A young man's search for a mysterious biker leads him to rough sexual adventures in a leather club.
Moth Man - Part 1
by Dixon
Art by Bill Ward
His folks named him Marion after his paternal grandfather. He understood, just like they understood his adopting a bunch of nicknames as he grew up.
In grammar school it was Marty when the usual bullies called him sissy and worse. By high school it was Kris with a K, his blending of the actor Chris Kristofferson’s name. That’s when he started hanging around the gym, working out to beef up.
After high school he became Duke. No, it wasn’t in honor of some historical figure, some warlord, but a random biker he met once at a gay bar. He was a big, burly man, flashing a hairy chest – nothing like his own dad.
He practically lived at that gay bar, getting cruised by pretty boys and gym rats worthy of one night stands, but Duke never showed up again. Duke, Jr. had to move on. gravitating to seedy places, nameless biker hangouts, and eventually the leather underground.
Surprisingly, the name Duke got him credibility, even access to some joints where the big fellow at the door was the bouncer, turning away most strangers. Turns out Duke was known in the leather crowd, but no one had seen him lately.
That just meant Duke would keep searching, keep making a nuisance of himself asking about other places the leather fraternity frequented. The rough guys often just walked away, or wanted to barter a blow job or a fuck. Finally, one just laughed and said “You got the $300 membership fee?”
No one had ever mentioned the Pump House. Duke had never seen a sign, even a week later when he rustled up the $300 and got directions to the place. There was no sign on the cement block building, which he fully understood when he got past the steel door in the front office. It was a genuine dungeon – a BDSM playground for masters and their submissives. Duke saw and heard more than even he had ever imagined in his twenty minute cruise around the building. Subjects were bound and abused, edged they call it. Duke had to fake not being shocked, much less cover being aroused by the authority of several of the masters.
He didn’t identify with the men who yelled from the agony of having their flesh pinched and whipped. The red whelps across their ass were likely to leave scars, and they were far from accepting of being some man’s bitch.
Other men seemed resigned to their place, possessions owned by their masters. Even when the slaves were muscular and well endowed, their masters were moreso – monster cocks attached to men you wouldn’t want to cross.
Duke was magnetized by the giant cocks. He tried to imagine surviving being forced to give head, to repress the gag reflex as the man crammed his python pecker down his throat. One slave was handcuffed to his master’s cock, apparently interrupted in jerking off – his master and himself – when Duke stared too long. Something told him it would be inappropriate for him to pull out his own dick and join in.
His wandering around was noticed. New member or not, he wasn’t engaged – had no piece of meat in tow. Finally, another member asked him if he needed to rent “something to play with.” It was incredible. Not only could you come here and practice bondage and discipline on your mate or slave, but you could rent some total stranger to have your way with.
Duke asked some of the questions that flooded his mind. “How much?” That depended on whether the “item” was a volunteer (a.k.a. a masochist member who would be cheaper because he’d enjoy your mistreatment) or a recruit (a.k.a. someone another member brought in, without his consent). Recruits were more expensive because they were unpre-dictable, likely to be resistant, requiring skill, and they were snatched up within hours of being put in the stable.
Duke pretended to be interested in a rental just to see the stable, to see what poor suckers volunteered to be beaten and fucked, and with a little bit of luck, perhaps to see what kind of recruits might have been brought in. They probably didn’t have any fresh recruits because he hadn’t heard any shouting, any unwilling victim putting up a fuss. Of course, if he put up a struggle, he’d probably be drugged or gagged and securely restrained. Surely you wouldn’t rent a guy who was unconscious. They must truss ‘em up gagged and helpless.
As expected, Duke saw two twinks in the holding cell, a member deciding which he’d pay $25 to play with for four hours. Both looked like they wanted to be picked, one glancing at Duke in the background. Did masochists have preferences about what type of men abused them? Worse yet, would Duke feel obligated to rent the one left behind just to avoid them sinking into some lower level of self-pity?
He quickly asked to see other ‘items’. The stable manager said these two were the cheapest, one other $25 item being considered by another member. Seems it wasn’t uncommon for members to drop in to kill time, not really planning to rent a plaything, but copping a feel of their ass or seeing if they had a serious gag reflex. Yeah, that meant members would swing by the stable to get a blow job, or to inflate their ego by taunting, talking trash about things they’d enjoy doing to them.
The other masochist kid was giving a freebie to a member – not a blow job, but guzzling down his urine through a tube he had come prepared to treat him with. He looked up at Duke, as if he’d be a fool to rent the kid for four hours when it wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to degrade him, or maybe wondering if Duke had a bladder full of piss he expected to unload. Duke turned to the manager to ask if this member was a chronic sampler of the merchandise.
His answer made it perfectly clear that there was a lot of latitude for members – especially long-term members who brought in other members or an occasional ‘recruit.’ Duke had the strong feeling that he’d have opportunity to try out any ‘item’ in the stable without paying any rental fee. He didn’t plan on bringing in any recruits himself, but knew he’d be checking in just in case he recognized some guy he’d had eyes on himself. So were there any recruits who hadn’t been snatched up today?
There were two left over from yesterday. Neither one was gagged, but both had been lightly restrained, both stripped naked. The one Duke saw as worthy of a good fuck was tied to a pole, his thick buttocks tempting a member about to pull out his cash.
The other recruit lay on the floor, his arms tied behind his back, his groin noosed in rope. He didn’t show any masochistic traits, but seemed reluctantly resigned to having no recourse. The manager said both men had been a handful when they were brought in, but traffic had been light the night before, so they got an hour of ‘attitude adjustment’. The manager himself handled such issues, mostly using severe CBT to convince the defiant male his resistance to residence in the Pump House stable could be detrimental to his sex life. Better to take a cock up your ass than to have irreparable damage to your plumbing.
“We can’t keep ‘em more than two or three days, so I’m pretty good at reasoning with them, getting them calmed down, without having to use the hook.”
The hook was his weapon of last resort, a curled steel rod with a three inch ball that could be rammed up the ass and hooked to a suspension rope. The manager said it usually didn’t take more than an hour or so of forcing the ball in and letting the man force it out before the hole stretched and betrayed the sucker. Only once had he suspended a recruit on the hook overnight.
“I rented him out the next day – five times! He definitely got addicted to riding some of our meanest fuckers. One even paid for him to become a member and the two of them are regulars now.”
No, it wasn’t a member named Duke who had bought a recruit as his personal bitch. Duke, Jr. could still hope he might hook up with his namesake. For now, Duke needed to get out of there, unless he rented one of the twinks to test his oral skills, or that belligerent recruit who might be more than willing to throw a mean fuck.
He opted to head home, cuffing one arm to the bed post and fantasizing jerking off the python pecker while he got his rocks off. He’d return to the Pump House the next night, and the next, searching for Duke.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER