Chatroom confessions

Author: dogen
Title: Chatroom confessions
Date: 10 August 2005

I was chatting with a guy on gay.com the other day. He'd asked me what the kinkiest thing I'd ever done was. As I was typing it, I realized that it might be worth sharing.
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I'd just moved to Boston to go to grad school. For your mind's eye: I was 24, hollow-chested skinny with jelled up red hair and pail, spotty skin. The cheapest place I could find to live was this hippy-type co-op in Cambridge—where one of my roommates was a big, black lesbian who got off of making her girlfriend walk around with a neon purple collar on.

To skip over some of the back story, she convinced me to go to this fetish fair that happens twice a year at a big fancy hotel near the financial sector of downtown.
"If the guys in the leather kilts aren't a big enough laugh for you," she said, "Then seeing the expressions on all the suits' faces will be."

Up until now, the kinkiest thing I'd ever done was let a guy fuck me while I was tied face down and spread eagle on a bed—I wasn't sure I was up for the type of thing that would go on when the kinkiest of kinks get together. Still…I figured I could laugh most of it off.

So, I went with her. To look the part, I wore this black vinyl jacket I'd picked up at Hot Topic and matching pants with ends that slipped tightly over the tops of my shined army boots. Under the jacket was a white wife-beater, and hidden under the flipped up jacket collar was a plain, thin collar from my roommate. It was the kind that could be locked with a pad lock, but I didn't put one on. The whole point was to make people look, but I still tried to hide it on the bus ride to the hotel.

The second we walk into the massive ballroom that holds the hundred-plus sales booths, my roommate ditches me to go check out a demonstration of body painting with liquid latex. I just start walking around, staring lax-jawed at all the displays. The ball gag booth next to leather kilt booth next to the butt plug booth.

"Some people want to climb Mount Everest…some people want it to climb up them," the guy at the butt plug booth says, holding up a rubber dildo bigger around than his head.

For about an hour, I navigate around the isles—picking up a pair of adjustable nipple clamps and some leather-scented candles so that I don't look as if I was just a poser. Then I come to John's booth. He owns this little fetish store that was in a leather club near Fenway Park. He was a bigger guy, that kind of gym-and-beer-earned barrel chest, with a buzzed head and something that looked like a state trooper's uniform. We start talking when he compliments me on wearing leather boots ("kids these days only wear sneakers") and he quickly invites me to be his guest over at a party being held at the club.
"Promise you'll come," he sayes.
"I promise."
"Come here…lean over the table a little bit."
I thought he was going to kiss me on the cheek or something, but instead he snaps this heavy-as-hell padlock the size of a cigarette box on the collar I'm wearing.
"Now you'll have to live up to that promise."

Two hours later, and I can't find my roommate ( I later found out she had slipped off to this hotel room for an orgy open to obese black women and their little white bitches). My urge is to just go home and see if I can cut off this damn collar that's starting to chafe my neck with this weight tugging on it. As I'm walking out, I see John starting to pack up his booth.
"Help me out here and I'll give you a ride over to the club…you are going to keep that promise, aren’t you?"
"Oh, yea, sure." We collapse the table and pack all the rubber and leather into plastic seal-tight tubs. They all go into his big red Dodge Ram pickup, and we head off. It's the summer, and I'm beginning to sweat from anxiety in my vinyl pants. I've never been to a leather bar before, and god knows what this guy driving me there has in mind. My white briefs have to be soaked transparent by now.

When we get there, we leave the stuff in his truck and just walk past the doorman into the already booming club. There's S&M porn on TVs, chains hanging from the ceiling, everything's painted black, and as we pass the doorman he says, "nice one you got there, John."
John slaps me on my virtually nonexistent, vinyl-covered ass.
We get into this backroom where they have this leather sling and one of those crosses with metal clamping cuffs at each of the four ends. There's a few dozen people there, but no one is using them.
"Those are just for show," John says. "We have to stay legal like a normal bar—Boston's rules."

He leads me to his store at the other end of the room. It's basically a big walk-in closet with a glass window, but it's jammed full with rubber and leather gear. John looks down at my dick and sees my hard-on trying to press their way through my pants.
"Here, let's get that off of you and try something a little less comfortable," he says as he unlocks and removes the collar I'm wearing. I take off my jacket and he reaches for a posture collar…the kind that takes up your entire neck and then has a bar running down your back with cuffs on the end.
"Want to try this?"
I nod and he puts his hands on my shoulders to turn me around. The collar locks on and he twists my arms behind my back to lock them into place—a little rougher than I liked, but all I did was let out a squeek. He spins me back around and starts to rub my chest.
"My, my…you like this don't you," as he reaches down and grabs my basket. And I do like it.
"Please, put something else on me," I plead. "Do something else to me." I sound like some bad porn movie, but at this point I'm surrounded by all the toys I've never used before and I want to get started. John suddenly gets this serious look on his face, pulls out a pair of scissors and slices off my wife-beater. Unbuckling my belt, he pushes down my pants and sweat soaked underwear, letting my six-inch dick slap me on my tummy.
He opens this drawer, and pulls out a bunch of wires with little cups on the end that he puts on my shaft and balls.
"Get down on your knees," he says, guiding me down my holding me under my armpits.
He walks behind me, suddenly remembering to pull the blind down on the store's window to keep this eighty-year-old guy from seeing the show.

First my boots come off, then my pants are off all the way. I feel rubber cuffs wrapped around each ankle and then I feel them pulled together and joined to the posture bar. The collar keeps me rigidly in a kneeling position when John comes over in front of me and pulls out this monster that had to be at least eight inches long. He grabs my hair.
"Shit, how much stuff to you put on your head…I damn near cut a finger!"
He grabs the back of my head, and slowly starts to rub his dick on my lips. Then he presses a button on the controller connected to the wires.

"FUCK" I shout as my cock gets a jolt.
"Open up, bitch." He says as I get shocked again. I do and he starts pumping the first few inches in and out of my mouth while stroking the rest with his hand. Any time he goes deeper, I start to gag because of the pressure the collar is putting on my adam's apple.
Five minutes later, he pulls his dick out of my mouth and cums in my hair. He takes his hand and rubs it in and then smears his hand on my face.
"There's a little more shit for your hair, kid" he says as he gives me one more, long shock that causes me to fall over on my side and into a rack of rubber pants.

Reaching down and ripping off each wire, John is telling me that he's trying to figure out what we're going to do next. No way, he says, am I going home yet. As I squirm, trying to get back onto my knees, I see him walking around, picking up a couple of rubber things and a couple of rubber cuffs.
"I've got the perfect idea…you're going to have a great night."
"Yes sir. Thank you sir." It's a little demeaning and more than a little campy, but it seems like the only thing to say.
He takes the posture collar off of me and helps me to my feet. I see him pour a lube into his hand and start rubbing it on one of the rubber pieces—it's a shiny rubber thong with a sheath for cock and balls…and it has a thin, hard dildo in the middle of the strap that goes between your ass cheeks.
My wrists are locked in front of me with the cuffs, and then they're pulled up over my head to a chain hanging from the ceiling.

"Lift your leg. Now lift the other. Now, let's see how this fits your dick and balls. Perfect, good. Now get ready."
The dildo slid up my ass so easily that I was a little embarrassed.
"Now take these," he fingers two pills into my mouth. One's a Viagra, the other is X. He gives me a sip of diet pepsi to wash them down and tells me to close my eyes and open my mouth.

You'd bitch about a man with a three inch dick, but when a three inch penis gag is put in your mouth, you'd kill for it to be shorter. The gag was built into a rubber hood that John streatched down over my head. It had no eye holes, but it had two little nose holes and the penis was actually a hollow tube with a little hole where the piss slit would be. He locked it on with a collar.
"Follow my lead," he said as he lets my arms down and grabs me by the d-ring on the collar. I stumble behind him, out into the club. I damn near fall into a trash barrel when some prick tweaks my nipple.

I feel my back pressed against the wooden cross. Immediately, a pair of hands grabs each one of my limbs and pulls me spread eagle, clamping each limb into the metal cuffs. There I am, stretched out in the middle of a group of drunk kinks I can't see or talk to—utterly helpless with my rubberized dick hard and pointing out for anyone to come along and toy with.
"I'll try to keep an eye on you," John shouts over the techno pumping in the background. He pours a shot of vodka into the tube gag and it burns my throat as it goes down.

It takes about five minutes of tickling, tugging and tweaking before I feel someone tug out my right tit. I try to shout "NO!" through the gag, but I only sound like a wookie as the nipple clam chomps down. It's the kind with no rubber guard, just an pair of alligator clips on a chain.
The other chomps down, and I'm screaming like a five year old girl through my gag. I hear people laughing. The pain numbs away after a couple of minutes, but someone tugs on the chain every once and a while, and the pain comes back. Eventually, about an hour into the night, someone's drunk (I can smell their whisky breath) and yanks them off. I feel a little bit of blood start trickling down my ribs.

A couple take turns lightly flogging me with a cat-of-ninetails they probably picked up at the fair. One dick drops ice cubes into my thong and then pours a shot of tequila down my gag.

And then, after what seems like forever, I hear the music shut off.
"Looks like your skinny pale ass had a rough night," I was almost hanging from my arms—drunk from all the drinks people had poured down my throat and still hard from the Viagra. He grabs the thong and pulls my dick out of the sheath. He frees me from the cross and I struggle to stay standing. He locks my hands together behind me and pulls the mask off my face. As my eyes adjust to the bright lights the bar turns on to tell everyone to go home, I see a video of me playing on televisions around the room.
"I'm taking you home."
He meant his home.
He puts me in a pair of rubber shorts and locks a thick collar around my neck. My arms still tied behind my back, he leads me on a chain outside to his truck. A group of preps from a nearby sports bar throw beer on me on the way. Some random drunk old leatherman grabs me and shoves his toung down my throat. John just yanks me away with the chain. He drives me to his home with people in nearby cars wording "do you need help?" silently with their mouths.
.
"Here's where you'll be sleeping," he says as he pulls the rubber pants off and pushes me back onto a sling. He ties each limp limb up to one of the supporting chains. My head isn't supported by the sling, so he puts a muzzle on me that has a d-ring on one of the straps that goes over the top of my head. He chains my head to the ceiling to keep it upright.
That's how I fall asleep.

In the morning, I wake up with his dick in my ass…he's plowing me with what I can only assume is his boyfriend watching him do it. Then the boyfriend takes his turn until I'm pleading through the muzzle that my ass is sore --so loudly that he calls me a "little sissy punk" and stops.
John lets me down, and gives me the clothes that I was wearing the day before, minus my underwear and now-shredded shirt. As a going away gift, he gives me a rubber shirt to put on.

I would have preferred a blowjob. I didn't cum once the entire damn night.