Saturday morning and here I am, pulling into the lot of the HardWare King. The place is already half full and guys are lugging out red metal tool boxes (on special, today only), car light replacement kits, bags full of lighting fixtures and extension cords and drill bits. That's not why I'm here. Not exactly.
The door flies open in front of me and I grin at this guy coming out with a bunch of fishing equipment sticking out of a huge bag. He ignores me, but I don't care. It'd take more than that to spoil my mood. I breathe in the heady air of the place; traces of rubber from the auto supplies, citronella from the large candles in buckets to keep bugs away from campsites, all kinds of smells I can't quite identify.
I push through the turnstile and walk past housewares, grabbing a bag of wooden clothes pegs on the way. I barely see the plastic lawn ornaments piled in the central aisle. I'm more interested in the different sizes of tape on the First aid display next to it. Finally I choose the two inch wide surgical tape and a pair of surgical scissors and move on. I pause a moment to watch a young man and his girl choose a snakebite kit. I wonder if they know what to do with it besides wait for a snake to bite. My nipples tingle and I turn away to hide a lascivious smile.
Aisle four is fishing gear. Macho country. Hip waders with red braces and great heaven-smelling rubber boots. Rain boots and sou'westers and steel-toed numbers that make me want to bury my face against them and start to lick and nibble. I barely allow myself to touch them, then pass on, past the trolling motors and inflatable boats. The sparkle and glitter of the fishing lures catch my eye briefly. I handle the bright, hard objects, meant to entice and leading to death, their spiked hooks quick to break through the rough skin at the tips of my fingers; Lucky Strike Devil Bait, Leaf Lures, Rattler Spoons, Weedless Devil, Super Flash. None of them will work to reel in the big one that keeps getting away from me.
I turn down the next aisle, and then I'm in heaven. Hardware!
My nipples begin to tingle again as I pause in front of a bin filled with rubber rings. Just the right size to squeeze down over those big tits always pushing up at me through Mack's t-shirt. They should hold 'em up bright and perky while I suck and chew and make him moan. I catch myself about to make a low moan of my own, just thinking about it. Time to move on. I scoop up a handful of the things and dump them in a plastic baggie.
Next it's the chains, all bright and shiny, rolled on small drums with a length of metal dangling seductively. The small sign tells me twist link is good for dog leashes and choke collars and I grin happily, picturing Mack on all fours. I measure off a whacking good length of the stuff and the young guy with the pimply face snaps it off for me. Next it's the Proof Coil, good for animal restraints, the guy says seriously.
"So how big's your dog, sir?"
"Big bugger," I say. "Gets out of control real easy, know what I mean?"
He doesn't, of course, but he grins and nods and asks how much I want. I imagine Mack suspended from the ceiling of my garage - nine feet up, need four lengths. I do the math and the kid does his thing with the snippers again. I'm feeling better and better.
"Need any chain accessories?" the kid asks. "Eye bolts, crimping sleeves?"
I shake my head and head for the check out counter, wheeling my chains and other hardware in the little cart that clanks and rattles enticingly. I'm getting hard. By the time I'm through the check-out, it's getting uncomfortable just walking. I make it to the car and tumble in. I'm sweating.
When I get home, I change into shorts and no underwear. I try to ignore my throbbing cock. I go into the garage, close the double doors and start work right away. I don't touch myself but I'm getting hard, harder. At last, I can't take it any more. I stand against the steel beam in the middle of the garage and begin to rub my erection against it. I reach up and hang on to the huge hooks I installed last week. They're covered with red plastic and guaranteed to take up to three hundred pounds. I test them, putting my whole weight on them as I rub and push and writhe against the beam. My cock is poking out of my shorts, purple and swollen, oozing pre-come. I swing with my feet wrapped around the pole and the shaking begins. My nuts are tight, crawling up into my body as the tremors start. Spunk shoots out of my dick, soaking my cotton shorts, oozing down my leg and sticking to the metal post. I sway, my shoulders taking the weight, my knees bent. Sweat pours down my sides. I let go and thump against the rubber mat I put there. It's damp with come.
The garage smells like a circle jerk in a crowded room. I lie down on the concrete and breathe in the raw smell of my own sex. I imagine Mack swinging from the hooks, hands and feet both suspended while I paddle his ass, pump into his hole. The image fascinates me. It's so vivid I almost believe it.
After a while I look at my watch. I get up and go into the house. It's time. I punch in the number, more familiar than my own. The answering machine picks up. Bastard. I clear my throat, wanting to tell him what I think of him for not picking up when he knows it's me. Why does he always do this? What I say is:
"It's me, sir. Everything's ready."
There's a click as he picks up the phone. "You in the house?"
"Ah, well, yeah. The den."
"Then everything's not ready."
There's a pause while I take this in. "I'm going outside right now, sir." I hurry out the back way to the garage, the cordless buzzing slightly in my ear.
"Are you dressed?"
"Just shorts and shoes."
"Everything's not ready, then."
"Wait! I'm pulling them off now. My shoes too." I struggle to get naked, still holding the phone. I glance uneasily at the door. There's a small window in it. "Okay. Now I'm ready."
"Tough shit. I'm not." Mack hangs up. The line buzzes in my ear.
I'm breathing fast. I look around the garage. Sunlight slants in the tiny windows, glinting on the metal links and ceiling bolts and rivets, catching the scissors in a luminous pool on top of the big red tool box against the wall. I can't see Mack swinging in chains any more.