This is the 7th part of the story Thirty One Days, a challenge that involves sex, thirty-one women, and will take 31 days.
Two full weeks have passed since my infamous debut. The fag was right. I came back. I am in the parking lot across the street from the House of God. Slowly sipping a can of beer. I am not going to get hammered this time. I am not going to lose control of my bodily strength and functions. I am not going to be 'servicing' anybody tonight. I am here for redemption. For answers. To some exceedingly disturbing questions. About me. About what happened to me.
For two weeks, I have replayed in my mind, what went down on 'the' night. Okay. Bad choice of words. I mean, what went down, other than me. The four beers in the parking lot. The two beers I snuck in with. The twenty dollar, no-tip drink at the bar. Things got fuzzy then. A basketball game on a giant television screen. The Lakers and the Clippers. Superman and Steve Nash. Talking to the leather pants fag in the bar. The ugly Pit Bull Man dragging the towel man with the stupid name away, at the end of a dog leash. Too unbelievable. Me, back in the small mirror room. Where the memory thing got fuzzy.
Me in the mirror room with Stevie.
Was I actually kissing the guy On the mouth
Damn, he was such a girl. The lips, the face, the tongue, the shaggy hair. The ass. The leather girl ass. Suddenly, I was immobile, kneeling, and his cock was in my mouth. I was sucking on his long white cock as the sensation of separation took me away. Even now, I am separated from the ugly fact a cock was in my mouth. It wasn't me doing it. Not the everyday me. It was the other me. The dumbass who was taking a walk on the wild side. This was the only way my brain could deal with it. Good thing I spent most of my life as the normal me.
Still not making sense, but making sense enough to survive this bad episode of my life. This is the sickest part. The domination. I recall him with fistfuls of my hair, forcing his cock down my throat. Pumping his leather ass, wearing those big black boots. I was choking, suffocating, trying to heave my guts out, trying to breathe, trying to stay alive. The salty, hot taste of his cum, staying with me for three days. Shit sakes. What an idiot I was.
Why would I allow this
The straight me The sick me Any me
Right this second, and every single time I have thought about this over the past two weeks, my cock is stirring. It must be the domination thing, or the super submissive, punk ass thing. I am not sure which. I know it's not the fag thing or the gay thing. Not at all. Unless the two me's are intertwining. I can only hope this is not the case.
I have always loved chicks in tight leather pants. High boots. Lots of jewelry and bling. Wet painted lips. Big lips. Stevie had big lips. Soft, puffy lips. Girl lips. Stevie wore jewelry in his nipples. What was with my nipples Never, had a nipple touch driven an erection. It certainly did two weeks ago. I jerked off twice in the last week from rubbing my own nipples. Standing in the shower. Hot water cascading down my back.
It can't be a fag thing.
What about the kissing
I was kissing a fag. On the mouth. With my tongue. Moaning. Loudly. Exaggerated. The men in the hallway could hear us. With my near exploding cock. Then my cock did explode. In my pants. My cock exploded when Stevie shot into my throat. I think. Not exactly sure, when in this scenario, my cock blew.
Stop kidding myself. I know when I came. I think about it. I have thought about it for two weeks. I came while a guy fucked my throat. Why isn't this simple true fact, a fag thing Because of the separation. The wall between the two worlds. As long as the two worlds don't crossover. I would have to make sure they didn't.
I would have to make sure the fag thing, never happens again.
The last chick I tried to nail was wearing latex pants. Over a year ago. Not leather, but latex. Something hotter than leather. The spread at her crotch was legendary. Wide and tight. Shiny and black and edible.
How did this play out for me
Not good. She was the one who sent me down this path.
I shook my head. The bitch.
Honest to god, two weeks ago I thought in my brain, in my mind, in my soul, I was necking with a chick.
Those puffy lips, the smooth, curvy, tight leather ass.
Definitely, a chick.
Now, here I was, back at the House of God, the return visit. Across the street, sitting in my car, dark outside, late in the evening. Watching the perverts and the desperadoes and the old chicken hawks going in. It was much busier tonight at the club and on the street outside. More vehicular traffic and more foot traffic. The convenience store next door was open, bringing people very close to the House of God front door. I wasn't sure how I was going to get past those junk food buyers, and slip in unnoticed. I best pop a second beer to up the bravery level.
A lot of time crawling on the net has opened my eyes. Curiosity might end up killing this cat. The House of God is a true S & M Club. Domination. Submission. Pain. Pleasure. No holds barred. Quite hard core in fact. The leash and chain were fully explained. Pretty frightening stuff. Pretty disgusting stuff. I was lucky to get out with a load in my belly. Much worse could have happened to me. Especially in the condition I was in.
This was a lifestyle choice for these freaks Men offering themselves up as worthless little fuck toys Men ascending to positions of domination Collars for the weaklings Leashes for the masters of the universe
One master reigning above all
Yes, God himself held the throne in this house. Some yoyo who called himself God, anyway. He was legendary in the seedy gay underbelly. There was a blurry picture of the exalted one on the internet. It showed him sitting on some kind of throne. Clad head to toe in leather and studs, his face covered in a mask, the hair long, flowing and blonde. Rumors of his gifts and powers were the subject of much chatter on the web. Great. More bullshit in a bullshit world.
I watched the pedestrian flow. I didn't notice the convenience store on New Year's night. It must have been closed with lights out. Not now. The place was lit up, resembling a Christmas tree. Flashing lotto ticket signage. Cigarette logos. Beer logos. Potato chip logos. Soft drink logos. Look at the riff raff going in and out. Spending dollars and quarters on junk. Flabby, unhealthy purchases by weak people. I adjust my car radio up and pop a third beer. I might have to run a gauntlet to get into the club tonight.
Speaking of weak people, how did I dissolve into such a pathetic condition two weeks ago How did it happen Granted, I consumed an awful lot of booze, and I was previously off the bottle for a long, long time. Did the booze shock drop me into such a feeble, submissive state
Whenever I have gone over the line on the booze, the result has been aggression, slapping some jackass or pounding some pussy, and then straight to sleepy land. None of this weak-kneed, no muscle response, swooning, submission bullshit. I researched the magic blue bottle Stevie stuck in my nose. Some type of nitrate, allowing complete relaxation by thinning your blood. Apparently popular in the fag culture. You could buy hundreds of brands, styles and flavors on the net. Or in any sex shop. The tag line on the bottle was to sniff and relax. Mostly relax your ass.
Bottom line was, what the hell came over me I have drank twenty-four beer in the past and not fallen apart. I have pounded back shooters and whiskeys until the cows came home, and not fallen apart. So, what gave I don't know. I am here to find out. I crack my fourth can of Bud.
The original plan for tonight was to stop at two beers and head in. The lingering kids and cigarette buyers are preventing this from happening. I am into my fourth beer because I have to get in there tonight. I have to go back into the House of God and prove something to myself. Fourteen days ago was definitely, a one of.
One of those impossible synergies of not drinking, then drinking too fast, seeking drastic answers to a giant problem, and whatever else happened to be running through the cosmos. All colliding in the crazy, multi mirrored room. Perhaps the multiple mirrored surfaces refracted enough shit to create some kind of sick wormhole.
Another thread was running through all of this. The black leather pants. The bulge in the black leather pants. The touch and feel of those pants on my fingers. Mysterious. Hot. Erotic. In fact. Look at what I am wearing tonight. I smile as I gaze down.
My own pair of black leather pants. Beautiful. Tailor made for my shape. The smell of them. The crackling of the animal skin when I pulled on the pants in the sex shop change room. The instant hard-on. The power I felt surging through me. I fully understand why Stevie the fag was so cocky. A bulge in the front of a pair of leather pants is the same as a nice, tight spread on a chick. It fans the hunger of anybody who possesses a sexual bone in their body. Same sex or opposite sex, I don't think it matters.
Did I say that
I did. Because leather was animal. Animal was sex. Raw, passionate, aggressive, dominating sex. One animal over another. One animal eating another. The way it has always been. The food chain, exemplified.
These magical leather pants are the reason I am having a tough time strapping it on and walking across the street, through the malingering junk food buyers, and pulling open the door to the House of God S & M club. This is a tough neighborhood. I don't need to be singled out or highlighted as a fag. Because I am not a fag. Remember, two Decembers ago, I nailed thirty-one chicks in thirty-one days. For sure some kind of American stud record. Probably a world record. Nothing has shown up on the net or anywhere since to eclipse my accomplishment. I know I am not a fag. No fag could ever achieve such a task. Ever.
Things then went off the rails.
Barren. Nothing. Empty. Dead. Faded. Gun-less.
I am not a fag. I am not a sick, disgusting, worthless piece of twisted garbage. I am confused. I am working my way back.
By starting at a more primitive level
I don't know. I know things aren't right. Haven't been right. Haven't been right since the last day of last year. Something is going on here, something I have to see through.
Perhaps what I am, all stripped down and bare, is an animal. Maybe animals sometimes do strange things to other animals. I once saw a bunny rabbit humping a cat. Maybe the bunny rabbits do deserve their reputations.
Nevertheless, strange things are not for me. Two weeks ago was an aberration. A sick aberration. I am going into this place tonight. I am going to watch the hungry creatures as they wittingly or unwittingly lose their inhibitions and find the magnetic pull of my new leather hide. Then, because I am not a fag, I will leave them all hanging and walk out unscathed. To show myself the truth. The aberration known as my last visit, will never happen again. I will not go untouched on tonight's journey, because I know the fingers and hands will be glomming to my crotch and ass. They will not be able to help themselves. They will be sick with desire. Desire for me. I will smile, probably laugh at them, and leave.
I put the fourth beer can down. It is empty. There are two cans left from the six pack. Two shiny silver cans with clear plastic nooses around their necks. The parking lot is chock full of cars. The pleasure seekers have parked on both sides of the street in front of the club. In fact, as I crane my neck up and down the street, there are no parking spots left. The House of God is full of worshippers tonight. This reminds me, if faggot Stevie is in, first thing I am going to do is tell him to go fuck himself. Whatever was going on with me two weeks ago, he sure took advantage.
I am thinking, he owes me one.
Yes. He owes me a blow job.
To even the score.
How does this work
It just does.
How else do you even the score when you have sucked somebody's cock
He has to blow you. Simple. There is no other way. Because 'sorry' doesn't work. 'Let's forget it happened' doesn't work. Beating the shit out of him doesn't work. No, Stevie needs to blow me to erase this thing from my life. It has nothing to do with me being a fag. It simply levels the playing field. I blew him. He blows me. Negative one, plus one, equals zero. And therefore, it never happened. The math was sound.
He doesn't need to be cruising through life with a big one-up on the straight guy. Telling his fag buddies a straight guy blew him. Building his reputation on my stupidity. Even though he is a fag, he is a guy. Guys love to brag about their conquests. And a straight guy as good looking as me, as physically imposing as me, would be an incredible, once in a lifetime conquest for a fag like Stevie. I sure as shit didn't need a dirty little secret in my closet. Spilling out into the world, should asshole Stevie ever walk into my life again. No, he didn't need a 'one-up' on me.
Once he was done swallowing the meat and sucking back my juice, we would be even. Then he would tell me all about this god character. I was somewhat intrigued by this mystery. God was, after all, one of my fellow leather gang members. A legend with legendary powers.
The damn curiosity thing was running rampant within me.
To put a nice hetero punctuation on this entire situation, I might beat the shit out of Stevie anyway. He will understand fully, who the boss is.
About: The author of "Thirty One Days - Chapter 8" is Ronan Jackson Jefferson - You can contact the writer at Rojackjeff@hotmail.com. You can print this erotic tale for your own personal pleasure, or read more naughty stories like this in our Sex Story Series section.
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