I hit play on another gay BDSM movie and my cock was already rock hard in my jeans. The screen showed a muscled guy strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross, ass cheeks spread, while a leather daddy flogged him red and raw. I stroked myself slow at first, then faster, imagining the sting on my own skin. These movies had become my nightly fix, every crack of the whip and grunt of pain making me leak.
A message popped up from a guy I’d chatted with on the site that posted these clips. “You keep watching the same shit. Want to stop jerking and feel it?” His profile said he was local, 38, into heavy bondage and pain. I typed back fast: “Fuck yes. When?”
Two hours later I was at his basement door. He opened it wearing only black leather pants and boots. No small talk. He grabbed my shirt, yanked it off, and shoved me against the wall. “Strip. Now.” I kicked off my clothes while he watched, eyes on my hard dick. He cuffed my wrists behind my back with cold metal and pushed me down the stairs.
The room looked exactly like the movies. Chains, a padded bench, a rack of paddles and canes. He bent me over the bench, strapped my ankles wide, and locked my wrists to the front. My ass was up and open. “You like watching guys get their holes wrecked? Time to star in one.” He spat on my hole and shoved two fingers in dry. I hissed but pushed back. He laughed, low and mean, and added a third.
The first slap of the paddle made me yell. It landed heavy on my right cheek, then the left, then right again in steady rhythm. Heat built fast. He paused to stroke my cock once, then hit harder. By the tenth I was leaking onto the floor and begging for more. He switched to a leather flogger. The tails bit across both cheeks and the backs of my thighs. Every strike sent a jolt straight to my balls.
He stopped and walked around to my face. His cock was thick and veined, already dripping. “Open.” I took him to the back of my throat like the subs in the movies. He fucked my mouth slow at first, then deeper, holding my head with both hands until I gagged and spit ran down my chin.
“Good cocksucker. Now for the main scene.”
He moved behind me again. I heard the snap of a glove and the squirt of lube. One thick finger, then two, then the blunt head of his cock pressing in. He didn’t ease it. He drove straight in until his hips slapped my sore ass. I groaned loud, the stretch burning in the best way. He fucked me in hard, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back. The bench creaked. My wrists pulled against the cuffs with every thrust.
He reached under and grabbed my balls, squeezing just enough to hurt. “You’re gonna come when I say, not before.” He pounded faster, the sound of skin on skin filling the room like bad audio from those videos. Sweat dripped off him onto my back. When he finally reached around and jerked my cock twice, I shot hard across the floor, hole clenching around him. He kept fucking through it until he grunted and flooded me, hot and thick.
He pulled out slow, watching his load leak down my thigh. Then he unstrapped me, uncuffed my wrists, and handed me a bottle of water. “Same time next week. Bring the movie that made you message me. We’ll reenact it shot for shot.” I nodded, legs shaky, already hard again at the thought. The screen had nothing on the real thing.
