Boymeat (boymeat) wrote,

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Tissues are my friend. Or, MAL Play, Part Three.

My apartment has become little more than a depository for used tissues. Like tribbles following Kirk wherever he went, piles of tissues accumulate wherever I am - by my bed, my computer desk, on the coffee table in front of my couch. Every half hour or so, I run around the apartment and collect all the spent offerings to the god of nasal passageways, and deliver them to their final destination in the great receptacle of trash.

This morning I went out to the drug store to purchase the good stuff - Sudafed with the magical ingredient of pseudoephedrine. It's always a fun experience to have to prove one is not a crystal meth cook when purchasing cold medicine. I found the process of showing my drivers license and signing the dotted line most amusing.

But... as I've stated before, it was worth it. Let us now continue our tale, picking up where we left off on Saturday night of MAL.

Chinese Food

When The Drug and I finally collected our things and made our way to the shuttle van to head back to the hotel, I was pretty much done. Half of me was still on cloud nine, and the other half was magically already in my bed on the 6th floor of the Washington Plaza. It was my full intention to head back to the hotel, kiss The Drug farewell, and go to bed.

Robert Burns wrote an old saying that works very well at this point in the story. "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men often get fucked up." (I paraphrased.)

I did succeed at kissing The Drug goodnight. And I did dutifully go straight upstairs to take off my coat and return my toy bag to the room. But I then decided to go downstairs for one last cigarette before bed. So off to the smoking tent I went, found some friends, sat down, and enjoyed my final cigarette or three.

And that is when my evening plans suddenly changed. It was about 2 AM at this point. I left the smoking tent, and started to make my way to the elevators when I ran into Chinese Food. Chinese Food is a man I have written a little bit about before. He and I have known each other for many years, but have only played once, during my first and so far only visit to Inferno. I call him Chinese Food because when we play, we play balls to the wall for a short amount of time, until he decides he can't take any more. Then, moments later, he places himself in another position and asks for more. Chinese Food - 10 minutes later, you're always hungry again.

Chinese Food had whispered into my ear earlier in the evening during Leather Cocktails that he was looking for me and my canes on Friday night. He had also informed me that leading up to MAL, he had jerked off to mental imagery of me and my ex fucking. Mind you, my ex is a woman, and Chinese Food is very much a gay man. After those two tales, I immediately had to excuse myself for a cigarette because if I didn't, I would have thrown him against the wall and damn near insisted that I fuck his brains out right then and there. Such behavior is not generally accepted at a High Leather cocktail event.

Looking back on it, I'm surprised I didn't do it anyway. Alas, I digress...

So Chinese Food runs into me in the lobby and we hug and start chatting about our weekend adventures. He then gets an evil glint in his eye and inquires how much energy I had left. I fingered the singletail that was doubling as my belt, looked him dead in the eye and replied, "Enough." He smiled, and took my arm. Off we went to his hotel room.

The game? Ass. It was a two-hour focused adventure starring CF's ass. My hands pummeled his ass - everywhere from open hand slaps, to the butt of my hand crashing in, to my fists raining down. My whip flew through the air, always working to keep up with the buttocks that flew from left to right, reacting to each stroke. When the sting became too much, I repositioned myself next to him on the bed, my left arm wrapping around his torso while my right hand took the lead-filled handle and battered and bruised his ass with it. Over and over again the hard lead-filled leather came down on his butt.

When I grew tired after an hour of near-constant ass brutalization, he turned on the sass.

"You hit like a fucking girl!"

"That's all you got? You fucking pussy."

"This is Lolita's protege? This is the wimp she brought up? I should call her and tell her what an embarrassment you are!"

My resolve hardened. For another hour, my hands, whip, and even my booted feet pummeled his behind. I was a man on a mission. Relentlessly I worked his ass over, while he groaned in response. Growling "Yes Sir, thank you Sir." Occasionally flying in with barbs, "Yeah, come on pussy boy, bring it." It was as if I was playing with Sybil - at one moment he was the subservient one taking the beating from his superior, at other points the bully pointing out the shortfalls of the boy trying to prove himself. Back and forth we went, like a SM see-saw, while his ass slowly took on all the different shades of blue and purple that Crayola never imagined.

When my arm could finally beat no more, after we briefly chatted with Chinese Food's husband, Hanna-Barberra, after he fucked a young stud in the bathroom to the sounds of our brutal symphony, we then laid down in the bed together, dripping with sweat, cuddled up together practically nose to nose. We talked deep, opening ourselves up more than we ever have with each other. We were studying the other, learning him, bringing understanding and a true sense of knowing deep into us.

As I have said before in this medium, SM is the path to the soul.

Chinese Food is unlike any other bottom I know. He is not submissive, nor is he a masochist. He is a power junkie. Power is his drug, and he will do anything he can to bring it out. He wants to feel you overpower him, and he wants to seduce power to take over you. If he knows you want to beat, he will encourage you to beat him harder than you ever have before. If he knows you want to fuck, he will encourage you to fuck him harder and deeper than you ever knew. Chinese Food is a pathway to the darker bits of your soul. He is an encourager, a feeder. He is the man who will tie that rubber cord around your arm, and he will hand you the sparkling new hypodermic needle to push into your arm. Except he'll trick you. It won't be drugs inside that syringe. It's simply sterile saline solution, a placebo, because in reality while you have shot up into your arm he has been fucking your mind the whole way through.

He is the mirror into your soul.

By the time I got back into my room, the clock showed 4:30 AM. I quietly undressed, lied down onto the bed, and felt The Playmate roll over and drape an arm over my chest. He kissed my cheek, and asked if I had a good time. I smiled and said yes.

I stared into the ceiling, colors dancing off of it from the illuminations from the TV. I thought back on the past two hours, and thought of how much of myself and CF was revealed.

I realized that I loved him.


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