Monday, May 31, 2010

Iowa Farm Boy, Part VIII


On Labor Day Monday we packed what few items we wanted to go with us to Omaha and loaded them in the back of the pickup that CD was driving. Louis was again his passenger and was leaning out the passenger window shouting as they pulled away, “We’ll see you tomorrow. I’m packing my shit tonight and you can plan on moving in right away.” Steve had his arm around me and we waved as they pulled away. CD and Louis were among the last to leave and while I wanted the weekend to go on for ever, in some ways I was happy to be alone with my Daddy.

We walked back in the house, exhausted from the wild and wonderful weekend. My right hand was around Steve’s waist and my left hand kept reaching to the cold steel locked around my neck.

“You happy?”

“Beyond belief, Sir.”

He laughed and rubbed my healing back. “C’mon, let’s go ride the horses one last time”

We saddled up and he in blue jeans and I still in only my jockstrap rode slowly over the whole property one last time. It was a warm day. It had been a perfect weekend, warm, sunny days and cool nights. And outside of my father’s appearance following my collaring it would always stand out in my memory as a perfect moment in life.

We returned to the site of my collaring and dismounted, letting the horses rest and drink at the creek. With ease and familiarity Steve drew me close to him, both of sitting on our flat rock, my back pressed firmly against his chest. We breathed in tandem, as one, drinking in the beauty of the site. I would hold onto this moment forever if I could.

After a time he spoke. “You have made me incredibly happy. You know that?

“Thank you, Sir.” I could ask for no greater compliment and I snuggled closer to him.

“I’m excited about the move. I know you are, too. I want it to be perfect, but even if every thing doesn’t work out perfectly, I want you to know the important thing is us. It’s only important that we hold on to each other. With trust. With respect. Understood?”

I murmured a “Yes, Sir” and turned to him, now on my knees. Without asking, risking punishment, I put my mouth to his crotch and began to lick his cock, straining as always against his tight blue jeans. He laid back on the flat rock and took a deep cleansing breath. With my hands I unbuckled his belt and undid the buttons on his jeans. We shared one last perfect moment on Steve’s farm before our new lives began in Omaha.

We arrived in Omaha late that afternoon on Tuesday and Steve pulled the bike up to the front door of the barbershop. A note was taped to the front door: “Keys with bartender at the Diamond. Love you both. Hate goodbyes. Louis”

Steve went over to the bar, retrieved the keys, and we let ourselves into the shop. Louis hadn’t packed a thing in the shop. It was all there as if he planned on opening the shop that day. The odd thing was one of the waiting chairs was gone, the mahogany/horsehair heavy chair clearly missing from the long row of them. We left our things in the shop and made our way upstairs. In the apartment it was clear that Louis had packed a few things, but here again everything was pretty much as we’d seen it when we’d taken our first tour.

“You up to some hard work?”

“Yes, Sir. I can’t wait.”

“We need to start making some money so we better focus on the shop first. We’ll have to tackle the apartment here and the upstairs wreck down the road. Let’s get back down to the shop and get to work.”

“Yes, Sir.”

In the shop Steve set me to work clearing all the shelves while he made a quick run to the hardware store. While I was removing the old bottles and a variety of supplies the bell on the front door rang. I expected to see Steve coming back with the materials to start stripping and sanding the full-wall back bar. Instead, standing there were CD, Nasti, and 20 other guys carrying tools, full tool belts, cleaning supplies, and wearing shit-eating grins, every last one of them.

CD waved five guys to follow him and up the stairs they went carrying crowbars, sledge hammers and huge trash cans. Nasti corralled five more guys and they hit the stairs carrying paint cans and painting supplies, and a host of cleaning supplies.

That left 10 more guys in the shop. Stepping forward to lead this group was Bob, Curt’s master. He waved the group over to the back bar and in no time the shop was filled with the commotion of power sanders knocking off ancient varnish. Bob handed Curt a screw-driver and set him to work on removing all the hardware. Somebody had brought a boom box and good hard-core Rock ‘n Roll filled the air, heard only when one or two of the sanders was turned off.

In little time the air filled with the music, the sound of the sanders, and a thick cloud of wood dust. In the back corridor I could see an ancient hot water heater being carted out the back door. A little later I saw a new, larger one come in and be guided to the basement. The huge trashcans were coming down the stairs filled and being hauled back upstairs empty. Bob was a real task master keeping his crew very focused on getting the huge piece of furniture cleaned to original wood. And somewhere in the midst of all this chaos Steve walked in.

I had been given the job of removing anything that wasn’t bolted down. Carrying out the row of customer chairs was my first task. As I was about to carry out the fifth and final chair I almost ran into Steve. He was standing at the front door. I could see the amazement in his eyes. Bob came over and gave him a big hug. “Whadya think?” he shouted over the incessant roar of the sanding.

“I think I can’t afford to pay all of you for this work.”

“Shithead. Nobody wants to be paid. But everyone wants to be first in line for a good haircut, good shave, a good bootshine, and maybe a good blowjob. They all are willing to work for a couple of days to try to get this place open and you into a decent apartment. You only gotta pay the bills for the supplies. Deal?”

“What? Do I look stupid? Of course it’s a deal.”

It took almost two full days to fully demolish the place. By the end of Thursday the shop was in pretty good shape, but the back bar would need at least two more coats of varnish. Upstairs the apartment had been stripped of all the ratty furniture and few kitchen cupboards. The refrigerator and stove were in working condition so we kept them and Nastibear focused on sanding and varnishing the old hardwood floors. In the bathroom, old wall tile had been pulled down and new tile added. Lots and lots of paint made the place look almost brand-new. CD had come up with a new mattress for us to throw on the floor. A decent sofa had been found at a thrift store along with a sturdy table and a couple of chairs for us to use. Steve’s leather chair and ottoman were finally brought over and put into the living room. It started to feel like home.

On the third floor CD hadn’t left a shred of plaster behind. The walls were bare to the studs. Walls separating the tiny rooms and been torn down completely. Even the ceiling plaster and been pulled down to reveal an additional three feet of headspace. Walking into this space was the most exciting for me. At the end of every work day Steve would invite everyone to the roof for a beer. And as they left he’d pull the hatch closed and the two of us would look over the space imagining its future use. Steve pointed to a corner, his arm around my shoulder, “The sling there, I think. A St. Andrew’s Cross in the opposite corner. Maybe a peg wall or two to hang whips, ropes, and chains.” I got a hard-on just hearing him talk about the possibilities.

Somehow by Tuesday we managed to get the doors to the shop open. We’d hung posters at the Diamond and another “grand opening” sign on the front window. We’d set our hours for Tuesday through Thursday, 10 to 6 and Friday and Saturday from 2 to Midnight, hoping to draw a few horny bucks from the bar on the weekends. At 9:00 Tuesday morning there was a pounding at the back door. Both Steve and I were up, but moving kind of slow, muscles aching from the hard work we’d put in to get the shop ready.

Since I was just out of the shower and naked Steve ran down the back stairs in his boxers to open the alley door. I heard a lot of commotion and then Steve’s voice,

“Get yer ass down here, barberboi!”

“I’m still naked, Sir!”

“Good! Now get down here!”

I ran down the stairs absolutely dying of curiosity. As I came down the small hallway from the back entrance I got a glimpse of NastiBear standing in the middle of the shop. I came through the door and saw Steve and CD off in the corner to my left. Between them was the missing waiting chair. Only it had been turned into the most magnificent shoe shine chair, the chair bolted to a 2 foot platform with stairs leading to this throne. The wood on the chair had been revarnished and two small footholds had been built into the platform for the customer to mount his booted feet. There were a dozen cubbyholes on the exposed side where I could store all the tools I needed.

The three men were grinning as I ran to each of them giving them huge hugs. I ended with Nasti as I knew he was probably the one who had done the most work in getting the chair ready for me.

“That is just too fucking cool! Thank you so much.”

Nasti pulled me into his arms and tweaked my tits. “We want to be the first customers, so get some clothes on you two, and get your asses back down here.” Nasti pulled a cigar from his jumpsuit pocket and plopped into the barber chair ready for a buzz cut, while CD climbed into the shoeshine chair and pulled out a similar cigar. Steve and I headed up the stairs together.

Steve put on his tightest blue jeans, fairly new, but well cut to show his ass and package. Next came socks and his leather motorcycle boots. He walked to the closet to get out one of his uniform shirts. He was digging through the shirts hung there, unable to find his regular nylon uniform when I snuck out to the hallway closet and retrieved the new uniform I’d bought him.

It hadn't been easy to fine the old-fashioned uniforms with the fold-over flap and four buttons at the right shoulder. I'd fantasized about seeing Steve in one since the first time I'd set foot in his shop. Taking buses all over town I'd finally found a barber supply store where the old guy running it thought he could find a few in storage. Sure enough, he'd located three and I bought them all. I’d starched one white cotton smock top about 8 times until it was as crisp as a sheet of steel. I brought it back into the bedroom and held it out. He heard me and turned. I could hear a little gasp come from his throat.

“Damn, that is so fine….” He took it from me and slid it over his rugged torso. He folded the flap over the front and slowly buttoned it up to the neck. I was getting hard just looking at him. He walked over to give me a hug and slapped my dick, now leaking pre-cum. “But I can outdo you one.” He reached into the closet and pulled out a package he’d stuffed way in the back. He handed it to me and I opened it. Inside was a black leather workman’s apron complete with two hip pockets and one chest pocket. I immediately threw it on. The cool leather against my skin took my dick up another notch of hardness.

Steve walked over to me and put his arms around me. My face was buried in his chest, inhaling the fresh starch, feeling the crispness. His hands grabbed my buttocks and gave them a big slap. “Now put on your tightest jeans and a t-shirt. We got a business to run!”

And run we did. Besides the many guys who’d helped us do all the remodeling there were several of Louis’ old customers who came by to check out the new barber. We caught a few walk-ins as well. Since not everybody wanted their shoes or boots shined I had plenty of time to keep a pot of coffee going, sweep up the hair that was accumulating, and restock supplies as Steve needed them. I even had a few minutes to run upstairs and make us lunch which Steve wolfed down between customers. At 5:00 we still had three guys in the shop waiting for their turn in the barberchair. He motioned for me to pull the shade down on the front window and to turn off the revolving barber pole.

And that was our routine for the first three days. When we finished we’d lock up, hang up our uniforms in the shop, and head out the back door and in the back door of the Diamond for a beer or two. Between us we had made pretty good money in three days and even though I didn’t know the particulars of the loan some quick math told me we should be able to make all the bills each month with a little left over. Besides, the beer at the Diamond was cheap and being there was pretty good for our business too. Larry, one of the regular bartenders, did a good job of introducing us to everybody and recommending our services. So the five or six bucks we spent on beer was probably some of the best advertising we did.

On Friday we slept late. I made a huge breakfast for us and we headed down to work. There was a guy waiting outside the door when I went to unlock it. It turns out it was our banker, the guy who liked being fisted. His name was Frank, and he was a hottie. Unlike so many men who had grown their hair long in the 70s he still wore a very pronounced crewcut. The crewcut and the three piece suit made him almost look like he belonged in another decade. Probably only 5’ 8’’, he had a tight little body and while I’m no suit wearer, this guy looked pretty fucking hot in his.

“I came by to see if I made a good investment of the bank’s money.” He barely looked at me, clearly focusing on Steve in his handsome uniform. It took about 3 seconds to work out he was a real bottom. I sort of laughed when the realization hit me. “I’d like to get a haircut while I’m here if that’s okay?”

Steve took the cape off the arm of the barber chair and gestured for him to take a seat. “Next time let me do the shave for you as well. And Jack here would like to shine your shoes while you’re getting a trim, wouldn’t you Jack?”

I didn’t wait for an answer but went to the corner where my chair was and threw on the apron and grabbed the tools I needed. Steve was putting the cape on Frank, having helped him out of the suit jacket. They chatted a bit as Frank settled in. On my knees I went to work with a vengeance on those brogans he wore. The style of shoe made a bootblack’s job difficult, with lots of tiny cutouts for decoration. I took my dental picks and started to dig out months of grime. Above me I could hear the clippers start up. Frank had readjusted the cape and I could see his right hand making its way to his crotch. There was slight flush in his face and I knew we were turning him on from both ends. By the time I got to the buffing stage, Steve was lathering up Frank’s neck for a good shave. I could also see Frank’s right hand working extra hard in his crotch. I really believed this fucker was going to cream his shorts right there in the shop.

Steve knew exactly what was going on as well and played it for everything it was worth. He stropped the razor extra long and slowly in preparation for the shave. Frank’s eyes watched every stroke. And when the razor finally touched his neck I could hear a very faint moan escape from him. I started working my brushes and rags with a frenzy. The shoes were starting to look like patent leather.

And like that it was over. The neck had been cleaned of remaining lather, the cape pulled off, the shirt collar pulled back up and I stood up and backed away. Steve held the mirror so Frank could see the sharp edges on the crewcut and the closely scraped neck. Frank was still breathing hard and thanked us. “What do I owe you?”

Steve spoke up. “Not a penny. I appreciate your ability to get me a loan and this is a small way I can pay you back. You come back next week. Anytime. But remember to not shave that morning so I can do it. You’ll never regret it.”

Frank grabbed his jacket and mumbled something about needing to get back to the bank. When the door closed behind me I could hear Steve start to laugh. “Back to work, my ass. That boy is going to his car so he can whack off. We did everything but bring him to his orgasm right here. I know he’s out there finishing it. Something tells me if I didn’t already have a barberboy of my very own I could probably turn him into one in less than a month.”

Friday and Saturday nights turned out to be pure heaven in the shop. Steve had an occasional haircut, but I stayed busy from about 9 to 12 polishing boots. Guys would go to the diamond and grab a beer then sneak out the back door and come in the back door of the barbershop. They’d climb into the shoeshine throne carrying their beers, shoot the shit with Steve who was relaxing in a barberchair, smoke cigars, and watch me do my show. By this time I was pretty damn good at my work and on Friday and Saturday nights I would enhance the show by licking every inch of the boots before the final buff. Many a man stepped out of that chair with their cocks straining against denim or leather.

CD had added some well-placed hooks on the back of the chair and under the arms. For boys wanting their boots shined we went through the process of tying them to the chair using the hooks as anchor points. I loved watching some of those boys squirm in the chair under the watchful eyes of their Daddies and Masters.

Around 11:00 Steve would pull the front shade on the window and door and get me to strip naked before putting the apron back on. Steve would chain me to the shoeshine chair. A lot of guys would gather to watch the final couple of shines of the night. I always got a hard-on that made the apron stand out a bit in front, but I took pleasure in making sure they got equally hard by the time I was done. I made a helluva lot just in tips those first few weekends.

And twice a month, like clockwork, Steve would sit me in the chair fully naked for my haircut. I always had a hard-on before I even sat down. And Steve would make a really big show of my cut. My hair grew thick and fast and it didn’t matter what style he chose, crewcut, flattop, high ‘n tight, or landing strip, he made it look perfect. As the leathermen learned of the show Steve was putting on we started to get damn near as full as the bar during my haircut.

Before we closed the shades it was always fun to watch the show on the street. Across the street from us and the Diamond was an old flophouse hotel. Downstairs in the basement was the The Cave, a gay disco. Around the corner was another gay bar, The Stage Door, which had drag shows and a dance floor. Watching the polyestered boys walk by, combing their long hair and wobbling on their platform shoes always gave me a good laugh. We could see several of them nudge each other and point over at the Diamond. A newbie’s eyes would grow large with shock and fear hearing the tales of incredible decadence that surely took place inside. And into The Cave they’d dive to pay a $5 cover charge, drink over-priced watered-down liquor, and shake their groove things.

At midnight we’d close down the shop. We’d shower together and put on fresh jeans and t-shirts. Steve sometimes added his chaps, sometimes not. I always preferred it when he did as I knew it was a sign he was horny and looking for more than a quick suck and fuck. I typically wore my trashiest jeans along with a wife-beater t-shirt. This way it was easy to see my collar around my neck. I was proud of my collar and wanted people to know how happy it made me to be Steve’s boy. It also gave Steve easier access to my tits which he liked to work at every opportunity. As the weather turned colder Steve allowed me to wear the leather jacket he’d given me so long ago.

Often we went home together, just the two of us. Occasionally Steve would drag along another boy to join us. He let me know it was okay to cruise a little with other guys, but my heart was never in it. I was still smitten with Steve and Steve alone. Once in a while he might invite five or six guys to join us on the third floor where we’d been slowly creating our dungeon. On the last day before our move to Omaha I’d cashed out my savings, almost $1800 due to the contributions by Steve, and I’d turned a lot of it over to CD and Nastibear so they could help with the third floor overhaul. We were creating a space envied by every leatherman in Omaha.

I loved it at the shop and I loved it at the Diamond. It was a small world, smaller even than the farm in some ways but I felt comfortable and happy in it. I knew that someday I’d have to have more in my life, a new challenge, some sort of education, something….but right now I had everything any barberboy could ask for.

End of First Book

Sunday, May 30, 2010

A New Cell


Long-term players take note! The cell has been finished and is ready for occupants! It's roomy!, about 5 feet wide, 8 feet long, with a ceiling of 4 feet. Plenty of room for you and your pup pals in sleepsacks to spend a week or two! Cell door swings down and padlocks shut with two locks. Total darkness is promised! After 3 orgasms you earn a pillow!

A Small Circle of Life

Back in the 80s and 90s there was a serious comment about our sexuality when we were warned that having sex with a person was in essence like having sex with every person your chosen partner had slept with. It was a good common sense warning to have safe sex. Always.

I've been reminded of that for two reasons. One is the absolutely horrid response I have to seeing all of the profiles looking for barebacking, "seeding", etc. Any justification that is offered for these dangerous activities is just wrong. Completely wrong. Insanely wrong.

The other reminder I had was more on an emotional level. Hubby and I like to play with other men and other couples. And yes, we practice safe sex always. But I'm still reminded that the actual community of real bdsm players, not the flakes, not the voyeurs, not the wannabes, is actually very small. And trust me, we talk. Okay, so some don't "kiss and tell" but most of us do. Maybe it's bragging, maybe it works as foreplay, maybe it's sharing a warning about someone who doesn't play by the rules, or maybe it's a recommendation that he's a "real player." But we DO talk.

Our "circle of life" is incredibly small. Places like RECON and RubberZone and other social sites make it even smaller. It's like playing "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon". I click on a profile and am never surprised to see that we have mutual "friends." Or if we are not directly linked, I usually can click on one of your friends and then look at HIS list of friends, and yup, there's one of my fuck buddy "friends."

Disrespect, dishonesty, outright lying, "no limits" men who can't take a light paddling, pricks who don't show up, etc.? These guys are known to us all. Names are shared, warnings are given, and SURPRISE SURPRISE, your dance card is empty. Meanwhile, those men who truly understand respect, honesty, care, consensual sane acts are equally known in our "circle of life."

Play safely, play honestly, play hard, and grab your opportunities.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Iowa Farm Boy, Part VII


When we got back to the farm a note was stuck inside the screen door. The realtor had been to the farm and wanted Steve to call immediately. Steve placed the call and delivered the good news to me. While we were gone a young couple had come by, new teachers at the school which started in a couple of weeks, just after Labor Day. While they were reserving their total commitment until they saw inside the house and sheds he was pretty sure they wanted to make an offer on the farm. He was hoping to bring them by that afternoon.

We attacked the house and sheds with a manic energy, straightening up, cleaning up, and hiding all the gear in the sheds. Somehow we managed to get it all done. We rode the horses out to the far end of the property late that afternoon when the appointment had been made for the couple to visit again. We were both exhausted from the wild time in Omaha, the trip home, and the clean up. It was easy to curl up with Steve and we napped for a long time out in the shade of the trees by the creek.

When we got back to the house there was another note inside the screen door. The realtor said the couple were putting in an offer and he wanted Steve to come to town that night to read it over and sign it if he wanted to accept. When Steve got back to the house that night he was ecstatic.

“We’re moving to Omaha!” he roared. “They offered more than I ever dreamed. And it should go through quickly. We’re hoping to close the day after Labor Day. I’m still going to have to get a loan to buy the barbershop but even after paying the realtor’s fees we should clear about $30,000 on this place. I think the thing that sealed it for me was the fact they wanted to have the horses included in the sale. I love those horses, and I know that the horses love this farm. It has to be right.” He chucked me on the chin. “Good karma, kiddo!”

I’d never seen Steve this happy or excited. It was infectious. Steve was on the phone most of the night with Louis and Nastibear telling them the news. He talked with CD about working on the loan guy and about how much he needed to borrow. And he made plans with them for a final blow-out weekend over Labor Day out here at the farm.

********************************

We floated through the next two weeks. CD had called back telling us loan papers were being sent up. He also told us that there were about 50 guys planning on coming up on Friday night before Labor Day to spend the weekend. One of the times that Louis called, Steve was in town talking with the guy who owned the building where Steve was paying rent on the barbershop. Steve was going to lose a few hundred dollars since he was breaking the lease, but it was manageable. Because Steve wasn’t home when Louis called I had a chance to put a plan into action with Louis’ help and guidance. Louis was a hundred percent supportive of my idea and told me he’d work out the all the details.

On the Thursday before Labor Day we had our last day at the shop. A lot of men, knowing we were closing down had come by for a final haircut, and a final shoeshine. It was 7:00 before we could finally close and lock the door. We were both happily exhausted.

“C’mere, boy.” Steve held out his arms to me. I slid into them, easily and comfortably. He whispered in my ear, “Get naked, barberboy. I wanna get one more good use out of this shop.”

Steve stripped too while I was undressing. Minutes ago we were exhausted, now we both were on fire. Steve threw me in the chair and straddled me, licking my tits, biting them, shoving his tongue down my throat and deep-throating my cock. I was squirming in the chair, crying out with an amazing amount of passion. “I wanna try something a little new with my barberboy.” Steve pulled off me and headed for the back room. When he returned he was carrying a few short lengths of rope and the black leather gag I’d seen him use on CD. My cock did the unthinkable and bounced in front of me, precum dripping to the leather seat. Straddling me again, Steve tied each wrist to the arms of the chair. Another rope was brought around my chest, once above my tits and once below. Yet another rope tied my waist to the chair, and another held my feet in place on the foot rest of the chair. He quickly pushed the leather penis gag into my mouth and pulled the straps tight around my head.

Like a demon he was back on me, tongue to my tits, and mouth on my dick. I tried to move but found that he had tied all the ropes tightly. Squirming feverishly only seemed to make Steve work that much harder. As I squealed into the effective gag he dove into his work with even more energy. Steve was rock-hard, the bondage of his barberboy awakening new passions. I was very close to coming, squealing, squirming, breathing exceptionally fast and it all came to an abrupt halt.

Steve pulled his mouth off my cock and stood up, a twinkle in his eye. “Not yet.”

I was furious. I pleaded with my grunts and my eyes. I struggled against the ropes. I tried to push the gag out of my mouth. Just one more stroke, one more caress, one more lick and I would shoot. And Steve knew it and used it.

“I got one more thing I need to do, barberboy.” And over the next hour he shaved my body clean of every single hair I had. The crewcut I currently sported was gone, shaved to the skin. Every last armpit hair, gone. The stubble on my crotch, gone. He finally untied all the ropes, and positioned me on the chair with butt fully exposed. All the fine hair on my ass and in my crack, gone. When he was done, he wiped me clean with a wet towel and held me in front of him, in front of the mirror. Outside of my light, bleached by the sun, eyebrows and eyelashes I was as smooth as could be. My skin was covered with gooseflesh, tingling from the nakedness and the touch of Steve.

And we started again. Again, I was tied in the chair and gagged by that leather gag. And I was brought to the edge of cumming five more times, each time Steve pulling back at the critical moment. Finally he put a huge hawk of spit in his hand and slathered his hairy ass with it. He climbed carefully onto the chair, putting his legs over the arms and lowered his butt onto my dick. My dick was like a rod of steel by now. He started to ride me slowly, spit again into his hand, began stroking his cock, still riding my dick. Faster and faster he pumped, and in tempo he bounced on my dick, and together we shot, my load filling his ass, his hitting me in the face and covering my bare chest.

Steve pulled off me, bringing yet another yelp from me, muffled by the gag. He staggered back a few steps and looked me over top to bottom.

“What I really want to do is leave you there and start all over.” I was shocked. With my little remaining energy I tried to struggle again, hoping all the fucking had loosened my bondage. No such luck

“But you’re a lucky boy. I want to save something for our big weekend.”

And he let me free.

Friday afternoon the motorcycles and pickup trucks started arriving. Before long the farm took on an almost carnival-like atmosphere. Tents were set up everywhere, the barbecue was going strong, and nearly 50 men were involved in a variety of activities. One guy had been hung upside down from a big elm tree in the back yard. A couple of guys were hitting his butt with paddles like he was a pinata. In another corner of the backyard a man was being wrapped in plastic wrap and then covered with duct tape. When they finished they trussed him up and hung him horizontally from the clothes line. Currently he was serving as the dessert table.

The little kid I’d seen at the party in Omaha was there. I learned his name was Curt. He was naked from the waist down except for his boots, but strapped into a leather straitjacket from the waist up. A leather muzzle covered his face and a leather collar was pulled tightly around his neck. The man I assumed was his Master pulled him along by a leash.

One of the last pickups to arrive was driven by CD. His passenger was Louis. They were greeted quite happily by everyone as three kegs of beer filled the back of the pickup with bags and bags of ice packed around the kegs. They pulled the pickup directly into the backyard next to the “dessert table.” When Louis got out he spied me over at the barbecue, gave me a wink and a nod.

Steve had surprised me that morning with a little package at the breakfast table. The gift was a leather jockstrap. He told me that he wanted me in that for the entire weekend, the jock strap, my boots, and nothing else. I had no arguments, happily pulling the first piece of leather clothing I ever had over my hairless crotch and stiffening cock.

As the sun was going down we built a big bonfire in the backyard. Louis had pulled me away from my almost constant duties at the barbecue pit and sat me down by the fire. He put a protective arm around me and pulled me close. “You’re a good kid. I’m glad Steve found you up here in the cornfields.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I knew I was blushing and there wasn’t single hair on my body to cover it. “Sir told me about how you took him in. About how he was your barberboy.”

“Ah, shit. Wasn’t nothing. He was a hot little horny fucker. Just like you, kiddo, just like you.”

We sat there for a long time, just enjoying the warmth of the fire, and the warmth of each other. It was probably an hour later when the sun had gone down fully that Steve came over and sat with us. I was on Louis’ left, Steve to his right. After a few minutes Steve whispered something in Louis’ ear which brought an immediate chuckle from Louis. Steve hoisted Louis to his feet, and together they grabbed me by each arm and drug me to the shed.

A lot of the men were around the fire and hooted and hollered as I was being drug along. A new energy was filling the night, a raw sexual energy.

In the shed Steve and Louis removed my jock strap and quickly bound my hands with leather restraints. They were clipped together, a rope attached, and the rope pulled through a pulley hanging from a beam above me. As the rope was pulled my hands were lifted high above my head. More leather restraints were added to my ankles. More rope pulled my legs far apart and held them there.

Steve stood directly in front of me, Louis directly behind me. A good-sized number of men had gathered in the dark corners of the shed to watch the activities. Steve started working on my tits. Just three months ago these had been tiny nubs on my flat chest. With daily squeezing, licking, chewing and pulling they had grown considerably, filling with scar tissue. Steve made me squirm as he twisted them. Behind me Louis slapped my ass with his arthritic hands, lightly at first, but growing in intensity.

Almost on cue they stopped and stepped back. Steve went to one wall where his whips and floggers hung. Selecting a leather deerskin flogger he came back to me and allowed the multiple strands of soft leather to caress my skin. He passed the flogger over my shoulder to Louis who was standing behind me. He stepped up to me and grabbed my face and thrust his tongue into my mouth. After a long kiss he said simply, “Be sure to thank Master Barber for each and every stroke he gives you.”

Steve pulled off his chaps and jeans and took a chair placed about 10 feet in front of me, fondling his cock. I was gazing at his perfect hairy body when I felt the first sting of the flogger on my back. I gasped for air. It was an amazing feeling. Even with the air gone from me I managed a weak, “Thank you, Master Barber.”

Over the next hour I must have said that same phrase a thousand times. Louis would alternate his strokes, first the right top quadrant of my back, then the left. Sometimes the strokes were predictable in rhythm and I grew to anticipate them. As soon as this happened he changed the rhythm, keeping me completely off balance. When he felt I was in danger of going beyond my threshold he would back off completely and after resting just a bit he would start again with renewed vigor. While many of his strikes were indeed painful and caused me to scream, before long I pulled above this pain. I imagined myself climbing a mountain, encouraging myself to reach the pinnacle, telling myself that the view from the top would be worth the agony of the climb. I stopped fighting the pain and allowed it to enter me, and I rode the waves of endorphins that filled me.

And like that the flogger went silent. I was still soaring. I could feel the molecules of air dancing on my back. I opened my eyes and Steve was in front of me. Behind me Louis was moving his hands barely an inch away from my skin. This alone was enough to keep the air swirling over my the welts. I could feel my every inhale fill me from my toes to the crown of my naked head.

Slowly Steve crouched and begin licking my dick. A pool of precum had gathered on the floor below me, a string of it still hanging from my slit. Behind me a spit covered finger was working its way into my ass. I could no longer speak, to thank them, I could only moan deep guttural animal sounds.

Louis whispered in my ear, “Good barberboy,” over and over again like a mantra. A second and third finger worked their way in. Steve took more and more of my dick into his mouth. Fingers were pulled out and a fat cock replaced them. A hairy chest pressed against my bloody back reawakening each and every blow. And Louis’ cock thrust harder and deeper with each of my cries. And as he fucked me my dick slipped further and further into Steve’s mouth. Louis now wrapped both arms tightly around my chest and gave a few last hard thrusts before pulling his dick from my butt. He stepped back, grabbed his cock, gave it three hard tugs and shot a load on my back. Feeling that hot sperm traveling down my back, I exploded into Steve’s mouth, screaming until my throat was on fire and I had no energy left to scream.

I hung there, catching my breath, coming back to earth. As my consciousness came back I heard sounds all around me. In the shadows of the room men were sucking, fucking, moaning, growling, jacking off and cumming. I had totally forgotten they were even in the room.

With great tenderness Louis and Steve released me from my bondage. We walked out into the cool evening. Together they helped me into the house, up the stairs, and into bed. That night I slept between them, protected and comforted, and safe.

Saturday was just plain fun. More guys arrived at the farm, more tents were pitched, more beer was purchased and I met so many of the men who would finally come to be our friends in Omaha. Many of the men who had been in the shed during my flogging came up to hug me, rub my shiny head and tell me how hot a scene it had been. My back was still glowing but I was proud of my stripes. As I had been told to do, all I wore was my leather jock strap and boots. I was growing comfortable in my near nudity in front of all these men.

We had defrosted every piece of meat we had in the freezer and bought a good deal more, and Saturday night we barbecued steaks and hamburgers for hours. Nastibear had taken over the kitchen and made about 20 pounds of potato salad and another 20 pounds of coleslaw. Another bonfire was built that night as the sun went down and those who had the energy started moving into the trees and off to the shed for a second night of debauchery. Young as I was and almost always horny, I knew I didn’t have it in have me for a third night of wild sex. I enjoyed sitting by the fire with Louis hearing him talk about what it was like to be gay in Omaha in the 40s and 50s, and how leathermen had slowly come to carve their niche in the scene there.

Curt and his Master had come by earlier. The Master had talked with Steve privately and together they had led Curt to the shed. I guessed that a whipping scene had been arranged.

Louis asked me, “You jealous?”

“I don’t think so, Sir. Maybe a little, but I know Steve must be horny too, and, I don’t know, I guess I believe that maybe while he’s whipping that boy, maybe he’s thinking a little about me.... And believe me, I couldn’t take another whipping for a few days, although I’d try in heartbeat if Steve asked me to. And well, I’m sort of happy for Curt to experience the gift that Steve has. He may have one chance. I hope I have a thousand.”

Louis put his big hand on the back of my neck. “Good answer. That’s a good place to keep your head.” He changed the subject. “You ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes, Sir. You don’t think Steve will be mad that I arranged this?”

“I think Steve will approve completely. You’ll see.”

Sunday morning I was up early and started cooking breakfast with a vengeance. My cast iron pans went non-stop from 9:00 until noon. By then we had over 70 hungry men at the farm. Louis had been very careful in the arrangements for that afternoon, making sure everyone knew when and where they had to be that afternoon. I showered, saddled one of the horses, and rode to the back of the property where the creek was trickling along, and the flat rock sat at creekside. Quite a few of the men had walked here earlier, many more arrived by bike after I arrived. At 2:00 a last bike, Steve’s, came roaring over the small hill that hid this quiet glen. Handling the bike with expertise was Louis; Steve rode on the seat behind him wearing only his chaps and boots.

They pulled to a stop near where I stood on the flat rock. Steve dismounted and looked around, clearly perplexed by what was going on. He walked over to me. I knelt.

“Sir. I would like to wear your collar, Sir.” I was almost whispering.

He was stunned. He took a step back and looked at Louis still sitting on his bike. I was afraid he was going to say no, to leave me there kneeling on that rock. He stepped back up.

“You would do that for me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You understand fully what that means?”

“I think so, Sir”

“If I ask you to go give blowjobs to every single man watching this moment, you’d do it? For me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And if I tell you that I’m going to fuck every single one of those men, which I might since they kept this a secret from me, you would let me go and fuck them? No questions asked? No guilt, no shame, no jealousy?”

“If Sir asks me not to be jealous I will do everything in my power to control that, Sir.”

“If I choose to collar seven more boys who will live with us and also serve me, you will accept them as your brothers and equals?”

“If Sir asks me to do so I will not say no.”

Louis climbed off the bike and withdrew a chain and padlock from his pocket. He handed it to Steve. Steve was shocked to see the tag hanging from the chain. He held the chain and looked closely at the tag. I could see it was hard for him to breathe.

He placed the chain around my neck, pulled the end loops through the padlock and clicked the padlock shut. Hanging next to the padlock was a small tag engraved simply with “barberboy.”

Steve pulled me from kneeling on the rock, placed his hands on my face and kissed me. It was a simple peck. And he pulled away, looked at me again, and proceeded to kiss me again and again. I hugged him tightly and he wrapped his arms around me. Nastibear and CD grabbed a long rope and began running around us in opposite directions until we were almost covered with rope, tightly bound together. As they were doing this the 70 spectators were roaring with encouragement and laughter, honking the horns on their bikes, and revving noisy engines. When fully bound, Nasti and CD got several volunteers to help them carry us squirming, pleading and laughing back to the farmhouse. It took almost an hour to get back as several crews of volunteers were needed to manage the squirming weight of Sir and me. A trail of drunk men, horny men, hairy men, and leather men followed us on foot and bike. It was joyous.

As we pulled into the backyard, Steve and I were lifted from the shoulders of the fifth and final crew who had undertaken the task of carrying us back. We were set firmly on the ground and Steve gave me a final kiss. I looked up and out of the corner of my eye I saw my father standing next to the house, his dirty John Deere cap on his head, his farmer’s tanned face turned white with what he had seen. Without a word he turned and walked around the house. I could hear the start of a pickup engine and the sound it made driving down the lane. Steve had seen it all as well. He nodded to CD and Nasti and the rope was unwound from around us.

He pulled me close to him and took me inside, up the stairs and into the bedroom. We sat on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Somehow I’d forgotten to address him as Sir. I kept replaying the view of my father turning his back on me. I couldn’t really blame him.

“Do you want to go? Talk to him maybe?”

“Not ever, Sir.” A door had closed in my life. I was much happier that a door had opened with my commitment to Steve. Steve held me close to him. I felt safe in his arms and while grieving for the family I no longer had, I was filled with the joy of the family I’d joined.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Keeping It Fresh










I saw a bondage chair designed and built by majordungeon that aroused my interest. And my "can-do" spirit was aroused.

So about $100 later I've got this new bondage chair for the rapidly improving dungeon space. (OKAY! So it's only about a third as good as the one he built, but this fucker is solid and WORKS! I'll do some sanding and painting later down the road.....LOL) (Oh, and $30 of that was for a new saw for some of the cuts on the legs).

So what's the point? The point is!, hubby went for not one, but two rides in the chair tonight. MAJOR ball torture, some very vulnerable moments for his asshole, and inescapable bondage times two.

So $100 bucks for a wonderful new toy? Helluva lot cheaper than a tired whore is always my justification!

An Amazing Birthday Present




I get this amazing catalogue out of the blue for high level designer Barbie items. (Does belonging to Recon get you this shit?) We are talking big name designers doing some really one of a kind items. But the one that caught my eye was the Barbie Foosball Table. Only ten are being produced, will take 30 weeks for delivery, and at the low, low cost of $25,000.
Now, a lot of men have accused me of making this shit up. Hence the pic. Can't you just see the hair swaying back and forth as you go for a slap shot! Of course every guy I know is talking about making their own version with GI Joe dolls, oops, "action figures."
What I really wanted was a whole different kind of table.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Iowa Farm Boy, Part VI


The next morning when I awoke he was gone from the bed, and gone from the farm. I lay in bed for another hour. It had been months since I’d actually slept anywhere except on my bed of hay. I could smell his scent everywhere and I was fully aroused. Around noon I heard his bike coming up the lane. I rushed downstairs to greet him, fully naked.

He came into the kitchen and gave me a big hug. “Been a busy morning. I called CD and told him we were coming for a visit. I left a sign at the shop we’d be closed until Thursday. I stopped by the realtor and asked him to come out and take a look, if nothing else to get an estimate on how much the property is worth. I filled up the bike with gas and dropped by the neighbors to ask him to take care of the horses for a few days. Now get upstairs, get showered, pack a change of clothes, and get your pink little ass down here! We’re leaving for Omaha in 10 minutes.”

I made it with three minutes to spare and 2 hours later we were pulling off the interstate into downtown Omaha. One quick turn and we were in an older warehouse district. Over the rumble of the motorcycle Steve shouted “The Old Market. Might be fun to live here!” Two blocks later he took a right, climbed a small hill, then took a left on 16th Street. He slowed and came to a stop, the motorcycle still rumbling. The bar was a squat little dump with a variety of neon signs advertising various beer companies. Three cycles were parked out front. Next door was a three story building, narrow and deep, built probably around 1920 or maybe even earlier. On the first floor was a huge plate glass window and next to the entry was the red and white barber pole. “That’s the leather bar, and that’s the barbershop for sale. We’ll come back later to talk to the owner. First, let’s get our stuff over to Nasti and CD’s place. We can clean the bugs out of our teeth there.”

We made a retreat back to the Old Market area and at one far end of the neighborhood he pulled up to an old storage building. He parked next to Nasti and CD’s bikes and pulled me along with him up some fire escape stairs. On the third floor, the top floor of the building, he pulled open the fire escape door and entered a small vestibule. I could hear music rocking the walls. Steve pounded on the steel door at the end of the little hallway and I could hear the music being turned down.

“Who the fuck is it?” I could hear CD’s voice from the other side.

“Building inspector!”

“Go fuck yourself!” And the door opened. CD was standing there completely naked with a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, a coffee cup in the other hand. He waved us in. The place they lived was incredible. It was wall to wall windows, one side taking in the Omaha downtown skyscrapers, the other looking at the Missouri River wandering through the city. There were probably 30 columns that ran floor to ceiling evenly spaced about. I estimated it was somewhere around 6000 square feet. All the windows were wide open but it was pretty steamy inside. Off in one corner was a small area that served as a kitchen. Behind the kitchen was a small area that must have served as the bathroom. Diagonal from it I could see several tools used for woodworking along with a variety of pieces of furniture in disrepair. The other two corners held mattresses thrown on the floor. And throughout the middle of the space were a variety of objects, some of which I now recognized, others which I could only guess at their function. In one area was a sling hanging from the ceiling. Between two of the columns a spider-web of chains had been created. Between two of the other columns a huge X had been built out of 2 x 12 lumber and painted black. Several steel rings were attached. I wandered into the middle of the room, slowly turning, trying to take it all in.

From behind me I heard a squeal and I turned just in time to have Nastibear grab me in a bear hug and lift me off my feet. He yelled over to Steve, “How sweet of you! How did you ever remember my birthday. And what a nice gift!!!! But I didn’t get you anything, darling....” He was smothering me with kisses by now and I was laughing.

Nastibear swatted my ass, and between the spanking from the previous afternoon and the two hour ride on Steve’s bike I knew my gasp was a little over the top. Nasti picked up on it right away. With deftness only a gay man can know he had undone my pants and turned me around to expose my red and somewhat bruised ass. He looked inquiringly at Steve who nodded, and then he grabbed me in yet another breath-taking hug. “Welcome to the family, darling, welcome to the family.”

ChromeDome was at the refrigerator. “This calls for a celebration. Champagne or something like that.” He pulled four cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and tossed one to each of us. “Cheers, baby.” And the three men toasted me on my S/M coming out.

From one corner I heard a rustling of sheets and a little voice, “I want one of those.” Nastibear looked a little sheepish and went over to the corner. He started digging through piles of leather and denim until he found what he felt sure were the clothes of the bed’s occupant. He threw them to the kid in the bed, muttered something to the kid in the bed, and found his way back to us.

“I made a little mistake, just a little mistake. He’ll be gone soon.” The ‘little mistake’ was dressing in the corner, tight jeans and a pink polo shirt, disco platform shoes, and made his way past us to the bathroom.

Nastibear was not looking happy. The kid came out of the bathroom pulling his zipper up and came up and gave Nastibear a big kiss. “I gotta go, sweetie, but you be sure to call me. I mean that.” And a whiff of cologne trailed him as he headed for the door.

When we was gone, Nastibear gave each of us a dirty look and said, “Not one word you son of a bitches, not one word. He said he was really into toys. Who knew it meant Barbie dolls?” With that he pulled me over to one little area that obviously served as a living room in the huge space. Pulling me down on the sofa next to him and holding me close, he asked “Now just how many times did that mean man hit you? It’s okay. You can tell your Auntie Nasti. And just how hard did you get when he hit you? It’s okay. You can tell your Auntie Nasti.” Steve and CD were standing at the kitchen counter just laughing. “Now, when you came, what exactly was happening? It’s okay, honey. You can tell your Auntie everything......”

A little later that afternoon Steve and I walked from the loft back over to the barbershop. Steve opened the door catching a little bell hung near the top of the door frame. We entered the shop and I felt like I had been transported to another time. The shop was good sized and was filled with all of the wonderful aromas I associate with barbershops: the talcum powder, the bayrum aftershave, and the rich cigar smoke that had wrapped itself around everything. Everything in the shop had to be close to 60 years old, including the grizzled old guy occupying one of the chairs. The two matching chairs were classic white porcelain with chrome trim and leather seats. Behind the chairs were pedestal sinks and running the entire length of the wall, framing the sinks, was an incredible mantle that ran floor to ceiling and wall to wall. There were built-in cupboards and cubby holes, large mirrors, shelves with mirror backing. It looked dusty and dryed out but it was the most magnificent piece of furniture I’d ever laid eyes upon. Along the other wall was a row of heavy chairs, mahogany wood with carved feet and arms, the seats and backs covered in horsehair upholstery. Large school-room type lights hung from the ceiling over each chair. The floor was narrow oak boards heavily scarred with a patina of burns and spills. The only other item in the room was a large pot-belly stove in the back corner. It looked like it was still working.

The chair’s occupant made a slow, almost tortured exit from the chair and met Steve in the middle of the room, the men exchanging a warm hug. Steve introduced me as Jack, his barberboy.

“This is Master Barber Louis.” Then man shook my hand and I was struck at how large his hands were and how weak his grip was. Even this weak shaking of hands produced a wince in his face. His knuckles looked like huge steel balls had been surgically implanted. He pulled me close and looked my haircut over closely, running his hands across my whitewalls and bare neck. I could smell fresh cigar smoke on his clean smock.

Letting me go he returned to his chair while Steve took a seat in the other barber chair. “Nice razor work. I taught you well, huh?”

Steve smiled at the compliment. “You know you did, you old goat.”

They chit-chatted for a few minutes before Steve turned the discussion toward the reason for our visit. “So what’s this crap CD and Nastibear tell me about you wanting to sell the shop?”

“Not want to. Got to.” Steve frowned. “It’s the arthritis. I can’t barely hold a pair of scissors or the clippers anymore. And its also in my hips, so standing up all day long, well, I just can’t do it.” He started to laugh. “Thank God I got a fat dick. I don’t think I could get my hand to close around some skinny ass pencil dick anymore.

“If I can sell the shop, actually the whole building, I’ll have enough to move to this little area down by Pensacola. I don’t think I can survive another winter. Doc says warmer weather will be better for me. I can sit in a boat and fish. I guess....”

“How much you asking?” Steve asked.

“This fancy pants realtor tells me I can get fifty thousand for the whole property. Knows a guy who would tear it down and put in a parking lot. I’d sell it to you for thirty-five just to keep it out of that asshole’s hands.”

“I’ll pay you the fifty.” Steve was blunt and to the point.

“You ain’t got it.”

“I’ll figure out a way.”

“Well, before you decide how much money you want to invest you better take a look at the whole thing. C’mon, boys. Let’s go upstairs.”

He led us down a small hallway that started just behind the pot belly stove. A small office was tucked in under a set of stairs that led to the other floors. A back entrance was also located down that hallway. We climbed the stairs one flight and Louis opened the door to a tidy one bedroom apartment. “It ain’t much, but it’s better than commuting to work. Upstairs is an identical apartment. Haven’t rented it in a couple of years and it’ll take some work to get ‘er fixed up. But would provide a little income if you did. There’s also a ladder-like set of stairs that’ll take you to the roof. You two go on up. I already know what it looks like. Take your time. I’ll be back down to the shop.”

Steve and I climbed to the third floor. The door to the apartment was wide open and, unlike the spaces below, this place was in dire need of help. Peeling wallpaper, broken plaster, and piles of garbage made the place look like a tornado had gone through it. We climbed over the crap that was everywhere and found in the bedroom the ladder that led to the roof. Steve climbed up first and opened a hatch-like door. Fresh air and sunlight filled the room. He disappeared through the hatch and I scrambled up the ladder and climbed up on the roof with him.

The view was stunning. Not unlike the views from the loft, but being up a hill and having a 360 degree view it was even better.

“Whatcha think?”

I didn’t have to think. “How soon can we move?”

We went back down to the shop. Louis was back in his chair. I could see just the one flight of stairs had taken a lot out of him.

“Here’s the deal. I won’t take a penny over forty-five. And if that’s too much let me know. One other thing, and this is a deal-breaker if you say no.”

“Name it.” Steve was curious. So was I.

“You gotta give me a haircut and a shave right now. I ain’t had a decent shave in months.”

Steve was laughing as he crossed over to the sink and washed his hands. Louis pulled a big cigar from the pocket of his uniform, lit up, and got comfortable in the chair. Steve located all the instruments he’d need and went to work.

When Steve was finished with haircut and shave Louis looked about ten years younger. He admired himself in the mirror. “Damn, you’re good.” Steve didn’t answer, but I could see he was pleased by compliment. “If I could get you to shave me like that everyday I’d let you have this fucking place for free.”

We parted company, Steve telling Louis to come over to the loft later that night. Nasti and CD were throwing a little party for us while we were there and Steve wanted Louis to join them. We walked slowly back down the hill toward the Old Market area. As we neared the loft we saw CD and Nasti struggling to get a keg up the fire escape.

“Bout fucking time!” roared CD. “Where the fuck you two been. I need some real help. This ol’ queen is worse than no help at all.” Nasti dropped his end of the keg and took three steps down the stairs.

“So what’s the news? You gonna buy it? C’mon, I’m dying to know!”

Steve nodded a yes. I was grinning ear to ear.

“Yeehaw! C’mon, let’s get this beer iced down so we can start the celebration!” And with renewed vigor Nasti threw the keg on his shoulder and climbed the remaining stairs.

Once inside we put the keg in the bathtub. Several bags of ice were poured in with it and some salt sprinkled over the ice. We sat at the kitchen table drinking cans of beer while we waited for the keg to cool off.

“So how much?” CD asked.

“Forty-five. And it’s probably gonna take another ten to do some remodeling, fix the roof, get a new hot water heater.” Steve answered.

“Can you swing it?”

“If I sell the farm I should clear about twenty-five. I’d have to get a loan for the other thirty. I’m not sure if anybody is gonna give me a loan for that amount, but hopefully so.”

CD and Nastibear were grinning at each other. Nastibear broke the tension, “You wanna tell him or should I?”

CD swatted Nastibear’s chest. “My bottom, my story.” He turned to Steve and me. “I got this ‘straight’ banker who likes to have me fist him once or twice a month. He’s a hot little fucker. Last week when I heard about the shop being up for sale I got him in the sling over there. When my arm was buried almost up to the elbow I asked him if he could help a friend of mine. I can basically ask him for anything at that point. Between moans he sort of pretends he can’t help me out. A few minutes later I think I could have gotten a half a million in cash on the spot. I don’t think you’ll have any problems getting a loan from him.” He grinned. “ Besides that he’s a little crew cut boy who would probably like your services just as much as he likes mine.”

We ordered in a bunch of pizzas, tapped the keg, and around 9:00 several guys started arriving. It was the most interesting menagerie of men I’d ever seen. They ran the full gamut of ages and sizes, from another kid who looked to be 18 like me, to a guy who might have been Louis’ father. The other 18 year old was probably 30 pounds lighter than me, a real featherweight, while one of the middle-aged guys had to be close to 350 pounds. Most had on some sort of leather whether it was chaps, jeans or a vest. Many wore motorcycle caps made of leather. Louis arrived around 10:00. He wore blue jeans covered by chaps, and a well-worn leather vest. Like CD’s and Nastibear’s the vest was covered with a rainbow of patches describing a variety of groups and events he had participated in. The haircut and shave had been a real tonic for him. He’d made it up the three flights of stairs with no problem and he spent the night with a pretty big smile on his face.

The one thing that bonded this group was their masculinity. Despite their wide variety of ages, sizes, body types–they were clearly all testosterone driven.

Around midnight another man joined the party. Just his arrival took my breath away. The man had on tight black jeans and a leather shirt that had been laced on the sides and down the arms, making the suit a tight second skin on him. The body that suit was covering was a tight and lean one. He wore a motorcycle cap with a chain running across the brim. His boots were knee high and shone brilliantly. Peeking from under the brim of the cap was a dark, Italian face, with deeply set eyes, dark bushy eyebrows, and a thick moustache. When he removed his cap he revealed the thickest, tallest black flattop I had ever seen. I guessed that he was around 45, the lines around his eyes being the only clue to his age.

The response to his arrival was an interesting mix. Several called out his name, Tony, other’s added his title, Master. Some turned their backs inconspicuously.

I was alone at this time, Steve being pulled away countless times by old friends who wanted the whole story of his buying the barbershop. CD and Nasti were trying to play “hosts” of the party, and the only other person I knew, Louis, was pretty busy talking to a group of older men who’d gathered off in one corner.

It took probably less than 3 minutes before Master Tony found me alone in the middle of the room. I hadn’t taken my eyes off him that entire time. He walked directly up to me, perhaps sensing my curiosity and attraction, and placed one hand on a shoulder, the other on my chin.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I didn’t know how to respond.
Even though I couldn’t find a voice, the rest of my body was definitely beginning to respond. I could feel a flush on my cheeks, a twist in my stomach, and a grumble in my gonads. This man oozed danger and sexuality, a potent combination on me.

“I don’t really care who the fuck you are, what your name is, or anything else. I just know we should leave this party now so I can take you home with me. I know you want to be my slave boy. I can tell just the way you’re looking at me.”

I felt almost like I was being hypnotized. The voice coming from this man was as sexually charged as his body. I’d only had three beers over the last few hours but felt like I’d drunk the entire keg. The trance was broken when an arm went over my shoulder and I heard Steve.

“I see you’ve met my boy, Jack”

Tony moved back a step immediately. “Steve. Good to see you. So this is Jack. Your “boy.” He said it almost with a sneer. Gone was the hypnotic voice, now replaced by an arrogant one. “Jack. Like jack off. I should be able to remember that. Sorry, I didn’t know he was yours, and since I didn’t see a collar I just assumed he was fresh and free meat.” He gave my face a little pat. “You got a nice one Steve, better keep him a little closer to you, just to be safe.” He laughed and moved over to another gathering of people in the loft.

I could feel an anger coming off of Steve. I was really scared that I had pissed him off. He took me further under his arm. “Go get us a couple of beers and meet me outside on the fire escape.” I pumped two plastic glasses of beer and headed outside.

Steve was sitting a ways down the stairs. I made my way down slowly, stepping around and below him. “Here, Sir.”

He patted the stair next to him. “Have a seat.”

“We need to clear up a few things,” he said, after clearly thinking about how to approach me on this. “First off, even though I don’t have the authority to do so, I’m telling you to stay away from that man. Tony is scum, through and through. The three concepts I began teaching you that day out at the creek, respect, trust, and consensual partners, are not a part of his vocabulary. Tony embodies everything that is wrong with the leather community. He is only worried about Tony. He’s a selfish prick who has hurt many young boys like you, dumped them, and never looked back. Tony also mixes a lot of drugs and alcohol with his sex. He gets most of his money dealing in drugs, and he pumps boys full of them before he ties them up and rapes them.”

He relaxed a little bit and looked directly at me. “He sees a good looking boy like you, and fuck the rest of the world, he decides that you’re his next conquest, the next notch on his belt. And a naive little boy like you is rarely able to escape that man’s sexual draw.”

We sat silently for a few minutes. I finally spoke up.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“For what?” Steve was genuinely curious.

“For....for....” I didn’t know how to put it into words.

“For being a hot little boy that everybody wants? For not being able to turn your nuts off and on at your own command? You don’t understand. That man has had 20 years to perfect his little routine of picking up cute young boys. I don’t blame you for not knowing how to see the whole picture, to see him for the phony he is. I blame me.”

I was surprised by that statement and looked up sharply at him.

“I was one of the first boys he raped. Oh, we didn’t call it that back then. But after some pretty serious soul-searching I realized that was exactly what had happened. He was about 27 or 28 and I was 17. He smelled my innocence and took advantage of my stupidity. He hurt me pretty bad and then kicked me out. I was really lucky because Louis took me in. I actually lived in that third floor apartment over the barbershop for a while. I owe Louis my life.”

Again we sat in silence. Steve seemed a long way off, remembering the bad days with Tony, or the good ones with Louis? I wasn’t sure.

“Sir?”

“Yes, boy?”

“What did he mean about there being no collar on me?”

“Damn you ask tough questions.” He laughed. “A collar can mean several things to both the person who wears it, and the person who has locked the collar on. For some, the collar is a sign that a relationship of Master/slave has been entered. The slave is owned completely by the Master. Everything the slave does is to benefit the Master. Everything is under the control of the Master, from what food goes in the body of the slave, to when and how the slave will perform sexually. For others, the collar is a sign of a different type of relationship, a Daddy and son, for instance may use the collar. Here, instead of total control, the Daddy takes on the role of mentor, to educate, to shape the life of the boy he has collared. The boy belongs to the Daddy; in fact the Daddy may collar more than one boy at a time, all pledging their loyalty to him.” He paused for a minute, unsure if he should continue.

“I wore the collar as barberboy for Louis for three years. It was my honor to do so. As I said, I owe him my life. After three years Louis was wise enough to take the collar off of me. He knew that I had outgrown the role and also knew that someday I would be a Daddy myself. During the time we were together he frequently gave me permission to explore my sexuality with other men. He frequently had sex with other men. We never attempted to model our relationship after heterosexuals and their codes. At the end of the day though, I would be with him, in his arms, in his care.”

He started to laugh again, caught in his own memories. “Damn, we had some hot sex in those barber chairs!”

I laughed too, as it was something I’d been imagining since we’d first walked in the shop. He stood up and pulled me up with him. He embraced me strongly and I held on for dear life. He held me close the rest of the night, from watching the party die down, to observing some fairly mild sex in various corners of the loft, to when we finally crashed on one of the mattresses in the loft. I felt truly safe in his arms.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

A Short One




While I prefer a good long scene with 90% of the toys in use, multiple boys bound together, long butt-pounding, back-thrashing scenes, sometimes all you have time for is a few pieces of rope,
a piece of bamboo,
one good gag,
and the ever-willing hubby.

And his exposed feet.

And his exposed tits.

And his exposed butt.

Iowa Farm Boy, Part V


“Rise and shine, barberboy!” The blanket had been yanked off me and a bushy beard was shoved against my ass biting playfully. I was rolled over to my back by NastiBear who pinned my arms down and gave me a huge sloppy kiss. Dressed only in jeans his belly was pushing down on my morning hard-on. Keeping my arms pinned he lowered his head and swallowed my dick whole. Just one simple swallow. “Yum. Boycock.”

“Now get your sorry ass up and make me some breakfast! I understand you’re chief cook and bottle washer–and I’m fucking hungry, boy.” He laughed heartily and climbed down the ladder. I watched him go seeing the red welts on his back disguised only barely by the Brillo pad of hair that covered him. I scrambled down the ladder, put on my jeans and t-shirt and boots and headed for the kitchen.

Just inside the kitchen door CD was sitting, his back to me. He and Steve were wearing blue jeans only and on CD’s back I could see multiple stripes from Steve’s whipping. It looked like lightning strikes of red on the mountaintop. Steve was watching me closely for my response but I lowered my head and went straight for the stove.

A dozen eggs later along with a pound of bacon, a pound of sausages, several fried potatoes, and two big pots of coffee the guys seemed sated. I was washing dishes while CD and Nastibear gathered up their gear and got dressed for their ride back to Omaha. Both guys gave me big hugs before turning their attention to Steve. Nastibear kept muttering “I gotta get me one of those. I just gotta get me one of those.”

As they climbed on their bikes CD shouted out to Steve. “Think about the offer. It’s a good one and we’ll do anything we can to help. Let us know. And thanks for a great weekend. See ya’ soon!” And the engines were kick-started and with great thunder these two gods set off down the lane.

We walked back in the house where I set about drying the dishes. Steve sat at the table behind me. I could feel him watching me. When I turned he said very quietly and simply,

“How much did you see?”

I wouldn’t lie to him. I couldn’t lie to him. “A couple hours probably. I’m sorry I disobeyed you, Sir.” It came tumbling out of me. “I thought someone was hurt, honestly I did. And I ran to help.....”

He stopped me by simply raising his hand. “It’s okay. Finish up. Let’s go for a ride before it gets too hot.”

He left the kitchen to get finished dressing and I dried the last of the dishes and headed to the barn to saddle up the horses. He met me there and we trotted through a wooded area that led to the back of the property where the creek first entered his land. We tied the horses next to the creek so they could drink and rest. Steve found a huge flat rock at the creek’s edge to sit on and pulled me down to where I sat between his legs, my head and back cradled against his warm chest. He wrapped his arms around me. The closeness between us made me feel very secure.

“Did it scare you? What you saw?”

“No, Sir! Well, a little, because it was so....”

“Intense?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ve known ChromeDome and Nastibear for almost 15 years now, since about the time I was your age. Their real names are Roy and Donnie. Nobody could ask for better friends. And for the last 15 years we’ve grown up and come out and developed our lives in the leather community. All three of us have come to be tops, but every once in a while even a top needs to be reminded of where he came from, to remember what it feels like to take the sting of the whip rather than to give it. They respect me and I respect them.

Roy is a fister. Unlike the single finger I stuck up your ass yesterday, Roy sticks entire fists up some willing boys’ asses. Donnie is first and foremost a sadist. Do you know what that means?”

I shook my head slightly. Steve chose his words carefully.

“Donnie is aroused by inflicting pain in others. A sadist is aroused by inflicting pain; a masochist enjoys having pain inflicted upon him. Donnie will use what ever tool he has at his disposal to make another man scream out in pain. With one man it might be hot candle wax, with another it might be strings of clothes pins pinching sensitive areas of a bottom’s body, with yet another bottom it might be the paddling of his ass.

“Pain is an incredible aphrodisiac for some people. The body can stir up powerful chemicals that take your mind on the most incredible flights, and as those chemicals build up the pain becomes a freeing thing.

“Like an athlete who pushes himself to his limits, masochists cross thresholds and catch a second wind. Once pushed past that level where it ceases to hurt, an athlete and a true bottom cross over to a exceptional place where there is no longer pain, only a sort of agonizing pleasure.

“We add elements to this–clothing made of leather, dungeon-like settings, blindfolds, hoods, bondage, humiliation, or whatever else the top or bottom might want to enhance his fantasies. Ultimately though it comes down to trust, an exchange of power, and taking a partner to new levels of being.”

I held on to his massive forearms trying to make sense of all this. His steady breathing showed he was in no hurry, allowing me all the time in the world to absorb this new knowledge.

Finally he spoke again.

“There is one other element that is absolutely critical for you to understand. What happens must always occur between consenting partners. I whipped those men because they wanted me to.” He held me a little tighter. “I will never do that to you unless you tell me you want it done. Even then I promise to stop the split second you say I should. Willing, consensual, bonded partners in a black dance. That is the way it has to be.”

I nodded my understanding. It took me a long time to build up my courage to speak. My voice was a raspy whisper.

“I want to try, Sir.”

He stood up on top of the flat rock and pulled me to him, my face now tight against his shoulder. He stuck his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Let’s go to the shed.”

As the day had gotten much hotter we rode back slowly sticking to the shade when we could. Back at the barn Steve told me to take care of the horses and to hose myself down as well then come to the shed with nothing but my boots on.

I finished the chores and arrived at the open door of the shed. Steve had showered and was standing in the middle of the room. He’d put on tight leather chaps that framed his butt and dick. Two thick bands of leather encircled his biceps. His shiny black engineer boots peeked out from below the chaps. His physique was breathtaking. I shivered at the door even though it had to be at least 90 degrees outside.

“Get over here. NOW.” he growled.

I moved quickly to him. He sat in a big straight-back chair. “I want you over my knees and I want you there now. You are going to punished for disobeying me last night.”

I started to object. “But I thought you weren’t mad about that....”

“Shut up! In this shed you do not speak unless I give you permission to speak. If you ever want to end what is happening just say my name, not my title, and I will stop immediately. Otherwise you will only speak when I allow it. Is that clear? Answer me barberboy, is that clear?

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now bend over my lap.” I did slowly and he threw me the rest of the way on to his lap. His right hand hit my right buttock.

Smack!

“Ouch!”

“What the fuck did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Sir”

Smack!

I bit my tongue to keep from opening my mouth.

“Better. Now count them.”

Smack! He hit the right cheek!

“One, Sir!”

Smack! Now the left cheek!

“Two, Sir!”

I was screaming the numbers out by the time he reached twenty. My butt was stinging. I could feel its heat. He rubbed his right hand over my ass massaging the tissue and muscle and skin. I was on fire from the spanking and more so from his touch.

“Good boy, now let’s start over.” He grabbed a leather paddle that was sitting next to the straight-back chair.

Smack!

“One, Sir””

Smack!

“Two, Sir!”

In a slow and steady rhythm we went through five sets of twenty before he relented. Each time he reached numbers nineteen and twenty I thought I would have to call out his name to make it stop. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do that. And as promised, by the time we started the fifth set I was somehow floating above the pain. Somewhere in my head I still recognized it as pain, but now I was finding myself wanting that next hit, anticipating it, needing it. It was like the first time I had had two beers–I was fully conscious but I wasn’t fully coherent. I liked this new place I had reached and I was intoxicated by it, by every bit of it–the sound, the feel of his hand against my ass, the smell of leather and sweat, the feel of my chest and stomach and dick against the leather chaps. And I heard myself sobbing,

“Thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

Without a word he lifted me back to standing. He stood and squatted in front of me, grabbed me around my waist, threw me over his shoulder and carried me to the corner of the shed. Hanging from four chains was a small hammock of leather, a sling he later told me. He eased me onto it from his shoulder and I gasped as my hot buttocks touched the cool leather. He laid me back in the sling and lifted each foot to fit in a sort of stirrup. At this angle my butthole was gaping open and completely vulnerable. He took my wrists and attached belts around them. The belts had D rings applied to them and to these he attached short chains. He lifted my hands above me and attached them to the chains coming down from the ceiling.

An open can of Crisco sat on a shelf near the sling. Steve reached into it and spread it liberally over the middle finger of his right hand. With this greasy probe he began to first massage my rectum then enter it. With my body at this angle, I was amazed at how easily that finger had gone in. Unlike yesterday in the creek this greasy finger had slid in quickly and comfortably, like a long lost friend come for a visit. I could see Steve’s grin.

“Ah yes, barberboy, you’ve got a hungry hole.”

He pulled out and now applied more grease to the index, middle and ring fingers of his right hand. Again, the middle finger slipped in easily and after a couple of thrusts it was joined by its neighbor, the index finger. I was beginning to groan. I was squirming in the sling, hungry for more fingers, more lube, more depth, more anything. He pulled out again.

“Easy, barberboy, easy. We’ve got all afternoon.”

For the next half hour he alternated between one, two, and three fingers. Sometimes there were slow thrusts, other times he would jab. The only predictable thing was my moaning. It was continually growing more insistent.

“Do you want me inside you, boy? Do you? Can you take me inside you, barberboy?”

“Yes, sir. Please, sir.” I was begging.

A big glob of Crisco was massaged onto his already hard dick and I watched him step closer to me. He grabbed the chains supporting my legs and the sling, and I could feel the tip of his dick right at the edge of my anus.

“Fuck me, Sir. Please fuck me, Sir!”

It was the only encouragement he needed. He slowly eased his dick into me and began thrusting his hips. I could feel all the muscles in my lower body trying to reach out and hold onto that dick. I wanted it inside me, all the way, deep inside me.

As he began to fuck me faster and harder he put his greasy right hand on my dick and began to jerk on it, timing his jerks in rhythm with his thrusts. The leather of his chaps was slapping against my tender butt cheeks. The chains were rattling, we were both breathing in raspy short breaths, and finally I felt his hot load fill my insides, wave after wave of liquid fire released, and I screamed as my own cock shot a huge load onto my chest.

He slowed his pace and eventually pulled his now softening dick from my butt. A thwack on my butt brought me back to my senses.

He released my wrists from their bondage and helped me stand. I was shaky and he pulled me close to him, our sweat, cum, and the grease blending into one. I could hear his heart pounding, or was it mine?

He put his hands on my face and lifted my head to where we were looking at each other. “My little barberboy,” he whispered and then he kissed me long and hard.

Smack! He hit my ass and I jumped. He laughed. “Let’s go make some dinner.”

Again we sat at the picnic table outside enjoying our dinner and watching the sunset. No words were exchanged. Finally, as both of us were cleaning our plates of the last scraps of food he spoke,

“There’s a barbershop for sale in Omaha. It’s next door to the Diamond Lounge and Bar, a hangout for the gay leathermen crowd there. They want me to come down and take a look and maybe get me to put an offer in on the place.....”

The words hung in the air. Only 120 miles away, I’d been to Omaha only twice. It seemed huge to me, overwhelming. And then I realized I might not be included in the future plans. A panic overtook me.

“It would mean selling the farm, the horses, pretty much everything I’ve got here. But it also would mean I could ‘come out’ fully. I’d be buzzing gay leathermen every day rather than 60 year old straight farmers.” I nodded my understanding, even though I didn’t understand. Wasn’t it enough for the two of us to stay together on the farm.

“I’d get a chance to spend more time with Nasti and CD. This weekend reminded me how much I miss them......”

I was horror struck. He was leaving me. Alone. I began to take shallow breaths, trying to overcome the panic that was setting in.

“I’d like you to go with me.” He looked at me with those deep brown eyes and I was transfixed. He continued, “But I don’t want to be in control of your life. You could go to college, get a degree, and really go somewhere with your life. That pathway is one you could choose, and I would respect your decision one-hundred-percent.

“You’ve got what is called a ‘fetish,’ I think. You’re turned on by barbers, barbershops, barber chairs, and everything related. And whenever touched by those elements you’re aroused. Fetishes, however, can shift in life. Or, if overly indulged, can wear out. Submerge a man twenty-four hours a day in his fetish and he can lose interest. I would hate to see that happen to you.

“I also think you have the seed of masochism in you. We peeked below the surface today when I spanked you. What I saw was depths you can’t begin to imagine. It can be a frightening place to go, but the journey could also be amazing.”

I knew the depths he was speaking of. I’d felt them, even if only for a moment.

“I want to go with you.” There was nothing to decide. “I want to be with you.”

That night was the first night I was invited to share his bed. He held my hand as we climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor of the old farm house. He held me close to him all night long and only in the early morning hours was I finally willing to give myself over to sleep.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Are you okay?

NOTHING ruins a scene faster, I think, than a constant asking of "are you okay?" It takes a sub/slave/bottom out of the head space quite quickly; it may, in fact, make the sub/slave/bottom lose confidence in the Top's ability to "read" the scene and keep it alive and on edge.

Still, there are times when it doesn't hurt to make sure that all is okay, that there is no "bad" pain, that the panic-breathing is because the sub is loving every minute rather than truly panicking, etc.

Out of the blue yesterday, working with a young man who clearly was not very experienced and was, in my opinion, a little overly excited and maybe even close to passing out from hyperventilation, and occasionally shivering from fear? or excitement?--in any case, out popped these words from me---

"Are you where you wanna be?"

When the scene was over I had used the phrase three times, each time making direct verbal contact with the young man, but I believe never destroying the critical head-space we were working so hard to achieve. The phrase carries so many meanings and allows for so many interpretations on the sub's part, that it was, for me, a way to check in, without breaking the focus.

The sub answered "yes Sir" all three times and on we went.....

And each time the answer seemed to say:

"Yes, i like this headspace."
"Yes, i'm glad i hooked up with You."
"Yes, this bondage is great and comfortable and unforgiving."
"Yes, i love wearing hoods."
"Yes, this is the punishment i craved."
"Yes, and I never want to leave."

And yes, I'm officially working on a "Rosetta Stone" language class for interpreting "yes Sir" and "mmmmmphfyps", just for dedicated leather/rubber/BDSM men.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

The Universe Laughs

Recently my partner and I agreed to play with a local man who wanted some "rubbery action." Agreed to some bondage, light pain, hoods, gags, gas masks, ass play, TT, CBT....the general gamut of good fun. He arrived on time, in his rubber singlet, donned his Black Diamond rubber waders. We skipped the chit-chat and headed right for the play area where the hubby was in a rubber jock and hip waders, blindfolded, gagged with bit gag and strung from some hanging chains.

On a side note it was a sad day as we completely blew out the full rubber suit (cheap piece of shit) after covering hubby in j-lube and trying to put him in the suit. LOL--he had to scramble into the shower with box of salt to deactivate the lube, then out quick and into the modest rubber gear. Sigh.

On a second more upbeat sidenote, we also broke in some new ball stretchers I ordered from Fort Troff. They're called the Jelly Fatties and are incredibly stretchy rings that can be loaded on. They're amazing. You know as well as I do that one day your balls hang low and you feel like you could load on six inches of stretchers while the next day those 'lil fuckers have moved north and you can barely get 1/8 inch of stretch on 'em. Or with one guy you feel like the descending sack is so small you could never get anything on tight, while the next guy's sack is so tight you can't get your fist around it. These little rubber rings solve both problems.

And for the next three hours we had a blast! This little fucker was explosive fun. Laughed at the light bondage, squirmed like a greased pig, stuck his butt out further when i started beating on it, screamed appreciatively when I smacked his low hangers, climbed in to his first rubber sleepsack experience, kissed with a passion I've not seen for a very long time, and practically flew out of the sling while the hubby was fucking his brains out. (Note for future: tie this motherfucker TIGHTLY and gag him completely for next orgasm as he damn near brought this place down when we tried to touch his dick after he came...)

Hubby and I both knew this was a keeper. Kidnap and cage images came to mind. I began to wonder if he was any good at cleaning bathrooms. The storage room would make a nice pigslave cell. China patterns danced in our heads. Up to the roof we went for a little dinner and wind-down chat. Turns out he's leaving. The country. In two weeks. For good. I think he was pretty disappointed as well.

And all I could think was how the universe does this to us: gets us hot and horny and hopeful, and then pulls the rug out from under us. And the universe laughs.

Grab your opportunities, men.