Ara 12, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment
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The pain was fighting with the pleasure; the fear with the exhilaration. The struggle for the dominant sensation was sending my adrenaline through the roof. God, I was skipping along the top of the clouds. Shit, I was skimming the searing flames of hell. Pain, pleasure. Pleasure, pain. Right there on the edge. Would he love me or kill me? Would he fulfill my desires? Or would he take me to the edge of release only to abandon me to want and frustration? Either way, this was the edge that made me feel alive. This . . . this . . . this, right here, right now.
He had looped his belt around my neck and was arching my torso up toward his chest as he covered me at the end of my bed. The pressure was choking me. I don’t know if this was better or worse—more painful or more arousing—than when he’d been grabbing me by my hair and jerking me back to him. He had the arm I wasn’t stiff arming into the bedspread for some form of support painfully forced up my back with a strong fireman’s grip on my wrist.
He was inside me, big and thick and deep, pounding my ass interminably, cruelly, gloriously. Would he never come? big, virile, young stud. Pounding, pounding, pounding. Fast and furious. I was gagging, whimpering, moaning.
My arm gave out and I collapsed on the bed, clutching at the choking collar created from the loop in the belt, almost blacking out at the tightening of the noose from the combination of him trying to jerk my head back and the weight of my body falling forward. He rode me down onto the bed, my belly on the edge of the foot of the bed, my knees struggling to find purchase on the carpet.
“Gonna come,” he muttered. He released both the pressure on the noose and the hand forcing my arm up my back, pulled out of me, and flipped me over. My hands instinctively went to the leather noose around my throat, but he backhanded me across the cheek, grabbed both of my wrists, and forced my arms above my head, flat on the bedspread.
Moving his heavily muscled body up onto the bed, he straddled my chest with his knees and shot his load in three prodigious spurts on my face and chest.
“Not done, yet,” he growled. “Open to it, bitch.” He pushed his hard cock at my lips and, with a whimper, I opened my mouth and took it inside. He wasn’t kidding. Four strokes to the back of my throat and he let off another load.
“Clean it,” he demand, and I sucked the cum off his cock and coughed as he pulled it out of my mouth. In one swift move, he let loose of my wrists, slipped the belt off my throat and reached down and gave both of my nipples a cruel twist. I yelped, and he laughed.
I made to rise when he came off me, but he backhanded my face again, snapping my head to one side and making me fall back onto the bed with a groan.
“Stay right there, bitch. I might want to use you again. That was good. Enjoyed it. You like it like that, don’t you?”
I whimpered some form of answer, croaking, my throat feeling like it had been crushed.
“What’s that? Can’t hear you.”
“Yes,” I managed in a gravelly voice. “I like it like that. I loved it.”
“You love it and want it again. Say it.”
“I loved it; want it again.” I meant it.
“I know you did—know it’s what you like. Came like Niagara Falls.” He picked up his jeans, briefs, and T-shirt and padded out of the room. To shower, I assumed. There was a hall bath, but he could have used the one off my bedroom. Maybe he didn’t know it was there, though, the door to it wasn’t obvious. Like most everything in this house on a bluff overlooking a marshland running down to Coinjack Bay, it had been added on over the decades as an afterthought. The house was appropriately named Haphazard.
He was right. I’d come more than once during the ordeal—and had come big. Overall I’d have to describe it like that—an ordeal—though. Was it my fault that I loved ordeal, soared higher and came bigger from ordeal? Looked forward to the next, more cruel ordeal?
The man was an animal—and so strong and overpower. In his prime, a firefighter, probably half a decade younger than I was, I was sure. And on every level that seemed important, I’d enjoyed it immensely. There always seemed to be other levels, higher levels, though. And this firefighter I’d picked up was true to the form. Basically him saying he’d used me was spot on. A user. He was abusing me like this with no regard to my pleasure.
That I’d gotten pleasure out of it would bring him no pleasure.
I’d needed to get laid—and to get laid hard. I wouldn’t have let him come home with me from the firehouse party in Maple if I hadn’t. I’d had few illusions what he’d do to me; I’d sought him out. I’d gone there looking for just about what I got. A big bruiser of a man to take home and then take me hard. I even half knew it would be him—Chet.
I’d seen him before at Andy’s, the gay-clientele tavern outside of Elizabeth City, some eighteen miles west, into the interior of northeastern North Carolina. And I knew he’d seen me there too. We’d gaziantep bayan eskort spoken in passing—both of us working someone else at the time, and he’d dropped that he lived and worked in Maple. I’d said I didn’t live far from there, on a bluff above the coastal marshlands on the west side of Coinjack Bay, separated from the Atlantic Ocean by the Outer Banks.
I’d checked around, which didn’t take long in a small town like Maple, and found out that his name was Chet and that he worked part-time as a carpenter and part-time as a fireman—that his family lived in Elizabeth City, his father a prominent real estate lawyer there. I could believe the fireman part. He was a bodybuilder type. And all blond sunny looks. It scared me just to look at the hulkiness of him. And it aroused me.
I’d seen a guy stumble out of the back rooms at Andy’s once, all sloppy grin, despite a black eye, and walking like he couldn’t keep his legs together. Shortly he was followed out of the back by Chet, who was still tucking his T-shirt into his tight jeans and pulling his zipper up. It sent my blood boiling then—and in the weeks of running the image through my mind later. My fantasies focused more on the sloppy grin, the stumbling gait, and the bulge in Chet’s crotch. The fantasy of him pulling that zipper down for me.
And when I brought him home today I hadn’t been laid in a month or more.
A week before that I got one of those “gimme” calls soliciting support for the local fire department. I started into the regular “send me something in the mail; I don’t entertain telephone solicitation.”
“But this is the only call for money we do. We need the support, and we’re the only fire station that could get to your house before it burned to the ground. Did I tell you that a contribution gets you an invitation to a firemen’s party at the Maple firehouse the Saturday after next?”
The image of Chet, who I’d just found out was a Maple fireman, flooded into my brain, although I didn’t know it at the time. I said I’d contribute and gave them a credit card number—all, I thought at the time, because I had been guilted—or maybe I realized that they were right. If there was no firehouse in Maple, my place didn’t stand a chance in a fire. There weren’t more than 25,000 people in the whole county, but we had to have a fire department. My rattletrap of a rambling wooden house clinging to a bluff was as likely to burn as anyone’s—more likely probably. If I didn’t contribute, who would?
I didn’t even intend to go to the party at that point. It only occurred to me to do so when the ticket came in the mail—and, yes, after I’d connected this with the fireman Chet I’d seen come out of the back rooms at Andy’s pulling his zipper up, a smug look on his face, and preceded by a scared rabbit with a hobbling gait and a black eye.
Chet was there, at the party. He saw me. He was looking magnificent in an athletic T, cut down to “here” both in the armholes and the neck, showing his bulging tanned chest and taut nubs, and wearing low-rise, tight jeans, rubbed to a lighter color over his basket. After a while, he sauntered over to me.
“I’m dying for a smoke. You are too, I think. Dying for something, I would guess. You’re Rob Preston from out at that choice slice of land in the marshlands on the bay, aren’t you? The book illustrator, I’m told.”
God, he’d checked me out too. I was trembling just being near him. He towered over me. His chest seemed to be as broad as I was tall. The nipples were plump, full; his basket was straining at the material. I could clearly follow the line of him down his left thigh. And the muscles on the dude . . . he could easily break me in two.
And maybe he might do that if I asked him nicely. God, I missed Jesse.
“That’s me, yes.”
“And I’ve seen you at Andy’s, over near Elizabeth City, haven’t I?”
“That was me too,” I said, although I think it may have come out as more of a squeak than anything else. He certainly was direct. “I’ve seen you there too.”
“I saw you with Jesse, the black guy who moved down to Florida?”
“Yes, I’ve been there with Jesse.”
“He’s a power top.”
“Yes he is,” I answered, trying to keep my eye contact as level as Chet’s was. And right there was why I hadn’t been laid for a month. Jesse had moved to Florida and I hadn’t found anyone new yet. Certainly not someone who would do what Jesse did. When Chet had seen me at Andy’s, Jesse had been all over me, so Chet didn’t have to do much figuring to know what was what about me.
“As I heard it, Jesse was into some real kinky shit. And was a rough fucker.”
“Think I heard that as well.” I sustained the direct eye contact.
“It’s quiet and dark behind the firehouse. I’m dyin’ for a smoke. You want to come with me?”
“I . . . don’t smoke. Sorry.”
“But you want to come with me anyhow, don’t you?”
He was right. It was dark behind the firehouse. He also was right that he needed a smoke. He held me against the back wall of the firehouse with just one hand planted in my chest, while he leaned away from me and smoked his cigarette, giving me the evil eye the whole time. His T-shirt was gone; he had the torso of a serious bodybuilder.
“I could break you in two,” he said from out of the blue.
“Yes, you could,” I answered, trying to hold the level gaze into his eyes.
He nodded his head and smiled, like I’d just rubbed Aladdin’s lamp the right way or something.
When he tossed the cigarette aside, I remember wondering if it still had a flame in it and whether he, a fireman, even cared that he had tossed it into brush. But it was too dark to know, and I didn’t have time to think much about it. The cigarette gone, he came in close, shucked my T-shirt over my head in one swift move and pulled me into an embrace, his hands palming my back to press my groin into his. Neither of us could have been surprised to find the other one was hard.
His lips were on mine even before he’d exhaled the last puff of smoke, which he transferred to my mouth cavity. I wanted to cough, but he was kissing me so brutally that I couldn’t. My eyes watered as the smoke swirled down into my throat. I did let loose a gagging cough when he released my mouth.
“It’ll be like that,” he muttered, still apparently seeing if I’d scare off.
“Yes,” I answered. Yes, both to the realization I knew it would be like that and to the question of whether I wanted it like that. I’m sure he fully understood my acquiescence. Already asserting dominance over me; already understanding I was bowing to it.
He gripped my wrist behind my back and jerked it up painfully. As I yelped, he took my lips with another brutal kiss. I opened my mouth cavity to him immediately, gagging on his penetrating tongue.
“You want it like that,” he declared when we came out of the kiss.
“Yes, I want it like that,” I answered.
Assured I was completely cowed, he released my arm at the same time he released my lips and ran his hand up and down my naked back.
“Your back. Those welt lines?” He was grinning a knowing grin.
“They’re mostly healed,” I whispered. It had been more than a month since Jesse’s farewell party at my house—just the two of us. Jesse had been at his cruelest.
Chet laughed and slammed me against the firehouse wall. He had grasped the wrist of my left hand and slammed it against the wall overhead. He moved the other hand to my crotch and explored and squeezed. Coming out of another kiss, I yelped at that, the crushing pressure on my balls, but he just possessed my mouth again. He let loose of my crotch and grabbed my right wrist, forcing my hand between us and to his crotch so that I could get the measure of him. He was harder; so was I. I gasped, and he let loose of the kiss and laughed.
“Climb me,” he growled. With his free hand he lifted and bent my left leg so that it was hooked on his hip. Getting the idea, I lifted the other leg myself to his other hip. Then he pushed me up and down the wall with his pelvis, only the material of our jeans separating his crotch from my perineum. If we’d been naked, we’d be fucking.
“We still gonna do this?” he asked. Giving me every chance of an out.
He smiled a sneery smile. “You got somewhere we can go?” he asked in that deep-throated growl he was using. “Might not want to see what I have at home yet.”
“Yes, my place, out on the bay.”
“You’re a real pretty boy. Great bod. I’m gonna fuck your lights out. Gonna punish you. Gonna break you.”
“Yes.” It had been a long time.
I did have a place to go, and he did fuck my lights out. And he did punish me. Not like Jesse could do, though. But it was early days.
He followed me home in his jeep. He seemed to know where he was going. I didn’t even have time to close the front door of my house before he was manhandling me back to my bedroom, stripping us both, putting me on my knees, thrusting his dick in my mouth, grabbing my hair, and pulling my head back and forth on his rod. Then slamming me on the bed and assaulting me.
There was no better term for it. He assaulted me. It was all him getting what he wanted. I can’t say I didn’t get what I wanted along the way, though. And it wasn’t rape by any means. It may have looked that way. It may even have felt that way to me, although that was all to the good of what I was in want of. But there was no question that I had asked for it—that I had agreed to it.
I lay there on the bed, panting, stroking my throat, and looking up at the thick floating beams in the raised ceiling of the bedroom, as I heard him pad around the house. I was waiting for him to come back. He had said he would if he felt like it.
“And you’ll want it if I do you again, won’t you?”
“Yes,” I squeaked.
My legs were bent and open. I’d moved a pillow under the small of my back. I told myself that it was because if—no, when—he came back, I needed to be as open and at as good an angle for that monster of a cock he had that I could be. My thoughts went to the guy who had stumbled out of the back of Andy’s. I could well understand now why he hadn’t been able to put his legs together.
I also, subconsciously, at least, understood my interest in Chet, I guess. All that shit Jesse had done to me. One gets addicted to it. Chet did it a lot different than Jesse did, though. But they both got me very high and got me off very big.
He did come to the bedroom door once, a beer bottle in his hand, and say, “Geez, that was nice, Ron. You’re a real good lay. Take it like a champ. Nice hole. Tight. But I reamed it real good, didn’t I? You’re carved for Chet’s needs now.” He withdrew, not waiting for a reply, which came in the form of a deep moan anyway. And, to my embarrassment, I felt disappointment.
After thirty minutes of quiet, I got off the bed and padded out to the living room, dining room, den, work room, and kitchen, all of which radiated off an entrance hall at strange angles. The front door was still open, there were two empty beer bottles on the kitchen island, and Chet was gone.
Again, I could have kicked myself, but I was a bit sad and disappointed. The fuck was brutal. But I’d set myself up for it, it was a totally fulfilling fuck, and I hadn’t been laid in weeks. Would I see him again? Was that really my choice? Everything he’d said indicated there would be a repeat—and that it wouldn’t be my choice.
I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I had an appointment with my lawyer in Maple in the morning, followed by a tennis match with my parents’ old friend, Avery Jameson, who’d been after me to sell my land to developers. I needed to get to sleep. In the morning I’d go into town. I’d pretend nothing happened here tonight. I’d probably be hobbling, though. I hoped I’d recovered before my first serve of the doubles tennis match at the golf club.
It occurred to me as I moved toward the bathroom off my bedroom that I needed to check on whether I had a black eye. There had been enough pain in general that I probably wouldn’t have specifically noticed being given one.
All the time I was driving to Maple in my pickup the next day, the line of a song kept running through my mind: “Some will want to use you; some will want to be used by you.”
Story of my life.
* * * *
“It’s a lot of money, Ron. I really think you should consider it.”
“I’m not selling to a developer, Larry,” I answered. “I think I’ve made myself clear about that. And it isn’t because of the house. It’s the marshland. Too much of the coastal marshland is being destroyed. Virginia Beach and Norfolk are inching too close to us from the north. My mom and dad were friends of your parents. Our families spent a lot of time together. You know how my mom and dad felt about preserving the environment. Wipe out the marshlands around here and we can kiss our local wild life and plant species good-bye. I won’t be any part of that.”
“God, that’s one raspy voice you got this morning, Ron. Caught a cold or something.”
“Something that just came on,” I answered, in embarrassment, as I rubbed my raw throat, a souvenir from the fireman the night before. “Woke up with it this morning.”
Larry Heger—my lawyer, and the son of my parents’ lawyer—sighed from across the window booth at the café in Maple and took a swig of his coffee.
Larry and I had gone to high school together in this town and been on the same district-winning football team. He’d been into bulking up and went on to the University of North Carolina on a football scholarship. I’d been fast enough for high school football but not big enough for collegiate ball and had gone to Duke’s art school, keeping up with sports, but going more to tennis and track. Larry had taken on the craze of some form of Japanese martial arts that I couldn’t pronounce, so he had remained in superb shape.
We’d been good friends. Almost too good. Going to different colleges either saved us from something or was a personal “ships passing in the night” tragedy. He was a user. Even that early in life I’d have let him use me if he had shown the slightest hint of wanting to. He was into using the cheerleader squad, though.
There had been rumors about him and men at college; there hadn’t been a hint of anything in high school, or I might have made a move while he was doing his date in the front seat and me mine in the backseat after the senior prom.
With me at Duke, it was a fact, not rumors. But neither of us had openly or privately discussed anything about those options when we were in high school. He’d married, settled down in his father’s law practice, and had more kids now than I could name. I had remained single and unattached—which meant I hadn’t gotten beyond one-night stands very often. Jesse had been an exception, but we just met for sex; we didn’t hang out with each other socially.
“It’s good to have you back in the area, Ron,” Larry said, leaning in toward me over the booth table. “We should go out and toss the ball a bit when football season comes around again—just for old time’s sake.”
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