This is an unsubmitted work but still retains copyright. It is here, as an advanced "taste" of what is to come.


Rancid, that’s the word I was looking for. Not tangy or any of the other wanky descriptors emblazoned on the outside of the pack. Ever since good old Minos of Crete slapped a goat’s bladder on his tickler, inventors have sought Nirvana: condoms that taste as good as the real thing. Brother, nothing tastes as good as the real thing. Of course, they smell divine, and at first the chocolate flavour adds a touch of decadence to the proceedings, but barely palatable to begin with, after a few decent sucks, the lousy lingering lilt of latex returns. Unfortunately, the orange, coconut and banana varieties taste just as putrid. Compactylon, retractylon, sensatylon or whatever the damn things are called might be an improvement, but thanks to the huge bag of bucks the manufacturer donated to tonight’s charity, we were stuck with these God Awful things.

In a way, it was my own fault for taking so bloody long to finish the guy off. Too bad I wasn’t as efficient as my fellow participant in the “Blowjob for Bucks” segment of this evening’s entertainment. The young kid must have a fucking Hoover for a mouth, cycling his clientele through like a bottling plant. Cock in mouth, quick suck, full condom, next please. Trouble is, I was brought up to believe that if a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Judging by the moans of appreciation coming from a few feet above my head, at least the guy connected to the dick in my mouth seemed to agree.

Next time, Fred, the host and organiser of tonight’s little entertainment, should charge by the minute, not by the load. That way my tally would match the Hoover or Dyson or whatever the twink is called. Dawson. That’s right. Dawson the Dyson. Good name. I might suggest that when we finally come up for air. Much better than his current porn star tag.

He’s probably in better shape than me. Doing this day in and day out for a living whereas I earn more money in my usual line of work. A lot more. In fact, now I think of it, I should have just calculated my earnings and donated the amount instead of wearing out my knees. In fact, without my trusty knee pads, I wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. Lucky my long frock disguised the fact I was cheating, but long experience taught me what two hours in this position felt like, and it wasn’t as if Fred’s decorating budget ran to plush pile carpets in the games room of the Club Paradiso.

Mind you, given the amount of actual cock in mouth time I’d managed to score lately, I should be grateful for the opportunity. Lean pickings ever since.... No, we won’t go there. But that might explain my reluctance to rush.

The invitation to participate seemed simple enough. “Get your ass back here and put that mouth of yours to good use for a change.” Man of few words is our Fred. I thought he was just slinging off at the stand-up routine I’d been amusing myself with during the four years of my voluntary exile in Britain. Silly ol’ me.

I’d protested, initially. As you do. But the devil made me do it. Come to think of it the devil has made me do a lot of things lately. Seems that while I managed to avoid the more physical varieties, over the last couple of years, a Trojan virus had wormed its way into my brain, short-circuiting any common sense that would have warned me that coming back to Australia was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

I took another long, slow slurp along the shaft in my mouth and wondered whether that was indeed the case: one sucked Trojan too many.

For various reasons, I’d taken care to lay low while living in London. But Fred knew how to contact me thanks to a Good Luck email I sent when I heard through the grapevine that he was now managing the hotel where we met.

“You’ll need it,” I added, “but if anyone can make a success of that dive, you can!”

An invitation to participate in tonight’s opening extravaganza came soon after. “It would be a good way to get back into the scene,” he suggested along with a lot of other things he thought we might get up to, but we weren’t going there either. He seemed especially keen for me to have a chat with Master D, an American BDSM expert who was also putting on a performance later. He had to be joking. A Leather man was the last person I wanted to talk to. Tonight, it was all about seeing who was in the scene without being seen, if you catch my drift.

The poor bastard nearly had a coronary when I turned up a couple of weeks later, dressed to impress. He’d never seen me in drag before, but after he picked himself up off the floor and stopped laughing, he could see the potential. Apparently, some of the guys invited to this special event are straight. Hooeee. “And they might actually prefer to be sucked off by someone who looks like a girl,” he added. Yeah. Especially when that girl bears a stunning resemblance to Stevie Nicks.

Okay, I know she’s not your usual subject for impersonation, but with all the other female rock stars being done to death, once I got that curly wig on my head, the image kinda stuck. Who would have thought I’d ever be grateful for the pretty-boy face that had been the bane of my existence growing up, or be able to quit worrying about my lack of inches or the fact that no matter how much I ate, I never put on any weight. Once, my muscles would have been a dead giveaway, but since my departure from this great Southern land, I’d lost a lot of my previous ‘condition.’ The lack of a fucking controlling Daddy forever on my tail, wielding the proverbial bullwhip, both metaphorical and physical to make me bench press ad nauseum certainly helped.

Ah, finally. The cock in my mouth swelled and jerked, filling the condom I had carefully smoothed on ten minutes ago. Damn it, Dyson was already onto his third punter and my next one was still sheepishly taking his flaccid member out. While he readied himself, I applied some more Pawpaw ointment, waggled my jaw to release the aching muscles and batted my baby blues at him.

After I finished him off,  my allotted stint sped by, and I soon passed my companion’s count. Years of experience gradually coming to the fore again. Nice to know I hadn’t entirely lost my cock-sucking skills.

A sudden commotion at the entrance to the billiard room broke my concentration. I nearly gagged on the specimen in my mouth.

“See, we told you Stevie Nicks was here!”

Stevie Tricks to you, dahling. I gave a stronger than usual suck, finishing off with a half twist and poke (my tongue in his slit for those not conversant with the lingo). If this had been a contest, the judges would have given me a perfect ten for execution and a similar score for artistry. The resulting spurts in the condom, reflected the agreement of my captive audience of one.

“But he’s a guy!”

She’s a guy, I muttered to myself, but let’s not get too technical here. Although I dressed in drag on occasions, I didn’t give a fuck what anyone called me.

Now that I no longer had a cock in my mouth, I was able to peruse the newcomers more closely. So far, the guys we’d been sucking off were random dudes of varying shapes and sizes, regular party-goers, happy to be attended to by the visiting “celebrities”. The men crowding the doorway were definitely different. These must be the “straight” boys Fred warned me about. Members of a local Rugby club, University or Randwick. I forget which. Apparently, one of their number was getting married soon, and for his buck’s party they promised him a blow job from Stevie Nicks.

Judging by the appalled look on the young blonde’s face, he’d been shown a promotional flyer and someone’s thumb had probably carefully concealed my tricked-up surname. Shame. He was seriously cute. Obviously quick enough on his feet to avoid most of the tackles that would have ground his pretty face in the dirt. Straight as a die though. I could always tell. My gaydar was set at eleven.

I eyed off his companions. Most were well over six foot with shoulders designed to hold up a 900 kilo scrum. The intended groom was slighter, younger, with an innocence about him the others last had when they were fifteen, no make that, ten years old.

Five years of slave training proved good for something. Gathering up the black lace of my hanky dress, I rose gracefully to my feet and flicked the long drop cuffs out of my way. “What’s the matter, hon? Surely, you’re not afraid of little ol’ me?” A purist would have found all sorts of things wrong with my accent, but at least I sounded like the husky voiced singer. The wear and tear on my throat from the recent activity helped.

“See, Marty, we told you she was here.” A few sniggers as well as a few hiccups accompanied this comment. Hopefully, they’d purchased their liquor at Fred’s bar, so at least he’d get some income from these turkeys. The kid still looked like he’d just been told he had to walk along Oxford Street in his birth day suit, but hey, maybe he’d done that already.

I scanned the last speaker from tip to toe. Bald, arms the size of my legs, cauliflower ears, the whole shebang. Damn, didn’t they grow them big nowadays! Imagine that great hulk tackling you at full speed. I beckoned him forward and in my most sultry voice said, “How about you go first, honey. Show him there’s nothing to be scared of.” It’s a wonder my fake eyelashes didn’t fall off, I fluttered them so hard.

“Go on, Rob.” The look of relief on his young friend’s face made me smile.

Rob didn’t resist too hard, which I found interesting. Maybe he wasn’t a total novice? I was vaguely aware of the required fee for service changing hands, but most of my concentration was fixed on the shaking fingers fumbling at his waistband as he unveiled his nice long uncut cock. I’d been doing a count as I went. Interesting how the younger they were, the greater the proportion were uncircumcised. I should pass on my findings to the Intactivists and claim that tonight’s activities were purely for research. This time, I chose a banana flavour condom. Suitably phallic. But a real one would have been better, I was feeling a tad peckish.I sighed as I sank down to the floor again, spreading out my skirt around me. Oh well, back to work.

When everything was in readiness, I caught Rob’s eye. “Crouch,” I said and winked. Well, now that I was kneeling again, his crotch was a tad too high. Baldie eventually worked out what I wanted and spread his stance, bringing his groin down to my level. By now, his cock filled the condom nicely and was straining toward me. I glanced around at his friends. Most had their mouths open; a few muttered some smart arse comments to hide their nervous interest. The groom-to-be had managed to worm his way to the rear of the pack and peered around from behind their broad backs, his face a nice shade of chartreuse. Poor darling, probably imagining himself in Rob’s position in a few minutes time. Shame Marty was so reluctant, he was by far the best looking of the bunch.

I glanced up again and smirked, murmuring in a throaty voice so all the room could hear. “Touch.” Leaning forward, I brushed my lips briefly against Rob’s cock, pulled back and uttered, “Pause.” The onlookers caught on, and a thunderous roar of “Engage” erupted as I engulfed his cock in my mouth. After that, the tension in the air diminished as I gradually worked my way through the team. In fact, things became a tad too boisterous at times, as they queried whether I was binding properly or if the ball was in there yet. The noise undoubtedly spilled over to the rest of the pub, drawing in other onlookers. I still had to service the groom-to-be and my lips already felt like footballs despite my ability to get them off quicker.

Still, Marty hung back, encouraging everyone else to have their turn first. Good thinking, kid. There were enough willing dicks present to keep me happy for ages. I settled down to my task again. Although small, the cock currently being lapped lovingly by my tongue, was a beautiful shape and hard as a rock. Big cocks are often unattractive and disappointingly soft, don’t you think? Personally, I think size isn’t as important as appearance. The best ones are well proportioned, straight, not too veiny, with just the right amount of trimmed hair. Suspended underneath should be a smooth non-sagging nutsack filled with nice big balls. Is that asking for too much?

The sharp click of heeled boots on the hard wooden floor and the resulting deathly silence made me pause in mid suck. A familiar smell swamped all the other aromas as I sensed someone standing behind me. The scent of sex, musk and flavored condoms vanished as if sucked up by a vacuum, leaving only one behind. Leather.

I took a deep breath in through my nose, filling my nostrils with the memory of something that had filled my nights and days for so long that it felt like there had never been a time when it hadn’t.

The whole atmosphere in the room changed. The guy whose cock I was sucking tensed, but he didn’t pull away. I resisted the temptation to turn and see who had arrived. At first, I thought it might be the vice squad, arriving to put an end to our gay little orgy, but this was a different kind of tension. More like a confrontation with an opposing rugby team. Then another familiar blast from the past tore at my concentration, making me involuntarily clench my jaw tighter. The soft tap, tap, tap of a crop or whip handle against a boot. Blindfolded or not, I knew what caused that noise.

“Carry on.”

I shut my eyes at the hint of the American accent thankful for confirmation that the new arrival wasn’t Julius, my ex-Master, my ex-lover. Then the words themselves sank in. Who did the fucktard think he was, issuing instructions, granting me permission? I tensed further. There had been no friendliness in his tone either, more disdain. Or was that just my imagination working overtime?

I’d thought I’d be fine when confronted by reminders of my past. But if I reacted like this to a perfect stranger, how would I react to Julius? The guy I was servicing grabbed my head for balance or maybe I clenched a tad too tight.

“Hands off!”

A quick slap on his wrist with what turned out to be the base of a coiled whip, swept the offending hand away. Whips. Leather. Control. No, I’d put an end to all that shit, hadn’t I? Taken back control of my own life. Then the smell grew stronger as his leather-clad hand settled on my shoulder. Not enough pressure to hurt, just enough to remind me of his presence, and to let others know who was in charge here.

My skin burned under the grip of the leather-gloved hand. I shuddered. This is a test, I told myself. If I was going to confront Julius, I had to be able to deal with things like this. They meant nothing. Nothing! Burying the deeply programmed instinct to clasp my elbows behind my back and adopt the familiar position, I grasped the base of the cock I was sucking. Aided by some jacking off – cheating I know - I finally got the rugby player off and pulled my mouth away as his condom filled.

Resting back on my booted heels, I spread the black lace material around me like a fan, trying to recapture my previous confidence. That bloody hand still rested on my shoulder. Who did this guy think he was? I’d been coping just fine until he arrived. Sure, at times the boys had been a little rough and made me gag as they thrust down my throat. “Carried away in the heat of the moment,” they apologised afterwards. It’s not as if I was a total novice at breath play anyway. Then this dickhead had to come along and spoil everything by reminding me of all the things I hated about guys who wore leather. Damn. I still hadn’t got around to administering the suck-of-life to Marty. He’d finally reached the front of the line, and his attention was divided between my face and the person standing behind me. From the corner of my eye, I could just see the toes of what looked like black motorcycle boots, their surface so shiny they just begged to be licked. But I didn’t do that anymore. Did I?

Holding out my gloved hand to Marty, I daintily rose to my feet. The hand at my shoulder resisted for a second, but with a sharp twitch I managed to dislodge its restraint. “Thanks, honey,” I said and drew in close to the groom-to-be’s side, fitting under his arm as easily as if I was born to be there. Gad, and he was one of the small ones? I winked at him and squeezed his hand slightly before turning to glare at my unwanted protector.

From the way he commanded attention in the room I expected someone taller, but staring back at me, his face a thundercloud, and his black moustache bristling with pent up irritation was a guy about my size. I relaxed for a second, safe in the protection of Marty’s loose embrace and returned the stranger’s scrutiny.

This must be Master D. If I’d been asked to paint a picture of the quintessential leather jock, I couldn’t have done better. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Tom of Finland calendar. Under his matching leather cap, perched at just the right angle, his bristly face fuzz and short cropped hair showed signs of silver. He still had his jacket on, although the air-conditioning was struggling to keep the temperature down to bearable. Blessed with broad shoulders and judging by the way his soft leather pants clung to them, even his thighs seemed to have muscles on muscles. Glossy highway patrol boots covered the lower half of his legs. I was right, you could see your reflection in them. A bitchy voice inside wondered which sucker he’d bullied into cleaning them.

Julius would have given his back teeth to have looked as good as this guy. He didn’t just wear the leather, he was the embodiment of Leather. Old Guard Leather. I wondered fleetingly whether he had a hanky handy. I could do with a nose wipe. Careful, Joe, I admonished myself, you know where sass like that got you last time.

I drew myself up to my full five foot seven inches, glad of the additional height the platform soles and heels gave me. The guy’s gaze hadn’t wavered throughout my silent scrutiny. It was as if we were carrying on a silent conversation that the other people present had no knowledge of, let alone understanding. The disdain I’d detected in his voice was reflected in his eyes, their narrowed edges failing to disguise his feelings. Remember who is the Master here.

No. Not anymore. This man had no power over me. I had to stop thinking that way. He was my equal. But if he thought I was going to meet up with him later, he was dreaming.

With a coquettish shake of my long curly wig, I smiled sweetly at Marty and said, “Why don’t you and I disappear upstairs, then you can have your way with me.”