by Rick R. Reed
Leatherman drops immediately to his knees, leather creaking, chains clanking. He knows his place and no longer meets the boy's hungry stare, but keeps his eyes focused forward, supplicant. He trembles slightly, and the boy knows this quaking is not from fear, but from a desire so intense it's manifesting itself physically. He knows because he shares in the desire; it's like a third presence in this crowded tiny space.
Leatherman's eyes speak total submission. He holds his hands behind his back and waits. He will not have the nerve to reach out with a hand, to implore with a touch, or encourage with a word. His place is to serve, silently, and without question.
The boy crowds farther into the small space. Behind the leatherman's head, the city whizzes by: bright lights beacon out of tall buildings, where lives play themselves out, unconcerned with what unfolds now, here, on this train. Although both the boy and the man know it isn't true, the intensity of their want and their sexual connection is so strong that they think they must be the only ones in this city of millions in its thrall. It's that powerful--there isn't enough room for anyone else to be feeling such heated desire.
The boy grabs the leatherman's head, fingers sinking into the leather cap, pulling his head forward. Leatherman reaches up to undo the buttons at the boy's fly and, as his reward, gets his hand slapped away. The leatherman allows himself a cock-eyed grin, both amused and aroused by the boy's gesture of dominance.
The mechanical voice sounds again, and both men stiffen and freeze as they realize they are coming into Addison station. It is almost as if the desire, unbridled and set free, is impossible to recapture and has become a wild beast on its own, daring either of the men to halt its irresistible force. The fire of their passion for one another darts around the small compartment like a bat, its blood-warmed wings beating helplessly against the smooth plastic walls.
But the boy leans back against the wall, gasping, suddenly shy and unable to meet Leatherman's gaze. His tongue is thick in his mouth, making him mute, unable to ask a simple question like, "Got a place to go?" Besides, the boy isn't even sure he wants to ask that question, isn't even certain that what he wants is a more private venue. This clinking, clattering, public train...he cannot imagine a more exciting place to release the desires that have been building within him for days.
Leatherman looks up at him, not daring to move or speak. The boy's zipper is undone, but he makes no movement to correct that. Leatherman is still in submissive mode, dumbly waiting to be told what to do, even if his inaction is at his own peril. This is his lot and he accepts it.
Both of them are frozen, waiting. Will another old woman get on the car, some shrew with eagle eyes who will unwittingly halt their foreplay? Will a drunken group of Loyola boys get on and decide to beat the shit out of the queers? Will the pair become another hate crime statistic, another story about a fag bashing buried in the local news pages of the Windy City Times? Will a Streetwise homeless newspaper vendor board and try to coerce them into buying a paper even though it should be obvious to anyone with even half a brain that what they both want--no, what they both need--is to be left alone?
The train grinds to a complete stop, its engine chugging and humming, brakes squealing, and gongs sounding as the door opens. Both men now keep their gazes trained on the yawning open spaces at the front and rear of the car. Both let out their indrawn breaths at the same time as the gongs sound again, signaling that the doors are about to close and they will continue to have the car to themselves. It is a stroke of luck--the Gods of lust and passion are on their sides this hot August night. Leatherman allows himself to look up at the boy and lets himself share a conspiratorial smile. They will have another few minutes to indulge their passion before the train makes its next stop. Who knows? Perhaps the fever thrums so high that the passion will be released even in the few minutes it will take to approach the next stop, and the two will leave the car stained with the viscous residue of their heat.
But just as the doors begin their trajectory slide to one another, a young couple runs along the platform and pushes inside the car, laughing. She has long black hair and wears only the briefest of summer dresses, white with a small blue dot pattern, and sandals. He is sandy-haired, wearing Tevas, cargo shorts, and a tank top. He could be the boy's brother. The couple grabs onto each other, breathless and probably relieved that they have made the train at this late night hour. Who knows when another will come along? They whisper to one another and the boy slides a protective arm around the girl's bare shoulder, freckled by the summer sun.
Neither of them immediately notice the other "young couple in love" hidden by the shadows in the little compartment at the front of the car. The boy and the girl make their way toward the center of the car and both the leatherman and the other boy are most likely thinking the same thing: hoping against hope that they will take seats that face away from their little compartment.
But no, that would be too convenient, and illogical as well. People would rather face forward as they ride...and a nearly empty car affords lots of options.
The young couple sits facing the boy and the leatherman.
The pair composes themselves; the boy stepping out of the little enclosed compartment to stare outside at the space between the two cars. Outside, he sees the chains that holds the two cars together and thinks lewd thoughts about the word coupling. He is frustrated. Leatherman stealthily pulls himself up from the floor and plops down in one of the seats. It's hard for him to find breath. His heart beats out a tribal rhythm in his chest. He can feel and smell the perspiration at his own armpits, borne of lust and fear.
Has the couple noticed them?
The boy continues to stare out the small back window at the front of the car, not looking back, but Leatherman allows himself a surreptitious glance.
The couple is oblivious. She has nuzzled her head down on her boyfriend's shoulder and has closed her eyes. He holds her close, his nose buried in the silk of her black hair. For all they know, they too are alone on the train and Leatherman thinks he'd enjoy seeing the girl stroke her boyfriend's crotch, maybe bring his dick out and suck it. The thought causes his own dick to rise again in anticipation and hunger.
But it appears as though the young couple is close to sleep, which is both good news and bad. Good because it means they are unaware of the presence of the two lustful men only feet away from where they've seated themselves. Bad because it could mean they will not be getting off the train anytime soon. They could be bound for Evanston--Northwestern students out for a night on the town--and that would mean they'd ride the train all the way to the end of the line: Howard Street. Leatherman turns back around and closes his eyes, calculating: it's something like seven or eight more stops to Howard. He also closes his eyes because he's feeling massively frustrated. To have his desire brought to such fever pitch and to have its conclusion so rudely snatched away just as consummation loomed so near is almost unbearable.
As for the boy, his feelings mirror that of his older suitor. The frustration and the torn-away fire of their connection are making him feel scraped raw inside. He dares not look back, not because he is afraid they have spied them (there's nothing--damn it--to see now, anyway), but because he is afraid their very presence will enrage him so much that he will be unable to restrain himself from glaring at them, or worse, yelling something at them, exhorting them to get off the train. How dare they interrupt his encounter just when it was getting so good?
The men stay frozen for the space it takes to get to the next stop, Wilson, both consumed with thoughts of loss. What if they will have to leave the train, desires unsatisfied, unfulfilled? Will they be able to bear it?
Leatherman longs to reach out and quickly touch the boy's ass, firmly encased in fabric, high and taut as it can only be on a boy/man barely out of adolescence. But he doesn't dare. Not because his gesture could be witnessed, but because he knows he hasn't been invited to touch.
Finally, the mechanical voice announces the stop and the train begins to
slow as it approaches the station. Sighing, the boy turns around and faces the interior of the car. He almost lets out a short bark of a laugh, unable to contain his joy, as the young woman and her boyfriend rise to move toward the doors, readying themselves for their exit. She is rubbing her eyes, sleepy-looking, and he leans into her from behind, to pull away the curtain of dark hair and to plant a kiss on the nape of her neck.
How sweet, the boy thinks...now get the fuck off the train. And, please God, don't let anyone else get on. As they travel north, their odds for solitude are better, he reasons, as they get away from areas of the city more populated by bars, restaurants, theaters, and nightclubs. He tries not to stare at the other couple, urging them out with his gaze, but it's hard not to. The compulsion and the passion are beginning to rise again, causing his pulse to race and his heart to pound harder in his chest with anticipation. He gives a small complicit nod to the leatherman, gesturing toward the couple.
Leatherman allows himself to turn and look, then he looks back at the boy, and smiles. He lets his hand whisper across his own crotch, so the boy can see he is already excited again, his need just about bursting through the zipper. The boy, emboldened by the prospect of having the car to themselves once more, firmly grasps Leatherman's wrist and pulls it away from his crotch. The boy shakes his head in warning and Leatherman stares at the floor.
The train pulls into the station and the doors slide open. The couple is about to exit. Just as the young man steps off the train, the girl rushes up to the front of the car, where the boy and Leatherman wait. She peeks in, an impish grin playing about her features. "Have fun!" she whispers and darts back to exit off the train just as the doors close. The girl and her boyfriend stand on the platform as the train pulls out of the station, watching as it continues its journey north.
They smile and wave.
Leatherman and the boy are alone once more. When their eyes meet, they laugh. There is the shared bond of their passion deferred and the common knowledge that at least the girl knew all along they were there...and what they were up to. And a certain comfort in that she wasn't repelled by it. Leatherman thinks that soon, if she's lucky, the girl might be getting some of what he hopes to get now that he's alone with the boy once more. If he's lucky...
Leatherman looks up at the boy with understanding, nods. He gets down once more on his knees on the grimy floor. Leatherman nuzzles his nose first into the boy's crotch, then runs his lips over the hard bulge so he can savor what's hidden beneath the metal buttons.
* * * *
My back feels alive with the lashes it has taken. A burning, stinging sensation sings out a song of vibrant joy all up and down its surface. I stand mute, suspended by my restraints, waiting, waiting, always waiting. My master has shown no mercy and for this, I am grateful. The skin along my spine feels raw and if I had the luxury of a mirror, I know it would reveal deep red welts, each one delicious testimony for my master's love and care. See, it's not the pain of the lash, or the way my skin feels flayed and raw that's so precious to me. It's the attention that thrills me, that, as the song says, sends me. My master lavishes his gifts upon me and only me.
Blind and mute, I wait for our next journey into pain and pleasure. I hear my master behind me, hear the hiss of a match being lit...and smell sulfur. Funny. I know what's coming and know that the smell of sulfur is one usually associated with hell, but for me it's all about heaven.
* * * *
"Open it with your teeth," the boy whispers, his command urgent. Now that they are alone again, the passion is even more rushed and intense. Who knows what or who is waiting at the next stop? Who knows how soon their play will again be interrupted? And yet, he thinks, things can't be too rushed. They do not want to take the ultimate plunge down this roller coaster without at least some build-up.
Leatherman starts at the top, tugging and pulling. It's difficult at first, the metal of the buttons scraping his teeth, but by the time he's on the third button, he's a pro, opening the buttons as easily as if he were using his fingers. He can smell the musk of the young man's crotch and feel the roughness of his pale pubic hair against his face, spurring him on. He closes his eyes and breathes in, savoring the boy's aroma. It's a clean smell, innocence and soap, undercut with an almost funky essence, delicious, slightly sour, and unmistakably male. It makes him dizzy, makes him want to laugh--deep, husky, and resonant--in the close little compartment. But he remains mute and silent, continuing his work.
At last, he opens the final button and the dick plops out, slapping against his face, leaving a viscous smear, like the trail of a slug, along his grizzled cheek. It's all he can do not to gather some of the juice, the nectar, with his fingers and bring it to his mouth, to taste and savor. But he knows he must not be so bold. Leatherman leans back on his haunches to appreciate the piece of meat before him: too big and dirty for a clean-cut boy like this. Roped with thick veins, and crowned with a deep purple helmet head, the boy's dick must be somewhere around eight inches, maybe even as big as five or six inches around. He stares at it, feeling deep down in his very essence how just the sight of it before him causes his heart to race, his own cock to juice up, the blood to pound and rush in his ears as it races downward, making his own dick impossibly hard and ready to burst.
Heavy balls hang down one pant leg. Leatherman can see the sac in the shadows, defined and outlined by the faded denim. He longs to reach in and free it, but, again, now knows his place. He will wait until the succulent orbs are offered to him and will do as he's told. A large part of his pleasure comes from the waiting, the anticipation, and from obeying orders.
He tentatively leans forward, mouth open, tongue reaching out, moving slowly, slowly, waiting for a signal that he should stop, dreading a hand on his shoulder or a whispered, but firm, recrimination. It's all about permission. When he receives no signal that he should halt, he touches the tip of his tongue to the boy's piss slit and licks away the drop of precum poised there, big and ready to dribble. It tastes sweet, starchy...warmed by the heat of the boy's body.
A tremor runs through Leatherman's body just from the taste of the boy. It is all he can do to surge forward, engulfing the cock with his mouth, frantically bobbing his head up and down, swirling his tongue around the meat, squeezing with the muscles in the back of the throat, impatient to bring the boy release, and taste his ultimate pleasure. But that would not be the right way to go about things. Never mind that they are in a public place. These things must be savored. Slowly, Leatherman tongues the rest of the boy's dick, wetting first the head, then moving down the shaft in wetter and wetter strokes, moving up and down, painting the shaft and head with his saliva. Like a bee foraging for honey, he dips his tongue in the boy's oozing slit to lick out his nectar, to savor its heat, its very male essence. Every so often, a tiny shudder courses through the boy's body, and this is a reward that makes Leatherman want to smile...if his mouth weren't already otherwise occupied.
Then he swallows the whole thing.
It pulses at the back of his throat, opening the muscles there, the big purple head bursting through. Leatherman pauses for a second, letting his throat surround this big cock, regulating his own breathing, then moves slowly back up. He nibbles at the underside of the big purple head, tasting the precum, which is flowing steadily now, a river of approval.
Then down again.
Just as he establishes a rhythm, imagining the boy's pleasure at this silken power drive, the boy stops him, yanks his head away. Leatherman looks up and detects a warning in the boy's eyes and in his surly frown. The boy slaps Leatherman's face with his dick, hard enough to hurt with the most exquisite pain, the precum smearing across his cheeks. Leatherman imagines his face, shiny with the boy's passion, and it makes him squeeze his eyes shut together in delight for just a moment.
* * * *
I feel the warmth of the candle's flame as my master nears me, moving the flame close to my genitals, then away again, teasing. I suck in my breath sharply (even th
rough the leather hood). I know what's coming. I pull in my stomach muscles, in delirious anticipation, tensing, waiting.
The first drip of hot candle wax lands at the root of my cock, a bite of searing heat that settles into a wonderful, surrounding warmth, tingling. Another drop, then another, until at last, a big blob of hot wax splashes on the ultra-sensitive head of my dick. I see stars. The heat on the nerve-rich flesh is almost unbearable, and I sway in the air, testing the bonds that hold me to the pipes in the ceiling. My arms have begun to ache from being suspended like this, and I can only think of how grateful I am for this reminder of my master's love and for my being alive just to feel his attentions.
My entire dick is now encased in hot and rapidly hardening wax.
"Very good, boy. Very good."
I listen as my master moves about, imagining him setting the thick pillar candle down on the table he has prepared for our evening of play. I can see him in my mind's eye: the grizzled, hard manliness of him, and can think of only one word: love.
"You have been so good, I think you now deserve a small reward."
* * * *
The boy lifts his balls from his jeans and pauses, holding the sac aloft for just a second, presumably to catch Leatherman's admiring gaze. Then he lets them drop against the fabric of his jeans, which he lowers to mid-thigh. Hairy, two big plums, they await the attention of Leatherman's tongue, but not until he is given permission. "Suck 'em," the boy whispers. "And if I feel any fuckin' teeth or you make me hurt even a little bit, I'll slap your faggot face."
