Gay Erotic Stories

As you leave the bar, you're thinking to yourself that you may have had one too many, but when you drop your keys trying to get into your car and almost fall on your ass retrieving them, you know you've had far more than one too many. Still, like most people, you think you can make it home, so you get behind the wheel, stab the key at the steering column a few times and eventually get the key in the ignition. Staying off the main roads and driving slowly, you manage to get almost all the way home. Then it happens: Turning left in front of an oncoming car on a dark and deserted back road, you misjudge the distance between you and the other car, and you force the other driver into a skid to avoid you. Adrenaline pumping, you complete your turn and hit the gas to put some distance between you and the scene of the near-accident. Moments later, headlights come up fast behind you, and a car passes you and then cuts you off, forcing your car into the ditch at the side of the road. The driver of the other car is out immediately, pounding on the window of your car. "What the fuck is WRONG with you, asshole?" he screams. He is smaller than you--probably 5'7"--but strong enough to pull open your door and haul you out of the car by your tee shirt. Still very drunk and now shaken, you fall to the ground, and he is on top of you immediately. He has you in some kind of head lock, and he is pressing hard against the side of your neck with strong fingers. You feel yourself losing consciousness.... When you wake up, you are in intense pain. Your head is throbbing, partly from a hangover, but surely also in part because of the hold that robbed you of consciousness. The pain in your arms, back and neck is far worse, though, and you don't understand that at all. You try to move, but you are being held somehow. You open your eyes slowly, and it is hard even to make sense of what you can see. Your arms are being held over your head. There are long, thick black-leather cuffs buckled around your wrists that are attached to heavy chains hanging from massive screw eyes imbedded in overhead beams. For a good part of the time you've been unconscious, it appears, you've been hanging from these chains, your arms and shoulders bearing almost the full weight of your 6-foot, muscular frame and your legs limp underneath you. The only thing that's saved you from completely losing circulation in your hands is the cuffs, which have distributed the pressure down almost the full length of your forearms. The one dim light shines directly in your eyes, and the rest of the room is hard to make out. You move your legs to stand, which relieves some of the pressure on your shoulders and back. You cry out with the pain. Taking stock of your situation, you see that you are still wearing the tee shirt and jeans you had on last night. The shirt is ripped: a hole near the neck exposes some of the left hand side of your chest, and the hem hangs in shreds on the right side. The jeans are filthy but still in one piece. Your shoes and sock are gone, and there are metal cuffs on your ankles; another heavy chain--a shorter length this time--runs between your ankles. You are, you think, in deep shit. Just then, you hear a door open, and a shaft of light illuminates a set of stairs at the far end of the room. You are in a basement, empty except for a few pieces of equipment that look as if they came out of a Hollywood prop room reserved for dungeon movies. The gray cinder block wall opposite you is covered with hooks that hold sets of chains, leather harnesses, whips and other such equipment. Very deep shit. The door at the top of the stairs closes, and you hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Eventually, a figure steps into the pool of light around you. He is in silhouette, but you can tell he is the same man that stopped you on the road. How long ago was that? "What the fuck is this?" you say, pulling at the chains. He steps up to you and slaps you across the face--hard. "Shut the fuck up," he says. "The rules here are simple: You are mine. You do nothing, not even speak, unless I say so, and when I do give you an order, you follow it without question. Break the rules, and you get a lesson in obedience." "What do you want?" you ask. He backhands you across the face again, and you can feel blood at the corner of your mouth. "I want you," he says. He reaches out with one hand and touches the exposed portion of your chest through the hole in your shirt. You turn your head away as he slips his hand under the shirt, feeling you up. His hand is now close to your left nipple, and he plays with it. Involuntarily, the flesh responds, hardening and standing away from your chest a bit. You hope he can't see that your cock is hardening as well. He grabs hold of the shirt at the tear and pulls down, ripping the shirt open to the hem. He runs the back of his hand over your tight stomach muscles, and then up under the fabric of the shirt again, stopping finally to stimulate your right nipple. "Very nice," he says. "Very nice. I'm going to enjoy this." "Why?" you whisper, and there is something about your tone--the resignation, the helplessness, perhaps--that prompts him to answer you even though you were not given permission to speak. "You need to be taught a lesson," he says. "All you big motherfuckers think you can push everyone around. But you can't, and I'm gonna make sure you're the one who gets fucked this time." He reaches around behind you and grabs your ass, pushing those strong fingers up between your ass cheeks. There's obviously terror in your eyes, because he looks at you and laughs long and hard. He continues to laugh as he sets a small table off to the left near you, and selects various pieces of equipment from the far wall to arrange on the table. His equipment selected, your captor bends down near your feet. Using a key that hangs from a clip on his thick black leather belt, he unlocks the chain from the cuff on your right ankle. The chain is still attached to the cuff on your other ankle, and when he pulls it to the side to attach it to a thick screw eye imbedded in the concrete floor to your left, your leg is stretched out and you put more of your weight on your right leg. He takes another chain from the table, exactly the same length as the first, attaches it to your right cuff, pulls it over to your right and attaches it to a screw eye there. Now, with your legs pulled wide apart, you are forced to stand up on your toes. He turns back to the table. You grunt with the effort of holding yourself in this position, and he reacts without turning to speak directly to you. "Uncomfortable? Wait until you're in this position for a couple of hours, or a couple of days. You'll get a real idea of what uncomfortable means." He walks back over to you. He is holding a mat knife--the kind with the gray metal handle and the retractable blade--in one hand. Your eyes dart back and forth between the blade in his hand and his eyes. He sees your apprehension, and he smiles. With his free hand, he reaches up toward your neck, hooks his fingers into the neck band of your shirt and pulls the shirt away from your body. With a quick movement, he slashes the shirt open down the front. He pushes the shirt to the side, fully exposing your chest and stomach. "Very nice," he says. "Better than I thought." He uses the dull side of the blade to push at one of your nipples, while squeezing the other nipple in his hands. Your nipples have always been sensitive, and responsive as well. They swell immediately, standing away from the muscular plane of your chest, at the same time hard and yielding. His squeezing becomes pinching, and you winch. He laughs. Quickly, he slashes the shirt from the neck down the arms on both sides, and the tattered rag falls to the floor. He moves slightly to the left, puts his hand into the waistband of your jeans, pulls it away from your body and begins slashing at the denim. The process takes longer--the jeans are tight, and the fabric is heavy, so he takes his time--but soon your pants are hanging loose and your briefs are exposed. He slashes them as well, and your cock and balls hang free. A few seconds more cutting down your left leg, and you are naked in front of him. He reaches out and cradles your balls in his hand. "You had pretty big balls out there on the road, behind the wheel," he says. "I can see why." He begins to squeeze your balls in his palm, and you grunt in reaction. He smiles, and squeezes harder, and you turn your head away so he doesn't see the pain on your face. Suddenly, he gets go of your balls. You exhale, and realize that you'd been holding your breath. He walks around behind you. He puts his hands on your ass cheeks, massaging them with broad, round movements. "The really nice thing about this position," he says, "is the way it makes your ass and legs look." He sticks his face between your face and your upheld arm. "Good enough to fuck," he says, and then steps back. You hear a sound. It's his belt coming out of its loops, you think. You look over your shoulder, and you can just make out what looks like him putting the buckle in his palm and doubling the belt over. Then, with only the split-second sound of the leather whistling through the air as warning, you feel the sting of the belt across your ass. You grit your teeth against the pain. "This is just to show you," he says, "that your ass is MINE." The last word is distorted with the effort he puts into swinging the belt, and it snaps across your exposed buttocks a second time. He lands two more on your ass, and then he aims a few at the inside of your thighs. You are crying out at each blow now, the pain too intense to bear in silence. "You can stop this right now," he says. "Just prove to me that you ackowledge me as your master." You remain silent, still blinking back tears from the pain. "Not even interested in how you prove it?" he asks. You remain silent. "It's simple," he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. "I unchain your arms, and then chain them behind your back. You kneel. And then you suck me dry." He steps around in front of you. "What do you say? I bet you like that idea." He pushes his face up close to yours. "Fuck you," you whisper, glaring. "No," he whispers back. "Fuck YOU." He moves back behind you, lets go of the end of the belt so it plays out to its full length, and rears back to bring the strap down across your shoulders and back. "One," he says. He counts to three, whipping you across the firm muscles of your shoulders and upper back. You grit your teeth and bear the beating silently. With lash number four, however, he moves to your buttocks and the back of your thighs, and by lash number six, you are shouting out with the pain. He stops suddenly, drops the belt on the floor and pulls something off the wall behind you (obviously, it, too, holds instruments of restraint and torture). Coming back, he passes his arms over your shoulders, and holds a ball gag--a hard black rubber ball and two long, black-rubber straps--in front of your face. "Open up," he says, but you turn your head away. Without hesitation, he pulls one arm off your shoulder, reaches between your legs and grabs your balls in his hand. "Open up, or I'll give you something to scream about." You open up. He seats the ball deep in your mouth and ties the straps tightly behind your head. He steps back, picks up the belt, and goes back to his count, working your ass and the backs of your thighs without mercy. At 20 lashes, your knees buckle and your body's weight hangs from the chains on your arms. "That's what I'm looking for," he says. "Resignation." He hits you a few more times without counting aloud, and you are unaware of the count as well, your head hanging down and body swinging forwrad and back slightly in reaction to the blows. Eventually, he stops, and he runs the back of his hand over the red, swollen flesh of your ass and lower back. You winch with the pain of his touch, your head rising slightly, but as soon as he removes his hand, your head falls loosely on your chest again, your eyes shut and your hair hanging in your face. He walks around in front of you, pats you on the cheek, and says, "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back." He turns away from you and goes up the stairs. The lights on you go out, and the only other light in the room, from the open door at the top of the stairs, goes out when the heavy metal door slams and locks. *** You have no idea how long you are alone. It could be minutes or hours, and you drift in and out of semi-consciousness the entire time. Eventually, though, you hear the sound of the door opening, feel more than see the light come on you again, hear him come down the stairs. He walks up to you, grabs an fistful of your hair in one hand and picks your head up to face him. "How are we doing? OK? I don't mind telling you," he says, "you look terrible. We have to clean you up." He picks something up from the table--black and silver, small enough to fit in his hand. He flicks a switch on it and the thing begins to hum: a cordless electric shaver. What the fuck...? you think. He comes toward you, and your mind runs to the hair on your body. You have full, medium brown hair on your head, complimented by average amounts of light brown hair on your forearms and lower legs, the usual crop of hair at your crotch and under your arms, a thin line of light brown hair that climbs up your stomach toward your chest. It's the hair on your chest that's really great. You've always wondered about being fucking PLEASED with the hair on your chest, but it's true. Since your 18th birthday, you've had beautiful soft, straight, light brown hair--not too much, not too little--distributed perfectly across your chest to accentuate the well-defined plates of your pectorals. The kind of chest hair women who like men with chest hair dream of. With a few strokes of the shaver to each side of your chest, the hair is all but gone. He shaves your underarms next, and then your stomach, groin and legs. He walks behind you, runs the shaver up the small of your back, and then carefully shaves the hair between your buttocks. He puts the shaver down on the table, walks to a dark corner of the room, and comes back pulling a length of black-rubber garden hose. He twists the nozzle until a wide, forceful spray is coming out of the hose, and then trains it on you. You expected cold water, but the water is warm--almost hot, in fact. He wets you down completely, head to toe, making doubly sure that your ass and scrotum are wet. Hair dripping in your face, you notice for the first time that there is a drain right below your feet, and there are shallow channels molded into the concrete floor to direct the water to the drain. This place, whatever it is, was made for this prupose, and a lot of thought and planning obviously went into what would need to be done to someone brought here. Picking up shaving cream and a disposable razor from the table, your captor begins to shave your entire body again. He does everything but your face--you must need a shave by now, you think--even areas where you've never grown hair, switching to a new razor every few minutes. When he is completely done, he puts the shaving cream and the last razor down, grabs something from the wall behind you and comes up behind you. The object he's got in his hands is a collar--black leather--studded like a dog collar, but special, obviously, because the studs on this collar are on the inside. He fastens it around your neck, tightly enough for the studs to dig into your skin slightly. Then, he unchains your right arm from the chain hanging from the ceiling, and attaches that chain to the collar. Next, he unbuckles the cuff on your right wrist--no easy feat, since it has five buckles down its length--and throws the cuff to the floor off out of the range of the pool of light. He gabs the electric shaver again, buzzes off the hair on your right forearm, and then uses another disposable razor to shave off the remaining stubble. Finally, he replaces the cuff and reattaches the ceiling chain to your wrist. He repeats this process on your left arm, and then uses the hose to wash off the remaining shaving cream and blood from the few small cuts you've received. He runs over your body with a towel, and uses his hands to check the smoothness of your skin. Again, he focuses on your nipples, pinching and playing with them, and the involuntary reaction he gets--they harden and stand away from your chest almost immediately--inspires him to take his next step. He turns to the table, picks up two small objects, and turns back to you. They are clips--spring-loaded, black plastic, clothespin-like clips with ridged black-rubber surfaces where the clip closes its jaws. He puts one on each of your nipples, taking care to make sure they are seated well back at the base of each nipple. The clips are uncomfortable, but not really painful, a fact he seems to understand. "Comfortable?" he asks. "I hope so." He must see the puzzlement in your eyes, because he adds: "Oh, these aren't meant to hurt; they're meant to HOLD. The hurt comes in time." And he hangs a small S-hook on each of the clips. Ten minutes later, your captor steps back to view his work. You are still standing naked, chained spread-eagled in the same position as before. However, with the addition of three simple pieces of equipment, he has caught you in a virtual web of agonizing torment. The S-hooks he hung on the nipple clips each had a length of monofiliment--60-pound fishing line--tied to it, with another S-hook tied at the other end of each line. Those lines are now draped over a pipe that runs along the ceiling about 6 feet in front of you, and a single 2-ounce lead sinker--a teardrop-shaped fishing weight--hangs from each hook. As a result, your nipples are pulled out and up from your chest, and your back is arched to push your chest out, in a feeble attempt to avoid the pain. In addition, he has fastened a thin black-leather dog collar tightly around your cock and balls. A thin chain, attached to the collar, runs between your legs and up between your ass cheeks through a pulley hanging from the ceiling about six feet behind you. The other end of that chain holds a very large S-hook--the kind a painter would use to hang his can of paint on the ladder--and this hook holds a single 2-1/2 pound iron weightlifting plate. Your cock, stiff from the constriction of the collar itself, is now swollen and pulled to point straight out from your groin rather than almost straight up as usual. Your balls are blue. "Beautiful," he says. "Now, as I was saying before, the nipple clips are not meant to hurt in and of themselves. The idea is that this..."--he plucks at one of the lengths of fishing line, and a sharp pain pierces your chest--"...will hold enough weight to deliver the real pain. I've experienced this before," he adds. "The great thing about this setup is that you never get used to it. The pain gets gradually worse and worse, no matter how long you wear it." He picks up a handful of the lead weights from the table. "Now, to make this interesting, we need to add more weight. I think three will do." He adds two weights to each hook, and you groan through the ball gag, the additional pain immediately evident. He walks around behind you. "The same goes for the setup back here. Gradually increasing pain, no matter how long you wear it." He picks up to more iron plates from the floor and adds them to the hook. The rope creaks, the pulley squeals, and your cock points further toward the floor. He walks back in front of you. Reaching over the fishing line attached to your left nipple, he cradles your face in his hand as gently as possible. "Don't worry," he says. "I'll be back." He turns, and walks slowly up the stairs. The lights go out, the door slams, and you are alone with your pain. *** He stands before you for a few minutes, watching you. Your head hangs on your chest, your eyes are closed, your body is covered with sweat, and (because you are still standing on your toes) involuntary muscle spasms run from your legs through your entire body. He has been gone close to an hour, but you aren't even aware when he returns, because you are in a state of semi-consciousness, aware only of the pain. He walks behind you, unties the ball gag and takes it from your mouth. "Please..." you whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear that," he says. "Please," you repeat, "I can't...." "Can't what?" "I'll do anything. Please stop the pain." "Anything?" he asks. "I'll suck you off. I'll do it. Just make the pain stop." He laughs. "Fine," he says. "I want to see you on your knees." You pray that he takes the weights off your nipples first, but, standing behind you, he goes for the weights on your balls. He takes them off the hook and your cock, now so swollen the skin is shiny and blue, immediately relaxes somewhat. He removes the rope, but he leaves the collar, and your cock stays thick and semi-erect. Then he goes to the other weights. In seconds, he has the equipment off the nipple clips. He reaches out for them simultaneously, and when he opens them up and takes them off your chest, the pain is so intense you will later remember seeing stars and planets, like some fucking cartoon character. He moves over to you. With one hand, he brushes the hair out of your eyes. "You're so beautiful," he says. His hand moves down your cheek, and then he runs the back of his hand ever so gently down your chest and stomach and on to your thigh, brushing close to your swollen cock. He bends his face toward your chest, sticks out his tongue and licks your right nipple. The combination of pleasure and pain is...erotic, and your cock hardens. His hand is still near your groin, and he takes your erection in his hand and massages it slowly. You groan and roll your head back, ready to cum. He turns rougher, sucking and biting the nipple. His hand leaves your cock, moves around your waist and forcefully pushes at the small of your back to bring your body in contact with his. He stops for a second, strips off his shirt and pulls you close to himself again. He is thin, wiry, and well-defined--stronger than you imagined. His mouth works at your face, neck and upper chest, while one hand now feels roughly across your stomach and chest, and the other slides down from the small of your back to your ass. His strong fingers press in at your asshole. "No, please," you say, pulling as far away as possible from him. "Let me suck you off." It is a feeble attempt at seduction, but it seems to work. He smiles. He goes behind you, undoes the chains on your wrists, then chains them together behind your back. You are suddenly able to get off your toes, and you almost collapse to the floor. He grabs you and steadies you, though, and helps you sink to your knees slowly. He walks into the shadows and returns with what you think is a simple weight bench--black steel padded with black vinyl. He puts it down in front of you, its end against your body. You look up at him, not understanding. He picks a black leather belt from the wall--not the one he wore earlier, but another one, much longer. He loops it under the bench just in front of you, says "Chest on the bench. Now!" and when you comply, he passes the ends of the belt between your arms and your sides and buckles it tightly against your back, holding you down on the bench. "But..." you start. "Shut the fuck up," he snaps. He pulls open the button fly of his jeans. He is not wearing underwear, and as soon as the top button of his pants is open, you see his cock--hard, erect against his lower abdomen. It is seven or eight inches long, cut. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off the pants and straddles the bench just in front of your face. He cups his large balls in his hand and urges you to lick them. You hesitate, and he grabs a handful of your hair and pulls your head up to face him. "You said you'd do ANYTHING. Now GET TO IT, or I FUCK your ass." He offers his balls again, and you lick them generously. He moans and mumbles further instructions. "Yes, yes, now the cock, do the cock. More, more. Go back to the balls. More, more. Yes, yes..." Eventually, he has you go down on him. Holding your head in his hands, he forces his cock farther and farther down your throat with each thrust of his pelvis. He is talking to you the whole time, calling you a pig, telling you how dirty you are. Suddenly, though, he pulls out. You put our face against the cool covering of the bench just in front of his crotch, silently thanking God he didn't cum in your mouth. Your back is sweaty, and he runs his hands down your back, leaning over you. His fingers find your ass, and they massage your ass hole. "No!" you shout. "Oh, yes," he whispers. His fingers invade your rectum. "Oh God, that hurts. No! Please stop." He laughs. "You almost fucked me up on the road last night," he says. "Now it's my turn to fuck you." Your captor has chosen three dildos from his equipment supply, each larger than the one before it. He handles them in front of you, placing them in line on the bench, next to the tube of lubricating jelly he has opened for the occasion. He moves behind you, and you begin to plead with him again. "Please, I..." He cuts you off: "Shut up, or I'll use the ball gag again," and you fall silent. He stands directly behind you and runs his hands forcefully down back and on to your ass. You feel him push his pelvis against your ass, his cock hard and upright on your lower back. He takes a minute to gather some lubricating jelly on his hand, and then he works it into the crack in your ass, pushing against your sphincter. He massages your asshole with his hand, saying "Relax, my friend. This'll be easier if you just let it happen." You want to cry, or curse, or both, but you just hold your breath (and your tongue). He picks up the smallest, thinnest dildo. When it penetrates your asshole, the pain takes your breath away. He sees your muscles tense, and he runs his free hand over your body, excited by the feeling of your power submissive to his will. He uses the dildo to fuck you for what seems like an endless time, and then he pulls it out and lays it aside. From the corner of your eye, you see him pick up the next one... *** A half hour later, you and he are both covered in sweat, him from jamming the last dildo into your ass as deep as he can get it, you from straining against your chains and screaming at the top of your lungs. He pulls out, and you collapse. He draws warm water from the sink in the shadows, comes to you with a small basin of water and a sponge, and washes you down with such gentleness that you think he must be a different person. "Are you done now?" you whisper. "Yes," he says, quietly. "For now." "For now? How long can you keep me here?" you ask. "Forever," he says, bushing the hair from your face. "Forever."