Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 13-16

"Pin!" yelled the ref. And it was only then that Matt realized his cock was being pressed between the bum cheeks on which he was perched. He felt a violent arousal, and his sudden erection was throbbing and twitching as it lay sandwiched in the warm sweaty crevasse of the vanquished ass.

"Take him now," stated an authoritative voice as the cheering and conversation died down. Suddenly the room was hushed. Matt slid back off the glistening backside, and inserting his hands beneath the hips, raised the loser's limp form to its knees. Matt was fantastically aroused. He felt his body quivering as he pushed himself up against Sam's docile derriere. Spreading the compliant cheeks, Matt quickly ran a finger over the rosebud opening, smearing sweat across it. Then, placing his painfully swollen glans against the inviting anus, he pulled the hips violently back as he thrust forward, burying his shaft to its hairy base in one stroke. Other than a sudden gasp of surprise and perhaps pain, Sam was completely acquiescent to the fierce pounding of his rectum. Matt's senses were so keyed, that, despite a strong desire to prolong it, he could feel his orgasm exploding from his balls. He came in waves so intense that he feared he would faint. Finally, he collapsed onto the motionless back beneath him. The only movement for several moments was the pulsing of his still turgid cock and the answering squeezes of the rectal muscles that held him firm.

Then the audience broke into applause and appreciative praise. Matt reveled in the noisy approval. "I'm so much more prostitute than profligate," he admitted to himself as he surveyed the audience. He had realized a good while earlier that what he was doing was whoring; just whoring for non-monetary rewards. But he couldn't quite determine whether he was disgusted or proud.

Uncoupled, the two performing partners were helped from the room. The sauna and soak returned some semblance of life to Matt who, nevertheless, spent the rest of his visit in a sort of post-sodomitic trance. He had relished the surge of victory and the charge of domination over his vanquished opponent, but in retrospect, it hadn't really been him. A strong feeling of dissociation had removed him from direct involvement, providing, instead, a strange objectivity – a kind of objective replacement. Matt now felt there had been some sort of mistake – some sort of role reversal – for, as much as he superficially enjoyed the scene, he knew himself to be far better suited to the part of the defeated than that of the victor – victim rather than aggressor – always.

He still endeavoured to behave normally at home, despite the frequency with which he was away; but it was becoming more and more difficult. Jenn obviously tried to be understanding, apparently thinking that he was simply going through a mid-life crisis – an idea of which he didn't disabuse her. Maybe it was even true. He still loved her and felt bad about her obvious distress. With him always 'on the prowl' or 'at the club', she complained that they rarely saw each other anymore. He tried to think of ways to make it up to her. He told her that he knew she was complaining only a fraction of what she had every right to, and he was appreciative of that. He hoped things would work out soon. He said that he expected they would, but he was not sure how that would happen. He didn't know where he was going – he didn't really know exactly where he was anymore. And so it continued. He thought of the old navy term SNAFU – situation normal, all fucked up. That just about summed it up.

He was engaged to serve at a function at the home of Madeline, one of the older female members. She was a severe, business-like woman. She was rumoured to be extremely kinky, although Matt had not seen anything too unusual; also, as he already knew from his limited experience, she was said to be very, very dominant – at times verging on sadistic. She had, previously, been the owner/operator of a bawdy-house in Vancouver's West End, called The House of Domination and Fantasy. Set up in a funky old home amongst the sterile high-rises of downtown, Matt had been told that Madeline had offered a mind-boggling variety of fantasy scenario rooms; from the classic schoolroom and hospital room to a medieval torture chamber and an executive boardroom. D & F, as the place had been known, had, eventually, been forced to close through constant police harassment brought on by complaints and allegations from a "righteous" minority, who had somehow found out about its otherwise quiet existence.

Nonetheless, Madeline seemed to have walked away from it in good shape. Now she lived in what appeared from the outside to be a modest house on the fringes of Vancouver's very classy Shaugnessy district. It was an innocuous, old style 50s or 60s rancher that, although not actually decrepit, had certainly seen better days. With moss on the edges of the roof, green growth discolouring the yellow stucco siding, it stood on one of the large lots common to that area. The trees in and around the yard had become fairly big over the years so that the yard was quite dark and enclosed; the house well concealed behind the lush shrubbery. The yard was surrounded by an old fence, which was lined, rather inconspicuously on the inside by strung wires – "Barbed? Electrified?” Matt wondered as he hurried past. The gate through the fence was made of heavy wrought iron and had on it a new, well-used padlock which currently hung open on a large hasp. If one didn't notice the locked gate, and most passers-by wouldn't, the place was more or less completely unremarkable. Did the neighbours ever wonder what went on in that 'quiet' place? Matt wasn't sure himself, but by then he probably had a better idea than most.

It's plain, old exterior belied the spacious ultra-modern interior. The transition from the mundane entry foyer to the avant-garde living room was overwhelming. It was an expanse of robin's-egg blue with electric blue and chrome yellow accents. The furnishings were all heavy, ebony framed designer pieces with soft black leather upholstery, positioned away from the walls in a rough conversational grouping. A black glass coffee table dominated the centre of the room, while small matching end tables stood at the arms of the two sofas and the several occasional chairs. The walls were oddly dotted with strange little shelves supported by big, solid brackets, many with hooks and rings. Matt, however, was given precious little time to appreciate his surroundings.

He had arrived, as expected, before the guests, and was brusquely ushered into a large bathroom by Madeline, the hostess and dominatrix. The spacious facility, decorated in a somber opulence, was larger than the living room of Matt and Jenn's condo. A dark, textured, black and gold marbled the walls, while golden fixtures and accessories accented floor, counters and back splashes tiled in obsidian. The black, low profile toilet and matching bidet stood side by side beneath a small, single frosted window. To the left was a double-sink vanity next to deep shelves of luxuriously thick black towels. To the right, two soft leather chairs sat before a spot lit and plushly carpeted dressing area with make-up table. In the middle of the room, set into a raised platform, was an expansive black tub, completely around which could be drawn a transparent curtain. Four versatile showerheads hung from a sturdy framework above the skid-proofed centre of the tub, while built-in seats occupied the corners. Several aimable swirl jets were positioned about each of the seats. In the large, gilt-framed, three way mirror that stood in front of the table, dominating the dressing area wall, occupants of the easy chairs could not only watch the face of the person making-up on the stool, but everything else that took place in the room.

As Matt attempted to take in all the details of the room, Madeline began giving rapid-fire orders. "Take off all of your clothing," she snapped, swinging the large wooden door closed to expose several locker style cabinets, "and put them in there," indicating the open one on the end. With an admirable economy of words and touch, Madeline conducted Matt's preparatory ablution and raiment with the grace and precision of a maestro. He was ordered into the shower and told exactly how and what to scrub, before being called out again and toweled off with the rough efficiency of a no-nonsense nurse. Madeline administered a clinical enema before directing him in his dressing. Fitted out with an outlandish yet provocative mixture of chain and leather and silk Matt felt a familiar lightness lifting him to an almost narcotic high. A silken jockstrap affair supported his testicles while leaving his penis exposed. Over its silk waist strap lay an encircling chain to which was loosely connected, by lighter links, leather thigh cuffs, a studded leather collar, and thick leather wrist cuffs. Those wrist cuffs were also attached to one another, as well as to the collar at his neck. He was effectively hobbled by a restrictively short length of chain between his thighs. A supple leather strap was buckled snugly up against his glans and was also loosely chained with a fine silver string to the anchor loop at his waist. Finally Madeline handed Matt a pair of leather covered clamps connected to a light chain. “Here. Fasten these to each nipple,” she commanded, adding, as he worked, “Check to make sure they’re secure.” Matt glanced up, not immediately understanding. Madeline responded with impatience, “Like this!” She reached over and shook them firmly ensuring a positive attachment. “Okay,” she allowed. “Now, you must ensure that they don’t fall off. Check them frequently.” It was an order. The consequences, undoubtedly dire, remained unspoken.

Then she stopped and stepped back to appraise her handiwork. Apparently satisfied, she turned to retrieve something from a drawer in the dressing table. Matt turned to watch himself in the mirror. He could almost see himself moving out of the real world, and a feeling of peace settled over him. That was what he liked about it. He had basically shed his worldly responsibilities, shed his worries and anxieties along with his clothes and, in donning the accoutrements of submission, he had insulated himself against even the slightest of earthly concerns. All decisions – everything – was out of his hands – out of his reach – beyond his control. He took comfort in the placid responses, the simple expectations of being submissive. Madeline stood directly in front of him and, with the ritualized precision of liturgy, she lifted to his face a string of about a dozen polished ebony beads decreasing in size from an inch and a half down to a half an inch in diameter. With an almost religious solemnity, he was told to kiss them. They were warm and smelled, like the comforting aroma of a doctor's office, faintly of disinfectant. “Turn around and bend over,” Madeline snapped. Starting at the large end of the string, the beads were pushed one by one into his rectum, until he contained them all. His lower bowel felt stretched like a balloon.

Madeline bodily turned him around again and, grasping his shoulders she spoke into his face in a very low, dangerous voice. Matt listened carefully as she gave him his final instructions – explained her expectations. “Although you are primarily a waiter or butler; you must acquiesce to any and all demands of my guests.” She paused as if considering who would be there and what was likely to transpire. “I don’t really expect you will be put to too much service; nevertheless…” There was something almost frightening in her tone; “to make your evening more interesting – more memorable…” and, saying that, Madeline allowed herself the first hint of a smile Matt had seen thus far. “Throughout the night you will hold all the beads inside – unless someone specifically asks you how you are or how you’re doing? In that case, you will answer simply, ‘I am receiving my dues.’ Then and only then are you allowed to release one of the beads – only one at a time, mind you – one per inquiry.” Matt was momentarily boggled. His eyes went wide for an instant before returning to his usual semi-squint. “Any questions?”

“No,” he murmured, dropping his gaze. It would be mortifying – a condensation of abasement. He felt a vibration beginning deep in his core. He could do this; he would do this – and perfectly. “Thank you,” he added softly; what surprised him was that he really meant it.

The actual duties he performed at the party were simply to serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres, lotions, oils and washcloths. He was required, in one instance, to felate a guest to readiness for some scene of which he wasn't a part. In another instance, he had to use his mouth to clean the genitals of a couple lounging in afterglow.

Interestingly, despite the many and definitely varied experiences that coloured the mosaic of his life at that time, Matt still thought of himself as completely heterosexual. He didn't consider himself bisexual, and had never given a thought to the idea being even slightly gay. Giving head, submitting to anal penetration, these were just things that were required – things that he did. They didn't, he thought, in any way, reflect a deviant or different sexual orientation. “But then again, what the hell did that mean?” he asked himself as he circulated through the guests like the servant he was. As with most anyone else, he knew he could rationalize pretty well anything – and did.

Although most people accepted offerings from his tray and otherwise ignored him, as the night progressed, his tail of ebony beads gradually grew. Roland was amongst the guests. "How are you, Matthew?" he asked earnestly.

"I am receiving my dues." Matt stood motionless for the moment, the sensations produced by his well-controlled sphincter as he carefully released another bead sparkled up through his body, casting a fleeting glaze over his eyes and bringing a bright, transient flush to his cheeks. With another bead added to its hanging weight, his tail swung between his legs and got a little more difficult to hold. Still, he had been told he was not to release the last one unless given explicit leave to do so by Madeline. Sometimes it seemed to him that the erotic elements of a given incident lay purely in humiliation. The beads, slowly emerging from his anus, hanging there, touching him, and swinging against the backs of his thighs as he moved, were erotic and arousing, but only as a constant reminder of his abject humiliation.

Roland waited, then leaned forward to whisper in confidence, "No, really. I won't tell." He had a soft spot for Matt; Matt knew. His voice echoed a genuine concern – a real desire to know. "How are you doing?"

Matt was still restless; he didn’t know what response Roland was looking for, but worse, he still didn't know what he was looking for; still didn't know if this was right or wrong – or just some other universe in which he had accidentally landed. He looked at Roland and felt the warmth of an unprejudiced friendship filtering through his confusion. He smiled very slightly, while keeping his voice deliberately flat, "Just fine, sir. Thank you, sir," and turned to continue his circulation; once more letting the smothering security of subjugation calm his discomfiture.

XVI.

He knew he was living a double life – rogue husband and apprentice slave. That there would very soon come a crisis point was painfully obvious. By necessity, uncomfortable truths needed be revealed and Matt would, whether by Jenn's insistence, his own hand, or some outside influence, be forced to make some sort of choice in terms of his life's direction. He had tried to put that time off as long as possible. He just wanted to avoid it. He was dealing with his life by omission. How long could he go on under the consequences of tacit decisions?

Arriving home, he just couldn't believe it. How could he have fallen so far out of touch with reality? Over thirty-six hours – that's how long he had been gone! He had stayed out a whole night. Amazingly enough, that was the first time he had not made it home by morning, the first time, he let himself believe, he had not gotten home before Jenn woke. He hadn't even called. The crime was, he reproached himself, that he hadn't even thought about it – hadn't even thought about Jenn, at home, wondering where he was. That was frightening. What a bastard. He didn't deserve a woman like her.

So he stole quietly into the bedroom once again. It was earlier than often, although Jenn was, as usual, already in bed. He joined her, smelling faintly of sweat and cologne, hugging and kissing her, hating himself for treating her so. He ignored the dampness on her pillow; he didn't want to think of her crying herself to sleep. She slowly woke and gradually responded – trembling and unsure. She didn't ask him where he'd been; she just seemed to accept it – his absence; his return. Matt couldn't understand her. He knew that this, along with the rest of his peculiar behaviour, was eating her up. Why didn't she say something; complain, rant, anything.

"Sorry, I didn't make it home yesterday," he whispered tentatively, "I guess I shoulda phoned..."

Jenn's whisper broke into his awkward pause, "That's all right. I'm just glad you're home now." Ironically, he realized that she, too, was dealing with it – with him, by omission – by disregarding that which she couldn't understand or change. She had always been so strong, so forthright. Now, having brought her to this, he felt doubly guilty.

Matt figured that Jenn probably suspected he was having an affair, but she seemed to understand, too, that he was working through some sort of huge problem – going through some sort of major crisis. If nothing else, she appeared to accept that he still loved her and she apparently felt secure enough in his love that she had decided not to confront him. Maybe she was as good at rationalizing as he was; maybe she had decided that if she didn't know for sure, then, just maybe, he wasn't having an affair, and there was nothing to deal with anyway. Hoping that, perhaps, it would all just go away.

Once again, neither made any further move to initiate sex – he was too weary; she too wary – rebuffed once too often of late. They lay silently in a close embrace, her back nestled into his chest, her rear into his crotch. He appreciated that she was handling him with kid gloves; that she was tiptoeing about him so carefully in an attempt not to alienate him; but she had been far too good to him, far better than he deserved. Surely the past several months had been hell for her though she had never complained. Suffering silently, she was martyring herself to Matt's own personal – very personal – problems. It hadn't been fair; it wasn't right. Finally he spoke.

"You awake?" he asked rhetorically.

"Yeah?"

"Do you still love me?"

He could feel the tension coil throughout her body as she lay without moving. Yet she answered without hesitation. "Always have and always will; do I love you? Yes!"

"I love you too, you know. More than you can imagine." Here he paused, as if to gather his thoughts, his courage, his forces, then, taking a deep breath as if to steel himself, he said, "But I have to leave you for a bit – maybe a month or so." He felt her stiffen even more but she didn't speak. "Big things are changing; my whole universe seems to be in flux. In short, there're some things I really need to work out." He gave a wry chuckle. "That sounds rather timeworn, eh? – a line from an old movie." The chuckle vanished completely as he went on. "But my world is changing faster than I can keep up. Things are happening that I need to work through. It would just be temporary." He seemed to almost plead. "Please understand?"