[A reader sent me this story he wrote for a new Master who asked him to describe one of his best bottom experiences. He says it happened in the late 70s, before AIDS]
When I was in my early 20s I corresponded with a top who lived in Florida. After a lot of writing and phoning back and forth, we arranged for me to fly down for a weekend, arriving on a Friday night and staying till Sunday evening. The terms of our agreement were that from the moment Fred picked me up at the airport until the moment he took me back to it, I would belong to him. Fred insisted on footing the bill, on the grounds that “you pay for what you own,” and told me I would have no expenses while I was his property. He prepared me over the phone for the weekend, telling me what I was to wear on the flight (a white t-shirt, jockey shorts, jeans, white socks, combat boots) my winter jacket (it was winter) and what I was to “pack” (my toothbrush, razor and shaving cream in a gym bag, nothing more). All I was to have in my pocket was my plane ticket, my fare to and from the airport (which he sent with the ticket), a piece of ID, a dollar in change, and the key to my apartment. On the flight down I was not to read a book or a magazine but to sit still in my seat thinking about what it meant to belong to another man.
About a week before my departure, Fred sent me a thin chain collar and a small open padlock with no key. The evening I received it I was to call him, which I did. While we were on the phone he told me to put the chain around my neck and lock it on; he wanted to hear the padlock snap closed. I lived alone but, even so, this had not been in my plans, since it would mean I’d have to wear a buttoned shirt and tie all week, something I never did, since I always dressed casually for work. But I was so turned on that I locked the collar on, and somehow managed to work the next week out so that no one ever saw the collar. I spent the week with a perpetual hard-on which I couldn’t do anything about, since Fred forbade me from touching my cock except to wash it.
For the plane ride I had to take the jacket off, at Fred’s instructions; there was no way for me to hide the chain locked around my neck.
Fred and I had exchanged photos, so we recognized each other at once. He was wearing leisure clothes, a sport shirt, jeans, dark socks, loafers. He had a long, craggy face and wasn’t a very goodlooking man, but he had a commanding attitude which seemed to make his looks irrelevant. He looked every bit the stern college professor he had told me he was.
He had informed me beforehand never to speak unless spoken to, and when I came up to him he put his hand out for my jacket so that I could not wear it to hide the collar. Then he turned on his heel and without a word led me out of the airport and to his car, where he threw the gymbag that contained my few things into the trunk with my jacket.
Once we were out of the airport, he told me to open the glove compartment and pull out what I found in it: a thick leather gag that buckled around the neck, a pair of sunglasses whose lenses had been painted black, and a pair of British handcuffs (I would later get a similar pair for myself and these have remained my favorites; they snap locked in one position and have rounded edges so can’t cut into the wrists). Fred told me to gag myself tightly, then put on the dark glasses and, finally, lock the handcuffs on myself behind my back.
The drive itself took somewhere between half an hour and an hour. In all that time Fred never said a word to me. Nor did we speak until we were in the garage of his house, when he took the glasses off me, had me get out of the car, removed the cuffs, told me to remove all my clothes, which he put in the trunk of the car, and asked me if I had to piss. I did. He took an old can from a garage shelf and had me piss in it, then taking the can with him told me to follow him inside on my hands and knees.
When inside the house I was naked on my hands and knees for much of the rest of the weekend. It was one of Fred’s rules that I was never to raise my head higher than his cock unless given an express order to do so. I was only allowed to stand on all fours when doing housework (housecleaning, preparing Fred’s food, serving it to him) and when taking care of my personal hygiene in the bathroom. I was never to stand up or to sit on furniture without permission.
The first thing Fred did was lead me into the bathroom and clean me out with several enemas. This was very humiliating. I had never had an enema before, it gave me severe cramps, and when I grunted and groaned through the gag and tried to indicate to Fred that I needed him to stop or slow down he smacked me hard on my backside and told me to deal with it. It was very embarrassing to have to sit on the toilet releasing the water and feces in front of him, and then to have him clean my ass before giving me another enema, until I was thoroughly cleaned out, but I must say that I jerked off to the memory of the enemas Fred gave me for a very long time.
For one period, while I was sitting on the toilet, Fred left me alone there (with the door open; I was never allowed to be in the bathroom with the door closed), and came back ten or fifteen minutes later in full leather: chaps, vest, motorcycle cap, engineer boots. He looked fantastic in the cap, and when I saw it on him something in me gave way and brought out something deeply submissive in me.
Fred told me to get into the bathtub on my knees with my hands behind my back. He held the can with my piss in it over my head, told me to close my eyes, then poured the contents down on me. I shut my eyes tight. The piss ran down over my head down the back of my neck and down my face; some of it even seeped inside the gag in my mouth. Fred told me to open my eyes. He was holding his penis in his hand, pointing it at me. He told me to lower my head. A stream of his piss hit me at the top of my head, then splashed down lower to my chest. He told me to raise my head and look at him. His piss was splashing all over my chest, down the tops of my legs, then up over my chest and higher still. I averted my head. He told me to turn my head to look directly at him. His urine splashed against the faceplate of my gag, hard, and continued hitting it until the stream began to lose its force, weaken, and finally dribble to a stop.
Fred stared at me soaked in his piss and told me now I was where I belonged, didn’t I agree? I mouthed an incomprehensible “Yes, Sir!” into the gag. Fred pulled the shower curtains closed and turned on the cold water. He told me to get to my feet, stand at attention under the water, then rinse myself off thoroughly. He turned off the water, threw me a towel and told me to dry myself, then get out of the tub and back down on all fours.
Once I was in position, Fred played with my asshole a while; he established that my asshole was much too tight and needed a lot of stretching, which he intended to give it over the course of the weekend. He then put a lot of lube on it, informing me that I was never to emerge from the bathroom after having used it for any purpose without making sure my ass was greased and ready for him to enter it any time he chose.
I followed Fred on all fours to the kitchen where he had prepared some food for a light dinner for us (if I remember correctly it was chicken and mashed potatoes or something similar from a fast food place). Fred took a seat at the table where there was only one place set and told me to stand up, find what he’d put out and serve it to him When I had served him to his satisfaction he told me there were two dog bowls in the sink, that I was to fill one with water and one with the food that was left over, bring them over to the table and set them on the floor near his feet. After I had done so he had me kneel down so he could remove the gag, then told me to get on all fours and eat, though no sooner had I begun to eat in that humiliating position than he had me crawling under the table to service his cock. This was the way it would be for most of the weekend. I would serve him food, then prepare my bowls at his feet, then take care of his cock while he ate, and only afterwards, when my food was cold, was I allowed to eat it. Sometimes he put his hand in my bowl, took some of my food on his fingers, and had me lick it off them. Other times, when I was eating or drinking, he’d smack my ass for not doing something right, or, if he thought I was picking at my food and not eating it with enough appetite, put his foot on my head and push my head down till I almost drowned in it, then, when he released my head, he’d order me to face him so he could scoop the food off my face and feed it to me with his fingers.
After dinner was done I was gagged again. Fred made me clear, wash and put away the dishes. Then he led me on all fours to his playroom, which was a relatively small but remarkably stocked windowless room in the center of the house. The house was so constructed that no one who didn’t know about the room would suspect its existence, he told me in one of the few relatively informal chats we had later that weekend, with me sitting on the floor between his legs in the living room. Most of his friends and relatives thought the locked door led to a closet.
The three things I remember best about Fred’s playroom were his custom-made bondage table/rack, which was so constructed that once a person was stretched taut on it the entire center section could be pulled out from under him, making it possible to play with his ass and balls and even stand between his legs and fuck him; a standing frame with multiple bondage points; and a suspension pulley with a boot-rack attached to it (two combat boots screwed through the soles to a board which could be hoisted to the ceiling).
It was pretty late by the time we got into this room, and Fred had to teach a class in the morning, so we only spent an hour or so there this first night, with me snugly attached on my belly on the bondage table and Fred playing with my asshole, first with his fingers, then with a variety of small but increasingly larger dildos. Fred inserted a medium sized butt plug into me before he released me, and told me it was to stay in my rectum till the next morning. He then had me go into the bathroom and brush my teeth (at some point while I was attached to the table he must have gone out to the car and got my things) before joining him in the bedroom where he laced a light leather hood over my head, then fitted me out in a heavy iron collar, connected to wrist and ankle irons by chains which kept me in a more or less fetal position, unable to straighten out fully. Fortunately, like the British handcuffs, these irons didn’t cut into the flesh so I slept pretty comfortably, except at those times when I tried to move or stretch in my sleep and was reminded how restricted my movements were, then woke to the darkness and the closeness and the warmth of the hood. Also, the buttplug was very invasive in my ass and every time I woke it seemed to have grown in size till it was huge.
I must have fallen into a heavy sleep just before dawn, then woke very early Saturday morning to the sound of Fred showering in the bathroom. When he came out he released me from the hood and chains and told me to go into the bathroom, remove and wash the buttplug, give myself an enema from the bag that was already filled and waiting from the shower rod, then shit and shave and shower and lube my ass and crawl into the kitchen where he’d be waiting for breakfast (though I think he may have made breakfast that day).
Breakfast done, he had me put all the dishes in the sink, go piss, then join him in the playroom, where he put heavy mitts on my hands before fastening me down very tightly but comfortably on my back on the bondage table. Once I was secured to his satisfaction, he put a small wooden box with a cut-out at the bottom for the neck over my head and latched it down to the table. It was his newest acquisition, he informed me, and he was very pleased with it. It had a removable section at the top right above the mouth, through which he could insert his cock to be sucked.
Having latched the box down so that it was solidly attached to the table, he tucked towels around my crotch and sides, so if I had to piss the piss would get absorbed, told me he’d be back after his class was over in two or three hours, and left, closing and locking the room door behind him.
This was the only really bad part of my weekend experience. Though I knew Fred’s home address, I had no idea where I was, and I went through periods of panic thinking of all the possible things that could happen to him (an accident, an aneurism), and happen to me as a result of it. The box over my head was maddening. I could breathe, but couldn’t see (the mouth-hole slat was in position), could neither move my head from side to side nor raise it up. The box was solidly latched on three sides. It was all I could do to keep the panic at bay.
My relief was enormous when I heard footsteps outside the room, then the room door open, then Fred moving around in the room, then the mouth-hole slat being moved and light coming into the box, then Fred positioning himself so that his cock came through the hole and I opened my mouth to receive it.
When, released from the table, Fred allowed me to tell him of my feelings at having been left alone (he could tell something was wrong); he told me he was going to give me a sound spanking for having thought he would be so irresponsible as to leave me alone and go out without telling anyone that I was there and helpless. A similarly bondage-minded friend of his, whom he had just called and who would be coming over later that day with his own boy, would have come in an hour or so if Fred hadn’t returned when he did and called him first. As it was, I was going to get that spanking in front of the friend and his boy, and I was going to count the strokes and thank him for them and ask each time for another until he decided I’d had enough. Did he make himself clear? He did, and I thanked him for the upcoming punishment, since thanks were clearly expected, after which at his instructions I licked his boots until he was satisfied that I had done a decent job on them. He told me that as soon as I was presented to his friend I was immediately to lick the friend’s boots, and possibly the boy’s boots, too (though the boy, as it turned out, was wearing sneakers, and I wasn’t ordered—allowed?—to lick them).
Fred had brought lunch back from some fast food place; since I was still mitted, I could not serve him; we ate what he set on the table for himself and in the bowl at his feet for me. Then, for the next few hours, Fred fucked my ass till it was sore.
At some point that afternoon, Fred had me call a friend in NYC whom I’d told I was going away for a bondage weekend. Fred had insisted I leave his address and phone number with my friend, and tell the friend to call me at that number if I didn’t call him myself Saturday afternoon. It was one of the more reassuring things about me taking that long-distance bondage trip to Fred.
Later that afternoon the friend arrived with his boy. I was on all fours when they came through the door, and on being presented to the friend, a very handsome older man about Fred’s age, I immediately went over and licked his boots until the friend complimented Fred on my abilities and Fred told me to stop. I was not told to lick the boy’s sneakers, which I regretted, since the boy, who couldn’t have been more than 22 or 23, was beautiful, and I love sneakers.
We all went to the playroom where I was fastened to the bondage table on my belly, with my backside over a thick pillow, and the boy, with a big ballgag in his mouth, was attached to the standing frame at the head of the table, his cock just out of reach of my mouth. I was then spanked, both by Fred and his friend. I did as Fred ordered, asking for each stroke and thanking them for it, then asking for another. I was told in advance I would get 25 hard swats. Before I’d received even half of them my ass was burning. Fred had told me I could holler as much as I liked but I could not ask them to stop. If I counted wrong they would add 10 more each time; if I asked them to stop, they would start all over from the beginning.
I never asked them to stop, since it was clear to me as soon as I met him that Fred always meant what he said, but I did miscount a few times, my ass was on fire and I couldn’t stop tears from brimming. What made the whole thing bearable was the sight of the kid’s dick in my face. He’d been hard from the start, but the harder I got spanked and the more he could tell it hurt, the more his dick stood straight up, till it was pointing to the ceiling and pulsating.
Finally the spanking was over. I was released from the table, told to suck the boy’s cock (which I did with pleasure), then put in a sleepsack (my first sleepsack experience) on the floor. The boy was attached to the table on his back and pulled taut. Fred and his friend pulled the middle of the table away, rolled it into a corner and pulled me in my sleepsack over to lie under the table, my head beneath the boy’s beautiful ass. Fred and his friend took turns then standing over me and between the boy’s legs, fucking him. Later they hogtied the boy and me and tied us together in a 69 position. I was in heaven, and the boy seemed to be right up there on a cloud with me.
I don’t remember what happened after Fred’s friend and his boy left, which must have been late in the afternoon. In my memory I seem to have worn those heavy mitts for the better part of 24 hours, but I can’t help thinking I’d have had to make and serve Fred dinner, which I couldn’t have done wearing the mitts. I also know I spent most of the evening laced to the standing frame in a straitjacket and very heavy hood with Fred slowly milking my cock. This may have gone on for hours. At some point he allowed me to cum, and told me later that I shot across the room, which amazed me, since I seldom can cum when standing on my feet. Fred continued milking me, which was agony, until I somehow became turned on again, the sensitivity left my cockhead and I remember going off into some pleasant world where I was very, very happy, totally at peace, and totally Fred’s.
I slept that night in chains again, this time without the buttplug, which made it a much better sleep.
Sunday went by at a more leisurely pace. While never easing up on his dominant role, which seemed to be the only one imaginable for him, Fred seemed to relax a little, we even talked a bit (except for yes SIR and no SIR and speaking briedly with my friend on the phone and counting and thanking when spanked, I’d hardly opened my mouth to talk since I arrived). I remember that Fred did ask me at lunch on Sunday if I’d prefer to sit at the table and eat with him. I said that I wanted to eat where he wanted me to eat, which seemed to please him. He placed my bowl of food on the floor (more chicken and mashed potatoes), then squashed his bare foot solidly down through the food in the bowl and told me to make sure his foot was clean before he took it out of there. I did.
I spent about three or four hours in the sleepsack that day, and in the afternoon Fred suspended me upside down for a while with my feet laced into the combat boots nailed to the suspension board. Those were the big bondage events of that day. For the rest, we read the papers, Fred on the couch, me on the floor, and talked a little, and then it was evening and he was taking me to the airport again, gagged and cuffed and wearing the glasses with the painted-over lenses. And then he was dropping me off at the airport, unlocking the chain collar around my neck and saying “Get home safely, boy,” and I was saying “Thank you, Sir,” and it was over.
It was far and away the single best bottom experience of my life. Fred and I corresponded for a while after that, but distance and other obligations got in the way of our getting together, though we’d made tentative arrangements to do so. Then, not long afterwards, I found myself in a long-term relationship, and Fred and I lost touch.
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