The Other Side of the Tracks Ch. 04

This is a 4th installment of a series of stories I wrote for another Litster. I was a little taken aback as I wrote these, as I didn't realize all this was in my head. That's a scary place to be, folks! I hope you enjoy this; it probably makes more sense to read the first three first, but hey, you do you. FULL DISCLOSURE: If you are offended by gay male sex, BDSM, trans people having sex, consensual pain play, Waffle House food, porcupines or shirt tags that ALWAYS stick out, then you may want to SKIP this story, because some of that is in here, and if the other stuff bothers you, well... So, without further ado, here we go, folks... (Oh, and thank you for reading my stories!)

The Other Side of the Tracks: Ch 4

You've had another tough day. I wish I could do something about that part, but of course, I can't.

But I can take your mind off of it afterwards.

I take half a day off from work, and hurry home to prepare myself. I stop off at Walmart to purchase a few things. I flush a bit as the cashier rings my purchases up, glancing up at me with a smirk as she does so. Pretty sure that a middle-aged man buying hair remover, an enema kit, KY warming gel, and an XL dog collar spells out that he's not anticipating a romantic night with the wife. If that didn't give it away, the rope probably did.

Getting home, even though I have several hours before you get home, I immediately go to the bathroom and begin the hair removal process. Removing everything from the neck down isn't easy. The cream handles most of it fine, but for around my little cocklet, and around my "boi pussy;" I have to do that by hand. (One of these days, I'll be brave enough for you to go and get it waxed. I'm just not there yet.) After a couple of "rinse & reinspect" cycles, I'm satisfied with that.

Next, I want to make sure I have the ropes set up just right. I don't want to get into place until I know for sure that you're on your way; I can just imagine being securely restrained, only to find out that you've been called away again for the weekend. That would NOT make for a fun weekend!

At about 2 hours before you are to arrive, I give myself the first enema. I take it on my knees in the bathroom, my butt sticking up in the air. Though it would be more comfortable laying on my side, this helps put me in the right frame of mind: I'm imagining it being you behind me, controlling the flow just as you will have my whole will surrendered to you tonight. This first one is rather...forceful in its effects. The second is more like a followup cleaning, to make sure I'm clean inside. For you.

After the second one, I hop in the shower again, just to make sure I'm clean and smell fresh all over for you. I smile as I lather, my hands imagining yours instead of mine all over my body. Of course, I am fairly sure yours won't be this gentle; not at first, anyway. I pinch my left nipple. Hard. Yes, that's more like what it will feel like to be under YOUR hand. I resist the temptation to reach back and slap my ass; that's YOUR ass to spank, not mine.

Getting out and drying off, I quickly go over the details. Candles lit in the bedroom? Check. "Toys" laid out at the foot of the bed? Check. Note left? Check. I go to my dresser, and open the top drawer. The pink panties? The garter and stockings you bought me? The black jockstrap with the pink bow on the back? No. Not for this. For tonight, I slip on the silky little thong with the little black pouch in the front to hold my little jewels.

I slip on the black dog collar and go to the bed. I secure the ropes that lead from the posts at the headboard to my knees, then the shorter ones at the foot to my ankles. Now my legs are immobilized. The one leading from the center of the the footboard comes up to my collar and clips on. Next comes the blindfold and the gag, which I slip into place. Then, in my last willful act of the night, my surrender is complete when I, with no small difficulty, secure my hands behind my back with my very real Smith & Wesson handcuffs. The key, along with the note, is in an envelope, bearing only your name, on the small table just inside the door.

And now I wait.

A mix of emotions runs through me. Fear: What if you don't come home?

Insecurity. What if you're not in the mood?

Anxiety. How far will you push me? Will I be able to endure, to really deliver on the "anything you wish" I underlined in my note?

Eagerness. Oh, do you even KNOW how much I want this, want you, the depths of your "kinky fuckery," as they termed it in 50 Shades of Grey?

Horniness. Well, that's probably pretty obvious by the bulge in my little thong.

I'm cycling through all of these thoughts when I hear the sound of your key in the lock. Now suddenly my thoughts are more basic: Breathe! Breathe! My heart is racing. This it it!

I hear you putting your keys down on the table, and then presumably carrying the envelope, I hear you at the bar at the kitchen. I hear the envelope being torn open, then the sounds of you grabbing your favorite adult beverage, which I have left on the bar. Behind my blindfold, I picture you sipping your drink as you read my words:

Sir,

I know you've had a bad day. In the bedroom, you will find an outlet for all of that frustration. It is yours for the weekend; use it as you see fit. It has no limitations, no safeword, no boundaries to your expectations or needs; anything you wish or desire. It is completely yours for the next 48 hours. It only asks that you hold nothing back. Its purpose is the complete satisfaction of your desires and the total release of your frustrations.

yours.

A lesser man would have jumped up and been on me in minutes, venting all of their passions and anger on my body.

And an hour later, they'd be done, and there would be 47 hours of...boredom.

But no, not you. You take your time, finishing your drink. Finally, I hear you set your drink down, then I hear your phone being dropped on the counter, but I'm perplexed when I hear you go to the hall closet. What on earth could you be rummaging around for? We don't keep any of our "play gear" in there; just some tools, random outdoor gear...Well, I guess I'll find out soon enough, won't I?

I hear you enter the room, then the feel of your hand running over my raised buttocks. Your touch sends goosebumps up my back. Even my nipples stiffen at the touch.

"Anything I wish," huh? You ask, but of course I can only manage a slight nod. "Well, we'll see about that. It sounds like a challenge to me," you say, a bit of a smirk riding on your remark. "I think you may have underestimated me."

God, I hope so!

"So, what do we have here?" I hear you ask, and I can tell from the direction that you're eyeing the selection of toys I have laid out.

There's a paddle about the size of a ping pong paddle, only without the rubber covering covering the polished and lacquered wood. This is our normal first tool, just a good "warm-up" tool to get things started. A very supple riding crop. A 3" wide leather paddle.

And some of the harsher tools, too. A razor strop, which leaves devastating damage in its wake. A rattan cane, which leaves lines even after the pain has faded, keeping the one who receives its fire mindful of it for a long time. A quirt, with dual tongues of fire that curl and kiss around curves. And my own real leather belt, which has become soft and supple with time, and which holds hot, raunchy memories close during the day. I've had more than a few stripes from this, and it is perhaps my favorite, although I'd be hard pressed to admit that when you've just wielded it on my flesh.

"So, you've blindfolded yourself. Gagged yourself. Restrained yourself. Very trusting. But just how far are you really willing to trust me? Hmmm?"

Obviously, I can't speak, and not just because of the gag. I mean, I want to say I trust you as far as you'll take me, or something like that, but the reality is...I don't know where my "thus far and no more" line is. I presume that I probably have one, but with you, I haven't found it yet.

"Well, let's just push that first boundary back a bit," you say, and I am confused until I feel you put plugs in my ears AND slide a set of headphones over my ears, making sure they are properly placed. That explains the trip to the closet; you raided my shooting supplies. This DOES give me a jolt of panic; while my eyes are weak, my hearing is very acute, and I rely on it quite a bit. Now, I am truly in a world of darkness, completely vulnerable to you.

I feel your hands slide over my back, then down across my ass, tucking beneath me to squeeze my little pouch a bit, pulling a bit of a moan from me, though it is pretty thoroughly stifled.

Your hand withdraws, and I begin to steel myself for the paddle. Only it isn't the paddle which opens the evening's activities. You begin to spank me with your bare hands. They slap down, both left and right, at different angles and intervals, all over my bottom. They sting, and then they compound the sting as more slaps rain down on the same spots again. You are all over me, from thighs to the belt line, and even a few on my back. The headphones and the

I know what you're doing. These spanks sting, to be sure, but all you're really doing is bringing me to life. You're reviving me, summoning life not only to the senses, but the sub space within my being. You've turned on the lights, thrown open the door, and invited me to take my rightful place. This is almost a form of kindness; a proclamation that: It's PLAYTIME!

Finally, you pause, and I take rushed breaths through my nose and around the gag. I am so...ALIVE under your hands! To be sure, my eyes are watering a bit beneath the blindfold, but now I'm ready for more.

More comes in the form not of the strike of the paddle, but the fiery slice of the cane, striking squarely across the center of my buttocks. My body clenches; it can't buck much or shift, so all it can do is tighten up. I force myself to relax as I beg-

WHACK! I can hear this a little bit even with the double muffled my ears are under, and just a half a second after the sound registers the fire erupts. My cry is just a stifled groan to you, I'm sure. I try to regain my-

WHACK! Oh GOD! This one lands below the double line the first two formed. I don't even have time to recover before the next one lands, just below that one, then another lays a strip of fire right at the creases where buttocks meet thigh. I scream, but I know that nobody outside of this room would even be aware of my suffering.

WHACK! WHACK! The next two are particularly unmerciful in that they are within 3 seconds of each other, on my upper thighs. It is only now that I recognize one aspect of my torment that I had not considered.

Normally, when you administer strokes of the cane or the belt or one of the other tools, you tell me to count the strokes. This time, there is no such instruction, and it dawns on me that I have absolutely no way of measuring my suffering, of pacing myself to endure, to anticipate the completion of my submission. My fate is quite literally in your hands, and even as much as I anticipated this night, this introduces an unfamiliar level of terror.

Meanwhile, as I have been coming to this understanding, you are still laying into me with that horrible cane. You begin to change your angle somewhat, coming at me in angles which cross the parallel stripes, connecting them into one big bonfire of pain. It is not long before I am struggling just to breathe, so devastating is the destruction.

And then...you stop. I am quivering from the pain, and occasionally, when for some reason I THINK you are going to strike me again, I flinch. I feel your hand run over my ass, taunting my tortured flesh as you roam across it, stirring the flames. I groan at the flood of pain as you seem to fingerpaint the fire across my bottom.

And then you're gone.

In my mind, I'm trying to figure out what you'll grab next. The crop, so you can land some pinpoint strikes on areas you may have missed? The paddle, to reinforce that "all over" burn your spanking laid in?

Instead, the next sensation I feel is the unmistakable feeling of the belt coming down on me, doubled over, right across the first stripe laid by the cane. I feel as if my eyeballs are going to pop out into the blindfold. I don't know why, but I just thought there would be some kind of build-up to-

WHAP! This time it lands across the tops of my buttocks, just a few inches below the belt line. This skin is thin here, I guess, because the burn is immediately raw. My raw scream is, of course, just a loud groan to you. A third stripe comes down somewhat diagonally, from my right hip towards the bottom of my left ass cheek. I writhe, unable to ease my pain in any way. There's a pause of several seconds, and then another blow, this one the reverse of the last, strikes from my upper left hip across the right buttock, making, I'm sure, a two-inch thick red X across my ass.

My whole existence is in these stripes right now. I'm diving into my subby space, only my ass protruding to accept the punishment, while my mind seeks solace in this inner sanctum. Ah, but there's not peace to be found; not yet, because you have something else up your sleeve. Or should I say out of your pants.

Amidst my sobbing, I feel the bed shift as you climb on, and from the way my head sinks, I can tell that you are before me, knees next to my head. I expect you at any moment to lift my head, remove my gag, and thrust your big cock down my throat, but that's not what you do.

The belt, now unfurled, strikes again, this time down my lower back, the end wrapping around the bottom curve of my right ass cheek, and slapping down hard, like a big whip, on the already raw skin there. Now my back is receiving more of the punishment, and it burns, sir! It burns! Another stripe is laid on the left, and I am howling into my gag. I honestly think that, if I had established a safeword, or some signal, I might have utilized it here, so intense was the pain.

But we didn't, did we, sir? Or rather...I didn't. I chose this. I chose to give you this. Remembering that gives me a renewed resilience. I will not fall through on my promise to you.

Another, and another; my back and buttocks must make quite the sight! Then there is a pause; I can't tell for sure, but it feels like you may have dropped the belt on the bed and reached for something else. I can't be sure, of course, and whatever you did, what comes next is a little surprising.

You pull my gag down out, and let it hang down, but I barely have time to flex my aching jaw before your cock is thrust into my mouth, straight to the back of my throat. I gag, but you just hold me there, and then I feel the fire of the quirt come down on my left buttock, snaking around and down to strike where the inside of the thigh and the inner cheek of my ass draw near. This is a new fire, and those nerves must be near the surface, because I immediately scream around your cock. All that really means is that spit and saliva cover your cock's shaft all the more. You've begun to thrust in and out, pushing harder and harder into my throat, even as you draw back the quirt and strike again.

The next strike marks the right buttock, the tips striking down onto the inside of the thigh. The third one is the most cruel of all, striking straight down the crack of my ass, and then the next again over the same territory, only farther down, so that the tongues lick fire down to the back of my balls. I'm lost, my tears seemingly meaningless, as your cock continues to batter my throat, my nose burying into your wiry pubic hair at each thrust. My screams are meaningless, my sobbing just more stimulation for your cock.

And then you relent with the quirt, content to facefuck me, enjoying the tight heat of my throat, as your hands grab my battered hips and begin to-

Wait. What? How are you... I can't protest; hell, I can hardly even breathe between thrusts, much less speak! The impossibility of this can only mean one thing: We are not alone!

Of course, that's no surprise to you. I suppose it IS your hands that hold my cheeks apart, and squirt some of the heating lube over my tortured little boi pussy. But that's not your hand poking at the hole, is it? That's not your thick finger - very thick finger - that pushes the lube in, is it?

And most assuredly, your familiar cockhead, which is violating my throat at this very moment is NOT the same thick club I feel clumsily pushing at my little hole, trying to align itself.

No, this is a new thing, isn't it, Daddy?

In the recesses of my mind, my head, which has managed to find itself back into the subby space, wrestles with the obvious question. Whose cock is this? How is it that they are here, about to take a very active, intimate part in my debasement? Do I know them? Do they know me?

And then all of that line of questioning vanishes, as I feel his very large cockhead push, slowly but insistently, through my outer ring. Holy fuck, he's big, Daddy! The sting, the burn of his violation is immediate. For more than a few moments, I fear he is going to split me, that I am going to be in the ER later, explaining to a nurse how someone I do not even know, have never seen, came to sodomize me so brutally that he split me open.

Fortunately, the resilience of the flesh there, having been subjected to much use by you, manages to remain intact, although it is agonizing. His big cock continues to burrow in for a few more inches (feels like feet!), then pauses, and pulls back. One of you squirts more lube on both of us, then he pushes again, this time feeding me even more of that big pipe. Will I ever be the same? I wonder. He pulls back again, this time completely, leaving me gaping for a few seconds, as more lube is applied, and then, gripping my hips in what feel like GIANT hands, he pulls me back sharply as he thrusts, burying a whole lot more cock inside me. My shriek erupts for but a second before you push yourself back into me, and from that point, the two of you quickly establish a rhythm, pumping me full at the same time from each end. The mixed pot of my responding expressions - crying, sobbing, groaning, pleading - comes in jumbles at those moments of your mutual withdrawal.

I AM able to establish a few things: 1. His cock head is bigger than yours, but the shaft behind it is not as big as yours. 2. The quick way you establish a mutual rhythm tells me the two of you may have done this before. Probably drove THAT man or woman as insane as you are me! 3. In spite of the pain, the uncertainty, the humiliation, the raw brutality of all of this...I love this. I mean I.LOVE.this. As that certainty arises in me, it morphs into an awakened libido. You think you're going to overcome ME by double teaming me? You think your cocks are going to make ME a puddle of quivering humanity? Oh, just you wait!

First, I begin to establish a pattern of clenching and unclenching my tight boi-pussy around his cock, squeezing his big fucking cockhead as he reaches my deepest point, then releasing about half of that grip on his withdrawal. I relax for his inward thrust, then repeat the cycle. I can neither hear nor see his responses, but from the throbbing I feel inside me, I'm quite sure I'm getting to him.

And then YOU, Daddy. You devious, sneaky, cruel man! God, I love the things you do to me! You fuck my brain even through a text message, but now you're literally banging on the inside of my head! Your double team partner sorted, I begin to throw attention to your cock; my favorite cock of all! Whereas before I was just enduring your throat-fucking, now I'm working your cock with my tongue, licking all over it as you thrust in and out.

I know I'm getting to you when you stop and hold your cock in my mouth, letting me work my lips and tongue all over it for a few seconds before you thrust again, once, twice, three times, then back to let me tend to it, then in again. I can't move my hands, I couldn't control you even if I wanted to, but I have managed to break your stride, which in turn allows me to breathe.