Mountain Hollow Halloween

“I hope you can appreciate that a pro golfer and his caddie are inseparable. They do everything together. They even think in the same stream.”

“So I gather,” I said, trying not to wince. I was sitting at a patio on the deck of a Wintergreen mountain resort condo, overlooking the Virginia piedmont, between said pro golfer, Corky Preston, and his caddie, George Jackson. Each of them had a hand gripping a leg just above the knee. I was quite certain each knew the other one did. I winced because George’s grip was strong and Eduardo had strapped me on the thighs three nights previously because I had sassed him. There was no mark to see. He’d made sure of that. But there was internal bruising. He’d made equally sure of that.

Across from us sat Graydon Stiles, our host, who was a history professor down in Charlottesville, to the east, at the University of Virginia as well as one of the backers of the fall professional golf tournament up here at Wintergreen, which kicked off this morning, billed as a Halloween event. Stiles, in his fifties and a little hefty, although quite distinguished looking, handsome of face and with wavy gray hair and expensive clothes, was rich enough not to have to work at all, but he was a history buff and he pumped considerable money into UVa in addition to the promotion of the Wintergreen mountain resort.

Also across from us was my pimp, Eduardo, the man who ruled his stable with a whip and a mean streak. I suppose that, since we were from New York and operated on the high end, I should call him my manager--or, more honestly, my procurer--but we weren’t actually discussing this with anyone here at the table, and the caddie’s grip on my thigh was painful, thanks to Eduardo’s temper, so I’ll just think of him as my pimp.

Eduardo was Cuban and looked like the slick New York fixer that he was. He was in top shape in musculature and was a nine incher, so, as is the case with most prostitutes, female, or male, in a pimp’s stable, his hold on me wasn’t more than just his threat--and sometimes use of--violence and intimidation. He also took very, very good care of me, and I, at twenty-one, and thankfully equipped with everything that certain kinds of men--and some women--wanted, was doing this for more than just the money.

I knew exactly what the pro golfer meant when he said he and his caddie were inseparable and did everything together. That was one of my specialties. That, plus a gig at a very exclusive doubles club down in the Shenandoah Valley must later tonight, was what had brought Eduardo and me to this golf tournament on Halloween. We’d taken a commercial flight from New York to Richmond, where Eduardo had rented a sports car for the drive up her to the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains and then down to near Harrisonburg for the night before returning to Richmond.

I knew there must be a lot of money involved to entice Eduardo to do this. Now I knew where the money was coming from--Graydon Stiles--and why. There was a lot of money in this golf tournament. Stiles was backing Preston to win it for half the winnings. Preston’s caddie would reap a third of Preston’s half. Everyone would come out winners--if Preston won, or even if he came in as high as third.

The kicker is that Preston golfed better if, early in the tournament, he got his rocks off with a young man--and in a special way. That’s what I was here for.

Eduardo, who was quite impressed with the Wintergreen mountain resort and of the Shenandoah National Park and Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge Parkway it perched over, was getting a lecture on how the park came to be from Stiles, who was in his element to have someone to lecture.

Taking a swig of my beer, though, I turned my attention to those I was to give attention to. Preston was a golfing phenom. He wasn’t more than six years older than I was and already had won major golf tournaments. His star was rising. A win here would boost him up into the golfing firmament. He looked fine to me. He was sandy haired and of “Oh my gosh” Midwestern athletic looks. His face was movie-star handsome. His body was trim and muscular enough to be able to send a golf ball farther than most pros. His grip on my knee had been firm, but as I looked at him and shared a smile with him, he moved it to my basket and copped a feel. I returned the favor, tracing his dressed-left cock down the inside of his thigh. Nice length. His was hard.

George, his caddie, covered Preston’s hand on my package, which caused me to turn to him and my hand to go to his crotch. I almost pulled it away immediately in shock. He’d freed his cock and it was enormous--not just long, but thick as my wrist. George Jackson, the caddie, was a stark contrast the golfer he served. He was forty, if he was a day, nearly jet black, with a kinky-hair buzz cut, and was hulking. Bulging muscle, thuggish, and ugly as sin. I couldn’t wait for him to fuck me. He was just what I liked best.

The three of us left our hands where they were, exploring, while the conversation from across the table entered my consciousness again.

“I’m confused,” Eduardo was saying. “Some talk about the parkway running across the to of the mountains here as the Skyline Drive and some say it’s the Blue Ridge Parkway.”

“Two different roads, but they connect,” Stiles said, warming to a favorite topic. “The Skyline Drive comes down from the north, starting at Front Royal, at the top of the Shenandoah Valley. It meets just north of here, where we are, at where I-64 crosses the Blue Ridge Mountains at the Rockfish Gap.

Preston was unzipping my trousers, I spread my legs, leaned over the table, and moved both hands to the tabletop. I took another swing of my beer. A beefy hand was pulling my cock out and wrapping its fingers around the root of my shaft. That must be George, I thought. Someone’s thumb was pressing into my piss slit. Corky Preston? A hand was snaking down the small of my back and under my waistband. I leaned further forward, lifting my tail, letting a finger move into the crease of my buttocks. I would, of course, let them do what them wanted. If they laid me out here on the patio table and fucked me, one after the other, while Stiles and Eduardo chatted on the other side of the table, I would let them.

Whether or not Stiles and Eduardo cared that the golfer and his caddie were working me didn’t stop Stiles from continuing his lecture. They did look at the expression on my face from time to time, so I presume they knew that the golfing pair were exploring the goods.

Graydon Stiles was lecturing. “They started plans for a heaven highway--spanning the top of the world along mountain summits--accessible from Washington, D.C., as early as the mid 1920s, under Calvin Coolidge,” he said. “It took them until 1934, under FDR, to clear the original landholders off over 150,000 acres of mountain-top land and the hollows--which wasn’t easy to do. Hidden homesteads were tucked away in the folds and hollows of the mountain, where people were living under the most primitive conditions. And these, mind you, were mostly people whose families had been there for generations, from the earliest days of the expansion west, and who had no intention of leaving at all. But the government was persistent and often brutal. By 1940 fewer than a hundred mountain people were estimated to be hiding out in the hollows. But the last of them wasn’t deemed to have been ferreted out and resettled or to have died until nearly 1980.”

“Estimated,” you said, Eduardo interjected, with a question in his voice. “Are you saying there are still holdouts in the hollows of the mountains below us?”

“Who knows?” the profession answered, with a shrug. Then, showing a mischievous smile, he said, “It’s Halloween. Maybe the spirits of the displaced families return for one night--this night--every year to haunt those who forced them out of their homes. Nearly every year there are reports in the local papers of encounters with ghostly mountain folk who had either been displaced or somehow had avoided being so reappearing to haunt the rest of us. I’ve always thought it was a ploy to increase tourism for leaf-change-viewing trips up into the Blue Ridge in the autumn. The media features are always accompanied with advice on where to lodge and to dine.”

“Sounds like the making of a scary story,” Eduardo said, showing by the amusement in his voice that he wasn’t much scared. Both men laughed.

I chugged another swallow of beer and leaned over the table more, lifting my tail more. Two hands were still working my cock, but the finger in my crack and found my hole and penetrated it. Preston, I assumed. From the heavy breathing to my right, I thought that the caddie was stroking himself off with his free hand--while he was gripping the root of my cock and working it.

“But seriously,” Stiles said, returning to his lecture mode, “the initial work, once started, only was able to go on for eight years--because World War Two came along and all the young men were pulled off construction to go to war. But by then . . .”

I lost all interest in his dissertation at that point. I was at the point of coming. The finger found my prostate. And then I did come, shooting my wad up at the underside of the glass-topped table, watching the splash it made. I felt the wetness on my right thigh. The caddie had come too.

The golfer put his lips to my ear and said, “I’m saving it for you later.”

Among our specialties was that we gave barebacking services. It required the client to provide certificates, as we did. Eduardo had assured me that the golfer and his caddie had provided certificates.

* * * *

I keyed my attention to the slap, slap, slap of his balls against my buttocks as Graydon Stiles fucked me on the bed in a guest room of his Wintergreen condo. I had been surprised when he had stood up at the patio on his deck and said, “Perhaps young Troy would let me show him around the condo.”

“Perhaps you would enjoy these,” Eduardo said, as, somewhat confused on what was happening here, I stood up. He was holding up two pairs of handcuffs, with keys on a neck chain.

“Yes, that would be interesting,” Stiles had answered, with a smile.

We had only made it as far as one of the guest rooms. He told me to strip and I stripped down to where all I was wearing was the thin gold chain around my neck with the charms on it that Eduardo made his men wear to show what they would do. Mine included miniature handcuffs, indicating I would do bondage; a whip, indicating I would take the whip and strap; three interlocking male symbols, indicating I would do double penetration; and a penis with a pin in it, indicating I would do sounding. Stiles did the same, stripping down to only wearing the silver chain with the handcuff keys on it. I then sat on the side the bed, with him literally bellied up to me--his belly was somewhat of an impediment--and I sucked him erect, giving his low-hanging balls attention he wanted as well.

He placed me on my back on the bed, handcuffed my wrists to my ankles on each side, so that I was totally at his mercy, pulled my buttocks to the foot of the bed, bellied up to me again, worked his cock inside me, and fucked me. Presumably he had turned in a certificate too--I hadn’t been told he’d be fucking me--because he barebacked me.

The positioning didn’t work out too well at the beginning, as his shaft was thin and I’d been trained to blossom open during a fuck, and, although he was long enough, his belly didn’t allow him to penetrate me more than three of four inches. He readjusted the handcuffs, though--with no opposition from me, of course. I was being paid to accommodate. Now my wrists were handcuffed together over my head and my legs rose over his belly, with my buttocks raised over the first fold of his belly, and my ankles were handcuffed behind his neck.

He huffed and puffed, but now he could get six inches in, and, with my passage constricted, I could grip his cock with the muscles of my passage wall and squeeze and undulate over it, milking it, as I had trained them to do.

I gave him a good fuck and, with the encouragement of my trained passage wall muscles working his cock, he ejaculated well--something I could tell from his pleasured reaction that he hadn’t always managed to do for some years.

Surprisingly, he wanted it both ways. After he’d come, he moved the handcuffs on my wrists to the headboard with me on my back, and then he sucked me fully erect, saddled and lowered himself on me, and rode me to my ejaculation. He managed another, albeit, shoot-off himself, which delighted him--and earned me a tip we didn’t tell Eduardo about.

He released me from the handcuffs and told me I could shower in the guest bathroom attached en suite to the bedroom.

When I came out of the bathroom, a towel around my waist, Corky Preston and George Jackson were sitting on the foot of the bed, both naked. They were kissing and fondling each other’s cocks. They both had erections that put Graydon Stiles hard on to shame. Jackson’s was enough to make even me gasp and my passage walls to start to undulate in anticipation.

They fucked me separately, which was a surprise, and they both used the handcuffs.

“I’ll go first,” Preston said--and not because he was the boss. “George will ream you so open that you may not even feel me if he goes first.”

That certainly made sense.

Preston fucked me in a missionary, with my wrists handcuffed to the headboard overhead, using a cuff on each wrist. I lay on my back, with his knees under my buttocks and his hands raising and wishboning my ankles. He had I nice cock and he did a good proficient job of it. We enjoyed each other and let each other know we did.

I screamed for George. He took me in a doggie, my arms over my head, cuffed in one of the handcuffs hung on a rung of the headboard. My ankles were bound together with the other handcuff and my thighs were strapped together with the belt of his trousers. This compressed my passage, which he punished brutally and gloriously with his huge, thick cock. He was crouched high on my tail and took his time giving me all nine thick inches of him, holding briefly when he’d stuffed it all in, giving me time--almost enough time--to adjust to him, but just before I did, he pulled almost all the way out, as I gasped, and then all the way in--and again, faster and again, faster yet, until he was pistoning me, pumping me with great force--forcing me to take it all, deep, rapidly. My head was in Preston’s lap, my mouth sucking on his cock when I wasn’t lifting my head and howling to the ceiling at the ravishment of my passage.

My screams--eventually more in passion than in pain any frustration of being in his total, brutal control; few men could now reach and master me as George Jackson did--had attracted Stiles and Eduardo, and, while George fucked me--interminably--Eduardo bent Stiles over the back of a chair and fucked him. Stiles obviously was enjoying nine inches. I would have been this vocal with almost any john--it went with the job--but, for George, it was being pulled out of me genuinely and honestly. He had nine inches too--but he was twice as thick as Eduardo was.

We rested a bit after that, but they weren’t finished with me. This next act was the part I expected. This was one of my specialties.

George lay on his back on the bed and put me into a crab position over him, my wrists cuffed to the headboard, each in a handcuff, my body hovering over George’s, my face pointed at the ceiling, and my legs bent, feet flat on the mattress. George grasped my waist and lifted and lowered me on his cock. Once we were going well, Preston came onto the bed between my spread thighs, pushed his cock inside me above Georges, and I was being worked by both cocks--the specialty for which Eduardo had chosen me for this assignment.

This was why I, a professional and seasoned prostitute, had been called in for this service. George alone--and most certainly George in combination with any other man--would have shredded the passage of an amateur.

Everyone got into the act. Stiles came onto the bed behind Preston, grabbed his waist, and was fucking him--I don’t know how effectively--from behind, and Eduardo came in back of Stiles and was doing the same with him.

It was quite an elaborate late-afternoon group fuck.

I trusted that Preston would give a phenomenal golfing performance the next day in the Wintergreen Halloween tournament finals.

* * * *

We stayed around a while longer, drinking more than we should. Graydon Stiles had been so pleased that I’d pulled a decent ejaculation out of him that he wanted it again, and it took a while for him to build back up to being hard enough to put it back in me. Thus, we drank and then, when Stiles signaled he was in the mood, Eduardo and the golfing pair talked golf and the comparative sizes of Eduardo and George’s cocks while Stiles took me back to the guest bedroom, bent me over the bed after I’d sucked him reasonably hard, grabbed my hips between his hands, and worked his shaft inside me.

At my suggestion we did it doggie so that I could arch my back enough to provide his belly with a shelf and for him to be able to get his nearly six inches inside me. Once again I put my passage wall muscles to work making professional whore love the cock and managed to coax another climax out of him, which was worth a hefty tip.

Eduardo and the golfers were pretty pissed on liquor when we’d showered together and I’d fucked Stiles in a doggie in the shower myself, and I came close to Eduardo in mellowing out on scotch by tossing a couple off before we left in the rental Lexus coupe for the trip down the mountain and into the valley. It was already turning dark when we started the drive down.

We took the short rise to the top of the mountain at twilight from the Wintergreen entrance. At the summit we crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway and then plunged down again on a steep, winding, narrow road that was to take us past Sherando Lake at the base of the mountains and hence through Waynesboro and Staunton and to Harrisonburg, where a big-event all-nighter, where I was to be featured in a DP performance with Eduardo and the winner of a big cock contest, was scheduled at Chester’s, a rough gay man’s underground club.

It was dark, the trees came right up to the side of the gravel, and the road forked more than once. Eduardo, half looped, fancied he would know just which forks to take--it was clear he was anxious to get to Harrisonburg. I was keyed up, dizzy from scotch, and in a rush to get there too. I’d been told the dude who was to DP me in stage performance with Eduardo was ten thick inches, and I did double penetration not only because it paid well but also because, as much as I was used, it was what I got the highest sexual arousal from. Eduardo drove too fast for the conditions, but he was a good driver.

There was nothing Eduardo could do about the clunky sound that abruptly escaped the engine compartment, though, of the rental Lexus and that prompted him to pull into an overgrown and rutted driveway to avoid someone coming upon our stopped car in the winding road when coming down the mountain behind us and crashing into the tail of the car.

He stopped so abruptly that my head was snapped back, and the shock of that, along with the effect of having drunk too much scotch, caused me to zone out momentarily.

* * * *

Eduardo exited the car, lifted the hood, poked around while I stood nearby holding a flashlight, and demonstrated that a New York City pimp seemed to know about what went on under the hood of a car, which was more than I knew.

“You think you can find the problem?” I asked, my words sounding slurred even to me.

“I worked in a garage,” he said. “I should be able to at least see the problem. Fixing it is another matter.”

After poking around under the hood for a while, he came up with a pronouncement. “That’s it, then. It can be fixed, but it will take more than one person and considerable time.” He explained that someone would have to lift this and hold it out of the way without detaching its cables while he fixed something else under it, which, in itself, could take an hour or more. He, of course, named the parts, but I, of course, didn’t remember what they were.

He also looked expectantly and hopefully at me, and then thought better of it. “I think you’re too drunk for me to trust you to hold anything out of the way while I work under it. I could just take it off but that would add a lot more time to the work.”

We looked around. The mountains appeared to rise in all directions from us. We were truly back into one of the mountain hollows, where we had quickly found there was no cellphone reception. Amazingly enough, we saw the glimmer of lights further down the track we’d pulled into.

“I think this is still part of the national park,” Eduardo said. “There shouldn’t be anyone living back there. The guy up at the resort said all the hillbillies had been cleared off the land.”

“To reappear on Halloween night according to the legends he talked about. This is Halloween night.”

“Yeah, right,” Eduardo said dismissively and gave a snort.

“Should we try it, or should we try walking back up or down the road to find help?” I asked. I had purposely said “we.” There was no way I was going to stay out here on the side of a dark mountain at night by myself.

“Those lights certainly are closer,” Eduardo said.

Brilliant deduction.

“Make yourself useful,” he said. “Go see if there’s anyone who can help me with this. I’ll start taking it apart.”

I stumbled down the overgrown drive, which, like the roads we’d traveled before it, forked. I took the right fork because that appeared to lead to the lights. It didn’t. The old wooden farmhouse, which proved to be partially lit by lantern light--was off to the left, but there was a footpath from the drive I was on over to it, and I took that.

As I came nearer, I heard the music--a man singing in a soft, melodic baritone and lightly strumming a guitar.

He didn’t act surprised at all as I approached the front porch, where he was sitting on a rickety cane-seated chair and playing. He watched me approach with a slight smile and no surprise, as if he’d expected me--I’d even say a slightly dopey smile if he wasn’t such a handsome and well-put-together young man. In fact, he was gorgeous. I apparently made my appreciation apparent, and it met his preferences, because his eyes narrowed in that old familiar way men had in looking at me when they wanted to fuck me. I responded with a “Yes, you can,” gaze.

He mentally undressed me and was already moving inside me with mesmerizing pale-blue eyes. He was wearing bib coveralls, but, as far as I could see, nothing else--at least that was the impression that was given, and I found it exceptionally sensual. He was barefoot, which added to notion that he was naked under the loosely fitting bib overalls. In my mind he already was fucking me--and I intuitively knew he would be hung.

Although it appeared to be no surprise in him that I had popped up, he did stop singing and strumming, looked at me briefly in silence without losing his somewhat sloppy smile, and, while still capturing me with his eyes, made me jump by calling out, “Vern, Seth, Earl, Duane. We got visitors.” He turned back to me, smiled, and in that stroking baritone voice of his said, “The others are inside, playing poker.”

I was standing at the base of the wooden steps up to the porch when the summoned men came to the front door, barred only by a slitted screen door, and peered out at me. They looked like they had just walked off the set of a television program about the Waltons’ poorer relatives. four men, ranging from their mid-twenties to late forties, but all hulky and strapping like mid-twenties young man sitting and singing on the porch--all in greasy bib overalls--all easy on the eyes in my current semi-intoxicated “want” mood.

“Well, looky here,” one of the men said. “A flatland honey landing on our doorstep. You look like you’ll take it.”

“Down there Earl, let’s not rush this,” the apparent oldest of the four said.

“I can surely git it up faster’n you, Vern. That’s fer sure.” Earl responded, with a cackle.

So, that was Earl and Vern. They both looked like they wanted to put me between them and work me together. They were hunks, if folksy. I wouldn’t mind letting them.

“You two is disgusting. All four of you is disgusting,” said another man. He turned and moved back into the house.

“That there is Seth,” the man who had been identified as Earl said. “He only chases pussy. What you want comin’ here and intrupting our poker game?” he continued. “Who heard we’d do you right?”

I told them what the problem was, and, to their credit, under Earl’s direction, the three men standing at the door mobilized themselves to go off down the drive immediately to aid us in our distress.

“He a good looker like you?” Vern asked, referring to Eduardo, back at the car. I didn’t answer, as, even as hulking as these mountain men were, I figured Eduardo could stand his ground against them. Te other one, Duane, continued saying nothing, but he was giving me the eye as much as any of the other ones did.

“You stay here, Ricky,” the one named Earl said to the younger man sitting on the porch--who hadn’t budged from his chair. “You’d just be in the way anyway.”

As the three men clattered down from the porch and past me, Earl said, “Ricky’ll give you no problem, unless you want him to. He’s just a little slow. He’s a good boy. In fact, he’s a very good boy.” Earl popped his tongue in his cheek and gave me a mischievous wink as he passed by.

That had me wondering how good he was.

Within seconds it was just me standing before the porch stairs, Ricky sitting in his chair and giving me a somewhat silly, but melting smile, and the fourth, older man, Seth, rummaging around inside.

“You need anything, water or anything,” Ricky said to me, “go on into the house and Seth’ll fix you up.”

I wasn’t really thirsty, but I was curious and it was a little awkward for me to be standing out here below a rickety porch with a young man I’d like to throw me down on the floor and savage me. So, I climbed the stairs to the porch, smiling at Ricky as I moved past him, and he smiled back. I was lost in those pale-blue eyes. At the door, I looked into the stark, worn-wood interior of the house. All I could see from here was a living room and dining room, sparsely furnished with crude, worn-out, mismatched furniture. Everything looked like it had been abandoned there decades ago--and justifiably so. A tired-looking card table sat in the middle of the living room. Decks of cards and piles of poker chips sat on top of that, the only sign that there had been activity in this house in the last half century. The lantern light came from the kitchen beyond, where I could hear Seth moving around.

I was about to enter the house when I saw it--the carcass of a skinned deer hanging from the ceiling in the dining room. No matter where I sat or stood in the living or dining rooms, I would be facing a dead deer carcass. I turned back and moved to an old straight chair on the porch on the other side of the front door from where Ricky had returned to strumming his guitar and singing an achingly beautiful song in his soft, low baritone. As he sang, he watched me, giving me a sly, knowing look. Again the look was one of undressing me and fucking me.

It wasn’t just his singing that was achingly beautiful. So was he. Young, obviously muscular as his bib overalls didn’t effectively cover much. Blue eyed, but black haired, with a lock hanging down into his face, giving me the urge to go over to him and brush it out of his eyes.

He was singing a love song. I realized that the lyrics were quite suggestive. It was more than a love song; it was a dirty song, and the lyrics weren’t heterosexual. I blushed, but I continued to listen, straining to catch the lyrics. He stopped singing and we sat there, still maintaining eye contact, both of us swaying a bit in our chairs.

“Here, come over here, Little Darlin’,” he whispered to me, extending an arm toward me. “I know what you came here for.”

How could he know when I didn’t know myself--or was trying to pretend to myself I didn’t know? Nevertheless, I rose and walked over to him--very close to him. I have no idea why I did that other than I wanted him inside me. I wanted him to be thick and long and full of vigor.

He would think I was easy--I was being easy. I was promiscuous and in heat. It doesn’t matter what else I thought. I went to him.

He put his cheek on my belly and I brushed the lock of hair out of his eyes with my hand. One of his hands went to my belt buckle and then my zipper. I did nothing to stop him. I leaned my face down, breathing in the unexpectedly clean, smoky smell of his hair, and applied my lips to the top of his head. My trousers and briefs puddled to the floor, and I stepped out of them.

He had my cock out, which, of course, was hard for him, and open his lips over the blub, his tongue going to my piss slit. His fingers crept around the top of my thigh, moving to and into my crack. I groaned as they found the rim of my hole, his thumb touching--and then lightly stroking--my hole. With a sigh I arched back, my shoulder blades leaning against the rough wood of the house siding, as his middle finger penetrated me. I did nothing to resist him. I moaned as the finger moved deeper inside me and turned my face down to his. I leaned down to him and he pulled off my cock long enough for a lingering kiss.

He returned to sucking my cock and penetrating me with a second finger. I moaned, a low, guttural rattle sounding from deep inside me. When I could take no more, I ran my fingers into his wavy hair, arched his head up with the grip on his hair, and leaned down for another kiss. The expression on his face was dreamy.

Coming out of the kiss, I murmured. “Is there someplace--?”

“I have a bed in a shed over there,” he whispered.

Terrific.

* * * *

He was magnificent--if you could consider him just lying there on his back initially, body beautiful, thick and hard, holding my waist between his strong hands, and smiling up at me while, saddled on his pelvis, I rode him . . . and rode him and rode him. Freed of all inhibitions, I was wanton in my use of him, and he lay there, bug-eyed that I was so easy for him.

In my mood for a man, this beautiful, hard-bodied young man was more than satisfying. I held on tight to the brass rungs of the headboard of the squeaky old bed frame in the darkened shed and concentrated on him inside me--hard and throbbing--touching every surface inside me at my control, moving my pelvis on his cock, caressing and stretching and transporting me to the heights of ecstasy.

When I tired of riding him, leveraging off my bended knees, he took over, lifting me up and pulling me down, rotating me back and forth, side to side, and in circles on the shaft, working me with his cock, lifting me high enough to pull out of me, rub his bulb on my clit, and then pull me down again, moving up inside me deep. I let myself go limp, concentrating on being as open to him as possible.

I cried out in ecstasy as I exploded for him, shuddering again and again in explosion after explosion. He encircled my back with an arm, lowering my face to his, taking me in a deep kiss--but his shaft, still hard, continued moving inside me. He pumped faster and harder. I was flopping around on top of him, riding him like he was a bull, which he was. He was every bit as thick and long as I had imagined him to be. He pushed me up to the heights and I exploded again and again--before, at last, he tensed, growled, and blasted me deep with his cum. I never knew a man could have so much cum in him.

We lay there, panting, stretched out beside each other afterward. When I could gain my breath, I asked, “You guys. Are you related? Do you live here.”

“Naw,” Ricky answered, “we’re not brothers or anything, although everyone up here is related to everyone else one way or the other. We mostly live further up in the hollow, here and there, scattered about so that the rangers can’t find us. We come down sometimes. Met here for Halloween to play some poker. Got us a deer on the way down.”

“About me. How did you know?”

“That you took cock?”

“Yes.”

“It’s writ all over you, Little Darhlin’. And you take it good too. So, you hungry?”

I wondered how long it had been since the other men had gone down to the road to help Eduardo. Not long, as my coupling with Ricky had been explosive. But, I found that I was hungry.

“So, you want to go to the house for some dinner,” Ricky continued. Seth can rustle up somethin’. Or do you want me to bring somethin’ back here for you?”

“I’d have to put clothes on to come to the house, wouldn’t I?” I said it to be joking, but not for the first time, Ricky hadn’t understood it.

“If’n you’re ready for the other men I guess you wouldn’t have to.” He said it with such a straight face that I hesitated before I laughed. But then he laughed too, so I guessed that maybe he could manage a joke better than I could.

“Here would be nice, I think,” I answered.

He dressed--which just meant pulling his bib overalls back on and buckling them at the chest--and left then, saying he’d bring me back something in a while. When he was gone, I cleaned myself with the water in a chamber pot on top of the small bureau, using a rag for a hand cloth, and dressed enough to look decent--just my silk briefs--and made a trip to the outhouse.

It was dark already and although I could see that there was lantern light in the farmhouse and people moving around in there, no one saw me. I did my business, fighting hard to not even think about spiders, and then came back to the shed. I entered, leaving the door open, and walked over to the bed, smoothing the rumpled sheet out on top of the soiled mattress. There was only one sheet and it didn’t fit too well.

I jumped when I heard the door close behind me.

“You scared me,” I said, turning. “I didn’t know you’d be--” But then I abruptly stopped in confusion and sudden fear. He’d been behind the door when I’d come in. It wasn’t Ricky. It was the one who had been silent before. Duane. He was naked and leering at me. He was a handsome, muscular man well into his prime and very much primed. There was no doubt what his intentions were.

“Ricky will be right back,” I squeak, my voice wavering.

“Who fuckin’ cares?” he growled.

I backed up defensively to the bed, but there was no place to go. No place to hide and no room to maneuver around him. He was tall and powerfully built. I was no match for him.

“You gonna fight me, Pretty Baby’?” he asked in a husky voice. “I want you too. Ricky says you’re a real peach of a lay.”

I certainly was going to fight him. And when he came at me, I had my hands raised and my claws out. I jerked my knee up to catch him in the groin, but he was too fast and too clever for me and turned his thigh toward me, taking the knee there. He grunted in pain but then laughed.

“Like ’em feisty, like that,” he said in a low voice.

His eyes were flashing and he was grinning even as I raised my hand to slash his face with my fingernails. But he grabbed my wrist before I could reach his face. I was more successful in raking my nails across his chest, but he was matted with black curly hair there, which blunted the effect of my attack. He pushed me and I landed on my back on the mattress.

He came down on top of me, heavy, naked, erect, pinning me to the bed. Quickly and with a minimum of effort, my briefs were off, I was as naked as he was. He was pushing, thick and hard, against my thighs, pushing in between them no matter how hard I tried to keep them closed. He forced my arms above my head, gripping my wrists with his fists. He forced his knees between my thighs and spread my legs with them. His mouth was at my nipples, biting them and sucking them as his hard cock positioned itself. He was as thick and long as Ricky was--no, he was thicker and longer. I cried out and arched my back as he thrust inside me. Pulled back and thrust again; pulled back and thrust.

I collapsed, all resistance draining out of me. There was nothing to fight. He was inside me. It wasn’t like I hadn’t had a man inside me before. It wasn’t like I didn’t like having a man inside me. It had mainly been the surprise of him being there when I thought he was down at the main road, helping Eduardo.

And then we were doing it, melding into a rhythm, and, as embarrassing as it was, the glory of sex overcame the indignity and forcefulness of the penetration and I was moving with him. This was my natural state--moving with a man who was fucking me, giving him pleasure and taking what pleasure I was able to take as well. And he was a big-cocked man. As used as I was, I could feel him inside me. I wanted to feel a man inside me.

He was a hunk and a half. His mouth came up to mine and I responded to his kiss, opening to him. I moved my pelvis with him, taking him thick and deep. Giving in to him, willingly--hungrily--I spread my legs more, raised my pelvis to him higher, opened fully to him, taking him deeper in the sponginess of my passage, caressing his throbbing, searching shaft with undulating passage muscles, as he glided in, out, in out. I felt myself blossoming for him, becoming one with him. I didn’t know any other way to describe it other than being at the height of ecstasy.

“Yeah, like that, Sweet Baby,” he murmured in my ear. “Ricky told me you was a pussycat soon as you got spiked. Sweet pussy. You want it. Now we’re workin’ it.”

I almost didn’t notice as the thrusts lessened in intensity and became more intimate in exploration of my inner passages with the bulb of the unsheathed cut cock that he had two lengths of rope and was tying my wrists to the brass rungs of the bed overhead.

His hands freed now, he used them to explore my body and to run one hand between our bellies, moving fingers into my hole around the root of his slow-pumping shaft, making me open even more for him. If I’d been in ecstasy before, now I was in heaven. He could do anything he wanted to me now--and he did it, throbbing, thrusting, searching, caressing.

“Sweet boy pussy. Wet for me. Let me in deep. Ahhh, yes, like that.”

I had initially been crying out, of course, when he wasn’t possessing my mouth with his. But the cries of violation and demands that he stop had gone unheeded from any possibility of rescue, and, as he settled into the fuck, with which he was naturally good, my response sank into groans and moans, and, I’m afraid, of murmurs of what I liked and what I liked better.

Total surrender. Not just surrender. Wanting it. Getting it.

“Yes. Deep. Fuck me deep! Screw me! Give me your cum!”

He laughed.

We were in a natural rhythm, melting into one grinding unit, when Ricky entered the shed, carrying a plate, covered with a paper napkin in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. He set the plate and glass on the bureau, sat in a partially undone cane-seated straight chair almost right up to the side of the bed, and unzipped himself. He took out his dick and started stroking himself off as he watched Duane fuck me.

“You fuckin’ him good there, Duane?” he asked.

“I’m fuckin’ him good, Ricky,” came the answer. “He’s beggin’ for it now.”

I opened my mouth to vent my frustration at Ricky for not objecting in any way--and I taken our coupling as more than just animal sex. I’d felt affection and connection. But I felt so helpless and Duane was so big cocked and so good. I was embarrassed that I was enjoying the coupling, in spite of being assaulted against my will, or at least I had intended that it was against my will. I turned my head to the other side from where Ricky sat and stared at the misaligned wooden slats of the wall of the shed. The planks didn’t fit tightly, and I could see that night was coming on, the blue seen through the slats turning from a deep blue to black.

Duane fucked on, and I moved my hips with him.

“This here’s Duane. He and I has always shared and shared alike,” Ricky said in a casual voice. “He’s got the most knowledge of us in fuckin’. He’ll do you right. He likes to share. So do I.”

I let out a sob of frustration, but I couldn’t disagree that Duane was doing me right. He did me right for several more minutes, going onto his back and putting me on top of him, facing the ceiling, trapping my legs with his, raising and spreading them, and fucking up into me, being able to make me explode for him before he tensed, let out a gruff, “Oh Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” stiffened, and released inside me.

I thought that was it, but then I found out what Ricky was talking about when he said to the two of them shared. My legs were still raised and spread, and Ricky was coming up on the bed between them, Kneeling there, working his cock inside me about that of Duane, who had just come but was still half hard inside me. Ricky was full hard. He grabbed my ankles, relieving Duane of some of the pressure in keeping me spread. And Ricky fucked me in a double penetration that had me hard and panting and coming again before his spouted his seed to mingle with that Duane had deposited deep inside me earlier.

Duane rolled out from underneath me, leaving Ricky to continue stroking languidly inside me. He gave me a stinging slap on the hip and winked at Ricky and said, “He’ll do nicely. Sweet boy pussy.”

I lay there, on my back on the bed, drawing my knees up to my belly to hide my privates--nonsensically, as both men had fondled, used, and abused them already--and watched through eyes misty from frustration and anger at myself from the sexual satiation I felt, as Duane pulled on his bib overalls, buckled the top together, gave me a grin, said, “That were nice, Pretty Baby,” and left the shed.

“I liked that. I liked that a lot, watchin’ you and Duane do it,” Ricky murmured, “and then doin’ you with him. Duane’s right. You got a sweet boy pussy, and you take two cocks like a champion. But you know it, don’t you, Little Darlin’? You like havin’ a man’s cock in you. You like havin’ two men’s cocks in you at one time.”

“Untie me now,” I said wearily.

He released me to allow me to eat and to go to the outhouse and then to clean myself with the rag and the water from the chamber pot. He walked me to and from the outhouse, though. When we got back to the shed he tied my wrists to the headboard again and just didn’t respond to my objections or my questions about what was unfolding here.

He sat there, nude on his chair, as I lay on the bed, and strummed his guitar and sang me love songs--some sweet, some highly suggestive--as, exhausted, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up, who knows how long later, he had gone to sleep himself. He was hunkered down in the straight chair, his arms hanging over the guitar pressed to his chest.

As quietly as I could, I worked on the ropes at my wrists. They weren’t tied tightly or very well. Being careful not to wake him, after I had slipped the bonds, I silently pulled my briefs back on, gathered my other clothes up in my arms, and tip-toed out of the shed door.

Two others of the mountain men--Vern and Earl--were sitting by the shed door, just in their overalls, snoozing. At least they were snoozing until, in surprise, I jostled Vern’s body as I came out of the shed.

They both were alert and up quickly. I got a bit of a start on them, but were both strapping, muscular men, used to life out in the hollow, as I wasn’t. I headed for where the Lexus was parked, where the driveway met the road, but it was too far. We were all running barefooted, but that was natural with them. Not for me. The attempt to escape was futile. They separated and came at me from two sides.

They caught me in the forest almost within sight of the house and the shed. Earl landed on top of me from behind, taking the breath out of me.

He fucked me fucked me right there, pulling me back up onto my knees, the heels of my hands pressed into the moss of the forest floor. He had my briefs off in a flash and crouched over me from behind, mounted me like I was a bitch dog, entered me with a shaft every bit as thick and long as Duane’s, and, snorting and snuffling, fucked me to his release, as Vern went on his knees in front of me and forced his cock between my lips.

When I could get my mouth off Vern’s cock before he force-fed me with it again, I involuntarily settled into snuffled cries of passion Earl was taking care of my need so good, telling him not to stop--to be good to me--the primeval setting and circumstance lifting me up and then slamming me down, lifting me up higher and slamming me down harder--always seeking that higher plane, that feeling of sexual nirvana. And he didn’t stop, and he was very good to me. Once more, I’d been fucked to the core--I’d opened to him and gone spongy deep inside and he’d lathered me with the gush of his seed. My knees had gone wobbly at his jerking, spasming, and releasing again and again and I’d collapsed to the ground. He’d ridden me down, crying out, “Oh, sweet baby!”

He flipped me over, while Vern moved under me and settled me down into his lap. Early crouched there, pulling on his cock, making it hard again, as Vern, encasing my belly with his arm, pulled me up and down on his cock. Earl was quickly hard again, and Vern lay back, taking me with him, laced his legs into mine and raised and spread them. Earl came down on his knees between my thighs, thrust inside me again, and once more I was being taken to heaven by two men inside me at once, fucking me together.

Afterward, they just left me there, moaning and panting, and went off toward the house, arm in arm and bantering with each other on what they had done with me together.

When I was well away from the farmhouse and it became clear that they weren’t going to follow me--that they’d had their pleasure off me and would let me go--I stopped and pulled my clothes and shoes back on. For some reason I felt a little deflated. Did I not want them to have had all that they wanted from me? Had I had all I wanted from them--especially from Ricky? They weren’t like the johns I usually had to service and I hadn’t taken them on because my violent pimp, Eduardo said I had to. Although they had just taken it from me, once I was into it I was getting a fuck that touched me. Increasingly since I’d become a high-priced male hooker, I hadn’t been able to be touched by sex. I’d gone to the extreme of needing to be doubled to feel it. These mountain men had made me feel it--not only when they doubled me but also when they ravished me one on one.

It was something to think about as I walked back to the car. I had no idea how long I’d been gone, and, luckily, when I got there Eduardo didn’t seem to have a good handle on that either. I found him asleep in the backseat of the Lexus, an empty scotch bottle nestled in his arms.

“Uh, what? It’s you. What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said, as I helped Eduardo out of the cramped backseat. “It’s still nighttime. Did the men help you get the car fixed?”

“What men? No one showed up. I got it fixed myself. Then, when you weren’t back, I decided to take a nap.”

I didn’t mention what he’d used to help him relax for the nap. I didn’t want to have him focused on how long I was gone. So, the mountain men didn’t come down here at all to help him. They just stayed around and helped themselves to me. I didn’t want to get into that with Eduardo, either.

“Shit, it’s got to be late,” Eduardo exclaimed. “Lucky it’s an all-nighter at this club we’re booked at down in the valley. Let’s get going.”

Luckily, from there down to Harrisonburg, Eduardo was concentrating on getting to the club. I concentrated on the turns we took to get down the mountain.

* * * *

I was on stage at Chester’s bent over the back of a straight chair, spotlights shining on me from two different directions, as men sitting out in the smoke-filled seating area beyond the stage whistled and yelled out wants and direction. Eduardo was standing behind me, a hand on my waist upstage, the other hand gripping my right shoulder. The hand positions gave the impression he was controlling me without obstructing the view from the audience of how much of his nine-inch cock he had in my ass as he bareback fucked me.

He was rhythmically going from giving it all to me to pulling back to exposing the bulb. The audience was enjoying it. It was nearly 4:00 in the morning, and there had been a big buildup to Eduardo and me getting to Harrisonburg, finally, and Chester’s gay men’s club to put on a floorshow for the Halloween event crowd.

The crowd wanted more--more than a nine incher appearing and disappearing in my ass from behind on stage and me, nearly half the size of my pimp, Eduardo, managing to take the cock. And they got more.

The winner of the big-cock contest, a big black bull construction worker named Jacko, came out on stage. He was swinging a good ten inches and stood there, facing the audience, working it up with his hand--and then my mouth--while Eduardo was fucking me.

The guys out in the audience wanted to see a double penetration. That had been what was promised to them at this Halloween event. And they got what they wanted. When Jacko was hard, Eduardo pulled my back up to his chest, Jacko came in in front of me and gripped my thighs, raising and spreading them. Eduardo, crouching a bit behind me and tilting me up, was still inside me. Then Jacko was inside me too from the front. The audience cheered us on as a nine incher and a ten incher worked my passage together.

I writhed between them, putting on quite a show of being taken. But I loved it. I loved being DPd.

Jacko loved the experience too. After they’d fucked me on stage, Eduardo stayed out there working the audience, taking volunteers from the room to suck him and ride his cock. In the dressing room, I put the make on Jacko. I maneuvered him to where it was his idea for us to take his truck, go to a nearby park, and from him to fuck me on a picnic table at 5:00 in the morning. We drank and fucked and fucked and drank. I made sure he drank a hell of a lot more than I did. When he passed out, I fished his truck keys out of his jeans pocket, tiptoed to the truck, and slowly glided it out of the park, leaving him stretched out on the top of a picnic table to either come to on his own or be discovered in the morning by park employees.

If the latter and he was lucky, maybe he’d be found by some young man who wanted the experience of riding a ten-inch hard.

* * * *

Looking for--and then finding--the farmhouse deep in the hollow of the Blue Ridge Mountains. above Sherando Lake, in the daylight and sober wasn’t anything like I remembered it at night half looped and more than half out of control. When I was there--if “there” was the house I’d been looking for--some things about the walk into the farmhouse from the road and about the old farmhouse once I’d gotten to it seemed familiar. But in greater part, something was “off” and not as I thought it would be. The grounds were more overgrown, the walk from the road was both longer and not in quite the same direction as I remembered it. There was little evidence that a car had broken down at the entrance to the drive toward the house. Eduardo had come away with more grease and oil on him from fixing the rental Lexus than I could see evidence of on the ground where I was sure the car had died.

Thinking of Eduardo, I realized that it had been crazy to desert him at Chester’s. He’d beat the shit out of me once he’d tracked me down again. Maybe, though, I didn’t want him to track me down. Maybe I’d had it with Eduardo and his pimping of me. I hadn’t had as good sex as I’d gotten from the mountain men up here in the hollow that I got last night. I hadn’t thought beyond getting transportation to get back here. I hadn’t thought any farther than wanting to get hooked up with Duane, Vern, Earl--and, especially Ricky--again. I knew it was crazy. But here I was, trying to make sure that the night before had been real--that the men who had fucked me had been real and it hadn’t just been all my drunken imagination.

The house I found seemed more derelict than the one from the previous night. The wood was more worn. More was broken or missing. The house leaned precariously. Surely the house from the previous night didn’t lean toward the east as this one did. Most different--and disappointing--was that this house had obviously been abandoned, and abandoned some decades earlier. Last night there had been men here. There had been lantern light. There had been a poker game, with a card table and decks of cards and poker chips. There had been guys who agreed to go to the road to help Eduardo fix the Lexus. There had been a deer carcass hanging in dining room.

There had been a disarming and compelling young man sitting on the porch, playing a guitar, and singing seductive songs in a sweet, low baritone.

Today this house was empty--long abandoned, long unloved. Lifeless.

I gingerly climbed up to the porch, afraid I would go through the rotting floorboards with each step. There were two chairs, one on each side of the door, just as the previous night. But neither of them looked like they would support the weight of a child, let alone me . . . or Ricky. I still remembered his name today. Last night, as Eduardo drove me down to Harrisonburg, I found I’d forgotten it--and not being able to surface it had driven me mad. What was real and what wasn’t? Today I knew his name was Ricky. That seemed so real. But there was no evidence of him or his guitar on the porch now, in the light of day.

The front door screening was shredded, just like the previous night. The interior I could see from the door was as bleak as it had been in the night. Even then it had had an abandoned, unwanted, unloved look. I looked into the dining room, beyond the living room, building up the courage to do so. No deer carcass. There was a hook in the ceiling there, but there wasn’t any blood on the floor under it. Had there been a pan under the hanging carcass last night? I couldn’t remember. Had there even been a hanging deer carcass? Who hangs the carcass of a deer in their dining room? What was real? What wasn’t?

There certainly was at least one thing real about last night, I thought, blushing at the thought of it.

I entered the house and moved to the kitchen, beyond the dining room. There wasn’t even any evidence that cooking had been done in there. There was an old hand-crank water pump over the sink. I went over and cranked it. A thin stream of water resulted. At least that worked. Sort of.

I stood, leaning against the sink, breathing heavily and trying to reason it out in my mind. Was there another house out here I’d missed--a near duplicate? There had been one drive in from the road, which split. It was possible--even likely--that two houses had been built back here on the same plan at one time and that I’d found the wrong one today.

But would the outbuildings added over time be the same? There was one that was vivid in my mind.

I turned and hurried through the house, out to the porch, and down into the yard. There, instinctively, I turned to the right and strode down a path to a shed off to the side. I stopped and regulated my breath and willed my heart to stop thumping at the door before pushing the door open and entering the small space.

It was what I expected--what I remembered--but, once again, more deteriorated and dusty and with a greater a sense of abandonment than the previous night. Still, the double bed was there and the old, yellowed mattress. But there was no bedding between a single sheet not big enough to cover the bed. I couldn’t be sure. And I’d been buzzed on beer and scotch last night--and off my guard. Most important, there was no one here. I wouldn’t have come up here at all today if I hadn’t thought he’d be here.

But he obviously wasn’t here. Maybe I’d never been here either.

I was about to leave when I saw it, on the floor beside the bed, picked out by a beam of light from an open window.

A gold necklace charm. I moved to it and picked it up. It was three interlocked male symbols--a symbol of a double penetration fuck. I fingered the charms on the necklace around my neck--the charms that represented the special sexual services I would give a john. The double penetration symbol was missing.

So, I had been here the previous night.

I stood there in the mottled light coming in through the only window in the dusty, worn-wood shed, fingering the double penetration charm and trying to reason with having found it here. I’d almost allowed myself to believe that what had happened here last night--Halloween night--had just been the result of a combination of Graydon Stiles’s story about the construction of the Skyline Drive, my want, and too much liquor and imagination. But when I’d come back today, the day after Ricky and Duane and Earl and Vern, I’d found a charm off my necklace here. So, I had been here last night.

Now what? Why was I here? It wasn’t just to assure myself that last night hadn’t just been a mirage. Surely not just that.

But I knew the answer to that. The sex with the presumed mirage--the young, dark-haired, blue-eyed, mesmerizing young man with the shy smile and the beautiful baritone singing voice and equally beautiful cock--had been phenomenal. I wanted it again, and I had to assure myself that it wasn’t all a drunken, wanted and wonton, coupling with a mirage. A spirit fuck on a night when, drunk on liquor I’d overheard some history professor speaking of the legends of the spirits of the mountain folk coming out on Halloween night to vent their anger at having been removed forcefully from the mountains so that the Shenandoah National Park, and its mountain-top-skimming Skyline Drive, could be built.

I moved around the shed, which was dominated by the old, squeaky brass bed and its soiled mattress. I knew it was squeaky for the obvious reason, and I thought of that as I looked around, making sure that the shed was deserted and trying to pull up images of the shed that would make the previous night real to me. The images returned to me of being saddled on Ricky’s pelvis, solidly skewered to his groin, as he lay on his back and looked up to me with that slight, reassuring smile of his as I rose and fell on his ramrod hard, thick shaft--and of he and Duane doubling me.

That image certainly had seemed real enough to me. More than seeing it, I could still feel it--them inside me, possessing me fully, to the quick, with their throbbing cocks.

I pulled away from the thoughts, though, and escaped the shed, my breath caught in my throat. It had been so dusty in the shed, I thought--although I knew it wasn’t the dustiness of the small building that had stolen my breath. I stood there, rubbing the DP charm against my cheek, only slowly becoming aware of the sound coming from farther up the slope in the hollow, somewhere from behind the farmhouse.

Humming, I first thought. But then I realized it was singing--low, melodic, lush toned. I turned and walked into the trees, toward the sound--toward the mesmerizing baritone voice of Ricky.