The Dungeon Bar

On Saturdays, I had a regular breakfast gathering with two of my longest-standing buddies. We were all in our mid-twenties and had known one another for over five years. The place we frequented made the most incredible three duck egg omelette. Comparing a duck egg to a chicken egg, if you will forgive my ridiculous comparison, is like comparing Swiss chocolate to homemade fudge.

One Saturday morning, as we gathered for our weekly indulgence, Peter, who was one of the three, then intrigued us with an incredible story of his previous evening’s activities. Andrew and I were captivated by the tale that unfolded about his visit to The Dungeon Bar.

Even though Andrew and I had heard about The Dungeon Bar before, we had never visited the place. It was a leather bar, and therefore, I wasn’t interested in frequenting the establishment. I had always found the idea of dressing up in ridiculous gay leather garb somewhat silly. What I didn’t know, however, was that the large back section of the bar was an urophilia haven. Peter then went on to describe the action section in this water sports heaven.

I was fascinated because I had recently become absorbed by piss-play after going home with a guy from a bar I patronized. Once the man coerced me into the pleasures of this practice, I took to it like a duck to water.   

Strangely, I had always been turned on by watching men pissing, but I had never taken it further than that. What I now found was that not only was the taste of piss incredible, but the smell, warmth, and feel of the liquid made me delirious with horniness.

After finishing his meal, Andrew then made an early departure because of some errands he had to run. Peter and I then ordered another cup of coffee and continued chatting. It was clear that Peter had loved the place and would be visiting there again. He assured me that if I was into piss, The Dungeon Bar was golden heaven.  

“Do you have to wear leather?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s mandatory, Jerome,” he answered.

“Mmm,” I replied, somewhat dismissively.

“Fuck, Jerome, that's no big deal, and well worth spending a few bucks on an outfit,” Peter assured me, before continuing, “I’ll take you to the place where I bought mine. All you need is a leather harness and jockstrap,” he said incredulously, before concluding, “Oh, yes, you will also need rubber flip-flops. One can’t be too careful when it comes to plantar warts.”

After we had paid or bill, Peter then suggested we go to the place where he had bought his gear. My interest had peaked by now, and I happily followed him to the shop.

Peter took control of the shop and coordinated my outfit. Upon paying my bill Peter and I took leave of one another before I made my way home.

Late that afternoon, I donned my harness and leather jockstrap. I was not willing to pay for the additional expense of a bomber jacket, leather cap, and leather pants, and so I merely pulled on a loose shirt and pair of jeans over the leather garb. Of course, I also had my flip-flops on my feet.  

After going down a flight of stairs from street level, I entered The Dungeon Bar somewhat apprehensively. At first glance, the bar area had an overtly masculine aura with hunky leather-clad and tattooed guys milling about. I do not wish to be condescending in any way or form, but I had always viewed the leather scene as somewhat ridiculous. Impishly, a thought summarily crossed my mind as I looked about, imagining all the men going into a song and dance routine of a Village People type of hit song.

I did, nonetheless, remind myself that the object of my visit was that I was a happy little bee, drawn to the golden nectar, which I would hopefully soon be savouring.

After having undressed, my shirt and jeans that were put into a duffel bag and stored behind the bar. Next, I strode toward the rear of the establishment with a beer in hand.

The first room I entered was a large showering area, which was no doubt for rinsing oneself off, once you had visited the main action room that lay beyond.

As I entered the main room, my eyes lit up because it was every bit as decadent as I had hoped.

Before commenting on the activity taking place in that room, allow me to describe the layout of this place.

All along the left wall, there was a long steel urinal with a bespoke gully, about six inches deep and three-foot-wide. In front of the urinal, there was a raised platform. Next, on the back wall, I saw four crossed wooden structures with constraints on all the extremities of these constructions. Between these structures, there were hooks from which an array of straps and whips were hanging. To my right, there were chain-link cubicles with plastic-clad wooden bunks up against the wall. In the centre of the room, there were four solid-looking slings, positioned in a square formation, several yards apart. The wall on either side of the entrance door had numerous water coolers, no doubt for bladder replenishment. What enchanted me most was the very distinct smell of piss permeating in the room.

At a glance, there were at least two dozen men in the room. As I scanned the room, I took in all the action that was happening.

To the left of me, a man sitting in the piss trough, with a guy skull-fucking him. A little further on from this setup, there was another guy who was lying flat on his back in the channel, being pissed on by two other men at the same time. On the opposite wall, a guy was secured to one of the wooden structures and getting flogged. To my right, a guy was bent over the bunk in one of the cubicles, receiving a solid fist-fucking.

Three of the four slings were in use. The first sling had a man on his back being spit roasted by two men while another two guys were pissing on the sling’s occupant. On an adjoining sling, there was a man also getting fisted. He, however, was surrounded by guys pawing, licking, and nibbling all over his body. On the third sling, a man on his stomach, frantically being fucked, as his head was misused by a very animated face-fucker before him.

The carnal groans reverberating throughout the room were mesmeric and added to the intensity of the erotic scenario that I was beholding. I must also mention that throughout my entire visit, apart from the beers that continually arrived in the room, the water coolers were also utilized incessantly for refuelling.

As I stood there watching with an open-mouth, a hunky man walked over to me, and in a distinctly British accent, announced, “You must be a new-boy.”

Dale, then after introducing himself, explained that my expression gave me away.

“Yeah,” I honestly answered.     

Dale then leaned in towards me and smelled my leather harness. “Yeah,” he uttered, before qualifying, “This smells like unseasoned leather.”

“I only bought it this morning,” I bashfully confessed.

Dale was hot and had a fat knob with a massive cock ring protruding off the front of his dick.

Dale now took hold of my arm and led me to the piss through.

“Lie down on your back in the channel,” he then instructed.

I needed no encouragement as I eagerly did so.

Looking over his shoulder, he then announced, “Guys, we have a newcomer here that needs to have his leather pickled.”

Instantly, three men joined him before a cloudburst of piss cascaded all over me. It was fuckin’ incredible. Naturally, I also imbibed as much of the yellow nectar as I could manage.

After the last trickle of piss had ended, it became clear that Dale would henceforth be my tour guide in this cesspool of carnality.

Next, with me soaked in piss, Dale led me over to the wooden structures on the back wall. “Come on, buddy, let’s warm up your tuck-box for an afternoon of gratification,” he then said

I wasn’t too enthused by the idea of being spanked but decided to give it a go. After the first few smacks that stung hit me, I soon found myself enjoying the sensation of having my arse warmed up.

With a thoroughly scorched arse, I got taken to one of the slings. Blissfully, a never-ending stream of men now wished to piss in my backside and all over my body.

Dale then took up station at my portal and vigorously commenced fucking me. Even though his cock-ring made my backside ache initially, once I got swathed in a fountain of piss, my discomfort began to wane, and the experience became awesome.

Over the next hour and a half, a succession of men were either; fucking me, kissing me, tweaking my nipples, pawing at me, or pissing on me and in my mouth.

During my adventure, I also made frequent visits to the trough, for yet more leather pickling and face-fucking, before once more returning to the slings. I even returned to the wooden structures once more during my visit for another arse whipping during my blissful initiation.       

After a never-ending afternoon of ecstasy, I made my way home, later on, having become a total leather convert.

Even though, as formerly stated, I had always found the leather scene stupid, I now wholeheartedly embraced it.

I even have to admit that I also eventually got into the fisting scene. Above all, my piss fetish was always very adequately taken care of at The Dungeon Bar.