IVAN IN THE DARKROOM: Raamstraat, Amsterdam.
from
Recon News
25 February 2019
Ivan, also known as member candiflip, is an academic historian of sexuality. In an ongoing series, he's going to share some of his favourite fetish encounters (in a whole lot of detail), as well occasionally fill us in on the history of kink:
In the darkroom looks don't matter. It is too black to see faces, everyone is anonymous, personalities are shrouded – it is only about how things feel, how they sound, how they smell, the ways the bodies tell of their pleasures. Boundaries dissolve in the blackness. The emotional charge becomes intense. Taking away one sense concentrates the others, my arousal heightened by the unknown. Everyone is here for themselves, seeking excitation in the blackness, constantly searching, desperately feeling around in passages for warm flesh to make wet, like fat carp feeding in the river's mud. The only thing he will ever know about me is the feeling of my mouth around his cock and his hands on my hairy body. This is sex stripped of desire. No thinking, no wanting, just pleasure.
I leaned against the wall, naked except my boots. The dim red light only showed how much we could not see. Shadows, movements, nothing. Nearby, somewhere, I could hear someone being fucked in the darkness. His arse sounded stretched, soft. His moans were dreamy; his partner's grunts more insistent; the chains of his sling rattled. The room was full of sex, but I could not see any of it. Someone pissed in the corner and the air felt warmer at the sound of the splash. Voices murmured; two men gathered around me. I wondered what I would become in the dark. I closed my eyes and parted my lips and waited to find myself.
The tall man came closest and spoke to me in Dutch. "Ik spreek geen Nederlands," I said, leaning back on the wall to give him my body. When I am in places like this, I do not care how people touch me, and open myself to anything. The thrill comes from seeing how far they go, because I know I have gone so much farther in the broad daylight, when I was taken somewhere beautiful. He ran his hands through my chest hairs and found my nipple rings. He tried to kiss me, but I pulled away – that was not the intimacy I sought, but this only made him want more from me. I wanted to feel his big hands on me, in me. I wanted him to touch any part of me without being able to see him. I rocked with desire to guide him.
I liked the strength of his hands. He was a bit rough with me – my piercings told of the kinds of things I like, so he pulled on my nipples, and I pulled back to intensify the feeling. He grabbed my balls and cock, and played with me a bit, making me hard, rubbing me until I made his fingers wet. It was best when he was handling me roughly, his strong hands slapping me and pushing against my chest, shoving me back against the wall, my body not resisting, holding my arms above my head, his face pressed into my arm pits, breathing me in, seizing me tightly, squeezing my balls until I moaned in the darkness, crushing me against the brick. My shadows were being watched by a man starting to wank next to us. I enjoyed being this exposed, held by my cock and balls in one huge fist that could have beaten me senseless, the other hand slapping my chest, squashing the steel in my nipple against my frame.
His hand moved up over my face. I felt vulnerable because I could not see, but I wanted him to take me. He touched my lips, and I could taste my precum. I opened for him. He pushed two thick fingers into my mouth, deep, wet, all the way back the length of my tongue until he could feel the soft folds of my throat. He held my jaw and I felt my saliva welling up and drooling over my lips into my beard. I didn't gag – I am too well trained for that. His fingers were ugly. He was not at all refined, his skin was rough, his stubbly face scratched against my skin, his mouth sloppy and lips wet. His thick tongue licked me, pushed far into my mouth and then smeared all over my face to wet my eyes. I felt like a slut, wanting more, needing more to turn this into pleasure, eroticising the grotesque as I let myself disappear. He turned me around, face against the coarse wall, and got on his knees behind me, pulling my cheeks apart, licking my hole, spitting on me. I pushed back for him, letting eat me just how he wanted, pushing his bloated tongue where I wanted his cock. Someone else's hands found me. My head was pulled down to a stocky thick cock, rubbed over my face. My eager mouth was open, but I was slapped with it across my cheek with a thud instead of giving it to me to suck. The shock only made me more eager. If I had wanted to speak, I would have begged to be fucked. Instead, I said nothing, flotsam and jetsam tossed around however they wanted.
The first hit landed flat against my wet arse hole. Nothing arouses me more than being spanked there. His hand was heavy; immediately I gave myself to him. My movements let him know how much I wanted it, consent choreographed through the way I offered my body. "More," I said. He moved, holding my hips with one hand against his leather jeans; with the other, he started to spank me. One man holding my head and fucking my face, the other spanking me. Sometimes he would hit my cheeks, red heat spreading through them, especially when he repeated it hard and fast and I thought I would break and covered my self in spluttered spit, trying to hold still for him. Every heavy thud pushed my mouth down his companion's cock. He wasn't very long, so his balls were pushed against my lips, his thickness stretching my jaw, and I tried not to gag as each blow landed on me, unable to concentrate on the man using my face. I could feel strands of precum glistening cold on my thigh where my cock banged against me as the man slapped my arse. It was pink and hot and burning and I could tell I would bruise and I spread my cheeks for him so he could spank me so hard my prostate pounded. I so desperately wanted to be fucked. Occasionally he would finger me, and I could concentrate on blowing the other man, but when I came close to coming, he took away my pleasure and pulled his thick fingers out and spanked my hole again, pleasure into pain into pleasure. All the time, his thick cock was pressed against my flank, but he would not give it to me. Maybe I should have let him kiss me after all?
He pushed me down on my knees and stood with his hips behind my head. He embraced the man who was fucking my face, and as he rocked his hip I was pushed and pulled along the cock in my mouth. Sometimes, he held my head with his hands, fingers inside my cheeks, and my opened mouth was fucked. I was drenched with my own spit. I was hard and wanking and letting them use my face while they lost themselves in a deep kiss. Finally, I could feel his cock swelling. Grunting. A hand on the back of my head and his sweaty balls crushing against my chin, he came so deep in my throat that I could not taste anything except my spit that tasted like his cock. I could feel him swelling and contracting and shooting his load right into my gullet. They walked away after he pulled out, leaving me on the floor, smelling of his cock. I ran my fingers through my wet beard and breathed in.
* * *
In the near-complete darkness I found the man to whom I had been listening earlier. The red light in the corner let me see just enough. He was blindfolded, and strapped into position in a sling, his arse exposed, already used, still ready to be fucked. Someone wearing leather chaps was fucking his face interminably. I stood and watched, trying to make out what was happening. His legs were chained open; his cock was in a strap to keep it hard. I watched this scene, barely perceptible, playing with my cock until I was aroused enough to want to be a part of it, my arse still stinging from being abused. At first he jolted in surprise at my touch, then he moaned as I licked his cock and balls, getting him soaking wet with my spit, and then moved down to his arsehole. He had been fucked a lot that night. He tasted of condoms and lube and the faint bitter-sweet scent of almonds and burnt earth. He was stretched wide open and soft inside. He groaned as I tongued him, pushing my mouth into his body as another guy held his face and fucked his throat, gurgling and spluttering sounds accompanying his pleasure, his arse hole contracting as he gagged, opening as he relaxed, smothering my eager face. All of this unnamed pleasure– a cock to worship, a tongue in his stretched arse – all of it just intense sensation while being exposed to the dark room. None of it meant anything. There was no imperative to orgasm; no want to end this pleasure. Nothing was owed; nothing was lost. Other people were watching us; occasionally they would touch him, pulling on his nipples or stroking his cock. I stopped, and let someone else try his arse. I wanted to find some cock for myself. Before I left the room, another man was already thrusting into the arse that I had licked so deeply.
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