The Other Side of the Tracs

Author's Note: Continuing the story. Again, if you don't like gay sex, some serious BDSM, or interracial sex, then please, save yourself the anguish of reading something that upsets you. For you kinky folks that are NOT turned away by any of those, then I hope you enjoy! Still more to cum!

Is There a Morning After Pill for Love?

Why did he have to do that? Or more specifically, why did he have to say that?

I woke up alone in the hotel bed the next morning, face down, a pool of cold, sticky cum sticking my genitals to the sheets. Housekeeping was NOT going to like us. Poor ladies, having to clean up after degenerates like us.

Those questions were going through my head before my eyes even opened, but they weren't the first question. I think the first question was how much I could charge to park buses in my ass, and whether I should give fleet discount rates. OWW!

As I gently reached back to survey the damage, that's when the other questions came to me. After Clarence's third of four deposits (when he left before the sun, he woke me up to give him a sleepy blowjob/handjob; I didn't even lift my head, just turned and serviced him as he stood by the bed. My breath must be pretty foul by now!), he had professed his love to me. What the hell, right?

Okay, so just to be 100% straight (too late!) on this, when I was a young buck, I probably said those words a few times after a session of clumsy, mostly drunken or high sex with a young lady. And a few that were NOT ladies by any stretch. And I confess, I may have hinted at them to GET a few of those women INTO bed with me. I don't know if they believed me or not; I only believed it at the moments of insertion into one of their orifices and the moment of climax.

As I struggle to pull myself up to sit - well, a modified sitting position, anyway - on the side of the bed, I took heart in that thought. Maybe that's all it was; just a heat of the moment, "I haven't cum in anybody in a while and you feel SOOO good!" kind of thing. Yeah, that's probably it. Carefully, I stand up, wincing at the pain in my...everywhere. I mean, the worst is the throbbing pain centered around my ravaged hole, but my legs, my arms, my back, my neck; I'm feeling like the roadkill that I probably look like. As I come before the mirror outside the bathroom...Damn. That guy looks rough!

My lips are swollen and raw. I see a shadow on my neck, right where it goes to the shoulder, and I'm horrified as I lean in to see that, at some point, Clarence left me with an unmistakable bite mark. I'll be wearing a collared shirt for the next week, and showering while the wife is out of the house.

I turn and look over my shoulder and see that my butt cheeks are a solid mass of thin red stripes from the caning Daddy and Master C administered why I held the icy enema in. While the IcyHot set my hole on fire. Fortunately, there are only a couple of spots where the skin was broken, and they should heal in the next couple of days.

Pulling my cheeks apart very gingerly, I survey the damage to my poor little boi pussy. (Even with nobody else there, dominating me, I've come to think of my asshole in that way.) It looks as if somebody sewed a small donut under the skin, then colored the ring with red lipstick. Holy hell, no wonder I'm throbbing! Fortunately, the hole itself is completely closed; I was wondering if I'd need to start hiding some Depends in the trunk of the car.

I turn back towards the mirror and look at my face. Eyes are puffy and red; for some reason, I didn't SLEEP much last night, and I'd shed more tears than if I'd watched Old Yeller 10 times in a row. A little Visine would help that. I'd felt the cum stuck to my face, so that wasn't a surprise. When Clarence left his parting gift, he'd been sure to mark his territory again, pulling out for the first couple of spurts, which were enough to coat an apple, before having me suck the rest out and clean his cock. A hot shower would take care of that, and I'd be at least presentable. As long as I didn't have to sit on any hard benches, that is.

As I stood there naked, bent over brushing the flavor of two men out of my mouth, my mind went back to Clarence. The mind is a wonderfully, terribly powerful thing, and right now, it was trying to rationalize away this matter of Clarence's declaration. "He'd just cum inside me. He doesn't even know me. It's just infatuation seated in the head of his cock. (His MASSIVE cock, my libido corrects me.) He probably doesn't even remember saying it." And of course, "He can't love me: I'm STRAIGHT!"

I just ignore that laughter from Libido. Shut up; you're the one that got us INTO this situation, jerk!

I go to the nightstand to turn on my phone. Remembering that first time, I check the pictures and all outgoing emails and texts to make sure Daddy didn't collect any mementos of the occasion; whew, at least none on MY phone! Text from one of my daughters, can she go out Saturday with some boy whose name I do not recognize. I don't answer; let the wife answer that one. My judgment right now is...suspect.

As I put the phone down, I see an envelope with my name on it in the drawer. Curious, I decide to go ahead and open it before I take a shower. Inside, I find a note, a business card and cash. Ten one hundred dollar bills, actually. Holding the cash and card in one hand, I hold the note in the other and read:

John,

I truly enjoyed last night. I cannot recall the last time I felt such pleasure, or felt so in tune with a partner, man or woman. Please accept this as a GIFT; I want you to do something nice for yourself. It is NOT payment; you are not a whore, and if you were, even I could not afford to pay what you are worth! Last night...amazing.

I have included my business card, and written my cell # on the back. I would really like to see you again; I guarantee, the accommodations will be the complete opposite of this dump.

Clarence

P.S. Yes, I know what I said. Yes, I meant it. No, I am not a rash man.

I drop the letter, my mind numbed by what I've just read. The cash...I don't drop that. I don't live in the realm of Charles and Clarence; money is always an issue in my life. Curious, I look at Clarence's business card. "C&C Financial, Clarence Brownlow, CEO" it reads. I wonder if he and Charles are partners, or if their initials are just coincidentally the same.

Then something else occurs to me: I learned "Charles's" first name, and second, I realize I've thought of him twice now by that first name; not "Daddy." Shaking my head, I tuck the crisp bills into my wallet, check my phone again, and head towards the shower to wash last night off of me.

I take the shower as hot as I can stand it, hoping it will not only get me clean, but steam out some of the wrinkles in my mind. I soap, I shampoo, I soap again...I swear I'll never get all the dried cum from all three of us off of me! I smile a bit as I think, "Well, thank goodness you shaved all the hair off down there!" I'm careful cleaning my boi pussy; why do I keep calling it that?! It's sore and swollen, but it already feels better than it did when I woke up. Sure going to make the drive home interesting, though. Clarence put a LOT of cum up there; maybe I should think about those Depends...

Satisfied the outer body is clean, I just stand in the spray. What the hell have I gotten myself into? And what am I going to do? I'm a grown, married, straight father, and last night I experienced more pleasure and thrill and connection with a man - correction, with TWO men - than I have with my wife or any other woman in...years? Decades? Ever...? In my head, I hear the robot from Lost in Space: "Danger! Danger! Does not compute!" I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to DO with this...this cosmic collision of realities that is my life right now?

Reality #1: I am a straight, married man with two daughters still at home. There's been no passion in my marriage in over 15 years. Before you ask, both girls were adopted, pulling them out of a bad situation in my wife's family. I absolutely love both of them as if they were my own, but they were not the result of any physical relationship with my wife. But I do not see myself destroying the home life that has been the bedrock of their upbringing; they have been through enough.

Reality #2: The relationship I entered into with "Daddy" was based on nothing more than a mutual interest in pursuing fantasies that satisfied, albeit in different ways, desires that both of us had brought out in each other. It was fantasy play that evolved into physical play, but that's all it was.

Reality #3: Clarence. And all that that meant.

I had to admit, but was loath to do so, that Clarence had affected me in a way that Charles had not done, nor did Charles intend to affect me that way. It was different; wonderfully different. Under Charles, both literally and figuratively, even though he was most certainly dominant, I was still pursuing my desires. Desires to submit, desires to be humbled, even desires to suffer. He had effectively checked off every box I had, and done an amazing job of it!

But with Clarence... Whether on my knees, on my back, or on my belly, Clarence wasn't just inside me, he was in me. It sounds the same, but it's not: Any man with an erection could fill my orifices, beat my ass with a cane, spray my face with their seed. Clarence hurt me physically; no mistake about that, I thought. But even as he broke me...he unleashed me. I don't know if that makes any sense. Hell, none of this makes any sense. As I'm drying off, carefully patting my rear end dry, pleased that no spots of bright red stain the worn white-ish towel, I shake my head.

Gathering the paraphernalia and any tell-tale garbage (as if the housekeeping staff of THIS place hasn't seen it all) brings back a lot of memories. The bottle of lifesaving lube is almost empty; the red panties are trying to hide under one of the beds. The handcuffs are on top of the TV, but it takes me a while to find the key, which is, of all things, in the ice bucket, which is now all water. I would never have found it if I wasn't emptying out the bucket into the sink; OCD to the rescue! I put those in my back pocket, then found one of the canes that one of my two Masters had used on my behind. I have no clue who brought them, but I grab it. I vacillate between keeping it and throwing it away; finally decide I'll just hide it in the trunk of my car. Why? I don't know, and that is the least of the concerns inside my head.

Finally, my OCD placated, I walk out the door. I turn and take one last look at the sordid setting of last night's events. Only now do I notice...damn, this room stinks of old cum and sweat! I close the door behind me, drop the incriminating trash in the can, and get in my car.

As I let the air conditioner catch up a bit, I feel a buzz, and pull my phone out. Probably the wife, wondering what time I'll get home. I have an absurd thought for a moment: What if she's checking up on ME because SHE has strange men in OUR bed, and needs to know how long she has? No, can't be that, I think, with no small amount of surprising disappointment.

My pulse jumps a little when I see that the message is from Daddy. Of course, in my phone, he's saved as "Mister Vater," in case anybody happens to see any notifications. After a moment's hesitation, I open the message.

"You did good last night. I trust you and Clarence must have had a good time. He has already asked me about you today. Make yourself available next weekend. Friday to Sunday. Details later."

Oh, good. I needed one million more unanswered questions. Why did Clarence ask about me? WHAT did he ask about me? What did Daddy say? Is Daddy upset? Jealous? A full weekend? Are both of them going to be there? Am I going to be spending 48 hours on my knees, back, and belly in a hotel room? Will there be any new surprises? What does one pack for a weekend of being someone's bitch? What's the plural of someone's?

Finally, I come to one solid, incontrovertible, undeniable conclusion: I need breakfast. Man can not live on cum alone, I guess, although with as much as I've ingested in the last 14 hours... As I head towards the Waffle House I passed yesterday, another worry enters my mind.

How am I going to explain THIS to the wife?

**********

The answer to what to do about the wife was already in my hand; or rather, my wallet. Clarence had paved over the pothole without even knowing it.

"Five hundred dollars? You won $500 on a quarter slot machine??" she was overjoyed, practically jumping up and down. "I mean, you never win at ANYthing!"

No, that didn't hurt, honey. Not at all. Fortunately, my male pride had gotten much more flexible each time I got fucked, so as far as my face displayed, it was as if the jab never landed.

"Yes, and since I have to go out of town next weekend, I think you and Trina should go do something fun for the weekend, so I'm just giving it to you. And, just because your husband ROCKS, I'm pitching in an extra $200 on top of that. Y'all go and have fun!"

Trina is my wife's best friend, and I actually like her. Well, in reality, I like her better than I like my own wife, and she is attractive, but there's nothing out of bounds between us. In fact, I think wistfully, I'm not currently actually having sex with either one of them.

"This is great! I'm gonna call her right now," she says, as she walks away, phone in hand. "Girl, guess what?..." is the last thing I can - or care to - make out as she heads down the hall to our bedroom and shuts the door.

Yes, honey. You're welcome. No, no, don't worry about me. What? You want to give me a little something special tonight as a thank you? Well, if you insist... I shake my head at my own imaginary conversation. This...this is just one more reason that cheating is NOT high on the list of things that are bothering me right now. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if I find out next week that she and Trina slept with an entire basketball team this weekend. And I don't think I'd even care.

After all, I'll probably be walking a little bow-legged by Sunday night myself.

*****

It's Friday afternoon, Daddy. I'm ready when the limousine pulls up to the house, a small bag in my hand. I'm wearing casual shorts, a T-shirt and sandals, so I probably seem a little out of place getting into the limo, but nobody sees me get in. Janet had been outside washing her little VW Beetle for about 2 hours, it seemed. I couldn't help but think she was waiting for a chance to see me and see if she could get that petunia watered again. I had to laugh to myself; if she had any idea what her neighbor-lover was going off to do this weekend, she would probably freak out.

Then again, maybe not. Janet might be pretty handy with a cane herself. She sure liked it when I spanked her.

I quickly step into the back seat of the limousine, and I'm welcomed by the cool air inside. Nobody else is in it, and the privacy window is up. I'm naturally tempted to hit the button and start asking questions, but your instructions were very clear, weren't they, Daddy? Sit back, be quiet, and get ready for...

How can you get ready for something when you really don't know what it is? Well, at any rate, I just try to relax.

Beside me lay one more mystery, or mysteries, perhaps. When I arrived home at noon today, having taken half a day off as you ordered, two bags were already on my doorstep. I'd been given instructions in an envelope taped to a handle of one.

Slave:

Bring nothing with you except the pink bag, your ID, your house key. NOTHING else. Everything you need will be provided.

Everything from belt down is to be absolutely hairless. You are to wear nothing except what is in the white bag.

Master

P.S. Leave boundaries at home.

So here I sit, isolated in the back of a black limo, in a pair of loose-fitting, tie-at-the-waist white pants and a nice gray T-shirt, with sandals on my feet.

Oh, and a black thong.

And yeah, a butt plug inside me. Can't forget that. Literally, couldn't forget, not even for a moment, because I am sitting on it. It wasn't large at all; well, considering what has been there lately, I could probably smuggle cucumbers in that way, but...

So here I am, riding off to...where?

To do...what? I mean, I had a guess, but no specific details. None.

To be joined by...who? Daddy, you sent the instructions, but after the surprise of bringing Clarence into our...relationship, I realized any presumptions of mine were useless.

As the questions bounce around in my head like kangaroos with ADHD and a meth addiction, I finally look out the windows and notice we are nearing the coast. It is early May, so the tourists have not descended on the area yet, and traffic is light.

Ah, maybe I'm in for a couple of days and nights in a beachfront hotel! I grew up living near the beach, and I still love the salt air. A couple of days in the sand, nights between the sheets with you, Daddy...this could-

The limo pulls off the causeway before we reach the beach road, and I realize we are entering a rather ritzy marina. No fishing charters, dolphin cruises or pirate ships here. I know a bit about boats, and these are nice: Hatteras, Bertram, Silverton...

The limo pulls up to the farthest set of slips and stop; I feel the driver put it in park, then a voice comes over the intercom.

"I have been instructed to tell you to take your bag, go to slip 12, and board the 7 Seas, go inside the cabin, and have a seat." I start to ask a question, but the driver cuts me off. "I have no further instructions and can answer no questions. Good day." And with that, I am apparently dismissed and sent on my way.

I open the door, and immediately my nostrils fill with the salt air. Oh, I miss that! Bag in hand, I head down the pier. This won't be hard to find; there's only one boat out on this pier. It looks to be about a 50' Hatteras, probably 20 years old but very well-kept. I reach it and start to call out and see if anyone was there before I board, but then I remember the limo driver's instructions. I step on board, and cautiously enter the cabin.

The cabin still holds the elements of class and elegance with which it was born, although it also shows signs that it has been used for more than just weekend outings. Some clutter here and there, a fishing rod in a corner. On the bar is an envelope addressed to me. Well, unless someone else on board frequently answers to "SLAVE," that is. As I've come to expect, it includes instructions for me.

Slave, go down the steps forward to the forward stateroom. In the head are what sluts need first. I trust you've taken care of other details, because the shower is too tight of quarters for shaving. After you are done in there, reinsert your plug and open your sissy pink bag. Take out the baby blue bag, put on what is in there, but not the blindfold yet. All you should have on is the contents of the bag! DO NOT OPEN the yellow bag! Head back up to the cabin. Wait in position in the middle of the cabin.

I of course begin by removing my plug (eliciting no small groan in the process!) and then administering two enemas, then a third when I am not satisfied with the cleanliness after the second.

As I am holding the third one in, I hear footsteps on the deck, then voices, muffled by the walls.. A couple of minutes later, I feel the vibration through the floor where I am laying; the engines have started! From down here, I can't see out the little portal window, but I do not sense motion yet. The big diesel engines are just warming up. I have no idea how many other people are on board, or if they were here when I got here. I guess I can expect that at the very least I will probably be exposed to even more people this weekend.

A quick rinse off in the shower, and then I pad naked into the stateroom and retrieve the small, powder blue bag. Let's see what THIS tells us about tonight's activities!