Thirty One Days - Chapter 14
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Quote: "This is the 14th part of the story Thirty One Days, a challenge that involves sex, thirty-one women, and will take 31 days"
NOTE: This is the 14th Chapter of the story, You may wish to read Chapter 1 first.
This is the day I have been dreading. The brown package is sitting in my mail box when I arrive home after work. As promised, two weeks ago. No return address. I take the package out of the mail box and feel the size and shape of a DVD. Here we go.
I unlock my condo door and go inside. To the bathroom to clean up. I take off my shirt and toss it in the laundry hamper. Wash my hands and face. Look at myself in the mirror. The black eye is nearly gone. The lip has healed and the swelling in the nose has disappeared. I can't believe the skinny little bastard actually drank my blood. Faint finger marks remain lacerated in the sides of my neck. His finger marks. Marking me. I shake my head. Hopefully, after another week, these marks will be gone forever. Like Stevie. Gone forever. At least from the orifices of my body.
My mind was a different story.
When I stepped into the shower two weeks ago, on the morning after, I couldn't believe the mess draining down between my legs. Cum and blood and grease and shit. I was bruised and torn deep inside. The bastard cored me out, big time.
I could barely walk those first few days. My ass was unbelievably sore. I couldn't shit for nearly a week. Lots of Ex-lax. When I did finally shit, I nearly cried, it was so painful. Concrete, impacted chunks. Impacted by eight inches of white cock. Driven home by a thick, bell hammer. Polysporin on the ass ever since. I was finally starting to feel better back there.
The worst damage was to my psyche.
The stupid House of God.
What the hell happened in there
Why did it happen the way it did
What was I thinking Or not thinking
When I catch up with the leather pants faggot, and I will, I am going to lay such a beating on the prick. Am I ever pissed at him.
Somehow, he took complete control of me, for the second time in two weeks, but this time, much more than a cock in my throat. He totally abused me. Collared me and beat me. Pathetic.
Next time, I would be ready for him.
I am going back there
To what Take charge
Going to even the score. Level the playing field.
Wasn't that the plan for the last visit
Never mind. The last visit was a total screw up.
How was he able to completely dominate me
He was a hundred and forty pound skeleton. I could crush him like a fly. I am a big, strong, physically fit guy. I have boxed and wrestled and can hold my own in a bar fight.
Why didn't I crush the bastard Why
Was there something at play in the sick underground world
Did my 'normal world' skills not work down there
This cost me four lost days at work because of my aching ass and my beaten face. It was costing me nights of sleep because I couldn't figure out why I was such a worthless piece of shit. None of this experience was fun. Degradation, abuse, victimization. Weakness and submission.
Remember, I keep telling myself, I asked him for it.
I asked him to fuck me.
Fuck me please.
A chill ran through me. My cock twitched.
'Fuck me please'.
I actually said those words.
Me, the big tough guy, the macho stud. I asked him for it.
Talk about a mind fuck.
Let's be totally honest here.
One part of the night was fun.
Fun wasn't the right word.
The swelling, aching pounding of my cock was an unbelievable experience. My cock became the center of my universe. From the depths of my ass to the tip of my knob, I was in cock heaven. When the domination and abuse and man rape was occurring against me, the island of pleasure called my cock was seeing me through. My thick, giant, hard cock.
Indeed, talk about a mind fuck. The best orgasm of my life was with a guy. Not with a gorgeous, perfect ten blonde. A domineering, faggot of a guy. I was man-fucked into sexual ecstasy.
Too sick for words.
Too true to ignore.
I don't remember leaving the club. I returned to my senses sometime before noon on the following day. I was fully dressed and in my car. Leather pants back on. Zipper done up. Stomping boots on. The brown bottle in my pocket. In the parking lot across the street from the House of God. Freezing cold, with the January sun slanting through my windshield. Somebody brought me out of the fag club and settled me into the car to sleep it off.
They left me a note.
'Davey. Thanks for the party. Two weeks from today, you will get your own personal video of your special night. Enjoy. See you again. And we will see you again.'
Signed, Disciple of God.
Disciple of God
See you again
I thought some more.
Yes, I would see you again. I had a major league score to settle.
Now, two weeks later, most of the second visit was fading away. The inaugural blow job night of four weeks ago was barely a memory. I was having a hard time placing myself in those embarrassing, compromising situations. I certainly remembered the blatant acts clearly, but I couldn't remember my mind set or thoughts or experiences of those acts. I did give a blow job. I did kiss a guy. I was drilled up the ass. I could only recall these as facts. Emotionless, empty facts. I wondered if I was compartmentalizing this stuff.
Or was my mind purposely discounting it, to save my own sanity
A year ago, six months ago, if someone would have said I would be sucking cock, I would have killed them. Or told them to fuck off. Or laughed at them. Bad joke, dude.
Now, I was a cock sucker.
I hadn't changed. I worked. Lived in my condo. Hung with my friends and family. Sort of. Not really. Went to the gym. Watched sports on television. Hit the bars on the weekend. Not so much anymore. In fact, not at all anymore. Laying low was the way for me to go. The chicks were no longer dying to fuck me. A few of them might. The ones who missed out on the great December run.
What exactly was going on here
I didn't lisp, wear makeup, wear panties under my jeans or wiggle my ass. I didn't take up cooking or dress designing. I don't listen to Boy George or George Michael, and I think Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, and Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, are the best movie performances ever. In other words, I am certainly no fag, and in no danger of becoming one.
Let's make it nice and clear.
I am not a fag.
All right then. Move forward.
Somebody from the House of God took the car keys from the glass mirror room and waved the FOB around until they found my wheels. Dragged me across the street and dumped me in the car. Found my wallet and checked my identification. They knew my real name, address, credit card number, and everything else.
They had everything on me. Including a gay porno movie. With me as the star. Another reason why I wasn't sleeping at night. A good reason.
What if this movie 'showed up' on YouTube or some internet porn site
They didn't have to edit or use Photoshop. It was me, in all of my stupid glory. What an idiot I was, walking into the House of God as if I could handle whatever came my way. My entire fate being held in someone else's hands is not a good feeling. Someone I don't know. In fact, it is a sickening feeling. Moving far, far away is becoming a strong possibility. A given, if this thing leaks. Because yes, it would go viral. Of course it would go viral. I was starring in it.
I grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the kitchen counter. It is Friday night, no work tomorrow, no nothing. Dusk is settling outside, and I close the curtains. My first floor unit has a nice big picture window in the living room. I don't think I want anybody seeing the movie I will be playing tonight. There was a time when voyeurism was way cool. Not any longer.
I am cooking up some Kraft dinner for supper. Something bland to absorb the JD whiskey I am going to be pouring down my throat. This might turn into a long night.
I slowly eat my supper, sipping the JD as I go. I have opened the brown package and spilled the contents on the table. A single DVD, nothing else, no note or letter or instructions. Simply place in DVD machine, push play, and wish you were dead.
I finish supper and rinse the dishes in the sink. I grab the disc and the bottle and shuffle into the living room. Insert the disc and click on the television. I sit down on the couch and wait for the screen to light up. It does. In blazing white light. The screen flickers between the white and darkness, finally settling somewhere in between. Images begin to show up. Images of people. Two people. I hit the pause button. Take a big gulp of the whiskey. I feel the warmth flood through me. I already know the camera was in the next room. Room one twenty-eight. The lens is up close, carefully pointing through one of the three inch holes.
I might as well go back to the moment. Properly. Self-immersion.
I take the bottle with me as I walk to my bedroom. Strip the rest of my clothes off. Everything goes. Into my closet, I select the leather pants off the rack. Slip them on. Nice and tight. Form fitting. They look good.
I bend down and grab my boots. They have been shined and polished back to brand new condition. I tug them on over my feet. I look at the full length closet door mirror. I don't need a shirt. I check on the top shelf and find my brown bottle. I haven't touched the thing in two weeks. Frankly, the chemical scares me. It is part of the evil mix. What part, I am not yet sure. The evil mix of beer, vodka, the brown bottle, the blue bottle, the leather, the stomping boots, the hands on the ass and crotch, the blazing vortex of mirror light, my thick swollen cock, and who knows what else. The evil mix that is killing me. Or at least, screwing me up royally.
Twelve months and four weeks ago, I finished chick number thirty-one, in the thirty-one days of December. A complete year of abstinence has followed. Enforced abstinence. Inability to perform, abstinence. However, in the time span of two weeks, I blew a fag, and then was brutally corn holed by the same fag. Two weeks later, I have the video proof. How does anyone make this journey
I finger the brown bottle. I have done more research on this shit. Amyl nitrate. Poppers. Joy Juice. Brown Betty. Whatever. A blood thinner. An illegal blood thinner. It thins your blood, makes you feel light headed and relaxes your muscles. Big deal. It doesn't cause erections, or maintain erections, or buckle your knees, or make you pour sweat, or make you suck cock, or kiss men. What is causing all of this to happen
Do I want to contemplate the possible answers
Why am I wearing leather pants and stomping boots as I get ready to watch my own degradation
Will I get some sort of satisfaction or thrill out of watching
Will I pretend it is someone else getting debased
Will I pretend it is me on top, the alpha male of the species
I am dressed up in my power outfit, drinking liberally from the JD bottle, fingering my poppers. Standing in front of my closet. I will definitely be pretending something. Christ, the movie hasn't even started, and I am already way out in left field.
I head back to the living room. I turn off the tall corner light, and the small table lamp. Once again, I ensure the curtains are tightly closed. I shut off my cell phone and chain the front door. I am taking no chances. This DVD is evil. This DVD could ruin my job, my life, me. Everything. A simple piece of plastic. Unbelievable, thinking this disc could bring my whole world crumbling down.
I sit back down on the couch. The couch is dark green leather. The couch crackles under my weight. I am sitting on a leather couch wearing leather pants.
Why am I pleased
The JD bottle is one third empty. I better slow down. The poppers are on the couch beside me. Ready, in case I need a helping hand. I grab the remote. I notice a fine bead of sweat on my chest. My mind is already cycling back to the House of God. My back is stuck to the green leather of the couch. I stare at the frozen image on the screen. My first starring role.
Continued in Chapter 15
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Story Details and Information
- Thirty One Days - Chapter 14
- Published: Apr 17, 2014
- Author: Ronan Jackson Jefferson
- Contact Author: Rojackjeff@hotmail.com
- Category: Sex Story Series
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