I
didn't expect to get claimed and collared by a Master that night,
but I did. I certainly didn't expect to get pumped full of cum and
piss in a back room, but that's exactly what happened.
I definitely never thought I'd get carried out of a bar by the hottest
man there, but I did that night.
Lots of boys got collared and claimed at the Dog Pound, everyone knew
that. I just never thought I'd be lucky enough to have it happen to
me.
The Dog Pound was the most popular bar in town, always packed full
of the hottest leathermen you could ask for. Every night you could
feast your
eyes on an incredible assortment of male flesh. The place was bursting
at the seams with enough sights, smells and tastes to fill my dreams
for
months at a time. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke that were laced with
the odors of beer and
sweat. Shiny black boots that made you want to drop to your knees
and worship them right then and there. Muscles stretching the fabric
of
t-shirts 'til it ripped. Crotches plump and full, the delicious hardness
beneath enough to drive you mad with desire. And everywhere, everywhere
was leather. Leather chaps parting to reveal perfect round ass-cheeks.
Leather vests
with stains so dark you wonder if they're sweat, cum or blood. Leather
collars encircling the necks of lucky slaves already claimed as property.
I
went to the Dog Pound fairly often, always thrilling to the sight
of
Masters choosing boys to claim and keep. It was easy to tell the
ones who
were serious apart from the others. Lots of men just came to the
Dog Pound to cruise and soak up the atmosphere. But the real crowd,
the crowd the place was famous for, was the hard-core SM/BD Master/slave
crowd. Those were men who took the life seriously, who saw leather
as a lifestyle, not just something to wear on Saturday nights.
You could always tell the hard-core Masters from the dress-ups.
It was hard to explain, but it was like an attitude, a way of carrying
himself,
that tipped you off. It was in the way a biker cap was tilted back
on a head, the way a pair of eyes smoked when they saw a choice
piece of meat,
the way a hand thoughtfully stroked a newly grown mustache or goatee.
Whatever it was, it kept me up night after night, dreaming and hoping
and longing for a day when I would be ready to be claimed by a real
man and taken home as his property. The boys, the ones who thought
they were hot enough to be claimed, were
easy to tell from the others. An unwritten law decreed that boys
who wanted to be claimed wore a plain black armband, on their right
arm of
course, as the signal to the Masters that they thought they made
the grade. Whether they did or not, of course, was up to the Masters.
That was the terrifying part. I had seen many boys who thought they
were ready for real slavery humiliated in front of the entire crowd,
scorned
and spit upon and sent home alone when they were found unsuitable.
As much as I wanted to be owned, the fear of being disgraced like
that was
even more powerful. Boys deemed unworthy never showed their butts
or faces in the Dog Pound again. The nightly drama went on and on,
as savage and primitive in its own way
as the spectacles enjoyed by the Greeks and Romans. There was something
mystical and powerful in it, like watching an age-old rite enacted
over and over again.
The Masters searched and hunted, their focus of attention always
thesame: the corner of the room designated for those who wanted
to be
claimed. There, under a sign that read "LOST DOGS", the
boys stood. Some were
frightened, others proud and arrogant. Sometimes they were as far
away from each other as they could be, other times huddled together
like the
pack of scared dogs they were. The boys preened and strutted in
front ofthe Masters like wild birds showing off exotic plumage,
each one's mind
burning with the singular desire to catch a Master's fancy and to
be taken
to the back room of the bar...
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