Friday, June 13, 2014

Beware Surfers in Cockrings with Riding Crops

“Is there anything you want to check out?” At this point I had picked up the dildos I wanted, some new gags, a few restraints, the crops, and an assorted array of odds and ends here and there, as is my way when shopping.

“I’m still kind of curious about these cockrings.”

“They're back downstairs.”

So we slipped through the crowds, bobbing and weaving until we ended up back at Gearworks, where one of the hawkers dressed in a jock strap, sports socks and sneakers, smiled at me; he flashed white teeth and beach-bum blonde hair.

“How can I help you?”

“My friend here is curious about cockrings. I told him this is the place.”

“That it is. What do you know about cockrings?” he asked Faust.

“I…not much.”

The surfer guided Faust to a gentleman behind me, where they began to engage in a discussion about the nature of cockrings.

“I wish I could have a cockring.”

“I don’t see why not; you could get a gland ring.”

“A gland ring, what’s that?”

He pulled down his jock strap and shows me.

“Purely ornamental, of course.”

“That would look pretty hot on one of my dildos.”

“I can’t see why you can’t put cockrings on a dildo.”

“Don’t you just want to put cockrings on everything?” I asked.

“Look at all this flesh. All these hot men. I just want to smack all of them.”

“I totally understand.”

The surfer reached out and slapped the exposed ass of some leather man in a jock strap walking past.

“Ow.”

“Here,” and I passed him a newly acquired riding crop.

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

To which surfer boy jumped into the aisle and began to thwack the asses of every exposed leather man walking by with a smile of pure, unadulterated glee on his face as he did it. In the meantime, I looked behind me to find Faust, pants around his ankles and engaged in quick discussion with an attendant who was all business while working with his client, who was exposed to most of Chicago. I was amused, and turned back to the riding crop-wielding surfer, dancing around and smacking asses everywhere he could find them, cackling with joy when he managed to make contact with flesh as he whipped left and right, until finally he returned to my side, flush with fine beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Thank you; that was awesome.” I smiled, and about this time Faust was at my shoulder.

“You get your questions answered?”

“Yes, I think I did.”

“All right, it’s been lovely,” I smiled and curtsied to the surfer, who returned the same and handed back my riding crop.

“Dildos; I need more dildos!” And with a war cry we moved back out into the crowd.

“What did you think of the cockrings,” I asked over the hub and the noise as we moved away.

“Yeah, I bought one.”

“Awesome. Where is it?”

“Well I’m wearing it, you see.” I laughed and shook my head.

“Perfect.”

With that we lost ourselves for the next two hours in the market, looking at dildos the size of small children, watching the boys and girls, and bois and grrls at play, and rest, shopping. We danced to the disco-ball lights of a leather man in a homemade disco-ball harness; we traded conversations here and there, until finally my bag grew heavy enough (and my wallet light enough) that I decided it was time to call it and pack it in. As the leather men continued to wind up for a flesh-covered party in earnest, we quietly slipped away into the cooling Chicago weather to watch the sun fall, and examine our acquired goods.

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