So, this was what he'd meant about being made one with the Harley. The motorcycle was secured on strong stands, and I, naked, was belly down on the saddle, my arms raised and spread, tied off with leather strips on the handlebars. My ankles were pulled back on either side and tied off on the hubs of the back wheels. One of the saddlebags was under my lower belly, raising my ass toward the sky. Standing on the stirrups over my back, crouched over me, his hands on the handles of the Harley, a naked Angel was fucking my ass hard, deep, and fast.
I'd be screaming my head off except for two things. One, I had a ball gag in my mouth. Two, we were out in the country--who knew where?--behind what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse well off a country road. Who was out here to hear me scream? I was completely at this man's mercy. If anything, that made me go harder.
I couldn't say my screams wouldn't be cries of passion. God, the man had a talented cock on him. Other than the threat of it--or possibly because of the threat of it--the fuck was glorious, and I was loving every exotic, pain-pleasure stroke of it.
Angel hadn't been sitting out front, on his Harley, waiting from me at 5:45. He had been sitting on his Harley beside my Civic, in the back alley at 5:35--waiting for me.
I didn't argue. It was karma. Fate, I decided. I swung my leg over the saddle, behind him, encircled his waist with my arms, and held on for dear life as he took me for a ride all through town and out into the countryside in several directions, not arriving at the abandoned farm until after 6:30. He seemed to know where he was going--and I knew the general area we were in, to the east of town. We'd crossed I-70--and took a sharp turn into the farm's drive at a good clip, sending up gravel, and scaring the shit out of me--not for the first time during the ride.
Not for the last time that night.
I was exhausted when we arrived, in a grove of trees at the back of the dark and obviously abandoned Cape Cod-style farmhouse. And I think that exhausted--and cowed--was how he wanted me. We stood off at the side of the Harley, our bodies rocking against each other, as Angel pulled his jacket and mesh shirt off his body and then my T over my head. We kissed deeply as he worked both belt buckles and sent my jeans and briefs and his leather pants to the ground.
He was sucking on my tongue and rubbing our dicks together--his quite a bit longer than mine--when he broke away and whispered, "Tell me you're over eighteen again."
"I'm twenty. Want to see my driver's license?"
"Tell me again you want me to fuck you."
"I want you to fuck me."
"Tell me you want me to do things to you. Things you've seen in Drummer."
"Whatever I want. You don't tell me that, I'll take off and leave you here unfucked."
"Do what you want with me. Do what they show in Drummer. Just don't hurt me bad." It was reluctantly given, with a whine. But he'd taken me too far for me not to want completion.
Fucking me, bound, on the Harley, was what he wanted to do with me. At least for the second round. For round one, he had me kneeling in front of him, sucking his cock. I'd given blow jobs before--lots of times--but, as with everything with Angel, this was something else. Not only did he have a thick Prince Albert ring through the glans, but there also were little gold balls running up the underside of his cock. I'd experienced a PA in Key West, but never those gold balls.
As over-the-top arousing as the subsequent belly-down position on the Harley was, I went up to cloud thirteen when Angel turned me onto my back on the Harley and retied me--my wrists to the handlebars again, but now my ankles bound together around his waist--and fucked me head on. What was special about this position was that I he held his torso away from my chest and I could watch the blue dragon on his chest move as his chest and belly muscles undulated in the effort of the vigorous, deep fuck. He also, somehow, got deeper inside me in this position. Deeper than I could remember anyone else having gone. And vigorous enough to pull multiple ejaculations out of me.
As he hit the zenith--and after I'd shot my load up his belly--he leaned his face down into mine, our foreheads touching, our eyes locked, as I felt him tense, hold, jerk, and give me his cum deep inside me. I'd never been barebacked before, and I didn't know if I'd ever risk doing it again--or escape the consequences of having let him do it this time--but I'd never forget having done it, the total taking of it. Condom sex would never feel as complete again.
He pulled the ball gag over my head, tossed it to the side, and went immediately into a deep kiss--sticking his tongue down my throat and making me gag, before sucking on my tongue, holding my tongue between his teeth--applying pressure with his teeth. I began writhing under him, sure he was going to bite my tongue off, but just when I thought he was going to do it, he released the tongue, laughed, and whispered, "I never want you to become complacent with me. I always want fear to be part of your pleasure. But now all pleasure."
I wondered what he meant, but only for a moment--until I realized that he was hard inside me again and was beginning to pump. Slowly this time, and this time I felt both the PA and the gold beads working my channel walls. Slowly, caressing them. He reached for my wrists, one after the other, freeing them, and reached back for the tie around my ankles, letting them separate, my heels to glide down and press into his buttocks. We embraced closely, rocking against each other, rocking with the rhythm of the slow pumping of his cock.
When I felt him tense again, ready to explode, he suddenly pushed up from me, and with his first release of cum slapped me hard against one check. Then he backhanded me on the down sweep at a second spouting. My head snapped back and forth in surprise and I cried out.
"Never want you not to know it can hurt," he muttered.
Then he moved up my body, suspending his torso out over the front of the Harley, with his hands gripping on the handlebars, bearing his weight, while he presented his cock to my mouth for cleaning.
I'd thought we were done. We were both off the motorcycle and picking up our clothes.
"No, don't put your jeans on. Let's go in the house."
"In the house? The place is deserted. No one lives here."
"I do, at least for now," he said, with a laugh.
We were in the kitchen, me sitting, still naked, and with my ankles bound to the back legs of the chair on either side and a dog collar around my neck, chained to the top slat of the chair back. Angel, naked, with me watching how the dragon played on his torso, moved around the kitchen like he really did live there. The electricity, if there ever had been any, was turned off, so, as it was getting dark, the candle light took over. There were candles everywhere. I was afraid he'd burn the place down. And, yes, it frightened me. I was bound to this chair. I could muscle it to the back door, but could I do it fast enough if the fire started in here?
"Aren't the candles dangerous?" I asked.
"Good. It keeps you on edge. More sensitive to everything I do to you." He stepped over to beside the chair and wagged his cock at me. "Suck it."
I took his cock in my mouth, and he reached down and crushed my balls in a fist. My eyes were watering; I was writhing and moaning. I pushed on his belly and thigh with my hands, but he was too strong for me. He didn't budge.
"Don't you dare bite the cock," he demanded. He released my balls and started pumping my cock with his hand. But he was just teasing me. He released me, pulled his cock out of my mouth, and moved back to the stove. It was a wood stove, so he could fry the steaks he had in a skillet.
"I can burn the place down, if I want, you know. It's mine."
"What? For as long as you are squatting here?"
"No. It's why I'm in Clarksburg. Signing the final papers that dump this place. It really is mine--for a couple of more days. Shall we fuck on the floor in the living room with the house burning around us?"
"Maybe not a good idea," I said.
"But it would be memorable, wouldn't it? Give you a memory of Clarksburg worth having."
"I guess so." I didn't even want to think whether he was serious about that. By now, I would have believed it. The man was a fiend. But he also was an angel. I was lost to him. Even his torture made me go instantly hard and come fast and big.
After we ate. Fried steak, hunks of bread, and beer to wash it down--I don't know when I'd had as big an appetite as this--he pushed my chair away from the table, knelt down in front of me, leaned over, took my balls in his mouth, and started to suck on them. At first gently, with me moaning and holding his head between my hands and then ever harder, with me writhing and whimpering and begging him to stop and trying, unsuccessfully, to push him away. He did pull away from me, but only to again tie my hands behind the back of the chair, and then he was back sucking my balls hard, with me crying and begging him to stop.
But I was hard. Not only that, but I came for him again. Never before had I come as often and prodigiously--not even during that week in Key West. It told me something about what I wanted. I couldn't hide that this turned me on--and turned me up--as well. He moved his mouth to cover my cock and gave me head. But at the point of my next ejaculation, he was fisting and crushing my balls again. I gave him my cum in thrashing agony-pleasure, and even I noticed that I was so aroused that I just kept spouting.
He left me there, torso sagging in the chair, whimpering and fully exhausted, as he moved out of the room, taking two of the biggest candles with him. He came back several times, leaving with more candles.
"You'll spend the night, of course," he said when he came in for the last two candles. It didn't sound like a question.
"I hadn't thought I would. I hadn't really--"
"I like you. I like you a lot. I want you to sleep with me tonight. I think we're both lonely."
What could I say? For starters he had me tied up, I had no transportation out of here other than his Harley, he was strong enough to manhandle me as he wanted, and my curiosity was always my downfall. For closers, I didn't want this fantasy to end--even the pain part of it. Maybe especially the pain part of it. This was my Key West dream--over the top of my Key West dream. Right here in Clarksburg. When I woke up from this fantasy, I didn't want the wonder and disappointment of having cut anything off short of what he wanted to do to me. Even if I could stop it.
I'd been thumbing through the Drummer magazines for years. I had melted at the thought of the experiences depicted in them. I'd never come this close to testing that out.
I'd had no idea two men could do what we did in his bedroom, a room with just a double-bed cot with a thin mattress.
I knew what doggy style was, but I was surprised when he said we were playing horsey, and he brought out a bridle tailored for such play, put it on me, and rode my ass around the room, with me moving on my hands and knees on the bare, worn wooden floor. I'd seen this done in Drummer. So this was what that was like.
Later, my wrists tied together and my legs bent around his waist, the ankles bound together, I was upended on my shoulders, my back rising against the side of the cot, and he was standing over me, facing the cot, and jack-hammering his cock down into my hole, while reaching back and milking my cock.
There was more, but it was the last act, deep into the night, that had me crying, jerking at the restraints, and, eventually blacking out. I was spread-eagled on the bed, my wrists and ankles tied off at the four corners, the ball gag back in my mouth. I was finding that the candles had another purpose than lighting the room. He was holding them, one by one, over my writhing body, tipping them, and letting the molten wax drip on my body--on my thighs and belly, my chest and arms. My calves and feet. Even on my dick and balls, although he was careful not to let the wax hit my bulb.
After doing my front, he turned me on my back and did it there too. I watched him, then, standing beside the bed, gathering molten wax, letting it cool a bit in his hand, and then slathering it on his cock. He came up on the bed, put an arm around my belly, lifting me up to my knees, mounted me with the still-warm wax slathered over his cock, and fucked me hard. Sometime after that, I blacked out, more from the rush of too much adrenaline and the exhaustion of the evening and night than from any real damage from the wax.
When I woke up in the morning, he was gone. And the restraints were gone as well. But I was covered in wax, so I knew it hadn't all been a fantasy. I padded out to the kitchen, found a case knife, and peeled as much of the wax off me as I could reach. There was no way I was going to try the grungy shower in this house, and cold water--there surely being no hot water available--wouldn't help.
I dressed and went outside. No Angel and no Harley. I'd been used, abused, and thrown aside. There was nothing that the Drummer magazine layouts had on me. This was more than Key West had been. It had been frightening, and it had been painful. And it had been glorious. I never had been taken that totally before. I was scared and ashamed and walking on the clouds.
I walked up the driveway and out onto the road. Not too far down the road, a Cadillac sedan came up behind me and honked its horn. Jim Slocum agreed to give me a ride to Main Street in Clarksburg and refrained from asking questions after it was obvious I wasn't going to answer them. All I had to do for him was to lean over from the passenger seat in a remote parking area of the William Rogers Clark Park on the way into town and give him a vanilla blow job.
Usually he paid for it; this time the taxi ride covered the bill. Harkening back to having been insulted when Angel asked me for a price, I decided I was a too-tier provider. The Angels of the world didn't pay; the Jim Slocums did.
"Your car was here when we opened up this morning," Jewel said, when I entered the back door of the Coffee Palace and hobbled in. The ass hurt, yes, but the balls ached, having been totally drained of cum--not to mention crushed.
"I didn't go home last night. I went somewhere else."
"That dangerous-looking hunk who was sitting on his Harley out there when we closed?"
"Yep," I answered, noncommittally as I started up the coffee machines. I saw no reason to keep secrets from Jewel. I never had--other than not telling him I wasn't thrilled he had so obviously gone "girl."
"What's that all over your arms?"
"Wax," I said. "Candle wax."
Jewel whistled. "Did we perhaps have a Key West night?"
"More than that," I answered, not looking around.
"So, you met Angelo Fonti." The voice was Phil's. He was standing in the door to the kitchen, a big grin on his face.
"Angelo Fonti. The guy who was in here in the quiet hour yesterday. The burger and fries."
"You know him?"
"I knew the family. They had a farm out east of town. Wops. A strange crew. There were stories about happenings out there--and about this kid, Angelo. Suddenly just packed up and left. Nothing's happening out there now. Just as well they left. Didn't fit in here."
I almost laughed at the "nothing happening out there" comment. If Phil only knew. He probably thought his fetishes were what was happening. He didn't have a clue. But Angel was telling the truth then. He was here to sign papers on the sale of that farm. It was his farm. He wasn't squatting. But it also meant he was just passing through.
Well, he had used me and thrown me aside. That was that. I wouldn't give it much thought.
"You're covered with goop," Phil said, not curious enough to pursue the question of what goop and why. "Go home and clean up. I don't want the customers to see you that way. And change that damn shirt. The statement of 'Anywhere Else' doesn't cut it with the customers here either. Most of our customers are stuck in Clarksburg, just like we are, and will continue to be stuck in Clarksburg."
I went home and stood under a hot shower until I could get the wax--all that I could reach--melted off my body. And it certainly wasn't true that I didn't give Angel another thought. He was all I thought about the whole day.
Thus, at 5:45, I wasn't driving home. I was driving out to the old Fonti farm. I'd kept mental notes of where it was from here while Jim Slocum was driving me into town.
The Harley was there, in the backyard of the run-down house, when I pulled in. But so was an old farm truck. It looked like one that Jim Slocum drove into town occasionally. But surely it couldn't be Slocum's--unless, of course, they were doing a walkthrough of the house. It stood to reason that Slocum was the Realtor on the sale.
I knew I should turn the Civic around and drive out of there, but I'd come all this way. I don't even know why I'd come here. Angel had cast me aside after using me hard. What else could I hope for but more pain and sadism? Yeah, I guess that's what I was hoping for, truth be told. More releases. Coming until my balls ached. A little fear with my sex.
I walked around the house, as quietly as possible. I'd just peek in the windows and assure myself that Jim Slocum was there in connection with the sale of the farm. I couldn't see him and Angel together for any other purpose.
There was a Slocum there, all right, but it wasn't Jim. It was Jim's eighteen-year-old Wittenberg University son, Jason. And it depended on your definitions on whether it was a social or a business call.
They were in the living room--Angel and Jason. Both naked. Jason was suspended from the ceiling on a chain with wrist restraints. Jason could barely stand on his tippy toes and move a limited distance each way from center to try, unsuccessfully, to escape the flicking of the multistrand leather whip on his torso and legs. He was in full erection, so I decided he didn't need to have the cavalry called in. Angel was in erection too, and my eyes immediately went to enjoying the undulation of the blue dragon tattoo on his chest as he swung the whip and connected with a snap and a jerk of Jason's body. I could hear Jason's muffled responses, but I couldn't hear whether he was begging Angel to stop or egging him on, because he was wearing a ball gag--no doubt the same one with my teeth marks in it from the previous night.
I stayed around long enough to see Angel dispense with the whip, run his hands over Jason's body, to crush Jason's balls with his fist in that way I remembered so well--making Jason's eyes water just as mine had done--and to watch him fuck Jason. Jason was flexible. I think he was on the Wittenberg gymnastic team. He managed to hold his legs straight out to the side, toes pointed, as Angel held his thighs up with his hands and fucked up into him from the rear. I watched through the point at which Jason, young and virile, shot his load in a high arc across the room. And I watched until I was sure that Angel, with a jerk and a little victory cry, had bathed Jason's insides.
Knowing Angel, even though it had only been for a day, I continued watching, as he rode Jason to the floor and continued fucking him, doggy style, until he'd come again, and then rolled Jason over, straddled his chest, and made Jason clean his cock with his mouth.
Then I turned, returned to the Civic, and drove off.
Fuck him, I thought. He wanted me so bad that he left me in the house by myself and has already moved on to a younger model.
Still, I wasn't happy.