Wednesday, September 30, 2009


Disclaimer... The following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains gay sex, torture, and death. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so.

Copyright (c) 2009 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author's e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at The author welcomes feedback.

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A Story In The Style Of "Choose Your Own Adventure"

You are sitting in front of your computer. It's 10:30 on a Thursday night. The alarm clock is going to ring at 6:00 tomorrow morning, so you know you really should get to bed, but these online chat rooms are just so hard to tear yourself away from. You know that if you're not careful to limit yourself, you could easily spend hours and hours staring at the screen, and then you'll be dragging around work like a zombie all day tomorrow.

It doesn't help that typing is so slow compared to talking. It takes five minutes to get through the "hi, nice to meet you" stage, and another twenty to actually have a meaningful conversation. Well, if "meaningful" includes conversations that mostly consist of "not much heer. U?"

But still you hesitate to shut the computer down for the night. After all, there's always the chance that two seconds after you log off, someone interesting will come along and you'll have missed him. Usually whenever you log in you see all the same familiar names, but every once in a while - just often enough to keep you hoping for it - somebody new will drop in. Then there's a feeding frenzy as all the room regulars swarm after the fresh meat.

10:38. You are just about to give it up and shut down the computer when a message appears on your screen.

In10sTop: Nice profile.

A pretty standard opening. You quickly check out his profile in return, and like what you see. The stats describe a tall, well-built but not too muscular man in his 40s, into the same sorts of things you enjoy: ropes and leather and such. He's exclusively a top, which fits well with your current submissive-oriented mood. Definitely someone worth talking to, although his picture doesn't really show anything, just a head and torso, dressed in leather with a hat and dark glasses concealing his features. This bothers you a little bit; you prefer to have a good mental image of who you're writing to. Still, he's interesting enough that you'll overlook the not-very-helpful pic. You bang out a reply.

You: thx. u2

Now the waiting begins. He's probably carrying on two or three conversations at once. Most trollers do. So by the time he gets back to you it could be a while.

But it isn't. Within seconds, there's a new message on your screen.

In10sTop: Please do me the courtesy of speaking English.

This gets your attention. You feel slightly ashamed and having used IM-speak. You've gotten into the habit because that's what everyone online uses and you want to fit in, but you've never liked doing it. It feels so... teenage. Like dotting your i's with flowers - fine for high-school girls, but stupid for grown men.

This guy apparently feels the way you do, but unlike you, he's willing to be different. He can type - fast. And he expects you to do the same, in plain English, with none of the shortcuts and abbreviations that lazy typists love to use but that make their conversations so cryptic and hard to follow.

You re-read the words glowing on your screen, and get a funny feeling in the hairs on the back of your neck. His request was phrased politely, but somehow you get the feeling the polite phrasing was merely a formality; he expects to be obeyed just as if he had barked out his order like a drill sergeant. You have a fleeting thought about what he might do to you if you disobey him...

You shake your head. Where did that idea come from? That's an awful lot to read into a few glowing pixels on a screen. What could he do to you, after all, when you're here in your home and he's wherever he is?

Still, it's fun to get into the game. You type your reply as quickly as you can. It says

You: Sorry, sir.
In10sTop: I would like to meet you.

Jeez, he doesn't waste any time!

You: Meet? That seems a bit sudden.
In10sTop: When I see something I want, I take it. <wink>

OK, that's a little creepy.

Or maybe it isn't, given the wink at the end. It's so hard to tell what someone really means online, when you don't have body language or tone of voice to judge by. Is this guy a no-nonsense top or a blowhard jerk posing as a no-nonsense top? Or an ordinary Joe with a subtle sense of humor quietly mocking both tops and poseurs? You just can't tell.

Fortunately, he continues, so you are spared having to decide how seriously to take his remark before you respond.

In10sTop: Seriously, I like what I see in your profile. If you're telling the truth, then I think we'd be compatible enough to spend a fun evening together. I'll respect all the limits you've included in your profile. All you have to do is trust me.
You: Trust you? Iv'e neevr even met you.

You hit Enter fast, then wince when you see the typos in what you've written to him. Too late to call the words back now...

In10sTop: True. Here are some references.

He sends you four e-mail addresses. Two are unfamiliar, "JohnnyQ" and "HotBnDboi7". The third, "StillLkn", is a regular you've seen in the chat room a lot but have never had much contact with. The last, though, is someone you've actually chatted with a few times, "Midtown217". He's not really a close friend, more of an acquaintance, but still, he's someone you know.

In10sTop: Check them out, see what they say about me. If you think you'd like to play, meet me tomorrow night at 8:00 at this address:

He sends you a number and street name, 4451 Shonnard Avenue. You don't recognize the street. A quick map check tells you It's local, but in a part of town you're not familiar with.

In10sTop: Don't go in the main entrance. Instead, go around the right side of the building. There's a small alcove there. By 8:00, you be standing in the alcove wearing that leather blindfold you described in your profile. I'll find you. If you're late, I'll assume you're not coming. If you're not wearing the blindfold, it's over - I'll walk past you without stopping. Got all that?
You: Yes.

You start to type more, but you can't find a way to frame all the questions you want to ask.

In10sTop: Good. I hope to see you tomorrow, then.
You: Wait! I have some questoins for you first!
In10sTop is not online.

You stare at the screen for a bit, blinking.

You read back over the conversation. There's not much to it - it all fits in one small window on your screen.

It seems that you have a choice to make - whether to take this guy up on his invitation or write it off. It certainly sounds exciting... putting yourself into the hands of a total stranger and letting him take charge of what happens after that. That's the stuff of some very hot fantasies. Of course, fantasy is the right word to use: in real life, hooking up with a total stranger is an extremely risky thing to do. The guy could be a serial killer for all you know. But then, he did provide those references for you to check out...

It's now well past 11:00. You really need to get to bed. You could always leave this decision for tomorrow; check him out in the morning before you go to work and then decide whether to go or not.

Click here if you do not plan to meet In10sTop tomorrow night.
Click here if you check out his references before going to bed.
Click here if you go to bed and plan to decide what to do in the morning.