Dungeons and Demons of the Most Personal Kind

When it comes to hooking up, the unexpected is typically unwelcome.  You know, those encounters where with a flip of a switch, a twist of fate, a fly in the ointment; an evening of unbridled passion turns into a do not resuscitate order?  I certainly have had my share of trysts that have taken a wrong turn to nowhere.   However, what at first may appear to be a detour to disaster, can sometimes end up being a life-affirming trip via the scenic route.

That’s what happened last Saturday.  I’d made this date to visit this dom top’s dungeon.  I was very excited, as it promised to be a new experience for me.  His invitation was the result of my recent renewed interest in the kink site, Recon.  I remembered admiring him during my earlier visits to the site.  I’d always wanted to meet him.  His pics on-line were very hot and while his profile was a little light on information, I was pretty sure that he was into some real kinky stuff – the kind that would turn my crank.  His subsequent text messages had been few and quite cryptic.  In this case, not knowing exactly what to expect actually heightened my anticipation.  So much so, that I was afraid I might set my expectations too high, only to be disappointed; a situation where even though the experience would prove to be more than adequate, I would walk away with unfulfilled desires.  I’ve done that to myself in the past and knew enough not to fall into that trap. 

At the agreed upon time, I texted him for his address.  I had spent the previous two hours shaving and buzzing, trimming and buffing, douching and showering; I was pretty sure I was as good as I get.  Having a general idea of where he lived, I was already eastbound in the car when he texted me back.  We were on.  I had on my blue Pistol Pete jock (as requested) and my kick-ass boots.  He would end up being really impressed with the boots.  I arrived earlier than he’d expected, but no worries, he was all prepared.  His house was really nice; one of those old refurbished Victorians in a little nook on the East End of the city.  The interior was equally well appointed; just the right amount of antique furnishings populated each room.  The hardwood floors shone, as did the dark, rich original woodwork.  I was impressed by his sense of economy (not too much crap) and taste.   It all gave me a sense of a disciplined man used to working hard to get what he wanted.

I missed his final text, where he told me to just walk in, so he had to come to the door.  He answered it wearing a yellow jock, a leather vest, a pair of boots, and a leather arm band.  Dude was hot and much more handsome than his pics on line led me to believe.  If you looked up dom top on Wikipedia, I’m pretty sure his picture would be there.   His body was smoking, too – great legs, manly pecs, chewable nips, nice arms.  His full head of hair was neatly trimmed in a perfect phy ed coach buzz cut.  It really brought out the squareness of his jaw; the chin of which was decorated with the most perfect cleft.  His eyes were the color of storm clouds and just as intense.  He seated himself in a turn of the century leather chair, its arms and legs, ornate wooden spindles, and the effect, rather regal.  He ordered me to strip, telling me to leave on my jock and my boots.  I also left my cap on.  Pointing to a chair in the entry hall, he told me I’d find a collar and leash on a chair and that I was to put it on.  The collar was heavy - studded leather, and the leash, a thick gage chrome chain.  I struggled a bit with the collar.  I’d never put one on myself.  Once secured, he commanded me to kneel before him and smell the pouch of his jock.  I was in heaven.  This is exactly what I had come for.

He gave the orders, I listened and complied.  My lips wrapped around his left nipple.  I sucked hard, and then was told to bite.  I took it as far as I thought appropriate, which was right to the edge and he seemed to love it.  My hands never strayed from the wooden arms of the chair.  I had been warned not to touch what I was not asked to touch.  His nips took quite a chewing.  His armpits were moist and warm, fresh, with just a hint of natural musk.  Kissing his biceps, licking them, worshipping them, my nervousness gave way to completing the tasks at hand to the best of my abilities.  I brought my A-game.  More attention was paid to the nicely stuffed pouch of his jock.  I mouthed it, swallowed it and was rewarded with his cock and balls – but only for a few moments.

Taking the chain, he led me down to the basement to his dungeon.  It was smaller than I’d anticipated – a tight squeeze actually – but it had everything that one could want: a generous, overstuffed, black leather settee with a boot rest, a glory hole, a small television playing porn, a sling, and a cushioned kneeling station where ‘X’ marked the spot.  Upon entering, I was told to kneel on the ‘X’.   He put a small harlequin mask on my face, but this would later be discarded, as it kept riding up, obstructing my vision.  My first job was to lick his boots.   I lavished them with saliva, my tongue giving them the perfect spit shine.  My mouth then traveled up his leg, kissing and sucking each inch of flesh, until my nose was buried deep in his jock once more.    After that he would have me alternate, sucking his dick and chewing on his nips.  These activities were punctuated with spitting and kissing.  He proved to be an excellent kisser.  Sometimes he would spit in my mouth (which I would choke on) and sometimes he would simply spit on me.  I found this really erotic. His voice, too, deep and masculine, took me to a place of complete subservience. 

But something got lost on the way to paradise.  Namely his hard-on.  About twenty minutes into play he starts telling me that “it’s” not working for him.  Those are words I hate to hear.  It means that there’s something wrong with me – I’m not attractive enough, my body sucks, I smell bad, I’m not skilled enough, my energy is a turn-off.  So I go into a sort of panic mode and work his dick with my mouth for another twenty minutes, thinking, I have brought the dead back to life with my skills in the past, I can do it again.   But it’s no use.  Finally, he calls it.  Game over.  We head back upstairs.  I feel awful; like a total loser. 

He sits in his regal chair as I take off my boots so I can put back on my jeans.  We begin to talk and it all comes flooding out; it’s not me, it’s him.  He tells me that he’s always been a dom top and he used to be so good at it, but recently, he has, on occasion, not been up to the task.  He’s worried that he’s losing it.  I know his anguish, for there was a time when I was a full-time, hard core top.  At that time the idea of being a bottom never appealed to me.  And then I turned a certain age, and well, one works with what one has to work with, am I right?

He spoke of his life situation and how it was playing with his head, convincing him that he was now ‘old’ (at age 50?  I think not.).  I shared my conversion story with him and told him that becoming a bottom really isn’t what he needed to do to get his groove back.  Sex columnist, gay activist, and hero Dan Savage has given the same advice to many a chronic masturbator no longer able to perform as before; if all you do is choke your chicken with a death grip then your dick becomes desensitized – it gets tired of the same treatment and loses the ability to react to stimuli.  Dan’s suggestion?  Change up your game.  Try a little tenderness.  Try fucking a melon.  Try… something different.  And I thought that same advice applied to my disillusioned dom top.

I suggested a new locale, or a new way of communicating with your sex partner, or trying something completely vanilla.  And then I explained it like this… you know how when you’re on-line or on a phone app, and you’re horny?  How you keep refreshing the page and clicking the profiles, searching and searching.  You keep pushing the buttons; pushing the buttons like a lab rat that pushes a button to receive a pellet of food.  Only one day, there is no food, but the lab rat doesn’t know that, so he keeps pushing the button.  And pushing the button.  And he gets anxious and he gets frustrated and he gets angry.  You begin to resent the button.  You begin to resent the pushing, but you can’t stop pushing.  It feels frenzied, you feel out of control.

You ask yourself: Are you a sex addict?  Maybe, but probably not.

Are you the very definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?  That’s getting closer.

What you need to do is change your game up by exploring new ways to get the pellet. 

The entire time I’m talking with him, I am kneeling between his legs, caressing his nipples, his pecs, his arms, his face, the top of his hair, giving him the occasional kiss – in short, I am creating intimacy.  I tell him that intimacy doesn’t mean you have to marry the dude and that love… well, there are all kinds of love and saying the words ‘I love you’ doesn’t necessarily mean anybody is planning on moving in with you.  It may just be a case of the person loving what you are doing to them at that moment. 

Before I know it, the kissing is taking precedence over the talking.  But no worries because I got my message delivered and understood.  This was a good man who just needed to cut himself some slack and try a little tenderness.  As we’re kissing I tell him that if we do nothing else for the rest of the night but kiss, I would go home happy, because I got to be with him.  And that I was honored to be with him in whatever capacity I could.  He made me stand up and told me that he thought we should give it another go in the dungeon.  Well, he’s the boss, and so we returned, only this time, no collar and leash. 

As we entered I told him how much I wanted to hump that leather settee ever since I laid eyes on it in the photos in his profile.  I also told him that I loved the photo of him licking up cum on its seat.  He took the head of the settee so he was sitting over me and told me to lie face down before him, facing his direction.  He began to stroke his cock, watching me as I humped the settee.  Fuck, it was hot.  I loved the fact that he was watching my ass go up and down.  At some points I was bouncing on that baby for all I was worth.  Humping is a hot word; just the sound of it gets me hard. 

And apparently, I was not the only one my little show was getting hard.  My dom top was definitely into it.  He would spit on me occasionally.  Then he ordered me on his left nipple, and before long we were kissing again.  He spit in my mouth and ordered me into the sling.  Did I mention the mirrors on the ceiling?  Well, I guess that’s because I hadn’t noticed them until I was in the sling.  First off he starts eating my hole and let me tell you, this man knew what the fuck he was doing down there.  Not a shred of hesitation, not a single tentative lick… this fucker really ate my ass.  I couldn’t get over how good I looked in the mirror and I loved the feel of his buzz cut between my legs.   But as impressed as I was with myself, things got even better looking in that mirror when Mr. Dom stood up and shoved his big, fat dick up my ass.  The lighting was perfect.  The angle.  Everything.  I had never watched myself take a dick like this before.  I was kind of mesmerized.   For a bit, he went back and forth, eating and fucking my hole.  I was so excited I remained hard as a rock.  Eventually, on his way up after lavishing my man cunt with his tongue, he came face to face with my dick.  Fortunately, he’s a man who can’t pass up a free meal.  So then he began going between sucking my dick, and eating and fucking my hole – right up to the moment when I could not take it anymore and I deposited a nice load on his waiting and worthy tongue.

He told me to get out of the sling and to lie on the settee, face up with my head facing him.  He resumed his position at the top of the settee looking down on me and began cranking on his dick.  In no time at all he spewed his load.  Cum rained down upon me.  I was smart enough to keep my eyes closed.  It felt so good. 

We kissed a bit more and then went upstairs and talked as I dressed.  I suggested a few other things he might like to try and he suggested that we go to leather night at the Eagle in November.  I asked him if I would have to wear the dog leash and he said he’d be happy to buy me some knee pads. 

We exchanged a few more kisses and the smiles on our faces as we left one another’s company had more to do with bond we’d temporarily created than it had to do with the awesome sex we’d just had. 

As I got into my car, an old Elton John song sprang into my head.

“When I think of those East End lights, muggy nights

Curtains drawn in the little room downstairs…”

I’m not grandiose enough to think that for a moment that I really saved anyone’s life that night. 

But I am pretty sure I’d left someone a little better than I’d found him.

And isn’t that what we are all supposed to do for one another?