The Black Rose Ecstasy Ch. 02

We had begun building a dungeon in the basement of our 1740s townhouse, had used it a few times, and were acquiring a decent collection of toys and equipment. My boyfriend/partner/lover/husband (I'm never sure which term to use) and I were drawn together in part because of our sexual preferences and predilections; finally I'd found someone who was comfortable walking around in his "kinky boots," someone who was comfortable sexually and shared my interest in bdsm. The whole "alternative community" had thrilled me for many years, although previous partners were, for the most part, uncomfortable with it. Although we agreed up to this point to maintain an exclusive, monogamous relationship with each other, it was clear pretty early on that that commitment would be tested as we began to explore our kinky sides together.

We'd been going to the leather bars, sometimes alone and sometimes together, and we'd both attracted the attention of other men -- TEMPTATION! It was exciting being noticed and the flirting whipped up our hormones. We'd both begun to spend more and more time and energy cruising and flirting in online gay chat rooms, something harmless enough, to be sure.

My lack of experience and insecurity over my technical skills (as opposed to what I perceived as my boyfriend's expertise) made it uncomfortable for me to contribute much about the sorts of 'scenes" I was interested in exploring -- and it wasn't for want of him asking me, either, I have to admit. Admittedly, I would have preferred at that point in time that my boyfriend take the reins entirely and simply submerge me in the possibilities of bdsm, something that, looking back, was unfair and interest-deadening for him. At any rate, there was a period of frustration that we both felt: me wanting more kink, he wanting more input and involvement.

It was a Friday night, in the midst of this mutual frustration, and my boyfriend was working nights at Jefferson ER. Although I knew my partner was fine with me going out alone to the local leather bar I still found it an exciting, almost forbidden, pleasure going there alone, knowing that the attention would be less curtailed than it is when you're there with another person, even just another friend. The lust of the hunt! the instinctual craving for sex, the thirst for more, the taste for variety, even though I wasn't at a place where I could admit that to myself without feeling guilty, I knew what I wanted, and it was in the Pit Stop (basement) of the local gay leather bar known as "The Bike Stop."

The Bike Stop is a four-level leather bar tucked discreetly away down a side street in Philadelphia's "gayborhood" district. Close to the other bars, close to the gay shopping district, close to a decent residential area, close to the gay baths. As bars go, it's nothing special, really. Each floor has a different "theme" of feel. The top floor has a bar and a rarely-used danced floor that plays boppy gay disco music and has a lonesome looking bar that few people bother with. The third floor is the "sports bar" replete with pool table, and large-screen television flanking a large horseshoe shaped bar. Unpretentious (and FAR too brightly lit), the "Back Stop" is still a friendly place to talk and relax away from the more intense "meat hunting" in the lower two floors. The ground level floor has a long bar, plays rock music and is more of a hub and crossroad for people cruising from the basement (the "Pit Stop") and the upper floors. The Pit Stop, with its low ceilings and barely lit décor of black walls and sparse red light bulbs, is pure sexual energy. And don't wear any cologne, either, because they'll turn you back at the stairs. The drinks are poured particularly strong, the corners are completely dark and inviting, the toilet as a swinging door or it, and there's a small shop that sells bsdm equipment (and will do demonstrations for you if you hold your head just right when you ask!). The Pit Stop is my kind of bar!

My outfit is simple -- wear as little as legally possible! Practicality has its place, and boots do keep you from getting splinters, so I decided to wear my black Boulet cowboy boots, which look so nice with my snug leather pants. My 2" ball stretcher casts a great profile through my leather pants so they were on the menu tonight, too. I took a leather jacket but with the intention of ditching it at the coat check as soon as I got there -- and taking it off in the bar is part of the fun, too! A red handkerchief in the rear right pocket sends just the right message, and I'm off with cash and driver's license tucked out of sight in the tiny "drugs pocket" of my leather pants.

I am bold today, and my weight is down to 152 pounds, so I feel comfortable with my flat hard tummy and firm pectorals being on display. I'm no gym bunny, but my body is smooth and hard, on the slender side but definitely not skinny. My disproportionately broad shoulders and long arms could use a little more meat on them, but even there I cast a nice profile in skin. I take a cab to the bar because it's already pressing midnight, and I know the place will be packed. I enter the bar, my favorite cowboy boots giving me a confidence in my stride as the heels thud noisily on the hardwood floors. I stand tall, pass the bouncer, and stride swiftly into the main floor bar thrusting my hips forward and squeezing my ass cheeks tight against my leather pants. I can feel my cock swell as my ball stretcher presses through the leather of my right leg.

New meat -- everyone turns to watch any newcomer, so I take advantage of the moment and smoothly slide my leather bike jacket off my oiled shoulders, swing it up and over my shoulder, and walk toward the coat check as I flinch my oiled pectorals. I glance around to see if anyone is watching, and smile flirtatiously at a few men who are staring intently at me. As I approach the coat check the attendant, a leather daddy in full garb, smiles, reaches out across the counter, and lands a firm slap on both pecks with his hands. "Very nice," he says, smiling confidently at me, "you work out. Good for you."

"Thanks," I say coyly, although I'm not going to be a dork and point out how much I hate gyms, how I have never sustained a workout regime for more than a week in my life. If he wants to think a bench press did this, so be it, it's not as though he likes me for my mind or the witty conversation, anyway. Details like that are lost in a place like this -- it doesn't matter why you look good as long as feel like you look good, it's a man's confidence that draws men in places like this like flies drawn to a burning torch.

Okay, time to go before he asks me how many reps I do and spoils the moment. I turn to the bar, leaning over a chair that is strategically in my way, so as to give the crowd behind me a good view, squeezing my ass gently to make sure the shine of my leather pants catches the light of the spot lights above, showing the curve of my butt. It works, in a few seconds a couple of passers-by slide their hands over my ass as they walk past. "Tall Tom Collins, please, easy on the ice," I ask the bartender, also known as "hit me hard with the hard stuff, would ya?" A smile and a wink on my part seals the deal -- I'm such a shameless flirt. However, the drink is now so strong I can barely manage to swallow without wincing at the biting sting of the alcohol. You have to love the American "free-pour" mentality when it comes to mixing cocktails.

Speaking of cocks, the place is full of them tonight, all ages, sizes, and tastes (pardon the pun). I make my way down the back stairs to the Pit Stop and lean back so as not to hit my head on the low ceiling of the bottom landing, making a deliberate thrust-and-twist to my hips as I spin on the heel of my boot and stride into the crowded room. It's way dark in here! and it's very hot! The humid aura of musty basement and sweaty men fills the space. Many men are wearing leather gear, and I can catch the occasional whiff of tanned leather. The sexual energy is intense, I can feel the eyes careening over me, and I lick my lips slowly, drawing heavily on the straw of my drink. I can feel my heart beating faster, and my nervousness increasing as I venture into this den of iniquity. "I know I'm going to be faithful to my man, I'm not going to do anything to hurt him tonight," I think to myself.

After hastily finishing off another two Tom Collins I seek refuge in a dark corner to play the role of voyeur for a while. The attention and cruising is a little too intense, and it's making me uncomfortable, nervous somehow, too much under scrutiny. I sit on a stool in the corner just next to the "Gear Box," the tiny leather store in the corner of the basement. Before long an attractive, older man approaches and starts a friendly conversation, but when I don't show any reaction when he rubs my leg, he quickly moves on, saying, "Well, good luck tonight!"

"I don't need luck, you fucker, just because I'm not into YOU." Still, what he said bothers me a bit, twitches my insecurity -- I finish off my fourth Tom Collins, just now beginning to feel a light-headedness, and just now beginning to feel really bold. In the back of my mind I consider this could be bad, that I don't have to prove anything to anyone.

I seek out the dark corner by the door to the storeroom, and find a stool to sit on. I lean back, suck in my tummy, and adjust my balls. Within a couple of minutes a stalky man in jeans and a tight white t-shirt approaches and stands next to me, pressing his shoulders into me. The bartender approaches and pushes past to get into the storeroom the beefy man turns to get out of the way, and is now standing directly in front of me, his chest inches from my face.

'Hey, having a good time tonight?" he asks.

"So far," I reply, with a flirtatious grin. Checkmate. He lifts me off the stool then slides both of his big hands onto my ass and pulls me against him as he grinds his crotch into mine. I can feel his hard dick rubbing back and forth against my ball stretcher. He moves his right hand forward, unbuttons my pants, and slides it down my crotch.

"What's this?" he asks, as be explored my steel ball stretcher, "mm, that's hot!"

We start kissing, but he's very rough and aggressive. He opens his mouth wide and forces his tongue into mine. He sucks hard, his whiskers rubbing roughly on my lips. It feels like he's going to tear my lips off. He grabs my hair and pulls me backwards, slaps my face with his left hand, then forces me to my knees.

"You're gonna be my boy tonight? You gonna do what I say! Yeah? Fuck yeah! Now work my crotch, boy," as he thrusts his hips against my face, his jeans rubbing hard on my face, nearly suffocating me. I put my teeth around the outline of his dick, and suck. A bouncer approaches and I'm quickly pulled to my feet. "It's alright, we're good, no problem here," the tall man says. As the bouncer leaves I lift his white t-shirt and pull it off. He's about my height, but his chest is broad and thick, hairless, not the rippled body of a gym-bunny, more like the hard body of a construction worker.

He raises his arms and grabs the back of my head with his big hand, pushes me into his armpit. "Suck, boy! Clean that pit." The odor is intoxicating, like a drug that drives me crazy. I more I inhale the harder my heart beats, the pheromones overtaking my senses. I feel tingling in my spine as I clench my back and shoulder muscles. I lick and suck wildly, inhaling the heady smell of his sweat. He grabs my nipples and twists them so hard I cry out in pain, but he holds on. for several seconds. I drop to my knees, it feels like he's going to tear the skin, and I try to pry his fingers away. Unable to free my nipples I stand up again and take his left nipple in my mouth, and bite hard. Instead of making him let go he grabs my hair with his left hand and pushes my face into his chest. My nose and mouth are sealed against the skin of his chest and I can't breathe. I bite and bite, harder and harder, but it only makes him more aroused. My hands explore his body, taking in the hard mounds and curves of his chest.

"Hot fucker! I wanna take you home, share you with my friends. You like that?"

"YES SIR!, please SIR!" I reply.

"Yeah, you're gonna be my play toy, by fuckhole. We're gonna have fun with you tonight." He pushes away slightly and asks, "You smoke?"

"No, sir, Thanks'

"You stay here, I'll be back in a few minutes... I'm going to go out for a smoke, get my friends, THEN we'll start the party, boy!"

I'm left alone standing in the corner, but I feel alarmed, and I realize I'm having trouble standing. As soon as I see that bare-chested man leave up the stairs I head to the back of the bar and up the rear stairs to the main floor. I have an urgent sense I need to get out, a feeling of panic starting to set in. I'm aware that my mouth hurts, and people are watching me stagger up the stairs. As I head for the front door I suddenly freeze as I end up face-to-face with the stalky man, who introduces me to some friends of his.

"Time to go, boy!" he replies.

"Hang on, I have to get my jacket from the coat check," I reply.

I'm trapped. I can't get out of the bar without passing him, and I just want to get home now. I retrieve my jacket and hang out near the back of the main floor by the DJ booth, buying some time to sober up a bit and to think. Twice I see Him walking past, looking for me. Eventually I gather my nerve and bolt for the door, and find myself outside, alone, walking quickly towards home.

When I get home I undress and climb into the shower, feeling disconcerted and frightened. The hot water spills over my naked body as I lean my head against the wall and cry. "Fucking idiot" I mutter repeatedly to myself.

As I get out of the shower and dry off I am stunned by my reflection in the mirror. My nipples are badly bruised, and my lips are black and blue all around my lips. The inside of my mouth is raw from my teeth having cut into the gums. My face is swollen and sore. "Oh God! What am I going to tell everyone at school tomorrow? What am I going to tell my boyfriend? Fucking idiot!"

But I'm home alone, and safe. It could have gone much worse, although this is already bad. The only thing that huts more than my face is my conscience as I hear a voice inside me continually deriding me with more and more ferocity as the effect of the alcohol wears off.

And so the lies built and built. "Some asshole turned around and hit my arm as I was drinking from my glass," I say, trying to explain the circular bruise that encompasses my entire mouth. "Yeah, and some asshole tugged my nipple as I was walking around the bar last night!" My explanation is met with an odd reaction, a combination of trusting acceptance, and an expression of sadness mixed with discomfort. But no questions. He trusts me, which makes me feel all the worse.

It won't happen again, I tell myself. Telling him the truth will only hurt him. I don't want to say anything that will cause trouble between us -- and so I rationalize all the reasons why keeping secrets and telling lies is okay. But it isn't okay, I don't like living like this, and so the frustration builds.

In time the truth has a way of coming out - we'd both initiated contact with other men, and had posted sexually explicit adds (looking for sex partners) that the other partner new nothing about; the key ingredient here isn't that we'd done it, rather that it was all deliberately done in secret. There was certainly sexual encounters on my part, but in the end that matters little because the big issue was that we'd grown comfortable in a pattern of lies and deception with each other. The lies had begun, and we both could sense that the other was up to something, although the other kept the details closely guarded, and the increasing losses of trust were beginning to poison other aspects of our relationship. How far did the lies go? Who knows, and ultimately it doesn't matter. What really matters is that the two of us drew each other close, and found the courage to face the reasons why we were being dishonest.