The dungeon. It’s cliché, I know. This kind of place was never part of my kink and really it still isn’t. The aesthetic is just all wrong. The leather and the stone and the seriousness of it all always seemed silly to me. I could never have imagened, let’s say four years ago, that this was a place I’d like to frequent. Then again, I do a lot of things now that I never would have imagined doing a few years ago.
Truth be told the way the place looked is important, certainly, but not vital to the games I wanted to play. I think of it like the library I go to, the one near my office. Twelve blocks away there is the most beautiful library in the city, possibly the country; the Main Branch of The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. It is huge, a marble monument to knowledge. It is atmospheric, with history and vast ceilings painted with murals. It’s epic, but you can’t borrow books from it unless you have special permission.
A block away from my office there is a very small, very dingy library. It is painted institution green and mostly has large print best sellers, but they will order any book I want from any library in the city and they have all of the things I need. It is easy to get to, it is easy to use. It is handy, like the dungeon.
The dungeon is a place where you can play. Where you can scream as loud as you want and hit as hard as your partner can take and you don’t have to worry about neighbors hearing or roommates coming home. You can just play.
You can play and you can watch people play. You can lay low in a corner somewhere and close your eyes and catch the rhythm of a spanking or a flogging. You can take in all of the reddened skin and bruised flesh, the bitten lips and raw need. Acres of naked skin at a time. It’s not a free-for-all, but that only makes the exposed breast or the sweet swell of a pubis or even the rare cock more forbidden and alluring. You can lose yourself in the visceral world of pain and pleasure and sweaty naked lust.
And lately, for better or worse, I’ve been wanting to lose myself.
What to call him? My boy? I suppose ‘the boy’, since he isn’t mine. Sometimes he’s not a boy at all, with his wig and is lipstick and all, but I haven’t met her yet, so to me he is just a boy. A chew toy, a boy who can take a beating, bottom to the world.
Truth be told, he is far more experienced at this than I. Perhaps not in years, but in acts. I still feel like a novice in some ways, especially with boys.
In a way I always feel like I am holding back with people. This is a good thing in a lot of ways. I like being in control, even of my own emotion; especially of my own emotions. I thought with a boy it might be different. I thought I could give it my all and let go. Maybe it just isn’t in me. Maybe I’m just not ready yet. Maybe I don’t trust myself or my knowledge or my ability.
Still, it has a lot to do with the women I play with. Most are deliciously soft. The boy on the other hand is hard. Well, not rock hard, a little doughy actually, but harder than any of the girls I hit. His ass is a solid target, as opposed to the luscious bubbles and curves I’m used to. I like them both, but more than that I enjoy the contrast.
One might think I just wanted to try it and he was as good as any other, but since before I met him, when I’d only heard about this quiet boy who had such horrible things done to him, I was curious. Upon meeting him I was even more intrigued because he looked like so many people I grew up with. He was forgettable in his blue collar attire.
Still, we fell into a flirtatious banter and I liked it. I liked it for what it was, flirting with someone who under their shy and coquettish manner was fiercely intelligent and perceptive, and I liked it, admittedly, for the novelty of it.
The plan was to co-top him. A girl and I would beat him up, rough him up. Something pretty basic but fun. Somehow when it started, the girl sort of faded into the background. This was about the boy and me. We’d talked about this for a long time and I wanted to get my hands on him already.
Sometimes girls just get in the way.
He stays very still, goes where he is moved, but when his hair is pulled his body writhes and turns. When I slap him across his face his whole being recoils. I’ve never been with someone who was so effected by a scene, if that makes sense.
He doesn’t really like pain. At east that’s what he says between telling me stories about ball-busting and whips and beatings the likes of which I can’t imainge. That the little switch in his head that turns pleasure into pain hasn’t been switched the way it has with some serious pain sluts I’ve met. It still registers as pain, but he is willing to take it. Sometimes begging to take it. Yearning to do what people want, to submit.
I try not to assume too much about him anymore. Our heads are very different places. Wrong or right, I at least feel like I can read women. At least the kinds of women I like to play with. Maybe that is one of the key elements that attracts me to them, a certain tell that I can pick up. The boy is, in many ways, a mystery. He submits for reasons I can’t fully wrap my head around. His kink is different from mine in some very root way.
Still, our drives may be different, but I can still tie him up and hit him. As I throw him against the wall and slap him again across the face, I think of our common ground.
It isn’t so much that he doesn’t react as it is that he reacts in ways I am not familiar with. While there, in the scene, my head doesn’t work the way it works now, typing and thinking. When I am hitting someone, everything is action and aggression and go. He is reacting, but not succumbing. It makes me angry. It makes me want to rip him apart.
I suddenly wonder if I could take him in a fight. I’ve beaten people I couldn’t take in a fight before, certain nearly six foot tall roller derby girls come to mind, but never before did I really want to test it.
I like throwing him against the wall and I like marks on his skin. I want to spit on him but instead I laugh at him. I make him take out his cock. I laugh at it. I show it to the people who have gathered around. There are more people watching than I realize. Later I will be told that even more came in.
The dungeon is many things, but it is not particularly queer, at least not on a night like this. There are different, separate nights for that. Two boys playing now is a novelty. I’m glad I was unaware of this.
I am somewhat lost without breasts to torture. I slap the little flabby bits caught between my rope, but it doesn’t do more than sting. I turn him around and find a good bit of meat between his back and his arm and I bite it hard.
I am rewarded with a scream. I do the same on the other side. His skin feels good between my teeth. I claw at his back, then I slap the spots I just bit. All those hoarse whimpers are musical.
I tell him that he is pathetic. He isn’t good at being a boy or a girl. He isn’t good for anything. He is a waste. No one wants him. No one knows what to do with his little dick except laugh at it.
I feel mean and it makes my blood pump fast and hot. What whirling guilt and desire that comes with tasting what it is like to really be cruel slips into my head and makes me tipsy with power.
I like him. He is a sweet boy. There is something fragile in him, even though in very clear moments I see the man in him. I see an animal strength in him too, like something wild being cornered. I even see the little girl in him. I like him much more in that moment, seeing the multitudes. I feel like we are three dimensional people in a suddenly very two dimensional place.
Looking around I see that I’m even wrong about that. For all of it’s cliché and kitsch, this place has been the gateway to so many people finding out big things about themselves. It certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s a start.
His whimpers brings me back and the insults keep coming even while the part of me that just wants to hold him closes in on me. I shut up. I slap him. I turn him and slap his ass over and over again. I focus, I make sure every blow is in the same spot. I want maximum sensation.
There is more, the flogger, the whip. I know in his mind these things are rudimentary, so in that moment they seem trivial to me as well. We always end up back in that corner.
There comes that point, the ending.
In the dungeon there are rules. No sex, no jerking off. At home, play and sex are very tied together. When I play, their climaxes or mine are good places to stop or move to some other game. They are natural endings. Another ending would be pushing someone to their limit, which I doubt I could do with this boy. Stronger people than I have tried.
So it ends in a hail of smacks and slaps. I turn him around and untie him. I touch him in comforting ways. I hug him. The differences in girls and boys seem smaller to me; insignificant. He is just someone who needs to be hugged. Surprisingly, I need the hug more than usual.
In some way I got away from myself there. Maybe because I am in a fragile place right now, perhaps not ready to play as hard as I am trying to play.
With a deep breath it is over and we are back in the dungeon. Bad music and lovely moans and whimpers. No more thinking about the hows and whys of hurting someone. The politics and strategies of this sort of primitive one on one power play are done. Back to thinking about everything else.
He is glowing and happy in a fun and childish way. He got what he wanted. Like we just played cowboys and Indians for a while. I smile as he goes right to someone else. Some other top going to take him back to that place he loves.