Libertine (Patreon)

You were getting seriously pissed off. The drunk and high punk douchebag had been obnoxious from the start, but he had remained on his side of the van. Regrettably his sickly stink of stale weed and armpits had not. Your strategy of ignoring him had paid off so far, but now he was apparently bored of making rude noises and gestures from his seat, and was inching towards you, making faces and taunts. He was pulling his lips from side to side, sticking out his pierced tongue and generally trying to get a reaction mere inches from your face. The smokey timbre of his breath, and the sickly sweet stench of stale marijuana filled your nose. He could go to hell. But you don’t want to rock the boat while in it, and this is the first solid lead you’ve had since your friend disappeared. You turn to the little shit and gently shove him back in his seat.

“Stop it.”

The punk, in his inebriated stupor laughs, swivels his back against the side of the van and rests one of his feet in your lap. His filthy, reeking feet inside his ratty socks in his trashed Vans sneakers. Don’t rock the boat, you think. You’re just happy the driver manage to ignore the hijinks in the back.

“When am I gonna see Travis?”
“You’ll see him… He wants to see you too.”

He winks and wiggles his foot in the well-worn yellow and blue checkerboard slip-on, the formerly white socks playing peekaboo in their many frayed holes. The odor was intoxicating, not unlike vinegar with a hint of cheese, marshland, and rubber. He starts to rub his shoe against your groin. You don’t know what you hate most. The constant antics from this attention-seeking moron, or that you start getting an erection.

But you have to focus. Travis is the priority. These fucks are probably the ones that took him, and you gotta bring him back. You owe him that. You turn your face away and look out the window at the trees and bayouland flying past. This little hideout was way outside of town. You press the button to lower the window and get some fresh air. Nothing happens.

You resign yourself to the situation, as he finally appears to have calmed down. Don’t. Rock. The Boat. As you are getting light-headed from the smell, and getting your growing bulge massaged by a skate shoe, you stare out the window and zone out. The greenery becomes a blur. You are unsure how much time actually has gone by when he, clearly excited, shifts and sits straight in his seat.

“Awwwwww yess! We’re here!”

The van pulls up to a rusted old chain link fence, with overgrown vines covering the old barbed wire. An open gate welcomes the van onto the dirt road, past old construction equipment, now enveloped by the rising bayou. In the distance, the outline of an old warehouse gets clearer. The sunlight shines onto the old brick facade, windows shattered and the metal roof nearly caving in from decades of neglect. Around the perimeter of the grounds, marijuana plants flourish. As the van comes to a stop, the punk reaches over you to open the door, not passing up a final opportunity to get in your face with his smelly, damp body.

The sweltering Louisiana heat hits you like a freight train as you exit the raggedy old van. Never before have you been so happy to fill your lungs with the smell of stale marsh water. While the driver backs out the van, your annoying guide, already ahead, beckons you to follow him.

“Heel! Come on, puppy!”

He can still go to hell. You hasten to walk up alongside of him. As you get there he tosses his sweat-sticky arm around you.

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

You reach the door, and he knocks in a strange pattern before the door opens and a familiar, yet off-sounding voice slithers out of the hazy interior.

“Sup muthafuckahs?”

It’s Travis. Or perhaps rather a strange caricature of Travis. The Travis you knew was your timid, boy-next-door best friend of ten years. He was there when your parents divorced. He was the shoulder to cry on when you broke up with your boyfriend. He was a quiet, good-natured kid who was always the sweetest guy. This… This delinquent was not Travis. His tattoos and gauged ears, buzzed faded haircut, silver chain, bulging muscles, and ripe, unwashed stink. Travis would never let himself look like this, or be seen like this. And yet, here he was, standing in front of you with some snide smirk and soul-piercing gaze. You grab him by the shoulder, pulling him to the side, slapping a half-smoked joint from his veiny hands.

“Travis. What the fuck did they do to you? Did the drug you?”

He smirks, picks up the joint from the dirty floor, and brings it to his lips. He takes a slow, deep drag of the weed, never once breaking eye contact with you. He blows the smoke in your face defiantly, and brushes past you, making sure your shoulders connect.

“Sup Ash?”

Travis walks over to the punk who borderline kidnapped you, grabbing a handful of his perky ass before bringing him in for a sloppy, tongue-heavy makeout. You never knew Travis was gay, and a part of you was happy to see him finally embracing his sexuality, but it stings that he didn’t confide in you. But also, as he and Ash groped and bit and licked each other, you were certain that something was really wrong. You had never seen Travis this viscerally pleasured before, and you two learned to masturbate together. And how had he managed to get all the tattoos and piercings, and get so ripped in less than 24 hours, or 30, or whatever the fuck the time was? What was going on? Travis pulled away from Ash, rubbing the moist front of his black jeans. “Fuck me later, babe. Why don’t you take my friend to see Sage?” Your best friend smacked his ass before walking over to you, blowing you a kiss as he walked past.

“C’mon babe, you’re going this way.” You should be terrified that Travis had gone behind you and locked the heavy metal door, but somehow you feel compelled to follow Ash into the haze of the dimly lit warehouse.

As the three of you walk toward the back door, you pass the various living spaces of the warehouse’s occupants. All tattooed. All pierced. All muscled. Most of them fucking. Moans and slapping sounds are coming from all around you. You find the origin of the heavy fog in several lounging guys passing bong after bong of different colored weed, the black liquid being distinctly different from typical bongwater.

Ash leads you up a flight of stairs, with Travis trailing behind. From the landing, your perspective sees the entire warehouse’s debauchery. Sweaty, nasty sex; dirty, rank clothes; questionable bongs; and old pizza boxes. These guys truly lived here, and clearly did little else. This vantage point quickly changes, as you turn to the opening of a cracked, frosted glass door. You feel a gentle shove on your shoulders from Travis as you stumble into the room. The door slams behind you.

The room was lit with a red tint, and a few dim Edison bulbs likely original to the building. Whatever used to adorn the walls and ceilings had been stripped to the brick and mortar, exposing the pipes and beams above. The room was furnished much more heavily than the rest of the warehouse, with bookshelves, shiny leather sofas, a desk, and clothes strewn across the floor.

“I was wonderin’ if you’d show up here.”

From the corner of the room, the most stunningly sexy man you’ve ever seen saunter out of the haze. His plump lips and chiseled jawline immediately makes your heart skip a beat. He is tossing an old football into the air, catching it each time without breaking his sinister, yet wholly encompassing gaze.

You stutter for words in Sage’s presence, as he oozes a dominant air about him. It is clear from his demeanor that he is the boss. That’s not the only thing he oozes, as you feel a strong, musky scent with tones reminiscent from the van drive here. You start getting an erection again. What’s happening to you? Did they do something to you? How? You end up not saying anything, just standing with your mouth open.

“You know who we are? Who I am?” he asks as he tosses the ball into a sofa. You’re still tongue-tied in his presence, but eventually blurt out what he was prodding to hear.

“You’re the Libertines. That cult-like gang that sells weed all across the city.” Sage smirks and leans against the bookshelf, crossing his arms and ankles. He gestures for you to spill more. “And you’re Sage Ravenswyck. You run the whole thing.” He bows, bastardizing the gentlemanly gesture to his ominous wit. Sage Ravenswyck, touted as the single most dangerous pot lord in the country. You don’t say that part out loud.

“And you came to take Travis away from us, right?” You feel a chill down your spine. That’s why you came here, but you can’t say that. You don’t even believe that to be true anymore. His silky, menacing, seductive tone prevents any speech from escaping your mouth. Sage steps forward, only a step away from you. “He’s not going anywhere, man. And neither are you.”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes seemingly piercing your soul, and studies you carefully. Then he grabs you by the jaw, pulling you into a slobbering, tongue-infested kiss, just like Ash and Travis shared. His mouth tastes like marijuana ash, cigarettes, and some indescribably savory flavor. You are not permitting the kiss under the threat of violence. The threat is there, for sure, but you are actively participating. You want nothing more than to stay connected to those plump, inviting lips. You are totally confused as to why.

He breaks the kiss, takes a step back, and flatly states “I like you. Strip.”

You want nothing more than to obey. As you begin to remove article after article of clothing, you see that Sage does the same, revealing more and more of his tattoos. Old voodoo signs and talismans permanently adhered to his sweaty skin. Motifs that seemingly come to life in the Edison light. You feel the heat radiating from the metal ceiling hitting your already sweaty skin, but it is the smell of his sweat that fills the room. The same sour, salty musk that wafted from Ash and Travis, but stronger and more potent. You can still taste him in your mouth. Your jaw is lax and you are salivating as if you were about to vomit, but you don’t feel nauseous.

You are both standing naked on a carpet of unwashed clothes, looking at each other. He’s the most handsome man you’ve ever been naked with in a room. While you may feel sweaty, Sage is soaked. Gleaming in the light as if he’d been oiled up. His lithe body with defined, tight muscles accentuates it even more, as the light creates reflections and shadows on his pecs, abs, and cock. He is flaccid, but you are sporting an almost painful erection. Five minutes ago you were rescuing Travis. How did you end up here?

“Time for initiation, cunt” Sage says, as he takes hold of your shoulders and pushes you to your knees. You’re eye level to his large, sweaty cock and balls, salivating more than ever in your life.

To your surprise he brings his sweaty, pungent right foot to your lips. Expecting to worship his enticing feet, you open your mouth, preparing to lick his soles. But as he brings it down into your gaping maw, you realize just how much you have misjudged your situation.

His entire rancid foot slips into your mouth, your tongue tasting every ounce of built-up sweat and funk. He forces it down your throat, squeezing everything else within your neck, pushing your skin taut from the inside. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it ought to and you have a flickering thought that this isn’t possible, but his relentless pushing further and further down overpowers you with sensations. Sensations you have never felt before, mixed in with taste and smell of Sage and the most overpowering sense of lust you’ve ever felt.

He holds your head, locking eyes with you, as your face is getting closer and closer to his groin. His foot is rearranging your insides like a spoon through grits, and you can feel the foot turning, pointing forward. Further and further down, until it slips into your cock, finding a resting place. All you can think of is him, and getting him deeper inside of you.

He moves his hands to the front of your head, prying open your mouth even further to accommodate his second foot. It slides down faster than the first one, and further. You can feel it continue down your hip towards your knee. He wiggles free his first foot from within your cock and moves it down your other leg.

His cock and balls are now practically resting on your face. He smiles a wry smile, inserts his finger under the foreskin of his uncut cock and then smears a line across your forehead. Then he pries your mouth open even further and slips into you, like a pair of low riding compression trunks, with your tongue resting in his ass crack and your nose in his pubic hair. You take deep breaths through your nose, and the smell of well-stewed cock and balls fills your brain. You desperately want to touch him, but your body doesn’t obey you anymore.

He slips further down, and starts to rotate around, to face the other direction. He grabs your mouth and starts climbing into you, pulling you over him, like someone stepping into a hooded overall. You feel your body moves to standing up, unable to control it yourself, and your feet and legs and toes being filled with his, stretching your skin. There is a tingling sensation, like when a limb has gone to sleep and wakes up, as he settles within you. He pulls the rest of the body up, his six-pack subtly rippling across the front of your body, until it settles where it should.  When he is almost neck-deep into you he slips his arms into your arms as if you were a rubber suit, and into your hands as if there were rubber gloves. It feels like a warmth spreading out into your body and limbs.

Finally he stretches your mouth over his head, and snap into place like a condom. You are filled with him, completely engorged, and yet to all outside eyes, some transformed version of yourself. He adjusts his head inside of yours, stretching your face to cover his, like a Halloween mask. Then he carefully stretches and flexes every limb and muscle in your body. You hear pops and feel grittiness smoothing out. You can’t hear his thoughts, but you are filled with a feeling of excitement, joy and lust. If these are shared feelings or just your own you don’t know.

Suddenly you fall forward, face-first into the floor, and only at the last moment does he break the fall by putting out his arms into a pushup stance and starts doing push-ups. Your body feels stronger than it ever has, but at the same time you have no control over it. It makes you scared and excited at the same time. The total loss of control makes you hornier than you’ve ever been in your life, but there is nothing you can do about it.

After a good 20 or so push-ups he transitions into doing burpees. If you were sweaty before, this opens the faucet, soaking you in sweat. 50 burpees or so later he stops and just stands on top of the pile of your combined dirty cloths, panting heavily and dripping sweat. “Ok, let’s get you up to dress code” he says with your voice. Your cock, hard as ever, is leaking pre-cum like bad plumbing. He takes some on his fingers and starts rubbing your sweaty biceps, often going back for more. It stings. To your amazement color starts appearing on your arm, until a tattoo emerges. Then another one. Within minutes you have as many tattoos as Travis.

Sage then grips the shaft of your slippery cock and begins to stroke it. If you could, you would moan like a pornhub slut, but instead you are caged inside your own body, just following along for the ride. Despite being hornier than ever before in your life, Sage manages to keep you on edge longer than you thought possible. It’s like he knows your body better than yourself. Stroking you in ways you have never felt before. Stroking both of you, together. Then he lifts your left arm and inhales deeply from the armpit. It doesn’t smell like you, nor like Sage, but something in between. Your body can’t take it any more and you erupt with more cum than ever before. Then everything goes black.

You wake up on a pile of cardboard boxes, still naked, still sweaty. You reek of marshland, sex, and skater socks. Two guys you don’t know are 69:ing a few feet away. Was Sage really climbing inside you, or was that just an erotic acid trip? But how else could you explain what has happened to you? Sage is no longer inside of you, but he left plenty of himself. While your tattoos are different than his, your body resembles him. You can taste him in your mouth. You wonder if Sage would let you go, if you asked him. He probably would. But what is out there that is better than in here? You wish to be worn more. To be molded by him, like a well-worn sneaker. Until then there is a threesome waiting to happen a few feet away.

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