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Marsh Assault

Category: Gay Male
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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 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.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back,” I answered. “But I guess the pull of the beach and marsh was too much.”

He sat back in the booth. “You always seemed to meld well with this place. There’s been more than once that I would have liked to be somewhere else—a bigger city, maybe.” He laughed then. “I guess anywhere is bigger than Maple. But more adventure in life, I guess. And speaking of marshes, I do remember how deeply your parents thought about preserving the marshes. But it’s not like your piece of land is going to stand a chance of fighting that battle. The developer has the parcels on either side of you. He’s already built a house for himself right at the top of the beach on the parcel to the south of you. He’s here to stay. Your land, with that big flat area at the top of the bluff is right in the center of his plans—and it’s prime location for developing.”

I blew on my coffee. They sure made it hot and strong at the café. I needed something to loosen me up this morning. The firefighter from last night had worked every bone in my body. Quite a bone he had on his body too.

“I’m thinking of putting Haphazard in the land trust, Larry. Maybe even make a park out of it. It may be a losing battle on protecting the environment of the marshlands at the edge of the bay, as you say. But at least there would be my chunk of land to show what once it was like.”

“The land trust?” Larry hissed. “Keep your voice down when saying that word around here, Ron. In case you haven’t noticed, this area is depressed as hell economically. The development down the bay is the best revenue stream we’ve seen in decades. You go saying you might put that land of yours in the trust and you’ll need to start sleeping with a gun under your pillow at night. I won’t press you further on selling the land—there will be plenty around here that will stand in line to do that—but I won’t draw up a land trust application for you either. I’ll recommend a good lawyer in Elizabeth City for you if you decide to go that route.”

“Just said I was thinking about it, Larry. You say the developer has built a house for himself right on the beach line south of me? Didn’t anyone around here tell him about hurricanes? And we’re entering hurricane season. And how did he get it through the zoning process?”

“You know how he got approval through the system here, Ron. And you can’t tell these guys from up Virginia Beach way about hurricanes and beach houses, Ron, but if it’s not going to change their ways up at Virginia Beach, I don’t think it will make much of a dent on their thinking down here.”

“But it won’t be just the environment that’s ruined if they build down near the beach, Larry. Their houses won’t last more than a couple of years anyway.”

“You’re preaching to the choir on that, Ron. But that’s what he wants Haphazard for. He can fit a lot of house on that high land you have above the bluff.”

“But that won’t stop him from filling in the marsh and building down there too, will it?” I said, as I stood and tossed money for the coffee plus a tip on the table. “Sorry, I’ve got a tennis date to go to. You don’t need to listen to any more offers on the land. I’m not selling. Nice having coffee with you, though. We should do this more often.”

“Hope you win the match. Playing with Avery Jameson again?”

“Yeah. But it’ll be doubles. Avery will get the tennis pro to partner him and he says he’s invited a new guy who has joined the club to be my partner.”

“So, he’s loaded the deck by taking the pro for himself.”

“Well, I did play on a nationally ranked collegiate team when I was at Duke, Larry. I didn’t spend all my time there learning to draw pretty pictures to put in books. You could say that Avery just wants to even the odds. And I don’t really care who wins the match. It will just be good to be swinging the racket again. It’ll be my first time this spring.”

“Oh, I think Avery will let you win—this time.”

“Why’s that?” I had started to back off from the table, but that brought me back. Larry stood then.

“Here, I’ll walk you out,” Larry said. He continued on. “Avery’s one of the backers of the development. I’ll bet he asked you to play today just to pitch you to sell. You can expect to have a lot of that coming to you from different directions.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said, as we moved toward the café entrance.

“And watch your back, Ron. The longer you hold out the dirtier they’re going to play.”

“So, you’re saying that developers can be as bad as lawyers?” I asked, as we got to the door.

We both laughed at that. Larry’s laugh rang a little hollow, though.

Larry opened the driver’s door of a fancy little sports car parked in a handicapped spot right in front of the café entrance. I said nothing about where he’d parked—Larry had been like that in high school too. But I’d just written it off then—but I couldn’t overlook the car, which looked out of place in a town ruled by pickup trucks. Even I was driving a pickup truck.

“Nice wheels, but what is it?” I asked.

“It’s a Crossfire. Made by Chrysler. But they don’t make them anymore. I’ll bet I have the only one in Northeast North Carolina. Sort of out of place in this town, isn’t it? But I’m a toy guy, as you probably know.” He paused here and looked at me, but then smiled and went on. “This is about the only excitement I get in my life.”

“What, with three kids under seven?”

“I’ve got four kids. And especially with four kids under seven.” We both laughed.

I waved him away. Larry sure had his quirks, but high school buddies are high school buddies. And he was a damn fine lawyer, I thought.

Sure enough, as Larry predicted, Avery and the tennis pro let me and my partner win the tennis match. The two of them combined were better than the two of us combined. The fourth guy, a well-muscled, impressively in-shape, distinguished, well-heeled businessman type who was introduced to me as Jack Dorsey, was good—especially for his age, which seemed to be mid forties—but he vied with Avery as the least capable of the four. His shortfall had to be training, not athletic talent.

I was rusty, but I still competed well with the tennis pro. It didn’t take a whole lot of tennis winning for a pro at a rural country club like we had in Maple to qualify for the job. He mainly had to look real good for the ladies of the club, which Tony did.

Larry also was right that Avery pitched me at every change of side about the development. At these times, Dorsey and the tennis pro would talk to each other about the amenities of the club that Dorsey had just joined. But Dorsey also was eyeing me.

I couldn’t help to take looks at him too. He was built big and solid and obviously worked out regularly. He had a mean, strong backhand on the court too.

The furtive looks continued in the shower and locker room too. I couldn’t help noticing that he was hung like a horse and looked even better built in the nude than in tennis togs. The smooth businessman look he’d exhibited on the court earlier turned slightly, but purposely, I thought, to something a bit wilder and more thuggish in the nude—when we were both in the nude and in the communal shower. Maybe it was the mean-looking tattoo of really thorny brambles encircling his right bicep, I thought. The chunky chain-link necklace and black mesh bikini briefs he put on before dressing into a tailored suit that returned him to the businessman look enhanced the “something else altogether” aura of him.

The looks he was flashing at me were ones of interest—I’d been cruising enough not to mistake that. He put an arm around my shoulders as we were exiting the shower and reaching for towels and brought both his body and his face close into mine. I was somewhat embarrassed, because I was half hard by the time. So was he.

“Enjoyed getting to partner with you today, Ron,” he said to me, with a smile. “I had to wheedle at Avery to get us introduced. Wouldn’t mind partnering and playing with you again soon. Would like to get to know you and discover what you like—and maybe share with you what I like. Maybe we could catch a drink somewhere sometime. I’ve heard that Andy’s over near Elizabeth City is a good place. A black guy named Jesse told me it was a good place.”

The shock at how directly he was declaring himself—and categorizing me too—and especially with us both in the nude, half hard, sent me stumbling into the locker room. I felt the sting of his hard slap on my rump and a hearty laugh from behind me as I moved.

Nothing more was said—everything was in looks at each other—and at how both of us had gotten harder as we went to our individual lockers in the same row. If there hadn’t been other men wandering around the locker room, I’ll bet he would have tried to fuck me right there on the wooden bench between the rows of lockers.

And I would have let him. I would have spread my legs, opened up, pulled the big cock inside me, and moved my ass for him. The disturbing aspect, since I’d take dominating sex anywhere I could get it, was how much he assumed—that he assumed I’d be easy. But I guess that was a key aspect of the kink. The dominator knew what he could have, and the sub was easy for it.

He’d made no bones about doing a full frontal to me as he folded his package into the mesh briefs. Although the tennis pro, Tony, cut an arousing figure in the shower too, there was a world of difference in how he and Avery—who was nothing to write home about in the body department—related to me in the locker room shower and how Jack Dorsey did.

The possibility didn’t escape me that Avery might have found out about my proclivities and brought Dorsey in to soften me up sexually to a deal on my land, but, as Dorsey made no move to go with me anywhere right after tennis, I told myself that I was still running on a high from the rough fucking the fireman, Chet, had just given me and that Dorsey wasn’t going to be as pushy.

“Later,” he said gruffly, as, dressing quickly, I was able to leave the locker room before he was fully dressed.

I didn’t think about that again until later in the day.

* * * *

After tennis I was a bit spaced out and, despite, or because of, the previous night, a little keyed up sexually, so I went home to contemplate. There was work to do—illustrations for a gay Kama Sutra book a publisher was doing—and I was in the mood for such work. I diddled around with that for an hour after I got home, but that didn’t lessen my tension, so I went into my bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand, pulled out the Fleshjack I kept there—a “realistic experience” foam-lined masturbation aid I kept for emergencies such as this—and worked myself while thinking of Chet from the previous night, the sensuality and interest that this Jack Dorsey I’d just met exuded, the issue of the marshland, the developer who wanted to destroy it, and all of the people in Maple who supported him.

“Fuck it,” I muttered after I’d relieved myself. I didn’t feel like going back to the illustrations, though, so I grabbed a couple of beach towels, slipped on flip-flops—the only clothing items I was wearing—and headed down to the beach. I had my private slice of Coinjack Bay beach below the bluff and across a wide expanse of marshlands that my parents had built a wooden walkway over in as unobtrusive manner to the natural setting that they could manage. I had the luxury of swimming and sunning in the nude.

I powered out beyond the surf line and swam laps back and forth over the expanse from one end of my property line to the other. I saw the wooden monstrosity on stilts the developer had built down at the beach line on the south side. He’d left a good bit of the marshland around the house untouched, but it would only be a matter of time until what he’d done would destroy the ecosystem there and leave him with a rotting, smelly mess. And then to the north I saw that the marshlands had already been bulldozed and that landfill dirt was being brought in to raise the land a couple of feet and level it for the coming house development.

Frustrated and angry, I swam back to my own beach and lay on my back, with an arm thrown over my eyes to blot out the intruding world of “progress.” I was panting lightly. The swim had been exhausting. At one time it would have been cleansing too, but that was before I saw with my own eyes what was happening at either side of my property.

I think it was the feel of the change in the sun beating on my body that made me pull the arm away from my face and look toward the sun. The very-nicely cut body of Jack Dorsey—the naked body of Jack Dorsey—crouched down on his haunches beside me and looking down at me was putting me in shadow. A horse-hung cock swung between his spread knees, reaching for the ground, but that was hardening up even as I watched it. I jerked to full consciousness and started to sit up.

“No, don’t. Lay there like that. Your body is gorgeous stretched out like that.” He placed a palm on my belly, as if that would hold me in place. Psychologically it worked. I stayed where I was, feeling myself start to pant shallowly again, my cock beginning to rise. He already was in full erection in the time between I’d opened his eyes and he’d spoken, his beefy balls hanging low between his spread thighs.

He was wearing the thick chain-link necklace and now I could see that there was a medallion hanging from it—a heart shape with crossed rods behind it. One a whip and the other a phallus. On a scrolled ribbon across the heart was the word “Daddy.” I let out a moan.

“We set up what was going to happen between us back in the club locker room, right? That I’m going to do you?” he asked in a low, strong voice.

“Yes, I guess so.” When he put it that way, a dominator’s command, all I could do was agree.

“You’re going to let me play with you, aren’t you? Rough. Jesse rough. I’m going to be your daddy and you’re going to be my bad boy, needing to be punished. Am I wrong?”

“No, you aren’t wrong,” I whispered. His hand had moved down to encase my cock and he was stroking it. I arched my back to him and ran my hand up his arm to that thorny tattoo encircling his bicep.

“Yes, that means what you think it means,” he growled.

He leaned over for a deep kiss, which ended in him taking my lower lip between his teeth. He lingered there a long moment, the anticipation building up in me, before he bit down, drawing a bit of blood. I yelped. And then I yelped again when he dipped his face to my chest and bit a nipple. All the time his hand was stroking my cock.

“It means what you think it means,” he repeated.

“Where did you come from? How did you know where I lived?”

“Avery told me where you lived. Interesting house you have up on the bluff. You’ll have to show it to me.”

“Yes,” I answered with a whimper.

“I’d heard rumors about you. Jesse bragged about what he did to you, what you took. I asked Avery to introduce us. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” I answered in a whisper.

“I’m going to make you come now.”

“Yes. Please.”

He moved over my body in a 69 position and took my cock in his mouth. I was uncut; he cut. I went straight to sucking on his bulb, while he played with mine by running his tongue under the foreskin and rimming the bulb—and listening for me to yip yip as he teethed and bit on the rim of the foreskin. Soon, though, my cock had filled out to where the foreskin pulled back from the bulb of its own accord, and he went to deep-throating me and sucking on the bulb, forcing the tip of his tongue into my piss slit. 

“You ever been sounded?” he asked.


“Well, well.”

A shiver of fear and anticipation ran up my spine.

I gave up on sucking his cock and threw my head back, looking directly up into the sky, mouth yawning open and groaning deep in my throat as he relentlessly pistoned my shaft in his mouth and reached under a thigh with one of his hands to get a good grip on my balls, lacing them in his fingers, distending them, crushing them.

I writhed under him, trying to pull away, begging him for mercy and relief and screaming to the sun, setting off sea gulls to reel about overhead and harmonize with me, but he was too strong for me and held me tightly. My testicles tried to withdraw into my sac in preparation for an ejaculation, but he followed them up into the sac with probing, pinching fingers. With a cry, I shot my load in his mouth.

Holding the wad of cum there, he quickly reversed on my body, still holding me in an embrace and went into a kiss that shared my cum between us. I was whimpering from the assault and also from the relief.

“You didn’t come,” I whispered when I was able to. “Sorry, I couldn’t continue—”

“I want you to show me your house. Then I’ll come. You’ll come again too. Multiple times.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” I answered.

He was sitting on the edge of my bed when I came out of the bathroom, where I’d showered and taken the time to clean myself out. There wasn’t much question what was coming—what had me keyed up was not knowing how it would be done and what would accompany it. Could he possibly be as cruel as Jesse and Chet were in their own ways?

When Jesse had gone, I thought that the kinky sex phase of my life that Jesse had refined was over. He wasn’t the first one to take me in a manner that heightened my release, but he had been the cruelest one by far. Northeast North Carolina was such a backwater, and I hadn’t found anyone even close to Jesse’s style at Andy’s. It had been more than a month of drought. Although offers were frequent, Jesse had tuned me to certain needs. Was that hiatus what made me fall so easily into it again?

Jack was giving me a sloppy grin as I emerged from the bathroom. He held the Fleshjack from my nightstand in his hand. And he’d found and pulled out the restraints at the four corners of my bed that had been tucked under the mattress—the ones that only Jesse and I had used before.

“Shall we play?” he asked in a mocking voice.

The first time we both came—almost simultaneously—Jack was sitting on the side of the bed, with me crouched in his lap, facing him, my legs bent, my feet being used for leverage to rise and fall, him supporting the small of my back as I was cantilevered over the bedroom rug, my hands dangling at my side. Our cocks locked together inside the Fleshjack, the rods stretched alongside and throbbing against each other, and Jack stroking it down as I stroked up into it, his cum mingling with mine when we both had ejaculated.

“Ever been double penetrated?” he whispered.


“My, my, we have such a lot of new games to play.”

Chills up my spine again. Panting. Was he going to be as cruel as Jesse, just in different ways?

After a rest in the kitchen, where I drank beer and Jack drank bourbon with a, “Sorry, I don’t drink beer,” we returned to the bedroom and to the restraints at the corner of the bedposts.

Jack was under me, sitting up. I was in his lap, all four limbs restrained and stretched out toward the four corners of the bed. His cock was up inside me, deep and churning. One of his arms embraced my chest, rubbing across clips he’d attached to my nipples, making me gasp and groan. The hand of the other arm held my cock captive in the Fleshjack, which he was pumping vigorously up and down on my cock. He’d found the ball gag in my nightstand, and I was huffing and puffing and sounding off around that as I could, my neck resting on his shoulder, my eyes glued to the freestanding beams overhead, as he bent his face down and bit down the side of my neck and onto my shoulder.

I came in great globs of cum over and over again. So did he, deep inside me, filling me with his cum—barebacking me. Both of us living on the arousing edge.

He released me from the restraints and we lay stretched out against each other, me in his close embrace.

“Tell me that was good for you.”

“That was good for me,” I answered. “Hadn’t had that in too long. I don’t know, guess I need the intensity, the lack of control.” Had Jesse ruined me for more normal sex? I wondered. One thing was for sure, it helped me in drawing my special collection book illustrations. The porn publishers were coming to me for all their kinky sex illustrations. Positions I could draw, because I’d been in them. I knew what expressions to put on the model’s face.

“Call me Daddy,” he growled, as he reached down, laced my balls between his fingers, and squeezed.

“Oh, God. Oh, shit.”

“Do it. Call me your daddy. Tell me you love this.”

“I love this, Daddy. Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“You’re my bitch. Say it.”

“I’m your bitch!” He released the pressure and turned away from me, putting his hand in the lower drawer of my nightstand, coming up with linked wrist restraints.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun, you and I. You’re going to be my bitch and I’m going to beat you down to where you’ll do anything I want.” He had pulled my arms around to my back while he said this and put my wrists in the restraints.

“Anytime, anywhere I want it, bitch. Say it.”

“Anytime, anywhere you want it, Daddy.”

I was exhilarated. A replacement for Jesse. Not as cruel as Jesse . . . yet. But it was early days.

He lay on his back. His erection had returned. “It’s time for you to take care of me again. I want you to ride my cock. Tell me you want to ride my cock.”

“I want to ride your cock, Daddy.”

He pulled me onto his lap, straddling his hips, facing him, screwing my channel down on his hard cock again, my wrists bound behind my back. I started riding the cock in churning back and forward, side to side, revolving motions. He raised his torso to me, grabbed my butt cheeks—squeezing them, separating them, kneading them in the same motion I was making in riding his cock. Slapping them, digging his claws into them.

He took my lips in his, brutally kissing me. biting my lower lip when pulling out of the kiss. Laughing at the yelp that produced from me.

“Tell me you want me to punish you.”

“I want you to punish me, Daddy.” I whimpered. And, fuck help me, I did want him to punish me.

He laughed, leaned down, and chewed on my nipples, one after the other.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Oh fuck,” I whimpered as his teeth chewed on my nipples, his claws dug into my butt cheeks, and I rode the cock, and rode the cock, and rode the cock.

An hour later, after he’d left me moaning on my back on my bed, the telephone on the nightstand rang.

“Hello,” I answered groggily.

“Got you up?” Larry Heger asked cheerily.

“Already been up. Now I’m down again,” I answered.

“Just wondered if Jack Dorsey had contacted you yet about upping the offer for your land.”

“What? Who?”

“Jack Dorsey. He’s the developer trying to buy your land—the guy who’s built that pile of wooden crap on the beach to the south of you. He’s offering four mil now.”

“Son of a bitch,” I yelled when I’d put the telephone down. “Interested in me, was he? I should have seen that coming. No way in hell that man’s going to get my land—or anything else from me. Son of a bitch! Anything he wants me to do? I’m his bitch? Screw that.”

But why did I feel I’d lost something I only now had refound?

* * * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon making telephone calls. I was talking to my financial manager—my parents had left me a healthy portfolio of stocks and I did well myself with the book illustrating—and various banks where I had accounts socked away. By an hour after dinner, I was cooled down enough and mellow enough from wine that I could return to working on my illustrations for an hour.

The wind is what first caught my attention. I went over and turned on the TV. A hurricane warning was running along on a band at the base of the screen. I turned that off and turned the radio on, which informed me that a hurricane I’d thought was on its way to Bermuda had taken a nasty turn to the west. It wasn’t going to hit us here on the North Carolina coast directly, but it was going to brush close enough to whip anything into the air that wasn’t anchored down.

Having everything anchored down outside was my mantra anyway. Patio furniture got moved out from a storage room when I wanted to use it and then moved back in. And the house had a low profile on the top of the bluff—a rambling one story, with berms around it to disrupt wind currents. There were no trees near the house, along the driveway, or even near the road running in front of my land. That was by design. We’d weathered more hurricanes on this property without any damage than I could count. The place looked like it was falling down, but looks were deceptive in this case.

As for the marsh, it thrived from the occasional passage of a hurricane.

Feeling safe, but knowing the electricity easily could cut out, I turned all of the lights off; unplugged the computers; took a long shower; hit the bed early, in the nude; used the Fleshjack to jack off and mellow out, and went to sleep, listening to the humming of the generator that backed up the power to the refrigerator and freezer.

I woke up in the middle of the night in bondage, only coming fully awake when a yoke rod was being set in place. It was totally dark. I heard no sound other than the howling wind clawing at the house. A man, obviously naked other than black gloves and a balaclava hood, was wrestling me into submission. He was bigger and stronger than I was. I knew it was a man because I could feel his erection poking at me as we struggled.

I was making a little progress, both of us breathing hard, me not wasting what breath I could muster in screaming or even trying to argue with him, because the howling wind made anything I could scream futile. But just to be sure he could control me, he hauled off and popped me one on the chin. While I was trying to recover from that, he put the yoke rod in place, my wrists trapped in fleece-lined leather restraints at the far ends of the bar and another leather collar around my neck.

When he’d turned me over on my belly and put a thigh spreader in place, I was almost entirely immobilized. He then attached leads going from the wrists restraints on the yoke rod down to the thigh spreader that forced me up onto my bent knees in a doggy fuck position. A lead going from the end of the yoke rod down under the bed and up to the other end of the rod and pulled tight held my cheek flat on the bed. A blindfold, that seemed a little excessive considering the darkness, although, granted, there was an occasional flash of lightning that would have given me some glimpse of the figure assaulting me if my mind was clear and my adrenaline wasn’t pumping—which they were.

A ball gag completed the total incapacitation.

Then the ass work started. A dildo. A vibrator. His cock—a big, thick one. What writhing I was able to do in that confinement was accentuated when he started with the dildo and his cock together.

He was mounted over me. I’d gone to sleep without putting the Fleshjack away, and while he rested between the first and second fucks, he moved his hand under my waist, holding the Fleshjack, and jacked me off with it. While he did that he licked the disappearing welts on my back and bit all over my back and up into my neck.

After hours of torment and fucking, a small vial of something came around to under my nose, I inhaled a pungent smell, and went out like a light.

When I woke, it was calm outside—and light. I was sore as hell, and felt cramped from the position I’d been bound in. But the toys were gone—except for the Fleshjack that was encasing my cock.

I gingerly rose from the bed and padded out to the living area. Nothing seemed amiss. I opened the refrigerator, suddenly in need a beer. But all my cold beer was gone. I say “all.” I probably had been down to a six pack in there. There was more stashed out in the garage.

I went around the house looking for how he’d gotten in. One hallway went on forever, having two bedrooms and a bath on either side of the hallway and the garage at the end. There were patios on either side of the house there and all of the bedrooms had sliding glass doors out to the patio. In the last bedroom toward the land side, the sliding glass door was ajar. The carpet was soaked because rain water had come it. I’d attend to that later. When I tried to slide the door shut, I found it wouldn’t latch. I’d have to get someone out to fix that too.

It was up for grabs whether this was how the assaulter had gotten in or if the storm had pulled a door with a faulty catch open.

Getting that fixed probably couldn’t happen for several days, though. In looking outside, I could see that the hurricane had brought a lot of limbs and some trees down. Since we had the trees well away from the house, there probably wasn’t any structural damage here. But there would be damage elsewhere in the region, so fixing a sliding glass door wouldn’t be much of a priority for workmen for a while.

I’d just have to live with it. I don’t know who it was who had assaulted me in the night, but I had my candidates. It also had had me skipping along the clouds, so if this was some sort of warfare tactic to get me to sell the land, they were going to have to get a lot rougher than that.

It certainly wasn’t something I could report to the police without resulting in more questions than answers.

It meant I should start activating my own plan, though, which would require me to go into town and see Larry Heger. The phones didn’t work. Neither did the electricity, although my generator had kicked in to take care of the refrigerator and freezer. Cell phone coverage seemed to be out too.

Larry lived right on the edge of Maple, in a big plantation house that had been there since the early nineteenth century. He could walk to work even after a storm like this. But he lived close enough to work that I could walk to his house if he wasn’t at his office.

He was about the only one in the area I could trust with my plan.

I went out and got into the truck and started driving toward town. I only got as far as the driveway into the land at the south of mine—the parcel owned by the developer who I now knew was Jack Dorsey. From the top of the drive into that parcel, I could see where fire trucks had tried to get in but had been stopped by two large trees that had fallen across the drive. An ambulance was there too. Beyond that, down toward Dorsey’s beach area, I could see the column of smoke.

A hurricane had gotten his ill-placed wooden McMansion already. I parked the truck out of the way on the main road and walked into where the fire engines were parked. When I got to those, I was met by Chet, in full firefighter’s gear, carrying the naked body of a young man—not Dorsey, I could tell at a glance. The young man was breathing and didn’t look like he’d been burned, but he was unconscious. Other firemen and EMTs, the latter receiving the young man and moving him to the back of the ambulance, were milling around.

“Nothing we could do for the house,” Chet told me, with a grin that indicated he enjoyed playing fireman—and probably had enjoyed carrying the naked body of the young man. I recognized him. He was a soda jerk at the town’s drug store—a cute guy, barely twenty. Willowy, but obviously effeminate, limp wristed to the max. Too obviously queer and delicate for me.

“The wind was too strong for the structure and it was too exposed to the waves where it was,” Chet said. “Shitty construction. Before the electricity went off lines came down and started a fire. The place is a wreck. No way should anyone have been permitted to put up a house like that there.”

“The owner, Dorsey?” I asked.

“Already in the bus. Smoke inhalation. No burns, though. They were in the basement. But both of them will be in the hospital for a few days, learning to breathe again. Reinforced concrete, the basement room. Quite a setup down there. Better than my own chamber.” Chet was grinning wide. “Lots of toys. The cutie was hanging from the ceiling. I liberated this. Thought we might use it.”

All the time he was talking, Chet was holding up a yoke rod. One exactly like the one that had been used on me in the night. Maybe it was the same one. Fuck help me, my thoughts went immediately to Jack Dorsey. After resolving to have nothing more to do with him, what I was thinking now was that he really was into heavy-activity domination. My thoughts last night were that maybe this was just a persona he’d taken on to get to me, to make me bend to his will and sell him my land. But now? Shit help me, I was thinking of the possibility of hooking up with him again—when he’d gotten out of the hospital.

Even if he was the one who had assaulted me last night? Did I really want to answer that?

Chet was still talking. “Had half a notion to use the little honey myself where he was hanging. But he was gasping for air, and not in a controlled choke sex fun kind of way. Has left me horny, though. I’ll have to hang him up somewhere when he recovers and give him what I would have liked to give him today.”

“You have a chamber of your own?” I asked.

“Yep. You need to come over there—and come for me. We’d have a whole lot of fun. You’d come a lot.” He laughed.

“And a hang bar?”

“Sure. A sling too. Nothing like all the shit this Dorsey guy had in his basement, though.”

He held up the yoke rod again and wagged his eyebrows at me. “Let’s let the other firemen clear out. Busy day. I’ll do you right here. Pity the yellow tape is up and the structure ain’t sound. We could use his chamber.”

I was thinking again that maybe it was the same yoke from last night. If so, it was used on me twice within nine or ten hours. Chet stood there, grinning at me, as the ambulance and fire trucks got loaded with firefighters and pulled out onto the road. Chet, though, stood still, holding the yoke rod and smiling at me. A pickup truck was left when the dust settled by the departure of the other vehicles. His, I guess. He must have gotten the alarm when he was off duty and came over in his truck.

“Ain’t got long, but that made me horny,” he said. “Good thing you’re here. March your pretty little ass over into those bushes over there. Strip as you walk.”

For the second time that morning, I was on my knees, cheek to earth, incapacitated by a yoke bar, while Chet, in full firefighter gear, only his fly open, mounted my ass and rode me hard. He used my belt this time for reins, running the loop between my teeth, like a gag, and pulling hard back on that when he wanted my attention. Rode me like a cowboy, slapping my buttocks and commanding me to buck like we were in a rodeo ring while he plowed me.

When he let me up, he asked me where I was headed.

“Into Maple,” I said. All I wanted at the moment, though, was a shower and a soft pillow to sit on.

“It’ll be hard getting there for some time,” he said. “The fire trucks had to use all sorts of back roads to make it. I suggest you stay at home. If you’ve got beer on ice, I might show up later and give you a good fucking.” He winked at me.

So, I thought, just maybe you already did that last night.

I gave up on the day, though, and went back to my drafting table and made good progress on my current project. The electricity came back on about noon. I took that as a reminder and went out to the garage, brought in another six pack of beer, and put it in the frig. The telephones came back up soon thereafter. No one answered at either Larry’s office or home, though, so I decided he must have taken his family inland the previous evening, in advance of the storm.

I was wrong about that, though. Larry called me at 5:00 p.m. and invited me over to the house for dinner.

“Sally says she doesn’t want to chance refreezing the meat that was in the freezer while the electricity was off, so it’s steak night for anyone who can show up. I’m told the roads are clear out your way now. Why don’t you come in and join us?”

I was feeling the claustrophobia and I wanted to talk shop with Larry anyway, so I drove into town. I found him and a good many of his neighbors already plastered with beer and sitting around the pool while the steaks cooked on several grills gathered in by the same neighbors. Larry saluted me with a beer and handed me one of my own.

“We got plenty of beer and steak,” he said, slurring in words. “So life is good.”

I’d obviously gotten there too late to consult with him on business—he was too far gone. But I enjoyed the dinner anyway, and begged off early, after coffee had been passed around a couple of times, saying I’d had a rough night during the hurricane—which I sure as hell had—and wanted to turn in early.

I went straight home and put in another two hours working on illustrations. I stopped when I realized that I was replicating the position and bondage restraints I’d been put in the previous night. Drawing them made me go hard, but most of them were of no use in a book on gay male Kama Sutra positions. “Fuck it,” I said to the walls. I’d do an early night again—or try to.

If the guy who had assaulted me the previous night was Dorsey, as I suspected, I was safe now. He’d be in the hospital for a few days. By the time he was out, I’d have a surprise for him. And after today my plan had an even greater chance of working.

* * * *

The feeling of safety didn’t last long.

I woke—briefly to a gloved hand over my face and that pungent smell at my nostrils again.

When I came to, I was hanging from a floating beam in the ceiling, fleece-lined wrist restraints extending my arms far apart on individual leads from the beam. I was dangling with my toes barely able to reach the bedroom carpet. My legs were held out wide by a stretcher extending from one ankle to the next. I couldn’t see anything—I was blindfolded. I couldn’t say anything—a ball gag was in place.

I could hear, though. Heavy breathing. And I could feel. He was running gloved hands all over my body, making me moan and go hard. He knelt in front of me and took my cock in his mouth, sucking it hard. Off and on, he pulled away and, with a laugh, he slapped my cock and I writhed within the confines of my restraints.

A gloved hand encased my balls and pulled them down. A ball stretcher was wrapped around the base of the sac, bunching my balls in one packet, which he patted and then crushed with his fist until I was writhing and screaming through the ball gag. Heavy weights were hung from the ball stretcher, distending my aching balls toward the floor. He patted the weights, sending them swinging back and forth, making me moan at the aching stretch of the balls.

Another slap of the cock, making me jerk and gasp, and then nipple clips, connected by a chain were being put in place. He pulled on the chain, pulling my nipples painfully away from my body. Eyes watering again, throwing my head back and screaming again through the ball gag to the ceiling. Pull. Release. Pull. Release. Enjoying my deep moans and groans.

Once again a slap of the dick and a squeeze of the balls.

Then the flogging began. “Dance for me,” he growled in a low, purposely changed voice.

And I danced for him as well as I could, in the confines of the restraints, trying to get away from the lash as he flogged me. On the back, on the chest, on the thighs. On my cock and balls. Never with as much power behind it as Jesse had used. Never enough to leave the angry red welts that Jesse did that last night. But with enough stinging force to have me huffing and puffing, dancing, and writhing for him.

A laugh and then a slap of the cock, a squeeze of the balls. A pull at the nipple chain. And then another, and another.

Then the sound of a zapper. “Dance for me,” he growled.

And I danced for him as he touched me, giving me an electric shock, with the tip of the zapper. On the buttocks, the thighs, lifting my feet, zapping the tender insoles. My upper inner thighs, giving me notice of where he was working toward. But then painfully jerking the nipple clips off, and while they still stung, zapping me on the nipples. On my cheek. Back to the upper inner thighs. My balls, causing me to writhe in agony. Again and again. Up under the ball sac on the taint. On the bulb of my cock, causing me to bite down on the rubber of the ball gag and almost slicing through it with my teeth.

As I hung there, sagging on the restraints, moaning deeply, the zapper entering my channel. Zap once, twice, three times.

Hanging and moaning.

Pulling the ball gag out and putting his mouth close to an ear.

“Tell me you want more.”

“I want more.”

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me, Daddy.”

A laugh and the ball gag was reinserted.

Then and only then, he knelt in front of me, taking my cock in his mouth, a hand pulling down on the stretcher weights. Sucking me, sucking me, sucking me. When I was about to come, pulling out, slapping my cock, laughing. Then taking me in his mouth and, eventually, letting me cum.

I was released from the wrist restraints and just sank to the carpet, moaning.

“Liked that, didn’t you?” he growled in my ear in the false voice he was using.

I mumbled something through the ball gag. But, dammit, it had sent me to a higher heaven. Like Jesse, but still not quite to the edges Jesse reached. Enough, though.

He’d released my wrists, but had immediately imprisoned them again. The yoke rod again. He didn’t release the ankle extender.

I was manhandled to the bed and slammed on my back, the yoke hanging over the end of the bed—thus my head and hands there too. The nipple clips came back on and he’d shimmied his way under the ankle extender and on top of me. He worked a thick cock inside my channel and plowed me hard, one hand rhythmically pulling on the chain of the nipple clamps. I bucked with him, wanting him to come inside me. I came again, but he didn’t. I thought he was ready to come, but he wasn’t.

He pulled out of my ass, my cum dripping down my inner thighs; climbed off the bed; and came around to my head, where it was thrown over the end of the bed. The ball gag came out, but I had no time to say anything before a mouth cage was inserted, holding my mouth wide open. Holding it open for him to slide his thick cock inside my mouth and face fuck me. He came in big globs down my throat, making me sputter and gag.

I sensed the vial coming to my face that time, smelling hints of that odor before it reaching my face. I held my breath and pretended that I had inhaled whatever it was and that it had put me out. But it didn’t. I got enough to be woozy, but I wasn’t unconscious.

He puttered around the room, releasing my restraints—all but the blindfold—and gathering up his equipment.

I played unconscious.

Not more than two minutes after I was sure he’d left the room, though, I jerked the blindfold off and painfully rose from the bed. I went immediately to the spare bedroom, where the sliding glass door had been jimmied. He fooled me, though. He’d gone out the front door. I saw the taillights of his vehicle as he raced up my driveway, though—and some sense of the curve of the vehicle’s back end.

After checking the refrigerator—sure enough the six pack I’d put in there earlier was gone—I went back to my bedroom and flopped down on the bed. I was panting shallowly, growling deep down in my throat, and going over what had happened that night. And I was smiling and hardening up again. I . . . just . . . couldn’t help myself. I reached for the Fleshjack.

Whooie, I daydreamed as I lay on my back, working the Fleshjack up and down on my hard cock and moving my pelvis with the motion, I hadn’t had a taking like those of the last couple of days since Jesse. I might not be lonely for him after all. But this being taken by surprise—and at night, when I should be sleeping—was wearing me out. Besides, if all the nighttime assaults were designed to scare me into selling my land, they could escalate into something else altogether, something beyond the kinky sex. Something potentially lethal.

* * * *

I slept then, exhausted. When I woke up, close to noon, I went straight for the telephone and called, first, the hospital, and then Avery.

“Avery, it’s Ron. Are you Jack Dorsey’s lawyer in these land deals? You’re not? Can you tell me who is?”

He could and did. I whistled. With Dorsey out of the picture now as my midnight assaulter—he was in the hospital last night and, besides, he’d turned down the offer of a beer, saying he didn’t drink beer—I’d thought who was attacking me, fucking me totally, was evident. Now I wasn’t at all sure.

I checked the freezer and then dressed and drove into town, stopping at the firehouse.

“Is Chet here?” I asked as I entered the cavernous truck hall.

“Naw. He’s off today’s roster,” the fireman who had come to see what I wanted answered. “Could be anywhere. Probably home.”

“Can you tell me where he lives?”

“Sure,” he answered. “You that artist guy out on the bay Chet’s been telling us about?”

“Probably,” I answered. Then with a sneery grin, the fireman told me how to find Chet’s place.

“You looking for him for any particular reason?” the fireman, who was a Hispanic hunk and a half and who was stripped down to fireman’s slick pants and shiny boots, held up by suspenders, was giving me the once over. I recognized that look. Were my wants that easy to see? Yes, I guess so for those who knew how to look for them. Would I lie under him if he told me he wanted to fuck me? Yes, if he made dominator demands. It’s what subs did for dominators.

“Sure. I’m looking for him for a very special reason.”

“I know some of Chet’s special ways,” he answered, with a grin on his face. “I can do Chet’s specialties too. If he don’t satisfy you, you just come on back, you hear? We got rooms upstairs—soundproof rooms. I got some nice toys. As good as Chet’s got. And I got plenty of time on my hands if no fire flares up.”

“Sure, maybe,” I said, backing out of the hall. I wasn’t kidding. The bruiser looked like a definitely rather than a maybe.

“Sure maybe or sure sure?”

“Sure sure.” God, he was a hunk and a half.

I almost made it out of the firehouse.

“Wait,” the firefighter hunk called out. The sound echoed in the hall. “On second thought, I think Chet said he’d be out of town until later this afternoon. We got time now. Come upstairs with me.” He approached me. He was unzipped, had his cock out, and was cupping his balls and cock with a hand. His equipment was adequate to the task and went well with his muscular torso, the slick pants, the boots—the suspenders even.

“I don’t think . . . ,” I started to say.

“On your knees and suck it,” he commanded.

I went down on my knees in front of him and took his cock in my mouth.

We didn’t make it upstairs. He did me on the front seat of one of the hook and ladder trucks.

An hour later I went on to Larry Heger’s office. He was in and welcomed me into his office. I sat across from him and gave him a level stare. He smiled back at me, all friendliness and “we’ve been pals since high school.”

“What can I do for you, Ron?”

“Well, first of all, you can stop stealing my beer and steaks from my freezer, Larry. You didn’t tell me that the beer I was drinking at your house and the steak I ate were from my kitchen.”

He gave me a confused, dumb look and then it dawned on him what I was saying behind that and a cagier expression set in.

“You also didn’t tell me that you weren’t just my lawyer—that you were Jack Dorsey’s lawyer on these land deals too.”

“He offered you a fair price,” Larry said, defensively—and, like any lawyer, he went straight to the money part of the conversation rather than to the more explosive, kinky sex assault part. I guess he was still scrambling for some lifeline of denial on that.

“Well, I’ve got a counteroffer deal for Mr. Dorsey, Larry. Seeing as how you represent him, you can go over to the hospital and push it down his throat. After his house burned to the foundations and everyone has seen what a bad idea it is for him to build houses there, his development deal isn’t worth a plug nickel. You can tell him that, regardless, I’ll give him $2 million for the land parcel to the south—the one with the ruins of his dream house on it—if he’ll also put the parcel on the north in the land bank. It’s worthless for building now. The marsh there has been destroyed, but if they stop dozing now, it might come back in time.”

“You got that kind of money, Ron?”

“Check me out. I’ll give you numbers to call, people to talk to. You bet I’ve got that and more. But I’m not offering Dorsey a penny more. This is a good deal, and if you two put your heads together, you’ll see that it is. Hell, I’ve got land over toward Elizabeth City. I’ll give him $1 mil for this land and throw in the other land over there, which is ready for development, in the deal. I have my reasons not to wish Dorsey gone altogether. It’s just the land on the bay—the marshland that we all should be protecting—that I want out of his hands.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you don’t want me to talk to Sally and your kids about your . . . extracurricular activities, Larry, I suggest you make Dorsey jump at the deal. And a personal tip to you, Larry: When you drive to a sexual assault, you really shouldn’t do it in that distinctive sports car of yours.”

I was getting out of my chair while I said that, and I could see that I’d gotten through to him on that point at last. He looked frightened. But I didn’t want him to be frightened. I wanted him to dominate. And I didn’t want him to stop torture fucking me.

“Ron. Look. You must know I’ve always wanted you. And when I learned through the mill at Andy’s that you’d take what I liked. I just didn’t want you to know that—”

“Well, we both know now. Don’t worry, Larry. I want what you have to give—what you’ve given me the last two nights. I don’t have any reason to talk to anyone as long as you give me what I need. I just want you to make an appointment for it. I need my regular sleep. And I want you to stop rewarding yourself with my beer. Oh, and when you talk to Dorsey, tell him it isn’t because I want him to leave the area—that I’m perfectly happy about playing . . . tennis . . . with him. I just don’t want him fucking up the marshlands any more than he has already.”

I left him with his mouth gaping open. I didn’t have the slightest doubt he’d sell the deal to Dorsey—especially in light of the fringe benefits on offer.

One more stop, setting the third leg of the three-legged stool down.

I found Chet at home, dressed just in athletic shorts. His muscles were bulging and he had an enticing sheen of sweat on his chest.

“You found me,” he said with a grin. “I was working out. Anything I can help you with.”

“Were you talking straight when you said you had a chamber of your own? Hang bar and sling and what not?”

“You bet I did. Want to see it?”

“Yes, now please . . . if you’re not too busy.”

He grabbed one of my butt cheeks and squeezed hard as I preceded him down the basement steps. I wiggled my butt and sighed.

“Do you happen to have a set of sounding rods too?”


“And know how to use them?”

“You bet.”

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