Chapter 52
Tristan
Right now, all I want is to be riding Nick’s cock until I see stars, or to be splayed on a bed while he fucks me from behind, but there’s a problem.
Namely, where we can do this.
We leave Captain Hyun’s party once it has begun to wind down, and after making out in his car for a bit—during which I almost cum in my pants because I’m so horny—we debate where we could go.
“Your place?” he suggests.
“Absolutely not. Dad and Bobbie are there. The walls are thin. Your place?”
“Abigail and my parents are there.”
I grimace and look at the backseat of the car. “I mean…?”
“I’m not fucking you in this car,” Nick says. “I want to really fuck you.” His hand travels up my thigh, gripping me. “I want to fuck you so hard you can’t help but scream.”
He’s going to have to move that hand, or my cock might burst out of its cage.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
He grins. “I have an idea.”
? ? ?
I haven’t been back to the Anvil since I first met Nick there. Chasten and Yale have talked about going back at some point, but our schedules are busy, and we haven’t had the time. Besides, I haven’t really been interested in going back if it wasn’t with Nick.
We enter the club hand in hand, check in with our IDs, and then head to the bar to order drinks.
The club is full today—it’s leather night tonight, and a whole crowd of men in harnesses, leather jockstraps, codpieces, collars, pup masks, and more are dancing, mingling, and negotiating scenes.
Some of the men are naked.
It smells like sweat and cologne and poppers.
I feel a little feral.
“You sure about this?” Nick asks.
“Um, yes. We’re fully committed, aren’t we?”
And we really are. After leaving Captain Hyun’s party, we went to a sex shop. Nick bought me a leather harness and a leather jockstrap, with a leather thong for himself. We have everything in a bag.
“Fully committed,” Nick says, smiling slightly at me—hungrily. His hands find my ass, squeeze.
Then, he adds, “You know, it’s pretty public in the dungeon. Guys might watch.”
The thought of it is thrilling. “Good. Let them.”
There’s a room for us to change and lock up our clothes. There are other men there, changing, all in various states of undress. Some are completely naked and don’t look like they’re about to put anything on.
We strip off our clothes in full view of anyone else in the room.
Something like this would normally make me feel self-conscious, but with Nick there, it feels normal and safe.
The other men in the room are very respectful. Sure, there are some appreciative glances at my body, and at Nick’s, but none of those glances feel disrespectful—and, honestly, I really don’t mind.
I don’t have much experience with the exhibitionist kink, but I do think that there’s a part of me that enjoys being watched and admired.
Like many gay men I know, I have a special private “story” on my social media where I’ll sometimes post photos where I feel especially attractive—photos without my shirt, photos of me in just a towel, in a pair of sweaty underwear after a workout, stuff like that.
I didn’t do it so much when Warren and I were together, but I’ve started doing it a little bit more since his death. Even when I wasn’t ready to be with someone else, I still liked feeling desirable.
“Fuck, baby,” Nick whispers when I’m fully naked and staring at my leather jockstrap, wondering how to get it on. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
He’s also completely naked, and about half hard right now.
I almost don’t want him to put his leather thong on.
I almost want him to stay naked, to stay glorious and beautiful and primal like that, so that everyone in the club can see that he’s with me, that I belong to him, that, yeah, I’m the one lucky enough to get to ride that fucking massive cock.
“So are you,” I whisper.
He pulls me to him, takes a key from the pocket of his discarded pants, and uses it to unlock my cock cage.
“Got to let it breathe if I’m gonna make you cum,” he says with a grin. He strokes his cock once—god, I need it inside me. And then he steps into his leather thong, fiddles with its zippers, and pats it gently.
“You ready for this cock inside you?”
“Like you don’t even know,” I whisper.
“You’re one lucky twink,” one of the other men in the changing room says to me. He’s very naked, a little older, maybe forty, with boyish features and thick blond hair.
I grin at him. “Oh, don’t I know it.”
Nick nods at the naked man. “If you want to watch, we’ll be in the dungeon.”
The thought of it makes me shiver with anticipation. Not only do I get to be fucked by Nick, used by Nick, but others will get to watch and appreciate it, to see just how much of a good boy I am.
“Are you gonna fuck him?” the man asks. Others are listening now, interested, intrigued, lusting.
“Oh, yes,” Nick says. “He needs to be fucked.”
The other men look at me, taking me in, studying me.
I let them.
I love being the object that they desire, that they want, the one whose performance satisfies them.
Nick and I are in no hurry.
First, we go to the dance floor, and we dance—basically naked, holding each other, bumping against others sometimes and laughing about it. The atmosphere in the club is comfortable, sensual, safe.
We haven’t had many—or, really, any—chances to spend time together like this, in a queer space, with other queer men, just celebrating the freedom of our bodies and our sexualities, and it’s something I’m glad we have the time to enjoy.
We are free on the dance floor.
We are embodied, and we are beautiful.
We take shots at the bar, meet some of the other men there, make friends, make out on the dance floor with each other (and briefly with another couple), feel each other up, and grind on each other.
We grow progressively looser and freer, with alcohol warming our systems, lubricating our limbs and inhibitions.
Finally, Nick takes my hand and guides me to the basement dungeon.
It’s darker in the basement, which is dedicated to playing, to executing scenes.
There are some private rooms, but most of the spaces for scenes are out in the open where they can be monitored for safety.
Dungeon monitors (employees of the club whose job it is to make sure things are safe and consensual), stand around the room, keeping a strict eye on activities.
The walls are lined with equipment, gear, and tools arranged on hooks and shelves. More elaborate pieces of equipment and machines are set up throughout the space, along with furniture such as couches, beds, stools, and chairs.
All around the room are men engaging in different activities, different scenes.
Men in restraints, getting edged.
Men in swings, getting fucked.
Men making out, men sucking cock, men spanking others’ asses, men using toys on each other, men watching and stroking their cocks.
“Fuck,” I whisper, at once both overwhelmed and excited by it all.
“Right?” Nick says. “I’ve been up here twice before, but damn it still gets me.”
A dungeon monitor in an Anvil staff T-shirt and a leather codpiece approaches us, gives us a quick rundown of the rules (always ask for consent, express boundaries, use safe words, don’t touch anyone without verbal permission, et cetera), and then asks if we have any questions. Neither of us does.
We are free to enter the dungeon.
“Are you ready for this?” Nick asks, pulling me close. “Are you ready for me to fuck you?”
He tips my head back, stretching the muscles, and kisses me hungrily on my neck.
“Yes, sir,” I gasp. I am beyond ready.
He takes me to one of the beds, his strong arms bracketing me as he lays me down on the mattress. I am floating in my own bliss as he pins my arms back, his grip firm, the pain wonderful. His mouth crushes against mine.
I am his.
I am his when he uses restraints to secure my arms and legs.
I am his when he sticks a ball gag in my mouth, when he blindfolds me.
I am his when he feasts on my hole, his lips and tongue warming me up for something bigger, stronger, rougher.
I am his when he spanks me, hitting my ass with a paddle that will no doubt leave a mark.
His mark.
I am his when he tenderly kisses the marks, the bruises, the welts. When he whispers the sweetest, filthiest praises in my ears, telling me how good I’m being, how obedient, even as he pinches my nipples so hard tears spring to my eyes because it is so good.
My blindfold falls off and neither of us cares. I want to watch him claim me, use me.
Others gather to watch, and Nick slicks his cock with lube and pushes inside me, filling me, stretching me.
I am his to break open and to put back together again.
His to fill.
His to use.
No part of me is self-conscious of being watched. In fact, I think it turns me on even more.
There is something powerful about being fucked like this, with others watching. They’re bearing witness to us, to the power exchanged between Nick and me. And it is good.
So fucking good.
Nick’s hands are tight on my hips, my ass, as he plunges into me, fucking me harder than he’s fucked me before.
I gasp and whimper and moan as he grips my throat, pulling me towards him, arching my back until I ache.
He kisses me, hungrily, spitting in my mouth and telling me how fucking perfect I am.
I cry for how good it is, how much it hurts, how much I want it.
He kisses my tears. “You like this, baby, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I manage to whimper. Because I do, oh, I do. I like it so much.
“You just like being used,” he croons. “My perfect little toy.”
And I could cry more because of how right it is and how good it feels for someone to get it finally. To be understood like this, to be known like this.
Nick knows me, gets me, sees me, and he wants me. He sees all that I am, and all that I want, and he can give it to me. He wants to give it to me.
“I’m so fucking close to breeding you,” he says.
“Fuck,” one of our onlookers says. The same naked man who admired us in the locker room. He strokes his cock frantically, and then stiffens as his orgasm overtakes him. Another man drops to his knees, takes the first man’s cock in his mouth, and swallows his cum.
“Fuck yeah,” Nick continues, speaking to our onlookers. “You wanna see me cum in his ass?”
Obviously, they all do.
As they should!
He grunts as he holds my hips, thrusting deep and hard, and then—fuck—his body goes rigid against mine, he wraps a thick, muscled arm around me, pinning me close to him, and buries his massive cock all the way inside of me.
I cry out in pain and pleasure as he fills me, pumping me full of his cum. My own orgasm is only breaths away. Though I can’t touch my cock because of the restraints on my hands, I’m impossibly hard.
Nick pulls out, and I suddenly feel terribly empty. I want him back inside me, want him to fill me, to stay there forever, though I know it isn’t possible.
His cum drips out of me as he undoes my restraints, flips me onto my back, and seizes my legs, bending them back.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moans, and then he bites the inside of my thigh—just hard enough to make me suck in a gasp of air. The pressure of his teeth on my skin sends energy and arousal coursing through me, electrifying me.
“So fucking perfect,” he repeats.
He kisses from the mark of his teeth down to my ass, where he licks my hole, lapping up the cum, the lube, the spit that drips from me.
“I love it when you taste like me,” he says.
I am beyond speechlessness.
I would not be able to say anything coherent even if I wanted to. The only things that come from my mouth are moans of ecstasy and pleasure, gasps of pain and arousal and desire, and incoherent babbling about how good—how good—oh, how fucking good this is.
He dips one, two, three fingers inside of me, massaging the inside of my hole, so well-lubricated by his cum. His fingers curl, stretching me out again, and he hits the spot of my pleasure inside me.
“Fuck, Nick,” I manage to gasp. “That feels so fucking good.”
He slips his fingers out of me. They are positively dripping with his cum. He brings them to my mouth, pushes them past my lips, and I suck them, tasting him, tasting myself.
“I never want this to end,” he murmurs, and then draws his fingers from my mouth and kisses me, full and hard, on the lips.
“Never,” he adds, and then his tongue slips into my mouth.
I am nearly spent with exhaustion and desire. My hole throbs, the marks and welts on my body smart and sting, my muscles ache, and I couldn’t be fucking happier.
Nick’s weight on top of me is heavy, sweaty, powerful, and when he commands me to “Cum for me, baby,” I do.
I am a broken dam, I am a thread unspooled, a flower unfurled. A wave cresting and a cloud bursting. I am an angel falling and a saint reborn. I am pleasure and pain and all-consuming satisfaction as I erupt, cum shooting from my cock, covering my chest and my stomach and my face.
I am limp, weak, spent, and exhausted beneath Nick as he kisses me, licks me clean, tenderly touches the bruises and marks on my body, marks he left with my joyful consent.
We are the center of attention, but we might as well be the only two in the dungeon.
Though sex goes on around us, the sound of kinks being negotiated over there, the sound of toys being selected over here, of flesh slapping flesh over there, I hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing, except for Nick.
“You,” he whispers, as he holds me on that bed against one wall of the dungeon, “are perfect. Have I told you that?”
I squirm a bit. “I’m not, though.”
Because I’m not. There’s so much of me that isn’t right, that isn’t perfect. I’ve got things about me that are broken, that can’t be fixed. And believe me, I would know, because I’ve tried to fix them.
He pulls me closer, wrapping me in his strong arms, caging me to him.
“Maybe not objectively perfect,” he admits, “because none of us are. But I still think you’re perfect. And if that means I have blind spots, or if that means I’m biased, I don’t give a shit. You’re perfect to me, and perfect for me, and that’s enough.”
The sound of simultaneous orgasms from the other side of the dungeon (two men double penetrating a handsome, hairy stud in a pup mask) brings me fully back to the moment.
I kiss Nick and say the first thing that comes to mind: “I think it’s time that I look at getting my own place.”