Can’t Help It

The hood of my car was cold and clammy to the touch of my cheek pressed to it. My head was turned toward the lit-up roadhouse across the dirt parking lot, with the pickup trucks and motorcycles parked haphazardly between here, the back of the lot, and there. Country music, swathed in the boisterous, beery banter of male voices, blared from the tavern. One was holding me down, one hand gripping my neck and another pushing down between my shoulder blades with his fist. A third was inside me, moving his hard cock in and out, both of us panting hard. He was gripping my arms at the elbow and pulling them back. A couple of other guys, drinking beer, with their dicks out and stroking them, were standing around, watching me get fucked, laughing and make jokes with each other. The guy inside me now was the second one up to the plate. Five to go.

This is what I’d come for.

I’d caught their eyes—three of them initially, gaunt, wiry, in leathers—when I’d come into the bar. College preppy from Washington and Lee University in nearly Lexington, Virginia, I clearly was out of place, but I didn’t retreat, so I was fair game. I’d heard about the place and pondered and obsessed about it—and about what could be found and experienced here—and, eventually, I’d shown up. I couldn’t help it. I’d had it tame and I couldn’t help thinking it could be more exciting—more challenging and rougher—than that. I wanted to know how it felt to be totally used.

They’d given me the looks, making me feel like it was just me, leaning against the bar, and them at a pool table under a billow of smoke even though there was a swirl of men around us. They lifted their beer bottles and saluted me when they could see I was following their movement, their dancing around the pool table. Other men came to me at the bar, sniffing me out. When they saw that I only had eyes for the guys at the pool table, though, they moved on. They didn’t leave without copping a feel, though, and murmuring about “later.” I didn’t fight them, but I’d already seen what I wanted.

The guys across the room invited me over. Yes, I did play pool, I called over to them. The guy behind the bar gave me a hard look and said, “You sure you want to go over there?” I just smiled and shoved away from the bar.

The leather-clad guys at the pool table, smiled and gave me beers when I arrived, asked me if I knew where I was, whether I knew what kind of tavern this was. I did, I said, although it was only from rumor that one was here. They flirted as they moved around me, leaning ever closer in. Touching me. Intimately. One of them—the biggest bruiser of the set—kissed me, fleetingly, on the lips, and then when I didn’t draw away, pulled me into an embrace, bent me over the pool table, and took me into a tongue-swabbing tonsils kiss. Again, I went with it.

Guys at tables around where the light picked out the pool playing gave us looks. A voice rang out with a “Fuck him on the pool table, Casey,” which was followed by a ripple of laughter. I would have let him do it, but that would be moving faster than the rate they were taking.

“So, do you take cock?” the one who’d kissed me asked, his hand on my butt, whispering in my ear.

“I have,” I answered. Not often, mostly tentatively, out of curiosity and when driven to the need for it—like tonight. Sometimes I couldn’t help it.

“Would you take three?”

“Maybe.”

“More?”

“Maybe.”

They pulled back then, still friendly, but not pushy. Giving me another beer, though. Offering me cigarettes. They all were puffing like chimneys, and I wasn’t sure it was tobacco they were smoking. I took the beer, not the smokes.

When they knew they could have me, they pulled back a bit. They weren’t finished playing pool. They were more interested in that than in humping me. I was a little pissed, and cooled my jets too. Those around us tired of the time it was taking and, sensing that the moment had passed, went back to whatever they were doing before the prospect of a gang bang on the pool table had briefly breezed by.

They hadn’t forgotten me, though. The guy who asked me if I’d take cock gave the others a nod and took a couple of twenties out of the pocket of his tight leather pants and placed them on the edge of the pool table. Seeing that, the other guys, the two other guys at the pool table, did the same. They left the pile of twenties there. I knew they were for me—if I earned them.

Other guys in the bar were watching this unfold from afar. Every once in a while one would get up, come over, and put a couple of twenties on the corner of the table, one on top of the building pile. I wasn’t told what these were for. I didn’t have to be told. Six guys now. $240 in twenties on the pool table. There’d been no reluctance. Was that giving it away cheap? I had no context here. It was a lot of money to me. Still . . .

The seventh guy put it at fourteen Jacksons.

I looked down at the money, not sure now, and said something about it being late and maybe I should go. Like none of them had heard me say that, one of the three at the table spoke to the one who seemed to be taking the lead—the one who had kissed me and been the first to put money down. “Where do you think, Casey?” he said.

“Outside,” the bruiser who must have been Casey answered. “I don’t think John wants part of this. He hasn’t chipped in.”

I had heard the muscled bald dude with a bushy beard standing behind the bar called John. He weighed in in a deep voice. “Yeah, better outside.”

“So, outside,” Casey said, turning to me. And when I just stood there, not sure, he added, “Now,” In a booming voice. He scooped up the pile of twenties and jammed them into my side pocket.

I shrugged and left the tavern, weaving more than walking, toward my car—the typical old cool-looking, gas-guzzling Dodge Challenger a college student might have—parked at the back of the lot.

They caught up to me when I went between my car and the one next to it, with one of the initial guys from the pool table going around that car to approach the gap between them from the other side. The other two came in behind me. A few others were coming out of the bar and sauntering in our direction. More than the seven who had paid. So, some would watch. Shouldn’t they pay something too? I think I mumbled that question, but if any of them heard me, they didn’t bother to respond. I was very much on their turf now—and paid for.

“Give us our money’s worth, college boy,” Casey growled at me. “Blow me good.”

I was pushed down to my knees, back to the wheel well, a hand gripping my wavy blond hair and forcing my head to arch back so that, pressed into me, they could penetrate my throat with a downward slide. I gave all seven of the ones who had paid head, one after the other. I hadn’t done more than four in a row at the fraternity house, but any after the third didn’t really make any extra impression.

Then, stripping me completely down and adjusting themselves as each preferred, they fucked me, one after the other. The others stood around us in a semicircle several feet away, watching as they did in the bar, living the experience vicariously. I was as much aroused by those watching the action as I was by the seven principles taking turns fucking me.

I took it. It was what I’d come for.

I was stripped and spread-eagled over the hood of the Challenger, with one of the guys on the other side of the hood, grasping my wrists and extending and controlling my arms raised about my head. The guy fucking me in a doggie from behind had a finger grip in my hair and kept my cheek pressed to the metal of the hood, my eyes staring at the rocking roadhouse while, one after the other, they fucked me and released their cum up inside my passage.

They’d asked if I wanted them to use rubbers. I’d answered that I didn’t care; whatever they wanted. This was my fantasy; I didn’t want to hedge on any of it. I was treating all of it like a dream anyway. A few of them did me raw; most, taking care of themselves, wore rubbers. They had a system worked out, taking me in increasing cock size, the last guy, the one who had asked me in the roadhouse if I took cock—Casey—being the champion of the seven. He had a rolling ejaculation that never seemed to end. I’d come with the first one, but I came with him too.

He also was the cruelest of the lot. He continued smoking as he fucked me, and after he shot his load, he put out his cigarette between my shoulder blades to hear me scream in surprise and pain, laughed, and let me sink to the ground.

I lay there for the longest time after they’d gone, the watchers following them back into the bar in their wake. I was close to sobbing, but not getting there. They’d gotten what they wanted, but so had I. I had come here for this. I had shot my load while they were fucking me too. I had built up to this. Maybe I’d gone to the edge just this once—to get the measure of the parameters of what could be. I had come because I couldn’t help it. I assumed it would be an ordeal—that doing it this once this way would cure me of curiosity and wondering how much, how rough, I wanted it—how much of it I could take and still want it. This was supposed to be an ending. Lying there, in the dirt, kneeling on the clothes I’d worn into the roadhouse, checking my hurts out, the burn between my shoulder blades being the most painful one, surprisingly more painful than having taken seven cocks without a whole lot of lube or preparation, I wasn’t so sure that this might not be a beginning rather than an ending.

* * * *

“Hold still, Ned. This looks like the worst of it. Just try to tell me you got this burn from a fall. This looks like a cigarette burn on your back.”

“Must have been thrown on the ground still burning,” I said. I was lying on my stomach on my bed in the small apartment I shared with Adrian Williams near the Washington and Lee campus. Williams, a six-foot-two, 205-pound junior black linebacker for the university football team, was dabbing at my battle scars from having been gangbanged on the hood of my car at the tavern outside Lexington. Adrian and I had been roommates for the past two years, He’d first fucked me our first year at W&L. I let him do whatever he wanted to do with me, but, disappointingly, he was more of a gentleman and a lover than I really liked. For me “rougher stuff” needs I’d had to go to my fraternity brothers at the college. I’d been popular there at rush because of the servicing I was willing to provide—to more than one at a time.

“A likely story. You’re not going to tell me what you really got yourself into, are you?” he asked. I winced as he disinfected the cigarette burn and applied a square of gauze to end held down with adhesive. It was a good thing he was there. Casey had made sure that it was a wound I couldn’t care for by myself.

“I drank too much and fell down in the parking lot of a tavern.”

“Which one?” he asked.

I wasn’t feeling inventive. I told him which one.

“Buddies,” he said, with a snort. “I should have known. You can’t get enough of it, can you?”

“You give me enough of it,” I said, raising my arm and letting a hand glide down from his cheek onto his massive chest. He had the hard pecs of a bodybuilder. He was a magnificently formed young man, a keystone of the football team’s defensive unit. He hoped to go on to the professional ranks and thus it wasn’t really that well known that we fucked. Increasingly, it was becoming known that I would lie under another guy—or two or three at a go—though, so I didn’t see Adrian and me rooming together for our senior year or continuing to do as we were now—my hand on his right pectoral, thumbing his nipple, and one of his hands on my bare buttocks, his index finger snaked into my crack and inside my hole.

“And you’re going to give me more of it right now, aren’t you?” I asked.

“You betcha. I’ve doctored you from whatever fall you’ve taken, and there’s a doctoring bill to pay.”

I twisted around—not enough for Adrian’s hand in my crack to dislodge, but enough for me to unzip and flair his shorts and get my mouth on his dick. He was hung and he was ready for me. He sighed as I began giving him head.

“Before we get too far into this,” he said, “I just remembered that Professor Carson’s assistant called this morning and said Carson would like to see you in his office today—around 5:00.”

“Shit. I wonder what he wants,” I said, taking my mouth off Adrian’s cock, but only long enough to say this. “I’ve been avoiding him.”

“But you need a good grade in his class to keep your academic scholarship, don’t you?”

“Mmm, mmm,” I assented, while continuing to suck him off.

“So, I’ve conveyed that now,” Adrian said. “Time to get what I want.”

What Adrian wanted was me on my belly, my butt raised a bit on my knees, while he mounted me from above and in back and fucked me to heaven. I know that sounds divine, and, of course, it was. But there was something inside me right now that wanted more. Adrian was a black bull hunk. He made love to me. He fucked me slow and deep.

But just now what I really wanted to explore was being fucked to hell, not to heaven.

I regulated my breath and made myself relax and open to him, as he penetrated me with his shaft—thick, long, black, slowly, relentlessly moving deep and then setting up a slow, long-sliding rhythm.

I murmured, “Yes, yes, deeper. Pound me, punish me, make me cry.” But if he heard me, he didn’t heed me. Adrian had his own rhythms. He took it slow and deep. It was nice, and it should have been enough—but it wasn’t, not really. I wanted to be used hard—punished.

“Can’t get too vigorous,” he said. “Can’t aggravate that burn. Guy knew just where to burn you to make it most inconvenient.”

It was a reason not to roll around in the fuck—a good reason. But it still wasn’t enough for me, not really.

* * * *

“I thought we might make the same sort of arrangement that you have with Professor Darnel.”

There it was at last, after nearly three-quarters of an hour of beating around the bush before he could get to it. We’d both known what he wanted after the first fifteen minutes. He wanted to trade a good grade in his philosophy course for sex. He was one with the classical philosophers—it was all about buggering his students and adherents.

“Darnel tells me that you like . . . ah . . . special treatment.” The man was almost salivating, on the brink of saying explicitly what he wanted if I gave him a clear opening. I knew he fucked his male students. I didn’t know that he wanted more from them than he already was getting.

I took another look at him, across the depth of his manuscript-strewn desk in his small university departmental office. The lights were dim everywhere else in the department other than here in his office. It was 5:45 on a Thursday and everyone else had gone home. I should have known what this meeting was about when Adrian told me I was supposed to come around 5:00. Around 5:00 was when everyone else was knocking off and clearing out. I was getting a better look at him than before he’d gotten to the bottom line, because he’d rolled his chair around to the side of the desk where I now could see that he was unzipped; he had his dick, such as it was, out; and he was fisting it. He opened his desk drawer, took a riding crop from it, and gently laid that on the desktop. His eyes went to it and then to me.

Our roundabout discussion getting to the bottom line had been about the sexuality of the ancient philosophers and had been getting increasingly homosexual and intimate, so I wasn’t that surprised when it got around to “I’ll give you an A if you let me screw you like Stewart Darnel does.”

Professor Darnel paddled me during sex.

“You want me to go on my knees to you here and now?” I asked. “You want me to bare my butt to you for you to beat me with that riding crop?”

“Yes, please. Everyone else is gone.” The beating around the bush to get to what he wanted was to wait until we were alone here.

So, I did. Philosophy wasn’t my favorite subject. If there was an easier way through it than studying hard, I was game to take it. The man was old—at least in his mid-fifties—and on the pudgy side and nearly bald. The worst was that he was small where it counted. He wasn’t disgusting, though, and he showered regularly.

I knelt between his thighs, placed my hands on his sides above the curve of his beer belly and below his pecs, and took his dick to the hilt, which was not a test of endurance, although he filled out and hardened as I slid my lips down the sides of his shaft, pulled back to suck the bulb hard, slid down to the root, and repeated. He collapsed back into his plush chair, ran his fingers into my blond curls, held my head close into his crotch, and moaned his pleasure. That first part was all over in eight or nine minutes and he was a happy camper. The next phase—bending me over the desk and flicking my buttocks with the riding crop while he did what he could to pump me with his cock went on rather longer. He had trouble keeping it up. Using the riding crop obviously helped in that department.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured after he’d dribbled into his condom and pulled away from me.

“So, is that all you want me to—?”

“I thought you could come home with me for the evening if you didn’t have something else you needed to do. There’s a class paper due in a week and a half. You might not need to turn in a paper at all.”

“Sure, why not?”

He didn’t want to do any of the work. He just wanted to lie on his back on the bed in a house much too big for just him and have me, naked, of course, because he said half the thrill was looking at my young, cut body, doing a cowboy on his cock, riding him while he flicked his riding crop at my pecs and flanks. That was just as well. Stretched out, his beer belly didn’t get much in the way, and, by gyrating on him, I could get some action out of the ride to enable me to come as well.

It wasn’t that big of a deal, but it wasn’t sexually satisfying for me. It was just a means for greasing the skids through courses at college that I didn’t really need in life.

Nothing exciting about sex with Professor Carson at all—not that there was with Professor Darnel either.

“So, is that all you want me to—?” We were sitting at the island in his kitchen. He was wearing a robe. I was naked, as he wanted to watch me move that way.

“Weekend after next I’m going to the Smokies down near Ashville. I have a cabin in the mountains down there. I thought maybe you’d come down for a night or two. It would save you having to worry about the final exam in my course.”

* * * *

Two days after striking a deal with Professor Carlton and agreeing to let him maul me at his cabin in the Smokies south of Ashville the weekend after next, I was out early in the morning pounding the woodland trails off the Maury Cliff Trail by the Maury River in a section of the Washington and Lee campus that folded around the grounds of the adjacent Virginia Military Institute. As I ran, just in my athletic shorts, a jock, and running shoes, thinking on how my sex life was separating wildly being the dullness of old, fat professors, like Carlton, with no drive themselves and being brutally gangbanged in the parking lot of Buddy’s Tavern, I sensed more than heard a runner coming up behind me.

And then he was there running beside me, easily, despite looking to be some fifteen years old than I was. He hadn’t broken a sweat and he wasn’t panting in rhythm to putting one foot ahead of the other as I was. Like me, he was just in athletic shorts and running shoes. He was both trimmer and more muscular than I was, his body honed to perfection, so little fat on him that the veins on his arms and chest laced along his body on the surface, having no fat to travel through. He had the thighs of a soccer player. He had the bearing and the buzz cut of a Marine, which, as far as I knew, he might once have been. He wasn’t hairy, but there was a swirl of reddish-brown hair around his pecs; a gold medallion on a gold chain bobbed up and down between those bulging pecs with the smooth gait of his run.

He turned and smiled at me and, rather than running ahead, as I expected him to, he stayed beside me, which made me run faster than I otherwise would do and to be more aware of my form in running. I wanted to look good to him. At the next fork in the path, he took the smaller branch, the one going down toward the river, running deeper into the trees and branching off from there on more narrow, rarely used trails.

Instinctively, I turned back and followed him although I’d intended on staying on the upper, asphalted trail. He rewarded me with a smile when I followed his lead, as if he realized that I was signaling that I would follow his lead in other ways. He turned and ran backward a few steps, looking at me and beckoning to me with one hand. His other hand dipped to his crotch and he made jerkoff motions. There wasn’t much question what he was proposing we do if I followed him. Then, with a laugh, he turned back and kept running, not checking on whether I followed him.

I followed him.

I’d seen him before but it took a few minutes for me to remember where. About six weeks previously, I’d gone to a Pride Day picnic event in Roanoke, south of Lexington. For some time I’d been thinking of coming out, but when I finally got to the point, there really wasn’t much of anyone to come out to. My parents and sisters said they’d known that for some time and didn’t care. That was a bit deflating as I’d prepared myself for a firefight, especially from my father, a macho sportsmen type. I was the last male of the line. I assumed he’d counted heavily on me continuing the line. He didn’t—or at least he said he didn’t, giving up any hope in that direct he had, at least for now. I suppose he could have thought I’d “find my hetero self” eventually and there was little reason to fight over it before then.

There was no big occasion to come out to my fellow students. They obviously wouldn’t see it as a big deal either and I wasn’t close enough to any of them that telling them I was gay would be a significant event. My fraternity brothers obviously knew that I not only was gay but also was good for a three- or foursome. Adrian already knew—we’d been sleeping together for two years—and he had no plans to come out, so doing it with him was out of the question. So, I went to a Pride Day picnic in Roanoke as some sort of symbolic coming out.

This guy running beside me again and guiding me deeper into the woods by the Maury River—both of us knowing why—had been at the picnic and was sitting in a large circle of us on the grass as we ate lunch after having marched to the park through the city. He’d introduced himself to the group as Craig Singleton, thirty-five, who worked in the physical education department at the Virginia Military Institute. The VMI campus was right next to that of W&L, where I went. He was some sort of strength trainer and an assistant coach for the lacrosse team. His gaze had kept coming back to me that day, but he was clearly there with another young man, so there hadn’t been any one-on-one contact that day. He had aroused me, though. He had an aura of hardness to him and of domination control. He’d made me go hard. From the looks the guy he was with gave when Singleton touched him possessively, I surmised Singleton made him perpetually hard too and kept him well fucked.

That day, when he knew he had my attention, I saw him pull his leather belt out of his shorts, fold it over, and flick it against his leg as guys were talking. I don’t know if other guys were getting the message, but I sure did, and it seemed to be directed at me. Yes, it made me go hard at the time.

That had been six weeks ago, though. Now that I was running beside him, already being submissive to his lead, I realized that all of this urge for something rougher than I was getting from my professors or Adrian had arisen from that day and thinking of writhing under this body beautiful Marine type from VMI, the campus immediately adjacent to where I was attending university. My trip to Buddy’s Tavern to let myself be gangbanged in the parking lot had its origin in encountering and fantasizing about this guy at the Pride Day picnic in Roanoke.

At the next fork in the trail, he slowed down a bit and chose the smaller of the paths, leading into dense woods. He smiled and put a hand on my butt as I followed alongside him, making no move to separate from the hand on my buttocks.

He was pulling me deeper into the woods to have his way with me. I would be totally submissive to him. I hoped he’d be masterful, rough, and forceful. He was.

Deep in the woods, within hearing of the flow of the Maury River, he stopped, grabbed and turned me, and pulled me into a controlling embrace. His lips captured mine, I opened to him, and his tongue snaked in. He placed the heel of a strong hand on the base of my spine, moved his fingers down into my crack under the waistband of the athletic shorts, and plunged a finger up into my hole. I gave a muffled yelp and writhed under the penetration, but he cruelly dug in, and, with a whimper I went limp in his grasp. I raised a knee to his hip to give him deeper penetration with the finger, and he took advantage of the greater access to add a finger—and then another. The fingers were moving; he was finger fucking me, and I opened to him, lying docilely in his grasp, whimpering and moaning.

Coming out of the kiss, he muttered, “I’m going to fuck you. You’re going to get it hard.”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

“You wanted me back at the picnic in Roanoke.”

“Yes.”

“Rough and hard. That’s how you want it. And you want to be whipped.”

“Yes.”

And that’s how I got it. He pulled me off the path and into the woods, forcing me to my knees in front of him in a stand of ferns between the radiating roots of an old oak tree. He stuffed his erection in my mouth, his fingers grabbing and twisting the curly hair on my head and controlling me as he forced me to deep-throat him with gags and nearly to tears.

Pulling me off him, he slapped me across the mouth and I fell back on the ferns between the tree roots, banging the back of my head on the tree trunk. I was dazed as he pulled my shorts and jock off my legs. I lay there, panting, as I watched him look around, locating a thick switch from among the fallen branches on the ground, turning me on my belly, and whipping me with the switch on the buttocks with one hand, while holding my head down into the ferns with a grip on the back of my neck with the other. I gave him what he wanted—cries of passion and begging for the cock.

Throwing the switch aside, he turned me onto my back, came down between my thighs, folded my legs up into my chest, rolled my pelvis up, and attacked my cock, balls, and holes with his mouth and tongue.

I dug my fingernails in his shoulders and cried out, as he crouched over me, and thrust up inside me. He was relentless in his pumping. After initially writhing under him in the pain of open to his attack, I settled down, taking his gold medallion in my mouth to suck on and hooking my knees on his hips as he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

“Yes, yes,” I cried out. “Harder. Deeper.”

With a laugh, he complied.

“I’m going to come,” I yelled through clinched teeth, and then did so between our bellies. He just laughed and continued pumping hard and fast. And then he stopped, held, tensed, jerked, and came inside me, tensed, jerked, and came; tensed, jerked, and came.

It was only then that I realized that he wasn’t sheathed. At that moment I didn’t give a shit, although I knew I’d need to make a trip to the men’s clinic in downtown Lexington. Something else new for me in this lifestyle.

With a huff, he started to rise from me, but I clutched his buttocks with my hands and murmured, “No, please. You’re still hard. Give it to me again.”

He laughed, but he remained inside me. He lowered his mouth to mine and we greedily worked each other’s mouths until, fit and virile, he was on the rise again and resumed pumping me, slower, deeper this time. I clutched his shoulder blades, moved my hips with his, turned my face to the side, and groaned and moaned the pleasure of the deep fuck.

After coming a second time, he did rise from me, slapping me across the face again, and saying, “You wanted that bad, didn’t you?”

I didn’t bother to answer, but we both knew I had wanted it bad. I lay there, watching the muscles of his beautiful body ripple as he pulled his jock and athletic shorts back on and, with a “See you,” which sent me into a spiral of affirmation, he was off running the trail again and quickly out of sight.

. . . leaving me there to luxuriate in what had been both different and so much more than the two extremes of sex I’d been getting up to that point—the vanilla sex of the professors and Adrian and the gangbanging of the Buddy’s Tavern leathermen.

* * * *

I had morning classes on the Friday Professor Carson wanted me to spend the weekend with him in his mountain cabin in the Bald Mountains northwest of Asheville, North Carolina. Leaving in the afternoon, I’d be getting there very late, taking I-81 down through Virginia, and then I-26 southwest through Tennessee and North Carolina toward Asheville. Carson had said he didn’t care how late I arrived. We could always go to bed right after I got there. He had said it with a little smile. I was only smiling on the outside. The things I did to get good grades.

I had a lot to think about while I drove south. I’d gone to a private party of gay guys connected with the open-air Lime Kiln Theater, a play and music venue, the previous night and they’d been handing around a flyer for a big talent show and body-beautiful competition at Buddy’s Tavern Friday night and a couple of guys there had urged me to go to it with them and compete. With memories of my rough taking by leathermen there, I couldn’t get that out of my mind. The thought of going back had made me hard. Was that what I really wanted?

And, on top of the that, I’d gotten a note from the VMI physical education department guy I’d had the encounter with on the Maury Ridge trail, Craig Singleton. He’d tracked me down and said he wanted to see me again. He gave me an address and said anytime Friday night or Saturday would be a good time for him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a good time for me as I was going up into the Bald Mountains to curry favor with Professor Carson. What Craig had to give was much more arousing than Carson could muster—but how did it compare with the rough fuckers at Buddy’s tavern?

Apparently, I wouldn’t know, as I was on my way south down I-81. Just thinking about it had me all keyed up, though. And as I drove, I also thought of something else the guy I met at the Lime Kiln party told me about when I’d said I would be driving down I-81 tonight. He was a mixed white-black muscular guy named Steve, a guy who worked the lights at the Lime Kiln Theater and who looked mostly white when dressed but, when he was naked and stretched out beside me as he was Thursday night, both of us puffing on the same joint, proved, intriguingly, to have a jet-black cock and balls.

“If you want some action on your way down to North Carolina on I-81,” he said before he rolled over on top of me, put that jet-black cock inside me, and fucked me, “stop at the Radford Safety Rest Area, the last one inside Virginia headed south, well after dark. They have a way of taking good care of a great-looking guy like you there.”

And what was just coming up as I was hyped up and in need this Friday night, well after dark? The Radford rest area.

I pulled into the rest area and parked right in front of the traditional-style brick building that housed the restrooms. I didn’t really intend on anything happening. I just wondered what Steve had been talking about in the way of them having a system of taking care of guys like me here.

I sat in the car, scoping out the activity. There wasn’t much. There were a few cars parked in a line on either side of me, and, while I sat there, others came and went after their occupants had used the facilities and hurried away again. In a separate parking area between the one for cars and the highway, a couple of semitrailers hovered. There was no activity there and the trucks were dark, like maybe the drivers were catching some shuteye.

The front of the restroom building was lit up. A middle-aged black guy, gaunt looking and wandering around with a broom and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I just sat there in the driver’s seat of the Challenger, looking at him. He noticed me and looked back as he lethargically worked on sweeping the path in front the building. It was a standard rest stop, with the men’s room on the right and the ladies’ room on the left. In the middle was the unisex room that was locked except when one of the others had to be shut down for cleaning.

As I sat and watched, the area attendant took out a cell phone and made a call. While he was talking to someone, he stood there, looking at me just sitting in my car. After a few minutes, he put the phone away and went over and sat in a patio chair in the walkway between the bathrooms. Another minute or so and I was surprised by a guy—in his forties maybe, stocky and thuggish looking—coming up from behind my car—probably from the truck parking lot. He came up beside the driver’s side of the Challenger and turned and gave me a look before continuing up to the rest area building and talking to the attendant briefly.

They both turned and looked at me through the windshield of the Challenger. I’d been there a good fifteen or twenty minutes then and hadn’t gotten out of the car. I was just sitting there, taking a rest from the drive, and looking around, thinking of what I’d been told about this place, what could be gotten here, and what the special “system” was here.

I’d gone into sort of a trance, I guess, because it startled the hell out of me when the trucker guy was bending over beside my driver’s window, looking at me through the glass and thumping on the window with his knuckles.

“Roll the window down,” he said. I instinctively did. “You looking for some action, Pretty Boy?” he said when the window was down.

“Looking for what?” I mumbled dumbly.

“Action. You want to ride a cock? You’re just sitting here. You’re looking for some action, ain’t you?”

“No, of course . . . well, maybe,” I said. I was hard and throbbing. I’d been that way before driving up to the rest stop.

“Well, come on up to the building, then,” the trucker said.

I was looking at the building. The attendant had risen from his chair and was unlocking the door to the third bathroom. No other cars were coming into the parking lot at the moment. It was just the three of us. The trucker popped my door open and said, “Come on out of there, Sweet Cheeks.”

The trucker was taller, hunkier, and stronger than I was. His grip on me was assured and controlling as, looking this way and that to make sure there weren’t watchers, he hustled me up to the building and through the door of the spare restroom.

The attendant closed the door and locked it—with him inside. The trucker released me and spun out over to the urinals, where he turned; unbuckled his belt, puling the leather belt out of the loops; flared his jeans; and had his shaft out and in his hand. The folded over belt was in his other hand and he was slapping it against his thigh. The attendant came up behind me, close. His hands came around my belly and he unbuckled and unzipped me and pushed my jeans and briefs down to my ankles.

“Step out of them,” he whispered in my ear. As I did, he fisted my cock, which was already in erection. I sighed and leaned back into him. We stood there for more than a moment, the trucker working his cock up and the attendant stroking mine.

“This is what you came for, ain’t it, Pretty Boy,” the trucker said, flicking his belt against my thigh.

I didn’t answer but I wasn’t trying to move away and my eyes were glued on his quite respectable cock.

“You ain’t gonna give us any trouble here?” he then said.

“No, Sir.”

“Either one of us.”

I sucked in air. They were both going to fuck me. “No, Sir.”

“Come’er,” the trucker growled, motioning me forward. The attendant pushed me forward from behind. I was already in the process of going down onto my knees in front of the trucker, but he put one hand on my shoulder and ran the fingers of the other hand into the hair on top of my head, and pushed me down. He raised the belt in his hand high over his head and brought it down on me again, and again, as I writhed on the floor below him.

The beating stopped, and he growled, “Blow me,” it a voice thick with lust. And so I did.

I felt him tensing up, ready to blow, and I tried pulling off him, assuming he wanted to save his ejaculation for an anal fuck, but he didn’t. Knowing he was going to shoot off, he held my head in place, his cock down my throat, and tensed, jerked, and squirted; tensed, jerked, and shot off a second time. I gagged on the cum released in my throat.

So, what now? It would be a while before he could reload. He already was going flaccid inside my throat. How was he planning to proceed with this?

He wasn’t planning anything for a while. The gaunt black attendant pulled me up roughly from behind and hustled me into one of the toilet stalls. He threw me against the wall behind the toilet, my legs going to either side of the bowl. My head banged against the tiled wall behind the toilet, and I gave no resistance, as he grasped my wrists and pressed the palms of my hands against the tiles behind the toilet. One of his hands palmed my belly, jutting my hips back toward him, as he put the bulb of his shaft in place.

I cried out as he thrust up inside me with a thick cock. He gripped the back of my head and banged it against the back wall, twice, growling, “Settle down. No noise.”

And he fucked the shit out of me.

When he was done, he turned me and pushed me out the cubicle. I came down in a heap at the foot of the trucker, who was dressed again and holding my jeans, briefs, and T-shirt.

“Put these back on. We’re going for a walk,” the trucker said.

The black attendant, his jeans back on now, went to the door, unlocked and opened it, and went out. A moment later, he returned and said, “All quiet. You can take him out now.”

“Play nice across the parking lot,” the trucker growled, and we left the spare rest room and moved across the parking lot, past my car, to where the semitrailers were parked. The trucker opened the door of one of them and hauled me up into the cab—and to the cubicle between the driver’s seat, were there was a bed-sized bench. In the light from the overhead dome while the truck door was open, I saw the gleam of a pair of handcuffs hanging from a strap on the passenger side of the cab. The trucker closed the driver’s door, plunging the interior of the cab into darkness. He climbed back into the back of the cab where he’d forced me and slapped me around until I just lay there on the bench, docile and moaning.

I gave him no resistance as he stripped me and put my wrists in the handcuffs. I was on my knees, my arms hanging from the handcuffs while he beat me on the buttocks, thighs, and back with his leather belt again. It was more a declaration of control than painful. Then he mounted my hips, grabbed a hank of hair on the back of my head to arch my head up into his chest, thrust inside me, and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

God help me, once the trucker was saddled and stroking inside me, I cried out for the fuck, put my hips into a rocking motion, and concentrated on the cock pumping inside me. He was forceful and vigorous and, moaning, “Yes, yes, fuck me hard,” I went with him. “Punish me!”

I couldn’t help it. I wanted the cock, and he was giving me the cock deep, hard, and fast. I only regretted that my hands were handcuffed and I couldn’t take care of myself. He took care of me, though, moving a hand around to my belly and lower, and stroking me off as he fucked me.

When he was done, he freed my wrists, hustled me out of the back of the cab, and tossed me down onto the asphalt next to the truck. My clothes came down on top of me. He closed the truck door, revved up the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. With a deep groan, I rolled away from the moving truck. It was a miracle he didn’t run over me in his speedy exit.

Moaning, I pulled my clothes back on and hobbled back to my car. I sat there, looking through the windshield, mentally checking all of my body parts for pain, and staring at the lit-up restroom building. The attendant was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t discern any real damage—at least physical. I was embarrassed and scared, though, at what I had allowed to happen to me. It had been as brutal as the seven leathermen at Buddy’s tavern. I was frightened that it had turned me on, while recognizing that it was a bit too far into the kinky and violent for me.

After I’d calmed down, I started the engine of the Challenger and pulled back out onto the highway. At the next “service vehicles only” crossing to the other side, I did a U-turn and drove back to the rest stop on the other side of the highway, north bound, from where I’d just had a sexual encounter. I used the facilities, checking for visual damage again and putting myself back together. No attendant was in evidence, and the rest stop on this side of the road was getting more business than the other side had gotten. The movement of people gave me reassurance and a sense of protection.

I walked around outside the restroom building for a few minutes, eventually taking my cell phone out and placing a call. Craig Singleton picked up on the second ring.

“So, are you coming over tonight,” he asked.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m on the road south of Roanoke, but I’m on my way back to Lexington. I’m wrung out tonight, but how about we run together on the Maury Ridge trail in the morning?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be there,” he said.

It was sort of a Goldie Locks situation, I was finding. Adrian and Professor Carson were too soft and the Buddy’s Tavern guys and the rest stop pair were too hard. All things considered, Craig Singleton was just right. I’d just have to do the work myself to pass Carson’s class.