****** The Mouthpiece by W. D. Stone ******
===============================================================================

The Mouthpiece


Geoff walked down the familiar flight of stairs and up to the counter where a
new kid in his twenties checked membership cards and collected the entrance
fee, two dollars for members, five for non-members. Geoff tried to joke around
a little at the entrance, but the shake in his voice suggested apprehension.

Not that there was really much to fear. The last time he'd seen Pete; which was
also the first time they'd met; Geoff had ended up with nothing worse than a
sore stomach from getting slugged unexpectedly in the gut. Not too bad for a
night in the rough clubs down among Manhattan's wholesale meat warehouses.

And Geoff certainly wasn't afraid of Pete, for Pete had proven that first time
around that he was level-headed and in control of himself, even gentle for all
his outward rough appearance, and Geoff knew Pete wouldn't intentionally hurt
him; not permanently, anyhow. And Geoff had basic protection in his pocket; he
checked to be sure the piece of soft rubber was there. It was.

"You a member?" the kid asked.

"Member of the clan, but not of the club."

"Five bucks." The kid tried to smile at the labored humor, but only because he
thought it good business. Geoff game him a ten and got back five flattened out
ones that had obviously spent a hard night all wet and crumpled up, like some
of the customers. The kid gave Geoff a red chit. "This'll get you two drinks
inside. You need any rubbers?"

"No, thanks...we're into safe sex." If he hadn't been so nervous, Geoff would
have chuckled silently at the irony. The scene would be safe insofar as he
probably wouldn't be taking in body fluids. But safe was not the word to
describe a broken rib. Or a broken nose. Or a concussion.

Geoff turned right and entered the corridor that led into the bar, while the
kid made a mental note to try and figure out which of the guys already in the
bar was the partner Geoff had in mind when he said "we." "Maybe his buddy
hasn't even arrived yet," the kid thought, as he mentally catalogued the
regulars who had.

Walking down the corridors, Geoff entertained himself with the memory of
another night four years earlier, a Wednesday, when he had walked down the same
corridor with the same nervous anticipation, and even less idea of what there
was to anticipate.

For the first brief movements as he entered, Geoff half panicked. In the murky
darkness he couldn't see a thing. He walked through the door and entered the
main area, a large basement room dimly lit with mostly red and a few yellow
lights, with a four sided bar in the center. The atmosphere was late Greenwich
Village Reign of Terror, that simple decorating style that required little more
than a can of black paint, some recessed lighting, and a year or two of
neglect. A few life-size toys and a collection of posters, some with torn
corners, from leather bars as far away as Houston and Australia completed the
look.

Along the right hand wall was a door that led to the equally dimly lit side
rooms, one of which was lined along one wall with private glory hole booths.
The other contained a make believe jail cell, where Pete liked to play.

Geoff strode straight to the bar and surrendered his drink chit. "Scotch and
water, not too much ice." Might as well get scotch for the free drinks, and
save beer for later. The bartender punched the chit, handed it back, and fixed
the drink, all without speaking.

Geoff took a swig of the whiskey and moved to the right hand wall, along which
was a long bench that was wide enough to attract you to sit down but too narrow
for you to remain perched there for long. Geoff looked around as his eyes
adjusted to the relative dark and spotted the familiar furnishings.

In the center of the back of the main room were some of the toy; a wooden
stocks which was seldom used, a sling, a padded platform on which Geoff had
seen guys tied face down and beaten to a color not unlike that of the walls,
and a bathtub. This, for some reason, was never used, although the three tubs
at the Shaft a block away often had would be bathers waiting impatiently in
line for an occupant to climb out, piss-soaked, cold, and happy.

Propped up against the left hand wall was a wooden cross with metal hooks to
secure ropes to the four strategic tips, and a video projection machine that
showed porno flicks with incredibly handsome young actors half heartedly
performing acts that were seldom as interesting, and never as real, as the live
action that went on right in the club. In the corner was a metal locker; the
kind they used to have in high school gyms, with five tall, narrow doors
painted military green.

A wide but short corridor along the left hand back wall to the two separate
johns, better lit than the other rooms, with a single urinal and two toilet in
one and three toilets in the other, all enclosed in stalls from which the doors
had been removed. Graffiti above the urinal directed potential pissers to the
willing mouth that often waited at the lip, so to speak, of the urinal, ready
to slurp down a warm yellow steam that otherwise would be wasted in the sewers
of the City.

Geoff propped himself uncomfortably on the bench and sipped his scotch as he
waited for Pete. Even though he had been waiting only a couple of minutes, he
got impatient, and looked around the side rooms, finally going in to sit on one
of the johns, which was more comfortable and sometimes led to a little action.

Sitting on the toilet, with his scotch still in his hand, Geoff wondered if
Pete would even show up. They had met only briefly at the Shaft three nights
earlier. Pete had figured out right away what Geoff got off on. Geoff had been
standing against a wall in the corridor downstairs that conned the play area
with the downstairs bar. Pete had walked up and twisted Geoff's tits just hard
enough to test Geoff's basic orientation. He didn't say much. Just, "You like
surprises?"

"I dunno." Silence. Then wham! a fist slammed into Geoff's stomach. More
silence as Geoff tried to catch his breath. Finally, "I...don't."

"Don't what?"

"Like surprises"

"Okay."

The guy's name was Pete, wasn't it? Geoff was pretty sure he knew the guy's
name, but when someone walks up to you in a dark corridor and slams his fist
into your stomach, you might just miss his mane. That first scene had ended
almost as quickly as it had begun. There were too many people in the Shaft for
either of them to have fun, so Pete gave his phone number to Geoff and told him
to call him. Geoff had done so two days later; yesterday. Now, as Geoff sat on
the toilet, the blood rushed into his dick as he remembered the surprise.

Geoff pulled out a thinly rolled joint and lit up. It was only ten past two, so
Pete was only ten minutes late. As usual, Geoff had been unfashionably early,
but he'd wanted to arrive before Pete and wait for him. He gasped to draw the
smoke into his lungs. Wonderful feeling. He'd never gotten used to not smoking
tobacco, even after five years. And smoking a joint satisfied some need that
cigarettes used to fulfill.

The high seemed to come immediately. Geoff reached into the pocket of his
jacket to check the pliant piece of rubber that he had washed and dried earlier
in the evening, as he always did before going out, hoping that the right guy
would come along and that he'd need it washed and ready for action.

A couple of guys had come into the toilet stall and started playing around with
Geoff. He responded, but half heartedly. Finally, he got up and went out to the
bar to get his other scotch. He looked around. Still not here. Back to the
john.

Pete walked down the flight of steps, set down his black canvas bag in front of
the kid at the entrance, took out his wallet, and put two one-dollar bills down
on the counter. "Are you member?" The kid asked.

"Yeah," Pete answered, producing his membership card from the wallet.

"Need any rubbers?"

"No thanks."

"Okay, have a nice night."

"Thanks." Pete reached down and picked up the satchel, which was extremely
light in spite of being stuffed so full that the zipper was about ready to
burst. The kid wondered what was in the full bag that was so obviously tight.
"Maybe they're into pillow fights," he thought out loud, as Pete walked away.
"What's that?" Pete asked, turning back. "Oh, nothing," the kid replied,
embarrassed.

Pete walked down the corridor and into the darkly lit bar. He walked over to
the far corner and deposited the canvas satchel on the floor. Not seeing Geoff
anywhere, he went up to the bar, presented his chit, and got a can of beer. He
took a couple of swigs as he waited for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark,
took the punched chit from the bartender and put it in his pocket, and went to
the john to take a piss.

Geoff had started playing around with another guy in one of the toilets when he
sensed someone watching from behind and to the side. It was Pete.

Geoff stood up and acknowledged Pete with his eyes as he passed him and headed
for the bar. He felt a little embarrassed; caught with his pants down, so to
speak. But it didn't seem to matter to Pete. He'd been around long enough to
know dates don't always show up; especially dates you'd barely met. And Pete
had gone through too many preparations to spoil the evening just because his
guy was playing around a little in the john. He followed Geoff to the bar.

"How ya doin', Pete?"

"How do you know my name?"

"You told me the first time."

"I did?"

"Yeah."

Somehow both of them sensed that it was best not to talk too much. Sometimes to
much chit-chat can spoil the serious atmosphere. Pete pulled out a joint. "You
smoke?"

"Yeah."

They smoked. "You been waiting long?"

"Not to long."

"You like this place?"

"Yeah, I used to come here when I lived in New York."

"It's better than the Shaft."

"Yeah."

"You wanna go home with me?"

"I like it here."

"Okay." No problem. Pete didn't mind. He'd like to take the guy home, rough him
up a little; or a lot and then sleep next to him. But that could wait for
later. If you knew the scene in New York, you knew that the smart guys were
careful about who they went home with. Anyhow, Pete had come prepared. He
glanced over to the corner of the left wall to see if his black satchel was
still there. It was.

They traded the joint a couple of times again. "I don't remember your name. Is
it Joey?"

"No, Geoff, with a G."

"Sorry. I wasn't expecting your call, and I didn't really catch your name when
we made the date."

"That's okay."

"Do you trust me, Geoff?"

"Yes," Geoff lied. He didn't trust anyone, especially someone he barely knew.
Geoff remembered the surprise punch in the stomach, and his dick hardened again
as it did every time he thought about it. But they were in a semi-public place,
after all, so nothing too serious could happen. And anyhow, Pete seemed
sensible...and sensitive. "Yeah, I trust you." This time it wasn't a lie.

Pete put out the joint. They stood silently for a few moments and stared at
each other. Then Pete nodded towards the metal locker in the corner.

Geoff walked towards the locker. Tentatively. Somehow, he knew he was going to
get exactly what he needed, but he didn't want to look too eager. He sensed,
correctly, that part of the fun for Pete was being in charge, and he wasn't
going to spoil that part of it. He knew Pete was walking right behind him.
Geoff started to turn around just short of the locker, expecting to find Pete
standing there.

Before Geoff had turned completely around, Pete grabbed him by the lapels of
his jacket and slammed him backwards against the locker doors. Geoff's body
stiffened with fear. A couple of guys at the bar, hearing the sound of a body
hitting the metal door, looked up from there drinks.

Peter jerked Geoff forward and slammed him against the lockers again. This time
Geoff's body went a little limp. His head fell slightly forward in an
involuntary gesture of his acquiescence.

Pete slapped Geoff in the face a couple of times and then slugged him in the
chest. Not hard. Just enough to define very clearly what the roles were and who
was playing them. As if anyone wondered.

He grabbed Geoff by the jacket again and swung him around away from the locker
and down onto the grimy floor. Geoff's heart raced as he fell. All of a sudden,
the outside of his left thigh hurt like hell. Thud! Pete kicked him again and
again in the same spot. "Ow," Geoff groaned, with just enough of a whimper to
signal Pete to slow down.

Pete nudged Geoff over with the tip of his boot. Geoff was wincing from a cramp
in his thigh muscle. He looked straight into Pete's eyes. Pete let him lie
there for a few seconds, and then reached down and gave him his hand. He easily
pulled Geoff up, and put his arms around him. They hugged for a minute, and the
cramp in Geoff's leg turned into a bearable pain.

Pete's next suggestion, that they smoke another joint, sounded to Geoff like a
good chance to let his mind catch up with what was going on. Ever careful. Ever
fearful. But ever horny.

They smoked without exchanging more than a few words. Mostly Pete checking that
Geoff was okay and making sure that his own gentle side was getting catalogued
along with the bursts of violence.

Pete put his hand on Geoff's ass and pushed his third finger against Geoff's
hole as he whispered directly into Geoff's ear, "I'm gonna kick your ass all
over this place." Somehow it was clear to Geoff that this was as much a
question as a statement. He went limp again with acquiescence. His silence was
all the answer Pete needed.

Pete ordered a couple of beers, and they drank for a minute or two. Then Pete
put his beer down, and Geoff followed suit. Geoff looked Pete straight in the
eye for a minute, and then lowered his eyes towards the floor. Pete took him
forcefully by his upper arm and led him to the back of the large room. Still
holding Geoff's arm, Pete hooked his left foot around one of Geoff's boots and
pulled it to the side. Geoff fell roughly to the floor. Now, sprawled face down
on the floor, Geoff with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Ahead of him was
the room with the glory holes along one side and the jail cell at the end. The
next few seconds seemed like an eternity as Geoff waited for Pete to move.

He just about passed out as Pete's boot swung in between his legs from the back
and caught him right in the nuts. The pain was so bad that he didn't even move
as his body tensed up.

Then, slowly relaxing, he took a deep breath in anticipation of the next kick.
Bam! Pinwheels of color radiating up from his aching testicles. Another kick.
Now Geoff lurched forward on elbows and knees.

It was only fifty feet or so to the jail cell, but it took a couple of minutes
to get there. Geoff was vaguely aware of a couple of guys against the walls
along the side of his path as he crawled towards the cell, but they made no
attempt to join in or hinder the action. When he got to the cell door, he
hesitated and got three swift kicks for the trouble. He crawled on in as Pete
stayed by the door.

The cell was about twelve feet by ten, with a broad black wooden bench along
the left-hand wall. Geoff lay waiting for the next move, but Pete was doing
something with the cell door that caused it to jangle. Finally, Pete came over
and helped Geoff up and led him to the bench to sit.

Pete left the cell for a minute, and Geoff knew he was to wait. He thought of
the scene in Midnight Express where the hero accidentally but fortunately kills
the prison official by hitting his head against a hook protruding from the
wall. He looked around slowly to make sure there were no nails or hooks along
the walls.

Pete came back with two bottles of beer in one hand and his black canvas
satchel in the other. He put the bag on the bench to Geoff's right. Geoff
looked at the satchel, which was now unzipped, and tried to figure out what was
in it. But all he could see was something like naugahyde pillows in it.

Pete returned to the door, which had a big padlock on it. He removed a heavy
key from the set of keys on his belt loop and unlocked the padlock. Then he put
it through the heavy metal loops and locked them in.

This made Geoff even more nervous. What if there was a fire? Would they be
overcome with smoke before Pete got the door open? "Stop, it," Geoff thought to
himself. "Hottest scene you've been involved in for a long time and you're
wondering about the municipal fire code."

Now Pete was standing in front of Geoff, but neither of them said anything.
Pete just wanted to give Geoff a little breather and a chance to say "Uncle" if
he'd had enough. Pete drank quickly. After a couple of swigs of the beer, Geoff
put his bottle on the bench at arm's length to the left of him. Pete understood
the signal, and put his already empty bottle next to Geoff's.

Pete took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, and Geoff stiffened briefly.
He never allowed anyone to bind him. Yet he willingly allowed Pete to cuff his
hands together in front of his body. Pete took out his poppers and offered them
to Geoff.

"Need this?"

"No."

Pete then reached down and started working Geoff's nipples, easy at first but
quickly turning rough. Geoff's body stiffened, and then loosened up. Pete would
bear down on the nipples with savage intensity, digging in with his
fingernails, then lighten up to a barely perceptible caress that left Geoff
aching for more.

Geoff's confidence grew. Pete was wisely combining hard and soft in a way that
he knew would give Geoff the desire and the confidence to deal with the heavier
stuff still to come.

"Want another beer?"

"No, thanks," Geoff answered. "I've still got some."

"I'm gonna get me another. I'll be right back." Pete fiddled at the cell door
for a minute before getting the lock off. He started to lock it after him, and
then decided not to. He had sensed that it made Geoff uncomfortable. Geoff felt
more relaxed with the door unlocked. While Pete was gone, Geoff looked again at
the satchel, but still couldn't figure out what was inside.

Pete came back with his beer and pulled the door to behind him. He turned
around, started to close the lock, but finally just put it through the metal
loops without actually locking it. He came over and stood again in front of
Geoff, silently communicating that something heavier, as they say in the scene,
as about to be visited upon him.

Geoff looked up for a few seconds, and his stare said yes. Pete hesitated just
a moment more, and then reached for the bag at Geoff's right side. He pulled
out a dark maroon boxing glove. He waited a moment to gauge Geoff's reaction.

Geoff could hardly believe his eyes, and his first reaction was to smile - no,
to laugh. Although he was generally only a reluctant bottom, his whole body
nonetheless ached when he fantasized about getting slugged. He'd never liked
the sharp, cracking, stinging pain you get when a guy takes a whip or a belt to
your ass. But he could jack himself off in seconds by thinking of the dull thud
of a fist hitting his pectoral muscle, or slamming into his face, or of a
booted foot kicking him in the biceps or in his leg. After he'd come to a
climax, he'd carefully assess the practicality of his desires. For he didn't
really want to end up with serious damage, and he doubted he could find a guy
who would rough him up like he needed but leave everything intact afterwards.

Pete was clearly a little embarrassed as Geoff started to laugh. Pete stood
there not sure what to do, suddenly feeling helpless for the first time that
evening. It wasn't an unusual feeling for him. In fact, this whole game of
dominance and abuse was Pete's way of compensating for the natural feelings of
helplessness and inadequacy that we all feel at times. Now Pete sensed the
feeling of power that had been building up all evening when to be shattered by
Geoff's ridicule.

Not that Pete had misjudged Geoff's scene. He'd understood Geoff's taste for
rough stuff right from the beginning, that first brief meeting at the Shaft.
Geoff's initial reaction to the different movements that Pete had tried
indicated what kind of scene he wanted.

For his part, Pete was only too glad to oblige. He really wanted to kick some
guy's ass, literally and figuratively. Most of all, he wanted to pound someone
in the face. He wanted to bruise some guy real bad, maybe see blood gushing out
of the guy's nose. But he was level-headed enough to know that he didn't want
to send a guy to the hospital with a broken jaw, and he certainly didn't want
to send himself to jail for assault or worse.

"I guess it's pretty silly, huh?" Pete offered, trying to mask his
embarrassment with the honest implication that he'd realized all along that it
was a bad idea.

Geoff answered by reaching into his pocket for the soft piece of white rubber.
He handed it silently to Pete, who rolled it over and over in the dim light,
trying to figure out what it was. Finally, he recognized a boxer's mouthpiece,
and burst out in a big simile as his embarrassment turned to recognition and
understanding. He continued smiling as he rolled the mouthpiece around and
around in his fingers. Finally his smile slowly ebbed as he gave the mouthpiece
back to Geoff. They each took another swig of beer, and then Pete reached in
and pulled out the second boxing glove.

Pete put the first glove on his right hand. He then wedged the second between
his right arm and his body so he could slip his left hand into the glove. He
held both gloved hands out, palms up, for Geoff to pull the laces tight and
wrap them around each wrist. That done, he took one more brief look into
Geoff's willing face, and said, "Put the mouthpiece in."

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
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