0 comments/ 14135 views/ 0 favorites Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 13-16 By: Jazz E. XIII. So back into the fray he plunged, virtually abandoning his business and his job. Jenn was working most days so he could basically spend the whole of every weekday, from nine to five at The Club. But days unavoidably dragged on into nights and before too long Matt was almost regularly 'out prowling again', as Jenn put it. He knew it worried her; he increasingly felt a desperate guilt about it, but he was caught, it seemed, in a bigger machine. He couldn't get off, and like a junkie, he couldn't get enough. Still, she never asked him direct questions. She spoke only in generalities – questions he could circumvent with ambiguous retorts – glib and periphrastic answers. She made it too easy for him to evade opportunities for meaningful communication. He felt like a shit every time but he couldn't bring himself to do otherwise, for what actually could he say to her? Now it had gone on too long, progressed too far. He was a coward. He knew it and felt ashamed. Meanwhile, at The Club, Matt's inhibitions rapidly and easily – perhaps too easily – fell away. He would often discover himself fluently participating in situations that, objectively at least, shocked him. Some part of his mind would wonder what he was doing there or why he was doing that. The answer resided even deeper amongst his confusion: gratification. He realized that he was not only somehow obsessed with self-gratification but that he obtained it in ways that most of the world would consider perverse. Nonetheless, he resolutely refused to consider himself a pervert. The beauty of The Club was that he was voluntarily among other consenting adults, and that was the bottom line. A small parlour there on the main floor of the facility was particularly crowded that day. Naked sweaty bodies, contorted into amazing positions and combinations, writhed and gasped and groaned in an erotic cacophony while a roaming video camera recorded the melee. Here and their faces turned to deliberately smile into the lens and laugh at their own brashness. It was in the middle of that wild orgy that Matt was suddenly presented with a rampant cock in his face – pushing impatiently at his lips; he opened his mouth. The turgid tool slid brusquely in. It was already slick and tasted of a complex mixture of the fluids of love and exertion. As it banged the back of his throat, Matt pulled his head back and had to fight to keep from throwing up. He stopped in his movement to regroup and felt the orifice around his own prick shudder like a horse impatient to go on. His mind raced through the long moment before he rocked forward again, pushing his hips against those beneath him and his face into the wiry pubes before him. He quickly found that he could control his gag response in all but the most rapid thrusts, and if he feinted, like Mohammed Ali, and pulled back with the deep lunges, he could actually take control of his oral pummeling. Soon he began to experiment with his tongue, with his lips, and with the smooth suction of his inner cheeks. It was not long before he felt the rigid penis begin to shudder and pulse in its warm prison. The thrusting hips in front of him became erratic and violent in their movement. He knew from experience what was happening. Suddenly he understood why, in the stories, they always said that women knew how to perform cunnilingus the best; he actually knew what this guy was feeling – knew how to prolong it – how to inflame it. He felt the orgasm detonate deep within. The feeling and the knowledge that he was directly responsible for the impending ejaculation, fired anew his own stimulation, and, attempting to find a complementary rhythm, Matt accelerated his own pounding penetration. His own climax ignited at the precise moment the scalding liquor hit his tongue. Splashing forcefully against the back of his throat, the powerful spurts quickly overwhelmed his preparation causing him to sputter, gag and pull back. His own orgasm somewhat truncated, he dropped the still bobbing cock from his mouth to cough and snort. With semen running down his chin and draining from his nose, he still managed to smile up at the owner. "First time," he muttered, by way of explanation before turning his attention back to the convulsing body below. "Good for you," replied his felatee with genuine admiration, before vanishing into the sea of flesh. That day seemed to have marked the flash point in an explosion of felatio. Matt got into a long run of classical orgies and before long his oral inferno had grown to encompass all manner of bisexual experience. On a subsequent occasion, Matt bounced and shuddered within the felating mouth of someone while giving what had rapidly become expert head to another fellow. There were lips and fingers vexing his nipples and balls, as he vibrated in a mass of glistening, over-stimulation. He felt fingers spreading his buttocks, grasping his cheeks to get in time with him; then the warm slither of a tongue darting up and down his backside. He tried to isolate the sensation – to give it some individual attention without losing touch with the myriad of other stimuli he was receiving, and he was amazed to find that, to some degree, he actually could objectively observe his rear assault. The fingers could have been male or female, he couldn't tell, and the tongue probably belonged to the same person. Following the few tentative swipes across his anus, the tongue, with its attendant fingers gripping his cheeks just a little harder – spreading them just a little wider, began to poke at his puckered rosebud. Insistently prodding, it slowly, infuriatingly slowly, persisted in snaking past the sphincter to lick and tickle the near inner surfaces of his rectum. Ahh, it was a marvelous new sensation – or perhaps just an old sensation revisited. After a bit, the tongue withdrew slightly only to be replaced with a finger – a lubricated finger, plunged in until Matt could feel himself closing about the knuckle. The felatio, of which Matt was both subject and object, went on automatically. His whole awareness had been captured by the activity in and about his rear. The intrusive finger, having let one of his cheeks go, sawed aggressively in and out of his bum. After a moment’s hesitation, the sawing recommenced, this time with two fingers. His stretched anus was on the verge of becoming numb when the fingers abruptly withdrew. His conspicuously empty rectum buzzed with the unexpected desertion. It pulsed in greedy anticipation. Once again, a finger began to push and poke at his rear entrance, only this time, he realized, both cheeks were being held firmly apart. There was indeed another hand or two back there amidst his most private region. He felt the investigating finger joined by the hard and smooth, rounded bullet end of a dildo, vibrating gently against his rose. Slowly the force on the machine increased and suddenly the door opened to give passage as with an inaudible pop the well-lubricated vibrator slipped in. Slowly and inexorably it slid in well beyond the reach of the fingers. For a moment it just sat there, vibrating gently against his gripping rectal muscles. Then it began to withdraw slowly. Like a pendulum, it moved in and out. Slowly to start, but with an almost imperceptible acceleration. Gradually it picked up the oral rhythms already established and began to drag them along faster and faster. Matt wasn't sure he could stand it. His mind reeled. Even the automatic movements of his own head and hips began to skip and stumble. Then, just as smoothly, the rectal attack dissipated. With a small anal gasp, the phallus pulled out leaving his rectum feeling unaccustomedly barren and forlorn. In the few seconds the feeling persisted, Matt thought it intriguing that his basically virgin bum should already feel empty disappointment at the loss of the invader. That thought was rapidly chased from his head by another sudden insertion into his backside. Without even knocking, as it were, his anus was stretched beyond its experience by the peremptory entrance of a massive erection. The spreading, accommodating hands retreated as a pair of strong, obviously male, hands gripped Matt's hips and pulled them relentlessly onto the hot and rigid pole. There was no gentleness as the sodomy began in earnest. Matt fought to maintain the oral caress of the cock in his mouth as his rectum was pounded mercilessly. As the ordeal progressed, he felt his own responsibility begin to approach apogee in his mouth. Only as he redoubled his lingual efforts did he finally become, once again, aware of the straining in his own genitals. The ramming of his rear became unimaginably wild – frightfully violent in its roaring pursuit of orgasm. At every in-stroke, his own penis was driven deep into its attendant mouth. He felt himself beginning to quiver and buck independently. In response, he pulled his face onto the trembling tool deeper than he had ever before. He was much too involved to gag, too blinded by sensation to be apprehensive. He felt the sudden and ultimate swelling of the already huge tool in his backside as it pinned him against the body below. He forced the other rod so far into his throat that it felt as though it would meet the rear intruder somewhere in chest. He sensed the detonation in his mouth just as he felt the jetting gush of come flood his bowels. The strength of the novel sensations were almost enough to make him swoon, and, coupled with the spasmodic rush of semen into his throat, ignited his own climax. Within moments of the loss of his anal virginity he pumped himself dry into the anonymous throat of his felator and fell insensate against the mass of warm wet bodies – still mounted – still impaled. He was only barely aware of the wandering, always wandering video camera. If his introduction to anal sex was surprising, it was far and away more exciting and stimulating than he'd ever imagined; and maybe it was even pleasant in some strange and twisted meaning of the word. His initiation into the libertine arts of The Club was apparently through. After that, he participated without second thought in all manner of bisexual activity: sodomite and sodomizer; felator and felatee. And from there, it was only a small step further – only a little later that, just as smoothly, he slid into the role of primary submissive – not always, but now and then, as necessary. Held or strapped or simply ordered to remain motionless, Matt voluntarily allowed himself to be subjected to torment and humiliation. Stimulation without release; pain and mortification – nothing vicious, just choreographed oppression. Most of the time Matt felt he was in sensory overload. Things were so good that they hurt; feelings so bad they were wonderful. It was very confusing, for although he liked it all – hated it all – hated himself for liking it all, he’d found – what was it? – could it be satisfaction, a perverse satisfaction in his submissive roles? Superficially, that realization surprised him. It ran counter to the vague picture he had always carried of himself in his head – the sort of quasi-macho stud. But deep down he appreciated it – understood it. Do not adjust your set! This was reality. The picture was right. It was just. All's fair... So it goes. XIV. Matt carried an immense guilt that ran through every aspect of his life. He had in the past felt guilty about his work – the time spent there, away from his family – the time he spent with his family, to the neglect of work. He felt guilty about his daughters; had he been a good enough father; were their deaths somehow his fault? He felt guilty about having ‘let the company down'. He shouldered guilt about the recent aggression and borderline violence in his sex with Jenn; and further guilt in his neglect of her. He carried a burden of guilt over his affair, now long past, and piled on more over his activities at The Club. He felt guilty about his own submission and his spinelessness. “Although,” one corner of his brain observed, “it takes a lot of courage to give up oneself – one’s self so completely.” Nonetheless, he was soon to have more reason to feel guilty about Jenn herself. His burden grew and grew and never left him. Only enfolded in the secure isolation of The Club could he forget it. Surprisingly Matt still had no real friends at The Club. Certainly there were a number of familiar acquaintances: Stewart, Nigel and Tiffany, and, to a lesser degree, Marg, Marco and, perhaps, Rebecca. (Dara was no longer familiar nor acquainted, having escaped into the depths of her current relationship, but that was how it went.) They were mainly mere acquaintances – club mates, users and sharers. Still, Matt thought it interesting that such apparent impersonality could provide so much deep personal satisfaction. Some afternoons or evenings, before or after whatever sexual athletics were in store, Matt would relax with a few colleagues in a parlour and watch videos. Often they were in-house tapes on which he recognized some of the participants – including himself, from time to time. They would point and laugh, making both humorous and ribald comments about the scene unfolding up on the small screen. However, sometimes the films were alien and frightening in the depth of their depravity. An eerie quiet would descend on the room as those present watched, eyes riveted in rapt attention. Matt observed video records of unimaginable humiliation and submission. He watched as men and women had intercourse with dogs and bitches in all combinations including felatio. He saw an extremely well hung fellow, attired in leather, being felated by a nursing calf. There were scenes of serious degradation with lots of shitting and pissing; and serious sadism. Matt found the severe sadomasochism incredibly unsettling. At the conclusion of such a tape Matt noticed that it was far more than just he who gasped a few times in order to recover some semblance of normal respiration. As vile as most of them agreed those films were, they continued to view them from time to time – continued to be repulsed yet aroused – turned off and on simultaneously. Such extremities caused in Matt a strange tumult of emotions; frightened but curious, disgusted but envious, he would depart the parlour in a trembling sweat of distraction. "Matt?" Stewart had caught him as he entered the lobby. "Sorry to bother you, old fellow," addressing him as he usually did when they were not 'in character', as it were, "but I'm afraid that we need to talk." "Uh-oh," Matt mumbled as a cold worry swept across him. What had he done? It wasn't deliberate, he wanted to say, as Stewart took his arm and guided him into the office. "Not to worry, my boy." There was a note of mischief in his voice as he dropped it to his rather familiar conspiratorial level; "It's nothing too serious." After bidding Matt sit, and getting him a drink, Stewart moved behind his desk. He sat silently staring at Matt, his fingers steepled at his chin, making Matt shuffle self-consciously. "I'll get right to the point," he began, "And the point is that your complimentary membership has run out – your probation here at The Club is fini." He paused a moment. Matt remained motionless – waiting. "The necessary observations have been made – and that's basically what this time has been about: candidly observing you and your participation – your performance." His smile was somewhat reassuring, still Matt listened intently. "The executive members have made their recommendations. And here's the upshot of that." He lifted some papers from his desk, straightened them, scanned the top sheet, then looked appraisingly at Matt once again. "You are welcome to become a full, active, decision making member of The Club. As an active and dominant member you will be required to pay an initiation fee as well as the monthly dues." That was basically a good news/bad news thing, and before Matt had a chance to ask the sixty-four dollar question Stewart continued. "'How much?' you want to know. The initiation fee is thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars – we are an exclusive club." Only Matt's heart dropped farther than his jaw. Thirty-seven thousand? "And the current monthly dues are twenty-four hundred." "Shit." Matt slumped in his chair. He felt that his balloon had just been punctured. "I don't think I could possibly afford that," his flat voice unsteady. "I understand, Matt," Stewart said sympathetically, "however..." "Yeah," Matt filled in for him, "rules is rules, right?" "Usually," Stewart agreed. He seemed to be seriously considering how to handle an obviously hopeless situation. Matt almost missed the sly smile that briefly escaped across his lips. "There is an alternative." Once again, he looked carefully at the papers on his desk, the supposed executive recommendations. Matt began to suspect that things might not be quite so bad. "Considering your performance these last months, I do believe the alternative is a viable possibility." This time he couldn't hide the smile on his face. Suddenly feeling a whole lot better, Matt asked with not-quite-mock impatience, "Well, what is this great alternate possibility?" Stewart went on to explain that Matt could sign on as a casual or part-time 'employee' of sorts. He would not get paid, nor would he be a voting member, of course, but he would have free use of the whole facility with only one proviso. Any time spent there would be under an agreement to observe mandatory compliance, that is, he would be required to do whatever any full member requested or ordered. "In view of how you have participated in scenes and events thus far, I don't believe that would make a noticeable difference in the quality of your experiences here." He raised an eyebrow at Matt, "Well?" Matt swallowed hard. "No, I think you're right. It wouldn't really." "So what say you to that?" "Sounds good to me." Trying to keep the almost childlike relief out of his voice, Matt felt giddy. He had been pulled from the jaws of the dragon. They weren't sending him away after all. He could do nothing about the silly grin that he felt painting his face. "If that was an offer," Stewart nodded that it was, "then I gladly accept the terms and conditions you've explained." He felt buoyant as he stood to shake Stewart's proffered hand. Stewart went on to explain that, as a working member, it was possible for him to make a few bucks on the side by hiring out his services to private parties some of the members had from time to time. He also warned that mandatory compliance meant that he would be allowed only one balk; however, he went on to say that in the over six years The Club had been in operation, they had never had an incident of either refusal to comply or intolerable request. Just as Stewart had suggested, Matt's change in rank had little if any effect on his involvement. He continued to be, in many cases, just an extension of the dominant or primary member in a gathering. Some of the paying members were, of course, submissives or part-time submissives, so Matt was required to play a dominant role from time to time. Sometimes he was asked to join a party as a dominator of other submissive 'employees'. Increasingly though, his duty was to be a submissive himself – in a group or with a single member. He wasn't sure he actually liked those roles but he knew that he didn't dislike them either. There was certainly no fear of his jeopardizing his position. And he realized he'd do much more than that in order to stay in The Club. The lights in the main lounge had been subdued; all except for a single spot that shone on a circular rug in the middle of the room. Matt, wearing only a silk bikini, had been invited in and stood in the shadows against one wall. He had watched with interest as the gentleman whose scene this was settled himself into the rocking chair that had been placed in front of the lighted rug, just beyond the glare of the spot. It was Roland, an older fellow and officer of The Club, whom Matt had met on several occasions; his neat silver white hair gave him an air of quiet sophistication. The intensity of his eyes was tempered with a good humour that spilled into his cheeks and around his mouth. He nodded sagely at Matt, acknowledging him with a simple, "Matthew," then seemed to retreat into a trance while he waited. It was nothing less than surrealistic. Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 13-16 A commotion outside the door broke the dim, hushed calm of the lounge as a struggling figure was escorted – dragged into the room writhing and complaining, a uniformed working member at each arm. The subject was a wiry, defiant girl apparently only eighteen or nineteen. Matt felt something tighten in his gut. Was this real? Was she really being forced against her will? Surely not; and yet it would certainly appear so. A shiver ran involuntarily through him. As if reading his thoughts, Roland spoke, calmly and quietly yet loud enough to be heard above the fuss. "In this club, Matthew, as you know, all submission is voluntary," he stated simply. "Any appearance of force is, necessarily, dramatics – or, perhaps, in this case," he nodded toward the struggle, and gave a wry chuckle, "histrionics. Rest assured, there is no coercion or unreasonable pressure." Whether this was said by coincidence, as a matter of course, or through some uncanny astuteness, Matt felt the release of a tension he hadn't actually been aware of. His body, as well as his mind, relaxed. He could now think of it as just a play, and watch it unfold. The resisting young woman had a shock of red-orange hair, darker than strawberry blonde but lighter than a carrot top, cut in a mid-length shag. Her pale, vaguely freckled, sun-sensitive skin was of the type that bruises very easily, and, indeed, as she was brought into place on the spot lit rug traces of bruising became obvious. Her upper arms were discoloured about her biceps, beneath the firm grips of the attendants; furthermore, the backs of her thighs showed darkened patches and her bottom cheeks were patterned with black and blue. She was completely naked – unadorned except for the tattoo on her inner thigh. Although he couldn't be sure, it looked to Matt like a Rolling Stones style mouth with, instead of a tongue, a large, flaccid cock lolling out of it. She continued to struggle, crying for mercy as she was positioned on the rug. Matt realized that the struggle was fueled more by symbolism than by any desire to actually escape. On either side, the restrainers held her arms outstretched like the victim of a crucifixion, their fingers digging tightly into the existing bruises on her arms. Quietly, from another door, Dara, of all people, entered and approached the writhing figure in the light. Matt had not spoken to Dara for some time. Although they were often in the same facility, their paths had diverged. Matt thought it strange that, as intense as their affair had been, he didn't miss her; in fact, he felt he hardly knew her. She paused for a moment, surveyed the room, glancing past him without a trace of recognition in her face – the blank look of a stranger. Then she looked the girl up and down before descending to her knees in front of the flailing body and grasping those squirming thighs – whose movements became, suddenly, much less violent. Her hands cupping the backs of the thighs, neatly covering the discolouration of old bruises, Dara firmly pulled the prisoner's pubis tight into her own face. The girl's cries became mews and her struggling more fluid – more of a dance. Now it was Matt's turn. He lifted a leather tawse from the chair next to him and carefully stepped up to the tableau from behind. His casual approach belied the emotional tumult he felt. He was, in equal parts, excited and afraid. Positioning himself behind the redhead, whose struggling was now less urgent, he looked over into the shadows at Roland, who simply nodded. At that, Matt laid the strap lightly across the colourful backside for a moment before beginning the thrashing. He lashed her bottom as he had been instructed, with random strokes, deliberately breaking any rhythm that might evolve, and increasing in intensity – severity. As the girl writhed and squirmed under the repeated lashes, Dara held tightly onto the thighs and kept her own face planted deep in the reddish bush. The attendants clutching her arms had to struggle to control her convulsive thrusts, as Matt continued relentlessly. Bright red welts soon covered her entire bottom, crisscrossing in a close mesh over the blue, purple and yellow shades of old bruises; obviously from earlier sessions of similar activity. It was not long before the victim – the recipient of all the attention began to climax. Her cries of woe became screams of lust and she shook uncontrollably, as her body was wracked with long and repeated orgasms. Glancing at Roland periodically, waiting for a sign, Matt continued. Roland watched silently from the shadows, without any show of emotion. Although he felt his arm tiring, Matt was becoming increasingly excited by the strength of the orgasms his wild beating was eliciting. Consciously redoubling his efforts, he was invigorated by the renewed intensity of his victim's reactions. Suddenly his arousal was overwhelming. His throbbing erection strained against the silk briefs. His head whirled and the strap fell faster and harder, as he felt something in him about to explode. Roland's soft tranquil voice somehow penetrated the melee. "That's enough, Matthew," and Matt stepped back, panting, shaking. "Dara," Roland commanded, quietly, "see to Matthew, please." With that, Dara released the prisoner's thighs and walked directly over to Matt. Her face glistening and dripping, her matted hair framing it, she still showed no trace of recognition, as, with chest heaving, she dropped to her knees in front of him and freed his pulsing member from its silk enclosure. Without hesitation, she engulfed him. The leather strap slid from his hand as he clasped his fingers over her ears while she bounced on his staff. His rampant pego pummeled the back of her throat briefly; it was only moments before he felt the detonation of a mammoth orgasm flash deep in his balls. His grunting groans changed to bellows as he rammed Dara's nose into his pubic bone, flushing gobs of semen down her throat – and up her nose; she gagged and fought against his battering invasion. Then it was over. He let go of Dara's head; she got up with a little sputter and crossed the floor to stand just inside the door she had entered. The redhead had swooned and hung by her arms from the men at her sides, looking like Jesus on the cross. "Take Marissa to the baths, please," Roland gently directed. One of the attendants took her up into his arms like a baby and they quietly left the way they had come in. "Well done, Matthew. Thank you. You may go." Having dismissed Matt, Roland turned away. "Dara, come here." As he exited the lounge, Matt heard Roland say to Dara, "You seemed to have had some difficulty with Matthew, my dear. Perhaps you need..." The door swung quietly closed leaving Matt alone with himself as he plodded back to the change room on the lower floor. His mind reeled with the stimulation of the scene, but there was a niggling feeling in the back of his head that suggested he didn't deserve such pleasure. He felt guilty about whipping the girl – Marissa – and getting carried away with the intensity of it, as much as she seemed to appreciate it at some base, bawdy sort of level. Still, he thought, perhaps it should have been the other way around – him being whipped by her – or someone. He would certainly be more deserving of, or perhaps, he thought, more suited to being the whippee than the whipper. But who was he to complain. He still couldn't figure out any of this. Although he never gave the slightest protest, in fact he enjoyed those dominant roles very much, it soon became obvious to him and others that his personality was, indeed, much more suited to submission than dominance. Matt had realized early on that he wasn't really much good at giving orders – taking charge of a scenario. His orders were always placid and pallid, or awkward and unnatural. They were never very imaginative, usually mundane. And they were never very satisfying, least ways not to him. He also realized that, if he'd only been able to recognize it, he had always shown a predisposition to submission – for being used. He suffered easily the loss of dignity; this fact had not gone without notice. Increasingly he was placed in situations where he was treated with a complete disregard for his dignity. In doing so, his partners had so undermined it that, for all intents and purposes, he was without dignity during any and all gatherings in which his submission was expected. At those functions, he simply no longer had any to get in the way. A good slave is someone with just such a predisposition; someone for whom dignity no longer serves any purpose; someone for whom dignity is an unnecessary luxury; or, perhaps, simply unnecessary. After subconsciously meditating on it, he became aware that he could accept it as truth. Being a good slave – profound submission – that was where his aptitude lay; and, somehow, in that he would find genuine satisfaction. Thus, it was not long before the vast majority of his roles were as victim. His standard attire at The Club subtly changed from silk to leather – leather cuffs and anklets, waist strap and collar. He fell very naturally into the part. XV. Matt's incidental training in the arts of submissiveness progressed subtly, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes in planned and choreographed scenarios. At various times he was subjected to concentrations – intensive sessions in specific aspects of stimulus and response. "You must be able to separate your sensory stimulations so that you can concentrate on individual senses if necessary," Roland had said one afternoon, as Matt arrived for his shift. It was increasingly Roland who took charge of Matt. And there was a familiar security in Roland's demands that Matt took comfort in. It was a nice touch, rather sensitive of him, Matt thought, that Roland still gave his orders in the form of proposals; subtly suggesting that the instructions were really only suggestions that needed to be agreed upon, as, in some basic way, they were. Inasmuch as all participation was, strictly speaking, voluntary, any activity was, in some respect, open to discussion; however, the proposals were, ipso facto, commands to be obeyed without question. Roland was never overbearing. He was never hard or insistent about anything – always calm and cool; he gave orders pleasantly. They were just directions – he was the director and one wouldn’t question the directions of the director any more than one would question divine commands from on high. Roland’s proposals were simply accepted and obeyed – carried out to the letter. Complete compliance was nothing less than expected. Matt, nonetheless, excelled in it – absolute submission – obeisance. "I’m proposing that you be subjected, today, to some 'in-service' training which, I believe, you will enjoy." Roland turned away for a moment, puttering about in a deliberate move designed to allow Matt time to chew on the idea, before continuing. "I have devised a session on tactile focus, just for you." His innocuous smile was unreadable. "You will be receiving special instruction through a tailor-made lesson. We'll begin shortly; please get changed smartly." Roland's smile was both benevolent and radiant. He turned once again, leaving Matt to prepare for yet another new experience; anxious – and just a little apprehensive. After changing into his now de rigueur costume of leather straps, he was conducted to a small dimly lit room. It had thick carpet and was hung with heavy drapes on all walls. Told to stand in the middle of the room, Matt was at first blindfolded with a thick, fitted, black felt mask. Then he was gagged loosely with a leather ball gag and his nose was plugged. The only words spoken were Roland ensuring that he could still breathe freely. He nodded his reply. He was immediately fitted with ear buds, from which emanated a white noise that masked everything else in the already quiet room. "A Walkman of some sort," Matt surmised, studying the insignificant details in a effort to fight off the seeds of panic he felt swirling inside. Outwardly, Matt remained completely docile – completely passive as he felt hands strap him into what seemed like a climbing harness or adult sized Jolly Jumper. His arms were lain in soft slings and raised to hang straight out to his sides from some kind of elastic supports; something was clipped to his ankle cuffs. After a slight pause, he felt himself being raised ever so slightly, until he was completely suspended from some sort of springy suspension. And that was it. He hung motionless, in the warm still air of the room, so that, when he relaxed, the balls of his feet just touched the floor. He realized that he was suddenly unaware of anything else. The elastic cables or cords from which he hung subdued all movement. He found that, although his feet could rise off the floor, they couldn't go anywhere due to short tethers that anchored him to one spot in the room. For how long the state of sensory deprivation continued, Matt had no idea – time seemed to carry little meaning in the void. Minutes or hours later, Matt felt something – a warm breath perhaps, on the back of his neck, then it was gone. Maybe only seconds later – maybe longer – he felt another light breath on his face. Slowly, slowly, he felt more and more. A touch of a finger here; application of a warm oil there; a pinch; a stroke; a kiss; a lick. He started to understand then, just what Roland had meant by tactile focus. All he knew, all he could know at that time was conveyed to him through touch. The touches were not always recognizable – but they became more intense, nonetheless. He felt fingers on his cock; fingers in his ass; unidentifiable warmths stroked his balls and his shaft; what may have been labia stroked his legs; warmed, soft, vibrating plastic tickled his anus, slipping past his sphincter then out again. He endured the pressures of an elastic ball bag, sodomizing dildos, nipple clamps, cock rings, and discipline paddles against his buttocks, but everything was transitory – no one sensation lasted long. And through all of it, he bounced about slowly like a puppet or a wind charm, his feet just touching the carpeted floor now and again. The stimulation seemed never-ending and Matt coasted along, aroused, not nearly to climax, but enough to make his body weep with sweat. Finally a mouth engaged his erection just as two hands abruptly pulled his hips back to impale him on an anonymous engorged prick. The oral/anal assault was quick and well timed. In a matter of moments, he began pumping his come into the servicing mouth just as the tool in his rear spasmodically jetted its load deep into his bowels. His sense of touch attuned, he could feel each jet as it scalded his innards, and that sensation intensified his own voluminous ejaculation. In one small, still lucid corner of his reeling mind, Matt observed objectively, "So this is what passion is – what it's about; or what it appears to be, anyway, in its tangled guise." Suddenly his cock was naked to the room air. With a final plop, his rear visitor withdrew and he was alone. He waited in his suspended state, his skin warm and tingling in places, cool and wet in others. He waited, craving stimulation, but none was forthcoming. He waited for his wait to end. Maybe he went to sleep, maybe he fell into a trance, but eventually he realized he was standing and a flurry of unseen activity had removed him from the harness. His ear buds were pulled, his nose unplugged, his gag taken off, and finally his blindfold was removed. He looked furtively around. There was no one there but Roland, who gently took him by the arm and silently led him from the chamber. Taking him to a sleeping room he said softly, "You sleep now. We'll talk later." Matt found that he was unable to consider anything else. He felt hypnotized – perhaps he was. He entered the room, lay down on the bed, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. It was four fifteen in the morning when he awoke. Groggily donning his civvies, he slipped out. He could still get home before Jenn woke. Days later, exiting his car into the silent sunshine of the parking lot, Matt was approached by a vaguely familiar figure. "Matt, isn't it?" the fellow asked. Extending his hand, and not actually waiting for a reply, he introduced himself, "Sam." Matt took the proffered hand, surprised at the firm grip and energetic shake. "Howareya?" They seemed, for all the world, like a couple of acquaintances meeting in the parking lot of a racquetball club or something. "I think they've got something lined up for the two of us today," Sam observed as they turned from their cars. "You up for it?" "Dunno. What is it?" "I don't really know. Just overheard someone speaking in the lounge yesterday. Heard our names." Suddenly, Matt placed him. He had seen him perform several weeks earlier in one of the parlours. It had been Sam, a Chinese-Canadian without a trace of accent, who had been between the legs of a naked woman – a beauty of Indian or Pakistani extraction. She had been seated in a big chair at the head of the table, her heels perched on the tabletop with her crooked knees spread wide. She had been holding the arms of the chair tightly as if she didn't want to fall off and her head had been shaking from side to side, waving her long tresses back and forth. There had been some sort of betting going on, as to how long she could hold off her climax. A small group had gathered around the scene and were cheering for Sam as he mercilessly licked and rubbed and poked, and for his partner as she squealed and squirmed in a doomed effort to forestall climaxing. Matt had been accompanying Roland, when they slipped into the parlour to check out the commotion. They had only watched for a few moments before proceeding on to their destination. "Yeah, now I remember. I saw you for a bit a few weeks ago. Yeah." "Well," Sam put a hand on Matt's shoulder in a sort of sporting bonhomie, "I've just got this feeling that we're going to get to know one another quite well today. Know what I mean?" "I think maybe I do," Matt replied, his curiosity building steadily. He felt a comfortable camaraderie growing between them. They became lost in their own thoughts as they crossed the lot together and entered the building. Entering the change room silently, they went about their ablutions. Sam left with a quiet, "Good luck." Matt nodded his response. They were indeed slated to perform together. In one of the parlours, a large wrestling mat had been placed in the middle of the floor. Seats were placed around it and were rapidly being occupied by various well-dressed members of both sexes. They were sipping drinks and chatting when Matt was shown naked into the room. He had already been told to remove his usual leather attire. Moments later Sam appeared, equally nude, through the opposite door. Both Matt and Sam were led to the mat where, once the gathered crowd had settled, they were presented. They were the same age and basically the same size. Although Sam was a little shorter than Matt, he weighted a bit more. Only then were they officially informed of their wrestling match. They would be loosely held to Olympic/Greco-Roman rules except that the object was a prone pin – the opponent’s hips, face down. It would an even bout, and, they were sternly warned, a clean fight. Bets were placed and chits deposited in a circulating box, and the wrestlers were told that the winner would "have the loser's ass – literally." Matt began to draw deep from his high-school memories, determined to win. He was sure that Sam was doing the same as they took their positions and waited for the signal. Sam was a tough opponent. Puffing with exertion, grabbing slick sweaty limbs and scrambling out of his foe's clutches, Matt was too involved in the physical aspect of the match to give any thought to the sensual regards. The match went on and on. Repeatedly they were returned to their corners by the referee before lunging at one another again. It was a different kind of stimulation. The cheering shouts of the onlookers formed a soft encouraging bed of white noise in the back of Matt's mind. He was completely focused on his task. Finally, however, as they became increasingly exhausted, Matt managed to flip his opponent – this foe whom he had met earlier but who, for now, had completely lost any identity – flip him onto his stomach. With lightning speed that surprised even himself, Matt threw his bulk against the buttocks of his rival, pressing with his hands his full weight over Sam's hips. Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 13-16 "Pin!" yelled the ref. And it was only then that Matt realized his cock was being pressed between the bum cheeks on which he was perched. He felt a violent arousal, and his sudden erection was throbbing and twitching as it lay sandwiched in the warm sweaty crevasse of the vanquished ass. "Take him now," stated an authoritative voice as the cheering and conversation died down. Suddenly the room was hushed. Matt slid back off the glistening backside, and inserting his hands beneath the hips, raised the loser's limp form to its knees. Matt was fantastically aroused. He felt his body quivering as he pushed himself up against Sam's docile derriere. Spreading the compliant cheeks, Matt quickly ran a finger over the rosebud opening, smearing sweat across it. Then, placing his painfully swollen glans against the inviting anus, he pulled the hips violently back as he thrust forward, burying his shaft to its hairy base in one stroke. Other than a sudden gasp of surprise and perhaps pain, Sam was completely acquiescent to the fierce pounding of his rectum. Matt's senses were so keyed, that, despite a strong desire to prolong it, he could feel his orgasm exploding from his balls. He came in waves so intense that he feared he would faint. Finally, he collapsed onto the motionless back beneath him. The only movement for several moments was the pulsing of his still turgid cock and the answering squeezes of the rectal muscles that held him firm. Then the audience broke into applause and appreciative praise. Matt reveled in the noisy approval. "I'm so much more prostitute than profligate," he admitted to himself as he surveyed the audience. He had realized a good while earlier that what he was doing was whoring; just whoring for non-monetary rewards. But he couldn't quite determine whether he was disgusted or proud. Uncoupled, the two performing partners were helped from the room. The sauna and soak returned some semblance of life to Matt who, nevertheless, spent the rest of his visit in a sort of post-sodomitic trance. He had relished the surge of victory and the charge of domination over his vanquished opponent, but in retrospect, it hadn't really been him. A strong feeling of dissociation had removed him from direct involvement, providing, instead, a strange objectivity – a kind of objective replacement. Matt now felt there had been some sort of mistake – some sort of role reversal – for, as much as he superficially enjoyed the scene, he knew himself to be far better suited to the part of the defeated than that of the victor – victim rather than aggressor – always. He still endeavoured to behave normally at home, despite the frequency with which he was away; but it was becoming more and more difficult. Jenn obviously tried to be understanding, apparently thinking that he was simply going through a mid-life crisis – an idea of which he didn't disabuse her. Maybe it was even true. He still loved her and felt bad about her obvious distress. With him always 'on the prowl' or 'at the club', she complained that they rarely saw each other anymore. He tried to think of ways to make it up to her. He told her that he knew she was complaining only a fraction of what she had every right to, and he was appreciative of that. He hoped things would work out soon. He said that he expected they would, but he was not sure how that would happen. He didn't know where he was going – he didn't really know exactly where he was anymore. And so it continued. He thought of the old navy term SNAFU – situation normal, all fucked up. That just about summed it up. He was engaged to serve at a function at the home of Madeline, one of the older female members. She was a severe, business-like woman. She was rumoured to be extremely kinky, although Matt had not seen anything too unusual; also, as he already knew from his limited experience, she was said to be very, very dominant – at times verging on sadistic. She had, previously, been the owner/operator of a bawdy-house in Vancouver's West End, called The House of Domination and Fantasy. Set up in a funky old home amongst the sterile high-rises of downtown, Matt had been told that Madeline had offered a mind-boggling variety of fantasy scenario rooms; from the classic schoolroom and hospital room to a medieval torture chamber and an executive boardroom. D & F, as the place had been known, had, eventually, been forced to close through constant police harassment brought on by complaints and allegations from a "righteous" minority, who had somehow found out about its otherwise quiet existence. Nonetheless, Madeline seemed to have walked away from it in good shape. Now she lived in what appeared from the outside to be a modest house on the fringes of Vancouver's very classy Shaugnessy district. It was an innocuous, old style 50s or 60s rancher that, although not actually decrepit, had certainly seen better days. With moss on the edges of the roof, green growth discolouring the yellow stucco siding, it stood on one of the large lots common to that area. The trees in and around the yard had become fairly big over the years so that the yard was quite dark and enclosed; the house well concealed behind the lush shrubbery. The yard was surrounded by an old fence, which was lined, rather inconspicuously on the inside by strung wires – "Barbed? Electrified?” Matt wondered as he hurried past. The gate through the fence was made of heavy wrought iron and had on it a new, well-used padlock which currently hung open on a large hasp. If one didn't notice the locked gate, and most passers-by wouldn't, the place was more or less completely unremarkable. Did the neighbours ever wonder what went on in that 'quiet' place? Matt wasn't sure himself, but by then he probably had a better idea than most. It's plain, old exterior belied the spacious ultra-modern interior. The transition from the mundane entry foyer to the avant-garde living room was overwhelming. It was an expanse of robin's-egg blue with electric blue and chrome yellow accents. The furnishings were all heavy, ebony framed designer pieces with soft black leather upholstery, positioned away from the walls in a rough conversational grouping. A black glass coffee table dominated the centre of the room, while small matching end tables stood at the arms of the two sofas and the several occasional chairs. The walls were oddly dotted with strange little shelves supported by big, solid brackets, many with hooks and rings. Matt, however, was given precious little time to appreciate his surroundings. He had arrived, as expected, before the guests, and was brusquely ushered into a large bathroom by Madeline, the hostess and dominatrix. The spacious facility, decorated in a somber opulence, was larger than the living room of Matt and Jenn's condo. A dark, textured, black and gold marbled the walls, while golden fixtures and accessories accented floor, counters and back splashes tiled in obsidian. The black, low profile toilet and matching bidet stood side by side beneath a small, single frosted window. To the left was a double-sink vanity next to deep shelves of luxuriously thick black towels. To the right, two soft leather chairs sat before a spot lit and plushly carpeted dressing area with make-up table. In the middle of the room, set into a raised platform, was an expansive black tub, completely around which could be drawn a transparent curtain. Four versatile showerheads hung from a sturdy framework above the skid-proofed centre of the tub, while built-in seats occupied the corners. Several aimable swirl jets were positioned about each of the seats. In the large, gilt-framed, three way mirror that stood in front of the table, dominating the dressing area wall, occupants of the easy chairs could not only watch the face of the person making-up on the stool, but everything else that took place in the room. As Matt attempted to take in all the details of the room, Madeline began giving rapid-fire orders. "Take off all of your clothing," she snapped, swinging the large wooden door closed to expose several locker style cabinets, "and put them in there," indicating the open one on the end. With an admirable economy of words and touch, Madeline conducted Matt's preparatory ablution and raiment with the grace and precision of a maestro. He was ordered into the shower and told exactly how and what to scrub, before being called out again and toweled off with the rough efficiency of a no-nonsense nurse. Madeline administered a clinical enema before directing him in his dressing. Fitted out with an outlandish yet provocative mixture of chain and leather and silk Matt felt a familiar lightness lifting him to an almost narcotic high. A silken jockstrap affair supported his testicles while leaving his penis exposed. Over its silk waist strap lay an encircling chain to which was loosely connected, by lighter links, leather thigh cuffs, a studded leather collar, and thick leather wrist cuffs. Those wrist cuffs were also attached to one another, as well as to the collar at his neck. He was effectively hobbled by a restrictively short length of chain between his thighs. A supple leather strap was buckled snugly up against his glans and was also loosely chained with a fine silver string to the anchor loop at his waist. Finally Madeline handed Matt a pair of leather covered clamps connected to a light chain. “Here. Fasten these to each nipple,” she commanded, adding, as he worked, “Check to make sure they’re secure.” Matt glanced up, not immediately understanding. Madeline responded with impatience, “Like this!” She reached over and shook them firmly ensuring a positive attachment. “Okay,” she allowed. “Now, you must ensure that they don’t fall off. Check them frequently.” It was an order. The consequences, undoubtedly dire, remained unspoken. Then she stopped and stepped back to appraise her handiwork. Apparently satisfied, she turned to retrieve something from a drawer in the dressing table. Matt turned to watch himself in the mirror. He could almost see himself moving out of the real world, and a feeling of peace settled over him. That was what he liked about it. He had basically shed his worldly responsibilities, shed his worries and anxieties along with his clothes and, in donning the accoutrements of submission, he had insulated himself against even the slightest of earthly concerns. All decisions – everything – was out of his hands – out of his reach – beyond his control. He took comfort in the placid responses, the simple expectations of being submissive. Madeline stood directly in front of him and, with the ritualized precision of liturgy, she lifted to his face a string of about a dozen polished ebony beads decreasing in size from an inch and a half down to a half an inch in diameter. With an almost religious solemnity, he was told to kiss them. They were warm and smelled, like the comforting aroma of a doctor's office, faintly of disinfectant. “Turn around and bend over,” Madeline snapped. Starting at the large end of the string, the beads were pushed one by one into his rectum, until he contained them all. His lower bowel felt stretched like a balloon. Madeline bodily turned him around again and, grasping his shoulders she spoke into his face in a very low, dangerous voice. Matt listened carefully as she gave him his final instructions – explained her expectations. “Although you are primarily a waiter or butler; you must acquiesce to any and all demands of my guests.” She paused as if considering who would be there and what was likely to transpire. “I don’t really expect you will be put to too much service; nevertheless…” There was something almost frightening in her tone; “to make your evening more interesting – more memorable…” and, saying that, Madeline allowed herself the first hint of a smile Matt had seen thus far. “Throughout the night you will hold all the beads inside – unless someone specifically asks you how you are or how you’re doing? In that case, you will answer simply, ‘I am receiving my dues.’ Then and only then are you allowed to release one of the beads – only one at a time, mind you – one per inquiry.” Matt was momentarily boggled. His eyes went wide for an instant before returning to his usual semi-squint. “Any questions?” “No,” he murmured, dropping his gaze. It would be mortifying – a condensation of abasement. He felt a vibration beginning deep in his core. He could do this; he would do this – and perfectly. “Thank you,” he added softly; what surprised him was that he really meant it. The actual duties he performed at the party were simply to serve drinks and hors d'oeuvres, lotions, oils and washcloths. He was required, in one instance, to felate a guest to readiness for some scene of which he wasn't a part. In another instance, he had to use his mouth to clean the genitals of a couple lounging in afterglow. Interestingly, despite the many and definitely varied experiences that coloured the mosaic of his life at that time, Matt still thought of himself as completely heterosexual. He didn't consider himself bisexual, and had never given a thought to the idea being even slightly gay. Giving head, submitting to anal penetration, these were just things that were required – things that he did. They didn't, he thought, in any way, reflect a deviant or different sexual orientation. “But then again, what the hell did that mean?” he asked himself as he circulated through the guests like the servant he was. As with most anyone else, he knew he could rationalize pretty well anything – and did. Although most people accepted offerings from his tray and otherwise ignored him, as the night progressed, his tail of ebony beads gradually grew. Roland was amongst the guests. "How are you, Matthew?" he asked earnestly. "I am receiving my dues." Matt stood motionless for the moment, the sensations produced by his well-controlled sphincter as he carefully released another bead sparkled up through his body, casting a fleeting glaze over his eyes and bringing a bright, transient flush to his cheeks. With another bead added to its hanging weight, his tail swung between his legs and got a little more difficult to hold. Still, he had been told he was not to release the last one unless given explicit leave to do so by Madeline. Sometimes it seemed to him that the erotic elements of a given incident lay purely in humiliation. The beads, slowly emerging from his anus, hanging there, touching him, and swinging against the backs of his thighs as he moved, were erotic and arousing, but only as a constant reminder of his abject humiliation. Roland waited, then leaned forward to whisper in confidence, "No, really. I won't tell." He had a soft spot for Matt; Matt knew. His voice echoed a genuine concern – a real desire to know. "How are you doing?" Matt was still restless; he didn’t know what response Roland was looking for, but worse, he still didn't know what he was looking for; still didn't know if this was right or wrong – or just some other universe in which he had accidentally landed. He looked at Roland and felt the warmth of an unprejudiced friendship filtering through his confusion. He smiled very slightly, while keeping his voice deliberately flat, "Just fine, sir. Thank you, sir," and turned to continue his circulation; once more letting the smothering security of subjugation calm his discomfiture. XVI. He knew he was living a double life – rogue husband and apprentice slave. That there would very soon come a crisis point was painfully obvious. By necessity, uncomfortable truths needed be revealed and Matt would, whether by Jenn's insistence, his own hand, or some outside influence, be forced to make some sort of choice in terms of his life's direction. He had tried to put that time off as long as possible. He just wanted to avoid it. He was dealing with his life by omission. How long could he go on under the consequences of tacit decisions? Arriving home, he just couldn't believe it. How could he have fallen so far out of touch with reality? Over thirty-six hours – that's how long he had been gone! He had stayed out a whole night. Amazingly enough, that was the first time he had not made it home by morning, the first time, he let himself believe, he had not gotten home before Jenn woke. He hadn't even called. The crime was, he reproached himself, that he hadn't even thought about it – hadn't even thought about Jenn, at home, wondering where he was. That was frightening. What a bastard. He didn't deserve a woman like her. So he stole quietly into the bedroom once again. It was earlier than often, although Jenn was, as usual, already in bed. He joined her, smelling faintly of sweat and cologne, hugging and kissing her, hating himself for treating her so. He ignored the dampness on her pillow; he didn't want to think of her crying herself to sleep. She slowly woke and gradually responded – trembling and unsure. She didn't ask him where he'd been; she just seemed to accept it – his absence; his return. Matt couldn't understand her. He knew that this, along with the rest of his peculiar behaviour, was eating her up. Why didn't she say something; complain, rant, anything. "Sorry, I didn't make it home yesterday," he whispered tentatively, "I guess I shoulda phoned..." Jenn's whisper broke into his awkward pause, "That's all right. I'm just glad you're home now." Ironically, he realized that she, too, was dealing with it – with him, by omission – by disregarding that which she couldn't understand or change. She had always been so strong, so forthright. Now, having brought her to this, he felt doubly guilty. Matt figured that Jenn probably suspected he was having an affair, but she seemed to understand, too, that he was working through some sort of huge problem – going through some sort of major crisis. If nothing else, she appeared to accept that he still loved her and she apparently felt secure enough in his love that she had decided not to confront him. Maybe she was as good at rationalizing as he was; maybe she had decided that if she didn't know for sure, then, just maybe, he wasn't having an affair, and there was nothing to deal with anyway. Hoping that, perhaps, it would all just go away. Once again, neither made any further move to initiate sex – he was too weary; she too wary – rebuffed once too often of late. They lay silently in a close embrace, her back nestled into his chest, her rear into his crotch. He appreciated that she was handling him with kid gloves; that she was tiptoeing about him so carefully in an attempt not to alienate him; but she had been far too good to him, far better than he deserved. Surely the past several months had been hell for her though she had never complained. Suffering silently, she was martyring herself to Matt's own personal – very personal – problems. It hadn't been fair; it wasn't right. Finally he spoke. "You awake?" he asked rhetorically. "Yeah?" "Do you still love me?" He could feel the tension coil throughout her body as she lay without moving. Yet she answered without hesitation. "Always have and always will; do I love you? Yes!" "I love you too, you know. More than you can imagine." Here he paused, as if to gather his thoughts, his courage, his forces, then, taking a deep breath as if to steel himself, he said, "But I have to leave you for a bit – maybe a month or so." He felt her stiffen even more but she didn't speak. "Big things are changing; my whole universe seems to be in flux. In short, there're some things I really need to work out." He gave a wry chuckle. "That sounds rather timeworn, eh? – a line from an old movie." The chuckle vanished completely as he went on. "But my world is changing faster than I can keep up. Things are happening that I need to work through. It would just be temporary." He seemed to almost plead. "Please understand?"