FRICTION FICTION: BONDAGE NIGHT AT THE ROPE ‘N’ RIDE by Josh Lloyd (1986)

[monshanjik]

FRICTION FICTION: BONDAGE NIGHT AT THE ROPE ‘N’ RIDE by Josh Lloyd (1986)

BONDAGE NIGHT AT THE ROPE ‘N’ RIDE

By Josh Lloyd

(Honcho.May.1986.)

"Saddle up, guys! It's Bondage Night at the Rope 'n' Ride!"

The Rope 'n' Ride got its name from the moth-eaten cow head over the
bar. Its stubby horns were cracked, and one of its glass eyes had been
gouged out long ago. Regulars called it Gussie.

Until about a year ago, Gussie had presided over an exclusively Western
bar — no bikers, no heavy-leather S&M, no punks or rough trade. Just a
bunch of friendly old acquaintances who liked to dress up and play
wranglers together, plus the new faces of whatever lonesome cowboys
might wander in for the first time, usually on weekends.

Nobody was a stranger for long, and the regulars, whose numbers held
steady, kept the place in the black, if not quite in the chips. The
bathroom was fairly active as a back room, but at least it was "a clean,
well lighted place," and the faces and the asses and the cocks were
familiar to each other.

In effect the Rope 'n' Ride was just your basic, easy going neighborhood
gay bar — in Western drag. That was before the plague. And that was
before Neal.

All over the city bar business in general had fallen off. Several had
closed. Of the survivors, most had more of a margin than the Rope 'n'
Ride, which was beginning to teeter on the brink of unprofitability.
Then the owners got an idea, from Neal.

Neal Landres was a seasoned barback with a loyal following among the raw
sex crowd. But the notorious S&M club where he had held court for years
had recently shuttered, "voluntarily," and he had come to the Rope 'n'
Ride looking for work and offering advice: "These days a lot of people
are tightening their belts, so to speak. But there's plenty of hot guys
like myself who've thought things over and decided to take our chances
and keep living the way we've been living. There may not be enough of us
to keep ten bars thriving, but if one place let it be known that all
scenes are welcome . . . "

Neal was hired and his advice was followed. He led each promotion with
such enthusiasm and so much success that the owners kept him on even
after he'd proven himself shockingly irresponsible as a barback. They
couldn't fire Neal. He was too popular. The customers would riot.

Jeff hated special promotions. He felt they attracted rough trade and
encouraged the regulars to act crazy. He was right, of course; that was
the idea. He understood that. And he hated it. Often he stood behind the
bar with a fierce scowl that kept his lean face from being handsome.
Frown lines around his eyes and mouth made him look older than his 31
years.

On Bondage Night, Jeff was frantically washing glasses. They drained
themselves faster than he could fill them and shove them across the bar
top. A scant two hours after opening, the bar was buried under a
mountain of sticky glassware. Two biker studs and a cowboy glared at
Jeff, loudly demanding vodka and tonic, a scotch and water, and a
screwdriver.

"Doesn't anyone drink beer anymore?" Jeff sloshed a handful of glasses
through the suds. "You know, beer that you drink right out of the
bottle?"

"Drinks are two for one if you came in harness, and this is a harness,"
the blond cowboy explained. He was shirtless, with an intricate
arrangement of rope knotted around his hairy torso. "We want our money's
worth. Don't blame us if you're understaffed. Where's your barback?"

"Neal's probably tied up somewhere."

"Naturally. It's Bondage Night," said the cute biker. He and his ugly
companion giggled.

"It's not fair," Jeff grumbled. He set a glass in front of the cute
biker and wondered if the bastard would notice that it contained Scotch
and soapy water. It was just like Neal to take off on the busiest night
of the month, sticking Jeff with all the shit work.

It wasn't the first time. When God handed out brains, Neal asked for a
double scoop of Marshmallow Fluff. He had a trim, muscular body, but it
lost its appeal when you realized he offered it to every guy in the
city, or at least every guy at the Rope 'n' Ride. Neal changed lovers as
often as he changed hair color, which last month had been Peppy Ginger
but was now a shade called Midnight Sable. Neal considered promiscuity
part of his job description.

"What a fuck up," Jeff muttered, setting a glass in front of the ugly
biker. The cute biker peered into his scotch and soap with a puzzled
frown.

AIDS had destroyed what the place had always been. Neal had ushered in
the new era. Jeff Callahan, with six years as bartender under his belt,
had survived the transition only barely, and with a great deal of
resentment. Particularly for Neal.

"What did you call me?" growled the ugly biker. Rage made him uglier.
His squinty eyes vanished in folds of flesh, while his pimples swelled
to twice their size.

"He called you a fuck up," offered the cute biker helpfully. "He put
dishwater in my drink, too."

"It was an accident," Jeff lied. Why had he given in to the malicious
impulse? He should have known he couldn't get away with shit like that.
If Neal had done it, it would have been a good joke; but Jeff, as usual,
had gotten caught. If only fluff brained Neal were here! He'd smooth it
over, in his dumb but sexy way. Something like, "Ooh, you want to beat
me? Baby, my ass is yours!"

Jeff tried to say something similar, but the words stuck in his throat.
He couldn't bring himself to coo, flirt, or grovel. Not with a guy whose
face resembled day old pizza.

The biker made a fist with one black gloved hand. The gloves were
fingerless and had a row of spikes across the knuckles.

"I'm sorry," said Jeff. He tried to sound humble, but it came out
sarcastic.

"Mash his face to a bloody pulp," encouraged the cute biker. Jeff
couldn't believe his ears. The guy had curly blond hair and a round,
boyish face. Who'd have thought he'd turn out to be such a bloodthirsty
little devil?

"Be reasonable," Jeff told the angry couple. "You can't kill me in here.
There are too many witnesses."

"Hell, I won't stop you," put in the blond cowboy. "It'll serve the
little shit right for what he did to our drinks."

"Look, it was a mistake," Jeff protested.

But the three customers were out for blood. Two ham like fists in black
leather grabbed his shoulders in a crushing grip, while the cute biker
grabbed one of Jeff's legs and the cowboy took the other. Jeff felt
himself being hauled into the air, then flung down on the bar amid
shattering glassware. The ugly biker's bulldog grip shifted to the nape
of Jeff's neck, and he felt his face being pressed relentlessly toward a
vat of maraschino cherries.

"Guys, can't we talk about this?" he begged, before his face smashed
into the cherries and his words became a choking gurgle.

"What's going on here?"

Abruptly the pressure let up on Jeff's neck. With crushed cherries
dripping from his chin, he lifted his head to glimpse his rescuer. It
was Neal, but if Jeff hadn't recognized his voice he wouldn't have known
the barback. Neal's hair, which had been black yesterday, was now
bluish-green and stood up in stiff spikes all over his head. His long,
slim legs were encased in chaps so tight it appeared Neal's legs had
turned from flesh to tubes of black leather. He looked outrageously hot,
but as always Neal had taken it a step too far. He wasn't wearing
anything under the chaps. His cock, which was larger than average,
seemed to dangle to his knees. His balls swung to and fro as he took a
step forward.

"Hey, man, green hair," said the baby faced biker, half stunned and half
admiring.

"It's not green, it's Tender Turquoise," explained Neal. He slipped a
hand under his cock and pulled it up and away from his body. The cowboy
and the bikers stood transfixed as Neal showed off his full eight
inches. A few more strokes, and Neal's cock was standing on its own. He
continued to slide his hand up and down his shaft, but he never looked
at it. Somehow his eyes locked with the cowboy's and both bikers at once
as he asked, "Why are you all messing around at the bar? The real
action's in the men's room in about five minutes. Get me?"

Neal led them off like an X-rated Pied Piper. Dazed, Jeff climbed off
the bar. It took him five minutes to wipe his face and bandage a hand
cut by flying glassware. Then it took him almost 30 minutes to clean up
the spilled liquor and broken glass. His initial gratitude toward Neal
began to fade. Eventually he forgot that Neal had rescued him from
serious bodily harm. All he could think was that Neal was off screwing
around while he, Jeff, was stuck sweeping the floor and scrubbing the
glasses. It wasn't fair!

God, how he hated this place and all the stupid, lowlife rutters who, in
record crowds night after night, had turned the place into the most
popular — and now almost the only — sleaze bar in town. Most of all he
hated the Pied Piper of Sleaze who was leading the pitifully fatalistic
dance of death. Jeff refused to join the dance, but so far he had chosen
to remain in the dance hall. He told himself it was only because he
needed the job. Most of the time he managed to believe himself.

When the last piece of glass was swept up, Neal appeared. His cock was
half erect and didn't appear any the worse for what it had been through
in the men's room. His turquoise hair was tousled, and he had a shit
eating grin on his face.

"What took you so long?" Jeff demanded.

Neal blinked. "Huh? Oh, I forgot it was Bondage Night. Had to go home
and change my clothes."

"I'm not asking why you're late for work, fluff-head. I want to know
what you were doing in that bathroom."

Neal smiled stupidly. "It's payday, Jeff. I wanted to blow a few bucks."

"You stupid fuck up!" Jeff screamed.

People turned and stared. "He's on drugs," someone murmured. The crowd
began to edge away from the bar.

Jeff pounded his fist on the bar top. Christ! Here was Neal, stoned or
maybe coked up from the way his pupils were spinning, and people thought
Jeff was on drugs!

"I've had enough of your abuse," said Neal quietly.

Jeff looked up, shocked, as Neal reached across the bar and grabbed him
by the throat. The room spun as Neal's wiry fingers closed tighter
around Jeff's windpipe.

"You owe me one," Neal growled. Jeff clawed at Neal's hands, but Neal's
fingers were steel bands. "I saved your life, remember? Now I want
something in return."

"What do you want" Jeff tried to say. It came out a gasping gurgle.

"I want your ass," Neal snarled. "You've been holding out on me too damn
long."

The audience cheered. Actually cheered! Jeff felt betrayed. Here were
guys he'd served and — among those from the old crowd — guys whose
troubles he'd listened to. Now all were crying out with equal relish for
his humiliation.

"Stick it to him!" shouted a voice in the crowd. "Put Mr. Hard-ass in
his place!"

There was no escape. Men in leather hemmed him in on every side as Neal
marched him triumphantly to the bathroom. A black guy was blowing a
redhead by the urinals. They saw Neal's murderous face and scurried out
without zipping their flies, no doubt to continue their reckless
depravity in public.

Jeff gathered his strength. He tensed to break Neal's strangle hold, but
before he could try anything Neal abruptly released him. Jeff opened his
mouth to reason with Neal, but when he looked into Neal's drug-glazed
eyes he knew it was hopeless. He headed for the door.

"They're out there," said Neal quietly. "Everyone at the Rope 'n' Ride
hates you. Tonight it's Bondage Night and they want your blood."

Jeff laughed nervously. "You're full of shit, man. That scuffle at the
bar was just horseplay that got out of hand."

"Maybe." Neal's pupils dilated even further. He rested a hand on his
cock, which was slowly stiffening into a lethal looking weapon. "Maybe
it started that way, but it got serious real fast. Nobody likes you,
Jeff. You're a hard-ass who spoils everybody's fun. You're a smartass
preacher of safe sex who hangs out with the rough crowd to lord your
superiority over them. That mob out there's been simmering a long time.
Just like the tension simmering between you and me. Tonight I'm gonna
find out how hard your ass really is!"

The smell of sweat and leather filled Jeff's nostrils as Neal moved
closer. Jeff realized that some of the sweat was his own.

This couldn't be happening! Neal took another step. He had a cocky
swagger, with pelvis thrust forward so that Jeff couldn't help staring
at his cock. At least Jeff told himself he couldn't help looking. At
least he almost believed himself. Neal's cock was thick and rigid and
long and deadly. Jeff's own cock tingled in response. Why? I can't help
it, Jeff thought; it's as instinctive as salivating over the charbroiled
smell of a thick juicy steak. That accounted for his attraction to
"thick and rigid and long." But what about "deadly"? How could he
explain that away?

"Let's talk next week."

"I want to hear you say yes before I go. This is a very good thing we've
got here."

"There are other guys in Washington, you realize."

"Don't say that." He was mad. "Don't ever let me hear you say that
again."

God, we sound like we're already married, I thought.

I grabbed his head. I figured it was OK to lie because if I said no he'd
just get the idea more fixed in his head. If I said yes, tomorrow
morning he'd wake up with every good reason marshaled against such an
unexpected change and nostalgically drop my number in his wastebasket.

"OK."

He smiled, shrewd and boyish. He'd got what he wanted for the moment.

"I know this is going to work out just great."

I still like to think that right then he really believed it.

Jeff thought of the times he'd wanted to cut loose, wanted to roll
around on the floor with no thought to precautions or consequences.
Neal's large cock, Neal's shapely buns, Neal's pink erect nipples . . .
he could have them all, find out what he was missing. But Neal was a
walking AIDS epidemic! At the very least, he probably had herpes or
syph. Jeff couldn't risk it. He mustn't. He'd always taken the warnings
about safe sex to heart. And yes, he'd preached them self righteously to
everyone in the new Rope 'n' Ride.

So why wasn't he making a break for the door? He told himself he had no
choice in the matter. Neal's drug-boosted strength was too much for him,
and the angry mob in the bar was on Neal's side. You're doomed, his mind
said, but at least you can go down fighting.

Then why was he sinking to his knees without a struggle? Because his
body was overpowering his mind? Or was this just another empty
rationalization? Was his body overpowering his mind, or was it simply
that his real, long denied desires were asserting themselves over fake
convictions? He reached for Neal's cock. It burned like a red hot poker
in his hand. As he brought it closer to his mouth, smells of piss and
assailed him. Sweat gleamed on Neal's belly, matting the trail of
brown hairs that led to Neal's gorgeous cock. An answering burst of
sweat flooded Jeff's armpits. His whole body shook as he swallowed
Neal's fuckpole.

He was shaking with fear and dread and revulsion and, undeniably, with
intense lust — lust for the forbidden. The sucking and chewing which had
once been a routine part of giving a blow job were anything but routine
now. His lips trembled and his teeth chattered with excitement. His
throat tightened possessively around Neal's throbbing meat.

Neal twined his hands in Jeff's hair and shoved Jeff's face closer to
his leather-clad thighs. His legs spread farther apart, only to clamp
suddenly around Jeff's head. Jeff started to gag. Neal's cock clogged
his throat; Neal's granite stomach smashed his nose; Jeff's head was
trapped by two leathery pillars! Neal was forcing Jeff to do this. Jeff
had no choice . . . no choice . . . no choice . . .

As Neal clenched and unclenched his thighs, Jeff felt like a mouse being
shaken in the jaws of a tomcat. Fear and anger warred with arousal. The
knowledge that someone might enter the restroom at any moment and see
him like this — Jeff, who had never been popular but was always sensible
and careful — filled him with horror even as it turned him on.

"God, I love fucking your face," breathed Neal, rocking back and forth
with him, one hand on the rim of a urinal for support. "I don't know why
I wanted you so bad. I've had 'em younger, cuter, with better bodies.
But you were the only one I couldn't have, and getting you became an
obsession. I've got to have you totally, Jeff. Do you take it up the
ass?"

Neal released him so he could answer. Jeff sprawled on the floor,
breathing hard. One hand landed in a puddle of somebody else's . Ugh!
Again he was aware of his disgusting surroundings. Maybe he could end
this scene by saying he'd never been fucked in the ass. But it wasn't
true, and besides, he could tell by the hard gleam in Neal's eye that it
wouldn't make any difference. Okay, so maybe it wasn't a hard gleam.
Maybe Neal was committed to the pretense of offering Jeff a choice. But
it was just a pretense — wasn't it? Nothing Jeff could say would stop
Neal from fucking him — would it?

"Sure. I like it," Jeff replied. "But maybe we should do this the right
way. At my apartment. I've got condoms and — "

Neal's booted foot kicked out, catching him in the middle of his
T-shirted chest. Jeff's shoulders were driven back, and his skull
cracked against a stall door. As Jeff gasped in pain and surprise, Neal
vented his rage.

"None of that clean pansy stuff for me! Meat's gotta be raw or it's not
worth having." His green hair bristled as his eyes blazed hotly. "Risk
is half the thrill, man. It always has been. Now it's just a bigger risk
— and a bigger thrill. Strip! Strip or I'll claw those jeans off you!"

Neal would do it. Neal would rip apart and ruin Jeff's 30 dollar jeans.
Again Jeff assured himself he had no choice. He slipped out his clothes
and tossed them into a corner.

Neal sneered at what he saw, and then he laughed out loud — a long
luxurious, derisive laugh. "You hypocrite! Look at this." He rubbed
Jeff's rigid, twitching dick and bulging balls. He massaged more
vigorously, and a drop of pre- squeezed out of Jeff's cock slit.
"You're ready to shoot! You're closer to coming than I am! You want
this, baby. You want it as bad as I do. Maybe worse."

Jeff was now lost in a bizarre and compelling dream, a fantasy whose
allure was so mesmerizing he was powerless to resist. Some small part of
him heard Neal accusing him of complicity in his own downfall, but Neal
didn't know what he was talking about. Neal was an airhead, a beautiful,
deadly, seductive airhead. What did he know of his own powers and of
Jeff's desperate attempts to escape them? At any rate, Jeff could escape
no longer.

Jeff turned, offering his ass to Neal. He couldn't deny it. His balls
were aching to give. He was afraid, but his balls were fearless.

"Not that way!" Neal barked. "On the floor! Down on your belly in the
piss and grime!"

Jeff hesitated. Neal shoved him hard. He fell to the floor, his head
narrowly missing the urinals.. Neal's body loomed over him. He felt the
sticky slap of hot black leather on his bare thighs as Neal mounted him.
Neal wedged something hot between the cheeks of his trembling ass. Jeff
squirmed as Neal forced past the ring of tight muscle and pressed
urgently against his prostate.

"Tight," Neal grunted, withdrawing his finger. "But I can loosen you
up."

Neal spat noisily into his hand and rubbed the spit into Jeff's ass
crack. Jeff remembered all the jars and bottles of lube he had at
home."Yet not one of those safe, sanitary encounters had turned him on
like this squalid tumble. No gentle, sensible, responsible lover had
ever stirred him half as deeply as Neal with his ruthless brutality.

Neal stuffed his slick cock past Jeff's shuddering sphincter until the
thick meat filled and stretched the empty space inside Jeff. Neal thrust
with merciless rapidity. He panted with exertion as he rode Jeff's ass.
The force behind his thrusts was so strong it shoved Jeff forward
several inches across the tile floor. After almost 15 minutes, Neal's
hips gave a tremendous shudder and he filled Jeff's ass with a flood of
hot, foamy cream. Simultaneously, shot out of Jeff's cock to mingle
and merge with the layers of stale piss and and grime on the toilet
floor.

Abruptly, Jeff awoke from his dream. The filthy surroundings were no
longer charged with sexual heat. Once again, they were simply filthy,
diseased, deadly. The ecstasy had crescendoed and subsided. Jeff was
left with nothing but dread, self loathing, and panic.

The minute Neal released him, Jeff darted into a stall. He tore off a
wad of toilet paper and tried to wipe up the that trickled from his
asshole. Most of it was beyond his reach, deep in his guts.

"What are you doing?" Neal sounded genuinely surprised.

"Look at that!" Jeff pointed to a sign on the wall: "Rules for Safe
Sex." "You've broken every one of them! You've been with every sleaze in
town! I can't take chances."

Neal sat on a sink and folded his arms. "That's right, you never take
chances. Until now."

"I didn't take the chance just now — you forced it on me."

"I took what I wanted from you, Jeff, yes, but I didn't force you to
enjoy it — and you did. I didn't force your cock to get hard — but it
did. I didn't force you to shoot — but, goddammit, you did!"

"What could I do, damn you!"

"Nothing, I guess, except admit it was just what you've been dying for
ever since you met me. If you won't admit it to me, at least admit it to
yourself. For a year now you've been giving everybody around here a hard
time because you were jealous. You complained about the changes at the
Rope 'n' Ride, but you stuck around. And don't give me that shit about
needing the job. You're a good bartender. There are plenty of places —
gay and straight — where you could get work. But you stayed here so you
could have a front row seat at the circus. Now you've been pulled into
the center ring — which is exactly where you wanted to be! Stop wip-ing
at your ass, Jeff. Don't you know it's hopeless?"

Jeff hung in the stall doorway, exposed and defeated. All the care he
had taken with his life, down the drain. One time, that's all it takes.
One time doing the wrong things with the wrong guy. And Neal was
definitely the wrong guy. And they had broken every rule together.

One time.

Jeff could feel Neal's sperm inside him — deep, where he could never get
at it. At this very moment the invader might be doing its work,
reproducing itself, devouring him cell by cell. How long would it take?
How long would it be before he knew one way or the other? How long would
he have to live with this dread? Or how long before the cause of his
dread showed itself — and killed him?

Jeff began to tremble. His shoulders heaved and twitched. Tears
collected in the corners of his eyes and tumbled down his cheeks. He
didn't see Neal moving toward him. He only knew when he was surrounded
by Neal, the man's arms wrapped tightly about him, chest pressed against
chest. He felt Neal's lips on his forehead. And then he heard Neal
speaking. He could feel the words as well as hear them; he could feel
them vibrating from Neal's chest into his own.

"The game you're playing is the riskiest of all, Jeff. Flirting with
danger, courting it, teasing the bull. He'll ram you again if you keep
this up. Maybe with more violence and less understanding next time.
Maybe one of those guys out there in the bar some night will follow you
out of here, ice you in a dark alley. Then at least you won't have to
worry about disease."

"Look, not everybody's into the same things you and me are into. But
there's not a doubt in my mind now, Jeff, that you're turned on by the
rough stuff same as I am. We're both drawn to it. The difference is, me
and the rest of the guys here have decided to go for it, play the game
and take our chances — and take full responsibility for our lives, or
our deaths. You, you're looking for an executioner. Look long enough and
you'll find him."

"I'm ready to blow this joint. I'm heading for the Piss Festival at The
Wild Knight. You coming?"

Jeff fastened his belt. "We can't leave, Neal. It's Bondage Night. It's
a mob scene. We can't just walk off our jobs."

"Jeff, we can do anything we want. God, can't you understand that?"

Neal was no longer holding Jeff. He had pulled away. He had nothing more
to offer. He stalked to the door. Before he slammed it behind him he
flung out, "For you, Jeff, every night is Bondage Night!"

Jeff stared at the door for a moment. Then he collected himself as best
he could and left the room. The untended bar was a shambles, with
customers uncapping bottles of liquor and downing the contents, but for
once Jeff didn't care. He was leaving the place, for good.

He ran out the front door and into darkness. He squeezed between two
parked cars and dashed into the street. On the other side of the street
he stopped, panting. He was running, and he knew what he was running
from. But he didn't know what he was running to. Home or after Neal? To
another bar to look for another job, or back into the Rope 'n' Ride?
Toward life or toward death? And in which direction must he proceed to
find one or the other. To find himself.

He didn't know. He just didn't know.

-------------------------
Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!