Originally published in Honcho magazine - May, 1996

Which do you want to be?

______

I didn't know who he was, and I didn't care.

For me, the joy of male-to-male sex has always been the ease with which two men can find each other for a sweaty workout. The anonymous stranger is a god haunting the streets and dark alleys in search of sex. The altar is anywhere you kneel to pay homage to your god. Ejaculation, the absolution.

The aroma of stale piss and dampness wafted through the basement toilet. My jeans around my ankles, I sat waiting for someone to enter the only other cubicle. My left hand slowly tweaked and pinched my hardening nipples while, in unison with the overhead fluorescent lights, I polished my long cock.

It had been a hot, sticky day and — for a change — all my efforts to get off had been in vain. I guess it doesn't help that I'm not prepared to broil myself on a sand dune in the hope I'll get blown by a bronzed beach queen.

Today, I wanted more than that. Much more.

I didn't have long to wait. With a high-pitched squeal, the outer door opened and slammed shut. A split-second later, the inner door opened and the hard-soled footsteps of a man entering the pisser echoed on the tiled walls.

My heart beat wildly as the door to the next cubicle opened and I heard the silver lock slip into place. With a clatter, the toilet seat hit the porcelain bowl, followed by a sigh as my man lowered himself onto it.

Just beneath the tissue holder, an intrepid sex-seeker had drilled a spy hole into the wall. I put my eye to it in time to see a hungry eye pulling away. A faded red-and-black-checked shirt came into view. A large hand was slowly moving up and down a rock-hard, uncut cock. The man groaned softly, spitting on his cock to lubricate it.

Finally, by sheer force of will, I unglued myself from the spy hole and bent over until my face was inches from the floor. The floor on which countless horny men had blown and been blown over the years. Their odor filled my nostrils, as my eyes were treated to the sight of a heavily-soiled brown workman's boot firmly planted on the cement floor.

I almost fell on my knees right then, my tongue hanging out of my mouth, aching to lick the boot and every inch of the stranger's skin. My heart thumped in my ears as the blood rushed to my head. Suddenly, a large, sunburned hand pushed a wad of paper and a pencil stub in my face. For a second I froze, then slowly I reached out and, careful not to touch the hand, took the note and pencil stub from him.

Quietly, I opened the note, which was only a sheet of toilet paper, and read: WHAT DO YOU WANT?

I wrote: YOU NAME IT.

I figured if he had an imagination as vivid as mine, it'd be on overdrive right now. A minute later the paper and pencil came back.

MASTERS AND SLAVES. WHICH DO YOU WANT TO BE?

Unable to control my hand and almost salivating at the thought of what was about to happen, I scribbled: SLAVE. Almost reluctantly I added, SIR. Back went the note under the partition.

For the first time since I'd come into his orbit the stranger's voice cracked like a whip against the tiled walls, making me jump and even causing momentary doubt about what I was entering into. My faceless commander could be anyone: a robber, killer, anything. Could I take what he'd deal out? But all these thoughts faded instantly. I was enthralled by the depth and command of his voice.

"Strip!" he said. "Leave just your socks on. When you finish, open the cubicle door, bend over the toilet bowl and wait for me."

My hesitation was momentary. First, I removed my shoes and put them in a corner. Next, I undid my belt and peeled off my jeans. They, too, were carefully folded and placed on top of the shoes. My shirt was next. As it was already unbuttoned, all I had to do was shrug it off my pale, sinewy shoulders. I placed it on top of my jeans. I was now standing stark naked in the cubicle, with only my white cotton socks between me and the damp floor.

My hand was shaking so much I fumbled with the lock, causing sufficient noise to indicate the door was now open for him to enter. I bent over the bowl, doing my best to steady my trembling legs, but nothing doing.

Again, my absolute vulnerability became apparent to me. I thought anything might happen. I was risking my life and for what? An ejaculation? No, much more than that. My need was greater than a mere orgasm. Each submission to another man's will was, for me, a reaffirmation of my essential self. My worth doubled in the eyes of the man using my body for his pleasure. Nothing was going to convince me otherwise.

My cock knew better than my brain did. It was full of blood and heavy between my legs, the head such a deep purple I thought I'd blow even before he put his hands on me.

The door opened behind me. His presence in the cubicle was like an electric charge. The heat emanating from him hit my bare ass, causing the cheeks to quiver, my sphincter to spontaneously relax. An exquisite sensation ran the length of my rectum, right into my stomach. I heard his boots scrape the concrete as he stepped closer.

"Don't turn around. Spread your legs. Let me see your balls swing," he commanded with that bass-filled voice.

"Not a word. I'm going to tie your hands to the pipes." And, before I could protest, his leather belt slung up and over my wrists. I tried to push my face into the white palm of his hands, desperate to lick the warm flesh. He was having none of it. With his left hand he cupped my entire face and pushed it aside.

"Keep still," he whispered in my ear, pulling hard on both sides of the belt. His crotch pressed hard against my bare butt. He worked the loose leather around the silver buckle until I was secured to the pipes. I couldn't even straighten up if I wanted to. Again, a wave of fear swept through my body, causing me to shake uncontrollably. I pressed the side of my face against his belt and bit into it, allowing my saliva to mix with the leather. I think I began to whimper.

"Now," he said, cupping one of my ass cheeks with his rough palm. He squeezed hard, exploring the firm mounds like a farmer checks fruit for ripeness. He slipped his thumb into my sweaty crack to find my hole. Obligingly, I relaxed the muscle and was rewarded with the pleasure/pain of his digit squeezing right in. I moaned and lifted my ass higher to give him total access.

He shoved the thumb in and out a few times, eventually working in a second and third finger. He worked on my hole until it was gaping open, and then, he knelt down and blew cold wind right up me. Christ, I nearly screamed, wanting to have him slide all the way up me.

He withdrew his fingers and stuck them before my face. "Lick," he ordered. I didn't have to be convinced. I sucked on his thick fingers until they were squeaky clean with my saliva.

"Hungry bastard," he muttered, cupping my loaded balls from behind. He used his thumb and forefinger to create a viselike ring around my aching testicles, my hairs bristling with the accompanying explosion of pain that shot through my cock and balls, all the way up my spine. I hissed air between my teeth and closed my eyes, panting.

He twisted the balls harder, bringing them so far back I thought he was trying to shove them up my own tight hole. I yelled out and gripped the cold pipes harder.

"Please," I begged, "please," not knowing whether I was asking him to stop or continue.

"Please, what?"

"Please... Sir!"

"Again! Say it and mean it!" Another vicious twist.

"Please, Sir. Please, no more, Sir." I couldn't believe it. I was crying and begging him to stop, yet with all my being I wanted it to continue.

The hands released me, and for an eternity, I was left bending over the bowl, exposed and vulnerable. The pain receded in direct proportion to my mounting anxiety.

"Cocky punk," he hissed into my ear. "You're gonna squirm before I'm through with you." He grabbed a chunk of my hair and pulled my head back, exposing my throat. I would not have been surprised if he'd sunk his teeth into me. My mouth opened in a silent scream — I would not give him the pleasure of hearing me yell out in agony.

"Prick," he hissed again, this time pushing my head forward all the way into the bowl. My nose was inches from the water. He flushed the toilet. Torrents of cold water spilled over my head and down my back The water rose in the bowl until my face was completely submerged. I panicked and struggled against his hand holding down the back of my neck. Quickly, he jerked my head out of the water and I gasped for air, coughing and sputtering.

I lost it. Something inside me snapped, my resistance to him evaporated. I was his animal, submissive and pliable.

"No, Sir. Please, don't... Please," I begged him. "Anything, I'll do anything for you. But not this, please."

He let go of my neck, my head and backed off. Silence. He was barely breathing. No touch.

In situations of extreme vulnerability, the human brain will grasp the first familiar object to ground itself, in effect creating a barrier between itself and the predator before it. So, it was that from mere cotton coverings on my feet, my socks suddenly became my entire universe, the one real thing pinning me to life, my anchor home. I poured my concentration into my feet, the white cotton seemingly a shield, warm and safe.

Without warning, his hand came down hard on my ass cheeks. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Continued until I burned like meat on a spit, the pain so intense I could barely stand. I wobbled uncertainly, thinking I would collapse any minute. And still,  his hand came down on my burning mounds.

Again, his hands left my body. I was floating, non-existent, outside time. The pain gradually settled into a slow burn, residing deep within each buttock. My eyes stung with hot tears.

He reached over my head and silently untied my hands.

"Turn around, but don't look up." Rubbing my aching wrists, I turned around, my eyes lowered submissively. He roughly grabbed the back of my head and forced to my knees, making sure my mouth trailed the length of his entire body. For one glorious moment, my face was suspended before the bulging crotch that was straining against the thin, fading fabric of his jeans. I lunged for it, longing to nuzzle my face against his weapon, but he continued to force my face downward.

When my face was on level with his boots, he relaxed the pressure and straightened up. He was a towering monolith, staring down at me with folded arms. I didn't need to be told what to do next.

Hungrily, I started lapping at his boots. I worked on the top of one until it was slick and shiny with my spit and then did the sides. I polished all the gritty dirt off his boot, then fell on my back and took the sole in my mouth. I was really hungry now. When the first boot was finished, I did the same on the other foot.

Eventually, my tongue moved up his right leg, leaving a snail's trail of spit behind. I hugged his massive leg, pushing my cock against him. I was desperate to eat him, I couldn't wait any longer.

He opened his fly and like an inviolate drawbridge linking two shores, his fully erect cock descended from the smooth hardness of his stomach. The two massive balls dangling beneath it were awesome ready-to-pick grapes. He was completely shaved, making him seem at once vulnerable and, somehow, more dangerous.

He rested one foot on the porcelain bowl and mounted me, pushing his crotch into my face. My entire world became his slick hard prick in my mouth, pumping harder and harder. I gagged. I choked. My throat caught on the sounds I was making. Bile ran down the back of my throat. I wanted to beg him to stop, to let me get a breath of air, but we were both too far gone. His moans echoed all around us, and I was so hard, I hurt.

He reached down and put a good hard slap across my ass. Then another. And another. My mouth didn't stop working on him the whole time.

This was real. This was essential. A real man's smell filling my nostrils. A real man's cock and balls in my mouth. Is it any wonder I forgot myself and reached up to grab him around the thighs? I wanted to part his cheeks, to get my tongue into his manhole.

He swatted me across the face, causing the wind to leave my body with a whoosh!

"Keep your hands behind your back, punk!"

"Sorry, Sir," I managed to mutter with my mouth full.

"You love eating me, don't you? Say it; you love eating my dick."

"I love your dick, Sir. I love to eat you, Sir."

Spurred on by my admission, he grabbed the back of my head and started pumping hard into my mouth, pulling his shiny dick all the way out and forcing it back in again. I was reduced to my essential self, a hole existing purely for the pleasure of another man. I was learning my place.

He pulled my face off him and forced me to open my mouth wider. He frantically jerked his massive fist up and down his purple-veined prick until hot globs of cum started spurting over my face, chest and into my willing mouth. For a long time, he rattled and shook above me, as if the force of his orgasm had been too much for him. Then, he straddled my face again and said, "Do it, punk. Bring yourself off, now."

I used his jism from my chest to lubricate my aching, desperate-to-explode dick and began to jerk off while licking his smelly balls. A series of moans shook my body, loud and animal-like, as the pressure built up inside me. My back arched and my toes clawed as I gasped for breath. I shot all over my stomach and thighs in hot spurts.

I lay on the floor in pools of cooling cum, eyes closed, satisfied and completely spent. He placed one heavy boot on my chest as he leisurely put his clothes in order. He seemed like a god standing over his sacrifice, distant and resolute. If he'd turned into a giant bat and torn me to pieces, I would not have been surprised.

Without a word, he turned and left the cubicle, leaving the door wide open. I heard the outer door slam shut as he vanished into the night. No need to speculate if I'd ever see him again. I knew from the full force and conviction building up inside me that there were other men willing to use my body in the same manner and that I was created for them.

Finally, I knew my place.

THE  END