ashcub

Just wondered if anyone else here is familiar with that name? He published a series of books collecting letters from gay men describing their sexual adventures, which were not only fascinating, hilarious and enlightening, but extremely fucking hot. I think there’s a strong case for making him the patron saint of this website. [think before following links] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boyd_McDonald_(pornographer)

(to the moderators: I just realised I have run foul of the edict against mentioning chems, my apologies. Could this post please be moved to the appropriate sub-forum?)

So as the poppers rush overcame us both and we basically dived into each other, as one does, in the back of my mind I’m freaking out. What the hell am I doing, I don’t know this guy from Adam and he basically has a flick-knife out in the open by the bed. Yes, I could freak out and end the scene and kick him out, or at least try to. But then I have no way of knowing which way the scene will go. He could just pull the knife on me and at best take all my stuff (my work laptop, a brand new VR headset, my passport, my cards, my cash), at worst … well, at worst I wouldn’t make it out of here alive. At the same time he is so incredibly hot, we’ve got so intimate and close in such a short time, and there’s no way I’m not seeing this through and getting properly fucked. Maybe it was the poppers and 420 talking but at this point I just decided I was going to trust him, trust my instincts (and my raging hormones), but keep my wits about me. Like, maybe don’t accept a drink from him, don’t go to sleep while he’s here. The Brad Pitt scene from Thelma and Louise suddenly came to mind. Of course I had to acknowledge the knife somehow. To not do so would let on that I was afraid, and I sensed that showing fear would be unwise. In the meantime, the escalating logic of the poppers had led us to finally shed our boxer shorts and get into some proper mouth-on-cock action, so I figured I might as well just double down on the poppers and keep him distracted from any thoughts of nefarious activities. When two people are so in sync with each other through sex, there’s this weird telepathy thing that happens, as all these thoughts are rushing through my mind I realise that he’s totally aware, somehow, of what I’m thinking, almost like he’s testing me to see how I’ll react. And so I’m like, fine, you want to play, let’s play. As I’m sucking him he starts getting more controlling, holding my head, moving it up and down on his cock, starting to use words like “cocksucker”, basically getting into a dom/sub headspace. Which is what I want, of course, and the knife sitting on the bedside table just makes it that much more exciting and real. We both know exactly what’s happening and what the stakes are, and we both know this is going to be a special fuck. And all this without a word exchanged. And with that, the night shifted into a different gear. We decided to take a ride to the local sex shop to buy some lube, a dildo, and some cock pills. He told me about a local sauna where the meth heads hung out, and said he’d enjoy showing me around and letting other men fuck me, if that’s what I wanted. I told him I just wanted to get him back to the hotel room, unwrap that dildo, and get to work. As far as I was concerned he was all that I needed. And he agreed. We ended up staying up till 5am, sucking, fucking, talking, him raping the shit out of me with the dildo (he used the knife to open the packaging). I came like a firehose midway through, as did he, but we just kept going. Then at some point he decided that was the end of it, he had a doctors appointment the next morning so he had to sleep, and that was it. We had a cigarette outside on the sidewalk. I told him he should write his life story. He said he didn’t read and write so good. I said maybe he could record some audio and video for me and I could help him transcribe it. Who knows, maybe I’ll manage to get his words on this website some day.

This all happened a couple of weeks ago. A friend (straight) invited me to spend a weekend with him and his family at their place in Tahoe. I flew up from San Francisco to Reno, took an Uber down. En route back to SF, I showed up at Reno airport and was informed that my flight had been cancelled. They confirmed me on a flight leaving the next evening, and invited me to hang out at the airport to see if I could get a standby seat. So I parked myself at the airport McDonalds with a Big Mac Meal and pulled up Growlr as a way to pass the time. And whaddaya know, there was this super hot guy who wanted to play. His profile picture had him wearing a wrap around pair of sunglasses but he looked big, burly and outdoorsy, profile said 6’4” which had my pussy twitching. So I thought Fuck it, take the adventure. Right there and then I booked myself a cheap hotel room in downtown Reno, and hightailed it out of there. Texting with him from the Uber, he said he would finish work around 6 and then would come over to hang out. He asked if I liked 420 (the answer was yes) and could I get some for our meet, as he was broke because he had two daughters in college (this in retrospect was a red flag but at the time I merely raised an eyebrow at this information). I assured him that wouldn’t be a problem, and got my Uber driver to take me via a weed shop downtown. So I checked in (this was around 3pm) and settled in to wait. I was so horny I found it hard to resist playing with myself, getting stoned, hitting my poppers, but somehow I resisted. The hours really dragged by as they do when you’re waiting for a hot time. 6 pm rolled around and no sign of this guy, 6:30, 7, 7:30. I decided he wasn’t coming and rather than be all needy and bitchy about it, to play it cool. At 8pm I sent him a message saying “how’s it going” and then half an hour later got a message apologising, saying he got tied up at work but would make it over at 10pm if that was still OK. I said of course, and he was welcome to stay the night. As I waited and waited I got more and more horny, the more I tried to distract myself with other things, the more horny I became. I cleaned out my hole the best I could (no way to douche), tried to keep from wanking my dripping cock, put on a skimpy pair of running shorts I like to get fucked in. But I was climbing the walls. At 10:30 I had resigned myself to this being a bust, and was about to settle down for the mother of all masturbation sessions, when suddenly PING a text message saying he was downstairs but couldn’t come up because the elevator needed a room key. Hallelujah! So I got dressed in a hurry and went down to meet him. And he didn’t disappoint - he was a huge hulking guy, towering over me, massive barrel belly and huge chest and arms. He was what you’d call a “chub” but incredibly masculine. He was also covered with tattoos, all the way up his neck and even on his face, including a teardrop tattoo under his left eye (red flag number two, but I was so horny at this point I didn’t care), which wasn’t obvious from his profile picture. The tattoos had excited the attention of the hotel security guard, who insisted on riding up with us, giving us full side-eye. Up in the room the guy (I’ll call him Dave) apologised for being late, explaining that he was a professional poker player and he had to keep playing until he made enough money to pay his rent check that was due tomorrow (this was red flag number three, in retrospect). He thanked me profusely for my generosity in buying the weed, and we both hit the vape (which had been in a ziplocked plastic pouch) while chatting and getting to know each other. He was so masculine, blue-collar, polite, gentle, and “straight”-seeming that I almost felt awkward in inviting him to make himself at home and get more comfortable. I sensed somehow that it was better to let him take the lead despite my eagerness, after waiting all day, to get the show on the road. I asked him what he had in mind for our time together and he said something like, let’s just hang out on the bed and get to know each other a little bit, see where it takes us. At this he finally grinned at me and pulled me into an embrace. Although he was much bigger than me, and was clearly going to be the top in our play, there was something trusting and childlike about him, as if he needed instruction. He towered over me, I was like a child’s toy in his arms as we kissed, at first tentatively, then with more and more passion. As we kissed I realised that he was missing a couple of front teeth (red flag number four), which he was embarrassed about, saying he didn’t have enough money yet to get them fixed. You know how sometimes when the energy is just right between two people, you overlook a few flaws. He said that he was two years sober after a bad addiction to meth and alcohol, and this was the aftermath. As I had had my own (albeit much less serious) dalliance with said substance, I wasn’t in any position to judge, and in fact I congratulated him on having the strength to pull himself out of such a strong addiction. As we kissed more deeply you could feel how we both began to relax physically after the tension of the day. He patted the bed and we both sank down onto it, still fully dressed except for having taken our shoes off, and had a make out session that can only be described as “epic”. Pausing only to hit the vape now and then, we kissed, cuddled, and talked. Well, he talked and I listened. Once he realised I wasn’t going to be judgemental, the floodgates opened and he told me story after story of his life. And this was (to me) a fascinating life - starting with stealing from slot machines as a wayward teenager, into drugs, gangs, jail, working as a trucker, supplementing with poker, travelling across the country, marrying a woman, having two daughters, discovering his bisexual nature, divorce, and now his life as a professional poker player. At some point during this session things started to heat up, we gradually shed clothes, our hands and mouths travelling across each others bodies, finding our mutual language. Almost the whole of his upper body and arms were covered in tattoos, and he took time to explain the significance of each one. The whole scene was incredibly relaxed, none of the usual frenetic rush to get into the sex. But the more he opened up about his life, the more the barriers between us seemed to disappear, and the more intimate we became. At some point (we were now down to our boxer shorts, both of us hard and dripping underneath, but by tacit agreement keeping them on for now) I asked him if he would like to try some poppers. I had a fresh bottle I’d picked up in LA, an incredibly powerful concoction called “Jizz Juice” that knocked one sideways. Sure, he said. So I reached across to the bedside table to get them out. I took a deep double hit, and enjoyed the rush as I watched him hit them as well (the sexiest thing about poppers). He handed me back the bottle and I screwed the lid back on and reached across to set them back down on the bedside table. And as I did so I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before: a large blue flick-knife.

Chapter 6 We're down in some kind of store room or cell. There's metal pipes all around us, the hum of a boiler close by. I don't know where this basement is, because the two policemen frogmarched me out of that hotel with a bag over my head, drove me here in what I guess was their police car, frogmarched me in, walking down stairs and going through sets of fire doors, down to the basement of what must be a police... station? Now it's just them and me. M has disappeared, most likely counting his loot. I don't know what's going on. I can't see what's happening in the room because my head's upside down, clamped in place by what seems to be some kind of huge vice. I can't turn my head. I try to lift my head, and find that I can't do that either, thanks to the cable tie that bites into my neck and chokes me. My jaws are wrenched wide open by some kind of spider gag, which is pinching my lips painfully at the corners. My body's tightly strapped down to some kind of bench, with wide straps of some kind. My wrists are cable-tied to a metal frame down by my side, my elbows strapped down, my shoulders. My legs are open wide, pushed up so my lower legs are pointing vertically upwards, and then cable-tied tightly to an upright post. If I try to move a muscle, the plastic digs into my skin and it hurts, and the pain still sends waves of pleasure through me. If I struggle, though, I'm going to have permanent marks on me. "I bet you think M's been treating you rough," says the older constable, pacing around me, inspecting my bondage. "But I don't think you're ready for the kind of things we like." I feel a sudden zap of pain, a sharp, buzzing pain, in my left thigh. Something electric. I scream and try and twist away, but I'm held fast down. All that happens is all the cable ties bite into my skin and it hurts even more. "Ah, poor diddums, didn't like that did you," he snarls in a mocking sing-song. "That was the lowest setting. Want to try a higher one?" I'm crying, pleading for him to stop. But no proper words come out through the gag. "Yeah, I think we should try a higher setting," I hear the voice of the other policeman. I can hear the older policeman walking around to my arse. Then I feel cold metal press against my inner thighs, slide up towards my hole. "Maybe I'll give him a little zap up his arse, see how he likes that," the older policeman says. The metal tip presses into my battered hole, and slides in half an inch. I'm trying with all my strength to jerk away from it, but it's no use, I can't move an inch, I'm firmly tied down, and I'm tied to a rigid wooden bench. There's no sling to swing out of the way. I'm still gurgling and pleading and crying, still thinking there's something I can do to make him stop. "Sing all you want," he says, "there's nobody to hear you, and nobody would give a shit anyway." Then there's a huge flash that seems to run all through me, that same buzz-saw pain but much stronger this time, coming from the metal cock at the core of my body. I scream like a child. All my muscles tense rigid, the cable ties cut into me even harder. Confusingly, this sets off another tidal wave of tingly pleasure through my body. The meth is still doing its business. "Mmmm. That screaming gets me rock hard," I hear the other policeman's voice coming closer. Then his fat slimy cock head is pushing its way through the opening in my spider gag, and almost immediately my nose gets pushed into his balls, and there's no air. I try to breathe around the cock head and that works for a couple of seconds, until his cock head pushes further into my throat. Now my air is really cut off. Now I'm not a stranger to breath control. But when I've done it with M, he's always been cautious, gentle, tentative, always done it with ceremony, checking that I'm ready, and never cutting off my air for more than ten seconds or so. To be honest I kind of wanted him to go harder, do it for longer. Careful what you wish for. This man apparently either doesn't care if I pass out, or he's too busy enjoying the feeling of my cock muscles milking his throat to even realise that I'm about to pass out. I'm full-on panicking, every muscle in my body struggling to get free, to move away, to get air. But he just keeps pushing deeper and deeper into my throat, all the way in, then halfway out, again and again, in a slow, almost lazy rhythm. I can hear his moans above me. Fuck. Yeah. I come to some time later, I'm not sure if it's been minutes or days. There's no way to know. I'm still tied down to the bench, my head is still fixed back. I'm being fucked, I can't tell by who. There's no pain, at least, just soreness from the cable ties. I hear a door creak, a new male voice saying "ah so this is where the party is". Another zipper coming down, another cock head pushing at the opening of the gag.

Chapter 5 "Let me explain something to you, son," says the older and larger of the two cops. He's stripped down to a white T-shirt now, a tuft of hair peeking out above the neck. For some reason I focus on this detail. He nods over towards the dresser and the plastic baggie. "That there, you're looking at ten years in Wakefield, any time we say" he said. "Cute little boys like you are popular in there." As he says this he brings his face up close to mine for emphasis. "You think your arse is hurting now? Two weeks in there and you'll be shitting through a tube for the rest of your life, you understand?" Through the gas mask I make eye contact with him, and see no compassion there, only disgust and contempt, drilling down into my soul. There's nothing to breathe but poppers, poppers so strong that I can see a huge dark yellow spot in the center of my vision, pulsing and drawing me towards it like I'm moving through a tunnel. He flexes his fist and punches it forward. My insides squeeze around it, my arse lips clamp down on his thick hairy wrist. I can't help it, my body writhes like a thing possessed, I'm trying to relax but there's no way, not with this information coming at me. My entire fucking life is about to be over. The burn from the booty bump he gave me a few seconds ago is still strong, but starting to give way to a deeper, spreading warmth in my guts. I have no idea how strong it was, but if the electricity starting to course through my nervous system is anything to go by, it's a lot stronger than that first slam. But it's coming on slow, slow, slow, like it's teasing me. I'm praying for it to come on faster, and sweep me away from this hell. "So what that means, son," he says, punching in and pulling out for emphasis, "is that we fucking own you now." He starts a slow, deliberate fist fuck, rotating slowly, opening and closing his fist to work my arse harder. It's not getting any easier - when you're getting fisted you're supposed to be completely relaxed. A good fister will take their time, calming you down and waiting until you're ready for each further penetration. But this isn't fisting as a loving, intimate act. This is fisting as pure domination, pure punishment, to show me he's the boss. And it hurts. "Any time we call you, you drop what you're doing, you go where you're told and you do what you're told, no questions." he says. His forearm forces its way deeper into me, then slowly out to the wrist again. "You serve us, and whoever else we tell you to. However they want to use you, however long they want, no limits, no stop words. You understand?" I look into his eyes dumbly. "I said, do you understand?" he reaches forward and grabs me by the throat, squeezing so hard my eyes almost pop out of my head. As I struggle for air, pleading silently for him to let me live, for this to be over, he punches his fist even deeper into me, even harder. He must be up to the elbow by now. The sudden, intense pain causes ripples of even more intense electric pleasure to surge through me, stronger and stronger. "Do. You. Understand" he says in almost a whisper, his face right up against the gas mask, his eyes boring into me. Looking deep into his implacable eyes, I finally understand what he wants from me. I can feel the human part of my mind starting to slip away as the booty bump starts to reveal its true power. Slowly, never breaking eye contact, I nod. This is the contract. I am now just an animal. These men are my new owners. Now if only they would just let me breathe...

Chapter 4 At this point it dawns on me that I'm in what might be described as a bit of a pickle. High as a kite, tied up, cuffed, and suspended from a sling in a room at a Travelodge, which presumably isn't entirely unfamiliar with such activities. The bed strewn with all manner of sexual paraphernalia. Not exactly the image of the upstanding citizen that I've been cultivating. The real issue, though, is the plastic baggie on the dresser containing ten grams of methamphetamine crystals. A stupid, ridiculous, unnecessary amount. What we're doing now, sharing drugs, counts as supply: easily enough to put us both in prison for a life-fucking amount of time. This was not part of the plan for this evening's entertainment. More knocking, a baritone "Police. Open the door please sir." We are so fucked. M freezes, then raises his fingers to his lips: keep quiet. Then he's gone, moving towards the dresser and the door. I try to twist my body round so I can see what's happening, but that just makes the sling clank loudly, so I give up and just stare at the ceiling. I hear the toilet flushing and pray it's M getting rid of the drugs. The door cracks open and light from the hallway floods into our dark little hobbit-hole. I hear M's voice, low almost to the point of whispering, and the deeper voice of the interloper. But I can't make out the words. Then there are two uniformed police constables standing above me. Big guys, maybe in their forties. Looking down at me with expressions of amused disgust. "You're under arrest for the possession and supply of class A drugs," says the bigger one. And some legalese about anything you say in a court of law or whatever it is, I know the words but right now they're not sinking in. "He's off his face," I hear M's voice behind them and then he is standing next to them. "But feel free to give him some more." "Nice easy score, thanks very much," says the first copper. He bends down close to me, so I can smell his breath. "Dirty little bumboy," he half-whispers, half grunts. "Think you can wander around doing whatever you like and get away with it." I hear the sound of a zipper. "You're about to get a lesson, boy," he pants, grabbing my throat and forcing my head back. He jams his fingers into my mouth and forces it open. I moan in protest but all I get is a slap for my trouble - a hard slap that makes me see stars, and sends a rush of panic and pleasure down my whole body. That was no love-tap, the way M slaps me when he fucks me. He means business. Then his blunt, smelly, spongy cock head is pushing into my mouth. He pushes into my throat so fast I don't have time to get away. His fat shaft fills my throat, pushing my nose into his hairy balls. I try and breathe in but there's no air. Instinctively I struggle and squirm to try and get free, to be able to breathe again. But he's holding my throat in a vice like grip, squeezing down tight and fucking into my throat. I panic and buck even harder, fighting for air. But there's no quarter. I can feel blackness rising around me. Suddenly he pulls out, looking down contemptuously as I gasp to fill my lungs. "Want some air, do you boy," he snarls. "Too bad." The poppers-soaked towel is held down on my nose and mouth again. And with that he plunges in deep again, this time choking me even harder, balls deep and then all the way out, I'm just about managing to gasp in a bit of air now and then, but I'm gagging and retching with how deep his cock is going down my throat. I'm panicking again as I run out of air, but he just keeps fucking into my throat, grunting things like "fucking take it". I can feel the other constable move between my outstretched legs and grab my thighs. The sound of a zipper again and now I can feel a cock head at my arse, pushing insistently at my arse lips. "Buckle up son, it's going to be a long weekend."

Chapter 3 Today is to be my first attempt at a new dildo, the Atlas XL, a totally different beast to the black mamba. The Atlas is a Popeye cartoon of a rubber cock, thin at the root, then widened to its fattest near the center of the shaft, then tapered down to the blunt head. The widest part is too wide for me to get my hand around. There's more than an inch between my fingertip and my thumb. That's an inch more than the black mamba. M and I looked at it together online and agreed it was ideal for my next challenge; and a week later, here it is. But it's much too big for me to take sober. To take this new dildo, I'm going to need a slam. There's this whole ritual of kettles and spoons and cotton buds and straps and alcohol wipes and cushions and "clench your fist". That's M's department. I just focus in on his eyes, do what I'm told, and try and ignore everything else. The messing about goes on forever, and I'm terrified the whole time, fighting to keep myself calm, concentrating on my breathing. The needle gets stuck once, didn't work, twice, didn't work. I have difficult veins, apparently. Didn't drink enough water or something. Like nine or ten jabs before finally "ok it's in" and he lets me look down and the plunger is in, point three grams of crystal methamphetamine now in my bloodstream. He pulls out the needle and we lock eyes, silently saying "see you on the other side". I slap on the plaster, lift my arm up, make my peace with the world I'm about to leave behind. Buckle up. Close my eyes. Because sidling up on me now, nice and slow: here it comes. The first prickles are like distant trumpets over the horizon, outriders heralding a stampede towards me, little waves of butterflies in my stomach, flickering across my skin, growing. Here it comes. The room shivers, snaps into three dimensions, like I've been living in a comic book up until this moment. Then, shockingly quickly, I'm accelerating up towards the ceiling. And the ceiling is accelerating with me, and the floor and the walls and the door and the windows. The room is a spaceship powered by this river of electricity coursing through me, pure humming pleasure, smooth as a limousine. Somewhere far away, M is slamming himself, and then he is up here with me. We have just this one moment, this one last chance, to act out our most secret and terrible desires, confess our deepest, most shameful secrets. All the time in the world. But we're in a waterfall and we're being swept away. And M is cuffing my wrists together behind my back again and then there's a wad of cloth in my mouth, "keep your mouth closed" and then he's wrapping gaffer tape around my face. The brakes are off. I breathe, I go under, I see light, I hit the bottom, I tumble, I swim, I float, I sink again, I struggle, but eventually: I submit. I feel the impossibly wide head of the Atlas pressing up against my hole. There is no way I can take this. Too bad. It's coming in. I don't understand, is my last coherent thought as I look up at his wrinkly, pouchy face, his gaze intent on my hole. And then I lose myself in him. From this point on, everything feels pre-ordained, like the most natural thing it could possibly be, no words required, no thought. His aggression rises gradually but inexorably, and my appetite rises to meet it. When the Atlas goes in all the way, I want more. When his fist goes in, I want more. When he alligator-clips my nipples, I scream and cry but I want more. When he tortures my cock and balls, when he spits on me and slaps me, the pain turns into waves of pleasure rushing through me, and I want more. When he feeds me more GHB, more poppers: I want more. When he chokes me or clamps my nose shut until I'm about to black out: more. Even when the G overcomes me and I wake up, unmoored from time, to find his cock exploring my throat, I want more. And then there's a knock on the door.

Chapter 2 This is the one we call the "black mamba" - about nine inches long, and thick enough to hurt if you aren't experienced. I first mastered it successfully about three months ago, after almost six months of trying. Now it's my starter dildo. M lubes it up and places it on my belly while he works his lubed fingers up my arse. He likes to use only the smallest amount of lube possible. M then walks over to the bed and picks up the dildo harness, steps into it, tightens it up, and spends a while fixing the black mamba into position. He takes his sweet time. My eyes are swivelling as the drugs accelerate. By the time he's ready, I'm almost screaming for him. He takes up his position between my legs and teases my wet hole with the blunt end of the dildo. He takes a roll of toilet paper and slowly makes a wad of it. Then he soaks some poppers into it. "This is what you want isn't it," he says, and holds the wad of poppers-soaked paper over my mouth and nose. He's rough, the fumes are way too intense, I can feel the chemical burn on my skin. I yelp and try to jerk my head away, but he's way too strong for me. He likes to hold me down and force me to take whatever he decides to give me. "I'm going to hold this here until you stop fighting." It's no good, I can't hold my breath, I'm forced to just breathe in the fumes until I'm flying high as a kite. "Relax. Or this is going to hurt," he says keeping the poppers pressed over my face as he slowly works the dildo into me. The pressure increases until the bulbous head breaks through my arse lips and I buck with the sharp pain. He pauses for a second and barks "relax!". I try, but it hurts, and I cry out as he pushes it further in. "You took this easily last time," he grumbles. He keeps pushing. He looks like a kindly old man but there's no mercy from him. He isn't one of those considerate types who hold still waiting for you to "get used to it". He just keeps pushing it slowly further and further into me. He is in control of my body, there's nothing I can do to get away. I know I'll just have to take it. But I can't do it, I can't relax. Then I realise ... this is what I wanted. All those weeks and days and hours of waiting, this is what I was waiting for. And now I'm getting it. So then I just stop fighting. I close my eyes and relax into the intense pressure. The fat dildo just keeps stretching my insides wide open, deeper, deeper, and I breathe in the poppers, and I let it in. "That's better," he says looking down intently at my stretched hole. At some point the tip hits something deep and tight, and I tense up and cry out in pain again, but again he just barks "relax!". I try to explain that it hurts, but the gag muffles me. He slaps me roughly on the face, "shhh". He keeps pushing. Eventually he settles for a slow, shallow fucking rhythm. He lets my insides rest for a while, and the pain eases and I relax a bit. Then he suddenly rams it deeper again without warning, I cry and tense up in pain, he barks at me and slaps me. "Quiet. We'll have security knocking down the door." Then we repeat the cycle all over again. Gradually I get used to the intensity of the sensations. Eventually I'm open, enough so he can ream the black mamba all the way in and out without pause. I still feel the intense pressure but no pain, I'm used to it now. It's part of being fucked. It always takes work like this to get opened up. It isn't "fun" at all. But once I'm open and taking that dildo easily, M pats my head and says "good boy", and I feel stupidly proud of myself. I don't understand why I keep wanting to be subjected to this torture, the pleasure is intense but so is the pain and suffering. I also don't understand why M keeps typing stuff into his phone the whole time. At least, I don't figure it out until later.

For Micky, wherever he may be... Chapter 1 I knock on the door of room 230 as instructed and M lets me in. "Get in here then, we haven't got all day". M is naked already, wearing his leather chest harness. Businesslike, wanting to start the lesson. If you saw us on the street together you'd peg him as my grandfather - white hair and beard, totally bald on top, weather-beaten face with droopy eyelids and bags under his eyes, super fat and sagging everywhere, short stubby cock. But you can tell he used to be something when he was younger, he still has a bull neck, hairy chest, massive shoulders and huge hairy forearms like Popeye. I mean his wrists are like beercans. The sling is set up by the bed. On the bed are laid out the dildos, the gags, the cuffs, the rope, the gaffer tape. The usual. On the dresser are the drugs. A fresh bottle of poppers. A baggie of weed and some rolling papers. Some blue viagra pills. A plastic bottle of liquid GHB, and a dropper to measure it out with. Another plastic baggie of pinkish powder, ecstasy. Next to them, a baggie of meth crystals, a loaded pipe, and four loaded syringes. "Right, get 'em off and come here," grunts M. I undress and stand naked in front of him. "Take two of those imodium and a viagra." I obey. He leads me into the bathroom. He brings the meth pipe, takes a deep hit, then he puts the rubber tube in my mouth and warms the bowl with his lighter. "Suck." Then directs me to blow the smoke into the extractor on the ceiling. I feel the familiar butterflies in my stomach, the outside world disappearing from my mind. He pushes me up against the wall. "Arse out", he commands. Then he roughly pushes an enema tube up my arse. He forces in water, tells me to push it out into the toilet, repeats the cycle until the water runs clear. Then he showers me down, towels me off and marches me back out to the sling. "Time for some drugs". First is some ecstasy. M tips some of the powder into a couple of shreds of paper, and we down one each. I have no idea how much he's given me - I used to obsess over that stuff, now I just leave it up to him. Next is some GHB. "I want you more out of it than last time," he grunts. He measures it out with a dropper, two mil each, dissolved in a mouthful of ginger ale. That's more than I've ever taken before. The salty taste is strong, I know I will feel it soon. Then he lights a joint and feeds it to me until my head is spinning. Then it's time to get in the sling. He spends ages adjusting the sling so my arse is presented to him at just the right height and angle. He straps my ankles wide apart, winds straps around my knees to pull them back so I can relax my legs. Once he's satisfied, he cinches more leather straps tight across my waist and chest and around my upper arms, then clips my collar to the sling so I can't move my head. Then he brings out the handcuffs. These aren't toys - they're proper heavy duty police-issue handcuffs, from an auction. He reaches under the sling and cuffs my wrists together with a metallic rasp that marks the start of the lesson. "Try and get out of that." I wriggle but I'm locked in tight. He examines his handiwork. "yep, not going anywhere, are you." He selects a cock gag, pushes it into my mouth, then stands behind me and straps it tightly around my head. The rubber cock pushes down towards my throat. I gag. Too late to complain now. No question of any "safe word". Then he makes me wait while he gets all his porn running. Which means an age of messing about getting the wifi working and logging in and finding the right video and making sure there's a screen wherever he looks. While I hang there drooling, trussed up like a chicken. M then sits down on a stool between my wide-spread legs and gets out the shaving kit. He lathers and shaves my pubes, cock, balls and arse, slowly and patiently until I'm his little boy. By the time he's done I can feel the drugs starting to kick in. Cold fire ignites beneath my skin. The air between us twitches and swirls. Red and blue fringes on the ceiling lights. The room is silent except for our breathing, the grunts from the porn videos, and the hum of the aircon. He ties a shoelace around my hard cock, winding it around my balls. It takes him a while as he gets it wrong, unwinds and starts again, muttering to himself. It hurts, it's too tight. He likes to torture my cock and balls as he stretches my hole. Somehow, M has become the center of my universe.

Had been trying to get fisted for years, never quite got there, except once during my last slam more than 18 months ago. But in my mind that didn't count - it felt like nothing, just wham bam and on to the next thing. After the ending of my most recent fuck-buddy relationship, I was ready to turn the page and try something new. As luck would have it, I met a very responsive fisting master on Recon, and that was really all that was on the agenda - taking my first fist. He was just my type - a hot daddy 10 years older than me, gray balding hair and beard. Smoked a joint (technically chems, but very mild), hopped in the sling, grabbed some fresh poppers, and off we went. He took his time, opened me up nice and slowly (the last time I'd been properly penetrated was more than a year ago), and wow did he know what he was doing. It wasn't more than an hour in to our session that he managed to get his fist fully inside me, while I alternated between my eyes rolling into the back of my head, and coming back to the most intense eye contact. As advertised, a feeling like no other - amazing connection and intimacy, just the hottest thing. I'm hooked. An hour later his boyfriend (a super hot tattooed bloke) turned up and then, after a cup of tea and another joint, he went to town on me as well. It was like Christmas - these two super hot daddies taking turns opening me up with their fists and the smallest of their dildo collection (which was still of a pretty decent girth). Poppers in a gas mask, stoned out of my gourd, I was in pig heaven. They even had mirrors up so I could see their fists as they pushed into me. Literally blasted me into outer space. To round things off, the boyfriend turned out to be versatile, and had 20 years of experience taking fists - he took his place in the sling and they gave me a masterclass in fisting, going in all the way up to the elbow, spreading his arse with both hands, sending him to the moon. It was honestly the hottest experience I've had so far. I will definitely see them again as soon as my arse heals up. The best bonus - I'm no longer sad about the ending of my previous fuck buddy connection. It was good when it was good, but there's more and better in the future.

Feeling very pleased with myself for having achieved my first load of the summer (the last load proper was all the way back in October last year!). Having come off the bench and attended not one but two Recon-sponsored events in London last week (lots of fun darkroom action but no actual loads, just yet) I decided to explore this whole “sex on the premises” concept in a bit more detail and head down to Vault139 in central London. I popped in at 6pm, just before nude night started at 7, all PrEPped, douched and cialis/imodium-d up (“be prepared” as recommended by the Boy Scouts), stripped down to my new gray “pig” jockstrap, cinched my cock ring tight, grabbed my poppers bottle, stuffed my credit card down my sock, and handed in all my effects to be stored in a box behind the counter. Then I went for a quick recce (my first time). No sooner had my eyes adjusted to the darkness than I saw my quarry for the evening - thickset, masculine, balding, tattooed (swoon), wearing a wifebeater, a metal chain around his neck (yes please) and a jockstrap, sitting on the bench massaging a cock that was juicy, pulsing, thick, dripping and meaty in a way that got my cock leaking in sympathy. So, dear reader, I sat down next to him, we both huffed on our respective bottles of poppers, exchanged glances that turned into meaningful stares, squeezing and stroking ourselves slowly but surely towards a peak. Sensing that it was time to take the initiative, I knelt in front of him, keeping my eyes locked on his, we both huffed on our poppers in unison, and I slowly bent down towards his shiny leaking cock head as he squeezed it and offered it up to me, and (as slowly and delicately as I could) took just his cock lips between my lips. Receiving the all clear, as it were, I slowly moved forward until my lips had engulfed his pulsing knob head, at which point I was rewarded with a forced dose of his poppers - a different vibe to mine but no less effective. This was an immensely satisfying cock - thick enough to stretch my lips wide, and long enough to make me fight my gag reflex, but not too much to master after a few slow tries. I closed my eyes and shut out the entire rest of the universe in order to concentrate purely on communicating with this perfect COCK as we found a slow, sensual rhythm, down to the root each time and then out until my lips touched only the tip, the perfect balance between active cock worship, and being used like the receptacle I am. The tempo never changed - we just settled into this slow, methodical, leisurely deep throating. I’m sure we had an audience but nothing else mattered - I was totally lost in this mystical experience. It seemed to go on forever (in actual fact about 15 minutes) but gradually I became aware of his moans of “fuck” and “oh yeah” and then suddenly he gripped my head, pushed my right down, and flooded my mouth and throat. And that was it, other than him patting my head as he got up to leave, we smiled at each other and I quipped “see you next week”. In actual fact I’ll be there tomorrow and I hope he will too.

Maybe it was a polite way of telling you you’ve got bad breath 😂