Just as I was once again rehearsing my best-worn pick up line (“Fancy a shag behind the–”), Vomit interrupted me with a rude tug on my right arm.
“What?” People turned towards me. I’d just shouted. She hauled me over to the engine.
“Why the fuck do you care what I think of this … ?” I just managed to omit ‘shit’.
“Sometimes idiots give the best advice,” she said. “Which one of the three?”
“The rhino,” I said.
“Why?”
“I like the composition, nothing more. The ball pit is just flat nasty colour, the engine is sickeningly would-be-deep. Rhino.”
“Thanks,” she said, showed me the primmest of all her prim smiles (and believe me, she has an extensive repertoire of those), hauled me over to Reginald, told him to put the Rhino aside, and dragged me out. I tried to protest, but in vain. Once again slain by the fair sex.
I sulked most of the way back.
“Why do you all act so fucking weird?” I said, back in the living room. “First you drag me to that stupid exhibition, then you drag me out of that stupid exhibition. And then all that hush-hush crap around that boy. What’s that all about?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Vomit at a loss for words. As much as that is rare sight, I couldn’t relish it.
“If I told you, you’d want to find out,” she said. “Believe me.”
I tried to pry, but she just left for her bedroom. “Not now,” she said.
Nothing made sense any more.
Dec. 24 th
Aunt Agatha arrived at 8AM. Both Vomit and I were still well snoozing when the doorbell and its assorted cameras had a fit. We weren’t expecting them until tomorrow (or that’s what we remembered) but they’d decided they might as well come over for Christmas eve. Aunt Agatha is Vomit’s mother’s twin sister. She also, like Vomit’s mother, is a powerlifter. She brought her boyfriend with her. He, like Vomit’s mother’s boyfriend, is a powerlifter too. Together, that family they must hold the record for steroid use in the sixty and above bracket.
When conversation veered towards the preparations for Christmas, I asked them if I could be of any assistance in the kitchen, and all gave me the same, resounding fuck off. I wasn’t even allowed to peel carrots (who peels carrots anyway?).
“Off for a walk,” I said. I didn’t expect an answer. My expectations were confirmed, if you discount grunts for answers. May they happily slave away in the kitchen without my hapless person interfering with their exacting assignments (or more succinctly: sod them).
Out and about, scrumptious Luke crossed my mind and I set off for the art centre. I wasn’t expecting it to be open on Christmas eve early afternoon, but you never know.
Luck, for once, wasn’t pissing down my neck: they were open. Not only was Luck kissing my rosy cheeks, it, apparently, had lost all sense of proportion: Luke was there was well. Went back home to slip into something more elaborate involving much tighter and more leathery gear. Vomit didn’t even look up. Neither did the others.
Luke, delicious boy, here I come!
Dec 25. Xmas. Yay.
Where to start? I still got my balls, which, by all standards, is nothing short of a Christmas miracle.
Where to begin? The art gallery. That was yesterday.
I marched towards Luke rehearsing my best-trodden pick up line, but he caught me short.
“Your place or mine?” he said. As good as any pick up line.
We ended up at his place. I thought this the better, more strategic option.
First I had some doubts to dispel. I asked him if he was single. He was. Did he see jealous casuals with a fetish for castrating other casuals? No. Asked him if he had parents or siblings that were against same-sex romping who might barge in and impale me if they caught me corrupting their unspoilt son/brother. He hadn’t. Next on the list: thick housemates? No. Nosy neighbours? No. Was he an axe/chainsaw/icepick murderer? He laughed, but no. Did he sport a horrific collection of oozing STDs? No. No no no. God no. Where’s the catch then? He had no idea, he said.
God Almighty, he’s a good kisser. Ding dong merrily and all that. I was rock hard the moment his tongue peeked in. It felt like tender, soft, luscious penetration. He glided his hands up under my t-shirt, and I reciprocated, up under his hoody. He found my nipples, choked me a little bit (soft, strong hands), then snaked to my crotch, all while tenderly raping my mouth with his tongue, lips, and teeth. Tenderness steeped in fiery passion. He smelled of fresh linen and strawberries – just a sexy trace of bubblegum in his saliva. His hair brushed my cheeks, tangled behind my ears, caressed my eyelids. Our cheekbones touched and I started humping. He dismounted and showed me to the bed, pushed me on, and soon we were all over each other. Our legs tangled. I humped one of his thighs. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and started nibbling my ears, my lips, plunged back into my mouth; one of his hands grabbed my cock. Oh fuck. I don’t know how he did it. I caught my breath, looked him in the eyes, and fucking came. The moment I felt the spurts lose their initial vigour, we were snogging again, tangling again, writhing like oversexed snakes on warm tarmac. Next thing I know he’s got a hand back around my cock, smearing the cum all over, using it as lube, while his other hand creeps towards my arse. We’re still kissing. I can’t keep up. One finger slips in, another follows, then a third, and he curves them, massages my arse, hits my prostate, he pushes my cock down, rubs it – I don’t understand, it’s no longer oversensitive – and squeezes it. I hump him like I’d hump a pinball machine, and cum again. I need a rest. He pushes me down and starts massaging my chest, gets my jacket off, then my T-shirt. He works my nipples, licks then, nibbles them, one of his hands is back on my cock. He licks his way down to my crotch, takes his time – Oh blissful rest! One of his hands keeps working my left nipple (how does he know it’s the most sensitive and erogenous one?), now he nibbles my cock through my tightest leathers. I can’t hold it much longer. I’d rather not cum, but fuck, he is, … I cum. He lies down next to me. I want to ask him how the fuck he did what he just did, but he gets up, bends over to kiss me again, then roots around on a shelf. He shows me a couple of leather wrist and ankle cuffs.
“Do you mind?” he says.
I shake my head, still processing the infernal bliss I’ve been through. I’m strapped down when I realise it might not have been a good idea to let him tie me up. He undresses. An angel’s body – firm, sylphic, muscled, proportioned. I want him on me again. I need him on me again, and he gets on me, says he loves leather. He’s back at my cock, still squelching in its bath of cum, quite soft now, and caressing my legs and thighs; I’m getting hard. I know I have a prodigious libido, but this is epic, even for me. He presses up my perineum, smothers my groin in its lubed leather, works on my slippery cock through the thin, flexible, warm, stretched jeans; and of course, betrayed by my body, I cum again.
“I need a breather,” I say, matter of factly.
He nods, gets up, unbuckles the ankle cuffs, and peels off my jeans. He asks if he can put them on. “Sure,” I say. He’s a bit thinner than me, and he slips into them without much effort. His thighs are glorious. His legs are glorious. His is the holotype of a bubble-but. He straps my ankles back in their shackles and is now standing over me.
“Do you want to lick my crotch?” he says.
I nod. I know exactly what my face looks like. Adoration. (I train adoration in the mirror. Works with most punters.) This time, it’s unrehearsed. He sits down on my chest, leather inches from my face. It’s tight, glistening, and containing his cute bugle, slithering and waxing in my cum. He’s hard. He takes my head, and helps to hold it into his crotch. Now I nibble and suck and lick and groan into his cock. I feel myself getting hard. He’s getting harder. He’s biting his lower lip, a look of intense yearning crosses his face. Tender, loving yearning. Angelic yearning. He grabs my cock, I bite in his cockhead. He cums. I cum. I close my eyes now. He’s lying on me. He’s playing with my soft cock. I still have his crotch right up my chest. He sneaks up. His crotch in my face. I feel his damned crimson rose petal cock sucking lips embrace my cockhead. God, please, no. I bury my face in his crotch. He’s far too good with his mouth. I groan into the leather. He squeezes my head between his thighs. A tender, loving, inescapable, torturous embrace. His tongue feels like sharp bliss. There’s only so much pleasure one can take, and I’m full. Satiated. Saturated. He isn’t. I brace myself for a dusty, ball-wrenching orgasm. God. Fuck. Shit. He doesn’t stop. I’m begging him to cut it out. He squeezes my head harder between his thighs. The smell of my spunk and leather and his perfect fucking bubble butt dangling under my nose, for a fraction of a sliver of time, cast their spell on me and I cum. He wrenches it out of me. I can’t even struggle any more.
He flips me over like a rag doll and tightens me down. I feel some cold lube running down my crack. His warm cock grazes the small of my back. He nips in. Languorous. Tender. I didn’t describe his cock yet. In my arse it was perfection. To behold it was perfection. The cock of Angels. Or Demons. While he fucks me – tender, unbearable fucking – I start grinding the sheets. I’m not grinding the sheets. I’m grinding my leather jacket which he must have worked under me. Much of the lube he’s squirted around my arse has pooled under my cock onto the jacket. While he fucks me, he starts jacking me off. His hand slips underneath me like nothing, even though I try to keep it out. His other hand follows and fondles my balls. He starts nuzzling my back, kisses and licks it. He licks my sides. Now he tweaks my left nipple again. I don’t resist. I am his puppet, though his puppet could do with a … no, not an orgasm, please. Fuck. I bite down in the bedsheets and grunt, half-weeping. We’re cumming.
Recollection gets hazy at this point. I might have dozed off. My blood was probably more hormones than serum. I remember one – possibly final, probably not final – orgasm where I was gagged, hooded, where he was fucking me with something four times the size of his cock and sucking me off, or using some toy, or – I don’t know. I couldn’t see, I could hardly hear, and I certainly couldn’t think. I very much did not want to cum, but I did. I screamed. Louder than – a lot louder than I think ever before. And that was, I remember now, far from the last time he made me cum.
I woke up around 3AM; he wasn’t home. He’d left a note saying that he would be out, conducting traditional Christmas business with the family, and wouldn’t be back before late in the evening of the 25th.
That’s when the realisation hit that I’d slept through Christmas eve.
I scrambled in slow motion for my stuff, didn’t feel like wearing drenched leather (this is unlike me), struggled into Luke’s stuff that was lying around (his jeans, on me, were borderline rip-ready), first tried making myself some coffee in a foreign kitchen, didn’t manage, and staggered out, amongst the well-pissed general population coming back from whatever festivities they had been attending to.
I tottered home around 4AM. How I didn’t get emasculated, eviscerated, and evicted at the same time is a mystery. Aunt Agatha and Uncle Roid were snoring in the settee. Vomit kept shouting under her breath. Did I ever consider her feelings when I was out and about being a complete fatuous dick? Wasn’t it enough that I let them do all the work in the kitchen only not to show up? Couldn’t I have sent one, one simple message to… And so on.
“You don’t even smell of booze,” she said, seemingly disappointed.
“Eh,” was all I managed.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“Well…”
“No don’t tell me. Don’t you fucking tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“But you just asked where…” I stopped. Her stare didn’t allow any further locution.
She stood there for another while, arms crossed, went into the kitchen, plonked a plate on the table (Uncle Roid grunted), said “Merry fucking bloody cunting Christmas, you fucking useless piece of miserable fucking shit,” or something similarly eloquent, and stomped off to her bedroom. It took her all her willpower not to slam the door.
I had a bite – Agatha and Roid were as terrible cooks as they looked – and went to bed.
I offered my fine services again to help cook dinner on Christmas day, after a short, sticky nap.
“You’re not helping,” Vomit said, “and you’re not leaving either.”
I ventured into the kitchen, hungry.
“Don’t you fucking dare go there. I’ve started cooking already.”
“Where are the anabolics?”
“Out.”
“Shall I join them?” That stare again. “No then. I get it.” After more dead silence I asked if any other freeloaders were counting on the fine dining experience she was concocting.
“Mole, Wart, and Pimple.”
“Moth, Worm, and Snail last year. This year it’s a Dermatologist’s dream. Do you do this on purpose, the themed invites?”
No reply.
“Why don’t you sod off into the playroom?” she said.
“To do what?”
“Tidy up?”
I shrugged and went in. I heard her lock the door. Child.
Apart from that, Christmas day went along smoothly. When the guests got fed up with my banging on the door and shouting to be let out, they strapped me to the spanking bench, gagged me, wired up my cock and arse with the electro set to ambient sound, connected it to the baby monitor in the living room, and went on with their loud and boisterous joy and merriment. They were, by the feel of it, as boisterous as they could, and more.
She let me out somewhere in the early evening. I was docile.
26
Not functioning. Wonder why.
27.
Saw Double or Nothing from afar. Lightbulbs flashed. Wheels must be set in motion.
28.
I may have some funds for proper presents soon. Warmed up Double or Nothing for a silly little idea of mine. Told him I still hadn’t digested my disgusting defeat. He smirked. Of course he did. What would he think of another little wager: if I made him cum I’d get the 20k back. If I didn’t, he’d get 20k.
“Do you have the money?” he said.
“I may,” I lied.
“Make it 25 and it’s a deal.”
He didn’t catch me hesitating this time. It was a deal.
30.
Vomit knows rich people. Vomit can be persuasive. How I’d persuaded her to persuade them, I believe, boiled down to her feeling just slightly bad about Christmas. Or perhaps she’s just a calculating cunt thirsty for a cut. What’s she got to lose? Still, I feel ill at ease with 25k in my hands.
Double or Nothing rang. I showed him my 25k, he showed me his, and I led him to my motorbike. We geared up, and drove off to a playroom the other end of town, I told him. I needed different gear, different people, a different mindset, I said. He understood, but it wouldn’t make any difference. He wouldn’t cum. I opened the door to the garage and set off.
I rung. The door buzzed open and I led Double or Nothing upstairs. I cuffed his hands, switched his helmet for a locking muzzle (I didn’t want to hear him – at least not too loudly), and pushed him onto the bed.
“We’ll start with two hours,” I said. “If you can find another, say 10k, I’ll make all of this stop. If you can’t, we’ll continue.”
Luke was now standing in the door to the bedroom, his usual angelic self. It took me all of my self-control not to jump him and kiss him and fuck him silly there and then as I handed him his cut. He casually tossed it inside a sock drawer and walked to the bed; Double or Nothing looked less sure of himself already.
I went over to the corner of the bedroom were I’d installed the A-frame the day before, got the gag in chastity boy’s mouth, and switched on the vibrator dangling in front of his cage. “I’ve heard the bitch spiked your last coffee with a little blue pill. Poor boy. You really must be beyond desperate. To think she still hasn’t let you out and won’t let you out before valentine’s, if all goes well, I’ve heard…” He shook his head, horror in his eyes, and tried to say something. I gave his drenched balls a squeeze. “In any case, enjoy the show. There’ll be lots and lots of cumming.” The single yelp he made got me hard and needy.
At the same time, a strangled, panicked yelp came from the bed. Double or Nothing, incredulous, had had his first orgasm, it seemed.
“This should be interesting,” I said, got my earplugs in, and joined Luke.
It was.
December 31st . NY’s eve.
A comfortable and quiet New Year’s eve before us. This is a first. Vomit’s a goner – sloshed beyond retrieval. Spoils do that to her. I’ve ordered some new gear and some new, extra tight, bespoke stuff I’ve been lusting for for decades.
All is so quiet.
Strange.
I’m missing chaos already.