Rubber Reboot 4

Chapter 4: The Leather Bar 

Catch up on chapter 3 if you haven’t already…

Three days in 4B, and Barry’s jar of peanut butter was already half empty. He stood over a reused paper plate, scooping up a dollop of dropped peanut butter with two fingers and depositing it on a slice of white bread. The loaf had cost $1.99; the peanut butter, $2.50. He spread it with a plastic knife he’d nicked from the bodega down the street, then licked the knife clean. Property has no right to waste. He assembled the sandwich and stared at it reluctantly. Eating without a bowl felt like theft. 

Outside, twilight bled gray and violet through the window. Sitting on the mattress bathed in dusky light was a flyer Barry had taken from the telephone pole outside the bodega. RAMROD LEATHER NIGHT — MASTERS FREE — SLAVES $5 COVER — 9 p.m. TO CLOSE. A crude cartoon drawing of two bears in chaps, arms around each other and grinning like they knew a secret, framed the block letters. Barry’s stomach flipped when he saw it; hunger or memory, he couldn’t quite tell. The rubber under his t-shirt warmed, and the codpiece in his sweatpants grew tight. All afternoon, he’d debated whether to go. Finally, at 8:55, he folded some cash into his suit and stepped out into the evening. 

Eleven blocks. He walked like a tightrope artist, obeying every “Don’t Walk” sign as if it wielded a riding crop and a wooden paddle. A janitor unloading a van whistled from the curb: “Nice ass, shiny!” Barry stopped dead, palms out and head bowed, waiting for an order. Any order. By the time he opened his eyes and looked up again, the van was gone. On the next block, a drag queen outside a video store blew smoke rings. “Love the fit, daddy.” 

Barry knelt and reached for her boot. “May it shine for you?” he asked, extending his tongue. She laughed and shooed him away. 

Ramrod’s neon sign flickered above a steel door. The bouncer—bald and harnessed with arms like hams—looked Barry over, smirked, and waved him through without asking for the five. Inside, red lights throbbed in time with industrial bass. Leather creaked, poppers hissed, the sweat and cologne in the air thick enough to chew. Barry pressed into a corner by the pool table, shoulders against the brick wall, eyes wide. 

Bears circled the felt like planets. One in a harness flexed for a phone camera. Another leaned close to a twink in a jockstrap, whispering something that made the latter blush crimson. Hands roamed freely: ass grabs, beard tugs, and more than a few casual nipple twists. No one asked permission; no one needed it. Barry’s cock stirred against his rubber prison, a slow and confusing swell. A stranger’s hand brushed his hip—Was it accidental?—and Barry froze, waiting for the command to bend or kneel or open. 

Across the room, a couple locked eyes on him. 

The fat one wore a steampunk cap with brass goggles pushed up on his forehead, His belly strained a leather vest, and every smile line was etched with blue-collar grit. His partner was leaner, thirty-something, with a handlebar mustache waxed to points, and a fringed vest open over a hairy chest. They moved like they hunted together all the time. 

“New meat?” the fat one rumbled, crowding Barry’s space. “Suit looks custom. Who built it?” 

“You scene?” the cowboy added in a thick, performative drawl. “Safe word? Hard limits?” 

“Cat got your tongue, or are you just practicing to be gagged?” The fat one’s laugh boomed. Questions rained too fast and too loud. Barry’s mouth opened, closed. Words jammed behind his teeth. The room tilted. 

The cowboy’s hand slid into Barry’s codpiece, fingers meeting slick latex. “Fuck.” His eyes lit. The cosplayer’s grin turned predatory. 

“Come home with us,” he barked. 

“Yes, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir.” The sentence tumbled out automatically, a reflex honed over years. 

They were out the door before Barry even registered the cold night air. Barry spent the ten-minute cab ride wedged between them, the fat one’s hand at home inside Barry’s rubber crotch panel, and the cowboy’s tongue in Barry’s ear. Their walk-up apartment above a pawn shop smelled of fried onions and lube. Inside, the place was chaos: half-built gadgets on every surface, a sagging couch draped in a moving blanket. 

Street clothes hit the floor in a rush. Barry reached for the zipper at the back of his neck, but the fat one pulled his hand away. “Keep the shiny on,” he muttered. The cowboy shoved Barry face first over the couch arm and unzipped the ass of the suit. No warm-up, no negotiation. A bottle cap popped, and cold lube dribbled down Barry’s crack. The cowboy’s thick, uncut cock pressed in with one impatient thrust. Barry’s hole, empty for days, burned and then gave. The rubber squeaked against vinyl in a frantic rhythm. 

The fat one watched, stroking himself throughout, then stepped forward and fed Barry his cock. No gag tonight, just the taste of sweat and precum. They swapped positions twice, grunting, sweating, and filling the air with musk. Barry’s own cock leaked steadily into the rubber pouch, untouched. When the cowboy came, he pulled out and painted stripes across Barry’s rubber back, hot and sudden. The fat one followed, landing most of his load on Barry’s chest, the warmth spreading like shame. 

They both collapsed onto the couch and were snoring within minutes. Barry sat on the carpet, rubber cooling, cum drying in crusty streaks. The ceiling had a water stain shaped like a map he didn’t recognize. His hole throbbed, and his cock had gone soft and frustrated. No cage. No plug. No meaning. Just the wet slap of strangers’ breath and the slow tick of a wall clock. 

At 5 a.m., he rose. The couple didn’t stir. The cowboy’s wallet lay open on the coffee table. Barry stared, then left it untouched. Outside, the sky was turning pink. His flip-flops slapped the eleven blocks home. The peanut butter jar waited on the counter, lid still off. 

Barry stood in the doorway of 4B, rubber gleaming under the first real sunrise he’d seen in years. The book from Clyde lay on the floor beside the mattress, spine cracked but unread. He touched the dry cum on his back, then the empty space between his legs. 

It obeyed. It is still empty.