The Other Side of the Tracs

Author's Notes: I continued off an inspiration from a fellow Litster. If gay sex, BDSM, interracial sex, or cats and dogs living together in sin bother you, you may want to skip this story. Any resemblance to real persons other than my own perverted self are purely coincidental. I hope you enjoy it; there are more chapters to cum, and it digs deep into the abyss.

Rough Day, Rough Night

I looked at the text message again, and again chills rain down my spine as I considered the ramifications.

It wasn't bad news; no relatives in the hospital, no work emergencies, no friends asking for help moving. (God, I hate moving even when it's ME!)

No, it was from you, and for an outsider, it might seem a bit cryptic.

"My day's been bad. Expect bad night. Parkland, 627, 7 for 8."

I looked at my watch; 7:00 p.m. was only 3 hours away. I needed to go home, grab my special "go bag," which lay prepared in the back of my bottom drawer, stop by the drug store, and get across town to the Parkland hotel. As I drove home from the gym, I had to think up a quick cover story to explain my night's outing.

*****

"Yeah, the boss wants me to go with him to do the presentation, since he's new...yeah, I know, Saturday morning, right? Who does stuff like this on a Saturday?...Yeah, I know. And the worst part is, the new guy lives out in the sticks, and apparently they have virtually no cell service, not even wifi...Look, I'm sorry, I don't really have a choice in this! Why don't you take the kids and go to the aquarium or something? Just put it all on the American Express, I just paid it off...Yeah, I'm going to swing by the house, grab a couple of things...When? Um,"

I hadn't thought about that. Will you kick me out when you're done with me? Send me down the road, like a used, blown out tire?

"Well, I'm not sure, it depends on how long this takes. If it's going to be late, I'd rather not drive over the mountains in the dark, especially since we're supposed to get some storms in. How about this? If I'm NOT going to make it home by tomorrow evening, I will get word to you...By text or email or something...I don't know, I'm sure I'll have reception SOMEWHERE. Yeah, I know, I owe you & the girls a break. We'll do something before they go back to school in August. Okay, yes, Love you too...Bye..." Frigid bitch, I fail to include.

Cover story is handled, and within a few minutes I'm wheeling into our driveway. I wave to Carl next door, out watering his petunias. Carl the Creeper we refer to him as; we've caught him looking through the fence twice, watching the wife and daughters in the pool. I'd raise hell with him...but I've watered his wife Janet's "petunia" a few times while he was off at the casinos in North Carolina for a weekend, so I give him a pass.

And besides, considering the night, maybe even whole weekend of debauchery I have ahead of me, I really don't have room to talk about anybody else's sexual quirks, do I?

I've learned to be prepared for your texts, even though they are very infrequent. Perhaps that's WHY I stay prepared with a go bag and a lie. As taxing as these encounters are, both physically and emotionally...I practically live for them. And the infrequency gives time for the welts and - last time - cane stripes to heal. A couple of the marks from the cane were still visible just a week ago. Fortunately, albeit sadly, the wife stopped paying any attention to my body long ago, or I'd have had to endure a Grand Inquisition. Then again, maybe it would be best to have all of this out in the open. Oh, well. No time for thinking about that!

I'm in and out of the house in about 10 minutes, waving again at Carl and now Janet, who has joined him outside, giving him an earful about something he undoubtedly did wrong. Janet smiles at me when she returns my wave, a wistful look on her face. At 45, she still has an ass that stops trains and tits that naturally suck men's attention away from their own wives. She then turns and launches right back into her tirade at poor Carl. I smile as I drive away. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

The local Dollar General is right on the way, but I don't want to be caught buying what I'm buying by one of the nosy neighbors. Paranoid? Maybe a touch, but my guilty thoughts run far deeper than what anyone would deduce just from the purchases. I wait until I am just a few minutes from the Parkland and stop at a Walgreens. Ten minutes later, I'm pulling into the Parkland parking lot. Inside, the front desk clerk, a tired old woman who has probably seen more sordid trysts pass through verifies my identification and hands me a key. "The only ice machine working is around the corner from your room," she offers flatly. I'm sure she'd have a few things to say about a man picking up a key that another man paid for, but she's gone a bit numb to it all, I suppose. A minute later, backing up outside the last room on the back side. Not much of a crowd here tonight, I notice; the closest car is about 5 or 6 rooms down.

At 6:45 in the evening in July, it is still light outside, but once I close the door behind me, the room is dark. I click on a lamp which gives off a dingy yellow glow. I sigh. The cheap, crappy hotel room is nowhere I'd stay if I was travelling for work or family, but for the nature of these encounters,...it is somehow appropriate. "Cheap room for a cheap slut," you told me once, as your cock battered my sore and striped ass. I might have debated the value of comfort and cleanliness, if I'd been able to speak intelligible words, not just grunts. Grabbing the ice bucket, I leave the door slightly ajar and walk quickly around the corner to fill up the bucket. I hustle back to the room, set the bucket down, and work a couple of items down into the ice to chill. I look at my watch; 6:55.

Sixty-five minutes should be plenty of time to prepare for you, but procrastination is not a luxury I can afford tonight. I quickly strip naked, grab my bag and the Dollar General bag, and head to the bathroom. A hot shower, ending with me shaving everything below my waist. It's an indication of the sourness of my marriage that my wife hasn't even noticed that I've been keeping the bottom half of my body utterly hairless. And it's been three months since the first time I stripped off all the fur. Not once has she noticed, or if she did, she didn't care enough to remark. You, on the other hand, love to run your hand over my smooth bare skin, especially right after you've heated it with your hand, your paddle, your cane or my belt. Because it pleases you...I keep it bare. Touching it up tonight takes far less time than that first night, and I have become quite adept at it. It is an act of service to my Master, and as I run my hands down my ass crack, checking for anything I've missed, I look forward to your inspection later.

I'm tempted to toy with my little boi pussy a bit, but I resist, knowing that you want to always be the one that pries that hole open.

I step out of the shower onto a towel and finish drying off. Kneeling on the towel, I reach into the bag and withdraw three of the enemas. Coming down onto my side, one leg cocked up, I reach back and push the first one into me. My ass is still tight, but I don't even think about it, much less flinch, as it enters me. I squeeze the bulb, and the fluid rushes in. I relax my hand, then squeeze again, and clamp my hole tight behind the exiting nozzle.

For ten minutes, I lay there, thinking about this...life I'm in. A year ago, scenarios like this only occurred in the depths of my imagination, hidden inside of secret crevices and caves of my head. Occasionally, I'd see them pop their heads up, but I always walked past them to more "normal" fantasies. Hear no evil, see no evil, get fucked by no evil, I guess.

That all changed with a single message one day. A reply of mine to a conversation board thread, a PM response from you, and a dialogue that escalated into shared images and past escapades and fantasies. And then you moved. A position opened just 30 miles away from me. I wasn't a factor in that move, of course. It just happened to be an excellent opportunity for you, that's all. Right?

That first night...that first hotel room, so much nicer than this one...I...I just still struggle to wrap my head around that sometimes. I mean, I was completely willing, but it still felt like...rape. And I, well, I...lost myself in that. Giving up, surrendering, even welcoming and finally...begging for it... That was so unlike me...and yet so absolutely, truly, incontrovertibly the real me.

My watch tells me it's been ten minutes, so I carefully sit up on the toilet and empty myself. I wipe myself clean, flush, and lay back down again, this time taking two of the enemas. The bloated feeling, the cramping; they aren't pleasant feelings at all, but the discomfort helps me enter the "zone" while also making sure I'm clean for Mas-, I mean Daddy's cock.

The last time we were together, you slipped that word into the equation. "You like Daddy's cock in your ass, boi?" At the time, it caused me a brief mental hiccup, although I quickly responded that I did, indeed, LOVE Daddy's cock in my ass, pounding it, drilling it, breeding it. As the words left my lips, so did all hesitation, and the new dynamic began to turn me on. It had nothing to do with my own long-dead father. It had to do with your absolute custody of me, your dominance over my will.

I empty myself of the double load, and I'm pretty satisfied that the cleaning is complete. I wipe and flush, then jump back in the shower just one more time to make sure I'm completely clean for...Daddy. I hang up the towels, retrieve my items, and enter the room. I have only ten minutes left.

Quickly! You have to be ready! I scold myself. Ring, off. Watch, off. Phone off, check. All three in the night stand. Lacy red thong panties, on. (God, that was so embarrassing, going into Victoria's Secret for those! I must have been as red as the panties as I explained what I was looking for, and the size. She was professional, but I saw that smirk on her face...) Ice bucket on the floor; I hope you notice it and its contents, before you ask for them.

I kneel at the foot of the first bed, just as I did the first time. Only three items remain, well, four, if you count nipple clamps as two. Taking a clamp in my right hand, I pause to take a deep breath, steadying myself. With my left, I tease my left nipple, getting it erect as I stroke, squeeze, and pinch it. When it is fully extended, I slip the clamp over it and gently release it. It pinches hard, and sends a jolt straight to my libido. I repeat the process on my right, and suddenly I feel like a 110-volt appliance plugged into a 220-volt circuit.

I struggle to maintain enough composure to manage the last two items. The trusty blindfold immediately plunges my world into utter darkness. For some reason, this step always relaxes me, helps me begin to ease into my little "subby space," as you explained it. Lastly come the handcuffs, a brand new pair of stainless Smith & Wessons. I smile as I begin to put them on, remembering my days in the Army, where I put cuffs on "bad guys." Now here I am putting them on myself for a "bad guy" so he can have full rein over me. I slide the one over my right wrist, then join my hands behind my back, locking the other over my left wrist.

And now, I wait...for Daddy.

*****

How long? 5 minutes? 10? 20? I lose track, but it's long enough to make me nervous. What if you couldn't come? What if you'd been in an accident? What if room service found me here in the-

I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the door open. Which is kind of stupid if you stop to think about it: I'm virtually naked save for a pair of red panties, blindfolded, hands securely cuffed behind my back, key on the worn TV stand/desk 6 feet away, on my knees, in a back-corner room of a seedy hotel on the other side of town, and I'm relieved because SOMEONE, someone I can't even SEE, opens the door! Really??

So I smile. Like an idiot, I smile.

Or maybe like a slut, a slut eager to please his or her Master, I smile. Yeah, maybe that.

You swing the door open, exposing me to anyone who might be walking by. Though it's not likely, the thought gives me a flash of fear - and excitement. Indeed, it seems you intentionally leave the door open several seconds longer than necessary before I hear it close and click, then the sound of you closing the additional lock. That sound...flicks a switch in the recesses of my mind.

It's play time.

You come to me, I feel your hand come to rest atop my head. You lean my head back, turning my face towards you.

"Good evening...slut," you greet me.

"Good evening, Master," I respond softly.

'Slut, what are you?" you ask. This has become our ritual. It formalizes my acceptance of whatever is to come, and opens the door to my stubby space, although it will take a while for me to crawl into it.

"I am my Master's slut. I am here to serve you, to receive whatever you give, give whatever you request, obey your every command." I keep my tone humble; I said it back with pride the second time, and bore extra stripes from the cane across each nipple for it.

"Very good, slut," I hear, as I hear you unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants. Your hands go to my head.

"And what is your safe word, slut?" you ask.

I am confused by your question. "S-sir, I-, uh, your slut has no...safe word."

"And why is that, slut?"

"Sir, because I belong to you. Possessions don't limit owners..." I am confused; we already talked through all of this. You wanted me to choose a safe word; it was the only thing that I refused, besides the poop/pee thing. So why...

"Are you still sure of that? No limitations? Anything I tell you to do?"

"Your slave is yours, Master," I say, trying to conceal my irritation at your apparent loss of confidence in my dedication.

"Easy, slut," you chide me, sliding your semi-erect cock abruptly into my mouth, silencing any further insolence on my part. Immediately I set about pleasuring you. "I just wanted to confirm that. We will be stretching your boundaries tonight."

No shit, I think to myself. We've been stretching my boundaries every time we meet. And stretching every hole I-

My thoughts about my ass and throat being irreversibly stretched are interrupted when you hit me in the side of the face with something. I'm not sure what you hit me with; a club or bat or something? No, the texture isn't- what the hell?! Why are you hitting me with this-

And then it hits me again, and stays pressed against my cheek.

And it's warm. And it is big. Huge, I realize. Even bigger than your cock...in...my mouth...

Panic hits me, and I reflexively try to pull back off of your cock, which has quickly gone fully erect in my mouth. However, you anticipated my reaction, didn't you? Not only do you not allow me to retreat, your grip on my head tightening, but you shove your growing rod deeper into my mouth, lodging it near the entrance to my throat.

"'Whatever I choose,'" you remind me. "Isn't that what you said, slave? That 'possessions don't limit owners', you meant that, didn't you?" you taunt me.

My own words...echoing through my mind, damning me.

"It's my desire that you serve my business partner, Clarence. I'm trusting that won't be a problem...will it?" It might hypothetically sound like a question, but it isn't said that way.

Boundary...stretched. And judging from what I feel against my face, stretch is going to be the theme of the night.

By way of answer, I resume my licking of the underside of your cock, and bobbing as much as your tight grip allows. Sensing my acquiescence, you loosen your grip slightly, then essentially begin using my mouth and throat to masturbate your cock. Soon, drool is flowing down my chin and throat.

"Here, Clarence," I hear you say, "have the slut's throat a bit. I need to do a couple things. Teach him how to choke on that python!" you say, laughing, as you pass your scout's head to your partner and step away. "You're in for a rough night, slut!"

I turn fearfully towards this unseen stranger. I nervously lick my lips.

"Relax, boi." Oh, crap his voice is deep! "We'll take it easy...the first time. Why don't you introduce yourself to Big Boy Clarence? Give him a kiss," he instructs me, rubbing the colossal head along my lips.

Tentatively, I obey, kissing as it happens right on the tip, at the half-inch long slit. No, I couldn't see it, but when I put my tongue out, that's where it went, and I stroked it from bottom to top.

Clarence reached down, and pulled this flesh log up, laying it down on my face, and it stretches from my chin up across my forehead. In my head, I roughly estimate this is about 9-10 inches long, and, while substantial, it is still not erect. Yet. Clarence knows what's going on in my head, I guess: "Yeah, that's about 9 and a half inches of beef, boi. If you manage to get it all the way hard, and you will, it will be a foot. Now show me if your Master was telling me the truth about how good you are with that mouth." A colossal, meaty hand covers the top of my head, not pulling, just asserting his control.

My logistical mind cranks up. There is no way I can take this pillar into my throat, not even now, when it is still flaccid. There simply isn't room; the human body can't do that. I don't even know how I could fit it into my mouth, for that matter. I begin to lick and kiss it, starting from the tip down the left side, then back up to the tip to work my way down the right. I can't get over the sheer size of this thing. At the tip, i lift it with my tongue, and the heft is incredible. I work about half the head in, and already it feels like my jaw is about to unhinge. How am I supposed to satisfy this man, this...THING, if i can't even get it in my mouth? If I could get both hands free, I could maybe stroke it off while I suck the head, but with them cuffed behind me, all I can do is give the tip a tongue bath.

The obvious answer is probably in my head, but I guess I'm blocking it. That would be...inconceivable...right?

"Up on the bed, slut," I hear you command. "Put him up there on his knees, Clarence." Clarence puts a hand under each armpit, and stands me up, then walks me over to the other bed. I feel the bed at my knees, and with Clarence steadying my by my left arm, I get up on my knees at the edge. Your hand in my back tells me to bend over, so I do, feeling pillows under my hips, until my face rests on the bed. A hand on each side, you pull the red panties down to my knees.

"You're learning, pet. I saw what you did with the ice bucket. You're getting to be a kinky little fuck toy, aren't you?" you say, teasing me. Beneath the blindfold, I blush. Hearing you talk about me, revealing my secrets, in front of someone else...that humiliation makes my face hot with shame and lust. Funny how those two emotions have become almost inseparable for me lately.

I hear Clarence chuckle. "Is that what I think it is?" Evidently, you confirm it silently. "And you're gonna put that...?" Another nod? "Damn, that is some kinky shit!" There's a few moments of quiet, some rustling, and I hear a whisper but can't make it out. Clarence chuckles. "Man, you ain't right!"

These enemas come with a lubricated nozzle; it's not a lot, but it means when you basically jam them into me, there's no real pain, just shock. So I'm a little surprised when I feel your fingers apply a cool gel right on the hole, pushing the dollop in just slightly with a fingertip, before you follow it immediately with the frigid enema. Quickly you squeeze, and I feel the icy fluid fill me. Immediately I feel my insides clench, and I suck in my breath. I try to relax, knowing another one will come right afterwards, but it doesn't. In fact, nothing happens for almost a minute, except I hear you both whispering and laughing very quietly. Quickly I begin to enjoy the frigid water; it leaves me with a tingle and a fresh feeling and...a burn?