The young, muscular Hispanic sailor from off the Royal Caribbean cruise ship docked over on King’s Wharf had me up against the wall in the corridor running behind the stage at Ricky’s Bar on the beach in Bermuda’s Somerset Village. I had been just in a red satin string bikini and a red bow tie, having just come off the pole on the stage. The bikini, which tied at the hips, though, now was untied and off me, the Hispanic’s two hundred American dollar bills fluttering to the floor with the bikini. The sailor was fully clothed in an athletic mesh T and jeans, but his fly was open and flared. He’d already crowned himself with a rubber and we both knew where this was headed. I’d named a price and he’d met it. Canned music was blaring from the barroom beyond the beaded-curtain-covered doorway twenty feet up the corridor. It was late and the crowd of men in the bar, men only, had thinned out.
I was going to be fucked against a cinderblock wall. It was a saving grace that I took my sexual pleasures as a yielding submissive to men.
The Hispanic hunk, ugly as sin but magnificently muscular and thus sufficiently arousing in the dimly lit hallway, was plastered against me on the rough-texture wall, one hand buried in my shoulder-length blond hair and the other stroking me off as we kissed and he sucked on my throat, my carotid artery throbbing on his tongue. I’d gone on my knee to him before he’d rolled the rubber on.
I would have been no match for him, being small of stature, a dancer, if I was struggling against him, trying to prevent him from taking what he wanted from me, but I wasn’t struggling. This is how I made most of the money I contributed as my share to the group I traveled with.
I jerked and groaned as his hand left my cock and moved under my balls, his fingers searching for, finding, and penetrating my hole.
“¿Vas a abrirme ese agujero, muchacho–Are you going to open that tight hole up for me, whore?” he muttered. I didn’t answer, wanting to leave him with the impression that it would be a chore, because that’s why a lot of these men went with small men like me–for the pleasure of forcing them open and stretching them as the young man writhed under them and begged for mercy that wasn’t given. I was well used, though. I started off seeming tight for the first fuck of the night. But, yes, I’d open right up for him.
Rocking on the fingers, I murmured, “Yes, yes, fuck me.” His thick erection was poking at my thighs. The hand in my hair left there and moved down my body and to the small of my back. He was strong and was lifting me up the wall with that hand. He had to lift me off my feet to put me in position to mount me. He was more than eight inches taller than I was. I solved the issue for him by using my dancer’s flexibility. I raised my legs, hooking my ankles on his shoulders and pointing my toes at the ceiling. The Hispanic sailor liked that and grunted his approval and appreciation. It put me fully under his control. He paused to turn this way and that to kiss my thighs. His other hand left my dilating passage to my left buttock, helping the other hand move me up the wall and jutting my pelvis out toward him, putting me in a position for easy penetration.
“Ahora, Ahora!–Now, now,” I begged, knowing that was what he wanted to hear and in recognition of the two hundred-dollar bills scattered on the corridor floor–and wanting to get this over in time for my next go on the pole.
Expecting his cock, I felt the fingers of his right hand at my hole instead. He moved three of them inside me. I clutched at his bulging biceps as I felt the fingers flexing and moving a few inches deeper. He was anxious about whether he could get the channel of a small guy like me open enough for him. A shadow fell across the light coming in through the door down the corridor into the barroom and I started to turn my head toward there, but then I yelped and arched my head, looking up at the ceiling, as I felt the fingers sink inside me, not quite up to the knuckles, and move: in and out, in and out. He was fingerfucking me.
“¿Vas a poder llevarme? Tienes que llevarme o quiero mi escudo de vuelta–Are you going to be able to take me? You have to take me or I want my money back.”
“Sí, sí–I can take you. Put your cock in me,” I answered, but it was his fingers, not his cock, he had stuffed in me.
Shit, is he going to try to dry fist me, I wondered. I tensed up–not just from fear but from shimmering anticipation as well. I was the adventurous, “let’s go to the edge” type. If I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be here in this corridor, being fucked by a Hispanic sailor. I’d been doubled before, so I thought I could take it. But taking it dry? Many big men like him, who wanted to fuck the small guys got off on the listening to the guy suffer. Maybe the Hispanic had paid to hear me suffer.
But the fingers pulled out and he was raising and pulling my pelvis forward with the hand on my back and positioning his cock head at my hole. I flinched and gasped as he entered me, breaching the sphincter with the mushroom cap. Nearly every hard cock penetration was a gasper no matter how big or little it was. I stretched to accommodate him as a couple of inches of the shaft followed, accustomed to doing so for men as impatient as he was to be inside me.
“Fuck, you’re huge,” I muttered, knowing it was what he wanted to hear, but not really lying when I said it. “Joder, eres enorme,” I repeated in Spanish in case his English wasn’t too good. He was pressing in more forcefully than I was being able to open to him.
“Dame tu agujero,” he growled and then repeated it in English, “Give me your hole, baby,” in case I didn’t understand the Spanish.
“Take it. Fuck me,” I answered.
And then he was in, fully saddled, and was beginning to pump me. The big-cocked Hispanic had conquered the small American dancer’s channel. He had worried if I could take him needlessly, but I said nothing. I knew he’d picked me for the challenge of getting it inside me. He pumped me, slow at first and then faster and faster. His embrace was steel. I wasn’t going anywhere until he was finished. It was all about his need now. I was good with that. I’d earned the two hundred dollars scattered on the floor now, no matter whether he could keep it up from here and fire off or not.
“Sí, sí, nena–Yes, yes, baby. Fuck me, work me,” I murmured, grasping his shoulder blades and pressing my fingers in. I lowered my legs and hooked my knees on his hips, rocking my hips against his thrusts, but doing no more than that, now just a vessel for his needy erection, letting him get his rocks off on a yielding young dancer. His face remained pressed into my throat. He was snuffling and snorting, concentrating on his rutting inside me.
“Yes, baby, yes. Just like that,” I murmured. “Work me; punish me.” I wanted to suffer now, to feel the pain-pleasure of being fucked by a man, to be taxed, to make the sex worth it, to take a big cock pumping me hard.
I sensed again that we were being watched and heard the rustling of the beads in the curtain covering the door into the barroom. I saw a figure there, silhouetted in the brighter light coming from the bar. The man was tall, slender, and muscular–powerful and dangerous looking. I’d seen him lounging against the bar, watching me and drinking beer, while I’d been dancing the pole.
I was part of a group of guys wandering around the southeast United States and the Caribbean, moving from gay bar to gay bar, dancing the poles and taking the patrons’ cocks for money. We were variety–here today and gone next week; no strings. We’d landed in Bermuda the previous week and were bunking at the Willowbank Resort and working the island for what we could get out of it before moving on, probably to the Bahamas. We hadn’t decided yet–or the man who controlled us hadn’t decided yet.
I had been attracted to the man at the bar. He wasn’t like most of the other guys in Ricky’s. He was calmer, seemingly more self-assured. He wasn’t young, maybe in his forties. He was hard-bodied, steely eyed, with a buzz cut that could have some gray in it, and an intricate sleeve tattoo on his right arm that I could see, because his white T-shirt, fitting his bulging pecs like a glove, was gauzy. The tattoo in swirls of blue and black moved up the arm and back down onto the chest to cover his right pec.
He had watched me with slitted eyes the whole time I was dancing. Now, leaning into the side of the doorframe at the entrance into the barroom, with one hand extending down to and loosely cupping his crotch, he was watching the Hispanic hunk fuck me against the wall. I had no idea how long he’d been there. I’d sensed a presence since I had thought the Hispanic was going to fist me.
Keeping my eyes on the guy in the doorway, strands of beading draping down on his body, I moved my hands down to the Hispanic’s buttocks, pushing the jeans down off the flesh of his cheeks and grasping and squeezing them, holding him to me as he pumped me and murmuring, “Yes, baby, you’re doing me good. Just like that. Give me your cum.” I said it loud enough for the guy in the doorway to hear it. I wanted him to be part of this. I wanted him to whip his dick out and to stroke it as the Hispanic was fucking me–for the three of us to be getting it off together. I wanted to know how much of a man he was, how big his cock was, how big it could get in its want for me. Men went with a young guy my size to get a tight hole. I went with men to get a big cock. I wanted him to want me as much as the Hispanic guy wanted me. I wanted to feel it; I wanted the man in the doorway to come to us, for the Hispanic guy to share me with him, for the man to be cruel to me.
The Hispanic was going into overdrive, holding me tight, banging me hard, bouncing me off the wall. Hanging on for dear life, I cried out, “Get it, GET IT, FUCKIN’ GET IT! Blast me!”
He did and loosened his grasp. I’d moved a hand to between us and beat myself off, shooting my load up his belly onto his T-shirt right before he released, giving him a souvenir to show his friends on the ship. He brought his lips to mine and we kissed, me lying comfortably in his embrace now. He was whispering to me in Spanish. I didn’t know what he was saying but it probably was about having a second load.
I only had time to look over his shoulder to see that the guy in the doorway was gone before the Hispanic’s cock was coming alive again, his grip on me was strengthening, his hips were moving, and he was banging me again. He did, indeed, have a second load, and he wanted to get his money’s worth. I was fully dilated to his need now, and he slid free and easy inside me, reaching deeper than he had before. My channel wall muscles grabbed at the shaft and shimmered over it, giving him a real good time. His free-gliding cock was giving me a pretty good time too. His load stretched the bulb of the rubber. He hadn’t unloaded in a while. He’d probably been at sea too long and didn’t have a fuck buddy on board the cruise ship.
When I came out of the back corridor and looked around, I didn’t see the other guy. It was nearly my time to get back on the pole, though, for the few guys hanging on this late in the night, so I didn’t have time to think about any guys other than those swaying before the stage with their tongues hanging out and their hands getting a touch or a feel as they stuffed bills into the waist string of my red satin string bikini.
When I did think of a guy fucking me, though, it wasn’t of the Hispanic who gave me two full loads in the bulb of the condom. It was of the rough-looking guy in the doorway, backlit by the light from the bar, draped with strings of beads and with his hand on his crotch but not taking his shaft out and stroking it for me let alone fucking me.
I didn’t get away from the bar until after 2:00 a.m. I wasn’t exactly a celebrity there. I had to help clean up before I could leave. I left alone, which I didn’t do every night. But I left with over $500 in U.S.-equivalent earnings in various currencies, more than enough to have done my share of the group’s work that day. Another couple of days of this, a day of rest and recreation on the island’s beaches, and then we’d be off to the next venue. I didn’t have transportation to the Willowbank Resort where we were staying, but it was only about six blocks away on the road running along the beach. I could walk it. No problem.
As I was walking away from the light cast by the string of lights around the eaves of the outside porch of the bar, I heard a soft voice, barely audible over the sound of the surf from the nearby beach.
“It’s cold.” It was spoken in English. American English.
“No, it’s not,” I called back, tossing the comment over my shoulder flippantly. I wasn’t all that surprised. The shy ones who wanted to use me after closing sometimes waited outside so no one but me saw them. “This isn’t fucking Norway,” I said. “I’ve been to Norway and this isn’t it.”
The man laughed. “This is what’s cold,” he said, and I turned to look at him. He was standing just inside the shadows, the light from the bar picking him out in silhouette just as it had when he was standing in the doorway at the beaded curtain in the bar. He was holding up a six pack of beer. “Come down onto the beach with me,” he said. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So am I. Come down to the beach with me, baby.”
He was looking tall and slim and muscular. He had a good square-jawed face. Ramrod-straight military bearing. His smile was assured. He had a backpack hanging off his arm. His T was off now, slung over his shoulder, showing off a magnificent chest and the swirl of the tattoo on his right breast and going up and down his right arm. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His jeans were slung low on his waist, showing the curve under his flat belly on each side pointing to the goods as they disappeared below the waistband. The curls of his reddish-brown pubic hair peeked out of the waistband where it dipped lowest. He was sexy as hell to anyone who melted to a fit older man, which I did. I went hard just seeing him standing there casually, smiling at me in his “he’ll go with me; he’ll let me manhandle him” disarmingly way.
I was a male whore; I wasn’t afraid of a man looking for sex, especially not a hunk like this man was. “Lead on,” I said.
He picked a hollow in the sand, below a sand dune near to the water, but beyond the danger of a tidal reach. We could see the lights from the buildings across the road at the top of the beach, mostly security lights on the corners of eaves. Most everyone was asleep in the dark in the houses at this time. And even the last bar of the night along this stretch, Ricky’s, was closed down. Other illumination came from the reflection of the full moon on the water of the sea. It was nighttime dark, but not fully dark here on the sand, the particles of white sand almost luminous in this light.
He took two beach towels out of his backpack and laid them side by side on the sand. At his gesture I sat down on one and he came down on the other, right beside me. He handed me a beer. We drank two of them each while we chatted, guardedly, about each other and how we came to be in Bermuda, and how old we each were. I think he was relieved to hear that I was nineteen. I know I looked a lot younger. We didn’t spill all of our secrets but we didn’t talk at such reserve that we weren’t comfortable with the conversation.
He leaned into me as we talked, had an arm around my shoulder as we talked more, and then ran his hands over me under my T-shirt and then down the front of my shorts under the waistband and we kissed. I might as well have been naked. I soon would be. He was big; I was small. I felt overwhelmed by his size and strength and by the sense of his domination. I knew he was going to fuck me there on the sand. That was OK with me.
We sat there for several minutes, his hand down my shorts, playing with me and sexing me up, both of us listening to my heavy breathing and his low humming. I don’t know if he always hummed in foreplay and sex, but he was doing it now. It was a contented “I’ve got this” hum. It was calming and gave me a “he’s got this” feeling. I could just go with the flow and let him take what he wanted when he wanted it.
I was in the mood for him to be cruel in sex. I wanted him to take me roughly, to dominate and control me, to fuck me hard. I wanted him to be built like a bull.
My wish was granted. When there was no more talking, he took me to hell and to heaven.
We went into heavy kissing and petting, in a close embrace, me reclining back and him hovering over me from the side, an arm around my back, holding my torso a bit off the sand, and the other fondling and undressing me as we kissed. He didn’t strip down any more than he already had. I sighed inside his hard-bodied embrace.
“I’m going to–”
“Yes,” I answered without him completing that sentence. We both knew what he was going to say. It was just a “last chance” check with his prey, one this guy had already seen being fucked at a bar, one this stallion was going to take to hell and heaven. I had no illusions that I was more than prey, anything more than an opportunity for an easy lay, for him.
His hold on me became one of controlling steel. His right hand glided up and down my inner thighs, coaxing my legs to spread and to bend. I readily spread them for him and buried my feet in the sand, elevating my pelvis a bit, pushing my engorged cock and my balls into his fondling hand. I wasn’t going to be the one to stop anything from happening.
I felt the backpack go under me and my pelvis was rolled up and elevated further. I was open to him and he took immediate advantage of that. I squirmed as he stroked me with his right hand and then squirmed some more as his hand went under my balls, down my taint and he rimmed my hole with his fingers. I felt myself dilating for him, but not fast enough for him. He penetrated me with a finger and then a second. He held me fast, capturing my lips with his for a deep kiss. The fingers rotated in my passage and I moaned for him. When we came out of the kiss, I just lay back in his arms, open and vulnerable. His hand glided over my body, over curves and into crevices. I belonged to him now and we both knew it.
“Take what you want,” I murmured. He proceeded to do so.
I rocked on his fingers as a third one went in. He raised more up beside me. His left hand went to my throat, pushing my back down and holding my head into the sand. I stared up at him with bugged-out eyes. He was smiling down at me–not a pleasant smile. A malevolent, lustful smile. He was humming. He was about to do some serious work. I cried out but gagged as the grip on my throat tightened when his fourth finger joined the rest inside my passage. He was up to his knuckles and moving the hand.
“Beat yourself off,” he growled in a “not to be denied” voice, and, shuddering at where this was going, I fisted my cock and stroked while he fucked me just inside my passage with his bunched fingers, his knuckles rubbing against my dilated rim. He looked down into my face with a grim smile on his lips, his eyes piercing mine as I panted, stroked, and shot my load.
We were in suspension there for the longest moment after I had ejaculated, the movement of his hand stopped, the knuckles pressed into my rim. Then I felt it, ever so slightly, but pressing a bit harder. With a little cry I raised my pelvis higher, dug my feet harder into the sand, trying to be as open as possible to the pop and pain of the hand breaching the sphincter and sinking up to the wrist.
My god, he’s going to fist me, I thought. He’s going to stuff it all in and dry fuck me with it. The man is going to be cruel. He’s already been cruel. He’s going to be crueler. A shimmer of anticipation went up my back. This wasn’t going to be a vanilla fuck.
But he didn’t fist me to the wrist. With a laugh, he pulled away and stood up in the sand, at my feet, between me and the sea, backlit by the reflection of the moon off the water. He unzipped himself, flared the front panel of his jeans, and pulled his cock out. I gasped at the length and thickness of him. He was in full erection. I was a pretty good judge of measure, having taken quite a few men. He was a leader among the rest, a stallion of a man.
He’d taken a can of beer up with him and he drank it off now, hovering over me, looking down at me, stretched out, legs spread and bent, pelvis raised, open and vulnerable to him. He smiled down at me while he drank the beer off and tossed the can aside, more litter for the beach patrol to contend with the next day. Then he came down on top of me, grasped my hips to put them in fully accessible position, thrust inside me, and fucked the shit out of me.
Possibly because he’d seen me in this position with the Hispanic and had liked it, he lifted my ankles and hooked them on his shoulders, which rolled and raised my pelvis for ready and straight access. He could kneel or stand between my thighs, as he liked, and put my hole in any connection with his cock head that he wanted.
I was helpless in his control. He was on top of me, his weight on his knees between my thighs and on his hands pressing my arms spread and raised into the sand. He was deep in my core, working me there, snorting his pleasure at the muscles of my passage gripping at the thick, thick shaft, undulating over it, joining in the rhythm of its throbbing thrusts. He was barebacking me, fully possessing me, totally working me. His body was in motion over me and I fell into the rhythm of the fuck. He released my arms, one hand going back to clutching my throat and the other one gliding over my body as I reached down, grabbing his buttocks, and held him into me as he thrust, thrust, thrust.
“Take it, bitch,” he growled as he clutched my throat and pounded me. And gasping and gagging, I took it. I took his long, thick, hard cock. I took his hard cock deep. I took the power-hammering pistoning of his cock. I took the cock forever.
A lot of big-cocked stallions like him liked fucking small guys like me because they wanted to know the guy was suffering. I suffered for him. I gloriously suffered for the big-cocked stallion. I panted and groaned and screamed for him, competing with the sounds of the pounding surf in suffering for him. He laughed and hummed and commanded that I take it while he worked. And I gloriously took it, rarely being taken this fully. I was getting what I had desired from him and then some.
He stiffened, jerked, and I cried out as he blasted me deep with a pud of warm cum. He stiffed, jerked, and ejaculated again. And then again. And again. Virile, prodigious, all man. A big-cocked stallion of a man.
He stood over me, feet planted between my thighs, high up, looking down at me and smiling as he tossed off his fourth beer–the last one. One of his feet was planted firmly in my genitals and I reached down and covered the foot with my hands and moaned as he drank the beer. Dropping the empty can, he reached down, jerked the towel and the backpack from underneath me, taking up the other towel as well.
And then he was gone, leaving me gasping and panting, and almost baying at the moon.
The Hispanic sailor had fucked me, but this stallion had FUCKED me.
* * * *
“His name is Hank. He’s an ex-Marine. An American. He’s forty-seven. He moved here to Bermuda and takes guys out on fishing charters from King’s Wharf. He’s a stallion. And he almost fisted you and he cruelly dominated you, called you a bitch, fucked you bareback, and just left you there on the sand at night, Clay?” Tony asked.
We were at the breakfast bar in the resort bungalow the five of us were sharing with our manager–Tony called him our pimp. We were eating breakfast, but it was after 1:00 in the afternoon. Tony was working a gay club in Hamilton and we both had gotten in so late that the afternoon was our morning. Two of the other guys were splashing in the small pool that went with the bungalow. The fifth guy, the black transvestite, Pauly, was being fucked by our manager, Steve, on a lounge bed. Pauly was riding his cock in a cowboy and working her store-bought tits with her purple-lacquer-fingernail hands.
“He sounds dangerous, honey. Almost crazy. I suggest you stay as far away from him as you can,” Tony added.
Dangerous, yes, but oh so enticing–and this was the edge. It was unlike anything I’d done before. “He’s a stallion. He’s dangerous. He’s cold as ice and totally dominating. It’s got to be at least ten thick inches,” I said.
“Listen to yourself,” Tony said. “You find all of that enticing?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered. “I can’t help myself; I do. Maybe I’ve had too many vanilla fucks.”
“But the money of a five-inch dick is as good as a ten-incher, Clay, and a whole heck of a lot easier to handle. He did pay you, didn’t he?”
“Of course he did,” I said. Of course he hadn’t.
“Just give that one a wide berth, especially if he’s there again tonight. He’s had his fun. He’ll want even more the next time than you let him have last night. He’ll fist you, for sure.”
“Good advice,” I said.
He was there again that night. He hadn’t come into the bar, but he was there, waiting at the shadow line, backlit by the string of lights along the eaves of the bar’s porch. I heard the voice uncurl from the shadows and say, “Come along now” and turned to see that it was Hank. In shorts and sandals, bare-chested, meltingly hard-bodied. No backpack or six-pack of beer this time. “You didn’t think I was finished with you, did you?”
“No, sir,” I answered, the obedient, trembling soldier.
He put his hand out. “I live near here. Just a couple of blocks, off Scott’s Hill Road.” As if that meant anything to me. I put my hand in his and my body in his care. He put an arm around me, palming my buttocks, with me leaning into him as we walked into the dark.
“I’m gonna fuck you into the dawn,” he whispered in my ear as we moved up the hill. I was sure he could feel me trembling in his embrace. He laughed and started to hum.
He did that–fucked me into the dawn. He fucked me on the double bed in the bigger of two bedrooms in his small bungalow. His bedroom was outfitted for rough fucking. My wrists were restrained over my head, at the corners of the headboard, and he worked below me, my legs spread and bent, my feet dug into the edge of the foot of the bed. He had a can of grease and a string of graduated tear-shaped balls. The biggest of the balls had to be as wide and thick as the heel of his hand, I thought. He was as naked as I was and in full erection the entire time he was working on me.
He was enjoying himself, humming. I went from delicious agony to sheer pleasure; from groaning fear to gasping pain-passion; from crying out for mercy to begging for the cock. I deliciously suffered. I had never been so fully possessed. I had never felt so alive sexually. The stallion was a god. I sobbed and strained and cried out “Yes, Yes, YES!” as the greased balls mastered and filled me and, with time, effort, and determination–both his and mine–I managed them, panting hard and gasping at the effort.
“Ride them, bitch,” he growled, and as he tugged and pushed the stringed balls with one hand and stroked my cock with the other, I dug my heels into the edge of bed and moved my hips in a rowing motion, moving the balls inside. With a little cry, I came in his hand and collapsed into the mattress.
And then the balls were slowly withdrawn and put aside, and he was crouching over me, between my spread thighs, grasping my ankles and putting them on his shoulders, pulling my buttocks up to his jutting cock head, slowly entering me and sinking, sinking into me. He leaned down to me, took my lips in a kiss, and started to pump me deep in my core. I went soft and spongy for him there, loving him and what he was doing to me, suffering for his pleasure, building again toward another climax. How many times would he make me come tonight?
As he fucked, I turned my head to the side. A black leather sling, suspended on silver chains, was slung from the ceiling in the corner of the room. He noticed me looking over there.
“Do you want me to do you in the sling?”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Do you want the fist now? Are we ready for that?”
“Yes,” I whispered. I thought the circumference of the biggest of the tear-drop balls was as large as the heel of his hand. I didn’t think it mattered what I answered, though. If Hank was ready for it, he would do it.
I was wrong about the balls being enough preparation, but not by much. I lay on my back in the sling, wrists and ankles restrained high on the four chains, buttocks vulnerable and accessible, hanging out at one end. I squirmed and panted and moaned and groaned as he worked my channel with the greased fingers of his right hand. He was worrying the rim with the heel of his hand and I was crying out that it wasn’t going to work, that it couldn’t happen, when it did happen. The sensation of the pop, the blinding flash of pain, and he was through the sphincter with the heel of the hand.
He held there for the longest moment, capturing my eyes with his, his fist inside me.
“Take it, bitch, take it,” he growled. And then, up to his wrist inside me, he flexed his fingers rhythmically inside my channel and began the fist fuck. He fucked me with the hand for what seemed to be an eternity, as I lay there, fully restrained, defenseless, tense.
“Relax,” he growled. “Take it, bitch.”
I tried relaxing, letting the tension drain from my body, and that helped. As he fisted me, he took my cock in his other hand and stroked me off again. His body was hovering over mine, his eyes drilling into mine, capturing every nuance of my response. There was a cruel smile on his lips. I started rocking against the hand, moving my buttocks, going with the rhythm of his punches.
I hated him; I loved him. I hated the hand; I loved the hand. All hail the power of the man! All hail the power of the hand! Every nerve in my body was concentrating on the hand. Moving in and out, in and out. Fingers flexing and bunching. Hank humming. In and out, in and out.
“The hand, the hand, the hand,” I moaned in glorious agony, raising my buttocks as I could, sacrificially thrusting it up into the invading hand.
“Yes, the hand,” he agreed and fucked on with it. I increasingly relaxed to the stretching invasion, surrendering totally, becoming just an extension of the man. Letting the man… have… anything… he wanted.
“Now you getting with it,” Hank muttered. “Now you’re a good little whore.”
He moved his arm back and forth, his bulging pecs expanding and contracting with the effort to maintain the cadence of fucking me with his fist. My eyes latched onto the movement of the tattooing on his breast and down his arm as it bunched and released the fingers and fist at its extension. I fought to relax and go with the cadence. He laughed. “Good, good. You’ve got it now.” He was humming as he worked.
When I’d shot my load, he pulled his hand out, moved between my thighs, penetrated me with his erection, and fucked me to his own climax. Once again, my eyes went to his right breast and arm and to the flexing and rolling of the tattooing there, the design alive, the nipple puffed up, the tattoo hungrily taking its pleasure of me as if it were a separate force from the hard-bodied man. Wanting me; having me. Having whatever he wanted from me, me deliciously sacrificed to the lusts of the stallion.
While he was releasing me from the sling, he said, “I’m going to take a shower now. Be gone when I come out of the can. I have a charter to take out at noon and need some sleep. There’s money for you over there on the dresser,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
He had left me three American hundred-dollar bills. So, that was it. I was just a whore to him for him to take his pleasure as he pleased. He didn’t even ask me if I had enjoyed his fist. I felt shame, having now been paid for the use of my body as he wished, at the answer I would have given him if he had asked. I had meant this night as a sacrifice to a god, just as the night before had been–a meaningful use of my body and my suffering. I felt it was cheapened by having been paid for it.
At least this was it. I would be leaving in a couple of days. I wouldn’t have to give myself to this man again. This dangerous man. This dangerously enticing man. This stallion of a man.
I stumbled back to the Willowbank Resort on my own. It was only about ten blocks and the sun was already coming up over the island to the east. Hank hadn’t lied to me. He had fucked me into the dawn. Oh, how he had fucked me.
Shit that man’s dangerous, I thought. Never again.
The next night when I came out of Ricky’s bar, again after 2:00 a.m., I looked around and Hank wasn’t there. I waited for fifteen minutes and he still wasn’t there.
His bungalow wasn’t hard to find. When I arrived out in front of it, the lights were on in his house. The front door was open. He was standing there in the doorway, in just low-slung shorts and sandals, magnificently muscular, leaning against the door frame, backlit by the light from the house, knowing that he wouldn’t come for me anymore; I would come back to him.
God, his body was beautiful. He was tall and lean and hard-bodied. And he had a ten-inch cock to die for. And die for it I would. Every night a little death until I was dragged onto an airplane or until he wouldn’t open his door to me again.
That wasn’t tonight, though. He reached his hand out, and I walked to him and then past him, down the hallway, into his bedroom. He was humming.