Uncertain Encounters

My eyes opened. Was that the sound of a door shutting? The room was dark, but not pitch dark. Not long after dawn? My mouth was dry and my head hurt. I knew this feeling, but I hadn’t felt it often. And my ass hurt. Where was I? I swiveled my head. I still didn’t know. This wasn’t my bedroom. I hadn’t been in my apartment more than a couple of weeks, but this wasn’t it. This was a seedy motel room. I groaned. Shit. Booze and pills again. I hadn’t done this in a while.

And sex. And I hadn’t done it to someone else. Someone else had done it to me—I was a submissive, though, so . . .

I was on my back on the bed, naked. My legs were bent and spread, my feet flat on the sheets. My pelvis was raised, a couple of pillows jammed under my waist. My ass hurt. My ass felt like it was on fire. I reached down with my hand, groaning because I realized all of my muscles ached. I knew this feeling too, but not for some time either. I knew what had happened, but how bad? How often? Who? I sure as hell hadn’t done that for a while. I moved here resolved I would be more careful than this. But I don’t think I did this. I think somebody did this knowing I was vulnerable.

Shit, he must have been a monster. I was dilated for a really big one. He’d barebacked me. My fingers came away with cum on them. The cum had dribbled down almost to my knees. He’d pumped me full of cum, he had.

Where was I? What had happened? Who? Where had I been last night. With whom? How much had I had to drink and why? I knew I had to have had one tied on—enough that I lost my senses and my control, or I wouldn’t be here now. Not just drink. Pills too. Watch out for those pills. Wherever this was. And I wouldn’t be in this position—naked and on my back and what obviously was a hotel room and with my legs spread—or in this condition—fucked, unless I’d been on a drink and pills binge. Not just fucked, but royally fucked from what I could tell of the pain in my ass and how dilated I still was. My hole was still pulsing. It pulled at my finger when I moved it down there. And there was cum smeared up my belly too. I’d cum as well. How many times? For that matter, how many men? I had been drugged and gangbanged before. I thought those times were over. I felt drained. I felt violated.

But why was I purring. I felt satisfied as well.

But I’d gotten blotto drunk and had lost total control. I hadn’t gotten here on my own steam. And from what I could remember, it hadn’t started here. A party. I’d been at a party. I’d been under a guy with him stroking my legs, coaxing me to open them for him in someone’s house—a bedroom. There was something before here. How? With whom?

I rolled over onto the side of the bed on my buttocks with a groan, putting my feet over the side. I stepped onto something squishy and looked down. Condoms. Spent rubbers. Two of them on the floor by the side of the bed. Not just barebacked but condoms had been used too. More than one guy then, probably.

Shit. I’d been fucked more than once. Black bulls. That just flashed through my brain. It was a black bull night.

I picked up the portfolio on the nightstand. It claimed this was a Super 6 motel in Blacksburg, Virginia. Well, at least I was still in town. Clothes were strewn out on the floor between the door and the bed. My clothes. I recognized them. The clothes I’d worn last night. To a party. A party off campus after a Virginia Tech football game. Bits and pieces were coming back to me. I hadn’t gone alone. It was a party I’d known about. I was surprised about the party actually. I wonder why I was surprised.

Dr. Mason of the Sports media department. That was it. My faculty sponsor. He’d invited me to go to a victory party while we were watching the Virginia Tech-Pitt game in the stands. It was part of the faculty identifying with the students, he’d said. A faculty party but with students there. Hunky students, he’d said. Real studs. Some of the faculty too, he’d said.

Did he do this? I knew he was gay and he was being quite friendly to me. I’d even admitted to him that I was gay too. I’d also admitted to have been quite a player at one time. That was before, when I was being interviewed for this job. I knew he was gay because he’d fucked me then. Part of the interview, he’d said. I’d passed with flying colors, he’d said. I knew he’d be after me again here in Blacksburg. I’d expected it last evening when he invited me to the party.

But he was what, in his fifties? He couldn’t have manhandled me into this position. And he didn’t have the size to have dilated me this much. I was sure it had been a stud—at the party and then here. And he was the wrong color. I’d been fucked by a black bull.

Now why did I think that? Why was I so certain he was black—and a bull? I stretched back out on the bed and calmed myself. I’d think about this. It would come back into shape. I maybe wouldn’t remember it all as drunk as I’d been, but I should be able to piece more of it together. What was it about a black? No, not one black. There were a lot of guys at the party from the sports program. A lot of black bulls roaming around, getting close, touching, speaking in double entendres, trying to make me.

Well, one of them or more had made me. But which one? Would I encounter him again? Was I getting into a master-slave position again? I’d been determined to avoid that when I moved. Bits and pieces were emerging from the fog. There was no question that I had been mastered—held immobile, penetrated, fully possessed, fucked by a bull stud.

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift. The sense of black arms around me, a black body entwining, possessing, controlling mine swam up into my mind. We were on a bed, in a bedroom, but not here in this motel—not at first. There was music and loud conversation nearby. Hands all over me. Rough hands, big hands. Between my legs, coaxing my legs open. Moving between them. The encompassing strength of the embrace. The gasp of the penetration. The immediate demand to stretch or split, the vigorous, complete taking.

There at the party, and then again here, in the motel room.

I lay there, on the motel room bed, moving my pelvis, stroking my cock, half way remembering the muscular black body enveloping me and being possessed, stretched, consumed inside. But . . . I . . . just couldn’t quite bring the image together more than that. And it wasn’t this motel room. It was a bedroom in a house—where the party was. Not here—not at first. But later.

I shot my load up my belly with a little cry and sank, exhausted, into the sheets. I turned my cheek to the side and tried to remember more—tried to remember how I got here. What I had done here? Who I had done it with? Who had done it to me?

But my last thought before I drifted off into an exhausted sleep was, welcome to Blacksburg. Welcome to Virginia Tech.

* * * *

I suppose it would be justified to finger me as being fickle as, at twenty-five, I had come to Blacksburg and Virginia Tech to begin a third career, this time somewhere more rural, because international and urban venues had not been too kind to me. I was, though, trying to bring all of my previous training to bear on this new career.

I had started as a male figure skater, which required every bit of athleticism as being a football or hockey player did. Whatever I seemed to do in life, though, sex scandal seemed to follow me. I trained in the era in which Rick Callahan ruled as the male skating coach in Colorado Springs. He took me on the Grand Prix circuit and to a top-ten finish at an Olympics. After I had moved on to acting and commercial male modeling, though, he’d become the center of a sexual abuse scandal, charged with sexually mastering the skaters he trained. The media came after me for my comment on that, which I never have given. But, yes, of course he mastered me sexually. That was crucial to his training technique. But he wasn’t the only one at the time. The gymnastics coach when I started college, a muscular black bull, also was covering me at the time. When his abuse was uncovered, my attendance at the small sports college in Colorado Springs was mentioned in passing, but, again, I had moved on by then and the media had current students of his to feed on.

I could see that my skating career would be short-lived, if notable, and I also was being covered by a former skating star who was doing commentary on the skating events, so I got the idea of following that line—taking acting and media communications and training to be a sports commentator. My second career was in commercial modeling and some Broadway acting, though, while I was studying media communications at New York University and then picking up an MFA at the NYU Tisch School of the Arts. At the same time, I reveled in New York social life, parties, booze and liquor, and sex. That’s what I really was skilled in—submissive sex, trading on my slender, boyish good looks, flexibility, and willingness to give blow jobs and take cock.

This, unfortunately, had led to another scandal when a Broadway actress named me as correspondent in a divorce case from her even-better-known Broadway and movie actor husband. It was all true, of course, but before the scandal broke open, I already was burned out on New York and constant, indiscriminate sex and thus, MFA close enough in hand to do the final papers from a remove, when Professor Mikhail Mason of the sports media department of a rural university in Virginia, Virginia Tech, who was doing a guest lecture at NYU, proposed while he was fucking me after I’d acted as his student guide that I take a junior teaching slot in his department, I accepted between him on top in a doggie fuck and me on top in a cowboy.

I assumed that when I came to Virginia Tech, he would expect me to service him regularly and maybe even enter in a long-term relationship with him, but I was open to the possibility of something more steady and monogamous than I’d been dealing in in New York City, so I came to the countryside willingly. He was good-looking and in great shape for his age. He also could protect my back in the department for as long as I pleased him. I knew that was important in university teaching departments, which I understood could be real political snake pits.

But after going with him to the first party he asked me to attend with him, I hadn’t pleased him.

“You disappeared from the party last night,” Mason said when I dragged into the university. Luckily, the only class I had to teach—in constructing a sideline interview on the run, elements always to include—didn’t start until 2:00 in the afternoon. I managed to get back to my new apartment, shower, change, and get to the departmental offices by 10:00 a.m. I needed to be that that early because I hadn’t written out the lesson plan yet.

“I had a headache, and when I needed to leave, I looked around and couldn’t find you. You were talking with an undergraduate student the last time I saw you, and—”

“Right before you went up on the table in just your briefs to show them how flexible a figure skater had to be and to dance,” he said. He was smiling, though, so I guess Mason wasn’t going Puritan on me.

“I’m not good with liquor,” I said.

“Or pills. I told you it wasn’t a good idea to take the pink ones.”

“Or pills. Yes, I’ll be careful.” I’d been shooting in the dark with the suggestion he was taken up in conversation, and more, with an undergraduate student, but I apparently had been right. He didn’t contradict me and he, in fact, hadn’t been in view the last I could remember of the party. Maybe he could help me, though. “There was a black guy there when I climbed up on the table, I think.”

“There were black guys all around, Conner,” Mason said, his tone one of amusement. “The party was at Dalton Ashby’s house. He’s the football team’s Offensive Coordinator. And this is the south. Most of the team and those working with them are black. When you were on that table, I think everyone swirling around you were black athletic types. I hope they don’t intimidate you.”

“Of course big black guys intimidate me,” I said, but being what we were, my smile told Mason they aroused me too. Mason had used a belt on me in New York and I’d responded well to that. He couldn’t tell me what black guy had taken me back to the bedrooms last evening, so it was time to change the subject while we were talking about—or around the topic of—rough sex. “I was sorry we only went to the party together—that we didn’t leave it together. Maybe we could—”

“I could take you to dinner tonight—or, rather, Eli Banks and I could. You haven’t met Eli yet. He’s a former Virginia Tech football star who does the color commentary for the university’s home games. If that’s what you’re interested in doing for sports, you need to know him.”

“Sure,” I answered. That didn’t sound like a sex date, but I’d offered openly enough, and there was time to go there if Mason had that in mind. “What time? Where?”

“I don’t know where. Let’s say I pick you up at your apartment for drinks first and . . . maybe if you bring an overnight bag, I could bring you into the university tomorrow morning.”

Well, OK, there it was. “Fine,” I said.

The 2:00 p.m. class in sports interviewing that afternoon was the third one of the semester. It wasn’t hard to do because it consisted mostly of a video of actual interviews, along with background information on what was happening on that sports day and in the life of the athlete who was actually interviewed. We watched the video and then critiqued it. I’d viewed all of the videos to be used in the class before arriving in Virginia Tech, so I was at least one step ahead of the students.

It was an easy A class for the university athletes, so that’s what most of the students were. Some of the students were smarter than others—the basketball and baseball players, in particular—in realizing that the class also could be useful for them in the future. Sports casting was a possible career—or later career—choice for them, as it was for me. On the flip side it gave the football player and idea of what questions he’d be asked in an interview and pointers on what a good response would be. The football players hadn’t seemed to get this, though, and, although several were enrolled in the class, none had shown up to the first two classes.

They all showed up today, though. They all were big black bulls. And they all stared me down with smirks on their faces for the whole class. At least two of them, Tyree Waller and Jermaine King, I recognized from the party the previous night at the assistant football coach’s house. I couldn’t say they were floating around the table I’d been dancing on in my briefs—or if some of the other football players who had suddenly shown up for class had been there too—but it was obvious that I had become a focus of their amusement. And I’m not sure that was all it was. A couple of them were giving me “those” looks that I knew so well from pickup bars.

At the end of the class, Tyree Waller, who was the second-string quarterback, a sophomore training to move up into the lead quarterback slot the next year, lingered in front of my desk, which I had been standing behind for the class because the black bull football players may have thought the situation was amusing—at least some of them having seen me dance the pole on a table in nearly the altogether the previous night without a pole—but, in addition to embarrassing, I found it arousing. As soon as I saw the eyes go to my crotch, checking me out when I, at least, knew I was half hard, I’d gone behind cover. Tyree stood there the longest moment, giving me an assessing look. It struck me that he might have been either the guy who had fucked me at the party or later in the motel.

But Tyree had to be not much younger than I was. He wasn’t of sophomore college age from the look of him—tall, big, all muscle, and mature looking, with dreadlocks and extensive tattooing. He had the thuggish look of having taken his time to get out of high school and then maximizing his eligible playing time so that he’d be highly honed when he got the chance to show what he could do with a football on the television.

The look he was giving me indicated that he knew what to do with me if he wanted to—and that I would let him do it. I wondered if that meant he’d already done it. But, without saying anything and just giving me a bit of a smirk, he followed his teammates out of the classroom.

He’d made an impression on me, that was for sure. That night I dreamt of him. I didn’t know it was him at first. At first, it was just a black bull of a football player stripping off his football jersey, and standing there, smirking at me, in just his low-rise, tight football pants. I was lying on some sort of ottoman in my dream, out on a green-grass football field. I was reclining back on my elbows, my legs spread. I was naked. He stood in front of me, identified as Tyree now, and slowly unlaced the fly of his pants until his thick, long, jet-black cock popped out. Of course he was huge and of course he was in hard erection. As he moved toward me, between my thighs, I raised and spread my legs, using my well-honed leg muscles to raise them in a perfect V without help from hands. There are those who say that you don’t have the sensation of feeling in a dream, but I felt every inch of Tyree’s thick, long, black cock entering me. I felt him possessing me and fucking me between those perfectly Ved legs.

I felt every thrust. He put power behind the thrust. It wasn’t lovemaking. It was fucking. It was domination. I felt a vein of hate and resentment behind it. I was a white man, he a black, and he was getting a bit back that went beyond me being Conner Blair and he being Tyree Waller. He was gripping my hip between his hands, holding me steadfastly in place. I attempted to roll away from him in the dream just to assure myself he didn’t totally control me if I didn’t want him to. But he surprised me by backhanding me across the face. It was a dream; it didn’t physically hurt. But it effectively dominated me and I lay back in the dream and let him take whatever he wanted. He wanted to slap me a couple of more times and then ride me hard. In the dream I found the rough domination arousing. I’m afraid I found it that way in real life too.

I had thought it had been an older man in the motel the previous night. But it very well could have been Tyree, I realized when I woke, on top of the sheets, naked, my cock in my hand, but spent, cum globbed on my belly.

Dominating black bulls had been my weakness in New York. It appeared they might prove to be my weakness in Blacksburg as well.

* * * *

Eli Banks, the university’s media sports announcer, was black. He also was one of the men I remember from the party at Dalton Ashby’s. The three of us—Professor Mason, Banks, and I—met at PK’s Bar and Grill on Faculty street across North Main Street from the Virginia Tech campus. It shouldn’t have surprised me either that I’d seen Banks before or that he was black, but it did, and I immediately started wondering if he had been either the guy who fucked me at the party or who took me to the motel and fucked me. It was becoming an obsession of mine to figure that out.

He was a handsome man, but he didn’t have the body build I’d imaged. I’d had the sensation of muscular men. I’d been controlled closely, not having the feeling that I could struggle against the man embracing me. Banks was tall and rangy. I couldn’t imagine what position he’d had on the football team when he was at Virginia Tech. It must have been a runner and receiver of some sort—or maybe the quarterback if his specialty was evading tackles. Or he must have trimmed down a lot. He looked like he was in his thirties, which also was a surprise. I’d heard some of the games being announced, and I would have thought the announcer was some older white dude from his voice. When he spoke to me on the patio at PK’s, I knew that he was the announcer.

I didn’t know if he’d had his cock in me already. I had a feeling from the way he talked to me at PK’s, sat close to me, and touched me on the forearm or thigh from time to time that he’d like to spike me if he hadn’t already.

“I told Eli about you and he said he wanted to meet you,” Professor Mason said after we’d ordered burgers and beer. “And you obviously are interested in what he does for the university. He’ll be a great resource for your class in sports announcing we’d like you to teach next semester. He could speak to your class, and he could put you in touch with announcers at other universities.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Maybe we could meet a couple of times in the next few months so that you could help me put a syllabus together for the class.”

“I’d be happy to have a few sessions with you,” Banks said, giving me a look I well knew.

“Eli saw you at the party at Dalton Ashby’s the other night,” Mason said, giving me a pointed look.

“I hope it was early,” I said. “I was celebrating the other night and had too much to drink. I understand I got up on a table and danced.”

“You did, yes,” Banks said, giving a little laugh.

“That wasn’t the real me,” I said. “I’m usually shy and reserved.”

“Hardly reserved,” he said, but before I could connect that with whatever happened on that party night, he added, “I’ve heard your name before. You were an Olympic figure skater, weren’t you? Figure skaters are exhibitionists, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I was a figure skater . . . in another life,” I responded. I didn’t rise to the bait on the exhibitionist issue.

“I believe it from having watched you dance the table at Ashby’s party. You’re still flexible and have the moves. You were coached by Rick Callahan, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was,” I answered.

“And did he . . . Michael here told me about interviewing you for the job, and you were a real free spirit at the party . . . very giving. Callahan apparently had all of his skaters under sexual control. Did he—?”

“Did he fuck me too? And are we here today because you want to fuck me?”

He had a hand on my thigh. I was pretty sure I knew where this was going. That was OK with me, especially if he’d already had me at the party. He was a good-looking man. He looked like he was hard-bodied under that sports shirt and trousers. He took my hand and put in on his basket. I could tell he was hard—and big. I didn’t take my hand away.

“Yes and yes,” Banks said. “Both Michael and I want to fuck you—together. Am I being too forward? Moving too fast? You were quite eager at Dalton’s party.”

“I was drunk and on pills at Dalton’s party. I wasn’t aware of much of what happened after I went up on the table. I was with someone there, I’m sure. Was it you?”

“No, I didn’t spike you at the party,” Banks said. “But I want to do it now. Michael says you like to be controlled and commanded. You can feel me. You know what I want. Are you going to go under me?”

“Yes,” I answered. And, yes, I could feel him. He wasn’t hefty in the chest because it had all gone to his crotch. That was quite a snake he had in there.

“And under Michael too?” I asked.

“Yes, together. Both of us together. I’ve heard you can and will take it that way.”

“I live on Wilson Avenue, just one block over,” Michael Mason said. “Shall we go over there now?”

“OK,” I answered, seeing no reason to spin this all out. Everyone seemed to know what I had done and would do better than I did. I had an urge to know if Banks was telling me the truth—that he wasn’t the one who fucked me at the party. Or maybe later in the motel. If so, he was mine for the taking.

They didn’t just fuck me one after the other. As hinted, they fucked me together in a DP. We didn’t make it to a bedroom. We went to the couch in Mason’s living room, a man on either side of me. They stripped me down together and had all of their hands and both of their mouths busy fondling and working me over as they disrobed at a more leisurely pace. They took turns sucking my cock and balls and fingering my hole, as I worked them one after the other.

I was sitting on Mason’s cock in his lap as he sat on the couch and I straddled him, facing him and was rising and falling on his shaft when Banks, his cock seemingly close to a foot long, came in behind me, placing his knees on either side of my thighs, and squeezing my buttocks open as he entered me, running his long, long, thin, jet-black cock along the top of Mason’s already buried one. Then Banks embraced me close into his chest and controlled the stroking of the cocks inside me.

He was hard bodied. But he seemed trimmer than whoever it was who fucked me at Ashby’s party and his cock, although extraordinarily long, wasn’t nearly as thick as I had felt from the black bull at the party.

He wasn’t the man who fucked me at the party. And he wasn’t as thick as the black bull who had fucked me before leaving at the motel. I still had some searching to do to know who had done that.

He fucked me well, and I felt a sense of achievement on having been able to take both men at the same time. Did I feel ashamed I had been so easy for them? No, I loved being fucked. I just wanted to have a better idea of who was doing it.

* * * *

We were in the broadcast booth at Lane Stadium in Blacksburg on a sunny afternoon, where Eli Banks was showing me the tools of his trade as a sports broadcaster. Banks was responding to me, since I’d gone with him and Mason and let them bang me together, like he owned me. And, with what he had swinging between his legs, he did own me.

The Virginia Tech football team, in athletic shorts and T-shirts—or just the shorts—were being put through drills by a hunky black coach. All of the guys down there were hunky. Most of them were black. Virtually all of them were arousing to me, and, even though I was interested in what Banks was showing me, I had trouble keeping my eyes off the field where masses of black muscle were straining through the players’ drills. The way he was touching me helped to perpetuate that mood. I assumed that the black bull students in my class, Tyree Waller and Jermaine King, who were on the team and who had given me such close scrutiny in class the morning after the party at Dalton Ashby’s house, were down there somewhere on the field.

I had no idea who the guys were individually who were down there. We were too far up, at the top of the stands, for me to see more than that they all were body beautiful. Banks noticed where my attention was drifting to as hard as I was trying to avoid it and that I was panting lightly. He must have also assessed that I was in heat and accessible—and that he was putting me in that mood—as he came up behind me when I was at the rail of the booth, arms outstretched on the rail and peering own onto the field. He covered me close from behind and ran his hands down my arms, clutching my wrists when he reached those. I felt his hot breath on my cheek and his kiss in the hollow of my throat.

“That’s Dalton Ashby down there, drilling those football players. He’s the team’s offensive coordinator. Isn’t his body magnificent?”

“Yes,” I said. It was magnificent. He had stripped his T-shirt off. He was a Mr. Universe in the torso. I couldn’t help wondering if he was a Superman in the loins—and whether or not he’d already had me. In obsessively thinking of who it was who had fucked me at his party and then afterward in the motel, I hadn’t been able to get it out of my mind that it might have been him. Now that I saw him in the magnificent flesh, it was even more of a possibility than before. I tried thinking of the party—earlier, before I’d gotten drunk and high on pills. Was there a Mrs. Ashby at the party? I didn’t think so. And with how frisky his male guests were being with each other as I observed before going confused in my mind, I didn’t think women had been invited to the party and I did think that it was a party for men of same-gender preference.

“He was five years ahead of me on the Tech team,” Banks whispered. “The quarterback. He was still being worshipped when I was on the team. Quite a legend. And hung like a bull. Nearly as big as me. We banged a guy together occasionally. You’re in heat, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted, turning my face to his. As we kissed, his right hand glided back up my arm and down my chest and under the waistband of my shorts. He fondled my cock and balls. I turned my attention back down to the field and saw that Ashby had noticed us in the sound booth and was waving. Out came Banks’s right hand and he waved back to Ashby. When the right hand came down again, he brought it around to my buttocks, pulling my shorts and briefs down almost to my knees. As we went back into a kiss, he squeezed and slapped my butt cheeks, and then his fingers went into my crack, found my hole, and worried the rim of that until the index finger penetrated me. I broke from the kiss, moaned, arched my head back into his chest, and rocked on the finger.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you?” Banks whispered.

“Yes,” I answered.

“By Dalton Ashby, yes?”

“Yes.”

“By both Ashby and me—together.”

“Yes.”

“But you’ll settle for me, here and now.”

“Yes.”

“If you want my cock, jut your ass back and spread your legs.”

“Yes, fuck me,” I whined, doing as he commanded, and reaching for my now-freed cock with my right hand. I could feel the urgency of his long, long, jet-black shaft at the small of my back. He was ramrod hard.

And then, grasping my hips between his hands, pulling my buttocks further back and rolled up, his ramrod hardness was pressing at my hole, which opened to him. He was inside me, stretching me and moving up to the quick of me, to my soft core, which was going spongy for him. I groaned, as, deep inside me, he began the dance of the fuck. Thrusting hard. Stroking languidly inside me. Thrusting hard and going deeper. I cried out in possessed passion and lifted my arms, arching my torso, locking my hands behind his neck, as Banks’s long, long, jet-black cock moved deep, his bulb entering into my soft core, and dominating me there.

I heard a sound at the door to the sound booth and turned my face in that direction, my eyes slitted in satisfaction and my tongue darting out and licking my lips as Banks, holding me steady and under control with his hands gripping my hips, fucked me deep. Dalton Ashby was standing at the door, lounging against the frame, his heavily muscles torso slick with sweat, is eyes glittering and mouth smiling, and his hand fisting and stroking a magnificent jet-black erection.

Banks continued controlling and fucking me for over ten minutes, and I held position, taking his thrusts and his dominating of my soft core. I was stroking my cock. I also had my eyes glued to Ashby stroking his. It wasn’t just Banks who was fucking me. Ashby was fucking me too. The size of the man and of his staff gave me greater assurances that he had been the one who fucked me at his party. We were fucking now, even if Banks was doing the penetrating cock work. I knew Ashby would be fucking me with his cock whenever and wherever he wanted—and that it would happen. I was confident that Ashby felt the same.

With a cry, I came, splashing my cum on the wooden rail of the sound box. I leaned over the rail, closing my eyes, all of my sensations going to the frenzied ride of Banks’s cock ravishing my soft core. He came in a flood of warm cum deep inside me. Lost in the moment, there had been no thought of condoms. I turned my head to look at the door to the sound booth. Ashby was gone.

But I knew this wasn’t an ending with Ashby; it was only the beginning.

* * * *

“Conner? Conner Blair? This is Dalton Ashby. Michael Mason brought you to a party at my house last week.”

“Yes, I remember.” I’d seen his name pop up on caller ID on my phone. I’d been hoping he’d call me. He did—not more than three hours since he watched Eli Banks cover me in the announcer’s booth at Lane Stadium. He was eager. Not as eager as I was, though, I was sure. I’d been virtually sitting on the phone wanting him to call.

“You were with Eli Banks in the announcer’s booth at Lane Stadium earlier today.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to meet you for drinks at PK’s Bar and Grill on Faculty Street.”

“OK.”

“In an hour?”

“Yes.”

“I live not far from there. On the Blacksburg Golf Course. Plank Drive.”

“Yes, I know. I came to your party there.”

“And came at the party,” he said. I sensed the amusement in his voice.

“Yes, I did. Did you come as well at the party—with me? Are you the mysterious black bull who fucked me in a bedroom at your party while I was high on liquor and pills?”

“Yes.”

“And I was good enough—semiconscious—that you want to do me again.”

“Yes, you were. And, yes, I want to fuck you again. Thank you for being so direct about this. It saves time and effort. You were great defenseless and just lying there, open and vulnerable for me. I’d like to know how you are with a little spunk in you. How you react to the belt. I’m rough.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

“And you’re not afraid?”

“Yes, I’m afraid.”

“But, you will—”

“Yes.”

“Good. So, after the drink at PK’s, we can go to my place.”

“I could just come to your place. Now. I know where it is. I don’t need a drink at PK’s first.”

He laughed. “I’ll leave the front door open. You’ll find me in the master bedroom. Down the hall to the right from the entrance foyer.”

“Be naked,” I said.

“I am now. And I’m stroking it. You can strip on your way to the bedroom.”

“The same bedroom you fucked me in before?” I had no idea which bedroom that was, but I wanted him to admit again that he’s the one who banged me at his party.

“Yes, of course.”

* * * *

So, I no longer was uncertain if Dalton Ashby was the black bull who fucked me at his house on the night of his party. Even if he hadn’t confessed to me that he was, once he’d gotten his dick inside me again, I was sure of it. It was the clearest memory I had of the evening at his house—how thick and long and vigorous the jet-black dick was, how muscular and controlling—and cruel—the man with the dick had been, and how fully he had used and satisfied me.

We didn’t go to the bedroom immediately. He met me at the door, naked and magnificent in body and erection.

“Change of plans,” he growled. “I’ve got to have you totally.”

He led me to the basement of his house. He had a sexual torture chamber down there. Now I knew why guys at hi party kept asking if I’d seen his basement—if I wanted to take a tour of that with them. I’d taken the pills and was contemplating dancing the table before I’d gone downstairs with anyone that night.

I went downstairs with Ashby, though, just the two of us in the house. Nobody to either care or rescue me if I were screaming. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

He called the apparatus a prayer bench. There was a kneeling pad and two curled-wood arms on one side of the bench. I knelt, naked, on the pad and my thighs went against the arms and were secured there. The top of the rail was padded too, and my belly rested there, with my torso draped over the far side of the rail, my arms bound to wooden extensions secured to the base of the rail. I was completely immobile and trussed up, defenseless and vulnerable to the big black bull’s sexual whims.

I gave a little yelp of surprise as he pulled on a lever and my hips rolled up leaving my buttocks raised in the air. I gave another yelp when Ashby knelt on the bench behind me, grasped my cock between my spread and imprisoned thighs, and stuck his tongue in my hole. I whimpered and whispered, “Yes, yes. Like that. Yes,” as he ate me out and stroked me off.

When I shot my load, I gave a third yelp, as, rising from behind me, Ashby took up a leather belt and started beating me on the raised, exposed buttocks and thighs with it. I continued yelp and crying out “Please, please,” with no idea whether I was begging him to stop or to hit me harder—until I found myself involuntarily screaming, “Yes! Beat me! Punish me. Fuck! Shit! Oh, my god, you’re killing me!” There was no one to hear me scream as, playing with my emotions and sense of touch, he whipped me into a higher plane of passion and pain.

Putting the leather belt aside, he flipped other levers that lifted and spread my arms and legs so that I was spread-eagled with my belly on the top of the railing. Then he worked his way between my spread thighs, put the bulb of his throbbing cock in place, thrust up inside me deep, and fucked me to heaven.

When he released me, it was to take me up in his arms, carry me upstairs to the master bedroom, and lay me on my back on the bed. He coaxed my legs open, cupped and raised my buttocks, came into me on his knees, penetrated me, and fucked me deep in a missionary position. Totally under his control, exhausted, and fully submissive to his lust, I lay there under him, my fingertips pressed into his muscular shoulder blades, opened my passage as much as I could to the thickness and demand of him, and let the muscles of my channel walls undulate over the vigorously thrusting cock.

There was no question about this. This was the man who had fucked me at the party here in this house the previous week. It was becoming increasingly probable that he was the man who had fucked me in the motel later that night as well—although, as I increasingly was remembering that night, there seemed to be more variety to how I was being taken in the motel.

There still was uncertainty about the encounters of that night, but I now knew that Dalton Ashby had fucked me that night.

And that was quite OK with me, as I lay there, under him, buttock and thighs smarting from being whipped, and concentrating on the magnificent jet-black cock working me in my gut.

* * * *

“I have a cabin up in the Jefferson Forest nearly Boiling Springs and the West Virginia line,” Dalton Ashby said on the phone. “I thought that maybe next weekend after the Tech-North Carolina game we could drive up there and I’d see that you were laid out real good for the rest of the weekend.”

“Sounds good to me,” I answered.

Ashby’s idea of me being laid out was different from mine, but at least I put a certain end to who had fucked me at the motel that night after the party at Ashby’s house. It wasn’t just one guy and I found out why Eli Banks could say he hadn’t fucked me at the party when I somehow felt like he'd fucked me before that double he and Michael Mason did on me.

When we got to the cabin, I saw that there were several cars there already. We’d gotten a late start from Blacksburg on Saturday because Ashby had a lot of work he had to do after the Tech football win against North Carolina before he could take off.

“You didn’t tell me there would be others here?” I said when I saw the other cars.

“Didn’t I?” he answered without further elaboration.

When we entered the cabin, there were wall-to-wall men waiting for us, their tongues hanging out. The gang was all there—The sports announcer, Eli Banks; my faculty mentor, Michael Mason; and the two hunky Tech football players, Tyree Waller and Jermaine King.

“They all enjoyed you—we all enjoyed you—at the Super 6 Motel after my party,” Dalton Ashby said. “They all want to do you again. You game for that?”

So, it wasn’t just one guy in that motel. The whole gang had ganged me and they all wanted to gang me again. “Sure, why not?” I was happy. The mystery of the uncertain encounters had been solved.

I stripped as I walked over to the bed, lay down on it on my back, and spread and raised my legs. Tyree and Jermaine each held a leg while Eli nudged in between my spread thighs to take “firsties.”

Two days later Ashby drove me back down to Blacksburg. He was humming and I, the encounters this weekend quite certain, was purring despite not being able to close my legs and my ass burning like hell.