The road was deserted and pitch black. Not a single light anywhere, and I was pushing my motorbike along the road with a puncture, hoping to find somewhere to stop for assistance. Then I saw a light in the distance. It was a pub called "The Black Horse".
Pushing the bike towards it, I found the car park empty except for one car. I leaned the bike on the stand and tried to go inside, but realised it had closed for the night, and so, frustration piling on me, I sat on the bench in the beer garden and rolled a cigarette.
The tobacco crackled softly as I packed it tight. The flame from my lighter flared, illuminating my hands for a second before settling into a steady glow. Leaning back against the cold wood, I became absorbed by my own company, the rhythmic drag of smoke, the distant hoot of an owl, the vast emptiness pressing in from all sides. This solitude felt strangely comforting after the panic of being stranded.
A crunch of gravel broke the silence. I looked up. A man stood at the edge of the beer garden, silhouetted against the dim light leaking from a back window of the pub. He was probably in his forties, solidly built, wearing worn jeans and a thick jumper. "A bit late to be admiring the view," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. It wasn't hostile; it was just matter-of-fact.
I froze mid-drag, the cigarette tip glowing fiercely. "Sorry," I stammered, smoke escaping my lips. "Got a puncture. The bike's dead and I saw the light..." My voice trailed off, suddenly acutely aware of how exposed I looked.
I was wearing a thin cotton tank top, which felt flimsy against the night, but it wasn't chilly. It was one of those warm English nights that we occasionally got to enjoy. My shorts offered zero protection for riding a motorbike, but I was young and didn't feel the cold like my parents.
Likewise, my trainers seemed ridiculously inadequate for the journey, but I didn't care as the memory of the crowded, sweaty party I'd left hours ago felt like it belonged to another lifetime entirely.
The stranger shifted his weight, boots grinding on the gravel. "I see," he said, his tone flat. "I assume you've arranged recovery? AA or someone?" He gestured vaguely towards the darkened road with a calloused hand.
I crushed the cigarette butt under my trainer, the ember dying instantly. "Actually," I mumbled, wiping grit from my palms onto my shorts, "I don't have a membership in anything that can assist." The admission tasted sour. "I don't suppose you have a phone I could use?"
The request felt huge, echoing in the quiet garden. "Just to call my dad? He's got a van and we only live 15 miles away." My voice sounded thin, pleading, even to my own ears.
The man took a slow step forward, emerging from the deep shadow. Moonlight caught the lines around his eyes, etched deep like dry riverbeds. He studied me, his gaze lingering on my worn trainers, the thin tank top clinging to my shoulders. "Tell you what, young man," he said, the low rumble softening almost imperceptibly. "I can help. But it might cost you. Do you have any money?"
I felt my face flush hot despite the cool night air. My fingers instinctively brushed the empty pocket of my shorts. "No," I confessed, the word scraping out. "I've got nothing. Not a penny."
The man chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. He stepped fully into the dim light leaking from the pub's back window. His eyes, sharp and assessing, travelled slowly down my thin tank top, lingered on the frayed hem of my shorts, and settled on my worn trainers. "You look like you've been to one of those gay parties they hold down the road a few miles," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of judgment but heavy with implication.
“You one of those shirt lifters, boy?
I froze, the warmth of the night suddenly turning cold against my skin. My mind raced back to the crowded, sweaty house party I'd fled hours earlier, the pulsing music, the laughter, the fleeting touches. Had it been that obvious? Or was he just fishing? Panic tightened my throat. "I... I was at a party," I stammered, avoiding the specifics. "Just left early, and we don’t say shirt lifters these days. It’s not very PC, you know."
The man nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. "I don’t do woke nonsense, boy and, well, since you've got no money, perhaps you can pay me in kind."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
The man chuckled again, low and rough like stones tumbling in a barrel. "Have you ever heard the saying, 'give the shirt off your back'?" His gaze slid pointedly to my thin tank top. "Seems fitting." He gestured towards the darkened pub. "I run this place on my own, and sometimes, it's very lonely.
I stared blankly, my eighteen-year-old mind scrambling. Was he asking for my clothes? That made no sense; they were worthless, soaked in sweat and roadside dust. Maybe he needed rags for cleaning? The thought felt absurd, but exhaustion and desperation clouded my judgment. "My... shirt?" I echoed, confusion tightening my voice. "It's just an old tank top." I tugged self-consciously at the damp cotton clinging to my chest.
The landlord's chuckle deepened, a sound like gravel shifting. "Not just the shirt, lad." His eyes held mine, unblinking. "The saying. You understand the meaning, don't you? Giving everything you have." He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the warm night air. "When someone helps you out, you offer what you can." His gaze drifted pointedly down my body again, lingering on the bare skin of my legs below my shorts. "Seems you've got something I might find... diverting. For a little while." A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth. "Helps with the loneliness, you know."
My breath hitched. The implication slammed into me with brutal clarity. "You want me to...."
"If you want to get home," he responded. "It's not every day I meet someone as handsome as you, and so, my offer is, you strip off and show me a good time, and I will run you and your motorbike home."
His words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. My throat tightened. Eighteen years old, stranded, facing a choice that wasn't a choice at all.
"I've never been with a guy your age. I've only been with mates my age."
The landlord shrugged, his gaze unwavering. "First time for everything, lad." As he stepped closer, the scent of stale beer and tobacco clung to him. "The offer stands, or you walk away now, your choice."
"I don't even know you," I told him.
"You know enough," he replied. "My name's Bill. I pour pints here six nights a week." He took another step closer, his shadow swallowing mine. "And you're stranded. Choices are simple tonight, lad. Strip or walk."
My palms slicked against my thighs. The warm air felt suddenly thick, pressing against my bare arms like damp cloth. Bill's eyes, hard, assessing, scraped over me. I imagined calloused hands gripping too tight, teeth breaking skin, the kind of rough handling I'd heard whispered about in locker rooms. The kind that left bruises shaped like fingerprints. My throat clicked dryly as I swallowed.
"You're not one of those rough guys, are you?" I demanded.
Bill's smile vanished. His eyes narrowed into slits. "Rough?" The word came out sharp as broken glass. "You think I'm some back-alley thug?" He took another step, looming over me now. The pub light caught his face fully, revealing a jagged scar running from temple to jawline. "I run a business. I offer fair trade." His calloused hand shot out, gripping my wrist. Not painfully, but with terrifying finality. "Decide. Now. But in answer to your question, I have never been rough with anyone unless they liked it."
I flinched, the grip cold and unyielding. Resignation washed over me, thick and cold. "Fine," I breathed, the word tasting like ash. "What do you like to do, Bill?" My voice was flat, stripped bare. "Just... tell me what you want."
Bill released my wrist. His expression didn't soften, but the predatory glint sharpened. "Lie back," he commanded, nodding towards the wooden bench. "On your back. Arms above your head."
The cold wood pressed through the thin cotton of my tank top as I obeyed, the rough grain catching on the fabric as Bill stood at the end of the bench.
His calloused hand slid slowly beneath the hem of my top, palm rough against my stomach. I flinched at the sudden, intimate contact, the warmth of his skin a shocking contrast to the cool night air. His fingers explored upwards, tracing ribs I could feel too sharply, pushing the thin cotton higher until it bunched under my armpits, exposing my chest completely.
"Beautiful, quite beautiful," I heard him say as his fingers explored my nipples, my body enjoying his tender touch. Perhaps I was going to enjoy this after all, I said to myself.
His hands travelled down my torso, fingers tracing the faint ridges of my abdomen before settling at the waistband of my shorts. The button popped open with a soft snick, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. His knuckles brushed against my hip bone as he worked the zip down, the metal teeth parting slowly.
Cool air rushed against my exposed skin below my navel, making me shiver despite the warm night. I kept my arms rigidly above my head, fingers digging into the splintered wood of the bench, staring fixedly at the black canvas of sky pinpricked with indifferent stars.
His breath hitched slightly, a low, appreciative hum vibrating in his chest as he peeled the shorts down over my hips. The rough denim scraped against my thighs before pooling around my ankles as he pulled my trainers off, along with the shorts.
The cool night air washed over me, leaving me clad only in thin cotton Y-fronts. The sudden exposure made my skin prickle.
Before I could react, Bill buried his face against my groin. The coarse stubble of his jaw rasped against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs through the thin cotton. His mouth was hot, shockingly so, as he sucked firmly, the material clinging tightly, outlining everything. The sensation was intense, immediate, a wet, insistent pressure enveloping my balls and the hardening length trapped beneath the fabric.
Bill pulled back slightly, his breath hot against the damp patch he’d created. He chuckled, low and dark. "You don't have skid marks in those Y-fronts of yours?" he asked, his voice thick with amusement and something darker.
"Not that I'm aware," I answer honestly. "I keep myself clean. Nothing worse than skid marks to ruin the moment," I clarified.
His fingers hooked into the waistband, pulling the elastic taut against my hipbones. "Wouldn't be the first lad I've seen with skid marks on his underwear. Perhaps I should have a closer look."
He leaned in again, inhaling deeply against the fabric covering my crotch. "Smells clean enough... just sweat and damp. Are you leaking, boy?"
His tongue pressed hard against the cotton, tracing the outline of my cockhead through the damp material. The friction was maddening, amplified by the wet heat of his mouth as my fingers clawed at the splintered wood above my head.
"Probably," I said. "I tend to leak loads when I'm hard."
Bill chuckled, the vibration humming through the thin cotton against my skin. "Good lad, that's the way I like it", he murmured.
His fingers dug into the elastic waistband, peeling the Y-fronts down my hips. Cool air rushed over my exposed cock, already slick and straining as I now lay naked on the bench, my Y-Fronts caught around my knees.
The old man didn't hesitate. His mouth engulfed me, hot, wet, and shockingly skilled. His tongue swirled around the head, then slid down the shaft with deliberate pressure. I gasped, arching off the bench, fingers scrabbling against the rough wood. The sensation was overwhelming, too much, too fast, but I didn't want it to stop.
He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands pinned my hips firmly to the bench while his head bobbed rhythmically, taking me deep. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just practised, relentless efficiency.
My resistance dissolved. My arms fell limply above my head, my legs spread wider, surrendering completely to the sheer intensity of his ministrations. He owned this moment, and I was just along for the ride, gasping and trembling beneath him.
"Christ, lad," Bill murmured, pulling off my cock for a breath, his lips slick. "You taste better than I expected."
He spat onto his palm, slicked his hand, and wrapped it firmly around my shaft, pumping slowly while his thumb rubbed circles over the leaking tip. "You like that?" It wasn't really a question. His other hand slid beneath me, rough fingers kneading my arse cheek. "Bet you'd like it more without these," as he tugged at the Y-fronts still bunched at my knees, dropping them onto the dirty ground by his feet.
His calloused palm slid back beneath me, fingers probing firmly between my cheeks. I froze, a jolt of panic slicing through the haze of pleasure. "Bill... I..."
"Relax," he commanded, his voice thick. His spit-slicked finger pressed insistently against my hole. "Just relax." He leaned down again, his mouth reclaiming my cock with renewed hunger, sucking hard, deep. The dual sensation, the wet heat pulling me in, the blunt pressure pushing there, short-circuited my thoughts.
A ragged moan tore from my throat as his finger breached me, rough and sudden. It burned, a sharp, intrusive sting, but Bill didn't pause. He worked it shallowly, in time with the sucking rhythm, while his other hand kept pumping my shaft. The pain blurred with the overwhelming pleasure radiating from my cock, creating a dizzying, confusing cocktail of sensation. My hips bucked wildly, trapped between his hands, surrendering utterly to the invasion and the ecstasy.
He pulled his mouth off with a wet pop, leaving me gasping. "Good boy," he rasped, his voice thick with exertion. His finger inside me curled, probing deeper. "Tight. Very tight." He spat again, slicking a second finger. "But we'll loosen you up."
The blunt pressure intensified, stretching, burning. I cried out, a raw sound swallowed by the vast night. He leaned close, his breath hot on my ear. "You wanted help, didn't you? This is the price. Take it."
His fingers pushed deeper, relentless. The pain was a white-hot spike, but beneath it, a terrifying, unwanted spark of something else flickered, a deep, shameful pulse of pleasure coiling low in my gut.
His thumb found my perineum, pressing hard as his fingers twisted inside me. My cock, impossibly, throbbed harder, leaking onto my stomach. He chuckled, low and dark. "See? Your body knows what it needs." He began scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching me wider. The burn was excruciating, yet the rhythmic pressure against that hidden spot sent jolts through my core. My legs trembled violently, spread wide. He was right. My treacherous body was responding, arching into the violation, seeking more of that sickening, shameful friction.
Suddenly, he withdrew his fingers with a slick sound. The abrupt emptiness was almost worse. Before I could gasp, his weight shifted. The rough denim of his jeans scraped against my inner thighs as he knelt between my legs.
I heard the rasp of a zip, the rustle of fabric. My eyes flew open. Moonlight glinted off his thick, heavy cock, already slick and hard as his jeans and underwear were slipped down towards his thighs.
He spat into his palm, slicking himself with brutal efficiency. "Deep breath, lad," he grunted, positioning himself.
The blunt, swollen head pressed against me, impossibly large. Panic surged. "Bill, wait", I choked out, but his hand clamped over my mouth, silencing me. His other hand gripped my hip, fingers digging in like iron. He pushed.
The tearing pain was blinding. A strangled scream tore from my throat against his palm. He didn't stop. He pushed harder, grunting with effort, burying himself to the hilt after pushing a few times.
The stretch was unbearable, a fire consuming me from the inside. Tears streamed down my temples. He held himself there, buried deep, his breath ragged against my ear. "There. All in."
He shifted his weight, grinding his hips. The movement sent fresh waves of agony through me. "Tighter than a virgin," he rasped, a cruel amusement in his tone. "But you'll loosen up. You'll learn to take it." He began to move, slow, deliberate thrusts that felt like being split apart. Each withdrawal was a relief, each invasion a fresh torment. My body was rigid, locked in shock and pain, the unwanted pleasure utterly drowned out.
He settled into a rhythm, heavy and relentless. The rough wood of the bench scraped my back raw with each thrust. His calloused hand remained clamped over my mouth, muffling my choked gasps and whimpers. The other hand gripped my hip, his fingers like steel bands, holding me pinned, forcing me to take his full weight and length. His breath was hot and sour against my neck, smelling of stale beer and tobacco. The night air felt cold on my exposed skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat inside me.
Distantly, the owl hooted again, a lonely sound that mocked my utter helplessness. He wasn't gentle. He wasn't trying to be. This was payment. Extraction. His hips pistoned, driving deep, forcing my body to accommodate him. Tears blurred my vision, mixing with sweat on my face. The pain was a constant, grinding presence, centred deep in my core.
He grunted with each thrust, a low, animal sound of exertion and satisfaction. "That's it, lad," he panted, his voice rough. "Take it. Take what you owe." His pace quickened slightly, the friction intensifying the raw, burning ache. My fingernails dug into the wood above my head, splinters embedding themselves in my skin. There was no escape. Only the relentless rhythm of his body claims its price.
His hand left my mouth, sliding down to grip my throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling its frantic flutter. "Look at me," he commanded. I forced my eyes open, meeting his. They were dark, intense, and focused solely on his own pleasure. There was no kindness there, only a cold, detached hunger. He leaned closer, his weight crushing my chest. "You're doing well," he rasped, though it felt like mockery. "Better than some."
He shifted his angle slightly, driving deeper. A fresh wave of agony tore through me, stealing my breath. I cried out, a broken sound. He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through his chest into mine. "Sensitive spot?" he taunted, deliberately grinding against it again. My vision swam. The pain was overwhelming, yet beneath it, a terrifying, involuntary spasm of pleasure clenched deep inside me, betraying my horror. Bill felt it. His eyes gleamed. "There it is," he hissed. "Your body knows its place."
He increased his tempo, pounding into me with renewed force, using my body ruthlessly, chasing his own release. The bench creaked violently under the assault. I squeezed my eyes shut again, biting my lip until I tasted blood, trying to retreat into the darkness behind my eyelids as he took everything he demanded.
His grip on my throat tightened slightly, his breathing turning ragged and urgent. "Almost there, lad," he grunted, the words harsh against my ear. "Almost paid in full." His thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder, each one jolting my entire frame. I braced myself, muscles locked against the invasion, but it was futile. With a final, guttural groan, he slammed deep and held there, shuddering as he emptied himself inside me. The hot rush was a violation that made my stomach churn.
He collapsed forward, his weight crushing me, his sweat-slick chest pressing against mine. For a few seconds, the only sounds were his ragged breathing and the frantic thud of my own heart. Then he pushed himself up, withdrawing roughly. The sudden emptiness was a different kind of agony, followed by a hot, sticky trickle down my inner thigh. He stood, zipping his jeans with a sharp rasp, his expression unreadable in the gloom. "Right," he said, his voice flat, businesslike again. "That's settled."
He turned without another word and walked towards the back door of the pub, his boots crunching on the gravel as he pulled his underwear and jeans up. He paused at the door, silhouetted against the dim light. "Bring your bike round the back. I'll get the van." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden, echoing silence.
I lay there trembling, exposed and aching on the rough wood. The cold night air bit at my sweat-damp skin. Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up, wincing at the raw throb deep inside. My clothes lay discarded on the gravel, but I decided not to get dressed, choosing to remain in my tank top.
I reached for my Y-Fronts that lay on the ground almost next to my shorts. The tank top felt like a flimsy shield as I tugged it down over my bruised ribs. My trainers were cold and gritty as I shoved my feet into them, but I didn't put my Y-Fronts and shorts back on, preferring to dribble his seed from my body.
I looked at my motorbike, leaning forlornly on its stand. Home was fifteen miles away. The thought of sitting on that saddle made me feel sick. But Bill would be back with the van. The deal was done. I took a shaky breath, the taste of blood and salt still on my lips and started pushing the bike towards the back of the pub, each step sending a fresh wave of shame and pain through my battered body. The gravel crunched under my worn trainers, the only sound in the vast, indifferent dark.
Bill emerged from the back door as I rounded the corner. He’d changed into a grease-stained work shirt, his expression blank as he surveyed me. "Put it in the back," he grunted, gesturing towards an old, battered transit van with the rear doors already open. The ramp was steep. My arms trembled as I heaved the heavy bike up, every muscle screaming even with Bill's help.
"You not getting dressed, boy?" he asked.
"I'm dribbling cum," was all I could say as I climbed into the passenger seat.
Bill grunted, slamming the van door shut. The engine coughed to life, filling the cab with fumes and thick silence. We drove through winding country lanes, the headlights slicing through the darkness. My bare buttocks stuck to the cracked vinyl seat, the rhythmic vibration of the van sending fresh aches through my bruised body. Bill kept his eyes fixed on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
After several miles, his rough hand suddenly landed on my thigh, making me jump. He didn't look over. "Sorry," he muttered, the word thick and unfamiliar. His fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of my tank top where it met bare skin. "Back there. I got a bit... carried away." His thumb traced a slow circle near my hip bone, a gesture almost tender. "Been a long time since I... well. Too long."
I flinched away instinctively. "You hurt me, Bill," I whispered, staring straight ahead at the dark road. My voice cracked. "It hurt a lot." The memory of that tearing invasion flooded back. The blinding pain, the crushing weight, the helplessness. Tears welled hot and sudden, spilling over. "I didn't want it like that."
Bill’s hand withdrew slowly. He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the confined space. "I know," he said, quieter now. "Didn't mean to... go that hard." He glanced sideways, his profile harsh in the dashboard glow. "It's been years since I touched someone like you. Someone... beautiful." The word sounded strange coming from him, almost awkward. "I got carried away." He paused, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "I forgot myself."
He shifted in his seat, one hand leaving the wheel to dig into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a small tube of lube, half-used. "See?" as he held it up. "I should've used it, and I'm sorry, but urgency overtook me, and I forgot myself."
He placed the tube on the cracked dashboard between us, a silent offering. "Maybe... maybe next time?" His voice was gruff, hesitant. "If there is a next time. With the lube, I could show you... It doesn't have to hurt."
The words hung in the air, thick with implication. Next time. The thought should have revolted me. The pain, the violation, the sheer terror of being pinned and used. Yet... a treacherous warmth bloomed low in my belly, completely at odds with the raw ache still throbbing deep inside.
His roughness hadn't been indifference. It had been hunger. A desperate, consuming need focused entirely on me. He hadn't just wanted sex; he’d wanted to possess, to dominate, to claim something, and in that perverted, twisted way, it felt... validating. Proof I wasn't just a quick, forgettable fuck.
The tube of lube lay between us like a peace offering. He wasn't apologising for the act, only the pain and roughness. The distinction mattered. He’d taken what he wanted, brutally, but now... now he was offering something else. A promise.
"Maybe," I whispered, the word thick in my dry throat. "If you promise." I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Promise it won't be... like that again, I might come to the pub to say hello."
Bill’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, then relaxed. A low sound escaped him, almost a sigh. "I'd like that," he said, his voice rough but softer than before. "Properly, next time, how it should feel."
The van rattled along the narrow lane, hedgerows scraping the sides. His hand returned to my thigh, calloused but gentler now, resting heavy and warm. I didn’t pull away. The heat of his palm seeped into my skin, a strange anchor in the whirlwind of shame and confusion. His seed still trickled down my inner thigh, sticky against the vinyl seat. Each bump in the road sent a dull throb through me, a raw reminder of what he’d taken.
"Whereabouts?" Bill asked, his voice low. The question felt loaded. Not just directions, but an unspoken line being drawn, back to normalcy, back to before the bench.
"Maple Drive," I managed. "Number seventeen."
He nodded curtly, his hand tightening slightly on my thigh. We drove the remaining miles in silence, the van's rattling engine the only sound besides my own shaky breaths. When we finally pulled up outside my darkened house, Bill killed the engine. The sudden quietness felt heavy.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, without a word, Bill climbed out. He walked around to the back of the van, his movements efficient. He lowered the ramp with practised ease. I slid out of the passenger seat, the cold night air biting my exposed skin. Bill stood beside the motorbike, waiting. His gaze lingered on me, bare-legged, shirt clinging damply, his seed still drying on my thighs. He didn't smile, but his eyes held a new intensity, a quiet possessiveness.
He gestured silently towards my discarded clothes piled near the ramp. I picked up the Y-Fronts, the cotton stiff and cold. Bill stepped closer. His large, rough hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped guide my trembling legs into the Y-Fronts, his knuckles brushing my sensitive skin. He tugged them up slowly, carefully smoothing the fabric over my hips.
The motion was almost tender, a stark contrast to the forcefulness earlier. Next came the shorts. He held them open, and I stepped in, wincing as the denim scraped against tender flesh. He pulled them up, buttoned and zipped them with deliberate care, his fingers lingering near the fly for a heartbeat too long.
"Right," he murmured, his voice gravelly. "Best get inside, lad," he said finally. "Before someone wakes."
I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. With stiff, aching movements, I pushed the bike down the drive, the wheels crunching on the gravel. As I wheeled the bike towards the garage, I heard the van door slam shut, the engine cough back to life. Headlights swept across the front lawn as he reversed out, then vanished down the deserted street.
I crept into the house, my family none the wiser, as I fell into bed thinking about what had happened. Had I been raped? No, I decided. Bill just got carried away, and it was then that I decided I liked his roughness to a certain degree and perhaps I could tame him a little, looking for that balance that could work for both of us.
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