The hood of my car was cold and clammy to the touch of my cheek pressed to it. My head was turned toward the lit-up roadhouse across the dirt parking lot, with the pickup trucks and motorcycles parked haphazardly between here, the back of the lot, and there. Country music, swathed in the boisterous, beery banter of male voices, blared from the tavern. One was holding me down, one hand gripping my neck and another pushing down between my shoulder blades with his fist. A third was inside me, moving his hard cock in and out, both of us panting hard. He was gripping my arms at the elbow and pulling them back. A couple of other guys, drinking beer, with their dicks out and stroking them, were standing around, watching me get fucked, laughing and make jokes with each other. The guy inside me now was the second one up to the plate. Five to go.
This is what I’d come for.
I’d caught their eyes–three of them initially, gaunt, wiry, in leathers–when I’d come into the bar. College preppy from Washington and Lee University in nearly Lexington, Virginia, I clearly was out of place, but I didn’t retreat, so I was fair game. I’d heard about the place and pondered and obsessed about it–and about what could be found and experienced here–and, eventually, I’d shown up. I couldn’t help it. I’d had it tame and I couldn’t help thinking it could be more exciting–more challenging and rougher–than that. I wanted to know how it felt to be totally used.
They’d given me the looks, making me feel like it was just me, leaning against the bar, and them at a pool table under a billow of smoke even though there was a swirl of men around us. They lifted their beer bottles and saluted me when they could see I was following their movement, their dancing around the pool table. Other men came to me at the bar, sniffing me out. When they saw that I only had eyes for the guys at the pool table, though, they moved on. They didn’t leave without copping a feel, though, and murmuring about “later.” I didn’t fight them, but I’d already seen what I wanted.
The guys across the room invited me over. Yes, I did play pool, I called over to them. The guy behind the bar gave me a hard look and said, “You sure you want to go over there?” I just smiled and shoved away from the bar.
The leather-clad guys at the pool table, smiled and gave me beers when I arrived, asked me if I knew where I was, whether I knew what kind of tavern this was. I did, I said, although it was only from rumor that one was here. They flirted as they moved around me, leaning ever closer in. Touching me. Intimately. One of them–the biggest bruiser of the set–kissed me, fleetingly, on the lips, and then when I didn’t draw away, pulled me into an embrace, bent me over the pool table, and took me into a tongue-swabbing tonsils kiss. Again, I went with it.
Guys at tables around where the light picked out the pool playing gave us looks. A voice rang out with a “Fuck him on the pool table, Casey,” which was followed by a ripple of laughter. I would have let him do it, but that would be moving faster than the rate they were taking.
“So, do you take cock?” the one who’d kissed me asked, his hand on my butt, whispering in my ear.
“I have,” I answered. Not often, mostly tentatively, out of curiosity and when driven to the need for it–like tonight. Sometimes I couldn’t help it.
“Would you take three?”
“Maybe.”
“More?”
“Maybe.”
They pulled back then, still friendly, but not pushy. Giving me another beer, though. Offering me cigarettes. They all were puffing like chimneys, and I wasn’t sure it was tobacco they were smoking. I took the beer, not the smokes.
When they knew they could have me, they pulled back a bit. They weren’t finished playing pool. They were more interested in that than in humping istanbul travesti me. I was a little pissed, and cooled my jets too. Those around us tired of the time it was taking and, sensing that the moment had passed, went back to whatever they were doing before the prospect of a gang bang on the pool table had briefly breezed by.
They hadn’t forgotten me, though. The guy who asked me if I’d take cock gave the others a nod and took a couple of twenties out of the pocket of his tight leather pants and placed them on the edge of the pool table. Seeing that, the other guys, the two other guys at the pool table, did the same. They left the pile of twenties there. I knew they were for me–if I earned them.
Other guys in the bar were watching this unfold from afar. Every once in a while one would get up, come over, and put a couple of twenties on the corner of the table, one on top of the building pile. I wasn’t told what these were for. I didn’t have to be told. Six guys now. $240 in twenties on the pool table. There’d been no reluctance. Was that giving it away cheap? I had no context here. It was a lot of money to me. Still…
The seventh guy put it at fourteen Jacksons.
I looked down at the money, not sure now, and said something about it being late and maybe I should go. Like none of them had heard me say that, one of the three at the table spoke to the one who seemed to be taking the lead–the one who had kissed me and been the first to put money down. “Where do you think, Casey?” he said.
“Outside,” the bruiser who must have been Casey answered. “I don’t think John wants part of this. He hasn’t chipped in.”
I had heard the muscled bald dude with a bushy beard standing behind the bar called John. He weighed in in a deep voice. “Yeah, better outside.”
“So, outside,” Casey said, turning to me. And when I just stood there, not sure, he added, “Now,” In a booming voice. He scooped up the pile of twenties and jammed them into my side pocket.
I shrugged and left the tavern, weaving more than walking, toward my car–the typical old cool-looking, gas-guzzling Dodge Challenger a college student might have–parked at the back of the lot.
They caught up to me when I went between my car and the one next to it, with one of the initial guys from the pool table going around that car to approach the gap between them from the other side. The other two came in behind me. A few others were coming out of the bar and sauntering in our direction. More than the seven who had paid. So, some would watch. Shouldn’t they pay something too? I think I mumbled that question, but if any of them heard me, they didn’t bother to respond. I was very much on their turf now–and paid for.
“Give us our money’s worth, college boy,” Casey growled at me. “Blow me good.”
I was pushed down to my knees, back to the wheel well, a hand gripping my wavy blond hair and forcing my head to arch back so that, pressed into me, they could penetrate my throat with a downward slide. I gave all seven of the ones who had paid head, one after the other. I hadn’t done more than four in a row at the fraternity house, but any after the third didn’t really make any extra impression.
Then, stripping me completely down and adjusting themselves as each preferred, they fucked me, one after the other. The others stood around us in a semicircle several feet away, watching as they did in the bar, living the experience vicariously. I was as much aroused by those watching the action as I was by the seven principles taking turns fucking me.
I took it. It was what I’d come for.
I was stripped and spread-eagled over the hood of the Challenger, with one of the guys on the other side of the hood, grasping my wrists and extending and controlling my arms raised about my head. istanbul travestileri The guy fucking me in a doggie from behind had a finger grip in my hair and kept my cheek pressed to the metal of the hood, my eyes staring at the rocking roadhouse while, one after the other, they fucked me and released their cum up inside my passage.
They’d asked if I wanted them to use rubbers. I’d answered that I didn’t care; whatever they wanted. This was my fantasy; I didn’t want to hedge on any of it. I was treating all of it like a dream anyway. A few of them did me raw; most, taking care of themselves, wore rubbers. They had a system worked out, taking me in increasing cock size, the last guy, the one who had asked me in the roadhouse if I took cock–Casey–being the champion of the seven. He had a rolling ejaculation that never seemed to end. I’d come with the first one, but I came with him too.
He also was the cruelest of the lot. He continued smoking as he fucked me, and after he shot his load, he put out his cigarette between my shoulder blades to hear me scream in surprise and pain, laughed, and let me sink to the ground.
I lay there for the longest time after they’d gone, the watchers following them back into the bar in their wake. I was close to sobbing, but not getting there. They’d gotten what they wanted, but so had I. I had come here for this. I had shot my load while they were fucking me too. I had built up to this. Maybe I’d gone to the edge just this once–to get the measure of the parameters of what could be. I had come because I couldn’t help it. I assumed it would be an ordeal–that doing it this once this way would cure me of curiosity and wondering how much, how rough, I wanted it–how much of it I could take and still want it. This was supposed to be an ending. Lying there, in the dirt, kneeling on the clothes I’d worn into the roadhouse, checking my hurts out, the burn between my shoulder blades being the most painful one, surprisingly more painful than having taken seven cocks without a whole lot of lube or preparation, I wasn’t so sure that this might not be a beginning rather than an ending.
* * * *
“Hold still, Ned. This looks like the worst of it. Just try to tell me you got this burn from a fall. This looks like a cigarette burn on your back.”
“Must have been thrown on the ground still burning,” I said. I was lying on my stomach on my bed in the small apartment I shared with Adrian Williams near the Washington and Lee campus. Williams, a six-foot-two, 205-pound junior black linebacker for the university football team, was dabbing at my battle scars from having been gangbanged on the hood of my car at the tavern outside Lexington. Adrian and I had been roommates for the past two years, He’d first fucked me our first year at W he had his dick, such as it was, out; and he was fisting it. He opened his desk drawer, took a riding crop from it, and gently laid that on the desktop. His eyes went to it and then to me.
Our roundabout discussion getting to the bottom line had been about the sexuality of the ancient philosophers and had been getting increasingly homosexual and intimate, so I wasn’t that surprised when it got around to “I’ll give you an A if you let me screw you like Stewart Darnel does.”
Professor Darnel paddled me during sex.
“You want me to go on my knees to you here and now?” I asked. “You want me to bare my butt to you for you to beat me with that riding crop?”
“Yes, please. Everyone else is gone.” The beating around the bush to get to what he wanted was to wait until we were alone here.
So, I did. Philosophy wasn’t my favorite subject. If there was an easier way through it than studying hard, I was game to take it. The man was old–at least in his mid-fifties–and on the pudgy side and nearly travesti istanbul bald. The worst was that he was small where it counted. He wasn’t disgusting, though, and he showered regularly.
I knelt between his thighs, placed my hands on his sides above the curve of his beer belly and below his pecs, and took his dick to the hilt, which was not a test of endurance, although he filled out and hardened as I slid my lips down the sides of his shaft, pulled back to suck the bulb hard, slid down to the root, and repeated. He collapsed back into his plush chair, ran his fingers into my blond curls, held my head close into his crotch, and moaned his pleasure. That first part was all over in eight or nine minutes and he was a happy camper. The next phase–bending me over the desk and flicking my buttocks with the riding crop while he did what he could to pump me with his cock went on rather longer. He had trouble keeping it up. Using the riding crop obviously helped in that department.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured after he’d dribbled into his condom and pulled away from me.
“So, is that all you want me to–?”
“I thought you could come home with me for the evening if you didn’t have something else you needed to do. There’s a class paper due in a week and a half. You might not need to turn in a paper at all.”
“Sure, why not?”
He didn’t want to do any of the work. He just wanted to lie on his back on the bed in a house much too big for just him and have me, naked, of course, because he said half the thrill was looking at my young, cut body, doing a cowboy on his cock, riding him while he flicked his riding crop at my pecs and flanks. That was just as well. Stretched out, his beer belly didn’t get much in the way, and, by gyrating on him, I could get some action out of the ride to enable me to come as well.
It wasn’t that big of a deal, but it wasn’t sexually satisfying for me. It was just a means for greasing the skids through courses at college that I didn’t really need in life.
Nothing exciting about sex with Professor Carson at all–not that there was with Professor Darnel either.
“So, is that all you want me to–?” We were sitting at the island in his kitchen. He was wearing a robe. I was naked, as he wanted to watch me move that way.
“Weekend after next I’m going to the Smokies down near Ashville. I have a cabin in the mountains down there. I thought maybe you’d come down for a night or two. It would save you having to worry about the final exam in my course.”
* * * *
Two days after striking a deal with Professor Carlton and agreeing to let him maul me at his cabin in the Smokies south of Ashville the weekend after next, I was out early in the morning pounding the woodland trails off the Maury Cliff Trail by the Maury River in a section of the Washington and Lee campus that folded around the grounds of the adjacent Virginia Military Institute. As I ran, just in my athletic shorts, a jock, and running shoes, thinking on how my sex life was separating wildly being the dullness of old, fat professors, like Carlton, with no drive themselves and being brutally gangbanged in the parking lot of Buddy’s Tavern, I sensed more than heard a runner coming up behind me.
And then he was there running beside me, easily, despite looking to be some fifteen years old than I was. He hadn’t broken a sweat and he wasn’t panting in rhythm to putting one foot ahead of the other as I was. Like me, he was just in athletic shorts and running shoes. He was both trimmer and more muscular than I was, his body honed to perfection, so little fat on him that the veins on his arms and chest laced along his body on the surface, having no fat to travel through. He had the thighs of a soccer player. He had the bearing and the buzz cut of a Marine, which, as far as I knew, he might once have been. He wasn’t hairy, but there was a swirl of reddish-brown hair around his pecs; a gold medallion on a gold chain bobbed up and down between those bulging pecs with the smooth gait of his run.