⁕ Disclaimer:
This story is strictly fictional and contains male-on-male (gay 🏳🌈 ) sexual content, both implied and explicit. 🔞 Reader discretion is advised. The names, ages, circumstances, parties, and locations mentioned in this narrative are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual individuals is purely coincidental. This story is a product of the author’s imagination. The author does not endorse any products or entities mentioned herein.
⁕ © Copyright:
All copyrights to this story remain strictly with the author. No other publication, use, or reproduction of this story or parts of this story is allowed without the author’s written consent. It is published on www.gaydemon.com. Under the pseudonym of StrykerJ.
⁕ Acknowledgement:
AI Story development and structural planning for this narrative were powered by Google Gemini, prompted by the author’s creative vision and input.
⁕ Thanks for reading:
👍 LIKE or RATE IT. That is appreciated. Or leave a comment or a question after you’ve read this story. Thank you very much.
Be Careful - Part 1 of 3.
Posting fantasies online can lead to awkward real-life situations.
• Getting set up.
The roar of the rented Harley thrummed through my thighs, a steady, mechanical vibration that fed right into the headspace I needed. After a late morning workout, I decided to cruise around the sleepy town. The summer air, warm and sticky, whipped past my face as I carved through the center of Middleberg, USA. I wasn’t just Darek Steel right then — I was the biker. The Master. The predator. I was already channeling the sadistic edge I’d need for tomorrow’s cameras.
I’d spent the morning transforming a pristine log cabin into a den of filth. The sets were ready, the bondage equipment was bolted together, and the air in that cabin already felt heavy with the promise of forced submission.
The script was simple, brutal, and effective. A pack of leather-clad bikers overhears the local women whispering about the rowdy, predatory lumberjacks at the nearby camp.
In our version, the bikers don’t call the cops — they raid the camp themselves. We were going to show those rapists exactly what real industrial-sized, gay biker tree trunks felt like. By the time we would be done with them, the lumberjack-offs would have their asses stuffed with splinters from our biker woodies.
But as the summer wind caressed my exposed face and burly arms, the excitement turned sour. My husband and I had built this script scene by scene and word by word, but the executive producers had stripped it to the bone.
They didn’t want ‘actors’; they wanted cheap bodies — meat that didn’t need to speak because they couldn’t deliver a threat without sounding like they were reading a grocery list. Now, our cinematic vision was nothing but an incoherent bit of fighting and filth: a high-end production reduced to a clinical loop of grunts, leather, and ejaculations.
The underlying plan was still there: a brutal scrap in the woods with three ‘straight’ loggers, followed by a relentless, painful gang-bang that would leave them broken. We’d save the best for last, dragging their boss into his own HQ to teach him that abusing our local women has consequences.
Usually, a setup like that would have my blood boiling instantly. But the casting agency had screwed me again. Instead of the brawny, hungry young stallions I’d demanded, they’d sent the same tired, middle-aged fuckers I’d been out-performing for a decade. But they were nothing compared to the German Director we got saddled with. The man was just too ‘straight’ to direct a gay high-end porn.
I checked the odometer and gripped the throttle harder. I needed something new. Something real. I did not get to the top of this industry by settling for mediocre meat.
• Me, Myself, and I.
My name is Darek Steel. I’ve been a professional porn star since the day I turned eighteen. I’m not just popular — I’m a brand. At thirty-seven, I’ve got the kind of longevity most guys in this business would kill for, and I’ve got a husband, Rick Payne, who actually understands the grind.
In front of the lens, I’m the ultimate top. It’s what pays the bills. But the irony? With the right man, I’d drop to my knees or take it all just as fast.
The producers, though? They won’t hear of it. They’ve got me in a box, and it’s starting to feel like a coffin.
I’ve been fighting for my place since the beginning. You should have seen the look on my family’s faces when the truth came out. My older brother found my first flick and played it for the whole damn house — forcing me out of the closet at nineteen like a grenade going off in the living room. It was World War 3. However, I did not fight them; I just got up and left.
I knew exactly who I was, and where I was headed. I loved the rush, the power, and the money. I used every cent of those early paychecks to put myself through college, all while carving my body into a goddamn temple. I worked on my look every single fucking day — building muscle and grit until I was perfection personified.
From day one, the suits told me I had a ‘natural dominance.’ They saw a predator. So, for nearly twenty years, they’ve fed me a steady diet of the same meat: weaker, submissive men or the occasional ‘power-fucker’ who needed to be brought down a peg. I’ve spent my life screwing them raw until they begged for mercy, performing the same dance of domination over and over.
I’ve tried to give the producers input. I’ve been attempting to evolve. But the suits always have the same pathetic brush-off.
“Don’t argue, Steel… Just dress up kinky and show the camera how you gape those daddies open.”
Always the same predictable, soul-sucking reply. I’m done being a puppet for guys who wouldn’t know real heat if it burned down their production company. I’ve had enough — so I stopped waiting for permission and started making my own brand of entertainment.
• Wishful thinking, cum true.
Privately, I prefer to take a twink or two at a time — the younger, the better. I make it a point to check their IDs, but in the heat of the moment, plans can shift.
Hooking up with fans is where the real fun is for me. There isn’t anything sweeter than a tight, virgin hole to open up with a bit of verbal dominance. Depending on their skill level, I can play as rough or as sweet as those boys need. I’ll show them exactly how to service me while making sure they have the ride of their lives.
If the chemistry is real — not just a quickie one-time fuck — then I’m more than happy to return the favor. I’ve made enough dominating films for my fans to know exactly what I like: letting a boy seed my ass or my throat. Most of those guys hook up with me just to gain some rowdy, firsthand experience. They show up dressed kinky, asses pre-lubed and ready for whatever I throw at them.
Fuck, I’d take those young bastards anywhere, any time, and for any price. My dick stays half-hard most of the day anyway. I live for unplanned sex in public spaces. The more people who might catch us, and the more it embarrasses the guy I’m penetrating, the more I freaking love it. Brutally rough public sex just comes naturally to me.
But lately, the professional side has felt like a rut. The scripts and locations were becoming a blur of the same old shit. Finally, my husband stepped in to co-produce.
My well-hung black stud, Rick Payne, used to be a famous star in his own right, but recently he launched his own production company — Black Horse 10. An apt name if ever there was one.
He’s found he enjoys the behind-the-camera action more than exposing himself these days, focusing on high-end, erotic porn. Rick always told me that coming up with the right script was the most challenging part — finding or dressing up a location was the easy bit.
It was true, of course. You could film an adult movie in a drafty warehouse and make it look like a gym, a jail, or a dungeon if you had the right eye. For this flick, we’d rented a remote, lovely log cabin and four motorcycles. I’d been given a small budget to dress the set, and I’d used every cent to make it feel authentic.
• Script inspiration.
I also found Rick a bit of script inspiration online. It’s incredible what the amateur writers on sites like GayDemon can dream up. The situations, the locations, the raw, nasty actions — man, the filth practically dripped off the screen. Or was that just my cum?
Sure, not every story was a masterpiece. But usually — if you were looking for real heat — those writers knew exactly what they were talking about.
The early versions of the script Rick was working on were a mash-up of several stories, but he couldn’t quite make the pacing work. That was until I showed him the work of one particular guy. It was as if this dude had been reading my mind — his brain was just as filthy as mine and Rick’s. And from his profile picture? He was exactly the type of younger meat we were both into.
Stryker-J appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Well-fit. Sporty. Smart. A good-looking blond bastard with plump lips and a smooth, boyish oval face. He had the kind of well-defined pecs and strong arms that looked built for wrestling.
But reading his stories gave us the impression there was something deeper, something darker, to the man. Stryker wrote about brutal bondage, men in leather, gang sex, and verbal domination. It was right up my alley. Oddly enough, the boyish profile pictures didn’t seem to match the savage tone of his writing.
That contradiction confused and intrigued both my hubby and me. We would have loved to get in contact with ‘Stryker-J’ — his online handle — but the guy was a ghost. Try as we might, we couldn’t get a response. Even the messages I sent under my own professional name went unanswered, leaving me to wonder if he even knew who I was.
Rick warned me not to be arrogant; not everyone in the world spent their nights watching my scenes.
Over the last few days, I’ve been busy transforming that four-star holiday cabin near Middleberg into a ‘logging HQ office bunkhouse.’ I hauled the high-end furniture out and replaced it with narrow bunk beds and metal lockers. I bolted a leather sex sling into the master bedroom and scattered bondage gear everywhere. I wanted it to look like a place where a powerful boss regularly broke in unwilling local sluts.
I dirtied the place up properly, too — hanging hardcore images in the bunk rooms and leaving filthy clothes, porn mags, and used condoms scattered on the floor. Movie magic would handle the rest.
The real prize was the nearby abandoned logging site. We’d use that for the outdoor scenes. The crew had already dropped off the lighting and film equipment, leaving me with nothing to do but probe the sleepy town and its surroundings.
Middleberg is a sprawling, wooded area, popular with tourists, but our cabin is tucked away. It overlooks a lake, directly opposite a gated holiday camp. Currently, that camp is crawling with groups of oversexed Boy Scouts and horny Scout leaders — all of them between eighteen and twenty-five.
The last couple of nights, I’ve sat on the deck and listened to the orgasmic screams echoing over the water. Since there isn’t a woman in sight at that camp, I have a pretty good inkling of what those Scouts are up to in their tents. Not that I mind. Those boys need to learn how to handle a man, anyway.
• Cruising through Middleberg, USA.
Around midday, I found myself cruising down the main drag of Middleberg, letting the warm summer wind whip through my hair. My skid lid hung abandoned off the bike’s sissy bar. For now, I wasn’t about to smother my hair when I was just gliding along these local streets. —seeing the sights and being one.
Even my leather chaps felt extra tight over my light blue jeans — just the way I liked them. I hadn’t bothered with a jacket; the weather was perfect for a ribbed tank top that let the sun caress my pumped, post-gym arms.
I’d just finished my daily routine at a local gym, aware of every lingering gaze from the locals as I pushed iron. I loved it. Sure, it wasn’t New York, where Rick and I lived and loved, but I could get used to this pace. Life was slower here — even when you were leaning into the throttle of a heavy bike.
However, just as I cleared the city center, my heart kicked against my ribs. I nearly dumped a load.
There he was.
Stryker-J was walking on the opposite side of Main Street, looking like he’d stepped right out of my browser and into the sweltering morning air.
This was the last place on earth I expected to find him. I recognized the cute blond bastard instantly — the hair, the jawline, and that unassuming, quiet confidence. He didn’t seem the type to make waves or grab for attention, yet somehow, he commanded all of mine. Even though the filth he wrote online suggested he was capable of so much more.
He was wearing the same dark pink Nike shirt and black cargo pants I’d seen in his profile pictures. The fabric of that shirt was stretched tight across those pecs I’d admired on my screen, damp with a bit of sweat that made the material cling to him. I guessed he was heading home from a shift; his work boots and a thermos were dangling from his backpack, swinging with every stride of those powerful legs.
My pulse was hammering. Seeing the man wasn’t just a coincidence; it felt like a green light from the universe. I’d spent days wondering if he was even real, and now, there he was — flesh, bone, and brawn — just a few yards of asphalt away.
As I slowed the bike right down, I sat up straighter, letting one hand seductively stroke the leather of my chaps. I twisted my upper body toward him as I rolled closer, making sure he saw every inch of the man approaching.
The recognition wasn’t one-sided. Stryker’s eyes lit up, wide with the realization that a famous adult star was currently stalking through his sleepy town. I raised a hand to wave, and the guy grinned back with a look that was pure heat.
I couldn’t resist. As I closed the distance, I reached down and openly stroked the nine-inch, stiffening shaft bulging against my denim.
Stryker got a naughty twinkle in his eye. He didn’t just smile — he gestured with a fist near his mouth, mimicking a deep-throat session while bulging his cheek with his tongue. He was showing me exactly how he’d take me.
‘Fuck, that turned me on.’ He was definitely gay. I knew it. But then, as quickly as the bravado had appeared, he stopped and looked skittishly around at the passing cars.
‘Is he in the closet?’ I wondered, watching the sudden shift in his posture.
The guy actually blushed. As I rolled past, I leaned over the handlebars and called out, “Hey there, good-looking! Want a ride on this?” I smirked, reaching down to grab my dick on either side of the denim-captured shaft. Stryker’s answer was quiet, delivered with a longing sigh that made my blood sing.
“Sure…”
Right at that moment, a massive eighteen-wheeler roared past, overtaking me on the left and cutting off my view of the one man I desperately needed to talk to. By the time the truck cleared and the dust settled, the sidewalk was empty. John Stryker was nowhere to be seen.
I circled back, scanning the storefronts and alleys, but he had vanished like a ghost. Disappointed and frustrated, I finally turned the bike toward the cabin. I had found him and lost him in the span of sixty seconds — and the fear that I’d never find him again was a bitter pill to swallow.
• Grabbing a greasy bite.
My stomach rumbled as I pulled a sharp U-turn on Main Street, trying to relocate him. It was just past midday, and I hadn’t had a proper breakfast yet. Driven by hunger and the hunt, I pulled into the parking lot of a classic small-town eatery. Soto’s diner was housed in a vintage Pullman railroad carriage converted into a restaurant.
The heavy scent of fresh coffee, fries, and seared burgers filled the air. The fragrance was enticing enough to draw me in, so I parked near the kitchen extension and headed for the entrance.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with more than just grease. Sounds of discord erupted from the booths at the far end. Five uncouth youths were crowding around a single target, their voices sharp with a bullying edge. Most of them were just looking for a fight, but the leader sounded different — educated, even posh.
“Ah… Look, boys… The freak show is in town!” the leader sneered. “Still fucking ass? You filthy faggot, Jenkins!”
“Ha… You’re one to talk, Mason… you dirty rapist!” the victim shot back, his voice strained but defiant. “You are the one fucking boys behind the dance hall and robbing them blind… I should write a story about that.”
That last remark piqued my interest. It clearly struck a nerve with the bully and his cronies.
“I know since your father cut you off, you’ve taken to shaking down businesses in town, too… You’re pathetic, really,” the man continued. “George Edward Barnabald Mason, the TURD — get a job, you PEDOPHILE!”
I let out a derisive snort. He’d clearly meant to say Mason the Third, but “The Turd” fit the entitled prick’s daddy issues perfectly.
“Order’s up!” the short-order cook called from the kitchen, ringing his bell. He slid a tray with a Sloppy Joe, fruit salad, and fries onto the counter. The waitress grabbed it and walked briskly toward the back booths, her eyes darting apprehensively toward the five thugs. She gave the cook a warning look, and he ducked back into the kitchen, already whispering urgently into the wall-mounted phone.
As she passed the table, a young punk with a ridiculous Mohawk stretched out his leg. The waitress tripped, and the tray went flying. Food and soda sprayed across the booths and the floor — a mess of grease and syrup. The five jeered and laughed their heads off. She didn’t stay to argue; she glared at the men and ducked into the back with the cook.
The five of them still hadn’t noticed me standing there.
“Dinner is served, faggot!” the leader shouted. “Get on all fours and start eating the shit off the floor, Pig!”
“Betty, call the cops!” the victim yelled toward the kitchen. “This pedophile is going to pay for the damages —”
“What did you just call me, ASSHOLE?” Mason roared in a blind rage.
He lunged, grabbing the man in a sleeper hold from behind and squeezing his neck. As the gang scrambled to strike, I saw the fabric of the victim’s shirt tear — a dark pink Nike shirt.
Wait. What? This was Stryker-J that they were attacking! I wasn’t about to let that happen.
I stepped in with the cold, practiced precision of a man who knew exactly how to dismantle a body. My first strike caught a guy wearing brass knuckles, knocking the wind out of him before I twisted his hand back until I heard a sickening, loud crunching snap.
I buried a boot into the balls of a second one and leveled a third with a clothesline chop that sent him crashing into a table. As the young punk with the Mohawk tried to scramble away, I caught him by his greasy hair and dragged him — kicking and screaming — along the floor behind me.
Garry Mason was still kneeling in the booth, his face purple with rage as he tried to choke the life out of Stryker. It didn’t last long. I slammed my free fist between the asshole’s legs from behind, catching both his nuts in a death grip and squeezing with everything I had.
Mason’s screams were louder than the police sirens already wailing outside. His eyes went cross-eyed, his face drained of color, and he went limp as he finally conceded, letting go of Stryker-J.
• First contact, the second time round.
The other three had predictably fled the scene the moment they heard the police screech to a halt outside. The little Mohawked punk helped a crying, limping Mason to the door, leaving the diner in a stunned, ringing silence.
I turned to a wheezing Stryker-J. “Hi. Are you okay? Can I sit here?”
“Sure… It’s a free country —” Stryker gasped, rubbing his neck. He didn’t look up at me yet.
I gently slid into the booth next to him. Apart from a sore neck, he seemed all right — even if the struggle had left the front of his dark pink Nike shirt torn down the middle. Other than that, he looked fine. Damned fine. Up close, I could see the work he’d put in. He was hairless and smooth, with well-defined pecs and a six-pack to die for.
His arms and neck were much larger than an average guy’s, but he wasn’t a bodybuilder. He just understood how to take care of himself. He was precisely the type of man I wanted to work with.
But at this point, I didn’t even know for sure if he was gay — or if he knew who I was. I just knew I was into him. No one other than Rick Payne ever dared to dominate me, but looking at Stryker-J, I found myself thinking I’d let him top my ass and abuse every one of my holes. Something of those desires must have leaked onto my face. Stryker’s mouth fell open as our eyes finally met.
“What?… Huh? — What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice skittish. “I mean… It’s nice to meet you, Master Steel. But I did not expect to —” He sighed, stopping mid-sentence.
“Shush… Like you said… It’s a free country, isn’t it? Glad to hear you know me, though,” I answered warmly.
I placed my gloved hand over his on the table. The boy didn’t pull back. Emboldened, I began caressing his lower arm. We sat there for a long moment — not speaking, just looking and touching, our breathing a little heavier than it should have been in a public diner.
The waitress’s voice snapped us back to reality, though.
“Sorry about that, John. The police are dealing with them now. Thanks for the help, guys — Keeping them talking gave the police enough time to get here. Those... Those ... ‘men’... were trying to extort local businesses. I guess we would have been next if it weren’t for your help. Do you boys want anything?” she asked motherly.
“John?” I thought. “So the ‘J’ in his name stands for John? Although that Mason asshole called him Jenkins? Well, maybe Stryker-J is just his stage name.” I decided right then to follow her lead; I wouldn’t be the one to give away his online persona in a place like this.
“I’m the one who should apologize, Betty,” John said, unable to meet her eyes.
“Nonsense, John… you’re always welcome here. At least now you have something to write about,” she said motherly. She looked like she could have been his mom, maybe fifty or sixty. I always have trouble reading the age of women.
“So, what will it be?”
“Here… you take this for the damages,” I said, pushing a hundred-dollar bill into Betty’s hand. She tried to push it back, but I held firm. “No, I insist! I’d like a black coffee, please, Miss. And I think he’ll take a large Coke for the shock.”
John seemed too dazed to respond.
“Do you want anything to eat, John?” she asked warmly.
I answered for him. “Not right now, dear. I need to talk with him first… maybe later.”
Stryker looked up at me and shook his head slightly toward Betty, letting me take the lead.
She left and returned quickly, pouring me a steaming mug of freshly ground coffee and bringing the boy a gigantic Coke with ice, along with a plate of homemade glazed donuts on the house. She made quick work of cleaning up the worst of the mess before disappearing.
“I still don’t understand, sir… if you don’t mind me asking? What are you doing here?! Middleberg, of all places?” John asked as soon as she was out of earshot.
“Ah… Well, I’m here for work. You do know what kind of work I do… don’t you?”
“I sure do! —” John gasped hotly. “I fucking love your work, Master Steel. I even watched you yesterday before my morning shift at the meatpacking plant… I like the brutality and the vocal way you do your job. I’ve always loved guys dressed like you. I’m not sure I could handle it, though… You’re so forceful and aggressive. I mean — I can handle myself with any guy… but wow — You’re so… so… harsh. That’s gotta hurt.”
“Okay… two things, kid. Don’t judge me by my videos. Privately, I can play nice, too — but that doesn’t sell. And I don’t run around in leather all day, every day, either,” I sighed. “And if you’re looking for pain… then you should try my husband. Rick ‘Master Pain’ Payne can make any guy cry just by walking into a room.” I smirked at him, the expression holding a silent threat. “Anyway, we wanted to talk to you for ages, Stryker.”
• Surprised by a porn actor.
John’s mouth fell open as soon as he heard me speak that name. He looked at me with wide, incredulous eyes. It was clear he had not expected me — or anyone he knew — to know his online gay persona.“How do you know?… You do know my na—? Huh? How do you know that name? No one else around here knows I write on… Umm… ‘that site’… And I like to keep it that way, Steel!” a bewildered Stryker-J urgently stuttered in a nervous voice.
“Ah… I was looking for a bit of online inspiration, and I found you on GayDemon. Rick and I loved your stories, so we dug a little deeper. Man, you are just as brutal a lover as Rick and I. Fuck, sounds like we enjoyed your work as much as you did ours. And even better, you know your stuff when it comes to bondage and domination. Damn, your sex life must be crazy… I love it,” I said hotly, but saw Stryker’s face fall as his ears turned red.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you… Umm… Aren’t you out?” I whispered softly.
Stryker-J said nothing for the longest time. He just stared at the plate of donuts, sipping his cold Coke. I pushed my gloved hand behind his back, slowly rubbing the boy.
Asking after a long while, “If you want me to leave, Stryker, I will. But I would much rather get to know you. So what do you say? Want a ride on this?” I said as I grabbed John’s left arm and seductively pushed his hand over my engorged meat.
I had half expected John to pull his hand back in a hurry, but he did not. No, he certainly did not. His fingers closed tightly around the bulge in my pants. The boy even started to gently stroke the nine inches of thick man meat. Man, this guy turned me on.
“Look… I’d love to give it a try. But you seem to have misunderstood my stories for the real thing,” sighed Stryker worriedly. “Those stories are just made up. It’s my fantasy. I have no experiences like that at all!” called John Stryker, embarrassedly.
“Ah… That explains it, Son. It would help to be careful about what you write online, Stryker. But it’s okay,” I said, letting go of John’s hand. But the man just kept on stroking my stiffening cock softly. From the head to the balls and back. Pressing down in all the right places. Getting me hard as only my man could.
“Look, Sir… I’m out, but I’m not a fool. I don’t go shouting it from the rooftops. Not when the newspaper I write for and the meatpacking plant where I scrub floors are looking for any excuse to let me go. In a town like Middleberg, you keep your head down if you want to keep your paycheck. But what I do behind closed doors? Those things I dream... the rougher fantasies I have? Those don’t belong to the town. They’re mine. But I can’t do it — not here. Not where someone could find out. Master Steel, please... do you understand?” Stryker whispered, finally letting go of my leaky prick.
“I sure do. But call me Darek, John. No one calls me Master and gets away with it unscathed,” I smirked nastily and a little threateningly. I flexed my eyebrows while I said it, and John grinned for the first time.
“Okay… I am John ‘Stryker’ Jenkins. But you can call me Stryker, Sir…” John said with a shiver. “Nice to finally meet you live and in person, Darek. That thing definitely must be made of Steel, though. That, or you badly want to tear me a new one,” whispered John hornily, looking around to see that no one had overheard him.
“Ha… You filthy boy! But sure… That’s true. I would love to force you to clean up the mess you made down there and seed your holes one by one… giving you a little more real-life experience,” I said softly, naughtily pointing out the wet spot on my jeans.
“Would you? But what would your husband say?” asked Stryker as he hotly stroked my leather chaps. Looking with puppy-dog eyes at me that only a true fan would dare show me. This dude was as infatuated with me as I was with him.
“Damn right, I would. But don’t worry. Not here, not now. I could take you to the cabin we rented for a porn shoot for a beer, though. You can try grinding a little Steel there. Fuck, I’d love to dress up for you and give you a preview. And don’t worry about Rick. He’d be happy to join us. That might hurt a little… Because… Umm… Rick is rather big,” I grinned.
• Take a ride.
John Stryker took a profound breath. Apparently, he was making up his mind on the spot.
“Well, sorry, Steel. I am not dressed for the occasion. I need to get something to eat, and I am rather tired after my long morning shift. Garry ripped my shirt, and I don’t have a jacket to put on,” sighed John. He sounded resigned to the fact that he would be missing out on an experience of a lifetime.
“Come on, man. I can fix that. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, boy!” I told John. I handed him my business card with my private details. He looked a little stunned, glancing between the card and me.
“We have been trying to get in contact with you, Stryker. Rick and I love your stories. We wanted to talk to you for a while now.”
I pulled him out of the booth and forcefully pushed him out of the diner toward my bike with a hand on his naked back. Saying goodbye to the cook and the waitress.
“But — but —” John protested.
“Sure… I’ll take your butt, your mind, your soul. I’ll make you my bitch and nail you to the wall. If you promise you’ll tear me a new one, too,” I joked as I grabbed the boy’s hung nuts through his cargo shorts, swirling them tenderly in my gloved hand.
I handed John my leather jacket and started the Harley. It was a moment before Stryker fully understood what was happening. He dropped his backpack to the asphalt and swung the jacket over his naked shoulders. As with so many guys before him, the weight, the smell, and the texture of the leather did something to him.
“Looking cool, sweet thing. Ready for a hot ride?” I said as I handed him my skid lid.
The man still seemed to be second-guessing his decision.
“Son… what are we standing around for? Hop on. Want to go for a beer?” I stopped talking briefly, swung my leg over the bike, and looked over my shoulder at Stryker. I could tell that the man wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but he was eager enough to find out. That much was clear. So I added enticingly, “Come on, Stryker… we can talk. What happens afterward is up to you.”
“I am not sure what you expect of me, Steel? I was on my way home for lunch,” Stryker muttered shyly. Yet he climbed on the back. “You see, it’s been a while since my last time. I sure could use some inspiration for my stories. But could we grab a bite to eat and something to drink on the way, Darek?” the twink tentatively asked.
I instructed warmly, “Sure, I’ve got all the food, drink, and cock you can want up there. Hold on tight, Stryker — tighter than that! Don’t be shy, dude. Let me feel that cock of yours press against my ass, boy!”
I revved the engine, and we drove away. Stryker’s right hand hooked tightly around my waist, stroking my muscular chest and playing with a nipple. The twink scooted forward, grinding my ass. His left hand rested on the inside of my leather-clad thigh. Apparently, he liked the feel — so much so that his hand absentmindedly wandered over the chaps a bit. I enclosed my hand over his, guiding it slowly but deliberately toward my manhood. I asked him huskily, “Do you like my chaps? Do you have leather clothing yourself, Stryker?”
The older twink leaned forward and said tentatively, “Not really… I still am not sure about this, Darek. I’ve never been with a stern dominant guy like you. I am certainly not as experienced as you may think from my stories,” the kid said worriedly.
I did not answer, but I was thinking hard. ‘How would I get Stryker into the sack?’ I wanted his ass badly. Fuck, I wanted his cock, too. Was he really regretting his decision?
I decided to tell him, “Don’t overthink things, Stryker. Just go with the flow. We can talk. We don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to.”“Aww… It’s not that. I’d love to get nailed by my favorite porn star. Just don’t hurt me. You can talk as nastily as you like, though… I’ve always been turned on by that.”
I stroked Stryker-J’s upper leg as we raced to the cabin.
The ride into the hills to the holiday camp was exhilarating. Although, for my taste, it was over much too quickly. I loved the feel of Stryker grinding his leather-clad naked chest against my back, moaning audibly in my ear, and making filthy suggestions. I weaved and bobbed the heavy motorbike through the hairpin curves like a pro, stopping in front of the large log cabin overlooking the lake on the far side of the holiday camp. A couple of Scouts were boating on the lake — well, more like fucking around. As we drove past, I could see that one of the older Scouts had two others pressed to his crotch.
• A Jaw-dropper.
I let Stryker climb off the back of the bike. He clumsily undid the clasp of the helmet, and by the time he had it off, I had planted my boots on either side of his sneakers. Unbeknownst to him, I had already pulled my cock free from my pale blue jeans. My hairless nuts and nine-incher pointed toward the floor, rudely dangling from the leather-chapped denim.
The sight didn’t just capture John’s gaze; it seemed to paralyze him where he stood. His breath hitched, a soft, strangled sound catching in the back of his throat as his eyes bulged. His mouth fell open, his jaw practically dropping in unadulterated shock — he clearly hadn’t expected the ‘full monty’ before we’d even stepped inside. I clapped a gruff hand on his shoulder and put my other hand under his chin to tilt his head up, forcibly breaking his transfixed stare. Even limp, my extra-wide, cut porn star cock was mesmerizing and a little terrifying — or so people in the industry told me again and again.
“Why don’t you remove your backpack and drop to your knees, boy?” I suggested, my voice dropping into a more menacing, demanding tone. “I read that you’re quite the cock-sucker. Now… get to your knees and make me hard so I can fuck you silly!” I commanded harshly. I desperately wanted to see if this dude was up for a bit of public profanity. I hate it when guys talk the talk but can’t walk the walk, risking getting caught in the act.
Stryker glanced nervously around. We were standing right in front of the cabin where people on the lake could easily spot us. I found that sort of thing exhilarating. A few joggers were even strolling along the road surrounding the water. John’s nerves did not calm down when the den of older Scouts spotted me with my cock out; they frantically rowed their boats in our direction. They were eager to get a closer look at the horny biker and his younger leather-clad bitch boy — even though Stryker was at least five or six years older than those guys.
Stryker blushed, looking frantic. “No! What? Here? Now?… Everyone can see us!”
“So what? Let them watch!… Maybe they’ll pick up a thing or two. Now… shut up and suck me. You worry too much, John! Show those fucking Scouts what it takes to get a deep-throating patch, Stryker. They’ve got to learn somewhere. May as well be here,” I grunted obscenely. I twisted my hips toward the lake, showing the horny twinks exactly what I had to offer.
Surprisingly, Stryker-J actually dropped to his knees. He looked incredible in my heavy leather jacket, the oversized sleeves bunched slightly at his wrists, and the dark hide contrasting sharply with the pale, smooth skin of his chest. I stepped forward, my heavy boots framing his backpack, and forcefully pushed him between my knees. As he settled there, he looked like a submissive prize I’d just claimed in the gravel, and the sight of him in my gear made my pulse hammer and my lust quadruple. He looked damn good — rugged, vulnerable, and dangerously enticing.
He didn’t immediately start sucking, though. Instead, he looked back at the Scouts rowing toward us, then up at my face, and then down at my twitching meat. His eyes were darting, calculating the angles. I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he envisioned the scene he wanted to project to the lake. He was shifting from a starstruck fan into a gritty director, and I definitely hadn’t seen that coming. He looked back at the horny Scouts one last time, a wicked glint in his eyes, before hissing a set of urgent instructions.
“Now then… here is what I need you to do. You clap a hand on my head and face-fuck me for a while. Then, fake a forced deep throat and a vocal orgasm. Then carry me inside, kicking and screaming. Let’s make it convincing, though. It should scare the pants off those fuckers. I want them to see some real brutality, Darek. Understood, Steel? Put your back into it!”
“Sir, yes, Sir,” I hissed back, genuinely stunned. I didn’t know where the kid had suddenly found the nerve to call the shots, but I loved it. He wanted a show of fake, unadulterated brutality to inspire the young men on the lake, and I was more than happy to play the monster. I took my cues like the professional I am, my fingers tangling in Stryker’s blond hair. My dirty mind was already envisioning the warmth of his mouth over my sizable porn star cock.
With a smirk, Stryker-J cupped the ‘low-hanging fruit’, weighing my ‘hairless plums’ in his palm. He wiggled the fat dick so the older Scouts could get an even better look, then suddenly arched his back and faked a sharp scream of terror. I faked a flat-handed hit against his face to ‘shut him up.’ It wasn’t hard, but the slap of skin on skin still reverberated over the water.
Stryker looked back and forth between my swelling cock and my eyes, acting utterly terrified for the benefit of the boys on the lake. Yet, the moment I tightened my grip on his head and growled, he leaned forward eagerly. The twink began teasingly stroking the head of my cock with his tongue, tasting my musk and pre-cum. Despite the performance of fear he was putting on for the Scouts, the way he handled my meat told me he was in complete control of the moment.
• Row, row, row your boat.
Glancing toward the water, I saw how the Scouts nearly toppled over one another, scrambling for a better look as the twink engulfed my thick biker cock. He played the part perfectly, acting as if he were my helpless victim. As I started to face-fuck Stryker’s seemingly unwilling, sputtering throat, I noticed a few of the twinks on the lake had already started recording the scene on their phones. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn Stryker was a professional actor himself.
I grunted like a beast, forcing John’s head gruffly up and down over my shaft, plowing his deep, tight throat like a madman. I spat out nasty verbal instructions, all for the benefit of the filming Scouts, making sure they got every bit of the gritty show they came for.
John even mastered the chokes and gurgles. He took all nine inches of swelling meat into his mouth like a pro. I forced Stryker-J to look up at me as I pounded his face, calling him every filthy name in the book, verbally threatening him, and giving the boy absolutely no praise for the incredible work he was doing.
But by the throbbing hardness of my ‘porn star rod’ and the sheer eagerness of John’s blowjob, he could tell I was into this just as much as he was. I nearly lost control, though; the boy really knew how to work a cock. It definitely wasn’t his ‘first rodeo.’
I could feel my heavy nuts twitch and my legs start to shake. Stryker had to sharply slap a hand against my chest and click his fingers at me, snapping me out of the haze. It was a good thing he did, or I would have ‘spilled my beans’ right then and there.
Apparently, Stryker wasn’t ready for a public climax just yet. I yanked my slime-covered, pre-cum-drooling meat out of the boy’s mouth and hoisted him into a fireman’s lift over my shoulder, precisely as John had instructed. We did a sharp about-face.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that most of the older Scouts had lewdly clapped their hands to their own crotches, wanking their sizable dicks hard and fast or getting sucked off by the younger guys. One of the boys even bounced on the dick of his mate, making their rowboat bob precariously on the water. The Scouts eagerly watched as the biker carried his latest victim — who was kicking and screaming in fake fear — back toward the cabin, letting out a chorus of wolf-whistles.
I roared back at the overexcited Scouts, “You’d do better to practice cock-sucking than rowing! It’s a much more useful skill!” I ordered them to delete every video and picture they took of us, though I knew damn well those files would be treasured by those boys for years to come. Threatening the Scouts, I would rape their twinky asses one by one in the coming night if they didn’t. Stryker sneered at the offensive comments. Not believing I was capable of such acts.
When I looked back at the Scouts, I saw that my words had profoundly impacted them. They knew I would take all of them down in a heartbeat. The Scouts had stopped filming and rapidly rowed their half-naked asses back to safety.
Stryker called out angrily, “You wouldn’t… Would you, Steel? They are underage!”
“What?” I asked irritably, “I mean it! I’ll do them and their Scout leaders as well… I know where they are staying. The horny fucks!”
Then I laughed, “But your ass is first… Johnny Stryker… I am going to rip your bitch cunt open like that story you wrote about the biker gang and the four high school boys…” I said with a nasty wink.
Slamming Stryker down on the leather couch in the living. It left Stryker to think that I would assault those pubescent fuckers for real.
• Tone deaf confession.
“Umm… Darek Steel! Tone it down a bit!” the man snapped at me. “I don’t know what you have read, but most of that stuff on GayDemon is just my imagination. Most of my stories didn’t actually happen to me. Well, some did… but two-thirds are just my dirty mind.”
John added imploringly, “I don’t even think your huge porn star cock would fit in my tight ass anyway. I don’t have that much experience to begin with. And… well, yours is the fattest cock I have handled in all the years of being gay,” added Stryker-J, looking impressively at my still-twitching exposed rod.
“Really?” I asked, baffled. “The story about you dressing up in leather and taking your older stepbrothers on the kitchen counter while your stepdads watch you from outside?” I asked, half stunned.
“I don’t have brothers — let alone gay stepdads. Though the fantasy gave me a boner just thinking up that story,” Stryker answered sheepishly.
“What about the story about you hooking up with a black leather bondage master on your eighteenth birthday? Half getting choked to death after touching his leather jacket —”
“All fake. Sorry, Darek,” John said, blushing crimson. Stroking a worshipping hand over the lapel of my classic leather biker jacket, he was still wearing.
“… And how about the story of you finding your cousin’s leather gear and getting fucked by your uncle and his friends as punishment for trying them on? Was that fake also? It didn’t sound like it… too many details I could relate to,” I called out, half-stunned and half-angry.
“Well… umm… I did find my uncle’s vintage leather biker jacket — and he did sort of watch me jacking off in it. But the rest? The actual verbal sex was all made up for the story. Sorry,” he admitted.
As Stryker confessed, I felt the air go out of my lungs. My face must have visibly fallen as the realization hit me like a cold shower. ‘So the guy’s a storyteller,’ I thought, surprised. My mistake for thinking we were hunting for a seasoned kindred spirit — instead, we’d caught a wide-eyed fanboy who lived in his own head. A cute head, and boy, did he give great head. But John still had a lot to learn, and I was going to teach him if he let me. I think Stryker had seen my pang of disappointment, though.
The man quickly added, “I do have a thing for dirty-talking tough guys in leather… like you, sir. But those are few and far between in this sleepy town. Fuck! I think I am more in love with the look than the actual bondage or domination sex. I loved you in that movie ‘Bound in Leather’, though. The more leather, the better, in my opinion. But I don’t have any myself. You were so forceful and verbal in that flick,” Stryker said with a longing sigh.
“Ha… yeah. I can see now why you liked that particular flick of mine,” I smirked back at the horn dog. “Leather does make me look good. And you’re very attractive dressed in that jacket, puppy.”
• Black, 2 sugars, Daddy.
As Stryker hornily stroked the leather jacket he was still wearing, I said, “Dude, you are going to love my next movie. The script calls for a full leather biker gang taking a bunch of straight lumberjacks in the woods. Afterward, we hit a cabin like this by force. We’ll rough ’em up, fuck ’em raw one by one… fisting one, pissing on another. Then we gang-bang the straightness out of the rest, tying their boss up and leaving him to rot while we ‘free’ the town women from their antics. It’s a nasty script, Stryker-J. You could’ve written it yourself.”
“Yup… that sounds like something I’d watch,” John said, looking longingly at me. “Never experienced anything like that, though. I’m not even sure I’d actually enjoy it myself — but I’d love to try some kinky sex in leather someday.”
I saw his eyes track the movement of my hands, and I knew my own face had lit up with a malicious grin. My brain was already weaving a comprehensive plan for the two of us. I was going to dress him up in full hide and nail the absolute shit out of him. I’d push his boundaries and let him experience exactly what leather sex was all about.
“Okay, son… grab yourself something to eat from the fridge. There are beers in there, too. Make yourself at home,” I instructed. “I’m going to freshen up and change, John. Make me a turkey sandwich and brew me a coffee, please.”
Stryker-J smiled back at me. “Sure thing, Daddy…”
“Oh no, YOU DIDN’T!” I bellowed, the sound echoing through the timber walls as I lunged forward and grabbed the fucker by the throat. “I am not your ‘Daddy.’ You call me Sir or Master — got that, bitch?”
“Geez… sorry, man…” Stryker gasped, his eyes wide with shock.
“Look… once I’ve changed, you’d better have that food ready. I’m going to show you what it’s really like to be dominated, John. Don’t overthink it. Listen and respond accordingly. And please — don’t lie to me. If you don’t like something, say so. If you do, you say, ‘Thank you, Sir.’ I WILL hurt you… But I’ll make sure you feel equal amounts of pain and pleasure. And afterward, we can switch roles. I still want you to fuck my brains out, too. Are you okay with that?” I demanded of the bewildered boy.
“You’ll hurt me? Why?… Is that really necessary?” John asked demurely.
“Shit, dude… give that dirty brain of yours a holiday. You’re overthinking again,” I blurted out, throwing my hands in the air.
“Sorry, sir… I will, sir…” the boy stammered.
“Good boy. Now then… grab a bite and wait here for me. And Johnny? For fuck’s sake — do as you’re told!” I ordered, my voice dropping into a much more authoritative, demanding register.
As I walked toward the master bedroom, John asked how I liked my coffee. There was still a trace of shock in his voice, but I think he finally understood where this was headed.
“Black, two sugars. I like it sweet — just like you! God, you look good enough to eat raw, Stryker. You know that? Fuck, we’re going to have such fun. Rough, nasty, hard… but fucking fun!” I called back.
I stripped down and jumped in the shower, deliberately leaving the door wide open, wondering if he’d be brave enough to sneak a peek.
< Continued in part 2 of 3 >
Thank you for reading this story.
Please give it a 👍 Like or a Comment if you are inclined to do so.
And if your hands are not too dirty from all the spilled cum! 😋
© StrykerJ – January-2024
Edited: January 2026
