That week I had to be in London for a really boring business-related conference. It was important that my organisation should be represented there, however. It would not look good if we were not. There had been fierce competition among my colleagues not to attend it; my friend Jake and I had drawn the short straw. If we had not, I would have missed out on a frightening adventure. I did not know this before- hand, however; so it was in a sulkily resigned mood that I showed up on the first day.
The only two good things about this conference were that we were lodged in a super hotel with a pool and spa, and that it took place in central London, near various places that I like to visit. One of these is Soho, where I had often gone in the past to train at a gym; browse in erotic bookshops; eat in exotic restaurants; enjoy the atmosphere; and, of course, to have sex.
Soho was walkable from the conference location, so I decided to have a bite of lunch there, browse the shops and forget about the tedious proceedings for an hour. For reasons that will become obvious, I did not suggest that Jake should join me. Soho would cheer me up, I thought. I glanced at my reflection in the well-polished window of a bookshop. I looked out of place in that Bohemian quarter: fair hair neatly cut; dark suit; blue and white Bengal-striped shirt; Honourable Artillery Company tie and polished black oxfords. It was and is a very good, very misleading, disguise.
"A clean young Englishman who keeps himself fit; a husband and the father of 2.5 children; maybe an oarsman or a cricketer in his spare time," you might have thought if you had seen me that day.
"Nothing wrong with Alex," I once overheard my colleague Jake say. "I know he's nudging thirty and still a bachelor, but he's a man's man, not really domesticated!" (How very true, though not in the sense that he meant). "Alex plays for the X - Rugby Club; he runs; he used to train with the Territorials. There's nothing queer about Alex." Thanks for that, Jake!
You would both have been wrong, however. The reality is that I have never rowed and have not played cricket for years. In my limited leisure time I prefer to train for three quite different sports. These I practice with dedication and seriousness. Running and rugby are the two sports that I can mention in polite society. I run regularly and occasionally take part in marathons, to raise money for good causes. That looks good on your CV. I particularly enjoy playing rugby. Rugby is a very macho, and a very homoerotic, game. So, I am happy to report, are many of the men who play it; usually in a very innocent way. I love it and I love them.
Running, rugby and the gym keep me in form for my most serious pursuit. "Sex with Other Men" is the name of the game. It is the roof and crown of my existence. I think about it every day: that's the way I am. I play it with all the earnestness of a Casanova, but in a different context. Although a modest man, I admit that I have scored some notable goals, with people you'd never suspect were up for it. Play your cards right, and no man is off-limits. They all have their gay weak spot. Act with sensitivity, skill and discretion, and your patience will be rewarded. Straight men, bless them, invariably say the identically same thing the morning after:
"God, I was so pissed last night! I can't remember anything!"
To which a true gentleman always responds: "No, nor can I! We must have put away a lot of drink!"
We are, of course, both lying. I remember everything: every glance, pass, hug, kiss and thrust, from the first encounter to the minute that he lets up his guard and allows me to unzip him, to the final triumphant moment when I strip, dominate, fuck and possess him completely.
But my lips are sealed on that subject. I will never name names. I normally keep quiet about my own predilections too. It may no longer be illegal, but it is still a disadvantage professionally to be known to be gay. There is still a lot of unspoken prejudice. A chum of mine in the City recently lost two important corporate clients after he was "outed" by a mischievous journalist. You cannot be too careful. Anyway, it's fun to lead a double life.
One recent and promising development that has caused me a lot of amusement is the fashion for straight men to be fucked in the ass by their wives or girlfriends wearing a big strap-on dildo. I warmly encourage this trend. I am told on excellent authority that it is quite okay to be fucked by a girl. That does not stop you being straight. Perish the thought! No doubt it does wonders for the women's penis-envy. However it also - literally - opens up the men to possibilities of which they had never previously dreamt. More than one friend, including at least one member of my rugby club, has shyly confided to me after a few drinks that he has has allowed this to happen to him and "Blimey, it was mind-blowing! Have you ever had that done to you, Alex?" From that point it is easy to lead the conversation round to progressing to the real thing: i.e. me. Thanks to the liberated ladies with strapons, although I doubt that the women in question had intended this outcome, I have made quite a few new conquests and converts. These straight men have become some of my most devoted friends and fuck-buddies. Hah!
Back to my favourite sport: although I did not know it, I was scheduled for a rigorous training session that very afternoon. I was about to get my come-uppance.
It started innocuously enough when I dropped into a sex shop in Old Compton Street. I had no special purpose in doing so, other than to kill some time and pruriently browse the bookshelves. These were on the ground floor, along with risqué greetings cards; leather gear; underwear by 2Xist, AussieBum and Cocksox; and soft-porn DVDs. The more serious stuff was kept in the gloomy basement, which I had not intended to visit and did not have time to visit; not, anyway, on that particular day.
Nevertheless - what the hell - some devil of curiosity prompted me to descend the metal staircase into what was clearly intended to look like a dungeon. It had a black ceiling and red walls; the decor of Hades, I presumed. Chains were draped around artistically. An exciting array of sex toys, lube, whips, handcuffs, leg-spreaders and other bondage equipment was displayed. I was fascinated: BDSM had not featured much in my life so far.
Outside, it was an exceptionally fine autumn day. As a result, everyone wanted to be out of doors, preferably in one of the parks, during their lunch-hour. There were very few people in the shop. I was the only customer in the "extreme" basement. As I was toying thoughtfully with an expensive little cat o'nine tails flogger, a shop assistant approached me. He was massive. He obviously worked out seriously and probably popped steroids. He had very blue eyes, wore a blond crew-cut, a dazzlingly white open-necked shirt and close-fitting faded pale blue jeans, which revealed much. This boy was hung like a stallion; good ass, too. The beautiful shirt was tight across his massive chest. The blue and white combination of eyes, denim and shirt was attractive and smart: he looked like a US Marine in plain clothes; he was even wearing a metal military-style identity disc round his neck; a gay dead giveaway, if you are not in fact a US Marine.
He was not American. His voice was English, with a faint trace of some foreign accent that I could not place. The name-tag pinned on his shirt said "Gary." His clean-shaven, boyishly handsome face did not quite fit with the bulky bodybuilder's physique. It made him seem younger than he was. I guessed that he was really in his mid-twenties. Despite his bulk, he did not seem to have much spare flesh on him. It was all muscle.
He asked if he could help me to find anything in particular. I thought of answering something flirty and provocative, but just said "No, thank you; I am having a browse."
He persisted: "We have some new stock that might interest you, Sir!"
I agreed to look at it. The "stock" turned out to be a range of realistic flesh-coloured cock-and-balls dildos, faithfully modelled after the genitals of your favourite porn stars, in a state of permanent erection: unlike, presumably, the originals, which must get a rest now and again. You shove them up yourself, while fantasising about being fucked by the man of your dreams. There is nothing wrong with that; you certainly won't catch AIDS that way, but it was not really my scene. I preferred to do the fucking, and with my own home-grown tool. Moreover none of the porn stars on offer appealed to me.
"No Prince Harry?" I asked in mock-disappointment: I like red-heads. Gary smiled, but shook his head.
He offered me instead another porn star called Geoff Done, who had borne some resemblance to HRH, although he was slightly older. Geoff's impressive cock and balls were mounted under clear plastic on a large card bearing a high-definition nude photo of Geoff. I had not realised how very well-hung Geoff must have been. Geoff, whom I had met, but fortunately never slept with, had died of an AIDS-related illness the previous year, so I found this a bit off-putting.
Gary (who might not have known about Geoff's death) simply thought that I was a difficult man to please.
"Just a moment, Sir, I think I have the very thing for you!" He ran off to the store room at the back of the shop.
He reappeared, clutching what appeared to be the genitals of an exceptionally hefty, well-hung Killer Whale.
"It's not Prince Harry, but it is still a Prince!"
Closer inspection showed that these giant dildos, which were very realistic giant cocks with popping serpentine veins and massive balls, made of a shiny dark brown material, were called "African Prince," although even to a well-endowed Black person they would have appeared freakishly big. They incorporated a battery-driven vibrator. I regarded the dildo with fascination and horror. The idea of having it inserted into me was repugnant and slightly frightening. Anyone who tried it would get punched in the face, I decided. Size apart, that kind of thing was supposed to happen to other people, not me. I was an Alpha Male; I did any fucking that needed to be done. However the young man's enthusiasm was undeniably rather sweet. He was a very good salesman; he deserved an award!
"I'm sure that this one will give you satisfaction, Sir!" he urged me.
The price, however, was thirty pounds; more than I was prepared to pay for a boy's toy; let alone a boy's sex toy for which I had limited use; except just possibly as a bad-taste, bad-joke present.
"Really, no thanks. I must be going. Thank you for your help."
But Gary wasn't giving up that easily. He obviously thought that I didn't mean it: I was just shy and embarrassed. He smiled and laid a hand on my arm.
"Step this way, Sir, into the changing room; drop your trousers; bend over and I'll shove it up Sir's backside! I'll use a condom on it, of course, and plenty of lube. It'll be completely hygienic! Then you will appreciate the wonderful sensation of our African Prince. I can guarantee that you'll never again be satisfied with anything less!"
I looked at it aghast. "I don't think I'd survive the experience," I stammered and made as to leave.
Gary smiled dashingly. "Oh I think you'd survive. Please don't go yet. I'm enjoying your visit."
He deserved to be Salesman of the Year! He fiddled with something behind the counter.
"Sorry, Gary, but I am at an important conference to do with my work. I've got to go now. The afternoon session will be starting soon. Fortunately it's not far from here."
Gary's manner suddenly changed. I was no longer "Sir" and he was no longer just a shop assistant.
"You aren't going anywhere, Alex, old boy. You'll have to miss the afternoon session. Take a look back there!"
I swung round. Two enormous steel security doors - the kind that protect bank vaults - were slowly and smoothly closing at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. He had activated them by some remote control. I had not noticed them when I came down the stairs. They clunked quietly shut. Gary had captured me.
"Now we have all the time in the world," chuckled Gary. "No-one can disturb us. Monday is half-day closing, as we work all Saturday. My deputy will have locked up the shop upstairs, so we'll have complete privacy. What shall we talk about?"
"What the fuck are you playing at? Wrongful arrest and imprisonment are serious felonies! And how the hell do you know my name?"
"Impressive, aren't they?" mused Gary, who was looking over my shoulder at the steel doors. "And they are necessary. You'd be surprised, but there is a real risk of burglary. We have thousands of pounds' worth of stock down here, plus some cash: hence the security. And as for you, I'd know you anywhere!"
"I've never seen you before in my life!"
"Oh but you have. Believe me, you have! You just don't recognise me. I'll give you a clue. I wasn't called Gary back then. Think hard."
I was more concerned about the steel doors than about remembering where I might have met this clearly deranged young bodybuilder who apparently changed names and identities as other people change hats. I know a bit about security doors. I automatically turned round and glanced at them. That was a mistake.
Suddenly Gary, or whatever he was really called, came at me from behind. He was as strong as an ox. One muscular arm went round my neck; with the other hand he started to squeeze my testicles. It was agony. Of course I struggled, but he increased the pressure on my throat; harder and harder, until I lost consciousness. Everything went black.
When I woozily came back to earth, I found that it had not been a bad dream. I was still in the basement in Old Compton Street. It was still weakly illuminated by sickly artificial light. Gary was still there, too. He was sitting, as large as life, on the counter, swinging his legs, munching an apple and looking at me with satisfaction. He gave me a big, happy schoolboy smile when I opened my eyes.
"Welcome back!" he said. "Remember me now?"
I had other preoccupations. The first was that my throat was sore and parched. Secondly, I could not move. I had been very effectively taken prisoner and tied up. Thirdly, I had been stripped naked. My clothes and shoes were lying in a heap on the floor. My blue briefs had been slashed with a sharp knife to get them off me more quickly. Gary had been impatient. I felt very vulnerable: fucking scared, in fact. I was in the clutches of a madman; possibly a homicidal one. If he decided to cut off my cock and balls, there was nothing that I could do to stop him.
"Alex, I always knew you'd come through my door one day. I've waited a long time for this moment," said Gary, pausing to throw his apple core accurately into the rubbish basket. He wiped his mouth. "I've looked forward to it," he chuckled. "And now today I've finally got lucky! By the way, you've still got a great body! You've still got your six-pack, nice muscly legs and a superb ass. I love that rugby player physique."
He ran his hands over me tenderly and intimately, like a prospective buyer inspecting a slave, including between my legs and my ass-cheeks. I shuddered. I looked at him with fascination. I could not recall ever meeting him. He's flipped; he's mad; he's on a 'roid rage; he's completely bananas. And I am in his power. I tried to reason with him gently:
"Gary, you've made an appalling mistake. I may be called Alex but I have definitely never met you. It follows that I cannot have done, or even wished, you any harm. Have a look in my jacket pocket. My passport's there. It'll tell you who I really am. Now, if you will please untie me and let me go, we'll say no more about it; I promise. I have to get back."
"I've already looked at your passport and other ID while you were out for the count. The name's correct: Mr Alexander James Digby. You're the man I want, all right, and now I've got you!" He grinned cockily at me. "Shall I give you a clue?"
My mind went blank. Like most crypto-queer men, I had once known Earl's Court fairly well. I had been there to discreetly visit rent-boys, have a gay massage, visit saunas and, more innocently, to call on a convalescing friend at the nearby Cromwell Hospital. But I no longer lived in London; I had moved on: first to Dublin and then to the North of England for my work. I had found new pastures up there. I had not been in Earl's Court for several years.
"Sorry, I still have no idea."
"In that case I'm going to have to jog your memory for you. Excuse me a moment."
Gary slipped off the counter and disappeared behind me, where I could not see him. I heard him messing around in the racks of gay merchandise. Now what?
One of the reasons why I could not follow Gary with my eyes was that he had tied me up very securely. My only covering was now four black leather cuffs with metal rings attached, buckled onto my wrists and ankles. My arms were fully extended above me, with the cuffs attached to an iron ring set in the ceiling. I was not however hanging by my wrists. My feet were touching the ground and I could move them a bit. They took most of my weight. But it was not comfortable. I could barely move my head at all.
Gary came back. He walked up to me and took my face between his hands. He kissed me lasciviously, thrusting his tongue deep inside my mouth. I gagged.
"Still can't recall me? That's not very flattering! Kissing is a bit un-macho, isn't it? Now I'm kissing you like you were a whore! Do you remember me yet?"
"Well, I'll have to jog your memory!"
A sudden blast of pain hit me. Gary had started to flog me with one of his cats o'nine tails. He started to work systematically over my shoulders, back, legs and, most of all, my ass.
"Stick out your fucking ass! I need to get a better aim!"
Thwack! Christ Almighty! It was so fucking painful.
"You still don't remember?"
"You will be! Stick out your ass!"
The strokes continued to multiply. I was screaming for mercy. "Please stop! Why are you doing this? Why, why, why?"
"Why, why, why?" Gary mocked me. "When you remember, you'll understand why!"
Gary came round to my front. Once more, he took my face between his hands and looked me in the eyes. His own ice-blue eyes were blazing now with a mixture of anger and pleasure. He licked his lips. His face was getting flushed. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead. He was breathing heavily. He was barely under control. Glancing down, I could see that he had a massive erection. His jeans were under severe stress. My own cock was also erect, for a different reason. Gary had tied some twine tightly round my cock and balls. They were now swollen and red. One or two weights were pulling them down. He handled my genitals expertly, as though he owned me.
Suddenly he knelt down in front of me and started to tease my cock. It began to drizzle pre-cum, which he licked greedily. He looked up at me, smiled, and then he began to suck me, occasionally diverting to lick and suck my balls. This was both erotic and exquisitely painful. I was ready to cum, but then he stopped.
"You're not allowed to cum yet," said Gary, straightening up. "You once called me the best cock-sucker in London. Does that ring any bells?
"Oh dear: you need another reminder! Meanwhile, I'd better get your cock back under control. I don't want any premature ejaculations! "
Gary smeared a little lube on my cock and walked over to a rack. He came back with a slender, tapered wand.
"This is a silver cock-probe! I'm going to stick it into your piss-slit and right up into your urethra! I bet you never had that done to you before!"
He then grabbed my cock and that is exactly what he did. I was screaming even before it slid deep inside my cock and beyond. Then he attached a couple more lead weights to my genitals.
"Oh stop it!"
Gary smiled with pleasure. "Your ball-bag is not the only thing that's going to be stretched this afternoon, Boyo!" he chuckled evilly.
Then he thrust two fingers up my backside. No-one had ever been allowed to do that: I'd have killed them. I'd have killed Gary if I could. This was not supposed to happen to me!
"Fuck off!" I shouted. It was a big mistake. He glanced at me: the ice-blue eyes were murderous.
The next moment the cat o'nine tails was struck across my chest, my stomach and my genitals. He did it again and again. It stung and hurt far worse than the pain on my back and backside.
"Never speak to me again like that, you fucker!" Gary shouted.
By this time I was blubbering with the pain. Gary grinned cheerfully. "It gets a lot worse than this! Now, open your mouth," he said. "Come on, open up!"
He had the African Prince in his hand and shoved it into my mouth.
"Now, Alex my love, suck that cock and suck it good. Lick it and slobber all over it. Fantasise that it's Prince Harry's cock if you like!"
I almost threw up. Nevertheless, in it went.
"Lick it and drool over it all you can. Guess why?"
"I can't guess, you pervert!"
The cat o'nine tails whacked my brisket and genitals again. I gasped.
"The reason," Gary explained slowly and patiently, as though to a retard, "is that I'm going to open you up! The African Prince is about to be inserted into your virgin asshole. It is a very long, very thick dildo, as you can see. I am not going to use any lube on it, so I will be fucking you with it, driving it in, by dry brute force. I will make sure that it goes right inside you; every inch. Then I will activate the vibrator. It is going to fucking-well hurt like you've never been hurt before. The only lube that you will be allowed is your own saliva, so get slobbering!"
He pulled it out of my mouth again. "What do you say, fucker?"
"For Pete's sake, why are you doing this?"
"For fun, mostly, and for revenge. When you eventually remember, you'll start to understand."
"You'll never get away with this!"
"Oh I think I shall. You won't want this publicised: especially not when I tell you the full facts. Anyway, who's to say whether I'm going to let you live to talk about it? I haven't decided on that. Finished slobbering? Good! Now the serious fun can begin!"
Gary removed the African Prince from my mouth and mounted it on a broomstick. It now looked like a phallic pikestaff, with the gleaming wet dildo at the top, instead of a pike-blade or a halberd.
Gary walked round behind me. I could sense from his voice that he was squatted down behind me, holding the phallic weapon. I closed my legs and clenched my buttocks together: a futile but instinctive reaction. Gary was having none of it.
"Hoy! Legs apart or it'll be even worse for you!"
I did not respond.
"Right. I'll soon deal with that!" Gary stormed off and came back with a leg-bar. I struggled a bit, but I was weakened by what I'd been through. He buckled the leg-cuffs to the bar. Then he attached some kind of metal buttress or extension to the leg-spreader behind me. I could not see that, but I heard the clunking sound. My legs were now spread wide and I could do nothing to defend myself. Once more he probed my ass with his fingers.
"I bet you really liked that!" he chuckled. "You won't like this, though!"
Hmm... I think this is the right angle," he continued to himself. "Right now... Geronimo!"
He violently inserted the African Prince into my asshole. For a moment I managed to clench my sphincter and hold up its advance, but Gary gave a second hard push and in it went. It hurt more than I could have dreamed. I could not even cry out; just gasp. That pain was nothing, however, to the realisation that I had completely lost control of my own body: that I was being brutally used for someone else's pleasure and purpose. I tried to tell myself 'this isn't happening to me, Alex; it can't happen to Alex. It's happening to someone else.' But I was now screaming in earnest.
"Scream all you like!" said Gary cheerfully. He seemed for the moment to have recovered his good mood. "No-one will hear you down here. In fact, it may make it easier for you to bear what I shall be doing to you! I guess that it's therapeutic. So scream on, if you want. Meanwhile, this cock is still not properly inside you. I have to do something drastic."
"Shut up. Don't you understand? This is about me, not you. I'll ask for your advice when I want it." He paused and studied the problem. "Nope: brute force it has to be. Brace yourself!"
I could tell that he was grinning. "NO!!"
He chuckled. Then he reached for a small light mallet; the kind you use for tent-pegs, and started to hammer the end of the broomstick, driving the giant dildo right into my rectum with three or four blows. I was now well and truly fucked. It was the most degrading, frightening and painful thing that had ever happened to me in my life so far, not excluding bad rugby injuries. I thought I might be dying. Then he switched on the vibrator and I was certain that I was dying.
I was still screaming and crying when I passed out. The last thing I recalled was Gary's boyish laughter.
(To be continued)