1: The Collared Master

I fit the dog collar around my neck and buckle it up, watching my hands move in the mirror. I guestimate that Engel has about the same size neck as I, maybe a little smaller. He is a bit shorter and has a slimmer build, which makes it even more fun when I am pressing my whole body down on top of him, fucking him in a nine o’clock position, my foot planted on his face so he can lick my sole while I am pounding into him. It is one of his favorite positions and, okay, mine too.

The dog collar fits me snugly so it will be a bit looser on Engel. The leather doesn’t chafe, it’s been hemmed at the edges and has a cushiony padding inside, which is a considerate design touch and feels spongy against my skin. I take a bite of my sandwich and watch myself chew. From the corner of the mirror I see Conor, my Great Dane, staring up at me with that resigned look he gets when he knows I am preparing for a play session. Not his kind of play. I keep my eyes focused on me in the mirror, taking another bite of my sandwich that I hold in one hand while patting Conor’s head with the other. I watch myself swallow, no discomfort, not too tight. I put the sandwich down and pick up the padlock, lock it shut on top of the collar and put the key on the bench beside me, next to my sandwich.

I always have a rule to check all my equipment on myself before using it with a sub. I once used nipple clamps on a guy and he was totally not into it. It’s not like he was what we Germans call a weichei, a wimp. He had willingly let me paddle his butt before I fastened his nipples but his frantic breathing through his teeth seemed a little overly dramatic. So I tried to get him to just work through the pain but after five minutes he couldn’t handle it and I realized the little rubber sleeve had come off the end of one of the clamps and I had been gripping his left tit with serrated metal teeth.

My mobile bleeps its one note: You’ve got text. It’s Engel. He is cancelling our playdate for tonight. “I want to stay at mine tonight and have a night in?”

We have been getting closer, combining play with dinners afterwards, texts that alternate between daddy/boy dialog and “How was your day?” catch-ups. He’s a classic Type Two, a giver, who presents a different face to me, to his work, and to his friends. When we meet at the u-bahn station, he greets me with an aloofness, like running into a friend-of-a-friend, it’s only when we get into my apartment that he gets on his knees and offers himself to me. And now, our increasing closeness outside of fucking is further messing with his ability to compartmentalize who he is with me, and I feel like he is sabotaging our catch-ups to create more distance. I need to back off on intimacy a little so he will again pursue my approval.

After my messy twenties, when I had backed myself into a corner from using too many drugs, I managed to move away from that kind of exploration and self-damage. But I still felt that shadow energy pull at me. Becoming a leather master gave me an opportunity to let out my dark side without it taking over my life in an unhealthy way. Nowadays, I am excited by having a sub-boy, a pup who wears a collar for me, gets on all fours and seeks out my attention and permission. I wouldn’t say I am what we Germans call an erbsenzahler, a control freak: It is much more about being admired and respected, and about embracing the power in my masculinity.

I put the phone down. No need to keep checking the equipment I guess. I decide I will go out tonight anyway. I already have tickets for the Pup Party at Lab, so maybe I can find a new pup or join in with someone else if they are looking for a second master. Pup nights take the sub play to another level, with some guys wearing collars, or being walked around on leashes and made to drink out of dog bowls. The Pup Party will have plenty of that.

I go to unlock the collar. The key is gone.

So is my sandwich. So is Conor.

“Conor?” I call out, but he doesn’t come trotting to me. I check his bed in the corner of the lounge. He has taken himself to it and is waiting there.

When Conor has done something wrong he basically has two ways of behaving. If he has torn apart a toy into a million little pieces, he will stand in the middle of the debris and have this look that says he doesn’t know what happened and unless you have video evidence otherwise, he was clearly only passing by and had found it just like this a split-second before you got here.

But if he has peed on something, or vomited on something, or eaten something, then he tends to go to his bed, as if to say that he has started his punishment of his own accord and that that time should be taken off any further sentencing that is deemed necessary.

“Conor?” I ask again and he tilts his head slightly while sitting up, waiting for my admonishment, even though I have never hit him and don’t believe in shouting at dogs. A firm “No” during the act of naughtiness is usually enough. After the fact it’s all a bit pointless. “Did you…?” I trail off wondering if he ate the key as well as the sandwich.

But now it dawns on me. I’ve locked my dog collar on and I don’t have the key.

My mind races through possible scenarios: Bolt cutters? Hospital emergency room? I know a guy who once had to have a metal cock ring cut off because it had been causing his dick to go as blue as the pill he had taken to make him stay hard. Maybe I could call him. But for what, advice? I’m gonna call a guy who takes Viagra and puts on metal cock rings a size obviously too small for him and take his advice?

Instead, I phone my vet, who says that given Conor’s size, he should be able to just pass the key as long as it is not too big, in the next two days or so. The key was only the size of a mailbox key so I’m fairly confident it will be okay. I have seen him swallow whole shards of bone without a hassle.

(Idea for fetish wear: padlocks that use combination locks. You could make the combination number the date your pup agreed to be owned by you the first time, or the hours you plan to play together or something.)

(Wait. Revised idea for fetish wear: lube-resistant combination locks. Trying to scroll through numbers with slippery hands could have the same effect as losing a key.)

I go back to the mirror and loosen the collar under the padlock. I’m hoping I have accidentally attached the collar to itself, not linked to the padlock, like those times when you lock a bike’s front wheel to the frame and walk away and then when you come back, your bike is gone because you left it there, just leaning against the bike rack, locked to itself.

But the collar is definitely locked this time.

I see if maybe I could rip the little bar where the padlock is connected to the rest of the collar, but I have bought a pretty high quality collar and, like the cushiony padding, this has been stitched well in place. I don’t have the motivation to curse myself for choosing quality BDSM gear for my pup. I wouldn’t do anything differently. Especially not after that guy lost his nipple that time.

I pace around the apartment for a bit, annoyed with myself and trying to imagine other scenarios: Laxatives? Could I force Conor to vomit? Locksmith? But it is already 9 p.m. and you have to get to Lab between 10 and 12 or you can’t get in and there is nothing else to do about it anyway.

I shower and get ready to go. I’m pretty much always a top these days but occasionally I do like my subs using toys on me, so I clean myself up properly just in case. I want to tone down the impression the collar gives so I wear a harness and leather pants rather than a jockstrap, but then I end up putting a jockstrap on under the pants because Lab can get pretty hot sometimes.

By 11 I am in the bar. There is an occasional waft of cigar smoke from the daddies in the corner and a burst of laughter bubbles up when whoever is holding court drops the punchline. There is almost Muzak-like house music playing in the background that doesn’t call out for too much attention to it, and the overhead lighting is covered so that it creates darker spaces and softens up the harshness of the concrete and wooden club floor.

I stand against a wooden dividing wall in the middle of the large open space and nurse an alcohol-free beer. I am a big believer in not mixing alcohol and drugs with BDSM or pup play, unless maybe you are getting your pup to drink beer from a dog bowl, then that’s okay, but for the most part, it is a communication and a connection thing, so I don’t like for either of us to be wasted. Plus, it’s better when you are fully present and can feel everything that’s happening.

“Hey,” I greet a guy in an army outfit. I usually chat with other masters when I am having a drink.

“Does your owner know you are talking to me?” he asks, signaling with a nod of his chin to my collar. He takes his beer and walks off, obviously displeased with me for breaking role.

I remember the collar and padlock. “No, it’s –a…”, I try rushing through an explanation, an erklarungsnot, as we Germans say when we feel caught out and have to explain something quickly,  but his receding back doesn’t give any sign that he is tuned in to my offer of an exposition.

I scan the room. There is a hot muscle daddy-type smoking a cigar. I saunter over. I do actually saunter. My friends all mock me for doing this cowboy-like side-to-side uber-masculine walk that ends with ”Hello” by way of a chin nod. It looks pretty funny when they mimic me, but it’s also a fair facsimile.

“Hey,” I say and raise my bottle to toast with him.

“Does your master know…” he starts to ask.

“I accidentally locked the collar on,” I interrupt him. “My dog ate the key.”

“Your pup ate the key?” The muscle daddy scoffs, looking around as if trying to see my sub-boy so he can ask him.

He shrugs, willing to go along with my story, at least for now. “You live here in Berlin?” He asks.

“Yeah, I write porn scripts for a living and I’m on retainer with a studio.”

“You write porn scripts? That must be an easy way to make a living,” he says, which is pretty much what everyone says.

“Well, I’m with Dirty Circus Underground, the fetish studio. We did the clown porn series last year. It actually takes a lot of choreography and coming up with a legitimate circus storyline…” but I trail off my rote response as I can see I have lost him. He is clearly a Type Three: stuck in a hyper-masculine sense of self-identity, but easily distracted and unable to bond with me. I should be trying to touch him, stroke him, kiss his earlobe or lick his boots, anything to bring him back to where we are right here and now.

I decide not to tell him about the new series I am working on. I have been studying the enneagram for the past six months and want to do a film with nine scenes, one on each of the personality types.

The enneagram is an ancient Sufi system that categorizes people by their main characteristic so that you can communicate with them effectively and better get them to do what you want. One of the ancient ways you would try and work with enneagram personality types apparently was through choreography and movement, so I have been trying to read up on the types, and design the porn scenes and choreography to match each type. I figure it is a great way to really get to understand the enneagram categories and make it work for me, even beyond the porn film. And besides, I wanted to step away from clown porn for a while. I figured maybe one of the scenes could be a circus, sure, but I really wanted to try a sailor scene, or maybe a rodeo. But then if I’m going to do that, it should be a clown rodeo, I guess. My mind is drifting now.

“There is an audience for that?” Muscle Daddy asks.

“That’s a polite way of saying ‘Who on earth would want to watch that?’” I respond, half- jokingly. His eyes scrunch as he weighs me up.

“Why did your pup eat the key?” He changes tack, I wonder if he is trying to catch me out in a lie.

“Not my pup,” I say at first and see his eyes now widen in a gotcha stare. “My dog. My actual dog. I had the key next to a sandwich.”

Muscle Daddy looks at me a second longer and I can see the moment in his eyes when he dismisses me outright. He looks around and moves off as though the far doorway was an old friend who wanted to introduce him to someone waiting just on the other side of it.

After ten minutes, I get a little restless and I spot a guy who looks familiar to me. I can’t remember if we have played or not so I head over and introduce myself.

“Does your master know you are talking to me?” He pulls on my dog collar at the padlock.

“I accidentally locked it on,” I explain. He shrugs like he doesn’t really care for the reasoning and leads me into the labyrinth of cubicles.

He seems in a hurry and he quickly undresses and after a brief bit of mutual head-jobbing, he turns me around, lubes up his cock, positions it at my hole and starts fucking me. I’m uncomfortable with the pace, and haven’t really gotten my head around being a bottom for the night, even though with the collar, that is definitely the signal I am giving off. “You want me to come?” he asks. I grunt affirmatively. “Tell me you want me to come.”

“Oh, you need verbal confirmation?” I ask, finally getting into it. I feel like I am on an airplane and sitting in an exit row seat and have been asked to verbalize that, yes, I am able to help in the case of emergency. “Please come sir!” I call out.

He wraps his arms around my waist, holding my body close to him while he finishes off. “Yesss!” he sighs.

As we re-dress and organize ourselves, me wiping the lube from the outside of my hole while squeezing my sphincter to keep his load in me, he apologizes for being so quick. “I was on a redeye last night so I am pretty tired.”

“You’re a flight attendant?” I ask.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Just figured,” I shrug as I walk off to buy another beer.

After the bar, I take a swig of my drink again and lean against the wooden trestle horse that is positioned in this corner of the room. This is the “tie yourself to wood” corner of Lab: There is a St. Andrew’s Cross next to me as well. It makes for a crowded play corner when the place gets busy. A master at the St. Andrew’s Cross doesn’t end up having much room to flog his sub if there is a guy getting spit-roasted on the trestle horse I am leaning on. I wonder who organized the decor. I guess that it is a sub that doesn’t like his master to have too much force behind his whipping arm.

“Hey Pup,” a tall leather man says to my right, and I turn to see him holding up his beer to toast with my bottle.

“Actually, I…,” I start to explain my collar and then I stop.

This whole situation gives me pause (Ha, paws, I think to myself): Does my porn writing and choreography and being a master mean that I am constantly trying to run the show? I try to relax into my collar a little and accept that, at least this time, I wasn’t asked why I am initiating the conversation.

The leather man smiles slightly as he watches me stutter and think to myself. I regain composure and push on. “Hi sir, I’m Hubert,” I say, thinking about how I would want a pup to introduce himself to me and I reach out my hand.

“I’m Dominic. Master Dominic.” He holds my hand rather than shakes it, gripping me with an unrushed strength. He has a steadfastness about him and I find myself seeking out the rhythm of his breathing so I can fall into step with it.

We chat a little about how often he comes to pup-themed nights. He says he’s been once or twice, he doesn’t have a regular pup. He tells me he lives in Prenzlauer Berg, and what he does for work, though I couldn’t quite figure out what he was talking about and thought maybe it had something with I.T., but then he said architect as well, so I just nodded my head as though it was interesting.

After a second drink, he leads me into a cubicle and slides off his jacket. He is wearing a tank underneath, with his chest hair rising up above the top of the tank. He lifts one of his arms, and directs my head into his armpit, so I sniff in his man-scent deeply and start eating out his pit. This gets me going. I feel him reach around with his other arm and slide his firm hand up and down my ass crack over my leather pants. It occurs to me that if I am going to be the sub, I have to switch off my own top side and just go with it. I am hesitant. I like to be in charge but I guess with the pup collar, the decision has been made for me.

We play for a bit longer. At one point he has me sit back near the trestle horse and from his jacket pocket he pulls out a leash and he attaches it to my collar, hooking the other end through the leg of the St. Andrew’s Cross. He doesn’t need to tell me to stay put, he just leaves me locked up and I see him go speak with a big muscle guy in a pup mask, and then he goes to the bar and gets us a couple more drinks. I see he has chosen for me the alcohol-free beer I was drinking earlier. I feel a little bit more comfortable with letting him direct for a bit if he is sticking within what he has seen are my boundaries already.

At about one thirty, he whistles and clicks his fingers and points to the floor. I get on my knees, ready to start blowing him again as I did a bit earlier. “Good boy,” he tells me. “You gonna come back to mine now?” He asks. I nod up and down, and we agree on some ground rules. Let’s see where this takes me.

We take a cab back to his place, me still on the leash that he has attached to the collar. When we get inside, he makes me take off my pants straight away and strips me down to just my harness and jockstrap. He makes a big show of putting all my clothes in a satchel with a string tie and hanging it over the inside front doorknob.

He clicks his fingers again and points to the floor, his signal that I should get on my knees again. He makes a “stay” motion with his hand and he moves off to another room. I can hear drawers opening and shutting as though he is looking for something while I look around the apartment entranceway, maintaining my kneeling position behind the door. There is a coat rack screwed on to the side wall and it is laden not just with jackets and coats, but with a couple of backpacks weighted down and some dark colored scarves thrown over the whole pile.

The wooden flooring of his apartment make a slight echo against his boots when he finally returns, holding aloft a butt-plug with a dog tail on one end. He is lubing the plug end and he does a finger twirl movement to indicate I need to turn around. I do as I am told and he holds one of my shoulders firmly but gently, while he slides the butt plug into me. It’s been awhile since I have been on the receiving end of ass play and it feels good actually. I try panting a little as a sign of merriment.

Next he gets me to take off my high tops and he slides knee pads onto each of my legs, caressing from my quads to my calves as he goes. Then I am instructed to put my high tops back on.

Now Master Dom (oh, I only just got that) leads me deeper into the apartment, through the hallway into a large studio that is a living room with a bed on one side. He unhooks the leash from my collar, makes a clipped whistle sound between his teeth, and again clicks his fingers, this time pointing to a cage I now see in the corner of the room.

He’s clearly a Type Eight, a boss, keen to control not just me but the space I inhabit when I’m with him. I realize I will have to play this out carefully: normally these types can set the rules like we did at the bar, but they still think they have the right to break them if they want. For now, I’m willing to get in the cage at least.

I have used one of these cages before with Engel, they are okay for the pup, a bit uncomfortable for the master, but I know what to do so I go over and enter it and turn around so I am facing the cage entrance I came in through. Master Dom swings the door shut and slides the bolt across. Then he crouches down a little and feeds his cock through the bars and I obligingly start sucking him off. I figure if I just play out my scene a bit I might learn something about handling my own pup a bit better, and besides, he has a nice cock.

This is the bit that is uncomfortable for the dom: you have to sort of stand bow-legged and thrust your hips up to the bars, so after a while your knees start to get uncomfortable from being turned outwards for so long and pressed up against the cage. I bob up and down, enthusiastically sucking him off, and I feel like the top half of a pigeon as it walks.

I hold the metal bars of the cage, and I couldn’t help but wonder: Is this what I do all the time? Put people into boxes? Am I quick to cage them into my definition of them based on my light reading of personality types and then just try and give them what I think they need in order to get what I want? I shudder at the realization that I can be so arrogant sometimes. “Yeah, that’s it,” Master Dom whispers, “Keep doing it like that.”

There is a knock at the door and he pulls himself off of me. He looks from where I am over to the edge of the bed in the opposite corner, making sure I have a good sightline and then he answers the door. I hear slurping and light barking, and then the steroidal muscle pup from Lab, with a tattoo that reads “Yes Sir” in rainbow formation over his belly button, a jockstrap, and a pup mask on his head, comes into view. Master Dom leads him over to the bed where he has made sure the sightline is visible and makes him kneel up on the edge. I can see he has a tramp stamp tattoo that reads “Doggy Style” in graffiti-like font above his hairy bum. A Type four, I guess, committed to being the unique, special one, constantly auditioning for the absent master that can fulfill him.

Master Dom starts fucking the beast-pup and looks over his shoulder at me, so I start whining and panting as though I want to join in.

After about twenty minutes of watching DoggyStyle get pounded, Master Dom picks up a towel from a chair by the bed and wipes down the sweat now dripping off him. “You wanna play?” he asks me.

I nod furiously and pant louder. Master Dom unslides the bolt and opens the cage door and I rush over to DoggyStyle, who is still crouched over the edge of the bed, and I sniff his butthole. I look up at Master Dom, pleading withmy eyes that beg “Can I?” as if I really have become canine. He nods and I jump on DoggyStyle and start fucking him, relieved at last to be back in an active role. I love the feel of the beast pup’s hole, it is a little loose, I think he has probably been fucked a few times tonight, which gets me even more excited. After only about five minutes of climbing over and pounding into DoggyStyle, Master Dom whistles again and I spin my head around to see what he is ordering me to do, and I try not to look disappointed at having to stop. After all it’s his scene, it’s not my job to frown and suggest how he should be playing this out.

He whistles again and clicks his fingers, and points to an empty space on the bed next to DoggyStyle. I get the hint, and line up next to the beast-pup, and prop up on my hands and knees on the edge of the bed next to DoggyStyle. Master Dom pulls out my dog tail and immediately starts fucking me. Next to me DoggyStyle starts growling and nips at my neck, playing jealous, although I think he actually really is. It’s a classic Type Four competitive move.

It reminds me of a guy I met in a sauna one time back in my twenties when I was much more sexually versatile than nowadays. The sauna guy was into me and playing with my tits, licking my armpits, and getting horned up. Then he asked me if I was top or bottom. I started to tell him I was versatile, but happy to top, but he immediately pulled his head out from my armpit and started to walk away. Unless everyone in the room is one hundred percent concentrated on his hole, he is not interested, I figured. DoggyStyle, this greedy fuck, was a bit like that.

I think Master Dom was trying to stir him up, while also figuring out I was more top and wanting to just teach me a lesson. The lesson being: He owns me for the night.

DoggyStyle was alternating between whimpering at Master Dom while shaking his hairy butt and looking up with pleading eyes, and growling and nipping at me with a faux anger. I think swapping between being the two emotional states got a little confusing for him sometimes. Through the puppy mask, his eyes ended up pleading at me while he was snarling. Luckily, Master Dom swapped back to DoggyStyle and instead of reversing roles so I was now the one growling, I decided to take a playful angle, jumping up on DoggyStyle’s back while he was getting fucked so I could watch Master Dom plowing him.

At around 3 a.m., Master Dom puts DoggyStyle in the cage that I was in and slides the bolt across. Then he comes over to me and attaches the leather lead to my collar, over the top of the padlock. I sigh at the thought of my collar and the padlock and having to rummage around in Conor’s poo tomorrow. A lot of the time I feel like I have the same thoughts over and over again: Replaying fucking Engel in the nine o’clock position with one foot on his face, figuring out the personality types of the people I meet and how I need to behave to get them to do what I want. Sometimes it feels like an endless loop of me trying to make sure everything floats downstream in exactly the way I want it. It’s exhausting. Thinking about sifting through Conor’s poo makes me realize this is something entirely new. And while the image is not so great, the fact that I haven’t ever had to think this before in my life is refreshing.

But wait, where are we now? Ah yes: Master Dom has taken the satchel bag with my clothes, reinserted the dog tail in me, and led me to a concrete basketball park a couple of blocks from his place and now he seems to be waiting for someone. I get a bit annoyed because suddenly this feels like a drug deal and up until now that has not been the vibe of the night at all, although DoggyStyle was sweating a lot but then every guy I have met on steroids seems to sweat a lot during sex. There was no other sign DoggyStyle was drug-fucked: When he was nipping at my neck, for example, his breath wasn’t that of a chain smoking fish that had eaten an anchovy pizza earlier.

Master Dom yanks on the lead with two quick sharp bursts and I understand I am again meant to kneel. I’m grateful for the kneepads right now. I can see someone heading over to us and I am about to break character and remind Master Dom that before we left for his place, I had agreed with him, no drug driven sex. But then the shadows disappear and I see the guy heading to us also has a guy on a lead. I stay on my knees, looking up as they approach. Wordlessly, the two men swap leashes and the man that now has mine pats his right thick quad. I take that I am meant to follow.

I get up and we head off. “Good boy,” my new master says.

He is younger than Master Dom, with a thick beard. He is dressed in a pair of Adidas high tops, long mesh basketball shorts, a thick silver chain, and a sleeveless hoodie that he has half-zipped up, revealing his smooth chest and no sign of a tank underneath or anything. I can see the outline of his semi-hard, thick cock through the basketball shorts so I think he has basically just the shorts and the hoodie on, no underwear or T-shirt. That gets me hot: I try and trot a little beside him, he gives me a side glance as if to say, tone it down a little.

By now we have walked over to the far edge of the basketball court and with his hand on my tail butt plug, he uses it to steer me in front of him and pushes me against the brick wall. In one move, he has pulled out the butt plug, lowered the top of his basketball shorts, and shoved his cock in me. I arch my back downwards so that my butt pushes out more so he can better fuck me. He repeats “Good boy,” which isn’t enough to get a take on his personality and know what he may be like.

I turn my head and rest my elbows on the wall in front of me so I can put my hand between my cheek and the brick wall and press myself up against it. Across the basketball court, I can see another guy in full leathers walking a guy in a pup mask on a lead. It must be doggie hour in Prenzlauer Berg.

Suddenly I remember that song by The Hollows in which the narrator watches two men fuck on a basketball court and I think, is this how that song got written? But then I realize this is completely different because in that song, he can hear pocket change jingling and right now, apart from the quiet breathy grunts of my new master, the night is silent.

(Idea for fetishwear: pockets.)

My new master has come already. The whole exchange and fucking scene took less time than the walk from Master Dom’s place to the park. Engel once told me that his rule of thumb for good sex was that the sex should last longer than the time it took to douche. I see now he has a point. Even as a top, this was a bit disappointing, if only because I wanted to see where else this night could take me and now it seems like it is ending.

Basketball Guy slides his dick out carefully, holding on to the top of the condom he was wearing. He holds it up to show me the splooge weighing down its end and then flicks it into the corner. I think it was a wasted opportunity to show me his basket skills, he could have walked off with it for a bit and then thrown it back through the hoop.

(Idea for porn film scene: basketballers flinging their clothes or toys through a hoop at each other and then... fucking?)

I swing the satchel with my clothes from over my shoulder to in front of me and start to pull on the rope so I can open it up. I begin to get dressed, and suppose the night is over.

Basketball Guy frowns at me as if to mime, what are you doing? He yanks on the leash to remind me I am still his pup and he turns me back around so forcefully I think for a second he is going to fuck me again, but instead he takes the dog tail butt plug he has been holding, spits on one end of it and then aggressively shoves it into me, which after being fucked several times, goes in easily and, I have no problem admitting, enjoyably.

After a short walk, we arrive at his place. His place is a corner apartment so we walk into the kitchen when we enter, then swing around through the lounge and loop back on ourselves to get to the bedroom hidden behind another wall. I notice he has a games controller and a big tv in the lounge, as if he had gotten up from playing videogames immediately before coming to get me. There is a bookshelf in the lounge corner that seems filled with CDs, game cartridges and baseball caps rather than any reading material.  

He leads me into his bedroom and positions me on the bed, removing my butt plug as he sits me down. This time I am sitting up with my back to the head board. Basketball Guy isn’t much of a talker, it is all eye contact and “Good boy,” when I move into the position he wants me.

I watch while he swaps out of the hoodie and shorts, puts on a jockstrap and a thick harness. He puts a basketball cap on, brim to the back. He holds up his hand, splays his fingers and points to my hand. I hold it up, mirroring his movement.

He takes a black rubber glove from the shelf on his bedside table and rolls it over my hand. My dick gets instantly hard again. Holy fuck, I think I am gonna get to fist this guy. I start taking long deep breaths to stop myself from getting into a frenzy of excitement and taking over.

He positions my gloved hand and forearm so it is pointing straight up and then he straddles me. He scoops up some Elbow Grease-brand cream and lathers it over the glove. He takes a long hit of amyl and positions his ass over my arm. I make a duck shadow puppet gesture with my hand, beak pointing upwards inquisitively at his hole. He starts to slowly lower himself down.

Once again, I ponder: Is this  what life is about? Instead of me trying to make everyone conform to my ideas, maybe I just need to accept people for who they are and let situations… open up in front of me. It occurs to me I have been learning the enneagram not out of any spiritual or intellectual interest but simply because I thought it might be another way to get people to do what I want, but now my desire to control how everyone responds seems excessive.

I feel a resistance. I am hitting his pelvic bone so I start making scooping movements with my duck-hand, screwing my knuckles around. I also feel a blockage in my thinking: I don’t want to accept that I don’t need to be the master all the time.

Writing porn scripts, studying the enneagram, having a pup boy, owning an actual dog, living alone, my whole life is about controlling what is happening. But when I take stock of what has happened tonight, I see myself going along with the situations in front of me, and it has been a lot of fun, leading me to this guys’ apartment, where I get to fist his greedy hole without me having manipulated this whole scene into existence.

Suddenly, Basketball Guy’s sphincter opens up enough to welcome me in and my whole fist and forearm slide in to just beyond my wrist. Feeling his cavity open up and bring my fist shifts something inside me of me as well and an intensity I didn’t even realise I was holding melts away: a new willingness to change how I use the enneagram, perhaps, so it is about working with where people are at rather than me trying to diagnose them so I can better tell them what to do.

As Basketball Guy bounces up and down on top of me, his palms pushing down on my chest as he rides my fist, I think of Engel and suddenly realize that his text didn’t say he couldn’t meet. He had been asking a question: a night in? He wanted to spend time with me outside of us playing. He was inviting me over.

My mind is racing now as I play back other conversations we have had over the last few weeks. The time he got upset with me because I insisted we take my car when we went out, even though it would have been easier to go in his. The text mid-last week where he was asking me how my day was and I wrote back with a long list of all the things I wanted to do to his body and he didn’t reply.

As my thoughts speed up, so too does Basketball Guy. It’s a hot view, watching him ride my arm, and I am grateful he is not a talker so I can think of Engel while I am fisting him. But I am also ready for this to be over. I want to talk with Engel and be with him, hold him in my arms and see him for who he is, not who I want him to be.

Basketball Guy starts making a long moan which gets higher pitched until it is almost a squeal. He shudders on top of me as he comes and then, like the single movement earlier when he pulled out my butt plug and shoved in his cock, he reverse slides off of me until he is standing in front of me, my empty arm pointing up, and he feeds me his softening cock so I can lick the cum off his foreskin.

I feel physically and mentally spent, yet energized at the same time. There is a rush of wanting to put in practice what I have learnt tonight, and I laugh at myself for wanting to control the idea of giving up control. This is going to take some effort. I dress, tongue-kiss Basketball Guy while patting his ass cheeks, and then I head home in a cab to Wilmersdorf.

I walk in the door at around 6 a.m. Conor comes to greet me and then sees what I am wearing and gives me his “we can catch up later” look. Not his kind of play. He heads back to his bed. As I peel off my leather pants, jockstrap and harness, my phone starts vibrating and I dive into my pants pocket to grab it. But my hands are slippery, even though I was wearing those gloves earlier, and I drop the phone. As I go to pick it up, I see a shiny glint of metal under the hallway table in front of the mirror.

“Hey babe,” I answer Engel as I get down on my knees (again), and reach for the metal object. “Getting ready for work?”

We chat briefly and I wait for him to suggest what we do this evening, holding myself back from telling him what time to be here and what to wear. He proposes taking Conor for an afternoon trip to Grunewald Forest.

As I grab the key that must have fallen under the table, I tell him I would love that. I make one suggestion: “This time, how about you drive?”