So, on out to 481, then Interstate 81, nothing much said. Another five minutes down the interstate, and we’re in the tiny park beneath Hanging Rock Mountain, the place I’ve picked out well in advance for its darkness and isolation.
I pull into the gravel lot, gratified to see that no one else is parked there. As I’d hoped, it’s a little too late, a little too cold, for teenagers to be necking. Nothing to see but the looming blackness of mountains, a hillside of bare trees across the road. No sound save for the distant, just-audible purl of a creek. Civil War battle here a long time ago, men fighting for power. No fight tonight. One man’s more than ready to give up power, one man’s keen to take it.
“Ready for Part Two, boy?”
Frodo nods. Since midsummer I have been waiting for, dreaming of, jacking off to the thought of what I’m about to do next.
The Case XX knife was a gift from my high school biology teacher, the lesbian godsend who helped me come out. She presented it to me just before my first deer-hunting foray with Mike, my hot straight buddy, whose hairy chest and black beard I so quietly admired, whose easy mountain masculinity I tried to emulate. Tonight, after decades of whittling the occasional twig and otherwise lying unused in my series of pickup trucks, ready to threaten or slice any assailant if necessary, it serves a rich purpose.
I slide the blade out of its black sheath and hold it up in the starlight. Frodo stares at it, I stare at him. At the same time that he knows that I would never harm him, I hope he’s sweating just a little. Later, when he’s naked and hog-tied and ball-gagged on my bed, I may have to run the knife ever so carefully over his nipples, neck, belly, and cock, just to hear him gulp and whimper.
The edge is a mite dull, got to admit—will have to sharpen it later. But, with just a little effort, it slices clean through the black bondage tape I ordered from San Francisco’s Mr. S. With one hand, I carefully slide the knife back into its sheath; with the other, I hold the segment of tape, about eight inches’ worth, a lustrous cross section of darkness, by one end in the air between us. “Keep still,” I say. Frodo gazes quietly at me, then nods, closes his eyes, and settles back into his seat. Slowly, gently, I center the tape over his mouth, then smooth it across his face.
“Fuck,” I grunt, sitting back to admire him. My cock, fairly hard since I first saw Frodo in the airport, is swelling considerably larger in my jeans. “I have been wanting to see you this way ever since I met you,” I can’t help but groan. “Nothing prettier than a good-looking boy with his hands bound and his mouth taped shut.” I reach over, press the tape against his face a little closer, study the indentation of his lips beneath the shiny black, savor the contrast between the smooth gag and the rough stubble on his cheek.
These are my aesthetics. These are the sights and sensations I live for. Don’t know why, don’t care why. Why question blessing?
Blindfold next. I pull the black bandana from the backpack, my last prop before we get home to the big bed and the heavy bag of toys I’ll be lavishing on Frodo all weekend. His dark hair’s so thick I fumble for a little, but finally his eyes are covered and the cloth’s knotted behind his head. He leans back into the seat and into helplessness. I’ve taken away his speech and his sight and the easy use of his hands. All he can do now is relax into the darkness. All he can do is relinquish.
“My little kidnap victim,” I growl, patting his knee. “You look so fucking fine. You’re looking as sweet as that poor little boy who got all roped up in ‘Captive.’ You set?”
Frodo takes a deep breath and slowly nods.
“You like this? You like being bound and gagged?”
Another nod. Palpable enthusiasm.
“Cuffs not hurting you?”
Unhesitating shake of the head.
Some bottoms might prefer a less solicitous Top, and I can be brutal, callous, and indifferent if they want that, but my natural tendency’s to check on a captive’s comfort with great regularity. When a boy’s given up his will to me, that means his fate and his fantasy are in my hands, and I want to make sure he’s where he wants to be at all times. Part of the code of Southern hospitality, I guess.
I study Frodo for half a minute, listening to that distant creek, exulting in how hot and handsome he looks with metal around his wrists and tape across his mouth, wanting to memorize what details I can to cup like water in the face of any future drought. Now I’m unbuttoning the fly of his jeans, and, yes, as promised, there’s the pale gleam of white jock, the feel of its coarse fabric beneath my fingers. That’s our luck, his and mine, that hard lump I grip and squeeze gently inside the jock and knead till my boy groans. I lean over, gratefully kiss his forehead, then pull up his T-shirt, slide my hands over his smooth, flat belly, up to the little hillock-swells of his chest, to the few curls of hair between and around his nipples, to the nipples themselves, just about my favorite part of a man, soft and hard at the same time.
“These are gonna be sore as hell by the time you leave. You want that, right? I’m gonna be sucking and tugging on these all weekend. I’m gonna worry ’em like a dog.”
“Umm mmm.” Frodo nods, arching his chest against my fingers, then begins a soft little moan as I dig my fingernails in just a bit. Goddamn, how I cherish the whimpers a boy makes against a tight gag.
I give his right nipple a final pinch, then start the engine, slip in a CD for the hour’s drive south, and turn back toward the interstate.
We’re not a mile down 81 before Frodo lifts his cuffed hands over his head and slips them behind his headrest as if I’d bound them there, then slides down in his seat till his arms are stretched tautly above him. Note for future reference: this boy, unlike many nervous novices, might relish a little discomfort and might benefit from very secure restraint. Later, after I’ve stripped him down to his jock, I’ll have to rope his wrists good and tight to the headboard while I eat his ass. Maybe buck and gag him while I fix us breakfast tomorrow. He’s young and lean enough to endure a few lengthy sessions and challenging positions, and he’s going to look mighty pretty drooling around a fat black ball or thick bit.
Almost midnight now. The dark hills and pastures are streaming by, the lights of trucks are blurring past. I wonder if the sight of a man being kidnapped is giving any of these high-seated truckers huge hard-ons. For a moment, I worry that someone with a cell phone might call the cops, then mutter “Fuck it” and turn the music up louder. I’m forty-six: Carpe diem is a timely motto.
The CD’s one of the latest by hot, handsome, hairy, goateed Tim McGraw, my favorite country music star. Talk about a man I’d give my soul to kidnap, strip, rope and gag tight, then keep captive and top continually, with alternating brutality and tenderness, for about six months to a decade. In his plaintive tenor, Tim’s singing “Set This Circus Down,” and I’m pounding out the song’s rhythms on Frodo’s knee, quietly exuberant, delighting in the rasp of fiddle and dwelling on all the previously-agreed-upon pleasures to come.
It will be so sweet to finally get my boy naked. How fine his armpits will smell and taste, and a fucking rapture to rope his hands behind him, spread his legs and eat his hole, to wake him up, after a drowse together, with my cock up his ass, ride him on his side, on his belly, my big bear weight growling on top of him. I can tell I’m going to be entirely besotted by his ass. On his back then, his legs over my shoulders, our eyes interlocked while I ride him hard. So many varieties of tit clamps and gags to use, the music of muffled pleas, and tape across his chest, pinning his arms tight to his sides, layers of tape around his wrists and ankles. Pissing over his head and shoulders in the shower, knotting a piss-soaked sock in his mouth. Cooking him barbeque tomorrow, getting him good and drunk, tying him to a chair and feeding him with my fingers, cornbread and coleslaw and bourbon-barbeque ribs, letting him lick sauce off my fingers and my beard.
In his mute and blind cocoon, Frodo, I suspect, is dreaming of the same things, all we’ve promised one another. That quiet young stranger by the guesthouse pool las
t May, chatting with his husband on a cell phone, looking up at me with an interested smile—who would have guessed how desire’s electric language and serendipitous switchbacks would lead him here? What a gift, when greed meets greed and one man’s longing completes another’s.
The CD’s ended. I drive awhile in silence, occasionally looking over at him stretched out in his seat, slender and curly-headed as a captive Bacchus.
“Comfortable?” I ask. He’s so still I wonder if he’s dozing.
“Umm mmm” is his quiet reply. I recognize the serene tones of complete surrender, the ripe calm of orchards before harvest, of high-grass pastures before the scythe, the calm of appetites certain to be sated.
“We’ll be home in just a little while,” I say, squeezing the hard jock, tracing the imprint of his cockhead with the side of my thumb. We’re hurtling along at seventy miles an hour, yes, the hard, deadly pavement and the hillside’s rocky soil only feet from us, but I have to touch him, his lean and fragile body, again and again and again. Soon enough our weekend will be over, our long-awaited idyll will be ended. So, keeping careful eyes reluctantly on the road, I stroke his belly, play with a nipple. I fondle that endearingly silver-stubbled chin, caress the curls on his temple, rub his mouth’s glossy seal. Tenderly I trace his eyebrows, the line of his jaw, then rest my hand soothingly on his thigh. For the time being, his life is mine, his warmth pulses beneath my palm. Tonight, our fates and brief bodies move together, intertwined through autumn and the dark. Tonight, one hand on his body, one hand on the wheel, I’m threading black hills with consummate care.
TWICE DICKED
Landon Dixon
A fitting end to a shitty day—my boyfriend getting cock-whacked.
I peeped at him and his bum-buddy from behind the tinted glass of the sliding doors that looked out onto the swimming pool. Kent, my Kent, and some badass biker type were bobbing up and down in the deep end, swiping tongue like Winona Ryder swipes clothing.
The guy aggressively probing Kent’s tonsils had a big bald head, a two-tone Texas goatee, facial and earrings, and enough tattoos to cover two normal-sized bodies. The blazing sun set the water to glistening on his sunburned cinder-block shoulders and head as he frenched my lover like he was fluently bilingual. I slid a damp, shaking hand into my jacket pocket and gripped the butt of the gun I sometimes kept there.
The barrel-chested tough guy stuck his thick, pink wedge of a tongue out, and Kent sealed his lips around it and began greedily sucking up and down its slimy length like it was a hardened cock. Then the dude with the ’tude shoved Kent back, lunged over to the edge of the pool, hopped up onto the side, and spread his legs. He gripped his hard, bent-to-the-left cock and gestured at Kent with it. My trembling index finger coiled around the trigger of the gun, testing the tension.
“Come and get it, cocksucker!” the tattooed behemoth with the shaved hard-body and beard-matching black and blond bush yelled, his huge, pink body gleaming under the glaring sun.
“Sure, Brick!” Kent enthused in his sweet bottom-boy voice, his baby-blue eyes lighting up with desire as he watched the nasty man fist his hard-on. He glided over to Brick like a serpent glides into an oasis, slid in between his muscled thighs, and encircled Brick’s rigid, purple-helmeted dick with his long, slender, manicured fingers. He began tonguing the bloated cocktop, expertly and familiarly swirling his slippery, pink pleasure tool around Brick’s massive hood.
“Fuck!” Brick and I grunted, he in ecstasy, me in agony.
Brick ran his stubby fingers through Kent’s long, blond hair, Kent gripping the stud’s quads and mouthing cockhead like the seasoned snake charmer he was, tugging on Brick’s mushroom cap with his full, red lips. Brick closed his wild, ring-fringed eyes and moaned like a wounded animal. I flicked the safety to OFF, and my finger danced along the slick, curved edge of the trigger.
Kent inhaled more of Brick’s bent boner, sensuously but relentlessly sliding his lips down the angry erection till pert nose met hairy balls, till he had Brick’s tool embedded in his mouth and throat. Then he pushed out his tongue and licked at the man’s big balls.
I squeezed the butt of my gun like I meant to throttle it, jacking my rage and courage to the firing point, willing myself to jerk the gun out of my pocket and end this daylight nightmare. I stared bitterly, hungrily at Kent and Brick, at Kent looking into Brick’s eyes and disgorging half of the ballsy biker’s cock, then chugging it down to the roots again. Kent repeated his wicked sword-swallowing over and over. The sight of my guy deep-throating another in the sparkling, sun-splashed water was burning my eyes and frying my brain.
The heavy muscles on Brick’s rugged arms and shoulders suddenly locked up, and I knew he was only seconds away from blowing his load, blasting my once-and-no-future boytoy’s mouth full of his sizzling seed. No man could endure Kent’s awesome cocksucking for long. Kent knew this better than anyone; he broke free of Brick’s clawing fingers, spat the man’s dripping, inflamed dong out, and drifted away.
I loosened the grip on my gun, then sheepishly pulled my hand out of my pocket and stared at my twitching digits. It didn’t take a PI to figure out that this was far from the first time for Kent and Brick. And if that was the way Kent wanted to play it, then that’s the way he could have it. But he could count me out of the game. I might not be the most honest dick who ever pounded pavement or pucker, but I damn well knew right from wrong.
I looked out the window again and saw that Kent and Brick had climbed out of the pool and onto the diving board. Kent stretched out on his back on the narrow, pebbled surface, like a lion in the sun. He had a slim, bronze, well-toned body, with large dark nipples, long supple legs, shapely succulent feet, and an elegant, arrow-straight cock. He lifted his legs and spread his cheeks, exposing his smooth, pink hole to Brick, inviting the hell-raising hunk to punch his ticket.
Here’s to you, Kent, you fucking slut! I thought, and almost screamed, as I unzipped my jeans and yanked out my cock. I was hard, and growing, and I angrily polished my pole while watching Brick crawl over to Kent, roughly grab Kent’s legs, and stab his cock into Kent’s asshole.
“Yes!” Kent shrilled.
I fisted my dick full blown and steel hard, my hand and mind a blur, filling my eyes with the raw, sexual sight of the two nude and lewd men cocking on the diving plank. They weren’t cheater and cheatee anymore; they were just two sun-baked studs, one of them hammering his hard cock deep into the inflamed chute of the other, putting on a man-show for me.
My hand flew up and down my prick as Brick savagely pounded his heavy dong in and out of Kent’s warm, gripping butthole and Kent frantically hand-pumped his own swollen organ. I shrugged off my jacket, tore open my shirt, and pulled and pinched my engorged nipples, tugging on my cock while reveling in the hard-core, he-man butt-fucking taking place right in front of me.
The diving board rocked up and down in rhythm to Brick’s violent anal assault. I torqued my hand up another notch, to keep pace with the sweat-smeared dude’s powerful, churning hips; his bold, rippling ass; his plunging cock; and my balls tightened ominously in prelude to blastoff. And that’s when Brick’s gigantic body started jerking like a puppet on a string. He threw back his head and let out a roar that cleared the fences and ricocheted all over the neighborhood, pouring white-hot cum deep into Kent’s stretched-out sexhole. Kent screamed at Brick to fill his bum with boiling semen, even as he jerked jets of jism out of his own cock.
My legs quivered like skyscrapers come the Big One, and I grunted with pleasure, spraying thick sperm onto the glass and carpet. Brick’s built-for-shit-disturbing body spasmed over and over, the wild man obviously dropping a humungous load into Kent’s sexual core, as Kent pulled frenziedly on his own dick, jacking creamy jizz over his sun-kissed chest and stomach.
The bad boys came and came hard, and so did I. And I didn’t bother cleaning up the mess I left on Kent’s window and floor.
When I got to the office the next day, a woman was waiti
ng for me. She was a joyless-looking dame of around forty, and a round forty at that, with close-cropped, mouse-brown hair, dull, gray eyes, and a chubby face bottomed by slablike lips. She was wearing an ill-fitting business suit and no makeup, her one concession to femininity being a couple of small, silver earrings, which she kept in her nostrils.
“You Clark Tozer?” she demanded.
“Yeah,” I replied, ushering her into my inner office.
She got to the point. “I want you to catch my husband screwing another woman.”
“Uh-huh. And what’s your name—and his?” I said, trying to hold back the bored expression seeping into my face like piss into a paper towel. Fifty percent of my caseload is cheating spouse, forty-nine percent insurance fraud, and one percent interesting.
“My name’s Mrs. Bethel Wojakowski-Gutierrez,” the woman said with practiced ease, “and my husband’s name is Steven.”
Apparently, Bethel didn’t give a good goddamn how Steven was caught cheating, just as long as he was. “You want me to set him up?” I asked.
“I want you to get evidence of him screwing…cheating on me with another woman,” she repeated, the no-nonsense look never leaving her plain-jane face. She had all the charm of a bulldozer, and was probably just as effective.
“Why?”
“You get paid to annoy your clients, or to do what they tell you?”
“A bit of both,” I replied, folding my hands in my lap, leaning back in my chair, and smiling. “I’ve got a passive-aggressive personality.”
Humor was as wasted on her as cock on a clitoris, and she wasn’t standing for any Q&A, either. She pulled five one-hundred-dollar bills out of a small bag roped around her beefy shoulder and said, “You get these when I get the pictures.” Then she stowed the cash back in her bag and pulled out a photocopy of her husband’s driver’s license and one of his business cards, tossing them on my desk.
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