Group Fucks My slave at International Mister Leather, Part 1/2.
It was a hot, humid afternoon near the end of May in Chicago. Me and my slave had just packed nearly a whole dungeon full of equipment, gear, and toys into his vehicle. We navigated the heavy traffic on State Street from the South Loop to the Palmer House Hilton. While it was not a long distance, it took a long time because traffic was crawling. There were the usual nuisances: CTA buses and cabbies. But there were other impediments to progress along the way: college kids with moving trucks parked on State Street in front of the “uberdorm” at State and Congress Parkway. What the fuck is that? Who parks a moving truck on State Street in the middle of the Friday before Memorial Day Weekend? And where are the fucking cops when you need one? If I so much as park my car for five minutes illegally outside my building a cop will appear out of nowhere to give me a ticket. And every minute of every day in Chicago, there is a Mexican driving an overloaded van with running boards, curtains, a ladder on back, and underinflated tires. And without fail, they seem to violate every traffic law known to man as they meander down the street at more than 20 mph under the speed limit. Where’s a cop when you need one? But I digress.
So we finally get to the Palmer House to join in the leather madness that is International Mister Leather. I hand the valet the keys to the vehicle, and we quickly unload all of our shit—two luggage carts full. To look at us, you’d have thought we were going on a two-week cruise or something. “Do we really need all this stuff?” The staff tried to help, but I prefer to unload my own things from the car and place them on the carts the way I want them, thank you very much. I check us in while slave has a smoke outside. You may ask why I don’t stand and do nothing while he takes care of the check-in process. But the reality is that I made the reservations, and I handle the check-in. With that out of the way, we are free to go to our room and unpack. slave joins me in the lobby and we head for the elevators. The bellman has taken temporary custody of our accountrements on the two carts, so we don’t have to drag those with us. I’m immediately struck by a few things. For one, I can smell leather in the air everywhere. It is a welcome, arousing scent. One of the less pleasing aspects of the arrival experience is the din of all these leathermen in the lobby of the Palmer House gibby gabbying like a bunch of 16-year old school girls. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig. Likewise, you can dress a faggot in leather, but he’s still a faggot.
I have never been able to accept the disconnect between a hot looking leatherman and a nelly voice. A guy like that loses all credibility when he opens his mouth. What can I say? I’m just not a fan of the effeminate man dressed in leather. It sets up this cognitive dissonance that is both distracting and annoying. I suppose every cloud really does have a silver lining, though, because the irritation those fags evoke in me helps me to visualize myself torturing them. Shit, it could even happen for real. But sometimes it’s enough just to fantasize about inflicting serious pain on those fucking queens.
We wait our turn to get on one of the packed elevators. And when in the elevator, the same stimuli, but in a more enclosed space. Rather than engaging my fellow riders in meaningless banter, I put on my mask. It’s a mask that tells others to keep their distance. I suppose it’s a combination disdain and disinterest mask. It’s quite similar to the one I wear when I walk to the train or the grocery store to help avert the annoying people who are homeless-by-choice. They seem to be attracted to me like flies on shit. Do I have a sign on my forehead that says I have so much money that I don’t know what to do with it, and gladly donate to people who are too lazy to work? So, yeah, we ride the elevator to the 15th floor. The doors open and we’re finally released from that metal box. As the doors close, I hear the cackling of dizzy queens in leather, and again imagine myself bludgeoning them. Gladly. Anything, just as long as they shut up.
Lest you think that I was in a bad mood, I should clarify. I was not in a bad mood. Just a little tense and impatient. The heat, the humidity, the upheaval involved in transporting a small dungeon’s worth of equipment to a hotel room—it all adds up. Thank goodness that we had the good sense to bring a bottle or two with us, in blatant violation of hotel policy, so we could have a cocktail upon arrival in our room. As for that arrival, while the room did represent a haven from all the activity downstairs, it was on the small size for what I was paying. At first I wasn’t sure we’d even have enough room to set up the sling. We would definitely have to rearrange the furniture. But first things first. Where’s that drink? So slave made me a Jack and Coke (not a favorite, but it seemed to fit the event somehow). Things were beginning to seem better—we had turned the thermostat down and the room was getting cooler, I had an ice cold drink to help cool me off, and the most challenging part of the day was behind us. At last, we could sit and relax for a few minutes.
Next thing that I knew, the bellman was at the door with our two carts. I wondered what he thought of all this—the leathermen, the leather, the highly interest-specific nature of this event. He could probably not imagine the equipment, toys, and gear he just transported up to the room. In any case, our things were delivered, so I tipped him and sent him on his way. slave began to assess the placement of the sling in the room, and began to rearrange furniture to accommodate the sling. It appeared that it would just barely fit between one of the beds and the window, if he moved the desk. I told him that was fine, and to get it done. slave was excited to be at his first IML, and that enthusiasm was reflected in how quickly he rearranged the furniture and set up the sling. slave didn’t realize it yet, but I had pre-arranged for a dom top from New York to fuck him that afternoon. Well, a dom top from New York, a local boy who dreamed of one day being a master, and a friend of the New York dom, to be more precise.
slave had just set things up when my phone rang. It was the dom from New York letting me know that his plane had just landed. Jeezus, was he eager to get inside my slave. I told him fine, and that we were at the hotel, and to call me when he arrived. He’d flown into O’Hare, so I told him I’d expect to hear from him in about an hour or so, traffic permitting. My slave isn’t stupid, and I wasn’t really trying to hide the surprise from him any longer, so he knew something was up. I copped to the plan, and told him he should get ready to be fucked. I didn’t tell him by how many guys. Not that it matters. The prep is essentially the same—everyone knows the drill. slave finished with sling set up and some more unpackng, then went to prepare to be used by the guy from NY. Meanwhile, I soaked up the air conditioning and some more Jack. I wondered why Jack Daniels is so popular. It seems like the Chevrolet of whiskeys. The “everyman’s” whiskey. But on that warm afternoon, it would do.
To be continued.