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Owned and Trained by Mr. X

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Prelude
At eighteen, I got a full summer scholarship to a large theatre company in San Francisco. It was the nineties, and like previous decades, San Francisco remained—undaunted—party central for gays. I hadn't been out long, a few drunk occasions of mutual jacking with my best friend, Perry, in our senior year, admitting to ourselves we were probably gay—"no shit, me too"—and that was that. Right after graduation Perry was off to summer in San Diego. I headed north.

During my first few weeks, after renting a small studio in an okay section in the Haight—view of a garage, but a private entrance around the side and in back—I found sex, at least of the vanilla kind, not too hard to come by. Especially available, in those early weeks, were the boys in my classes—a Midwest cowboy, a southern good'ol boy, an innocent Napa crunchy granola type who pined for the San Francisco of free love not just free sex, and, rounding out my list of first attempts, a New York anarchist who's out-and-out-loud-ness wanted to outrage his commie parents. I was much like any of them, my own walking cliché: So Cal beach boy, stoned blue eyes, shaggy blond hair constantly in my face. After Friday's fight class, in the downstairs showers, it was a turn on to show off my contrasting sun-tipped mop with my dark pits and pubes, my sinewy runner's legs, and my butt tat received at the height of Perry's and my bonding before we split. We got identical dreamcatcher tats, mine on my right cheek, his on the left, the weekend we went to check out UC San Diego right before graduation. 

Next to the stage, showers were my favorite venue. I was smooth everywhere except for the usual places, but also had a patch of fur above my butt crack. Not very tall for a runner, so not an outstanding runner. Strangely, though, I have big feet, so I was always off to a fast start, just not very long legs to beat my competitors. I was good in a dash, but sucked long distance. Checking in a five-seven, in contrast to big feet, I'm not much in the way of dick size, never ashamed but nothing to write home about; a pretty average six and a half, actually, if you must know; circumcised, of course. I was confident enough in my appearance to come on to four schoolmates and bag two of the prettier ones to follow me to my back alley studio. I played up the 'back alley' part, even though I might have been playing someone way above my weight class compared to the hard core men I gawked at all over town—the pierced and severly inked, the collared and cuffed, the 'roided and kilted, the preening suits and the luring leathered. Still, beautiful bodies did these two pretty boys have. Both lean, smooth, gorgeous mouth-fuckable faces, both with the sweetest treasure trail leading to the softest patches of fur above their otherwise hairless cocks. My very conflicted Montana Mormon cowboy, Carson, who packed a very nice cactus in his jeans, and "I'm not really into guys" rich boy, Conrad Wilson III, elegantly raised in Napa Valley. The most luscious grapes come to mind.

So far I'd only been with each of them once, but planned encores. Besides feeling each other up in the back alley, and, in Conrad Wilson III's not-into-men's case, getting expertly sucked off slouching against a trashcan, it was pretty introductory, getting-to-know-you sex. In bed, I liked teasing their assholes, but they both shied away from coming anywhere near mine. Probably the fur patch at the small of my back indicated, and rightly so, a prelude to heavy swath of butt crack hair, which put them off. I didn't mind. There was enough to enjoy feasting on them. Like I said, I wasn't that much more experienced, though I let on otherwise. But, if I'm going to be honest, and what do I have to lose at this point in not being scrupulously (or unscrupulously) honest, I have to admit a certain let down playing with these semi-virginal boys. Something soft and tentative the sex was, if you can really call it sex—and I did: at this point I had little to compare it to; what I didn't know yet, I didn't know. Yet. Ultimately, I put them in the category of schoolboy crushes, something late at night I imagine done at boarding schools, almost accidental encounters that didn't mean too much the next day. Nothing I'd write to Perry about.

On the other hand.

Between classes I kept noticing the Artistic Director of the company, Alan Riggs, examining me. An older man, maybe in his forties, fifties—I'm not good at this kind of thing—fey and lascivious. No beating around the bush. Crisp-lined goatee, mostly bald with a short-cropped crown of graying brown hair. His office was off the common room where we ate lunch. His office had a glass window that overlooked us. Every so often I'd catch him staring at me. If I passed him in the hall he might have an air of detachment, sometimes a half smile, maybe a sniff as he passed; at other times, he'd brazenly stare, curiosity mixed with a nasty gleem. Hello, I'd say more out of discomfort than a greeting. He'd check himself, murmur a non-committal hello, then saunter down the corridor without further engagement. 
I was guarded when he was around, didn't particularly like him, maybe a bit intimidated by him being the head of the company and all—certainly more than a bit enticed. I knew he had had to approve my scholarship so must have bought into something in my background. I also knew when I was cruised. Being involved in the theater at an early age—a community production of Sound of Music in seventh grade, where, Jerry, the costumer, paid me and my little lederhosen an inordinate amount of attention—I knew my own yearnings and certainly was on the receiving end of older men's expression of it—a take it or leave it glance that could easily become predatory, and just as easily be denied. Riggs' knowing stare inferred more than passing knowledge of my background, my three-page aspirational essay, my handful of credits, my two school drama award and three track awards because, what the hell—his icy stare had a definite dismissive superiority underlining it. I don't know if I'd ever met someone who appeared to know more about me than I would admit, and truth be told, made me feel that way without ever talking to him. I'm hardly dumb, but I confess to the character flaw—when I quite well know better—of acting naive. He cut right through that, was aware of something that perhaps I wasn't, or wasn't ready to face.

At beginning of the third week he stopped me in the hall. He seemed to have the encounter rehearsed. The exchange was terse and intimate at the same time. He said he was Alan Riggs, the company's Artistic Director. In the cramped hallway, standing too close, he explained the company, to which the school was attached, was embarking on a revival of one of their most successful plays this fall, and "it would be of benefit if I were to audition for it." First, though, I'd have to—yes, wait for it—come over to his home for a private interview. We could discuss the part and he would provide dinner. Rosemary chicken, if that was acceptable. He said all this in almost one breath. It didn't sound like an offer; not the interview at his house or what was on the menu—I knew I was on the menu. How duplicitous acting can be. I gushed with excitement, knowing what a crock this was, and immediately agreed. "Good boy," he continued, without skipping a beat, "right after your last class on Friday, which is...what?"

"Fencing," I answered.

"Lovely," he said, "I'm at the top of Lombard Street. I'm sure you know it. Ask Duncan for my address." He turned—message delivered and accepted—and marched back to his office. He added, looking back, arm draped on his door frame, "No need to shower or change. Straight as you are."

***

Our fencing instructor, Duncan McCain, was a burly, likable Irish guy. He had a slight brogue, thick wrists, thick neck, slim waist, and killer thighs. Early thirties, I'd guess, wiry red hair, tied back in a ponytail, large, bushy side burns that ended in severe points. I could easy imagine him in a kilt and a leather vest, which I continually had to stop myself thinking about when I was in class.

Toward the end of our two hours, he marched between the two lines of our paired-off class. He was strict, even brutal to us boys. If you didn't get his choreography correct, he would call you out and dress you down, however, with the girls he was very fawning. This should have made the boys resentful, but there was something that made us, twice a week, desperate to seek his approval. Suffice it to say, he was extremely demanding and the class was equally rewarding. 

The studio was typically humid, especially true when the temperature rose outside as it did today. The windows to the street were open but it didn't help. Atypical of June in the city, it was the hottest it had been since I'd arrived. The mirrors were fogged with sweat, dripping as much as me and each one of my classmates. Carson and Conrad, partnered today, glistened magnificently in the afternoon light. Jeremy was a glorious mess in his rebel flag tank top. Joey, his partner, had rivers of sweat streaming down his face, his black hair matted to his scalp. Joey's brown eyes were fierce at some unspoken violence against his partner, Jeremy, ready to tear him apart in the showers or fuck him in a dead-end locker corner. At four-thirty, with a final salute to our partners, we were dismissed. The class raced to the back stairs to the showers in the basement. 

I picked up my gym bag and headed to the front studio door. I was the last person on the floor, and as I reached the handle I felt a sharp swack on my gym shorts. "Mr. Kennedy," my fight instructor boomed, "next time you come stoned to my class with your beachy, mellow attitude, I'll beat the living crap out of you. I'll not have it. You were careless three times today. I want you on edge, not dull witted." Then to make his point, he barked at me, "En garde!" and threw his blade toward my head. I quickly blocked his thrust, defending myself with a move he'd shown us earlier. When I stopped him, his green eyes brightened, his heavy eyebrows arched. Unexpectedly he lunged his sword straight toward my crotch. I quickly parried, swinging his sword in a full circle. Unfortunately for me, that only increased the momentum of his swing and landed a full, forceful smack on my butt cheek. It stung like a mother fucker! His look took in my shock and outrage. "Yes!" he exploded in triumph, hunching down laughing with his fist to the floor. "That, Kennedy, is the look I want to see on your face!" I said nothing but seethed inside. "Practice more, smoke less," he said, "or it'll be more than a sword that will be whipping yer' buttocks, that I promise you." He strutted his muscular ass over to picked up his gym bag. "Forgot did you? Riggs’s address," he said, fishing through his bag. "And if Riggs gets out of hand. Just in case, mind you." He handed over a note with a Lombard Street address and a packet of condoms. "Not that he takes well to 'em."

I guess I shouldn't have been shocked, but I suddenly realized just how loose the talk within the company must be, how blatant my so called 'private interview' was. Maybe I was the only one that didn't know it. Slipping the address and condoms in my pocket, I tried to appear as cocky as he was. "These supposed to be for me or him?" I hoped I wasn’t blushing.

"That's the spirit! Nice delivery," he teased. He slowly and gently took the flat of his sword tip and tapped me under my balls. I could have easy blocked him, but I saw he was flirting. I'm sure it was obvious, allowing him to smack me like that, what I felt about him. He smiled a wicked grin, and turned to head off to the showers. I immediately felt a flush of jealously of the boys in class. I knew from the last couple of classes there'd be plenty of towel snapping, initiated most likely by Duncan himself.

Hoping to hold him back, I called out inanely, "I will," rubbing the area he smacked, feeling heat emanating from my cheek. As I rubbed, I realized it wasn't just a welt that was rising in my shorts.

"You will, what, Kennedy?" he said without turning.

"I'll practice."

"'...practice, Sir!' you mean."

"Yes, practice, Sir!" I repeated.

As he crossed to the mirror by the staircase, I saw him focused at the sword rising in my shorts. "Yes, you will practice, Kennedy, or after class you'll be stayin'. Now go. The chicken's waitin' to be skewered," he laughed, then broke into a broad, shit-eating grin before trotting down the stairs.
 

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The Pig in Pygmalion (Night 1)
I arrived at the address Riggs had left for me, a triplex at the top of Lombard Street. Tourist's cars lined up at the lip of the street to serpentine their way to the bottom of the hill. I rang the buzzer, a little nervous, still sweating in my tank top and shorts from the fencing class and the uphill walk. Riggs answer wearing white yoga pants and an open Hawaiian shirt revealing a clipped chest of white hair. He was slightly taller than me, maybe three inches, and stood near enough that I could smell fragrant soap. That was bad enough, but thank God he wasn't drenched in cologne or I don't know if I'd have gone in. I spied his shirt pockets hid unusually large nipples. I looked down to avoid staring. It was hard to miss his dick outlining against the thin pant fabric. It was also impossible to ignore the large piss stain ending at his tip. I quickly looked back to his eyes. He could see I was taken aback and smirked. "You can't wear too little in this weather, now can you?" he said, fanning his face, very Southern Bell-like. He shouldered me into the entryway and guided me up the steps to the mid-level of his triplex. 

In the living room, he started shutting blinds on a view of San Francisco the likes I'd only seen in movies. The room was stark white and cool, growing darker with each shade drawn. I was about to sit down on his white sectionals, when he called out, "Oh, dear, don't sit in here. Not with all that boy sweat on you. Just look at that tank top. Here," he demanded, "give that to me. I'll set it to air out in the laundry room. Hopefully it will dry—or not."

He smiled, waiting while I pulled off my top. He was right. I was a sopping mess. Every inch of my top stuck where I pealed it off my skin. His eyes never left me. I felt under the microscope. "Sit your tukhus in the there," he said, pointing to the dining room. As I handed the tank top to him, he put it up to his nose. "Christ, boy! Utterly rank!" he exclaimed, delighted. "I thought you blonds hardly sweat. Come over here. Let me get a smell of you. Oh, now, David." He sadly shook his head. "As your director, you can't pull away before we even start. We have lots of daddy issues to get through, don't we? Yes, yes, I know about you and your family. How daddy cheated on mommy. How conflicted that must make you feel." I felt suddenly more than half-naked before this man. How badly did I want this part? "This is me, David," he said, waving his hand in front of himself. "No filters. It's gotten me this far." He was up close, almost in my face. "If we're going to work together, we're going to have to know each other intimately. But you knew that." He was looking slightly down at me. "Hello," he breathed.

"Hello," I responded, reaching out a hand, trying to make a joke of it. "I'm David Kennedy, from..." 

"Not the Kennedys from Hyannis Port?"

"Hardly. A lost stray from Redondo Beach, California."

I thought I amused him, but he seemed already bored with the banter. "Yes, yes. All that. Leads in all four years at, what is it, Redondo High? Daddy a philanderer, momma dies last year of cancer. Ovarian. Actors don't hide those feeling, David. They use them." 

"Wait, what?" I was taken aback, embarrassed, and a little angry. "I don't know where you get off...what you said isn't on my resume, and sure isn't common knowledge."

"Of course it's not, it's on your face, angel." He started ticking off on his fingers. "Boyhood friend, Perry, at UCSD in the fall, first love, I’d bet. Would love to have seen that. Already bedded two of the students at school, naughty boy." I know I blushed at that. He tousled my hair, more wanting to know if he could. I guess he could. He took a whiff of my shirt, and in a revelry, slowly recited, "Tattoo of a dreamcatcher on right buttocks. I'll need to see that." I was about to protest again, when he added: "You can thank Duncan for that." 

I was flustered, off-balance. "I...what gives you..."

"Cliché, David. Gives me the right? If I'm offering the lead to an unknown unknown, you don't think I need to play detective to see if you're the good upstanding Boy Scout next door, or a back alley street hustler." Taking a quick whiff of my top, he spat, "By God I wish it was the latter." He regarded me seriously. "Besides. You know there are several nude scenes so we'll have to get comfortable with that. Therefore, tonight, David Kennedy of the Redondo Beach Kennedys, tonight you're not David. 'Boy' is the name of the lead in the play, so Boy you are all night. Now, lift your arms, boy," he ordered. I slowly lift them. He then took two large inhalations in my pits. "Perfect. Like an aphrodisiac, ain't they?" He said mockingly, insinuating the corn-pone character I was auditioning for. "Sniff them yourself, and tell me what you think."

I did and found he was not incorrect. In the manner true to the character, but words my own, I drawled, "I always knew I liked the smell of wet pits, mine and others. Locker room smell, when like daddy came in from doing yard work. I’d always been kind of ashamed I liked it. I wonder how you knew that about me."

He clapped slowly. "Beautiful. Perfect. Little less southern though. Now, you, being a California boy, you don't wear deodorant, do you?" I shook my head. "You know what's good?" he asked closing the space between us again. "The smell. But you know what's great? The taste," to which he buried his face in one pit, grabbed my shoulder, inhaled deeply and lick my hairs from bottom to top.

"Aw, man!" A sharp twinge of shock and excitement overcame me. What started as a tickle, quickly became erotic. 

"You liked that, didn't you?" he asked. I gave it a second, then nodded. "Good. Step one taken. You're getting the hang of this, ain't cha?"

He let me drop one arm but held up the other. Very purposefully he held my shoulder, and while looking me in the eye, slowly let his tongue crawl up my wet pit. It was a power play, so I reached around his neck and held his face in my pit. "Delicious!" he squealed, which made me let go. "I see we're going for hustler—" he said, studying the confusion on my face, "—or is it embarrassed Boy Scout? I can't tell." He paused, puzzled, and then abruptly dropped the scene. "Now then, what would you like to drink? Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes. Seltzer? Orange juice? I just squeezed a couple of blood oranges before you came." He let innuendo ooze over the words. Again, I was off-balance whether we were still playing. "Good for when it's...hot." 

I played along as best I could, trying to recover, like what just happened was perfectly normal, happened at every audition. I made out tentatively, "Yes, squeeze me some juice." I thought it might sound insinuating, but it came out, I thought, pitiful.

"Two shakes," Riggs said, and cheerfully sped into the kitchen. 

I looked around, not really know what I was doing there, felt way out of my league, neither gay nor theatrical, wondered how I was going to make it through this. I was relieved though that he was out of the room for a moment. I felt myself getting defensive. The crack about my father was true. He cheated on my mother. The sicker she got the less he hid his infidelities. I hated my father by the time my mom died. She left me whatever was left in her savings, the reason I could rent my little apartment; would have divorced him if she could, but it seemed pointless, so few months or days, and to what end? It was too depressing I stayed with Perry when she went into the hospital, at the end. Perry was the only thing good that year. I think we left each other so abruptly, right after graduation, because he felt my dependency, almost desperation to cling to someone. He encouraged me that San Francisco could be a new start for me, as UC San Diego was for him. Fuck your brains out, he advised. Don't look back. I deflected what Riggs brought out in me, felt sandbagged by it, and needed to steel myself if I was to get through this night. Fuck him, get the part, fucking queen, and live happily ever after in my back alley studio. 

I suddenly felt righteously judgmental, scanning the old faggot's place. An old, gay man with lots of money, that's what stood out. Really? Cliché 50's body builder photos? Several hung over the sectionals in the living room. Little loin cloths, boys with slick-backed ducktails. Holding spears, or in sailor hats holding thick ropes, fake wrestling poses. All signed. Of course, but wear was the statue of David? Oh, standing next to the staircase leading upstairs. Chandelier at the top of the stairs. The entrance to his bedroom. Fucking Liberace taste of the critically acclaimed.

I went over to the dining room window. The sun was setting and I did everything I could to hate the view. The watercolors over the water, the rows of houses with their lights turning on, even a neon bar sign blinking "Bar X" two streets over. God, did I hate this place. So how then could I want it so badly I'd do anything to get it? I looked around at the dining room. A large black and white photograph of a lily, another next to it of a naked black body, sinewy, almost metallic. A brass-plated telescope positioned in the opposite corner at the window, pointing down to the street. I went over and looked through the lens. It framed a tenement apartment above the bar I had noticed. The focus centered on a dingy bedroom window. I turned a nob next to the lens. A large man came into view, fucking something suspended in chains. I looked away. But then curiosity and not a small bit of voyeurism drew me back. Whatever the man was fucking was completely encased in black. It appeared helpless. Except for the butt in the body suit there was no other skin showing. I saw the body was suspended in a sling that had a strap for each extremity. The large man abruptly ended the fuck holding the butt against himself tightly. After a moment released it and sat on a stool facing what he previous fucked. The brass telescope was a beautiful and very precise instrument. I zoomed in to see a close up of the butt of the black clad figure. It didn't register to me at first, but as I adjusted the focus I saw the large man slowly penetrating the butt with his hand. He withdrew his hand and replaced it with his other hand. He repeated this several times then withdrew. He then slipped in fingers of each hand and stretched the hole, and again slipped his hand, this time, up to his whole forearm inside the butt. I looked away for a moment to wipe my eyes, just as Riggs came back into the room with two drinks.

"Cheers," he said, handing me a very large goblet. He read the looked on my face with curiously. "Oh, you must have met Mister X," he offered, pointing to the telescope. "Bottoms up," he said, and laughed. I took a sip and although I thought the taste would be familiar, it was extremely bitter. "Organic blood oranges. Different, don't you think?"

"Uh, I dunno. I guess it's really strong, or something. Not quite Tropicana."

"Oh God, no. Maybe I should get some sugar for you.”

"No, it’s okay, I'll getting used to it."

I was happy to finally sit at the table where things settled down to what seemed to be  turning into a somewhat normal interview. Still, at first it was a struggle to get the image of the man's arm sliding into a butt out of my mind, but chit-chatting about how classes were going, about the revival, about my 'triumphs' in high school, a few plays I liked, some parts, some track wins, did the trick. When I talked about the track wins Riggs grew more interested, leaned across the table. How did I prepare, what winning felt like to me? I surprised myself by how vividly I recalled those meets. I did some gymnastics—Riggs thought as much—but track is really what I liked. Being outdoors, free for a few second putting everything I had on the line, the challenge of individually beating the guy next to me, throwing all I had into the finish line. Seeing Perry in the stands. My dad next to him, and some lady I didn't know. I edited the last part in a pause I hoped he didn't notice. Riggs asked about the apartment I rented, how much I paid, the expenses of the city, how far the apartment was from here. With every sip, I got more relaxed and more energized. Even more, each sip made him more interesting. Maybe it was that he seemed interested in me. That sounds conceited, but it was becoming a two-way street. I thought it was, at least. I saw him more than an old queen, maybe even kind of sexy in an old man who keeps in shape kind of way, especially when my gaze drifted to his yellow stain or the lumps under his shirt pockets. 

He put on some classical music, which sounded like the most beautiful music I had ever heard. He took my empty drink and went to freshen both of ours. I was surprised how I was getting obviously horny. I glanced around the dining room. There was a poster advertising a museum's Hockney exhibit—two figures, one in red jacket and khakis, and an underwater swimmer in a perfect swimming pool. The rippling water invited, compelled, and magnified the boy underwater in white swim trunks. Out of the living room and dining area, the red jacket provided the only dab of color. At a side table there were the two black and white photos. The one of a beautifully sculpted black man, and next to it the close up of a single lily. Something about the lily seemed, I don't know, strange, erotic.

Riggs, shirtless, came back with drinks in hand. He said something about how dreadfully hot it was slaving away in the kitchen. Again with the Southern Bell affectations. I wasn't annoyed as much by the affectation, probably because I finally got a good look at his engorged nipples. As big as a woman's, what in high school we called high beams. They definitely weren't natural, but I couldn't look away. Part of me wanted to feel them, bite them, gnaw on them, nurse them. Before tonight I'd have been revolted by something freaky like that. I was confused but also mesmerized, and then almost as quickly I felt panicked that I even felt this way. 

As if on cue, the kitchen's smoke detector's alarm went off. For a second I thought it was in my head. My heart raced. But then smoke tendrils rolled out of the kitchen. I jumped up, felt incredibly woozy, and had to steady myself on the back of the chair. "Hang on, boy. I think I burned the chicken," he said. My panic melted into giggle. I couldn't tell you why, but it was the most absurd thing that was happening. He was looked at me, then joined in the laughter, bending over, chortling away.

He was much more composed than I, caught his breath, gave me a fast once over, and quickly withdrew to fan out the kitchen. I heard the banging of the stove. He was back, royally announcing, "Apologies, David Kennedy, but dinner is ruined." 

I was still chuckling, puzzled why I even thought it was funny. "Y'know,” I said, “I'm not really even hungry."

"Me neither," he snorted. "Let us retire to the study where we can continue our little interview."

“Let us, yes," I said following up the stairs with his and my drink in hand. The statue of David, I flashed passing it at the staircase, had really big feet.

***

In his study, I was overwhelmed by walls of photos. Two full walls of them, most signed to him, in appreciation, etc., some more cryptic. They were mostly men, some very young, only a few women. That seemed telling enough. Mixed in with headshots were production shots. One I made out was of Duncan, shirtless, in a dueling scene. I had already been impressed by his arms and pecs in class, but seeing him only in tights—what an enormous muscular butt he had—made me feel a little twinge in my jock.

“Duncan is perfect, isn't he?" Riggs said, seeing the photo I was admiring. "A beautiful specimen. Not a great actor, but charismatic as hell. Look at that dimpled buttocks. A massive member. Small balls. I blame steroids. His back is a pockmarked horror, if you're into that kind of thing. And I am into that kind of thing." I laughed uneasily. Riggs measured my reaction, paused, then seriously asked, "David, do you feel that what you desire is worth the risk of what you need to sacrifice to attain it?"

Trying to follow the director's train of thought I asked, "You mean Duncan, with 'roids?” I added, carefully, “I was never into that. I was around it plenty, tempted, seeing how it worked on a couple of guys, but I never acted on it."

"Well, steroids, no, not that. More taking a chance to get what you want. You'll offer your body, naturally, that comes with the territory, but more important is when you offer your mind, David. Your mind for molding, or more precisely, re-molding. Each role a different challenge. A different you. Something David wouldn't do, but 'boy' would never question." Riggs looked suddenly a little dangerous to me. He tapped my glass, encouraging it up to my lips. "Would you like to see another part of Duncan McCain? Revealed in all his splendor?" I nodded under an increasing spell of agreeing to whatever Riggs's asked. 

I sat on the black leather couch, while he went to a cabinet and removed a single, black binder from a row of dozens of identical binders. He brought it over, looked at me, said one word: "Floor." The evening shifted at that moment, subtly, but enormously. Just one word. I immediately slid down and sat cross-legged, as Riggs sat on the couch above me. He gently started massaging my shoulders. I was enjoying his touch. I had the binder in my lap, opened to the first page. Duncan, in stunning black and white, more striking than the phony 50's photos downstairs. I was awestruck. Hair released, naked, saber pointed tip down to the stage. His slightly bent dick flopped majestically to one side, his testicles protruded just a bit, right leg on point. A silver ring circled his large yet flaccid cock. My eyes crawled over every inch of his exposed flesh, each stroke of body hair emanating from his armpits, flowing down his chest, dark swirls above his ample meat, his gaze staring straight into the camera, daring me to look away. It was impossible.

A voice from far away spoke slowly, hypnotically, "A binder for each man in the company." The voice got closer, whispered in my ear. "Some of the crew, too. They're usually hotter. Kinkier. Next page. Please."

I turned the page. On opposing pages, Duncan held a whip, with a naked masked figure whose arms were strapped to a piece of timber shaped in an ‘X.’ The photo on the left was Duncan in a chain harness and leather crotchless chaps about to strike the naked figure. But it was the photo on the right, Duncan completely nude, no costume of any kind, the whip having just hit its mark, leaving him with a swollen hard-veined erection, an erection that thrust in an arch away from his body. The ferocity on his face I had glimpse only in a flash from him early today. That recognition startled me, and caused me to spill a little of my drink on my gym shorts. 

"Oh, angel, the carpet," Riggs said alarmed, taking the binder and goblet out of my hands. "Enough Duncan for tonight, I think." He rose and put the binder back in the cabinet while I made heavy use of the couch to leverage standing. I was now more than a little woozy. "Look at your shorts, young man,” he scolded. “You'll be sporting a big red stain along with your red stiffy if I don't soak them right now. The shorts. Drop drawer. Now." 

I did. I was surprised by how easy it was to do everything Riggs directed. Even acknowledging he'd immediately spotted my growing interest in naked Duncan seemed natural.

"Now that the pants are off, let me see the tattoo of your," ordered Riggs. I turn and Riggs zeroed in on my welt.  “Where the hell did you get that?” he asked incredulously. 

“In fencing class today,” I answered, feeling it. It was a lot larger than I remembered.

“Duncan?” I nodded. “Let me feel. Hmmm.”

It was still tender and I pushed his hand away. Feebly I was trying to change the subject. "Y'know, I have to say something, Can I call you Alan?"

"You may not,” he replied. I wasn’t sure if he was kidding, but he continued, “You can call me Sir Riggs," he half joked, but quickly turned more serious, "or just Sir, if we’re being informal." He held the shorts up to his nostrils, sniffed the crotch. "You do realized just how delicious you smell, boy?" Even as unsteady as I was, I got the feeling this evening, the less I talked, the more he was interested. I was feeling less each moment like a person, and more like an object, one that had a smell, a scent, but no person beyond the body in front of him. "Under certain circumstance you can call me Rigg Pig,” he continued after a thought, brightening. “Certain friends do, anyway." I looked at him a sideways not getting his meaning. "Boy,” he said, stroking my neck, “you'll soon see other sides of me, when we establish more trust. And I can tell I'm going to have the pleasure of showing you other sides of you don't know. If you allow me. Will you allow me?" I was puzzled and hazy, for he added after a pause, petulantly, "Oh, you must see I have an uncontrollable piggy side that wants to devour you, don't you?" He closed the space between us. He sounded almost hurt.

"You mean the pit thing?" I offered, trying to remain steady and neutral. I wasn’t liking this being treated like an object thing. I wanted to be on top of it, fight it. Something snapped in my brain. Maybe it was a revival of the game we played downstairs. Instead of getting defense, I said, "Nah, I kind of liked it, to tell you the truth." I sniffed my pit, then shot out something that I didn't know if I believed, but said anyway. "Honestly, I wished you were a little ranker, if you really want..." I raised an embarrassed hand to my mouth. I couldn't believe I blurted that out. But even as I was saying it, I knew it was true. And so did he. He beamed having gotten something he wanted out of me. Some confidence. I suddenly saw myself clearly as he saw me: an eighteen-year-old skinny blond kid, standing in his jockstrap in front of a man he hardly knew, who wore a white cotton drawstrings with a yellow dick stain on his crotch, had big titties, admitting he preferred rank men that stank. He looked at me anew. Not only calmly, but a bit endearingly. At first I bristled like a colt feeling its first saddle. But after a second gathering of my thoughts, I found his gazing affirmation, admitting a fundamental corruptibility, reassuring. I realized I didn't mind the situation, in fact, I started to feel it was full of potential, something I might actually want.

Shaking a bit of the buzz out of my head, I said, "Sir, I remember, what I wanted to say: what's in this drink? This buzz isn't from some bloody blood oranges, is it?"

He closed the final gap between us, putting both hands on my naked shoulders. "GHB." He scrutinizing my reaction again, all the while pressing his groin into my jock. "Do you like the way you feel?"

"I do, but I don’t know what GHB is."

"When I'm first getting to know an actor, I like to be comfortable, feel their reactions, and see their limitations. G opens them up to me. The only way we got anywhere tonight is when you opened yourself up to me. Mentally and physically." He reached between us and pinched my nipples. "Nice. So far you haven't flinched at all.”

"No, Sir. I think I like it, but I don't understand why. That hurts a little but I like what you're doing." His pinches became more forceful. I felt my dick start to rise. "It gets me hard and admit things I wouldn't say."

"The last you need to know is why you're saying things. Only that you say them honestly. 'Why' is for the brain. To act upon your desires, that's here," he said, slipping his hands down my jock, feeling the swell, and forcing my rising cock to point unwillingly down.

"Mmm,” I moaned lightly as he touched me. “Your nipples. How'd they get that way? Why do they looks so tempting?”

"Again with why. Would you like to have your nipples as big as these?" I nodded. "Good boy. Let's start now.” Then, another single command I had to follow: "Come."
 

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I really like where this is headed.  Hope many more episodes are in the works, and will be posted regularly.

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***

Entering his opulent white and gold bedroom, Riggs flipped on a classical CD and led me to a full-length mirror near the bay windows. It was late outside, the night clear. The streets were empty with most window dark. Save for the flashing of the Bar X sign, there was no movement in the city.

On the dresser, he found a jeweled box. From it he pulled out two small, black suction cups. "Get them good and wet." I salivated all over them. The music rose around me, engulfed me in warmth and brilliant light. He turned me around and licked one of my nipples. Goosebumps erupted across my chest, arms, neck. Riggs licked the other one. He squeezed out the air of one of the suction cups, placed it on the nipple, and then did the same with the second. The suction felt like someone giving me a hickey, unrelenting. I gently pulled at them to get them to intensify the draw. He slid behind me, close enough so I felt his bulging cock press inside my thighs. I instinctively clenched by butt cheeks to grab his bulge. "Good boy," he responded, "there's performance potential for you yet." I looked at us in the mirror and liked what I saw. "Maybe more potential than can be contained on a stage. Still feeling good?”

"Or bad," I suggested, nuzzling my butt back against him. He ran fingers lightly over my abs, and flicked the black cups. I ground my ass cheeks back and forth over the crusted yellow stain I felt behind me. "I feel good. Thank you, Sir. Sensual. Open. Like anything you'd want to do I'd let you,” I said, trying out ideas and trying phrases I was allowed to call him. “Anything Pig Rigg wants."

"You get the picture, don't you?" he breathed, then stuck his tongue in my ear. "Secret of performance: Show, don't tell. Do you like the music?"

"It's the most beautiful music I've ever heard." I started undulating into him.

"You know in the play you'll have to be naked at times. Are you comfortable with that?”

I nodded beginning to slip out of my jock strap letting my hardon slap my stomach. "No, boy, leave it on. Show me how the music moves you." Before I could get to it, he pulled up my jock, feeling my erection again before pushing it down.

I started swaying to the low bass strings, following wherever it led around the bedroom, letting it show me how to move. Interpreting rhythm and melody, watching my host carefully, interpreting what he would enjoy me doing next. Wordlessly, instinctively, directing me as he sat at the edge of the bed. I moved to him, bent over, rubbing his crotch with my butt. He let two fingers run through my crack and sniffed. "Oh, you filthy child," he said, upright on the bed. "You have the hairiest bubble butt I've ever seen. When was the last time you washed that crack?" It wasn't a question but a direction I understood. Slowly I crawled on the bed, facing him, spread my cheeks apart and started rutting on top his yellow stain, wiping whatever was exciting him with my scent, pushing his shoulders down so he was prone. The grunge of my asshole, over and over, rubbed against his the yellow stain. I raised my arms and slow bent down, first my right then left, to let him smell my stink. He licked both pits hungrily, uttering low moans of lust. I felt his tits for the first time, and knew if my dick hadn't been restricted I would have shot my wad right there. I told him what beautiful utters he had, that I wanted utters like his. I asked if I could suck them. Of course, he answered. I backed off his bulge a bit to get into a position on all fours, and noticed where I'd rubbed, his crotch was now streaked brown. He notice too. "You gutter trash, look what you did," he said, pleased. "Suck my tits, pigboy." I dove down on his chest and sucked like a nursing pig. While suckling on one, I played with the other. "Harder, alley boy," he cried, "these tits are indestructible. They connect straight to my cock and make me want to fuck your shitty hole." He ripped the cups off my nipple, flung me to my side. "Let's see. Yes. Lovely!" I looked down and what were always flat tiny tits, were now small mounds of flesh Riggs could hold on to.

He tossed me on my back, and knelt over me, drinking me in, admiring even the smallest of changes he'd already made in me. As he crouched over me, he rutted my restrained cock against his pants. A little stain of precum wet his crotch. My hands found their way back to his nipples, pushing myself up to sitting, my mouth soon followed. While sucking him, he stroked my hair, and I emanated my own moans like a hungry piglet greedy for its supper. He reached down and put two fingers between my legs, rubbing the taint between my balls and hole. He was going to get me to cum without even stroking my cock. He pulled open my jock, fondled my hardened cock, gave me several strokes, and quickly pushed it straight down again. I was annoyed and frustrated since more than anything I wanted to be naked for him, naked with him, feeling him, skin on skin. His delaying my desires only made them stronger. It caused my erection to push out the fabric straining ever harder. He was playing me. I was his instrument succumbing to his every wordless direction. He paused, looked at his clock, thought.

He raised us both off the bed, guiding us to his full length mirror. "Look at you," he said. I saw perspiration beaded on my forehead, a trickle of sweat running down from my pits down my flanks. "Could you be like this in front of an audience? People watching you, thrilling to how you're turning yourself on, and them on, at the same time?"

"Yes, if you guided me, put me through my paces. I know I could, Sir.” I nuzzled my head back against his shoulder. He ran his hand over my neck and reached down to my tits, pulling on each one.

"It might not be what you expected, but I can lead you where I know you want to go. I can tell already the direction isn't what you set out for, and we'll need to go much, much further, find your limits and then go well beyond them. I have friends, many friends, that can help you. One in particular." I could feel him pressing up behind me, his fully erect penis pressing against his fabric. I reached around and gave his girth a strong squeeze. Nothing felt as good as that moment, feeling him lust for my ass as I was hungry for his cock. I push down his waist band and felt his hardon pop up, making a wet sound of precum slap against my balls. I instinctive arched my back and use his cock to glide along my ass.

"You've never been fucked, have you, David?" I shook my head against him. "Let's slow down," he said, tilting my pelvis out of an arch and stepping out of his drawstrings. He slid his hand under my pits, wiping a trail of sweat down my torso and finally slipped off my jock. I felt relaxed in his arms, not frantic as a moment before. My cock at last freed and erect to show him how much he aroused me. He walked us a few steps over to the bay windows. We stopped at the center glass. He pushed me forward so I had to prop myself against the frame. He began grinding his cock between my legs. I was wet from sweat and his copious precum. I could feel his cockhead getting larger than before, to the point where he was almost at the point of not being able to stop. He whispered in my ear, "Wave." Looking back at him and then following his gaze down, I saw the tenement figure I had been spying on in the dining room, unmistakably looking up at us. "Say hello to you future manager. Say hello to Mr. X."
 

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***

In the early 2000s, Alan Riggs would commit suicide. After resigning his position at the theatre and the school—one step ahead of scandal, two steps ahead of the law—he'd move to Los Angeles. An old director friend from his early New York acting days would cast him in a Chekhov play, to which he'd garner outstanding reviews—a rebirth of a career, his few remaining friends would say; a path forward after an odious turn of events. After closing night, he'd move his dining room table over to one side, climb a chair, wrap his feet securely with duct tape, and hang himself from the chandelier.

I could have saved him the trouble and snapped his neck right then and there. I pushed him off, confused. I made my way back from the window to the bed, pulled my knees up to my chest leaning against the headboard. I was angry and also felt like an idiot, exposing myself in this brightly lit room to all of San Francisco. And yet, my heart raced excitedly; in one respect I felt freed.

"You're safe, it's okay," he said. He offered me the goblet he'd earlier taken away. "You're drink."

"Nah, I don't think so."

"Okay, fair enough." He paused to let me process the past few moments. "He's someone I flirt with. A big troll, but Mr. X is harmless." He sat next to me, awkwardly trying to rub my neck, finding kinks in my shoulders, working his way down my spine. "Relax, boychick. You're going to have to possess passion like that in front of many people, many, many times, and that's just one person far away, in the balcony. In the dark. We don't have to get there for a very long time. We don't have to rush. We have all night."

I looked at him suspiciously. "All night?" My hardon had withered and with it any desires.

"Finish your drink. I can tell you're not the type to pass out."

I sipped, this time, as I was directed, but with a new wariness. I wanted to still be in the running for the part. I felt if I got through these next few minutes I still might be. Winning a coveted role, becoming a member of a prestigious company, continuing with daily classes, would give me a reason and a purpose after the summer was over. I sat on the bed mulling over what to do. Riggs pushed down my knees, and rubbed the fur of my pubes.

"I don't know if I like this," he said, rubbing his hand over my pubes, attempting to change the subject. "Even the pits. I love the patch of hair on your back but that might have to go too." He looked up, contemplating something on the ceiling, then added, "Except if we do the Albee in the spring.”

"I don't know, I like my fur. Everywhere else I'm smooth."

"Imagine though being completely hairless. Permanently. Maybe even shaved bald. How free that would be."

"Wait, what?" I said astonished. "'In the play, Boy isn't bald. At least he isn't in the script."

"I'm thinking of other parts, not just this one for you." Uncharacteristically, he lifted an arm, inviting me under it to join him. "There, smell that. Is that better than the soap smell." I knew he was playing me again, but I smiled anyway. I sniffed and he tousled my hair, and pulled me into his light pit bush. "No, I love your shaggy head. You’re a beach boy. Why would I change that? That's worth more than you can imagine.” He shifted over to his nightstand. “And as a properly raised beach boy you must smoke pot. Am I right or am I right?" he joked.

"Chaw!" I said, feigning indignation in my best surfer dude voice. He ate it up. I could see this evening getting back on track. A nice buzz might just be the thing to seal the deal for the evening. "I smoke all the time. Weed and I go way back to seventh grade. The first play I was in at the rec center, Herr von Trapp sold me my first baggy. But I just ran out and don't have a connection here."

"Well, you do now, boy. And, as a bonus, I have something I think you'll like even more." From his nightstand he withdrew a glass pipe and a little baggy of white crystals.

"What? Coke?"

"No. It's something much more delectable. Like you," he said grabbing my crotch. "This is going to be your favorite new favorite. It goes nicely with G, won't make you blurry like alcohol, or teeth gnashing like Coke. Believe me, the last thing you'll feel like doing is talking."

After sprinkling a little bit of white crystals in the bowl, he firmly planted himself beside me on the bed, inserted his right leg between mine, prying me open like an oyster. He could tell I was still mildly wary of him. "As I light this, I'm going to take a big inhale and then shotgun it into you. You hold it as long as you can and shotgun it back to me. I’ll do the same, and on and on. Questions?" I shook my head. "How are you feeling?"

"A little nervous but I feel a little of the G, so ready to try anything."

"Trust me?" Again, I nodded. "No, really trust me." This time it wasn't a question. He lit the bottom of the pipe with a torch and whiffs of smoke swirled in the bowl. He then inhaled the whole at once, held it for a moment, then exhaled it into me. It wasn't any different than shot gunning pot with Perry, I thought. When I exhaled it back, I thought he'd oversold the result. I didn't feel anything at all. He shot gunned it back to me. I held it then blew a clear cloud into the air. "How's that?"

"Okay, I guess. I don’t really feel anything."

He ran a light hand over my stomach and brushed my dick. My dick was limp but responded with a small jerk. "Looks like a little better than okay, boy. How about this?" he asked, tweaking a nipple. I enjoyed the tug but didn't associate it with the smoke. He rummaged over the bedspread and found what he was looking for under a pillow. "Here, let's get these on you again." He salivated on the black suction cups I was wearing earlier and squeezed them on my nipples. "You ready for another go?"

I felt a small tug of horniness wash over me. "Fuck, man. Let's do it."

"You start," he said, loading the bowl, this time with a lot more white flakes. I held the bowl as he fired the torch under it. I sucked in the white smoke as soon as it formed, held back for a while, but when I was about to pass it over, he held up a hand indicating to hold it longer. I held it as long as I could, then he relented, and locked his lips back to mine. He inhaled the cloud, held it, paused, then passed it back. After exhaling, this time I totally felt a rush, not like a stony rush, but warmth that emanated between my ass and my prick. I tweaked his nipples, my cock not fully awake, but his dick rose immediately from his lap. "Tell Daddy how you're feeling now, boy."

"Like, totally horny, Pig Dad."

He evilly smiled back. His fingers rubbed a spot under my balls. He asked me if I felt it here. Eagerly I confirmed I certainly felt it jutting my crotch toward him. "How about here?" he asked, swirling a finger around my sphincter. I spread my legs a little farther apart in answer. "One more go," he directed. "When you breathe it in this time, breathe down where you were taught to breath, right down here," he said, pressing two fingers between my balls and my asshole. "Breathe deeply into your taint, feel it drawing down to here." As I inhaled he began rubbing his fingers up and down, circling out with wider and wider strokes. He pressed his fingers under each ball, one at a time, then drew back creeping closer and closer to my anus. He brought out the fingers that had been circling my taint to hold the pipe. He sniffed his fingers, and said in amusement, "Boy, you have a mighty stench. I think you definitely have industry potential. We shall have to patent you.”

I was awake to every part of my body. Where it touched the sheets, where his leg brushed against mine, where, after he shot gunned me and our mouth grew apart, I saw a string of saliva hanging from him to me, like a cobweb. I licked my lips and felt the saliva brake, swinging back, cold and wet, landing on my neck. When his next shot gun reattached his lips to mine, I inhaled but also stuck my tongue into his mouth and sucked in all his juices. He locked in on my eyes, and laid me flat on my back. He breathed over me, into me, not letting me move. Inhaling and exhaling, locked in breath, not taking in new air but rhythmically using what we had between us until we were near asphyxiation. His breath expanded inside me, exhaling myself at the last second back into him. I felt a darkening in me with each breath, something that came directly from him, something from his basest nature insinuating itself into mine. With every breath I wanted it more. There was an unrelenting desire to touch my dick, or his, but every time I began to move my hand, he brought my palm back to my chest. We finally broke with a snap, both of us gasping for air. His palm covered my racing heart. He pulled off the black cups, running his fingertips over my nipples, giving them a tweak before continuing the journey down to my cock. When his fingers arrived, he pulled my erection down to my balls and then let it fly, slapping my stomach. What had originally been a frustration became pure pleasure. Letting him do with me whatever he wished.

He licked a thumb and gently glided it over the glans of my penis, and then suddenly, without warning and with utter ferocity slapped my balls. I instinctively curled up into his chest. I looked up at him for a reason, but I could tell there was none, simply cold desire in his eyes. He coaxed me, bit by bit, to lay back down letting him run his fingers again up and down my body. He instructed me to close my eyes, legs open. He then gently, with an open palm, started tapping my balls. With his free hand, he spread my legs further apart. "Stay open, stay with me," he said. The beating of my balls slowly increased in intensity. What had previously ended in a quick, hard smack had made me double up into myself, this tapping, when increased so slowly I wasn't even aware of it, became curiously and ever-increasingly pleasurable. Without really thinking about it, my pelvis rose to greet the next smack of his hand, encouraging him to hit me harder. I wasn't thinking but feeling a desire to submit to his discomfort, even as it started getting painful, I felt a desire being drawn out of me like an itch desperate in needed of a scratched. "Alright then," he said, abruptly stopping, waiting a second, and then once again gave me a full smack in my balls.

This time in only half-curled position, eyes still closed, he soothingly rubbed my balls. Not knowing what was coming next, but wherever he was taking me, I curiously wanted to follow. I relaxed again to a prone position. Whether it felt good or not, what I was enjoying was the desire to put myself literally in another man's hands, in Riggs' hands. He grabbed my balls and I winced. "Take it," he said, "let me have your balls. I want your balls, boy. Give them up. I'm not letting go until you give them over. Breathe. Breathe through it." The last suggestion, got me to force myself to lay back even though the pain was excruciating. I opened my eyes to see him release me with a flourish. I reached my arms up and put them around him. He enveloped me completely.  We locked lips and laid down in each other’s arms, kissed more deeply, exchanging saliva, drooling out the sides of our mouths. He licked the side of my face. On an elbow he rose his face above mine and stuck out his tongue, drool dangling down. I quickly raised up and suck his tongue. Spontaneously, I felt myself starting to hump his leg, feeling each hair on his leg, seeing precum dribbling off his erect dick.

"Okay, boy, you're going to bust your nut or mine." I started whimpering like a puppy, painfully not wanting to disconnect from him. I wanted his pain or his pleasure. I didn't matter which.

"Turn frenzy into passion. If you blow now, that's going to cut short our evening and I don't think you're ready to go home."

I forced myself on my back only rubbing his nipple, hoping that could calm me down. It worked to a degree. I didn't feel out of control but I was still under his spell, wanting him to take me further.

I ran my hand down to his ample penis, feeling his piss slit oozing leakage. "You leak a lot," I said, staring at the ceiling, taking a bit of it to my tongue to see how he tasted.

"You have no idea. Though I have a feeling though you will. Stick your finger inside.”

“What, in your dick?”

“Yeah, the slits big.”

I did and it was! I felt I could insert half my index finger in it. I rolled to look and saw how the shaft bulged as far down as I dare go. He writhed with each insertion, leaked even more on my digit. "Are you going to show me how I can get mine like that?" I asked.

“Okay, stop. Stop! Yes, and while we explore I'm sure we'll find other things you'll like. Now, lay on your stomach. Let see exactly what your little butt is packing.” Where a moment ago I was mad dog rutting on his leg, I excitedly flopped onto my stomach laying still. Riggs rolled on top of me. His cock slime lubed my butt, and he humped my butt a few times without ever penetrating. It made me want him to start fucking away, but I feared he'd destroy my virgin ass on his first thrust. Instead, he reached under my balls and pulled down my dick, again forcing it to where it didn't want to go. "You can let your butt stay in the air till you dick lets you relax. I want to teach you to take pleasure not just with your prick but with your whole body, especially, if not eventually, exclusively, with your fuckhole," he said.

He lightly stroked the inside of my thigh and coaxed me to open my legs. I heard rummaging again in his nightstand. With my butt in the air, legs open, proudly displaying my hole, he said, "Hold right there." I saw a flash, but he said, “no, just relax, I need documentation."

"Of what,” I ask.

"Of your progress, boy. Yes, beautiful. What a lovely jungle. A tight pink, quite hairy hole. Spread your cheeks apart more, boyhole." I complied, spreading my cheeks as ordered. It felt so freeing to do what Riggs wanted me to do. I was following his words, encouraging me to play with myself. Rubbing a finger across my ass and lick the pungent finger through half-closed eyes. My dick was finally relaxed enough to lay down on top of it. He stroked it a couple of times, alternating between squeezing my balls and playing with my cock. He set the camera aside, and hovered his face between my legs. He spread my legs further, pulled my asscheeks apart, and did what no man had ever done. Feeling his tongue lick first the inside of my thighs, then the inside of my left cheeks, then right inside, circling his tongue down to my balls, then slowly up to the bottom of my hole, then working excruciatingly slow over my asshole to  the top of my crack. I moaned the entire time he was in direct contact with my hole. I was ashamed and amazed knowing my hole wasn't clean and yet Riggs treated it to a tender bath, cleansing it hair by hair with his tongue. The feeling of his slimy tongue slithering across my hole sent waves of electric current over my body. He leaned above, looking at it, spread his hands for maximum exposure, and dove straight back into my hole, parting the asslips with his hands to dig in as far as his tongue could reach. I had a decent blow job by the dapper Napa boy, but Riggs eating of my ass left that back in the schoolyard. He chewed the outside my asslips, his teeth biting, pulling with his finger, wet and fat, sliding his tongue between the lips to separate the sphincter until it opened to him. He murmured affirmation to me, how good I was, what an angel. He spit on my hole, then a first wet finger slipped inside. His index finger up to his first knuckle, wiggled slowly, then withdrew. He gave me time to absorb the first shock of penetration. When I used my hands to spread my hole open, he spit on my ass, and re-inserted his finger now to the second knuckle, all the while slobbering to wet and push more saliva into my chute. As his index finger withdrew, he traded it with his long middle finger. I had never felt such an incredible and disturbing feeling come over me as it drove down in me. At once uncomfortable, but discomfort far outweighed pleasure with every millimeter he conquered inside my hole. A new and unrepentant feeling of letting a man, a man who made each thrust feel like a surrender, a man who took over my most intimate body part.

"Your prostate, boy. Feel it?" Two fingers now pressed up in my rectum. I cursed into the pillow how good it felt. It was such an unusual sense of arousal and a need to urinate, both at the same time. "How's that feel, boy?"

"It's incredible, Sir. I want more, Sir." I couldn't describe how pleasured I felt. I hammed up the role, "Please, Sir, may I have some more."

"Oh, Oliver, what a pig you are."

"Yes, Sir. Oliver want's more of Sirs sticky fingers. Please, Sir," I said, laughing and drooling into the pillow. He added a third wet finger and suddenly I wasn't laughing anymore. I let out a guttural "fuck," but also pushed my butt on to him.

"Let me eat that boy pussy and get it nice and wet for daddy's fourth finger, then you should be ready for daddy. Now arch your back like you wanted to do all evening." I arched to his waiting mouth and he licked and tongued it with a ferocity matched only by my mashing my butt into his face. "Oh, you've got a nasty, stinking cunt, don't you, Boy Scout?"

"Yes, Sir. It's your dirty scout cunt, just for you."

"We'll see if it's just for me. But you know you're going to have to return the favor before the night's out."

"Mm-hm," I moaned and nodded into the pillow. Every tongue lashing he gave, producing a louder and louder moan.

"Remember what you're saying, boy, because I certainly will." I kept agreeing into the pillow anything, only wanting him to eat and finger my ass without ever stopping.
He pulled back and four fingers pressed on my tight hole. For several minutes he attempted, but it was too much. No amount of spit would permit four to go in. I strained against him, but having such a tight hole, it held me back from what we both wanted. I imagined his four fingers would lead to spreading my hole fully open so I could take in his large cock.

He reached into the nightstand and took out a little brown bottle and the bag of tina. He took the bag and, after lapping like a dog across my asshole, he wet his middle finger, dipped it in the bag of tina. "Now, boy, crack the bottle and take a strong sniff in each nostril." I knew about poppers, the Napa boy had them, but I'd never done them myself. I took the two hits like he instructed, and instantly my inhibitions flew. I barely closed the bottle before my head fell into the pillow. At my other end, I held my haunches high, spreading my cheeks apart for Riggs to have free access. Never so strongly had I wanted to be gouged. My butthole puckered out to him as he rubbed my pouting lips and slipped his finger deep inside. I immediately felt burning where he sent his finger. I clamped down hard. "No, just relax," he encouraged. "That burn goes away, and then you're going to want to open up." He was right, again reinforcing the notion that whatever he wanted me to do, I would. "Flip on your back and take another hit. Oh, fuck yes, beautiful, pigboy. Here, put your legs up on my shoulders." I couldn't remember who I was but I knew I would do everything this man wanted me to. I aimed my butt cheeks straight at his evil grinning face. He spread my legs apart and gave me one last astonishing rim job.

His mouth ravished me. He diddled a while, brushing my hole lightly with two fingers, then dug in violently till one finger of each hand were buried to his third knuckle. He pried me open leaving me feeling exalted and revealed. He re-inserted three wet fingers again and when they were buried in me, he started flicking his fingers inside. It was another new sensation, making me cry out for more.

"There's Daddy's slut boy. Time for a little lube." He brought out a tube and squirted some on the outside on my hole. "Take three more hits," he said, and waited, watching me as I obeyed. I licked my lips, wordlessly telling him how much I wanted him in me. Four fingers, the entire palm of his hand, entered as I laid the bottle down, feeling him impaling me.

"Ah, pigboy. That’s great. Good job. Don't fight me. Let me just finger you now. I'm holding right here till you quit squeezing. Concentrate on me, on what I'm telling you. Look at me and lower your torso. Good. Now let me feel you open up. Spread more. Good. Grab your ankles. Stay still. Let me go in deeper."

As I lay motionless, legs held in the air, very open and relaxed, enjoying the probing, he gently twisted his finger around my hole, going from a flat hand, and then circling them into a group. Not trying to go too deep, but giving me the sensation of what every inch of my hole was capable of feeling. I sensed him inside me wiggle, sometimes jutting a bit deeper, then pulling back, but with each slight withdrawal he was coaxing me to impale myself deeper. Eventually, I relaxed my inner sphincter. I could tell his interest wasn't attentive to my outer sphincter any more, but now he felt around searching for a deeper obstacle. I saw in his eyes he found something he liked. Now he only wanted to play with that. "Ah, pigboy, do you feel that?" I couldn't sense what he was talking about, but it was another new sensation being revealed to me. "Take a good hit of poppers." I did and offered him one. He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, “soon though. Take another one real deep, boy, and I'll tell you what I'm doing.” I took the deepest hit yet and fell back, relaxed, desperately horny, flying cradled in the pillow. "Feel that moving inside you?" I did feel something odd moving inside. "That's one of your logs. I'm playing with a piece of shit inside you, David." I heard his words but they weren't connecting to any meaning. The sensation was all I was aware of, bucking up against something inside, feeling a large object rolling up and down in me, something he was pushing in and I was pushing it back to him. Then the words caught up to the sensation and I understood. An erection slowly rose out his meaning and merged with the sensation his was giving me. I understood what we were doing. This wasn't acting like a pig with Riggs. This was actually being Riggs' pig.

"You're fucking me with my own turd, Sir?" He nodded with his most leering grin. I was filling up with an overload of sensation. "I'm going to cum, Sir."
"No, not yet, my pig." He slid his fingers gently but quickly out of my shit chute. "Not till I want you to."

I could feel myself right at the edge of cumming. I managed between squeezing and relaxing to suppress the feeling of nutting and not get taken over the edge. Still, my head was spinning, realizing what we'd just done.

“Let’s clean you out. We shall introduce you to the playroom, and then take things up a notch.” I should have taken more stock in the "we" in his sentence.
 

The Casting Sling (Midnight)
Riggs led me to his palatial bathroom. Almost as big as my whole apartment. He showed me the bidet, where I could squat and clean out as he instructed. “Take your time. Find the right temperature and do it till you’re running clear." He had turned on the bidet and was feeling for an acceptable temperature. "We don't need to do this every time, but this first time it’ll be easier to have you entirely empty. Meet me downstairs." He wiped his hands dry on a clean towel. "The closet across from the front door has a trick lock in back. I had the garage split in half years ago. Go through the closet to get to the playroom. I'll getting us water and some treats. Need to keep hydrated.”

I cleaned out for what seemed like a pleasurable lifetime. It was warm, comforting, lulling me into a calm, mellow state. I would have stayed longer but Riggs called up to me, asking if I was ready. When I passed the dining room I heard him fiddling around in the kitchen, and talking on the phone. I called out I was on my way down. I trotted down to the first floor, and found the lock on the closet's back opening revealing the playroom.

At first it was pitch black, comfortably warm. As my eyes adjusted I saw to my right a high window with newspaper taped across it. Occasionally a fleeting car's headlights would drive by and dimly light the space. I felt around for a light switch, found one and flicked it on. The room illuminated only with a soft red light, the kind you’d find in a photographer’s dark room. It took a while for my eyes to adjust, but eventually they did. I could hear the floor creak above, Riggs still moving around, muffled sounds of him arguing. I took my time to scan the room.

From what I could tell the room was painted black. A stained bare mattress lay in the left corner next to a door, which I assumed led to the rest of the garage. The mattress had the same stain as Riggs’ pants after I had rubbed my dirty hole against him. Next to it and across from me, was a sling like I’d seen in the man’s room in the tenement. It infatuated me. I crossed to put my hand on it. In the front, two leather loops hung for legs. At the back, chains ran up to the corners, where midway, leather cuffs dangled for wrists. A cracked mirror hung above the leather bed that hung from back to front. A small, black pillow lay at the head of the sling.

A table with multiple drawers was on its right. I glanced in the drawers. Ropes, some thick, some thin, chains, locks, gloves, hand cuffs, clothes pins, a variety of leather straps and collars filled the drawers. Where I first entered, pegboard ran along the wall. Its purpose reminded me of the pegboard in the garage where my dad had his workshop. But where my old man’s pegboard held hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, and a big boobed calendar girl, this pegboard held whips with a single tail, whips with assorted number of tails, dildoes of various sizes, from one the size of my stiff dick up to one with a head the size of my fist and the length of my forearm. There were also paddles, rubber balls strung together, double-ended dildoes, rubber hands and rubber fists. There was a vast array of shiny medical instruments that I could only guess their purpose. Viewed together in the semi-darkness I was totally intimated and keenly aroused.

In a darkest corner, to my right, next to a large support beam with a curtain that could be drawn, and where from the window above an occasional headlight flared, was a doctor’s examination table, complete with metal stirrups. The table was modified so the sides had straps that could tie a patient down. An angled mirror hung above. I saw myself dimly reflected, and saw I was sporting a full erection.

Since I’d never seen one up close, I was most curious about the sling. I went back over to it, ran my hand over its thick leather surface, then bent down and smelled it. Catching the scent of Crisco and leather mingled together I inhaled deeply. It made my dick harder. I climbed into it wiggling my feet into the lower leg straps, admiring myself and my dick in the mirror. I tugged at my dick. How could something so foreign bring a sense of such familiarity?

Riggs opened the door, startling me. He was barely visible in the shadows. “Perfect,” he said. “Stay right there. I knew you’d fit like a glove.” He had what I thought were two cigarettes, one above each ear. Orange tipped, extra-long, skinny. He placed both on the table beside the sling, then turned and came to me and pecked my forehead.

"You like, boychick?" he asked.

“I love this whole room,” I replied. “I don’t know what half of the stuff on the wall is but it somehow lures me.”

“I bet it lures you, tiger. You’re going to love it here, I guarantee. I'd like to keep you here all the time.” I eyed him warily. “Just kidding." Then he turned serious, "but trust me, boychick: there are many ways to be kept." Brightening, he said, "Let me show you one. Give me have your arm.” He lifted it to the wrist cuff and locked it in place. “The better to lick your pits, my dear.” He went straight into licking my raised pit. I laughed and after a few moments of getting into the sensual nature of it, let out a small moan. He licked my ear. A wet gushing sound. He then went to the other side and strapped that arm in. Once in place he spit and wet the whole left side of my body. “Now no flinching while I do this.” He went straight for my dick and started sucking. Being in such a vulnerable position, it would have been easy to get me to spurt. He shifted and popped one ball in his mouth, then the other, then both. He rose from playing with my bound body and ran fingers through my pubes. “How about we give these a little shearing?”

“But I like my hair.”

“Just a snip then. Just to minimize the bush and emphasize what remains.” He grabbed a small pair of scissors from the drawer and snipped one side of my pubes, then the other. “Oh, much better. But we do need to do something about your balls.” In the same drawer, he pulled out a barber’s straight razor. He took a bottle of water and poured some in a pan. He soaked a rag and washed my balls. He took out a can of shaving cream, sprayed some in his hand, pulled down and help out one of my balls between his fingers and lathered it. He wiped his hands and began to tease me with the blade’s cold surface. He became quite serious. “I would not move a bit if I were you.” Riggs slowly shaved one angle of my testicle, twisted it painfully and shave the other side. He grabbed my second ball and shaved it in the same manner. In the mirror I watched him shave from the bottom of my asshole to the top my balls. When he was finished, he grabbed a stool and sat between my legs. Again he washed my ass and applied lather inside each cheek. With broad stokes he glided along the outside of my cheeks, shaving whole clumps of dark ass hair with each stroke, washing the blade in the pan when finished. As he got closer to the center, his strokes became smaller, more precise, eventually removing each hair individually. He pushed a cheek aside and cleaned until he got to the exact center. It felt incredible as he ran his fingers over his handiwork. Even at the end, when I thought he was finished, he took the blade and pressed it gently inside my ass. "If you clench you'll cut yourself. So relax." With that he slowly twisted the blade within my hole. I breathed slowly hoping he'd soon be finished. He removed it saying what a good boy I was. With the remains of the bottle, he ran the water down my balls and butt draining to the cement floor, washing away any stray hairs with it. I heard the water drain somewhere in the center off in the darkness. On his stool he sat between my legs and started licking my butthole, pulling my cheeks apart until he bared my anus. His face dug into me, tongue-fucking me royal. The sling had positioned me completely open, splaying me, totally vulnerable to his probing. His stiff tongue penetrated deeper with each jab, consequently getting me harder the longer he probed. As a finale, he reached up and locked my legs in the cuffs, saying, “Too late to get away now, Boy Scout. Guess you weren't prepared.”

On the right metal pole above my arm was a light. He flicked on. I look away from the glare, and when I focused back I saw him holding a cotton ball and a bottle of alcohol. He dabbed the ball and examined my arm.

“What’s that for?” I asked, suddenly more alert than before.

He was silent while he pressed and kneaded the crook of my arm. He then lightly felt up my forearm and lower bicep, feeling it with two fingers. “Hmm,” he exhaled. “Not very good I’m afraid.” He went around to the other side still holding the pad, switched on a clamped light over my left arm, and went through the same procedure there.

“Better on the right. Not great with your arm in the air but we do with what we have.” He came back to my right side. Started wiping the crook of my arm with his cotton ball.

“What the hell, Alan?”

“Time for Rigg Pig to get busy,” he responded distractedly, scrupulously checking the area. He looked up and now seemed to notice me lying there. “Time to take you down a notch, Boy Scout.” He picked up what he earlier had set on the table, uncapped the orange tip, and a needle glistened in the light.

“Uh, I don’t think so. Not really into needles, Alan.”

“I think I found a good vein. We don’t want to waste it. Hold still, I don’t want to nick you. You move I most certainly will injure you.”

“No!" I said sternly. "I don’t want to do this.” I rattled my arm in the cuff.

“Believe me you do want this. You wanted this your whole life. Just breathe, angel." I saw in the reflection above he was pressing his weight against my arm. "You’ll feel a slight prick and then a warm rush. Some people get a cough, or you might feel you can’t breathe. It passes. Just go with it. It’s a strong dose for your first time, so I’ll start with half. If you tell me to stop that'll be it, but you can always tell me you want it all. Trust me. I know you'll thank me.” He steadied the needle on my vein. “Ready?” I defiantly shook my head one last time. “Stick!” I felt a sharp jab and flinched. “Oh, shit, it rolled. Hold still, David,” he said annoyed. He pressed a clean cotton ball where he had just jabbed me, held if for a second, look to see there was no excessive bleeding. “It will just take a second if you cooperated," he said standing over me. "Be over before you know it.” He examined the area again, smacked the surface of my forearm a couple of times, dabbed the alcohol-laden cotton pad in a new area. From the drawer, he pulled out a rubber tube and tied it over my bicep. Felt for the vein one last time. “Okay, here we go. Stick! Ready?” he asked, with the needle already in my arm.

My heart raced as I watched the vial swirl with blood, blood from me! Then saw him push half the contents into my vein. I immediately felt like I was in a warm bath, floating in the Caribbean, euphoric. If only half was in me and I felt like this, I wanted it all. I nodded for the rest. My breath rate went up. “Good boy,” he said pleased, watching me scrupulously. I saw him finish the plunger, watched the clear liquid swirl with crimson wisps of my blood as it vanished into my vein. He quickly withdrew the needle and pressed a clean cotton pad on my arm. He undid my tourniquet. I no longer was breathing rapidly, but had an uncontrollable urge to cough. I felt my lungs contract and wouldn’t release. I went into a momentary panic and then a coughing fit. Writhing in the sling, rushing from sudden unexpected euphoria, unable to focus, hearing the world turned inside out, everything became high pitched and then suddenly muffled. I felt the world falling under me, floating in the sling, seeing Riggs check the pulse in my neck. He watched over me looking pleased. I mouthed an involuntary thank you. He bent down and sucked on a nipple, then the other, then ran a tongue down my chest, swirled around my belly button, sliming me down until he reached my cock. My tip was so hard it was purple. He licked it, driving me wild so that I bucked in his mouth. "Ride it, tiger," he said with my cock in his mouth. "It only gets better."

I caught up to the sensory overload, and felt the climax of the initial rush. It was so good, like a thousand orgasm, helped along by Riggs foundling my cock and balls. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” I repeated. It was too much to take, felt too good, I didn't want it to stop.

“Keeping breathing. You’re okay. Just ride it like a wave.”

That made sense to me, letting the rush overtake me, not fighting it, spinning like so many times I had done falling off my surfboard from a humongous wave. Going with the tumbling not fighting it, letting it have me, take me where it wanted. Swirling with the swiftest current I'd ever felt, knowing I was riding with each wave, not being pulled under by it, the intensity of panicked excitement eased. The more I rode it, the more I enjoyed it. The pleasure flowing through my body kept increasing my arousal. I felt a physical warmth flushed over me, heat oozed through me, my cock and balls in Riggs’ hand, my asshole he fingered, my tits he tweaked. Riggs was feeling me all over, and I vacillated between being overwhelmed by sensation and wanting him to touch me more. The warmth now was turning to real heat, and a euphoric feeling of comfort, a sense that this comfort was continuing to expand exponentially. By two, four, by a hundred, a million, never ending. It wasn’t a panic anymore but an utter and complete surrender to the physical awareness of intense pleasure, everywhere, at the same time. Nothing at all like when Riggs and I smoked. Now singularly wanting to connect to him at this moment, too out of control to form any thoughts other than communicating to Riggs by repeating, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”

"Are you okay?" he asked seriously, braking out of a role.

I nodded and gave a thumbs up. He laid his hands on my tits, pinching them hard. It felt overwhelmingly good. “Harder!” I cried.

“Just lie back and enjoy it,” Riggs said. “You'll keep rolling for a while.”

“How is…fuck!” I tried to focus on where I thought Riggs was, over by the table, him injecting himself. My vision was like a film that had gone off it sprockets. I said, “Can’t see straight. Eyes cross-eyed. Jumping.”

“It’s normal. It’ll come back. Just ride with me.” I realized he'd finished injecting himself and had laid a hand on top of my chest, then collapse on top of me. I could feel his heart pounding like it would explode. His usually alabaster skin was bright red. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he repeated more to himself than me. He reached up and unstrapped my left wrist. I flung it over him, hugging him to me, allowing him to find my face and kissing him as deep as I could, in thankfulness and lust. “Boy,” he gasped, “you are so beautiful. I want you for myself, all for myself. Not let him....”

“I want that too, Sir. I want you to fuck me and own my hole.”

He looked into my face desperately. “You’d sign your hole to me? Totally give it to me to shape and to mold the way I’d want it?”

“Yes. However you…”

“Shhhh,” he said holding up a finger to my lips. “How’s your hole feeling now?” he asked while freeing my right arm.

“Like it’s on fire. Like I need you to put something in it right now.”

He slowly made it to the peg board and removed a small dildo. He sat on the stool below my ass. He sucked on my hole. For how long I couldn't tell. Time seemed meaningless. I just knew we were one obscene creature, completely connected through my asshole to his mouth and probing fingers. I drifted off in a haze of ecstatic feeling, wanting my hole to open up as much as possible for him. I pushed out and flared my anus for his examining tongue.

I felt a pressure at my hole. “Push out like your shitting,” he breathed. I pushed my lips and he twisted the small dildo into my chute. Just the tip at first, but with slow, steady pressure he continued sliding it in and out. It was seamless insertion. The feeling of a foreign object continually bobbing in deeper and deeper. I was loving it. It couldn’t go in deep enough. I rocked myself against it, and finally, I felt the balls of the dildo hit my taint, not letting it go any further. He swirled it around a few times and I bucked trying to take in more. With the sling rocking, as much as I wanted to fuck myself against his object, the swinging action pushed me away every time I bounced to impale myself.

“Excellent, boy. You are in such heat. I knew you'd be a big slut,” he said. He stuck three generously greased fingers easily in me, then added a fourth. “Still a little tight.” He went over to the wall and came back with a larger dildo, big and appetizing. “Same thing,” he said as he greased it up, “like you’re shitting.” He inserted the head with a pop. I felt an initial stab of pain, then once my hole accepted the girth, it became a pleasurable sense of physical and mental surrender. With each of Riggs pushes, I wanted it all. He slowly stood up, leaned into me with the dildo pushed against his groin, he fought to gain inches in my chute. “Take it boy, all of it.” With each rock of the sling, I accepted more and more. “Hungry hole, haven’t you, boy? You want to become my hole, for me to destroy how I want?”

“You know it, Sir. I want every inch.”

We rocked like that for a long time until it was all the way in. His face was close to mine, pinching my nipples as I squeeze his. Like I'd been running a marathon, my sweat covered the sling causing me to slide around in it. He dripped sweat on top of me sliding his slicked body on top of me. “Boy, you’re doing so good. I knew you’d love this. How do you feel?”

“I can’t believe I want more. That you could stretch me open like this and make me want more.”

His eyes grew darker, shadows played on his face. He left me with the dildo still inserted, and went to the pegboard. He took off a string of rubber balls, the size of tennis balls, all linked together. I couldn't keep the dildo inside any longer. I felt its slimy shaft shit out of me like a giant slug, and with a heavy thud it hit the floor. “Reach over to the table. There’s some new poppers. They'll help you take these. If we can get at least three of them in you, we should be able to pry you open like you want. It won't be easy but between us we'll get them in.”

I grabbed the brown bottle while Riggs greased up the first ball and palmed a large about of Crisco in me. He rubbed it around my hole, teasing me with the first ball's girth, exciting me, titillating me, prepping me to beg for it. “Relax, tiger. It won’t go in unless you let it. Unless you want it. That's where the poppers help. You got to want it more than anything.”

I took a first hit and then a second. My head collapsed into the leather pillow. “Aw. Stretch me, Sir. Wreck my hole. Give me a gaping cunt.” I could feel the pressure of him pushing the first ball against my asslips. I flared my anus for him. The popper added not just a desire to have the ball inside me but a need to have Riggs be the one to break me in. “I want it, Sir. Please make me take it.” Like taking the biggest shit in my life, it stretched me mercilessly, and with a wail it was in. My torso arched up in pain to the ceiling. I’d never had an agonizing sense of fullness like this, ever. Every muscle in my colon felt like it was being torn apart. I heard Riggs far away telling me to breathe. I tried but I still felt ripped in half. I heard him closer. "That's it, fucker, that's what it feels like. You fucking pig, you like it, don't you?" I realized I was clenching and unclenching my ass as Riggs spoke cruelly to me. Riggs was also stroking my flaccid dick, rubbing my testicles with the same grease that lubed each of the balls. I felt my loins continue to throb but now transferred additional sensation triangulated between cock, balls and cunt. My groin felt like a mass of jello, exuding pleasure and pain, somewhere between excitement of surrender and anticipation of acceptance.

“Take another hit, quick,” he said. I did and Riggs pulled the first ball out making me scream again at its widest part. "Now how does your hole feel?"

"Wait. Give me a second." I was still reeling from the hit. I shook my head several times. Sweat flew off my wet hair. "Empty," I said. "So empty."

"Want it back, piggy. Tell me if you want that feeling back inside you."

"Yes, please, put it in. Stretch me, please, Sir."

"You're going to find it's much easier. Popper please." I held the bottle out for him, then took a hit myself. Before I capped the bottle, Riggs pressed the first ball in again. He was right. It popped back in with a jolt to my body, but without the never-ending torture of before.

"Oh, fuck. Shit, man. Fuck!" I cried, this time riding an intense wave of pleasure almost too unbearable to take. I writhed in the sling before Riggs, showing him what a whore I could be for him. Rubbing my crotch, grabbing at his tits. Riggs like what he saw, played with my opening. He inserted a finger pushing the ball further inside. I yelped, and snuck another hit of poppers, and immediately wanted Riggs to torture me more. He laid on the balls pushing the first ball even further. I accepted how deep the first ball was going, not because there wasn't any discomfort but because watching Riggs' face, I wanted him to tear me apart inside. The stretch was Riggs stretching me, molding me like he said he would.

Riggs rocked steadily against me with the second ball. I felt the first ball pressing against another barrier, still too tight to penetrate me at the moment, but Riggs motion of pushing and pulling was loosening something up.

Without warning Riggs rammed the second ball inside. Caught unawares, my torso again rose, trying to eject the sudden intruder. Riggs stood above me. “Lie down, David! Listen to me. Accept it! I'm not letting it out.” I was trying to expel it but could feel Riggs' body weighing against me, blocking any possibility I would be able to shit it out. “Lie back. Relax, David. David, calm down!" He pressed my shoulders down, leaning his face over mine, his eyes completely black. "It’s staying there so accept it. Just act like you’re continuing to shit, clench around it and you’ll see it’ll settle down.” He reached up and pinched my tits. The quick jolt of pain distracted me for a brief second. Suddenly I felt my ass expand again, thinking, fuck, I’m ripping apart. I felt the first ball tearing open more space deep inside me. Staring into Riggs' face, something in him was feeding off my torment. I didn't know I could bear such exquisite agony, but he seemed to be lustfully deflating the hell I was feeling in my guts.
I cried in torment. Tears welled up against the invasion. "Mercy, please. Fuck! Shit," I screamed. My tits ached as he clamped down on them. His big cock held out erect over my shriveled dick. With his body he firmly held the second ball that impotently was trying to escape.

He whispered, “That's it. Take it in. Give over to it. Give it up for me. Clench hard around it. Keep clinching. Try to push it out." Without warning he allowed the second ball to explode from my asshole. Immediately I peed all over myself. The power of release wet my belly, drenched the sling. A strong stream sprayed over me. Riggs held my pee stick and soaked his face and let the steady stream wash over my face as well. “Good boy. Another hurtle. Open wide.” He directed my dick, pinched it, aimed it at my mouth, and then let it loose. “Good boy, be a piss pig. I’m so proud of you, boy. Drink it down. That’s it—your reward.” The acrid piss went down in gulps. I didn’t think, just did what Riggs wanted, so happy to have the second ball out. “Swallow, pig. Don’t think, just do it.”

The salty liquid went down easily. Meanwhile, my hole had eased up on its rebellion. Occupied now with a new act of being a piss drinker for Riggs, I felt overjoyed that Riggs was proud of me. We spit mouthfuls of piss at each other. He'd drink for a while and spit it out over me and then take another sip. When I was spent, I took a hit and offered the poppers to him. He inhaled several times and gave them back to me. I felt my hole and found the string that hung out of it with the first ball still inside. I tugged it a bit and cautiously asked Riggs if I could take the second ball again.

“Fuck, pigboy. Are you ready for it? I won't let you off the hook so easy this time.”

I nodded but, as a safeguard, took several deep hits off the bottle. This time it went in smoothly and had an additional effect of making me begging for a few finger from Riggs. He granted my wish. “Oh, fuck, Sir. That hurts so good.”

He smiled his dark smile, rocking me in the sling. With each bounce I readily accepted the punishment, waited for it, began craving it. “Pighole, ready for another one?” Riggs asked, excited by my attitude. The ease in which the second had gone it showed both of us that my hole was become more pliable, enough to stretch if the will, mine and especially Riggs, was strong enough. It wasn't intimidated by the width anymore. I knew I could take the stretch but didn't know if I had the capacity to be penetrated so early to take more depth. I was willing to try, if nothing else, to prove to Riggs I wanted what he wanted. I pulled my cheeks apart showing him I was ready.
“Okay, let daddy give you a nice boycunt.” Again, he surprised me. He pushed the third entirely in but only for a second. I snarled, but before I felt the pain continuing, he pulled out the third and the second in one move. The two simultaneous expulsions sent me into an anal spasm. I was a bucking bronco in the sling. “Down, pig. Calm down. Look up and see what a hole whore you’re are.” I looked up in the mirror, and between spasms, with the last ball lodged still inside me, Riggs held up the remaining string of balls, and swung them back and forth, all the while looking at me with a sneering grin. I felt empty again, now missing that sense of fullness. “Push out the last ball for me,” he commanded.

I obeyed and he quickly push it back in. Again, I pushed it out. We played a game of catch with the last ball, he pushing it in and I expelling it out. After dropping into a haze playing this game, losing count of how long we kept this up, he abruptly dropped the balls on the floor and felt up my chute. Four fingers easily slid in without resistance. He rose and put his semi-erect dick against my ass. With all the slime that had been worked up no lube was necessary. Riggs' half-mast dick slid in effortlessly and he rested his pubes against my shaved and shriveled nuts.

He gently started rocking, sliding slowly in and out. “Your first fuck and no protection. You don’t mind, I can feel it.” He stopped rocking. I was in a daze, trying to put my head back together, fighting lust, pleasure, desire. “You’re unsure? Conflicted? Spell it out. Are you having second thoughts, David?”

I didn't think I was hesitant but now that he stopped I had a chance to think rationally. “Um, I hadn’t thought about it till now. Maybe use a rubber? I brought some. Upstairs.”

“You’re a tease, David, is that what you’re saying?" He started to slowly rock again. "You’d lead me down here and then want me to pull out while you go upstairs and find you rubbers for me to sheath myself. We'll lose everything we have. Is that really what you want?” As he was mocking me, he was also slowing growing inside me. I then began sensing an unexpected warmth filling my guts.

I flinched, realizing what he was doing. “Are you peeing inside me?”

He held my hips fast so he wouldn't come out of me till he finished. “Chem piss. Do you feel the recharge? You’re probably already starting to feel another hit of crystal. You want me to continue peeing in you?”

“Oh, shit,” I said. The longer he pissed the hornier I became even more than before, if that was at all possible. “Aw, fuck.  Yeah, fuck yeah." I looked into his black eyes and threw my head back feeling delirious. "It burns. It burns so good. I have demon cock in me. Fuck me. I want it.” I was verbally talking myself into this, whether I wanted to or not. I bucked forward, trying to ride his cock again, to get him fully aroused.

"If you're not sure, we can stop. I might poz you if I stay in." Another strong burst of piss flooded my guts, so much that I started leaking around his cock, his urine ran all over the floor. He pulled out his engorged cock and covered me in piss. I opened my mouth and gulped it down. "We can call it a night. We've already done so much. Already you've been exposed."

“Fuck me, man. I need to get fucked!" I pulled open my hole for him to use. Some piss squirted out. He stopped it by popping his dickhead back inside. I rocked on his dick and he accommodated me, teasing me with an inch, then another, and another, until I was fully impaled. "Oh, shit! Thank you, Sir! You're the ultimate Pig Master. I want your cum. I want you to knock me up.”

“No, fuckhole," he said, increasing the pace of his thrusts. "I'm hardly the ultimate Pig Master, but thank you. That would be him.” He nodded toward a figure hidden in the shadows. “Now lay back and enjoy getting your first poz fuck. I’m not allowed to cum, am I, Mr. X? Yet. That’s Mr. X’s privilege.” As he spoke, I felt Riggs’ cock grow like steel inside me. He teased my hole with small steady strokes. Then built to a full, complete thrust of his shaft. With each full fuck, his matted, wiry pubic hair scraped against my hairless ass. He swirled around inside my ass being sure I felt every inch of him, the first man that penetrated me. As he'd promised, the copious amount of precum built a slather over and around my clipped pubes. I ran a hand between my legs reveling in the slime. With each completely out then back in balls deep fuck, there resounded a rhythmic slapping. His cadence increased, the slapping increased, and along with an occasional flash of light at the window from cars snaking down the hill, I fell into an erotic daze. I was aware of Mr. X standing there stroking himself, but I was fading in and out of consciousness. It could have been an hour, but must have been more, because when Riggs was at the height of his rhythm and his cockhead swelled inside me to its most immense size yet, I felt the first glow of daylight breaking through the high window.

Riggs looking pained, almost crying, almost laughing, giving a final grand, glorious fuck in my ass, pulled out and jacked enough of a wad to shoot covering my face in sperm. He covered my chest and cock in ropes of sperm spewing out of him. After the first splashed my face, the remainder drooled and mixed with the mess in my crotch. He rested his spent, dripping cock over mine. Inside me, without Riggs holding it back, I felt a reservoir of ass juice beginning to leak out, first in a tiny drip then a steady stream of the remaining chem piss squirting onto his legs. Riggs rubbed a hand across the spray and wiped the juice over my face. I looked up in the mirror at my reflection. A fine sweat covered my skin, glistening in the growing light. I was shaking, not from cold, but from the drugs and over-stimulation coursing through my body. I suppose I should have been shocked with the dark figure approaching, or the fever from the drugs, or Riggs wiping my face with sludge, but I wasn’t. I saw how large and black my own pupils were. I was enjoying every degrading second of being here.

“This is the Boy Scout?” said the dark figure, coming forward on my right. He was wearing a leather vest, and nothing more, stroking a very mean looking erection. I couldn’t help stare at it. He switched on an overhead fluorescent light. It was suddenly way too bright. It whited out the room. Yet for one passing second I caught a glimpse of the metal adorning his cock. I waited for a moment for my eyes to adjust. I focused back on him and saw a single orange-tipped needle poke out of his vest pocket.

“Glad you made it, Mr. X,” Riggs said wheezing, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hair on my leg. He fingered some cum on my chest and fed it to me.
I thought nothing of sucking Riggs' fingers. Mr. X said nothing, but took my right arm and put it into the cuff above, then reached across to bind my left wrist, leaving the ample black bush of his armpit covering my face, long enough to let his pheromones seep into me. It was pungent, like the piss stench of a homeless man, and something else, acrid, musky, fetid. “I’d say a slam for me and the boy, and we can get down to business.” I licked my lips and tasted him. My withered dick gave a twinge of arousal.
 

Edited by asslikker
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How I wish this would have happened to me in my 20's-  to have met someone like this and to show me what it is to be a pig bottom.  My cock just drips when I read this. 

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Looking forward to seeing how things develop with Mr. X.  This story is getting more and more interesting.  There are not enough dungeons / playrooms dedicated to serious ass play in my experience.

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Signed, Sealed, Delivered (Day 1)

Riggs looked exhausted, shaky, ready to be folded and put away wet. He ambled over to the filthy mattress, which in the new harsh light, showed how really cum and piss stained it was. He flopped down tweaking his nipples, and closed his eyes. Mr. X began his examination of me—and me him.

Daylight continued to brighten outside, which had a minimum effect on the black-painted room. However, with the unforgiving fluorescent lights no details were hidden. Mr. X had to have been in his late sixties, possibly early seventies. My jumbled brain pieced together that he was definitely the man I’d seen in the telescope. Now, up close and getting very personal, he was a much more imposing figure than the troll Riggs had indicated. He saddled up between my legs where I felt his fingers probe my newly fucked anus. Slowly, unrushed, almost lulling me to sleep, he internal massage my hole. It had the desired effect on me. I spread my legs more than they had been, and opened my passage to however deep he wanted to explore. He didn't go extremely deep, only manipulated my rectum with a playfulness that made me want to impale myself on him just to shock him. He sensed my eagerness and withdrew his hand and wiped it on my chest. He had gotten me in the state I believe he wanted: calm, observant, submissive.

As I looked at him—for that was now all I could do—he had to be over six foot and probably an inch or two more. His face was craggy, aged by sun and experience. A lot of experience I could guess by his eyes. They looked weary, and not by the early hour. He had a long, hanging scruff of grey chin hair, small dark eyes, the whites very blood shot, his brows heavy, black and grey. He was completely bald. A large biohazard tattoo stood out on his neck. So many tattoos scattered up and down his arms, torso and legs they blended together as one. A single tattooed tear sat on his cheek. For the most part, the tattoos weren’t the kind you normally see, but seemed old, faded, etched long ago. A hula girl, a Tiki head, blue birds, fish, sharks, hammerheads, four aces, a wolf, a black broken heart. As he looked me over he licked his thin lips. His mouth hung ajar just a bit, enough for me to see he was missing four front teeth. His pecs hung heavy. At one time he might have had a strong, powerful chest. The breasts now sagged low, hairless, each nipple, like Riggs’, engorged to eraser head size. They might even have been larger, though it was hard to measure, for each one was adorned with a large horseshoe piercing.

He felt my abdomen. I glanced up at our reflection in the broken mirror. I felt caught like a fly, watched as might a fly watch an approaching spider out of one of its many refractions. The drugs must have been keeping me sedated. I felt no fear but fascination and some arousal by this man, by the danger he imposed, by the stories his tattoos conveyed. Refraction upon refraction from the broken mirror above, I followed the movement of his most prominent tattoo: a snake head starting on top of his right hand, its forked tongue running the entire of his middle finger. The finger lacked a fingernail. The snake head brushed my clipped pubic hair. The snake coiled around his arm, ran over his shoulder, disappear down his back. He turned and found on the table the same straight razor that Riggs had shaved my balls. As he turned I could see the snake serpentine down his spine and disappear right into his buttocks. He brought the straight razor to my crotch, and in a series of smooth brushstrokes, he completely removed my remaining pubic hair. He grabbed a water bottle and washed any errant strands off me, feeling afterward to ensure there was nothing left. He felt the hair under my pits with the back of his hand. Brought up the razor again and, with a few strokes, got rid of all the hair there, too. He rinsed the area again. Satisfied, he turned and set the razor back on the table. Again, I followed the snake's journey over his broad back, slithering down to its end, tapered tail disappearing down his butt crack. Looking at his ample and still muscular buttock, I wondered how far down the tip of the snake went.

He twisted back around. He smiled to himself, a horrible gap-toothed maw, making me uneasy that he read my interest in his snake. He held my head, lobbed it from side to side. His snake hand leveraged open my mouth. He leaned in, ran a finger over my teeth, lips and tongue. I tasted the remnants of my ass juice. Though not overwhelmingly rancid, still it reminded me of how much I had come to accept this far. The "interview" was far from over, if the "interview" had ever begun. He inserted a few more fingers and stuck them back in my throat. I coughed and gagged until he backed out.

He stood up to his full height, towering above me. His manhood had relaxed, but still remained impressive. Some foreskin appeared that wasn’t there before, covering a large silver ring that cut a hole through his cockhead. The ring’s tip hung with a silver ball. He saw me staring at his member and brought it to my mouth. Pulling back the foreskin revealed some encrusted white flakes. He put it to my nose. I gave a quick sniff and was assaulted by the overpower smell of fermented cheese. He looked at me, waiting. He put it back to my nose and I wretched. He flicked out his tongue in a licking manner. I thought the drugs were playing tricks, but he stuck his tongue out a second time, indicating what he wanted. The drugs hadn't tricked me, his tongue was definitely sliced down the center. Who was this man, and how did he embed desires in me without a word? I touched the tip of my tongue against one of the white flakes. He grabbed my hair and pushed his whole head in my mouth. Between the hard metal and the repugnant taste, I threw my head back and turned away gagging.

He let out a low, guttural laugh. There were so many things that should have raised a wave of alarms, but there was something enticing, mesmerizing about his force, his careless dominance. His proportions, huge shoulders like rocks, forearms and biceps like logs, large, sinewy veins clustered with bruises, the pockmarks on his face, his shrunken cheeks, a pentagon on his right shoulder, three 6s stacked in a triangle on the left—these were all warning me, yet drawing me to him. I shook my head again trying to get clear. Sweat from my hair still flew. He held out his cockhead again, peeled back his foreskin. He lured me to him. With a single finger on my chin, he gently, without resistance, opened my mouth. And with an my mouth opened I extended my head to meet his smegma-speckled cock. He allowed my approach. I gave it a slathering, around, under, then inserted it whole, sucking as much cheese as I could find, perversely loving how revolting it was. I retched several times. He seemed to enjoy each heave. He rotated his cockhead to me, displaying flakes I had missed. I licked up all I could find. I was entranced, wanting him, not understanding why I felt this way from the first flake of white I had swallowed.

With an even deeper lust than I had Riggs, now came a desire for subordination to the man holding out his growing member. And as it swelled to an enormous length, what I’d seen only briefly when he turned on the fluorescent light, I now saw complete; all the shimmering metal studs lining the underside of his shaft; the thick round ring piercing his cockhead. At its full length I counted six horizontal studs each evenly spaced. His balls hung down in an enormous sack, testes the size of horse's balls swung by the slightest motion. I couldn’t take my eyes from this magnificent beast. A bush the blackest and thickest I’d ever seen, crusted dark wires curled behind his majestic member. Liquid beaded from his piss slit. He followed my gaze and dipped a finger to the bulb of precum and put it to my lips. I sucked his digit and felt his fingers again slide into my mouth. His fingers reached the back of my throat. This time I didn’t gag but let him go in as deep as he wanted. He withdrew the snake hand looking satisfied.

He stared for an inordinate amount of time, evaluating. He felt my nipples. Turned again to the table and took out a pump with two plastic tubes. He placed one tube on each nipple and used the pump to draw about a half inch of skin in each tube and sealed them off.

He stroked my cock, got it as large as it was going to get. He pinched the piss slit, ran a large finger over the spread tip. He bent down, spat, and slithered out his tongue. One of the two branches of his freakish tongue wormed down into my slit. It was the most unnerving thing I ever felt, like a worm boring its way into me. My body shook in revolt. Still, he held my member fast. At first, I felt a warm flickering as it went down into the entrance to my piss chute. I felt the other half of his tongue wrapped round my head, stroking from different sides, washing back and forth over the head. I felt myself, for the second time tonight, on the edge of cumming. He pulled back, but rather that letting my cock go, he inserted the second tip, both halves now drilling down into my piss hole. He buried his mouth over my erect organ so I couldn't see what he was doing, but I felt it, every millimeters of undulating muscle that was slithering into me. Not a blow job at all, he was giving me two simultaneous sensations: one on the outside skin, swirling lips and bobbing mouth, something Napa boy had expertly done, but then a second sensation, one playing within my organ. I felt his split tongue gliding again themselves, like miniature scrubbing hands, sliding deeper down an impossible tender corridor. And while he probed, the two parts of this tongue forced the urethra farther apart. Like Riggs had pried apart my sphincter by spreading fingers inside my anus, the more Mr. X expanded my shaft the deeper he was able to drive his tongue down in me. A little over half my cock he'd devoured inside and out, when he slowly undulated, each time kneading further down my shaft. However malleable his tongue could get, the more he was splitting my shaft apart, the deeper his mouth enveloped me. I don’t know how long he kept it up, but he was unrelenting. Finally he engulfed my entire cock, his mouth resting where my pubes used to be, his tongue in as deep as he could get. I felt the top of my cockhead hit the back of his throat. He was tasting me like no other human could. When I wondered if were possible for a human to perform this type of sucking, the thought tripped a switch from which I couldn’t pull back from. With him glued to my cock, I writhed in the sling under him. Like an octopus gripping his prey, he moved wherever I moved, slithering relentlessly with me. I erupted with multiple ejaculations, never seeming to release, cumming deep inside the clogged tube, making my orgasm build up even stronger, then he let me erupt into his mouth for one intense spasm after another. Right behind, like a freight train run off its rails, another orgasm came crashing into the first, and with another flick of his inserted tongue blasted another right behind that. He swallowed every thread spewing out of me. I came a third time, thinking this could possibly never end, a house of mirrors, orgasm spasming inside an orgasm to infinity. He sucked everything I had in me and then sucked out more. Like a vampire that drained blood, Mr. X drained everything drop of cum I had. I could hold nothing back. He took everything within me, possibly everything I would ever have, exploded in his mouth until he finally released me. Relief spread over me, yet at the same time an epic regret that my cock was no longer controlled by him, as unnatural as the act had been. I spasmed a few more times and was done.

A lake of semen dribbled out of his mouth, drooling down into the hair that hung from his chin. Some glistening clear juice matted the gray hairs, some gelled in white clots in the corners of his mouth. As he hung over me, some dark yellowish green flapped in his nostrils. It was only the beginning of the day with him, but he usurped Riggs' place without a fight. He lowered his beard and I sucked my cum out of it. Looking over me he knew he had enslaved any free will I had. He was deliverance in the flesh.

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