This is the 23rd chapter of the sexy story Thirty One Days, a challenge that involves sex, thirty-one women, and will take 31 days.
It is the middle of March. Winter is beginning to lift in the Midwest. Fourteen and a half months since setting the record. Fourteen and a half months of no females.
Yes, I've got it.
Loud and clear.
I have a problem
Eight weeks have passed since my second visit to the House of God. I am fully recovered, not a hint of a bruise or a mark. I have worked hard in the gym and feel strong and healthy. I am not thinking of the H.I.V., nor am I going to get tested for it. My body and mind are sound. The physical machine called me can crush anything coming my way. I have never been sick, never been through surgery and never required a hospital stay. I see doctors only for annual workplace checkups. My teeth are white and perfect. One single cavity in my entire life. I don't get colds or the flu or coughs or fevers or sinus attacks. Sickness is for wimps.
Those incidents, those two Stevie incidents, are firmly in the past. They are a one of a kind thing, and will never, ever happen again. Next week, I have a date lined up with the hot receptionist from the gym. I have been working on her for a while, and finally, it is going to happen. I have yet to come up with an explanation for the tattoo, and am thinking more and more, it doesn't matter. A lot of tattoos go on at the spur of the moment, or during a drunken haze. This is why they are meaningless and look stupid.
Also, unlike the fag sex, I don't anticipate the gym chick will be spending a lot of time behind me. In fact, it will be the opposite. There. Done. My explanation for the tattoo, should I need one, will be a night of drunken stupidity. No chick on the planet, and no straight guy on the planet, would connect the House of God tattoo on my ass with the House of God fag joint. Those separate worlds would never intersect.
Could never intersect.
But they did.
From the House of God, to my house.
Via the U.S. Postal Service.
I am sitting in my car.
In the parking lot.
Across the street.
From the House of God.
Hold on you might say.
Why am I here?
Well, for starters, I am not drinking. I have no beer in the car. I don't plan on drinking anything tonight. Not a single drop. No sniffing from bottles, no leathers, no boots. No nothing. Nothing to help nudge me down the sick pathway.
For two straight weeks I watched the video. Jerked off to it every time. Ridiculous. I tried to toss the disc in the garbage, but couldn't quite get there. It is tucked away in my closet. Yes, the evil closet full of secrets. For sure I need to destroy the DVD, and I will, because my face is all over it.
Some progress is happening. For the last four weeks, I have resisted the urge to pop it in the machine and watch. I am in withdrawal, but I know I can beat it.
Was I hooked on gay sex and ass fucking?
I don't think so.
Of course not.
But it is time to return to the proper side of things.
To the right side of the street.
The only good thing coming out of this mess is the excellent video recording system installed in my bedroom and living room. Small, powerful cameras from the electronics specialty store. A DVD recording unit, and presto, I can make my own high quality movies. I did a short one already, featuring me. Mostly to learn camera angles and correct lighting requirements. I was wearing my leather pants and boots. I oiled my torso as a special effect. Awesome footage.
This new technology doesn't require much lighting. It will be a breeze to nail down some sweet video. I was happy to deep six my previous recording system, the cheap ass shit from the big box store. If the light was perfect, you got some decent footage. Very hit and miss, and crappy black and white. The first movies I made seemed pretty cool, because it was new and it was illicit. My upgraded system includes full color and surround sound audio. The hot gym receptionist was unwittingly going to be my first co-star. With her super tight body and my ripped carcass, we would be creating magic.
Let's get back to the present.
It is Thursday night. As I said, no drinking. I have to admit, I was hitting the bottle pretty good since the New Year began. Especially on the weekends. No more. Not a drop, for over a month. Health and fitness are my new mission. No way is the H.I.V. going to incubate in me.
My buddies have been a little curious regarding my new hibernating self. I told them I was taking a bunch of internet college courses, and wouldn't be hanging much for the next while. Danny is still carrying a grudge, a giant cross on his back, nearly fifteen months now. Especially strong since he officially got back together with little Susie, about eight months ago. By offering her some sort of promise ring, or engagement. He was happy I wasn't around. Whatever dude.
I fucked your girl.
You asked me to do it.
It was over a year ago.
You forgave her.
What's the problem you're having with me?
Don't forget, you smarmy little prick, remember what you did for me?
I bet you conveniently erased that from your memory, didn't you?
Funny, how selective memory can work.
Not for me though.
I remember what you did.
Back to the parking lot.
The street action is steady. Cars and pedestrians move about their business. The cold grip of winter is waning. The House business looks to be hopping. The cretins are slinking in, making ready to find their nirvana. My dashboard clock says five minutes before ten. The traffic was clear and I made good time. Two hours and forty minutes, total. I am definitely reducing my driving time as I find different routes into the big city.
What the hell am I doing here?
I thought I knew the answer. For the past two and a half hours I thought I knew the answer. Sitting in this parking lot, across the street from the House, I am not so sure. A tiny tingling is running through me. I used to get this before football and basketball games in high school. Nerves. Adrenalin. Good old anxiety. Not sure what to expect. Not being sure what to expect can be very exciting. Or it can be a disaster.
I was here for the same reason as my last visit. To confront. To get information. To get redemption. To prove to myself, this is not the way for me. I am in the parking lot, close to the House of God, close to room one twenty-nine. Room one twenty-nine, the scene of my debauchery. The scene of the greatest sexual explosion I have ever experienced. The tingling is definitely running through me. No longer am I a hundred per cent sure why I came. Despite the blast to my ass, the ramrod down my throat, the punch out, the choke out, the potential death sentence from H.I.V. and the damn tattoo, I am here.
Because I have been thinking.
Thinking about how to ascend from dominated, to dominant.
Is this what I want? To be dominant? With men?
I was all that and more in my past life. I was god. God to the women.
Who couldn't rule a woman?
Because women were, in their nature, meant to be ruled.
Where was the challenge?
Slap her around. Boss her around. Yell at her. Intimidate her. Bully her. Fuck her. Fuck her anyway you want. Put her on her back where she belongs. Put her on her knees where she belongs. Dominate her. Abuse her. Beat her.
Men are a different story.
How does one dominate a man?
By being the boss? A cop? A politician? By being a biker? A boxer? A fighter? By being filthy rich? By carrying a gun?
How? How truly, do you dominate a man?
Well, I know the answer. By surviving a night in the House of God. By thriving in the House of God. By ascending in the House of God. Because money, guns, job description, badges, power, physical strength and position meant squat in there. It is a true level playing field. Perhaps the only level playing field left on this earth.
How could I ascend from dominated to dominant?
Why do I want to?
Because dominant is my true nature. My true animal self. Not the piece of shit on the bottom. There is no joy in bottomville. Regardless of the size of my orgasm. Bottom was wrong. Top was right.
Tonight, I was going into the stupid fag club. This would be a reconnaissance mission, more or less. Tour the second floor if I want to find out more about these sick fuckers. For information reasons only. Find out about this god dude, the author of my tattoo. Punch Stevie square in the head. Walk out.
Tonight, I didn't need to be the fag on top. Because the fag on top was as wrong as the fag on the bottom.
In, and get out.
Avoid the booze, the sniffing bottles and the Pit Bull Man.
What did the Pit Bull Man actually do to thewhat was the idiot's name? Mental Man? Mentor Man? What did the steroid head do to the stoned out Mentor Man?
Who cares, moron?
Did I need to know the answer?
This stupid curiosity is going to kill me.
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About: The author of "Thirty One Days - Chapter 23" 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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