Nine Circles (M/M) - *COMPLETE*

[gag1195]

One Circle cleared, one leash added. One jacket sadly stored away. What I wouldn't have given to have sexy Lance bound up in his equally sexy jacket!

[Straitjacketed]

What I wouldn't have given to have sexy Lance bound up in his equally sexy jacket!

I do sympathise, [mention]gag1195[/mention], but when the Fates bring you an exhibitionist, you have to make him strip.

[Straitjacketed]

Nine Circles - part 7

(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])

LUST

Richard:
The doorway leads to a much larger space, sparsely lit with reddish bulbs so dim your eyes take a moment to relay to your brain that there are pools of any light at all within the darkness. As you adjust to the extreme gloom, you realise there’s a railing before us, after which the ground falls away. There’s a restless quality to the pooled dusk below: shadowy figures seem to flit between, coalesce and separate, not quite dancing but some, at least, move in time with an insistent, low-level audio thrum that reminds you of a heartbeat.

We’re on a balcony. To the left, stairs lead downward into near blackness. To the right, the balcony continues, fractionally better lit than the floor it overlooks.

“It hasn’t changed!” I exclaim.

I move to the right, one hand on the rail and the other controlling you. I find myself abandoning the leash and, instead, settling my hand more intimately along the back of your neck – the spot at which one might grasp a kitten – to steer you through the darkness.

As you get more used to the low lighting, you see that the balcony on which we stand runs around the perimeter of a huge two-floor room, overlooking a sort of courtyard with several Stygian doorways at ground level.

I pause our progress beneath one of the low-illumination bulbs and it becomes apparent that the outer wall of the balcony is not plain-coloured but a very dark red upon which a black mural has been painted, an endless labyrinthine maze.

We lean on the railing and peer down at the languorous but ceaseless swirl of bodies below. It's hard to pick out specific details but you can make out a glint of chain here, a glistening of latex there, a momentary flash of gold-tipped horns…

"This was always my favourite vantage point," I say.

“Do you take a lot of boys here or do most of them fail to pass Purgatory?”

The planes of your face appear more severe in this semi-darkness, and I’m consumed, suddenly, by the need to taste you. I curl my arm around, hand still on the nape of your neck, so your near-naked muscle is folded into my leathery embrace.

Mouth-to-mouth isn’t fashionable on the kink scene: the classic truism is that most leathermen, while perfectly happy with any amount of binding, whipping and flagellation, are oddly coy about kissing.

I’m not most leathermen.

Sometimes that works for me, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, one has to act on impulse.

Moving without conscious thought, I cup the back of your head with my gloved fingers and lean in to answer your question with my lips, wordlessly.

I taste of beer and mint mixed with the aroma of new leather, saddle soap and a ghost of the sandalwood beard balm I applied this morning. How do you taste, smell?

No matter how grizzled and jaded I become, I doubt this moment of first intimate contact with a man or boy will ever not make me at least a little dizzy, a little thankful that custom cannot stale the infinite variety of masculinity: in form and moving, how express and admirable... in action, how like an angel!

“Most boys do indeed stay in Purgatory,” I concede, when we finally part, “but some I give Hell.”

From the pocket of my breeches, I take a small hank of soft-but-strong red cotton rope.

“Let’s get you dressed.”

Lance:
I allow myself a small but cocky smirk at your praise. You seem to have a taste for classics and I’m enjoying the mental image of a leather kink cop appreciating the sight of a marble statue, helplessly tied up at his command.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, letting the word “boy” slip by. I wouldn’t think I’d be into it but I’m very much enjoying the presence of an older partner - an intoxicating novelty. With my stature, it can be hard to find guys who want to dominate me and the way you so nonchalantly put me in place is exceptional.

Of course, I also feel taunted but in a good way. If I’m going to be your boy, I’ll definitely play the role of a bad boy, taking in whatever you give to me with a devil-may-care (pun intended) attitude.

I took note of your bulging pants as you bring us to a surprisingly spacious underground cavern. The loud EDM and flashing lights are more familiar to me than the club’s outermost facade, making me feel more at home. But the occasional glimpses of unconventional clothing remind me that this is no ordinary nightclub.

“Feels like you can just fall down and drown in this crowd,” I mumble. There’s a weird comfort coming from the lack of good lighting and every being so lost in there on worlds that hide my half-nakedness but it’s also nice to be together with someone else.

So much so that, your sudden grasp around my neck gently but firmly to guide me doesn’t elicit a protest from me. Yet, my rebellious side pushes me to give you small hardships - holding my ground until you apply a bit more pressure and such.

I question you and you answer me by wrapping your arms around me. That’s a surprise but not an unwelcome one. I tentatively hold my hands between us as you embrace me from my neck and waist - but they end up holding onto your chest through the layers of smooth, cool leather around it.

I’m forced to look at you and man, you’re stunning - eyes sharp like a falcon’s yet soft in their gaze, and your handsome beard framing your lips to make them look even more appetizing.

Even though I wear nearly nothing, I feel your horsehide wrap me with its feel and smell.

I’m down for you so badly, I faintly think as you force my lips into a deep kiss and I let you. I’m conscious of my scent, a light cedar aroma from my shampoo with a hint of fresh sweat mixed in, and the taste of beer lingering in my mouth.

Your taste is masculine and I enjoy the way your longer facial hair scratches my lips and cheeks to subtly remind me how I like it rough.

Mindful of the cuffs around my wrists when returning the kiss, I take it as an implicit permission to explore you and my hands wander from their place on your chest to bring us closer. I nearly moan into your mouth when a cold, stray pocket zipper is pressed against my nipple.

I eagerly grope your tightly-wrapped ass and encourage you to keep going by pressing between your shoulders as my lips move against yours in new forms. It’s a testing, forceful, and reeling kiss. I had good kisses before but I’ll have a hard time forgetting this one - unless we give each other more to remember soon.

As you pull back and I could hardly collect myself, you claim, “Most boys do indeed stay in Purgatory, but some I give Hell.”

I look at the rope you produce. It looks appropriately red and for a moment, makes me feel like a fly at the mercy of a spider. Nobody tied me up before. It’s a brand new experience and I’ll be completely at your mercy if I let you wrap those ropes around me. Still, I neither have the desire nor willpower to back down after that kiss.

“If this is Hell, I hope I committed enough sins to qualify.”

I kneel on the hard but tolerable floor and fold my hands behind my head, willing to let you arrange them however you’d like. I just have one request.

“Just make sure it’s tight.”

To be continued...

[blackbound]

The description of the space itself is maybe my favorite bit about this part, I can perfectly picture it as this Lynchian nightmare (dream?), filmed at a Dutch angle with a wide-angle lens that's getting way too close to people as it impossibly swoops down into the crowd. You really are a talented writer.

[Straitjacketed]

The description of the space itself is maybe my favorite bit about this part, I can perfectly picture it as this Lynchian nightmare (dream?), filmed at a Dutch angle with a wide-angle lens that's getting way too close to people as it impossibly swoops down into the crowd.

Aww, [mention]blackbound[/mention], you're too kind! Because this is the first of our collabs published here, you haven't seen the sterling job [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention] did, previously, of managing not only beautiful scene-setting but juggling five different characters, four of whom were themselves role-playing other characters. By contrast, I had the luxury of having to manage just two, with a ready-made framing structure that allowed me to go properly cinematic. Lynch was definitely in mind but also Friedkin, as Cruising is known to both characters.

Incidentally, I had to Google "dutch angle" and the page that came up made me LOL.

[gag1195]

I'm loving these two more and more! Richard is such a big romantic softie hidden under all that muscle and leather! And Lance is appropriately defiant and willing! I'll take both wrapped up to go!

[Straitjacketed]

Nine Circles - part 8

(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])

Richard:
“Just make sure it’s tight.”

It's my breeches that are tight!

Having you, suddenly, kneeling at my feet causes an involuntary surge of blood to my groin. The intoxicating currency of power! It would be all too easy to unzip - or have you unzip - my bulging codpiece and fuck that angrybeautiful face of yours right here and now.

And it would be too quick, too abrupt a conclusion to our shared narrative. As the man said, I can resist everything except temptation, but I've got to resist this because I want more of your company, I want to prolong our evening.

Also, it's not your hands I'm tying. Not just yet.

I'm not above thrusting my hips forward so that, as I motion you to your feet, my leathered crotch brushes your face (my fingers itch to cram you against the warm, musky hide) and the front of your body.

"All in good time," I reassure you, "but I need you to have use of your hands for a little longer."

I position you upright, under the light, with arms held slightly out from your sides, while I unravel and shake out the rope.

"Believe it or not," I tell you as I affix the centre of the cord to your front collar D-ring (having first unbuckled and removed the belt-tether) with a simple Lark's Head knot, "this rope came from a magic shop, a place that supplies props to magicians. By, I'm sure, sheer coincidence, it's the best for the job: strong, super-supple and soft against the skin".

Quickly and deftly, I weave a harness around your upper body. From the anchoring point of your collar, it runs downward and outward, with doubled horizontal bands mid-pectoral and just below, extending around the back and up over your shoulders to meet in a large, intricate knot over your sternum.

"I was in Japan for a while in my twenties," I explain, "not long but long enough to learn a little basic shibari."

I maintain tension throughout, eliminating slack and keeping everything taut, but not enough to restrict your breathing. It's functional but not without decorative flourishes in the knotting. I include the back D-ring too, so collar and rope harness effectively become one.

When I'm done, those dark, sullen nipples of yours are showcased, framed in red: no cord runs across or even very near them, but I know that, over time, the gentle pressure of the surrounding rope will cause subtle changes in blood flow that will, in turn, increase sensitivity.

"A perfect artwork deserves a perfect frame," I say by way of explanation.

Your belt-tether goes over my shoulder for now and my mode of steering shifts from back of neck to buttock. We move around the encircling balcony, and I probe, gently, about your experience of the leather scene, of places like this one, of kink in general ("you have the jacket, the boots... those surely weren't accidental purchases").

Eventually, we're back where we came in, by the cloakroom.

"On second thoughts, we should collect your boots," I suggest, "down there, things can get... messy."

Duly rebooted, we descend the stairs into the central throng and take time to absorb - and be absorbed into - the spectacle.

"Belly of the beast!" I grin, after a while, indicating a smaller, more shadowy doorway on the far side.

Lance:
The subtle but apparent (and growing) bulge in your leather breeches right in front of my face makes me want to reach and put my mouth on it but as if to not overplay my part in our impromptu drama, I merely wait for you to put the rope in your hands to use.

In my ignorance, I was expecting you to wrap me up like a doner wrap that’s popular around here or merely tie my hands but you surprise me by raising me up. Maybe I’m not the only cheeky one here, as your agonizingly packaged manhood brushing a line across my face was definitely not a mistake!

Instead, you open my eyes to a sight of ropes that I never imagined before.

“It's the best for the job: strong, super-supple, and soft against the skin". As you praise the rope, I can see you’re not overselling your purchase. Despite never being tied up, I can tell that the rope is good quality and feels comfortable on my skin, without any scrapes. The tension that wraps around my upper body is almost overbearing but not in a good way.

It’s almost like a weird sort of bear hug. Nothing presses too tightly or cuts my circulation, unlike some jeans I own.

“Well, I can believe it’s magic.” I press a hand against my chest. In what looks like a deliberate attempt, your ropework lifts and frames my pecs and keeps my nipples constantly erect. I vaguely liken the net of rope and knots to sexy women’s lingerie, which isn't helped by how practical your outfit is compared to my current look.

The rope stretches and rubs against my skin but keeps taut and pressed to my flushed muscles as I turn to look at how I look from behind. The collar keeps everything in place but is still comfortable. Despite my range of movements being basically unhindered, I feel like my torso is wrapped like a present for your enjoyment.

And turns out we have a shared wanderlust, judging by how far you travelled.

“Whoever taught you shibari, they did a great job.” I suddenly wonder whether you learned this by using someone else as a model or were you the one getting tied up. Imagining you trussed up in red magician’s rope, intricate knots resisting your struggles as your leather uniform creaks in protest… definitely doesn’t help my erection.

But I’m glad you’re showing me the ropes for now - quite literally!

"A perfect artwork deserves a perfect frame.” A slight blush colors my face. There goes you and your silver tongue again! I can’t lie, this harness does make me sexier, with my muscles and lean, masculine lines adorned impressively. I’m already pleased with my looks but your art can turn a guy into a narcissist.

Only later, as you push my cotton-clad butt to retread our steps, I realize that your compliment objectifies me as an art piece of desire - as my critical reading teacher would say.

I don’t linger on that as we have a chance to make some small talk.

“You have the jacket, the boots... those surely weren't accidental purchases?”

I shrug. “I had a roommate who had a domme girlfriend with crazy leather outfits and I jerked off to Tom of Finland as a teenager but that’s about it. I like leather because it looks badass. I am attracted to masculine things with an edge. My usual clubs are places people fuck only in the bathrooms.”

I ponder that a little. Did I really have not any kinks about leather? I can’t deny that I keep my jacket on on purpose as I frot or make out with guys, liking how it rubbed against us and the noises it makes. Leather boots are a signal of manliness, a rugged item for bikers, but I can’t deny the further appeal it holds in my eyes as a halfway kinky item of clothing.

Maybe it’s not surprising that a guy clad head to toe in leather apparel that has an artificial but irresistible masculinity leading me along in a deliberate show of power and danger is attractive to me.

I’m not good with words, so I simply relay this by saying “You may have awakened something in me that I never realized was there.” I frown. “What made you so into leather and all…” I show around us with a wave of my arm. “This? You seem like an artsy type.”

After we collect my boots (which accentuate the nakedness of my body even more), we made our way through the Second Circle’s mass of writhing bodies. I’m used to navigating my way in cramped clubs but it’s new to do it with such an obvious top with me. Despite bumping into various body parts dressed in leather, chains, rubber, or nothing, no hands try to grope my body as I’m obviously “owned”.

There are various splashes of beer and who-knows-what on the dancefloor so I’m grateful for my waterproof leather footwear.

I wonder if I tried going down here alone and in my previous clothes, would I get grabbed and stuffed into one of the more restricting bondage positions and gear I observe around us?

"Belly of the beast!"

I follow you into an ominous path. If I remember anything about Inferno, the next step should be Gluttony, right? Or was it Greed?

“I’m not going to end up hogtied on top of a table with an apple stuffed in my mouth, am I?” I joke as I tap the floor with my boot. But no, you said you still need my hands. What for, I wonder but I still follow you into darkness without fussing.

Richard:
“Whoever taught you shibari, they did a great job.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, still engrossed in my knotting, “I learned it from the inside out”.

In my early twenties, I followed the well-trodden route of a stint teaching English in Japan. Already, I had a pretty well-developed sense of myself and my interests, could recognise those same interests in others and was adept at forging connections – all skills necessary for an up-and-coming kinkster to survive and thrive in those antediluvian pre-Internet days.

Even so, there was a good amount of luck in my meeting a shibari master on the same wavelength. He taught me much, more than I realised at the time...

Downstairs, with you booted and adorned in the fruits of my Nippon adventure, my hand on your buttock, a little of that reverie of youth continues.

“… and I jerked off to Tom of Finland as a teenager-“

“A veritable rite of gay passage!” I interrupt, with a smile.

I’m genuinely touched by your comment of my having “awakened something... that I never realised was there” but then you execute a neat turning of the question back at me:

“What made you so into leather and all… this? You seem like an artsy type.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child, these are all artsy types. Well, a lot of them, anyway. What was the original scurrilous ‘70s put-down? ‘Florists in cowhide’? There’s a grain of truth in that: as an aesthetic, this attracts men with a particular eye, a flair for the… operatic”

A gesture in any direction would illustrate my point but I want to answer your question honestly.

“For me, it’s all that and more. Irish dad, Scottish mother, raised everywhere. Military brat with a strong and early interest in men in uniform but no love for the actual lifestyle. Bookworm and obvious drama school fop I might’ve been, but I was also drawn to the physical: rugby, wrestling… I was told I had the build for pugilism. And now maybe the face.”

With a wry half-grimace, I tap my nose, broken and reset just a little crookedly.

“Leather – fetish, kink in general – is where it all came together for me. Still does. Sex, theatre, uniform, physicality, daddy issues, power trips, role reversals, sensory overload, all the pleasures of the flesh from the cities of the plain.”

Pausing in the exact centre of the courtyard – the Pit – I open my arms wide in a shamelessly corny showman gesture.

“What’s not to like?!”

As we near the doorway, you realise it has an actual door, adorned with the universal toilet symbol for MEN.

“You mentioned fucking in bathrooms,” I say, “but you may have to prepare yourself for this one.”

To be continued...

[KidnappedCowboy]

Mouth-to-mouth isn’t fashionable on the kink scene: the classic truism is that most leathermen, while perfectly happy with any amount of binding, whipping and flagellation, are oddly coy about kissing.

I’m not most leathermen.

Thank you!!!!

[gag1195]

"I need you to have use of you hands for a little longer." What is Richard planning? Cannot wait to find out! It was very nice getting more insights into both men! They are already quite emotionally intimate as they continue to test the boundaries on their physical intimacy!

[Straitjacketed]

You're very welcome indeed, [mention]KidnappedCowboy[/mention]!

"I need you to have use of you hands for a little longer." What is Richard planning? Cannot wait to find out!

You won't have to wait long, [mention]gag1195[/mention]! The next instalment will be along sooooon.

[Guardianbound]

Love this slow burn, push and pull.

[Straitjacketed]

Cheers, [mention]Guardianbound[/mention]! I'm glad people don't mind "slow burn".

Next part incoming!

[Straitjacketed]

Nine Circles - part 9

(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])

GLUTTONY

Richard:
The cooler lighting beyond the door would be considered crepuscular by any normal standard but, after the Pit, the Second Circle, it feels positively eye-searing.

The space itself is not large but seems expansive by simple dint of having been lined – walls and floor – in white (or, at least, once-white) tiling, almost a wet room. There’s a tang of antiseptic and the suggestion of moisture, as if a leak is dripping just beyond the audible range.

A urinal runs along one side with stalls at the other. Although the room seems empty – or almost empty – snuffling, gurgling and panting sounds that might be pain, pleasure or both bounce around the hard surfaces; the oblique angle of the stall doors and the odd acoustics of the space make it difficult to place their origin.

At the end of the room, under a blue spotlight, is a small table of the kind found in the toilets of fancier nightclubs, where a lone attendant might offer a towel, a boiled sweet, a squirt of aftershave in return for a handful of change.

There’s an attendant here; a portly figure who raises a hand in greeting.

“Ker,” I ask, squinting into the azure haze, “is that you? After how many years?!”

Never quite confirming his nationality as Greek, Turkish or Cypriot, Ker has always given the impression of having been born and lived the entirety of his life here in Deubel’s: during my previous time in Berlin, he was practically a fixture, part of the very fabric of the place. It seems he still is.

“Dick!” calls the attendant, in the most bastardised of accents, “Big Dick! Welcome back!”

“Hahah, don’t start with that! How the devil are you, Ker? How are things?”

Most of the stall doors are closed but, as we hasten across the room, a tableau can be glimpsed through one left open: a naked man, apparently bound in a doubled-over seated position, bent forward on the toilet bowl itself; only the top of his head is visible between two short, almost dwarf-like figures clad top-to-toe in tight, glistening latex, faces hidden in what appear to be dog-face hoods made from the same black rubber. They’re thrusting their erect cocks, simultaneously, into the mouth of their captive, making him gag and cough.

A third truncated latex pup peers around the door of the stall. He makes direct eye contact through the holes of his shiny, expressionless hood but says nothing and makes no move to either close the door or invite us in.

Ker suits the extra weight. He’s just as swarthy as I remember, not a hint of grey in the close-cropped hair of his head and face or the more luxuriant curls covering his broad chest. He’s done up in a sort of leather kilt-and-open-waistcoat affair that serves to highlight the serpentine tattoos covering both arms and, I know, culminating, spectacularly, on his back.

“Ker, this is Lance. Lance, Ker.”

The attendant fixes you with a lascivious eye the colour of warm Nutella and pronounces himself delighted to make your acquaintance. We make lightly flirtatious small-talk, and your attention wanders down to Ker’s table.

Where a standard nightclub attendant might offer a range of colognes, Ker’s fare is altogether wilder, more exotic – to the point where some of the items are not immediately identifiable. Cock rings – leather, rubber, metal, even some neon-hued plastic – are familiar, and there’s a similarly wide variety of plugs in all shapes and sizes (some frankly eye-watering). There are more complex devices whose function seems unclear: sets of rings linked in ways designed to either enhance or frustrate an erection.

Each item is, reassuringly, sealed in its own clear plastic wrapper.

“Can I interest either of you fine gentlemen?” says Ker, “or both?”

“Let’s make this interesting,” I suggest, “you pick something out for me to wear and I’ll make a choice for you.”

Ker likes this idea; his eyes sparkle with mischief.

I gesture at the table.

“You first.”

Lance:
I listen to your lesson-in-leather intently, especially as it turns into something more personal. The new information I absorb honestly reveals quite a bit about you, especially the contrast between your rugged appearance and (mostly) courteous demeanour that makes you so attractive.

My parents were quite hands-off in my upbringing, maybe to a fault, making me grow used to testing authority outside of the house and even mingle with a few dangerous groups when I was younger. It gave me a taste for adrenaline thrills, which I tend to sate in gyms if I can’t in clubs.

I’m interested to learn that you used to wrestle. “I do kickboxing when I have the chance. From your posture alone, it’s obvious you have a good balance.” Our expertises might differ but now I want to see which one of us would emerge victorious in a no holds barred fight.

“Leather – fetish, kink in general – is where it all came together for me. Still does. Sex, theatre, uniform, physicality, daddy issues, power trips, role reversals, sensory overload, all the pleasures of the flesh from the cities of the plain.”

That gets a laugh from me. “You make it sound so appealing.” Now it’s a lot more apparent that why you wear your outfit so well - it’s basically a part of you at that point, everything you like and proud of about yourself given form.

I try recalling the different outfits I saw in the dance floor. What would my kinks look like if I had the chance to pick my clothes from the start? Probably something wilder and more revealing.

Speaking of wilder, we’re at the next portion of the club and the shock of white comes from left field to me. The wide, open room looks something halfway between a public restroom (an uncharacteristically clean one, that is) and a Turkish bath.

The cruiser in me gets restless at the sight and sound of identical stalls on one side. My fingers itch for dragging you inside one of them and having another go at our previous make out that still electrifies me. But my curiosity outweighs my carnal desires - what’s up with this place?

A scene I can barely see right as we make our way to the end of the room is another reminder that I barely know the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Deubel’s regulars and their… unique tastes. The canine masks are a bit creepy to me but also weirdly appealing. It’s fitting how they seem to allow their owners to embrace their wild sides.

The attendant is an old friend of yours, which shouldn’t surprise me as you seem to know just about every leatherman in Berlin. He’s a large man with a larger than life presence to him. His clothes are less elegant than yours but the way he’s comfortable in his skin gives him an edge that’s complemented by his tattoos nicely.

A prime example of why bears are attractive despite their lack of “classically” handsome features. I realize I unconsciously straighten my back when I find myself between two older and hairier men.

“Hi, Ker!” I flash him a salute and his unapologetically approving look immediately makes me like him.

“You don’t seem like you’re getting bored here,” I note as I take a look at what he has on the table. Of course, the downright pornographic noises in the background must help but doesn’t he ever want to take a break and get in on the action?

There are a wide variety of brand-new toys laid in front of me. Some of them are thankfully familiar, while the others look more like torture devices, which actually piques my interest more.

“Let’s make this interesting, you pick something out for me to wear and I’ll make a choice for you.”

Oh, you know how to push my buttons. Even if I was reluctant to pick some toys for myself (I’m not), getting to choose what you carry on you for the rest of the evening is too appealing to pass.

My eyes immediately zoom back on the items on sale, one by one imagining how they would look on you. I have experience using plugs and dildos, so they’re safe options. Though, there are some interesting designs that makes me feel like a kid in a candy shop finding new flavors. I find that I’m more drawn to black or red designs to fit our current color schemes. Your sense of aesthetics must be rubbing on me.

There are also a few rings that looks like they would go around one’s dick or balls. I get harder at the thought of your (judging by the size of your bulge, well endowed) cock inside one of those.

Others’ intended purposes are not as obvious from first glance so I point to one and ask Ker what they are supposed to be for. He chuckles in good nature seeing what I point to.

“They are for your nipples,” he says in his heavy accent and pulls his vest a bit to show a barrel piercing adorning a brown, supple nipple among a forest of thick, black hair. “But you can put them on without having a hole on you. See, they’re magnetic.”

Said clamps look like two pairs of small, chrome cones. Presumably, the flat sides act as magnets that pull each other, squeezing the nipples between them. I immediately want to put them on you to get back at you for my provocative harness but I decide against it. It’s unlikely that they can fit behind your tight leather shirt and I rather enjoy your torso still being a mystery.

What would a plug make you think? It would be hot to have you walk around in that commanding uniform while a large plug fills you but it can also make you consider that I prefer topping you…

After some serious deliberation, I turn to you and pick up my final choice: “How about you put this on?”

Of course, I’m pushing my chances. The toy I picked is made of black silicon and actually a two-in-one item: it consists of a pair of rings attached to a rather large, conical piece with a thick, flexible strip.

Ker raises a brow. “A shaft ring AND plug? Big Dick, your boy has good taste.” The toy obviously goes around the base of your dick and testicles while also anchoring itself with a sizeable butt plug.

I decided against a vibrating device as there’s no guarantee I’d have control of it but I feel like I made a good choice. I put the package in your hand with a challenging expression on my face, goading you to surpass this. “If this isn’t too much for you, I can handle anything you choose as well.”

I know you said you enjoy role reversal but I wonder how much I can push your buttons with malicious compliance. “Especially if I can help you put it on."

To be continued...

[blackbound]

Let's hope this doesn't backfire!

Actually, I'm lying, let's hope this backfires spectacularly.

[gag1195]

Lance is so wonderfully devious! And correct! The image of a tough, domineering leather clad dom leading his charge through this club, walking tall and proud, with his ass stuffed with a plug and tight rings around his dick and balls is incredibly hot! I just wonder what reciprocal item will be chosen for Bad Boy Lance?

[Straitjacketed]

[mention]blackbound[/mention]: Backfires against which one of them? Or both of them?

[mention]gag1195[/mention]: Deviousness abounds! You won't have to wait long for Lance's karmic rejoinder.

[blackbound]

@blackbound: Backfires against which one of them? Or both of them?

Lance's cockiness backfiring in how it influences Richard's choice for him.

[Straitjacketed]

Lance's cockiness backfiring in how it influences Richard's choice for him.

Ahhh. "Cockiness" is a good descriptor in this context...

[Straitjacketed]

Nine Circles - part 10

(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])

Richard:
“A shaft ring AND plug? Big Dick, your boy has good taste.”

I shoot him a warning glance – he knows the nickname irks me – but Ker just chuckles. The burly attendant is clearly taken with you and that’s always a good sign. More to the point, he’s tickled by your choice of toy.

“Shaft ring AND a plug?” I mimic his accent, “dinner AND a movie?”

In truth, I’m both nonplussed and a little intrigued by your selection. The black silicon two-in-one is novel to me and the size of the plug a little daunting as I turn it over in my gloved hands.

“If this isn’t too much for you, I can handle anything you choose as well. Especially if I can help you put it on.”

“Your boy is throwing down the gauntlet, Dick,” says Ker, clearly enjoying himself, “you must lead by example.”

He tosses a sachet of lube on to the table and crouches to fumble with something at ground level. He comes up with a fistful of ice cubes.

“These will help.”

“I’m sensing an unholy alliance,” I say, “but yes, I accept. As above, so below.”

We agree that I should accommodate your choice before making my own. Unbelting, unzipping and removing my new Langlitz jacket, I hand it to an only-too-happy-to-assist Ker. The uniform shirt beneath is of dark grey, butter-soft cowhide that clings to my shoulders and pectorals, tight across my wide chest; the black leather tie is anchored with a silver pin in the shape of a deer antler. The tight sleeves of my shirt end mid-bicep, revealing intricate tattoos that curl and twine the entire length of both arms. The mix of runes, symbols and sigils is heavily inked – almost blackwork – contrasting with my Celtic pallor and a light furring of ginger, thicker on my forearms.

When I look up from unbuckling the wide waist-belt of my leather breeches, Ker is holding open the door of the nearest stall, the cubicle next to that of the rubber pups and their hapless quarry. There’s now no visible sign of the triple canine but the soundtrack of groaning and choking indicates that no quarter is being given.

“Unto the breach!" I say wryly, "Breeches, even.”

I enter the toilet stall and you follow, ice and lube in hand. Ker stands guard.

My instinct is to grab you, fling you against the wall and resume our earlier oral communion but we have a job to do. I unzip my breeches and let them fall back to the tops of my Dehner boots. My uncut cock springs to attention from its nest of auburn hair and I groan at the touch of ice.

My buttocks are, if anything, paler still, with a light scattering of the same reddish hair.

It isn’t easy getting either component into position but, with judicious use of cold and lubrication – plus a lot of mental gymnastics on my part – our combined efforts bear fruit. The widest part of the plug eases past my sphincter and settles into place, the thick silicon rings exerting a gently insistent pressure at the base of my cock and around the neck of my balls.

“You drive a hard bargain,” I say, suppressing the urge to wince as I zip my breeches back up again and fasten the belt. The tip of the plug exerts a steady nudge-nudge-nudge on my prostate and I can already feel my cock starting to stiffen in its leathery confines.

A smirking Ker helps me back into my jacket and now it’s my turn to choose.

I take my time, perusing his extensive selection while surreptitiously watching you react. I narrow my choice to three main avenues and gauge your expression when I make a show of considering each:

The magnetic nipple clamps you examined. Those seem a little easy, so I put them to one side.

A red plug attached to a rakishly curling doggy tail in the same silicon. I wonder whether I’m being influenced, unconsciously, by the latex pup trio.

A chastity device that fits around the root of both cock and balls, enclosing both in a hard red plastic shell that seems impractically small (“spiked on the inside,” Ker points out) and includes a vibrating element in the locking ring. The control is basic - on/off - with a ready-charged battery.

Slowly and deliberately – and assuming no curve balls – I select the final option. “This one.”

I hand you the chastity shell, carefully pocketing the control.

I’m happy to assist – curious, even – but suspect the necessary manoeuvring, ice-assisted, is better managed without my input. And, in my prolonging of this evening, delaying the unwrapping of some gifts adds to the anticipation.

Also, while you’re alone in the stall, I take the opportunity to make a little negotiation of my own with the swarthy attendant. I pass Ker a handful of Euro bills as payment for our toys and for some "VIP extras"; he hands me a labelled key (which immediately disappears into one of my many zippered pockets) and two gold-coloured tags.

When you emerge, I search your face for signs of discomfort (grinning broadly if those signs are there - I'm getting better at reading your Resting Angry Face). Another of my tiny silver luggage padlocks ensures that hardened plastic shell isn’t coming off any time soon.

“’As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown’” I quote, “and there’ll be no blowing of your bud any time soon.”

I fasten one of the gold tags to the lapel of my jacket, the other to the front D-ring of your collar.

There is no sign of the silent latex pups as we leave. Ker watches us go.

“Oh!” he suddenly remembers, “watch out for-“

But we’re already gone.

Lance:
I knew I liked Ker. Even if my taunting didn’t work, he made sure that you stayed true to your word - not that I take you for someone who doesn’t.

Ker giving you the ice cubes confused me at first but then I realize you’d probably have difficulty putting that thing on if you’re erect, and your breeches hardly hide that, currently, you are.

You remove your jacket and I immediately take everything I thought about keeping your clothes on back. Your arms are mouth-watering: packed with strong muscles, inked and furred just the right amount. Some of your tattoos seem like they may carry meaning but I wonder if they’re purely for show or spell something I can’t read.

If I don’t reach out and touch you, it’s because I don’t know where to start.

Of course, our attendant just had to place us right by the triple puppies’ orgy. Somehow, the obscene noises that sound like there’s nothing between us are more embarrassing than seeing them first-hand and I don’t dare to call out to them, despite being curious. Instead, I focus on you, and thankfully, you make it quite easy to forget about men around us who are just out of sight.

Entering a toilet stall with a guy who then drops his pants is usually a clear indicator of how things will play out next so I’m intrigued but also a little disappointed that you don’t try to replicate our previous kiss. Maybe for the better - we don’t want to make Ker wait and our situation would make things more exhibitionist than I might like.

To my delight, you’re not wearing any underwear, going commando in those tight breeches instead. Your rock-hard dick sits beautifully amid your ginger bush and while it’s hard to compare, I estimate that it’s thicker than mine, and maybe around the same length.

Your ass doesn’t disappoint either, I definitely see you as a rugby player with those large buttocks filling the uniform.

I watch you getting your erection soft with a sadistic glee, which is then wrapped in silicon rings with relative ease. Getting the second ring around your balls is harder but you manage to do with after getting some directions from me. I apply a generous amount of water-based lube to the plug before slowly inserting it between your hairy cheeks. Judging by your reaction, it’s a bit bigger than what you’re used to so I can help but whistle and pat your ass when all of it gets inside you nice and secure.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“I’m told I make it worth it.” My embarrassment means that I don’t smile but a reassuring glint in my eyes tells you that I intend to keep my end of the deal.

Past Ker waggling his eyebrows at us and back at the table, I look at the stuff you pick for me.

The clamps are still my favorite but after what I made you wear, you probably won’t let me get away with just them. Still, you may have other plans for my chest now that you know it’s a weak point of mine so maybe it’s redundant. I look at it with want but not much interest.

The next option is a… plug? It normally wouldn’t get any complaints from me but the tail-like appendage that comes from it is a bit weird. I’m not sure if I want to not be able to sit when wearing it or have to go naked because there’s no way my briefs have any room for that.

Of course, you go with the one that looks the most painful. It looks like a small torture device that goes around all of my privates. I wince when Ker shows the small, blunt spikes inside. I had this coming but also my dick inexplicably twitches in its confines.

“I guess I won’t be coming by accident tonight.” Giving you a defiant glower, I grab the hell device and walk back into the stall, gratefully taking an ice cube with me. I’ll absolutely need it if I’ll have any chance to put that thing on.

After locking myself inside, I take a closer look at the “chastity cage”, as the packaging calls it. There are small holes in its underside, presumably to alleviate sweating but there’s not a fragile thing about it otherwise.

Sighing, I lower my briefs and take a last look at my hard cock. It’s paler than the rest of my body but still has a natural golden tan. I didn’t have much time to shave recently but the black pubes around it are still shortly trimmed, reducing any risks that they will get caught somewhere.

The ice is a shock on my hot rod and I bite back a moan at the almost painful change in temperature. After some coaxing, my cut dick shrinks into a manageable size. It’s a good thing I’m a grower, as it would be a lot uglier to get the bright plastic cage around my dick. Unexpectedly, my balls are a bigger problem and it takes me some careful positioning to put everything inside.

I take a final look at how the bright red cage hides my genitals and pull my briefs back on. The usual bulge is gone and if it weren’t for the constant digging of the cage’s stumps, I could forget that I was erect five minutes ago. The sheer thought causes little Lance to try and stand at attention - nearly making me cry in surprise.

Damn, I have to keep myself from getting aroused if I don’t want to squirm for the entire rest of our journey. Which is going to be hard even without my rope harness - as I know you’re just as tightly locked as me and the thought is enough to make me consider ripping the cage off and rubbing one out.

But I’m not a quitter. I walk by you, stomping my boots, and wordlessly let you padlock the device. Your beam is incandescent when you see the scowl on my face but I don’t let that get to me. “You gonna need to do better to crush me down.”

“’As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown and there’ll be no blowing of your bud any time soon.”

“As if,” I growl. “I’m as chaste as Diana’s brother at best.” Okay, time to stop sulking. We’re even, at least if we ignore you holding all the keys.

After you put a tag on my collar (now I can’t even say it doesn’t look like a dog collar), we press onward. The cage’s presence becomes a constant but not particularly uncomfortable white noise at the back of my mind before long and I wonder whether your rings and plug are the same.

Ker says something behind us but it’s probably a joke or something of similar nature, so I just wave back at him and turn my attention to you, asking you something I’ve been wondering since the first floor.

“Am I similar to other guys you usually do these things? Something Ker said back there makes me feel like I’m supposed to do this sub thing differently. By the way, what are these golden tags for?"

To be continued...

[gag1195]

Eye for an Eye... err, Head for a Head as it were! Ker's warning is somewhat ominous, but in a place like this, ominous can be exciting!

[Straitjacketed]

Nine Circles - part 11

(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])

Richard:
After Ker’s blue-lit realm of sharp, white edges, the main courtyard seems black and amorphous until our eyes readjust. The lights don’t flash, exactly, but there are tones and undulations to the darkness; it is constantly in motion. The soundscape, too, shifts between a heartbeat-thud beat, wisps and gusts of almost-recognisable EDM and spikier, more unnerving electronica reminiscent of subtly or not-at-all-subtly jarring moments from a cinematic score.

This time, my arm on your back steers us to the left, so we move beneath the overhanging balcony from which, previously, we looked down upon the Pit.

Here, the gloom is deeper and, through the flitting wraiths in their darkly glittering finery, it can be seen that the back wall – at least, this section of it – is a long curving mirror that stretches in both directions.

The glass is tinted almost black, and our reflections are shadowy and indistinct as I pull your hands behind you and thread your own belt through the D-rings of both wrist restraints. I loop it through a second time then spin you around, buckling the strap at the front of your waist.

As restraints go, it’s simple - the work of seconds - but effective. Your hands are held together and fixed to your lower back. You can’t reach the buckle, the tapering of your own torso stops you moving the belt upward and if you try to work it downwards, you're going to encounter the padlocked nub of your chastity device.

I turn you so you’re facing me, push you against the smooth, mirrored wall and move in for the kill.

The kill? The kiss.

This time, I’m neither tentative nor restrained (the base of my cock and the neck of my balls excepted) and the near-constant nudging at my prostate is deliciously maddening.

Blood up, I use the weight of my body to crush and pin you in place, steadying myself with both gloved palms against the glass while I explore your tastes and textures at my leisure.

From your mouth, I move to one nipple then the next, teasing with the tip of my tongue then engulfing, rolling between my teeth first gently then with more vigour (the implicit threat of biting it off altogether) then, when it’s especially sensitive, rasping with my beard as a mother cat might use her tongue.

My cock strains in its confines of silicon and leather and, as I move my attentions back to your lips, I thrust it too against your pinioned form, using my boots to kick your feet further apart so I can grind myself into your scantily-clothed crotch.

It would be easy to end the evening here but we need to come up for air. I ease my bulk off and move to your side, so we both lean against the mirror-wall, facing outward into the main Pit – “the body o’ the kirk”, as my mother might say.

“Am I,” you begin, “am I similar to other guys you usually do these things? Something Ker said back there makes me feel like I’m supposed to do this sub thing differently.”

“You’re doing the sub thing just fine,” I smile, giving one tenderised nipple a reassuring tweak, “I like a ‘spirit to resist’. But I think you’re asking if I have a type, or types.”

I peer contemplatively at the lust-tossed throng.

“I’m not sure I do. Not anymore. I certainly did, back in the day. When I was a young man, it was older guys, always older.”

The crowd moves, parts, congregates, parts again. Endless configurations.

“In my thirties, the age thing started to even out. Uncle Quentin, bless him, would say I resolved my search for the Great Dark Man by becoming him. Well, the Great Ginger Man.”

I smooth my beard.

“But one doesn’t stop learning, absorbing. I gain something new every time, even if it’s just novelty. I can find beauty in any face or body – some more than others, obviously – but it’s the less tangible stuff that really hooks me. What do I value? Imagination, creativity, a kindred spirit…”

I glance back at you with a sly smile.

“… someone not merely willing to tolerate my dreadful literary pretensions but able to volley them back at me.”

The plug embedded in my rear doesn’t let me rest for long. I’m astride you again, hands against the wall.

“What about you? Which rough beasts of ill repute tend to grab your fancy? With whom do you dance, Lance?”

"By the way, what are those golden tags for?"

My face brightens.

“I’ll show you.”

I lead you along the mirror-wall, keeping glass to our left side. Frequently, we have to skirt or edge around knots and clumps of our fellow shades but after a few minutes, I stop.

“Here it is!”

Looking where I indicate, you spy something at eye level, breaking the consistency of the smooth dark surface. Appropriately enough, the design itself is an eye – or, at least, the simplified symbol of one – etched in pale gold. It’s subtle, easily missed if one doesn’t know where to look.

“Are you ready to go through the looking glass?” I intone.

I press the centre of the eye.

Lance:
The dramatic shifts in the scenery are enough to disorient me. Can this be an intended design aspect of the club - a labyrinth that confuses the lost souls into wandering deeper and deeper into its spiral of debauchery?

You nudge me to face distorted reflections of us, a broad man clad all in black and a younger one laid bare and wrapped in rope. Either you found this frame of dominance over me inadequate or it encouraged you into dolling up your “artwork” further but my arms are yanked behind me without warning.

I saw it coming through your mirror image and my first instinct is to resist but I don’t pull back with as much force as I could, still curious about what you’ll do. Didn’t you run out of rope? Well, maybe it’d take my full strength to fight against you because my hands are literally tied faster than I thought was possible from your slow and deliberate roping.

The cuffs around my wrists that previously were nothing more than decorations are abruptly working against me. The rings on them make even the thick and slippy material of my belt (used against its owner!) enough to be secure. I test my bonds but despite my biceps bulging from the effort, it’s impossible for me to simply take the knot apart while it’s affixed to my waist.

My waist is thinner than the rest of my body, I can’t pull my arms upward to shift where my hands are. It’s devilish and I’m frustrated with the ease you use my body against me. I don’t want to try and shimmy the belt downward - your gloved hands’ rough handling of me is already enough to make my chastity device announce its presence loudly - the last thing I need is to try and force the belt over it and my voluminous buttocks at the same time.

You maneuver me as if we’re dancing and slam my back against the startling cool of the mirror. My fight or flight instincts activate and I snarl, making a move to push you away with a tackle…

Or I would if you didn’t choose that moment to dive into me with another hungry kiss, your eyes dark with desire.

“What the hell are you-”

I don’t know if it’s our alone state, my newfound bondage, or the silicon stimulating you in all the right places - or a combination of all of them; but you kiss as if trying to devour me. Your lips press and move against mine with a feverish pace and your arms cage me as if there’s nothing beyond them.

My agitation remains and turns the kiss into a competition as much as it is a declaration of desire. I push against the mirror with my bound arms, pressing myself even tighter to your leather-clad chest and my rope harness digs into my flesh with a delicious sting.

Our facial hair rubs to each other before you decide to change directions to my perk and vulnerable nipples. A rough groan from my lips echoes in the room when your licks turn into a warning bite that burns my already stimulated chest.

Even as restrained as I am, I use every ounce of my strength to grind to your form, the stings of my chastity device forgotten in the passion of the moment or maybe I’m beginning to have a taste for the dull pain it brings. I even manage to lift a knee and rub it between your legs before you kick my legs open.

When you pull away, I’m sweating and panting like the afterglow of a strenuous workout: hair mussed, lips parted and wet, nipples swollen. The mirror now feels better against my flushed back and butt and I feel positively ravished.

As the adrenaline high wears off, so does the haze of lust at an incredible pace. As you begin to talk about your type, I can’t help but feel we’re having a pillow talk over a kiss and I can’t find a reason to complain.

“… someone not merely willing to tolerate my dreadful literary pretensions but able to volley them back at me.”

I respond with a smirk and bumping at your shoulder with mine. “I can say the same. Some say I’m a handful and I’m glad you don’t mind me putting up a challenge.”

“What about you? Which rough beasts of ill repute tend to grab your fancy? With whom do you dance, Lance?”

I pause and think for a second. My interest in other guys was always something I let my hands do the talking and putting it to words might pose a challenge for me.

“Maybe ‘rough beasts’ is a good way to put it into words. I was something of a bad boy during high school where I first realized I preferred guys. Looking back, that might have been the reason I was so eager to enter the all-boys groups.”

I shift my arms in the belt bonds. “As long as we cut classes and did small vandalism, my attraction to other men was just a part of the thrill. I got my act together after that but I still don’t feel comfortable with the routine, you know?”

“I don’t think I have a preference for age or appearance but for people who don’t quite fit in or don’t want to and I can be dangerous with.”

I pause to wet my lips. It’s not often ı talk for so much and so long. “So, yeah. People tend to peg me for trouble, which mostly works fine for the men I want to be courted by. A rocking bod doesn’t hurt, though.” There is still stuff I don’t yet quite feel like sharing but it still feels good to confide in someone… though it makes me feel more vulnerable than losing my clothes or the use of my arms.

To conclude our talk, I take the initiative this time, pressing a quick peck on the corner of your lips.

"By the way, what are those golden tags for?"

The concealed button on the wall excites me. There’s a suspicious amount of hidden paths and chambers to a superficially ordinary nightclub. Maybe it’s just how kink places are or this place is built by some eccentric with too many spare funds. But I know I won’t be able to leave until I see every last inch of it.

I look into the eye symbol and wait for the plutonic mirror to reveal its secrets.

To be continued...

[blackbound]

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Treachery to do porn?

[Straitjacketed]

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Treachery to do porn?

Heh, I love your repurposing.

[Straitjacketed]

Nine Circles - part 12

(Co-written with [mention]DeeperThanRed[/mention])

Richard:
There’s a tilting, a change of angle, an opening of cracks, and you realise the eye symbol is part of a separate section of mirror, a door set level with the rest of the wall, a door with no apparent handle. A door that now swings open on concealed hinges.

A gleaming black-and-gold liveried figure in matching eye-mask peers at our golden tags, nods and beckons us inside.

GREED

The portal closes behind us with a soft click and, immediately, we’re in a different world.

Behind the mirror-wall is a long, narrow gallery that extends laterally in both directions, evidently following the gentle curve of the Second Circle. The greenish lighting is almost as dim: subterranean or perhaps subaquatic, reminiscent of a vast aquarium. Classical music – Vivaldi – plays lightly in the background and seated figures are discernible in the gloom.

The doorman, clean-shaven and resplendent in a full latex uniform (modified with cutaways that display and enhance rounded, gold-dusted pectorals and an impressively stuffed codpiece) gestures toward a curved, leather-upholstered banquette. Turning to follow him, the room’s main feature – and the source of at least 80% of the light – becomes apparent.

The wall behind us – the looking glass through which we’ve passed – is one-way, appearing reflective mirror from the club itself and, from this side, transparent. Not only that, but some infrared or light-amplifying technology within the glass renders the room beyond – and its denizens – highly visible, albeit in spectral tones of white and pallid green.

“Pale green ghosts,” I murmur, “most are not aware they’re being observed, but some…”

I flash you a sideways smirk.

“… some are.”

The view from this room has always fascinated and, on some level, disquieted me. The figures moving beyond the glass put me in mind of x-rays or those piscine monstrosities that dwell in undersea depths beyond the reach of light.

“’Full fathom five’,” I quote, “’a sea-change into something rich and strange’. Emphasis on rich. This is the VIP area: voyeuristically inclined plutocrats.”

We’re here this evening by dint of the bounteous hand of Ker. Previously, I was in this room only rarely and never by my own agency; it was always beyond my means and generally, despite my love of observing others, not to my taste. I’ve never quite put my finger on why, exactly, but there’s something not-quite-right (to me) about the degree of separation: I take great pleasure in watching people – especially men, especially attractive men – but I prefer more rawness to the interaction; I need to share their space. Sometimes, I like to manipulate the interaction, give a push or prod in one or other direction. Sometimes, I myself get involved.

This VIP area has always been too clean for my tastes, too hermetically sealed. With all the action behind a pane of glass, I might as well be watching a screen.

The banquette is padded (a relief for my prostate) and faces the glass vista. A latex-masked server brings champagne in tall flutes and leaves without a word. I consider freeing your hands but, for the moment, I’m enjoying what seems like a conflict on your part, an inner fight, whether that fight is in response to the forced submission of having your hands bound or being here as, ostensibly, the objectified plaything of another man.

It’s an inner fight I understand only too well…

I decide to prod at this a little, by feeding you the champagne myself.

“What do you think of the view?” I prompt.

As if summoned by my words, a pair of men loom suddenly into view almost directly ahead of us. One – bare-chested and nipple-pierced but leather-hooded, arms cuffed upward to a wide collar – is pushed into the wall (despite knowing the strength of the glass, I can’t help wincing slightly) while the other – blond-bearded in one-piece motorcycle leathers – grinds and pounds at his rear.

Suddenly, my attention is caught by something in the opposite direction, a large fixture spot lit near the back of the gallery, the wall opposite the lust-aquarium.

“That’s new!” I exclaim, downing my champagne, “let’s have a look.”

The item in question is a piece of furniture, a man-sized disc or wheel mounted on a fixed axle, padded and upholstered in luxurious-looking black leather. Buckled straps of differing widths and thicknesses make the wheel’s function clear and there are – intriguingly – holes cut at strategic points in its surface. These appear to allow access through the rear of the apparatus, like the upright, fetishist cousin of a massage table.

I turn to you, eyes gleaming and muscles tensing in anticipation. I'm not yet able to anticipate your reaction to this level of bondage. Will I have to wrestle you into position? “

“Well, Lance," I say, assuming the accent and intonation of a cheesy US game show host, "are you man enough to take a spin on the Wheeeeeeeel of Fortune?”

Lance:
Some people are definitely loaded here, is my first thought as you push my bound body into the hidden door in the mirror.

Despite its thalassic design that makes me feel like I’m walking into an opera house sunk under the water by divine punishment and the grandeur oozing from every corner, this “circle” feels somehow sleazier than the bathroom with rubber puppies fucking inside.

At least that part was more honest with the lasciviousness it incited. Watching the “lesser” customers without their knowledge or consent feels dirty. As we’re shown our seats by a frustratingly hot attendant, I try to keep myself from glaring at him.

He probably wasn’t watching when you pressed my barely covered ass to the mirror for everyone here to see and I don’t want to get us kicked from this place - as my curiosity prevents from me to obstruct the business of the white rabbit (or maybe ginger bunny would be more fitting).

“Pale green ghosts,” I hear you murmur, “most are not aware they’re being observed, but some…some are.”

That’s more reassuring, I guess, though now I have to wonder who would want to be held under the microscope like this. I don’t mind people watching but it’s not as creepy when my kiss with a man gets wolf whistles and cheers from other party-goers who can ask to join the fun.

“This is the VIP area: voyeuristically inclined plutocrats.”

“Bones of coral and eyes of pearl, indeed,” I scoff. My family can keep the pot boiling but my familiarity with the mega-rich is limited to keying their cars and sleeping with their preppy sons. My skin still tingles from our earlier kiss and if my hands weren’t tied, the lust in me could easily turn into I might be tempted to provoke some of the customers around us.

Instead, I sit beside you and let you feed me champagne as your hot-blooded arm candy. My wink to our waiter gets no response, disappointingly enough. “I don’t see why people prefer this to whiskey,” I said without rejecting a free drink. “Also, you never told me you were secretly loaded.”

If only the people around us knew that not only the uniform-wearing, bearded daddy type’s dick was just as restrained as his roped boy’s (albeit in a different form), but his ass was also plugged. This thought cheers me up a little.

“What do you think of the view?”

I look up just in time to see a pair of pierced pectorals press themselves flush against the mirror. Although their owner is hooded and his arms are lifted to be cuffed behind a collar similar to mine, he doesn’t seem bothered by the harshness in the way the man behind him pistons the crotch of his leather one-piece at his ass.

The scene is so mesmerizing that it takes a while for me to collect me and realize how hypocritical I’m acting. The hooded man writhes against the blond dom helping himself with his buff body by groping his bouncy chest and using his ass to get off. However, I recognize the movement of the sub: he struggles into the dom, not away from it, signaling that he actually enjoys this. My dick painfully tries to get hard in my chastity device at the mouth-watering and too-relatable view.

I just hope they are among the ones who want to be watched, I think before replying with a curt “It’s fine,” knowing fully well that the blush on my tan skin and the intensity that I watched tell you everything you need to know.

Of course, that’s not enough for you.

You drag us to what appears to be a leather-bound device that may be used previously by a leather daddy or an inquisitor. It reminds me of an episode of a fantasy show I once saw, where a prince was strapped to a similar wheel by a band of entertainers.

Before you even say anything, I know in my bones that you want to strap me to the device and possibly also play a few rounds of kinky Wheel of Fortune with the fat cats around us.

I feel less inclined to be further tied down with voyeurs watching us but I also can’t deny the appeal of getting in on some actual action. I take a better look at the wheel. The straps don’t look so bad, they’re mostly to prevent the victim of choice from falling. The opening at the back is also not a big issue, as my briefs cover my modesty.

But I won’t be able to run away or kick you unlike how I currently can if something goes wrong. At least I trust my experience in fast rides enough to not puke.

“Are you man enough to take a spin on the Wheeeeeeeel of Fortune?”

I groan, aware that you got me around your little finger and you know it. That’s playing dirty but I also can play dirty.

“I am,” I say and take a step back. I open my legs and lower my center of gravity as my martial arts teacher taught me, not willing to go down without a fight. I scowl at you but my voice that shakes from the prospect of a fight betrays me. “But why don’t you still make me?”

To be continued...

[gag1195]

I absolutely love that Lance continues to fight back and push buttons, all in a well-meaning way! Bound and trapped as he is, he's still got his cocky attitude! Richard sure knows how to pick em! Lance on the wheel, huffing an puffing from trying to fight off his red-haired guide! Can't wait!