Compassion sets us apart. I do possess that emotion. But I found myself in an interesting place with compassion and other emotions as I sorted through myself.
Begging to submit to a top is probably nothing new but this young man made it seem like what I expected of him would be child’s play. I explained that my experience in the realm tended to be relatively new. He wanted to play along.
I’d gone shopping. I’d been to Mr. S Leather (http://www.mr-s-leather.com) and purchased a few items of interest. He’d clearly outlined his interests (and limitations), telling me how much he liked getting fucked and humiliated and sucking and — this one’s important — tit torture. So I took it upon myself to see if I was cut out for the game.
His instructions were simple. Upon arrival, he would strip naked, put on a blindfold (a real leather one), clamp his nipples together with the provided tit clamps (pictured here) and kneel. He was to wait, patiently, until I arrived to give him further instructions.
I was downstairs on the computer when I heard him come in upstairs. I didn’t rush, instead letting him get ready and I took my time, completing my tasks before finally walking up to find the pale white boy in his late 20s in my living room. He had a broad chest, muscular but not beefy at all. Very lean with nickel-sized peach nipples pressed into the rubber-tipped clamps.
He’d adjusted them to his liking, as I’d put them at a looser setting (and they were brand new, but I’d made sure they were cleaned and disinfected — I’d heard horror stories of masters who never cleaned their toys and tools).
I didn’t speak as I inspected the almost hairless boy. His cock was completely flaccid and for such pale skin, the dark epidermis of his prick seemed almost unnatural with its blossom of brown hair around it. I walked around. He could hear my foot steps. I was wearing new boots — another of my acquisitions as I indulged myself into this new world.
His ass wasn’t clearly visible since it was in the shadows. So I simply lifted my foot, placed my boot on his back and pushed him onto the floor — not forcefully, but it did surprise him. He started to get up, like doing a push up.
“Stay the fuck down there,” I said.
He relaxed, his naked body on the cold hardwood floors. His back and cheeks were equally smooth. I couldn’t see into the crack well, so I used the toe of the boot to part it. Not much hair.
I walked around a little more, taking my time.
“Sit up,” I said.
He got up to his knees.
“Yes Sir,” he said.
I slapped the back of his head, not hard mind you. But shocking to someone who’s blindfolded.
“I didn’t say you could talk,” I said.
He opened his mouth, probably to apologize, but then thought better of it and closed his mouth. I unzipped my jeans and pulled out my half-hard cock.
He did. I shoved it in his mouth and started fucking. Something came over me as I started this process. Fully clothed. A naked man submitting to me fully. A naked, good-looking, muscle-boy calling me “Sir” and doing anything I wanted.
As this man was restrained in front of me, something unleashed inside of me. I let loose. For all the years I’d been blown, let me suck me, even face fucked me, this felt different. Very different. An enthusiasm overtook me and I really started skull fucking this boy as he struggled to find breath and my cock swelled.
I’d had enough oral and I wanted more. I pulled him off my cock and pulled him up, grabbing the hair on his head to make it clear what I wanted. He stood.
The next thing I did got a reaction.
I grabbed the chain in the middle of his pecs and pulled for him to follow me.
The scream that followed — well — I never heard anything like it, before or since. A cry of sheer agony. The clamps stayed on and he followed. His hands darted up to his nipples but I ignored it. I had entered a zone and even his screech of pain didn’t knock me out of my mission.
I took him into the spare bedroom, dragging him by his tits. You better believe he followed, trying to keep slack on the chain. I positioned him. He complied with every subtle movement I suggested. I didn’t much notice the whining or anything else. I just unbuckled my jeans, shoved my pants down and spit on my hand and couple of times, slicking up my cock. I shoved it in his hole.
He flinched. A little. The whimpering continued but I ignored him. I kept him on his back, knocking his hands out of the way and jerking on the chain occasionally. But I didn’t much notice, just in the place where my cock mattered, where the only sensation or sound or touch or any sense focused selfishly on me. And I enjoyed myself.
His ass, with the light hairs around his tight little hole, never clenched much. His cock flopped around, never getting hard. He didn’t thrash. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t go limp. I continued to fuck, in my own mindspace, a place where I enjoyed the domination, the use of this tool to get me off.
And that thought did it. I released my cum into his bowels. I let my babies leave my balls and enter him. I pushed them in deep. Again. Burying my cock into his ass, pressing my pubes against that pale skin and yanking once more on that chain.
That moment, I heard the sound — really, I listened to the sound. It registered in my brain. Not as a whimper, but as a sob on top of the cry. I looked closer as I released the chain and looked at the guy’s face.
Around his eyes — although still covered by the blindfold — the red wetness seemed visible, like a glow. But maybe — just maybe — this was what he wanted. I maintained the scene. We hadn’t discussed a safe word but I hadn’t violated any of the limitations the bottom had put on me. Moreover, he’d never said stop.
I stood, zipped up and started to leave the room. I turned around and, just before leaving, I said the following: “You have three minutes to get the fuck out of my house.”
He never saw me.
He was gone within two-and-a-half minutes.
When I returned upstairs to find the chain and blindfold on the spared bedroom bed, I confirmed that the blindfold was wet. Wet with tears.
Later that evening, we chatted via IM online. He admitted that only he had ever really administered his own so-called “tit torture” and he’d never used tit clamps on himself. He never expected it to hurt so bad. He apologized for crying. I apologized for hurting him.
But was I really sorry?
This opened a new place for me. I walked into a world, a headspace where I could be free, where I could open myself up to new pleasures. I found myself in a world where the only thing that mattered was my pleasure. And you know what? I liked it.
Fuck. I loved it.
Then that little voice spoke inside me wondering what the hell was I thinking. I mean, I’d actually hurt someone. That someone actually cried because I’d done something to them physically. They didn’t enjoy me fucking them. They didn’t beg for my cum. They didn’t get hard. I just used them and tossed them out.
This conflict would reign throughout my experience in the Leather Community. And I have only been able to enter that headspace a few times. Few bottoms will ever let me go there. I may seem physically slight and not-at-all threatening, but there’s an animal inside me leashed up.
As you read my description of my sex, you may notice some of the lack of normal details I infuse in my writing. That is because when I unleash the animal, I cannot recall everything. I do not know how long I fucked the guy. I don’t know how many times I yanked on the chain, whether I fucked really hard or really deep or what. I existed in a pure place where memories are clouded by my own brain’s chemicals. I didn’t even do poppers or any other substances at all.
I still feel guilty I made a man cry. And I feel proud. It is a conflict that gives me pause for every man who claims he can truly make me happy, can satisfy me and can be the bottom I really crave. Can you? Can you really? Can you exist in the darkness with me and endure?
I only spoke with the guy one other time. It was almost two weeks later. He said his nipples were still tender and that the bruising had healed. I also noticed on his profile: tit torture had been removed as an interest.
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