Wednesday, March 23, 2011

MEAT MASTER


By John
Please

My experience with the world of leather had never extended beyond playtime in the back room bars. I had only tasted the chaps of anonymous men who could barely see my tongue lashing out on the tightly stretched skin of their legs. Only whispered words spoken to my kneeling figure while I sucked mightily on stiff cocks had fed my fantasies.

I was one of the regulars, actually. I was one of the men in those backrooms that anyone and everyone knew would be available for whatever service they wanted — a mouth for a blow job, a hot ass for fucking, or a stiff prick if they really wanted to do me. My passivity in all of this was complete. I would stand against the dark walls and wait for some stranger to approach me; I would perform whatever acts he desired.


My friend, Mario, thought it was all very strange. "Why don't you go home with any of them?" he'd ask. "Why don't you find someone who can really give you a good time instead of one of these assholes that just wants to stick it in you, cum and leave?"

"I haven't found one good enough, yet," I'd always respond — and it was the truth. Sure, there'll be humpy men coming into those bars, but no one who gave me the sense that I'd really learn something from him. And I figured if it wasn't going to be special, why should I bother with it at all? I could get my fill of cock right in that black room; I could let my fantasies prevail in the darkness; I didn't have to deal with any reality that I didn't choose.

If only some of those guys knew what I thought about when we were having sex! If they only knew the kinds of cops and soldiers and construction workers I turned them into in my thoughts! If they could see themselves as my mind's eye saw them — rugged, brutal and masculine. But they were all lost in their own fantasies; they were all consumed by their own visions of me, I guess. I never knew if any of them saw me as the helpless victim that I perceived myself to be; I couldn't figure out if they ever realized just how far they could go with me.

Then, one night, he walked in.

He was so obviously German that I could hear the accent even before he spoke. I had come out from the backroom and was standing at the bar, waiting for the next trick to happen. He was enormous: at least six foot three. His blond hair was severely cropped. His wide chest pushed against the stiff fabric of his military shirt. His highly polished boots gleamed even in the low light of the sleazy bar. He had on tight black leather pants; a stripe of leather crossed his chest, a leather cap topped his brutal face, and a monocle completed the vision of Teutonic sexuality.

I had to have him. I knew it as soon as I saw him — I simply had to have him. This was the one I had been waiting for. A man. A master of men. My blood was pulsing with heavy throbs. I was almost dizzy from the lust that swept my body. I couldn't even hear the words that Mario was speaking to me. I ignored him.

I had already stripped to the waist, my athletic shirt hung from one of the loops of my jeans; my own boots were scruffy from wear and tear. I stood still and stared right into the eyes of the German. Waiting, waiting for him to notice me. There were few others worth looking at there, in the bar. And, I was right to expect him to pick me out of the crowd. I knew that he'd have to pick up on my willing figure, standing with my bare chest offering ripe, erect nipples to his sight.

The others around me must have known what was going on. They moved away and left me alone with my heaving chest and growing cock. It only took about five minutes for the whole thing to happen: after that time, I was in a cab, handcuffs grasping my wrists behind my back, my head bowed, my mouth silent, just as he had ordered.

His few words in the bar came back to me as the taxi rushed uptown. "You will follow my orders, ja?"

"You will be a willing slave for your master?"

My meaningful reply must have been satisfactory for us to have left the bar so very quickly. He lived in a run down section of town. His house was on an almost abandoned street, there were few other inhabited places around; just a couple tenements up the block. Whatever was going to happen was in his hands now; I had played my last card. The cab driver ignored my shackles as we got out of the car and the German paid the fare. As soon as we entered the front door, he unlocked the metal restraints. "A slave should be naked in front of his master." There were no further words needed; I shucked my jeans and jockstrap and left them on the floor of the entryway. I stood, naked, in front of the man. His hands came out and grabbed hold of my protruding nipples, clamping down on them hard. My prick rose at the touch of his fingers and the smell of his leather.

"Ja, you will be a good slave." He took out a broad band of leather and attached it to my neck. Then he snapped a leash to the tight collar and led me into the house.

I gasped when he flicked on the lights. I hadn't really expected anything in particular. But, I guess the dingy street and neighborhood had led me to think that the house would be run down and very minimally adorned. Instead, I found myself standing in the midst of a time warp. The room was brightly lit and carefully decorated with furniture and mementos of the late thirties. It could have been a movie set for one of those pre-war films about the rise of the Third Reich. Pictures of Hitler and his men were carefully, lovingly, placed around the walls. The furniture was expensive looking, but extremely dated. Its heavy wood and red fabric seemed almost Victorian.

He stood by me and let me take in the whole view, then he tugged on the leash and led me through the living room and down a flight of stairs. Another light glared on and I was transported once again back into another time and place — there was little doubt in my mind where I was. The military pendants and symbols overwhelmed the basement room. The props were undeniable. It was a Gestapo interrogation station.

My heart pounded even more. I sharply turned to look at my German master and saw him sneering at my fear. Before I could react, he had attached leather bands to my wrists and was dragging me over the wall. My futile attempts to hold back were overpowered by his massive strength. "You must not resist." He shouted into my ear, banging a fist against the side of my head.

I slackened and allowed him to attach my wrists bands to hooks that were suspended from the ceiling. He manipulated some machinery and I felt the hooks rising up above me until I was standing on the tips of my toes, barely able to support myself.

He looked coldly at his handiwork. I have a large body; it still shows the many hours of hard, manual labor that I put in every week. With my arms lifted up like that, every muscle tensed from the strain of the suspension, the sweat was already gleaming as it started to trickle down my sides. It must have been a sight he enjoyed. I looked straight back at him and watched as he began to undress.

The shirt came off first, and I saw where the chain from the monocle went — it was attached to a pierced tit!

But, even that sight didn't take away from the enormity of his muscular pecs and stomach. Soon, he was in front of me, only that chain from his eyeglass to his nipple, his cap and his gleaming boots remained. He started working on my chest again. He was getting obvious pleasure from forcing a guttural moan from my body as he manipulated the brown discs of flesh, seducing the tits to rise higher and higher off my body. He went over to a bench and returned with a small mound of metal clamps. I looked on, helpless and frightened as one by one they were attached to my vulnerable body: first on my already sore nipples, then four or five on each of my balls sacs, and finally, one — the largest and heaviest, gathered up the loose foreskin of my uncut cock, painfully restricting the full hard on that surged out from my belly.

He appreciated his handiwork, stroking his own prick until it flared out to its mammoth size. The sight of that huge meat waving in the air amazed me. Its girth was more than I had ever seen before. I gazed at it, knowing that sometime this evening it was going to be invading my body.

The clamps pressed into my body, their painful touch arousing never before experienced sensations. I couldn't decipher all the feelings rushing through me; the pain was so intense, the turn on so complete, the pleasure so exotic. But my cock knew: it continued to press hard and stiff against the inhuman restraint of the clamp on its foreskin.

The clamps had created even more tension in my muscled body. He stood back to drink in the sight as I writhed against the metal-induced pain. Again, he walked to the bench and this time returned with a long, mean looking bull whip. I had been strapped before, but never with anything like that. He ignored my whimpered plea.

There was no building up to a climax in his actions. It was obvious that the whole thing was strictly for his own pleasure. My pleasure wasn't even a minor consideration. He must have really enjoyed the sight of my struggling body, because the very first time, he lifted his arm high over his head and brought the stinging lash hard and biting across the length of my back. I could feel the trail of the leather after he had brought the whip back to his side. There was no respite, he lifted the leather up again and once more it quickly sliced down my body. I screamed in sharp pain. My body turned itself to avoid the whip, only to expose my front to its next attack. He laughed loudly at the futile dance I tried to perform to escape the burning kiss of the leather.

By the time he was finished, my body was tracked with deep red stripes. In many places, small trickles of blood ran out of open wounds left by his brutal attack! His cock stood high out from its body. The excitement my torture gave him was the only reason for the sudden respite. He moved over to me, his animal need for release now overtaking his sadism, and lowered my arms from their suspension. He moved with lightening speed to release my wrists from the overhead hooks and to clasp them together behind my back once more. His heavy arms shoved down on my aching shoulders and his voice yelled out at me, "Take my cock, slave. Take your master's cock!"

I greedily sucked in the swollen flesh and stretched my mouth as wide as possible to take in the impossible size of his manhood. He fucked my mouth savagely, straining the limits of my throat, shoving the thick flesh deep into my gut, forcing me to choke over and over again as he assaulted me. The sudden flood of his oozing, hot cum pulsed against my gullet. I swallowed quickly, listening to his command. "Take it all. Take it all in your slave-ass stomach!"

I hoped, against hope, that he would be satisfied now that he had his release. My spent body yearned for relief from his vicious use. But his mastery of my soul wasn't complete enough for him yet, I suppose.

The leash was once more attached to my collar. He undid my handcuffs. He forced me onto my hands and knees and led me around the room, beating a riding crop against my bruised ass whenever I moved too slowly for him. He even straddled my bent body and rode me, calling me less than human names. "Come on pig," he said, slapping my haunches with his biting crop, "Move quickly. Pig, animal, cocksucking slave."

Tears streamed down my face. Finally he stopped the exercise. He stood in front of me, that horrible smile on his mouth. He went and got two bowls, placing them in front of me. "You shall prove to me what an animal you are." He opened a can of cheap dog food in one and then lifted the other up to his cock, still dripping from its excitement. He let go a stream of hot piss into the confines of the dish, filling it to its brim. He raised the hated riding crop up over my head, and then hesitated. I was paralyzed with fear as an even more macabre expression came over his face. His prick had started to fill up once more at the sight of my fear stricken form, crouched at his feet. He started to beat on the ponderous shaft, his oversized balls started to flap back and forth at the quick pace of his masturbation. Right in front of my eyes, they slapped hard against his thighs.

Thoughts of pain left me at the sight of cock and balls flying back and forth. I started to salivate, thinking about the slimy load of cum that was going to shoot out of his cock. "Stick out your tongue, dog," he commanded. I did, the spit ran down the sides of my mouth, dropping in heavy splashes onto the floor. I waited for his cum, knowing it was getting ready to spurt out of the widening piss-hole of his tool. His breathing got heavier. His stomach started to tense. I opened my mouth wider than I had ever thought possible, getting ready to take the load of man juice.

But, when he came, he aimed the quaking cock away from me. I moaned in disappointment, but then saw him let loose the stream of hot slime over the mound of dog food he had put on in the dish.

"Eat your master's cum, cocksucker," he screamed in a military tone. "Now!" The riding crop came out and lashed against my chest. I dove down and gobbled at the cold, stinking meat, gulping down mouthfuls of the animal food, spiced with the salty cum.

He grasped a handful of my hair and moved my head over to the other dish, pushing my face into the stinking, steaming fluid. My nose was covered with the urine, my nostrils were full of the liquid, I couldn't breathe. My mouth opened, desperate for oxygen but only getting a slug of piss down my throat. I drank the warm fluid with furious speed, trying to get to air. My chest was heaving hard from the effort, when finally the bowl was empty and I could swallow the life giving oxygen. The stinking of the piss and the dog food sent waves of nausea over me. I had to fight back an urge to puke.

I had become the animal he had wanted me to be. I snarled out at him, sinking my jaws into the calf of his boot. A roaring laugh answered me, along with a sharp, solid kick in my side. I doubled up in pain as his boot smashed down on my ass, pinning me to the floor. The crop rose and slashed at me again. I begged mercy from him.

The leash was still attached to the collar. He drug me up off the floor and across the room towards a large chair, where he sat his bulky, naked body firmly down and spread his legs wide open. The crack of his ass showed from behind the low hanging balls covered with fine blond pubic hair. "Lick your master."

My tongue went out and started with his boots, his gentle tugs of the leash lifted my head off the sharp tasting leather and on to the firm, rounded calves. Then up to his thighs, where the tangy taste of his sweat became stronger. Finally, my head was buried in the soft hairy flesh of his balls, still sticky from the urine that had dribbled out of his cock earlier. He lifted himself up from the cushion and place placed his ass closer to the edge of the chair.

"Eat it, cocksucker," he commanded. My mouth opened wide, my eyes gazing straight into a swastika tattoo beside his ball sac. I shoved my tongue up into the crevice and ran it along the crack between the rotund masses of flesh on either side, searching for his asshole. My hard tongue found the circle of damp muscle and pushed against the tight ring. I slurped up that new taste of him. An appreciative groan came from above me.

He threw me suddenly back onto the floor, face up. He stood over me, his legs on either side of my chest, the evil shone in his eyes again. He moved up and squatted down, parting the heavy cheeks and aiming the hole right at my mouth. "Open it." I did, just in time to start sucking on the brown target of his ass. I slurped and wetted his anus, having to have to fight for air once more as his heavy flesh pushed against my nose and throat.

Once more he was jerking off. The egg-like balls were rising and falling on my forehead, their damp hairy touch flying up and down, off and on my hairline. The muscles in my mouth started to jerk, the hole would open and close in an increasing rhythm of sexual enjoyment. He jumped up, taking the sweat taste of his ass with him, leaving me on the floor, my mouth open, ready for still another load of his ooze as it jerked out of the slit at the top of his cock.

I stayed with him for a week, learning German sayings, being drilled in military fashion — but without a uniform. I existed solely on his piss and canned dog food. I was never allowed to dress or wash, but was driven downward, further and further into a state far from the human condition. His last act, before tossing me onto the street and sending me back to prowl the backrooms, was to tattoo a swastika onto my ass, with the words, "Property of the SS."

It took months for my body to heal from his brutal mistreatment. There are still scars from the insane beatings he gave me. Yet, still, I watch the door of the bar every night, wondering if he'll return, wondering if there's still one more place left for him to take me.

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