It's not cold out, but it's cool for so much exposed flesh in the night air. The chill is offset by anticipation. I'm calm on the outside but heat is building up around my shoulders and jaw and through the top of my ribs. We've arrived, the three of us together, and my girlfriend. Tom all in black leather: a cap, a vest over his bare torso, pants, the ones that buckle up at the crotch with hooks. He's carrying a big leather bag filled with equipment. Jack is a step behind, subservient, wearing a collar, a white t-shirt and a jock under his leather jeans. I've got on what I always wear. Red handkerchief around my neck. A cap over my shaved head. Jeans. Leather vest, nothing underneath. The vest is heavy and hangs straight down from my shoulders. You can't see my breasts underneath.

It's the early 90s, before Inquisition moved into a bigger hall and the promoters opened up ticket sales to a couple of thousand people, to not just practitioners but also to voyeurs and tourists to the scene—which is OK since it lets people see new things and it's not as if you're going to force them to do a scene on their first night. But now, it's perfect: a smaller, more intimate crowd, hardcore leathermen and fetishists, dancing all night long at the Dome in a dark, round palace of pain and pleasure.

I'm pumped up. I've been waiting for this. I can hardly keep still while we're waiting for Tom at the bar. He's dropped our gear in the performer area. He walks by and people nod, everyone knows him. They lust after me, a dark, cute young boy, heavy Maltese eyebrows, sex in my smile. Jack is this gorgeous Chinese boy, shaved skull shiny like polished stone, a perfect V-shaped torso. He doesn't meet the glances of others. He's ours tonight. I kiss my girlfriend goodbye and tell her I'll meet her later on. She's a bit nervous. She's dressed up real femmy with hardly anything on. The boys are treating her a bit funny.

"Hey." I grab Tom's attention. "When do we do the show?"

Even in the dark, I can see how blue his eyes are. He answers in his own sweet time to show whose in control. "We're not doing a show, Jos. We're just doing a scene."

Tom, my master, has been planning this for a long time. Maybe since the first time we met. My best friend Rodolfo had been telling me for ages, you've got to meet Tom. You have to. We met though without introduction. I was standing at the pool table at the Beresford, looking at this handsome leather-daddy, thinking, Fuck, he's hot. When I see someone I like, I look at him or her from top to toe and then all the way back up. So, I'd noted his cool, leather cap, hair beneath with streaks of grey, the outline of his goatee and moustache, a strong torso, his arse, thighs, calves and leather boots, checked everything out. Sexy as. He'd shifted around as my glance started its ascent, but I only got to his knees before I felt the pressure of his eyes on me. I looked straight up to his face: his head cocked to one side, tongue in one cheek, questioning with his bright blue eyes, saying, what do you want? He sauntered over.

"You must be Jos."

"And you must be Tom."

That was the beginning.

The party's filling up, it's getting on 1am and it's already starting to go off. You can feel it. There's going to be dirty, filthy sex here tonight. There's a scene starting already. I can see that's where we'll be doing ours. In the corner of the Dome, there are round rooms surrounded by Perspex glass. They call them the Meat Fridges; I don't know how they got the name. They're back-rooms from where you can see the whole dance floor from inside, lit up, high ceilings. They've rigged up curtains too and lower them down when a scene is being set up.

"Jack, look. There's going to be a flogging!" The curtains raise and you can tell it from the way the figures are standing. One is leaning against the wall, hands probably tied up somewhere; the other has legs slightly apart, arms out to the side. They've probably got a few toys out: pussy-willows, whips, cat o'nine-tails. I can't tell if they're men or women. Who cares? They'll start light, little scratches, get louder, lay down careful practised strokes. Eventually, you'll hear the sound of flesh searing right through the Perspex. Someone's going to have a back that's purple and black for a whole week. Wicked!

Tom and I hung out a lot together. We'd go to men's sex clubs. He'd pick up boys and men and we'd go back to his place to play. He had this perfect set-up with tiny hooks in the wall in his kitchen that turned into this intricate set-up. Or we'd go to the bars. He'd sit or stand at the counter and greet friends or nod at new admirers drawn to his handsome face, his confidence. I'd turn heads as soon as I'd come in. Shaved head. Leather. Denim. Flannel shirt. Full on, saying, yes, here I am, come and get me. I wasn't trying to fool anyone. The guys, their heads would turn, they'd come to make a move for me, some would figure out I'm a girl and turn away but others I could see slow down or stumble, their steps tripping over their thoughts: Does it matter? They'd come and talk anyway and say, Hey, I was coming to pick you up but I don't think so now. And I'd be like, Why not? Some of them I'd take home. Or go to their dungeons. I'd tell them first, Look, I don't want your cock up my vagina. The rest we can negotiate. Then it was on for young and old.

Tom wanted me to meet Jack. He said, I've got this slave, and I think you'd get on really well together. He arranged it. We went on a date. Jack, right away slipped into slave mode and I was lapping it up. He could barely talk, he was so smitten. I'm really thin, drug-thin, barely have breasts. He liked that. And I could see that he was a dirty, fucking dirty boy. Just wanted to be defiled in as many ways as he could. He looked up, smiled, looked away. It was going to work out. Before we parted, he said, whatever we get out of this, whatever happens, I want you to fist me. I've never had a girl fist me before.

Jack looks relaxed now, calm. We're in control. Or Tom's in control of me, and I'm in control of Jack. Right in the middle. Where I like it. A balancing act where to stay upright someone has to hang onto your hand from above, and someone else is letting you balance your foot on his shoulder. Acrobatics.

An hour or two pass. Time goes quickly in a place like this. The perspiration and music eat up the edges that would make a minute last longer. We head over to the Meat Fridges. I don't know what the previous scene was, but four men stumble out, flush and tired. They stop near us. I turn and see a back covered in new shapes and figure they were doing a piercing, the kind that my friends and I like to do.

Usually, you attach these plastic threads to needles with metal piercings at the end of them. It's more like tubing. You put the piercing into the plastic, guide the needle and thread through the skin, remove the plastic and leave the piercing there, through a nipple or eyebrow or the lip of your labia. But we just put the thread through. They're different colours depending on the width. And then cut them off leaving thin lines of purple and black and red forming patterns on skin. We'd do it as part of bondage and domination, submission and torture, all pleasurable, and even more: colour-coordinated. Shallow piercings, no blood, just through the top of the skin, no flesh and when you don't want them in anymore, you just pull them out. They heal with no scars. But when you've got them in—a V-pattern up the wings of your back or along your breasts—and you put on a shirt, no one knows. How crazy and beautiful you are when you're stripped down to the skin, looking like nothing most people have ever seen, human but with new spikes and spines, some new being.

It's our turn inside. We get out to the back. I'm all excited. Tom and I don't need to change. Jack simply strips down until he's got on nothing but a studded cock-ring at the base of his balls, everything pulled through. He's beautiful. Gorgeous face. Clear, smooth skin, taut muscles, stunningly built, a pliable sculpture. I have no idea what we're going to do except for me fisting Jack but I trust Tom. He'll tell me what to do.

Tom opens his bag of equipment, and unrolls onto a table this fabric like a chef's knife roll-up with individual pockets. I can see metal shining but I don't know what it is. The rest comes out too. Tit-clamps, tiny hard alligator clips with sharp teeth, gags of different shapes and sizes, restraints. A bag of pegs.

"Get to work."

Tom grabs the bag and Jack stands in front of us, his arms out straight to the side and legs apart.

"Where do I put them?"

"Anywhere you want. Make patterns, do something beautiful."

I clip the first peg on near his wrist. It doesn't hurt much. It'll hurt when it comes off. I make a row up one arm and down another, the tops of his arms, the middle. We make a pattern on his chest, up his legs and back, and even on his stomach and sides where there's little skin to grab. Tom's does all the work on his cock and balls. Somehow he fits twenty or thirty on there. We dress him in exactly one hundred pegs. We finish and Jack is a wooden marionette, body parts clacking against each other, he moves slowly and stiffly so that nothing falls off. We leave him there, spread-eagle to the air, and set up a table behind him.

The curtain goes up. People gather around right away. Tom tells me that I must never walk in front of him or Jack, always behind so that the crowd can see what we're doing. The clips have been on a good ten-fifteen minutes by now, you can see variations of white and red and purple on skin glowing eggshell white under the overhead lights. Jack stands in a star, like Da Vinci's Vitruvian man. I look out through the Perspex and all I can see is leather, flesh, hair, faces, piercings, chains. It's amazing. We pull the clips off slowly, one by one, carefully, without touching anything else. They're small gestures but everyone watching can see the tiny flutters in Jack's eyelids. Everyone can feel what he's feeling. The release from the pinching, the blood rushing back in, endorphins gathering, releasing. A searing, exquisite pain. We take off all the pegs, and lastly, the ones on his cock and balls.

We push Jack back onto the table that we've already set up with ropes and restraints. His arms and wrists are pulled under his back so his chest is open; his legs are up near the front of the table so his arse is just over the end. I've tied a strip of cloth coming up under his chin to hold him down. And we start.

Tom has a table of drugs: poppers, amyl nitrate, a rag to pour it on and hold to his face. We start with tit torture, alligator clips on his tiny broad nipples standing high on his taut chest. Tom takes off the clips and replaces them with clamps. I replace the cloth strip with a collar and chains. Jack's head swings back slowly from side to side, then strains towards chemicals being offered that open and close his senses, that make him aware of everything happening but less aware of the unimportant. The world in summation: pain, pleasure, surrender.

Tom nods at me. "Knife."

Some people like to play with scalpels, but I think they're too sharp, too dangerous. You can cut too deep. But knives I love, and I've brought my double-bladed dagger. I walk behind Jack and Tom as I've been instructed to do, go to the table, find a familiar shining shape, and with the greatest reverence return. Jack can see what I have in my hands. No fear. Another inhalation of poppers. Then one careful small carving, a diagonal slit from below his nipple to the opposite side of his stomach, and a second one to match it and make an X. The cut so shallow it barely bleeds and six months later, no scar will be found. I add another slice across his chest in a V.

Tom orders, "Get the smallest sounds, the metal shaft farthest to the left. And the syringe. And the KY."

I return to the table. There's a range of highly polished metal rods, made of stainless steel I think. They're arranged according to size, all about the same length, a short knitting needle, but ranging in width from the size of a large needle to that of your little finger. They are curved strangely at the end with a tiny twist. I've never seen these before; neither have most people watching. Tom goes to Europe and the States a lot and brings back what he finds.

Tom starts to work Jack over; he fingers him and plays with his cock. He gets me to fill up the syringe with KY jelly and hand it to him. He puts a tiny dot of KY at the opening of Jack's penis. Then holding his cock loosely, Tom puts the tip of the syringe inside and pushes its plunger down about an inch. He strokes Jack's cock gently, puts down the syringe and I place the first sounds into his right hand.

Next, he squeezes Jack's cock with his left hand, and inserts the metal rod into the eye of his penis. He wiggles it a bit and then the sounds seems to just slide in by itself. Jack lets out a long moan like the reverberations from a huge copper bell. By this time, he's had this really tight cock-ring on for some time. His cock has become something else, different coloured, different functioned. The three of us work together. Tom gives me orders, and I'm his assistant.

Get me a sounds two sizes bigger. Now.
Work his nipples. Put the larger clips on.
Put the ball gag on.

I put the ball into Jack's mouth and secure the gag tightly around his face. He can breathe but he can't talk. He can moan though. Tom withdraws and inserts wider and wider sounds, plays with Jack's butt then tells me, "Go glove up. I think it's time that you fist this little boy."

The crowd can see what's coming each time I return from the table and I hold each article up as if I'm a game show hostess. I pull on a long, black rubber glove. Ceremoniously, I open the new tub of Crisco. Shit! The glove is too big. I'm swimming in it. Tom, fuck, the glove is enormous. It's a glove that fits him but not me. He smiles gently. I grab onto the end of the glove with my other hand, and try to yank it further up my arm, hang onto it so I don't lose it.

I don't bother with a finger at a time like I'd usually do to warm someone up. Jack is already warm. He's so hot, he's burning. Our eyes meet. He doesn't need to talk. I know he's encouraging me. Go! Go! He's ready. The drugs have loosened his insides, his outsides. My hand made into a fist goes in easily, even as I'm hanging onto the glove with my other hand, wondering what the look on my face is.

Wonder, I think. I've fisted women before. But cunts are way different. Vaginas, you can only get in a certain way. They can open up like a balloon inside, and that's what it feels like, a balloon, you can feel around but you can't go any further. Once in full arousal, the walls suck back, your hand inside a magical sphere.

But this! Before tonight, I've never gone so deep, felt these different stages and parts of anatomy. I push up and through. Jack is open to pleasure, to me, to vulnerability and a physical connection that few others will ever reach. I'm inside him, not with a part of body that urinates or comes, but with my fist and hand, which I use to feel the world.

Tom is still playing with the sounds. I look over when he takes one out, and it's amazing, the eye just stays open, looking out, it doesn't close up. He puts in the largest one, and while Jack is writhing in pleasure and pain, the end of the metal shaft is vibrating and floating around, like a long extension of the penis. His cock is purple. Small and shriveled from no oxygen

Before, I'd only wanted to be a top, but I'd gotten to the point where I wanted to try both, to be in the middle: someone under me and someone over me; to be controlled but have the liberty to do what I wanted to someone else, to do whatever I want with a body but at the drop of a hat, be completely subservient—up and down, changing roles, switching spaces in my mind. Playing with my boundaries.

Time has passed, maybe forty minutes since the curtains went up. I've been inside of Jack maybe ten or fifteen minutes. It's time to stop. I slowly withdraw my hand. Jack shudders and his anus closes shut like a door. Tom lets me do the last work. I untie Jack, and help him sit up. They let down the curtains. There's no applause but even through the walls, you can hear lusty voices, excited, amazed, shocked. I'd been so absorbed into the scene, I'd forgotten that anyone else was out there.

We pack up, wipe up the blood, make sure Jack is OK. He looks high and bright. Soon, he'll put on a g-string and he and Tom will be dancing for the rest of the night. I'm amazed that after such intensity, he could be one of a crowd. But that's what we showed people tonight. What the body is capable of. The mind too. We could have been you. You could have been us.

Moving out from behind the curtains, I thank my master and nod to my slave before we split apart. Tonight we were part of something completely new, and also, very very old. I'm shaking and so buzzed that soon I'll have to leave the party, find my girlfriend, go home and fuck. I pass a girl in the crowd, someone I know, a leather-girl. Her eyes go wide and I can see it click: she thought I was a slave-boy too, just like everyone else did. I think she's impressed.

It's enough. I don't go to another Inquisition for seven years. What could ever match this night? Me with my favourite master. In between him and a hot slave. Jack getting fisted by a girl for the first time. In front of rough men in leather who didn't even know I wasn't the boy they were desiring. I was more than that. Sex, and something beyond it.

 

©2003 Andy Quan - Contributor's Bio