Hanging Off the Appalachian Trail

[At the request of R.P.]

Rocko stood aside, stripping his hands of the rubber gloves, and watched as Howard Holt released the young, slender black man from the chains that had had him suspended from the ceiling. He gingerly lifted the college student, Ray Taylor, and lowered him onto a nearby cot before he could sink fully to the stone floor in the playroom of the basement of Holt's Victorian mansion on the hill above the Blue Ridge Mountains town of Buena Vista, Virginia.

The late twenties black bull stud, Rocko, readjusted the black leather harness crisscrossing his bare, muscled chest. He turned to the stainless steel cart beside him and tidied up the tit clamps, stainless steel pinchers, flogger, short whip, electric zapper, ball weights, enema bag, and leg extenders laying on the cart. He had used them all in the last hour. Mr. Holt liked everything tidy after a session.

He was just the muscle behind the session. Howard Holt had guided him in every maneuver. His routine had been much the same the previous night, with Holt himself, Rocko's employer at the service garage where Rocko was an auto mechanic. Holt was Buena Vista's leading businessman, and by his own command, he'd already experienced all that the young college student of tonight had been subjected to. The leggy black youth, Ray Taylor, was a student at the Mormon-owned college in town, Southern Virginia University, played basketball, and was studying drama.

He was at least dabbling with the idea of experimenting with sex with other male students at the college. There wasn't the slightest doubt, gauged by his reaction to tonight's playtime, that the student had never had anything as exciting and testing applied to him before in his life, though.

Ray Taylor had been working part time in Holt's landscaping business, and although Holt had noticed the perfectly formed, tall young man doing hard manual work in yards, his specific prurient interest had been in whether the young man aroused Rocko—which he did. This was the first time that Howard had brought a Southern Virginia University student down into his basement for him to watch Rocko work over—and Ray had local family to boot. Holt usually took Rocko to nearby colleges—Virginia Tech, in Blacksburg, or Radford or Longwood in the towns by those names—to pick out a young man who turned Rocko on and who was found to be actively gay and in need of money. And a young man who was cocky and thought he was invincible. He certainly had to think that he could withstand anything that was done to him.

Ray was neither cocky nor did he believe he was invincible. But he was curious and really needed the money. He had come to Holt. His car needed new tires. He'd heard what Holt got off on—watching Rocko put a young man through the paces and do Holt likewise, both men being aroused by the session with the college student. Holt was fifty-five, still in good condition, but tired of and too old now to meet black studs casually who would beat and torture an ejaculation out of him.

So, he'd hired one of his garage mechanics, who was into the BDSM lifestyle, to take care of his particular needs. Holt's needs included being humiliated, manhandled, and worn out sexually by a big-cocked black bull.

Rocko had suggested it wasn't a good idea to do a local guy like Ray, even if he said he was willing to do it for the $500 he needed for new tires. Invariably, the guy didn't really know what it entailed, how cruelly Rocko would use him before he and Holt were keyed up enough for the fun of Rocko doing Holt. And who knows what havoc could be let loose if a local unsatisfied customer spoke out.

When they went further afield, they could bring the guy up into the mountains in the night, blindfolded and bound on the floor of the backseat of the car and could return his bruised and moaning body to "wherever" before the break of day. The guy would have no idea where he had been taken. But Ray knew where he'd be taken hard by Rocko. And he'd know Rocko did it even though Rocko would wear a black mask over his leather pants and chest strappings. And Ray would know that Holt had orchestrated it all.

More often than that, a drifter going through town would pole dance at the local gay dive for a beer and change and Rocko would give him a sample in the bar's back room of what he'd have to do for $500. Rocko's sample rarely matched how taxed the young guy ultimately was, although they occasionally surfaced a pro in the art who went the distance and still was able to walk away from it. Then in a few days the drifter would have moved on.

"Carry him upstairs to the bedroom," Rocko commanded, still in his dominant role.

"Yes, sire," Holt responded as he gathered the exhausted and broken Ray in his arms and moved toward the stairs to the upper levels. In the world outside this house, Holt was a king in Buena Vista—and he didn't even deign to speak to the auto mechanic, Rocko, when he visited the service garage he owned—among his other many holdings in town. But inside the house, when they were doing a session, Rocko was god and Holt was subservient. That was the way Holt wanted it. Certain relationships and routines were necessary to make Holt hard and cause him to gush.

Holt was hard as a rock now, as he carried the lightly moaning Ray up the stairs. Rocko had tortured the young black student's body with clips and ball weights and flesh clamps and no end of body teasers before he had flogged, whipped, zapped, and used a progression of every longer and thicker dildos to open the young man up—the latter a mercy, really, because Rocko was built very big. And, finally, Rocko had mercilessly fucked Ray from behind, while the young man was still bound. Holt had watched it all, licking his lips, and savoring the similar treatment he had experienced at Rocko's hands the previous evening.

Holt lowered Ray's body to a bed in an upstairs bedroom and cuffed the young man's wrists to the rungs of the brass headboard overhead before withdrawing, going down on his haunches on the wooden floorboards across the room to watch, as Rocko stripped off his pants, climbed onto the bed, rolled Ray's body onto his side, raised Ray's left leg, worked his hard cock into the channel that had been prepared by the graduated dildos, and started to fuck Ray again.

Ray had come a bit alive as Rocko worked his bulb beyond the rim and then gasped, groaned, and jerked as Rocko penetrated hard fast and deep, but then he settled down to light panting and moaning as Rocko plowed him for a second time. The ass play before that had well prepared the virgin to anal penetration well by the ten incher.

Although Ray moaned and whimpered through the ball gag he'd been wearing most of the evening, he was too spent and beaten down to resist the assault. He had assured Holt beforehand that he'd been anally fucked before, but Rocko was to assure Holt that that wasn't the case.

The one thing that was sure was that Ray needed that $500 for a set of tires for his ride and was so desperate for them that he was willing to do anything for the money. Rocko had done everything and then some with Ray's body, and Holt had watched it all and was so keyed up that he was down on his haunches across the room, moaning and whimpering along with Ray.

Rocko pulled out of Ray's ass, turned full frontal to Holt on the floor and growled, "I'm about to cum. Crawl to me and take my wad."

Licking his lips and panting hard, Holt slithered across the floor to the bed. Rocko lifted Holt's head up by the hair and positioned Holt's face in front of his throbbing cock. Holt took the cock in his mouth, and Rocko creamed his tonsils.

"Truss him up and put him in the back of the car," Rocko commanded. Holt scurried to bind Ray's wrists and ankles. He took up the clothes, now folded, that Ray had worn to the house and made sure that Ray, glassy-eyed but still barely with them, could see him stuff six hundred-dollar bills in the pocket of his jeans—it always was a good idea to overpay them a bit. Throwing the bound black college student's body over his shoulder and shoving the pile of clothes and a pair of sneakers under his arm, Holt trundled Ray out to the Lincoln Town Car and dumped his trussed body on the floor of the backseat. Later Rocko would drive him away in the still-dark of the morning and dump him and his clothes someplace close to his dorm at the university. It was up to Ray to get back to his dorm and come up with an excuse on why he'd been gone all night.

But before driving Ray anywhere, Holt returned to the upstairs bedroom, where Rocko, recharged, had a small whip in hand, made Holt go down on all fours on the bare wood floor, mounted him, and flogged him on the back, buttocks, and thighs as he fucked Holt hard.

Holt was hard and throbbing when Rocko turned him onto his side, bound his wrists and ankles, and then worked Holt's cock with his hand for nearly another hour, bringing Holt close to an ejaculation, but then backing him off, edging him, when he was about to come. Finally, complaining pleadingly of his aching balls, Holt was allowed to come.

Unbinding only his wrists, Rocko left the room and the house without a look back, one more task to do—dispensing with Ray—before going home for a couple of hours of shuteye before he had to appear for work at the garage in the morning.

Howard Holt loved every minute of the session he had set up and paid for. But if he saw either Ray or Rocko the next day, he'd do no more than give them a terse nod and walk on by. He would walk down the hill to the service garage at some point during the day to retrieve the Lincoln Town Car that Rocko would have washed and detailed for him.

At some point he'd ask Rocko if he'd liked doing Ray. If so, Ray could earn some more money—if he hadn't been scared off of what he had to do to earn it.

* * * *

Holt was standing at the beaded curtain to the back room in the bar he owned at the lower end of Buena Vista, watching Rocko put a blond Lynchburg College student through his paces before a more intense session up at the house later in the evening. The naked young man was stretched out on his belly on a padded massage table. His wrists were cuffed at the front edges of the table and his legs were spread by an extender cuffed at his ankles. Rocko, naked except for the leather chest harness and black half mask, was on his knees, straddling the young man's hips.

The student was writhing under Rocko as Rocko tickled him mercifully. Holt watched, licking his lips, knowing what came next, as suddenly Rocko reached between the young man's thighs, grabbed his nuts and began to squeeze and twist them. The writhing increased, the young man screaming ineffectually through his ball gag, his eyes bugging out. Holt began to pant, this being some of his own favorite play, imagining that it was him under Rocko, receiving this attention. Knowing that later that night, after the young man was completely spent from Rocko's play in the basement room of the house, it would be Holt.

The young man jerked, spasmed, and groaned deeply as Rocko positioned himself above him, fists down on either side of the blond's shoulders, split the young man's butt cheeks with a mammoth black bull's cock, and started to pump.

Holt lost interest at this point. It was one thing when the play culminated in this for him, but, in watching another man being sub fucked, the fun for Holt stopped with the torture play.

He moved back into the barroom and stood at the bar, ordering a beer from Manuel, the bartender on duty.

The gay part of the tavern wasn't large—just an entrance foyer, where a bouncer ascertained that the patron really wanted to be there; this barroom with a long bar, a few tables, and a small stage with a dancing pole; and a couple of multipurpose back rooms with toys, beds, and special equipment. The Lynchburg College student had been made to dance the pole until Rocko got in the mood and took him to the back. There had been few patrons present then. It was the middle of the afternoon, and this pretty much was a night-time club. The student was doing this willingly—but probably, like most, not having fully understood what "this" was. College students always needed money, were willing to try anything, and thought they were invincible.

After Rocko got through with them, most of them were subdued and broken. They certainly were broken in. If they tried to fight him, they were broken down.

The gay part of the tavern was on the back of the building, entered in back, in a corner of the parking lot and through the fenced-off area where the trash bins were kept. It didn't look like the entrance to anything and that's how the small gay community in the area liked it. The girly bar was on the street side and was much larger and covered with neon signs. There was a lot of business in this area of the state for that part of the club.

Howard Holt, mostly taken at face value as a white, good-old-Southern-boy, who had accumulated a lot of lucrative businesses and who spent enough time in the gym to look very good as a fifty-five-year-old extrovert glad-hander, hid his true sexual desires well. Very few in town would take him as a pain-loving gay sub who melted at big black bull cock and maximum body testing and humiliation. As long as he kept the gas station, car garage, and small grocery store open in Buena Vista and the residents didn't have to come down in the east from the Blue Ridge to Lynchburg or to the west to Lexington to get the necessities of life, any other businesses he ran were overlooked or quickly forgiven.

Most of those who knew he spent time at Stella's assumed he camped out in the girly bar in front, not in the gay bar behind, which few knew about. They assumed Stella was a wife who had died long ago or one who had walked off and left him, not willing to put up longer with his orneriness or the mistresses a successful businessman in central Virginia was assumed to have. They wouldn't have guessed that he'd never married, because he was stuck on men. And not just any men. His choice was big black bulls who would tax his body mercilessly and entertain him by letting him watch what they could do with young college students—and then, usually, as the spent young man hung there and watched, do him as well in the same way.

Even those few men and drifters who saw Holt in the gay bar assumed he was a power top. Few of them related him to Rocko, who they correctly sensed was a cruel sadist who could split them asunder and who they studiously avoided. They were aware what he did in the back room with the pole dancer talent Holt brought to the club, but they either assumed Holt didn't realize that was going on or, at best, ignored it, because word got around and hopeful young twinks did turn up looking for what Rocko gave them.

Holt was on his second beer when Rocko reentered the barroom from the back, dressed in shorts and a T, ordered and received a beer, and sat at one of the nearby tables.

Holt was talking with Manuel, the bartender, who had no other business to take care of at the moment.

"You been up on the Appalachian Trail yet this season, Mr. H?" Manuel asked, making small talk. "I know you like to hike up there."

"It helps keep me in shape."

Manuel took a moment to appreciate the shape Holt was in. He was older, but Manuel liked them mature. They had more experience. And Holt was one well-built older man. Manuel was a power bottom and he, like most, figured Holt as a power top. He'd really like to get Holt on top of him, but he assumed that the man was so steeped in the South that he wouldn't go with blacks or Hispanics. He was friendly enough with Manuel, though, so that was good enough. Good jobs were hard for a Hispanic to come by in this town other than cleaning toilets and picking fruit in orchards and here there were enough cruising power tops drifting through the bar to keep Manuel sexually satisfied.

"I'm going up tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I plan to hike north to The Priest and back," Holt added. The Priest was one of the higher mountains on the eastern edge of the Blue Ridge range between Lynchburg and Charlottesville down in the Piedmont.

"Should be nice," Manuel said. "If I was off, I'd like to go with you." It was a half hint, which Holt didn't take. Holt could have given him the day off. They could have hiked north, gone off the trail a couple of times, and Holt could have fucked him on the mountainside by streams. It was a dream of Manuel's, although Holt never seemed to bite.

The barroom had been mostly deserted as the two chatted. It was this fact that made Holt aware of the two men—both black—who had entered the bar and took up position very close to Holt on each side as he and Manuel had been engaged in bantering talk.

Holt liked to talk with Manuel. Holt had dreams of the well-built Hispanic trussing his body up and abusing and using him mercilessly. He had an obsession about whether there was any black in Manuel's blood and how big his dick was. He'd known Hispanics with black blood who had big cocks that were jet black in contrast to the dusky skin otherwise, the focus of attention going directly to the cock. Holt had dreams of Manuel's jet-black cock waving as, Holt strung up to the ceiling, Manuel danced around his body, flagellating him with a hand whip. If he'd had any hint that the Manuel of reality matched up with the Manuel of Holt's fantasy, he'd be asking Manuel to join him on the hike tomorrow—and they'd never get half way to The Priest. They'd be off the trail with Manuel abusing a gush of cum out of Hold's body.

Holt knew both of the men who had come in and hemmed him in at the bar—they were regulars here and were a couple. Holt and many others knew them as Mutt and Jeff. The tall, older—in his late thirties—thinner of the two was Buck Taylor. The squat one—in his late twenties—was Alfonse Jackson. Both were construction workers. Both were well-muscled. Holt had it on good authority that Taylor was a pure top, with an extraordinarily long dick as the major attraction to features that were on the ugly, gangling side. Alfonse, the smaller, chunkier, and better looking of the two had a high, squeaky voice and was known as a flip flopper. It was supposed that he stuck with Taylor mainly for the length of his cock, reputed to be an eleven incher.

The two muscled in so close on either side of Holt, ordering their beers in harmony, Taylor's voice a bass and Alfonse's a high soprano, that Holt knew they were there for him. He also figured he knew why they were visiting.

"What were you up to last night, Howie?" Taylor opened up.

"At home, alone—probably while the two of you were screwing at the back of your truck," Holt answered in a calm, "we're all just friends here" voice.

"Sure about the alone part?" Taylor persisted. "Sure you weren't up to the rumors on you?"

"What rumors would that be?"

"I had occasion to visit my nephew, Ray, at his dorm this morning. He was supposed to go out on a mowing job with me. But he wasn't up to it. I had to take him to a clinic. He said he was riding his motorbike yesterday up on the Blue Ridge Parkway and went over the edge. Managed to walk out but had wound up in a briar bush. The welts and such I saw on his body don't come from no briar bush, though. I've heard what goes on in your house up there. You do somethin' to my boy last night?"

"No, I didn't. I don't do that stuff," Holt answered, trying to put some indignation in his voice. And, indeed, he didn't. Someone else did that. That someone else did it to Holt too, and Holt got off in gushers in having it done to him. Tense up to this point, Holt relaxed. It may not have looked like he was out of the woods on this, but he now knew that Ray hadn't talked—hadn't told his uncle what had really happened to him. Taylor suspected that it was Holt who did it, but Ray knew better. He knew he was worked over by a black bull and Holt had done no more to him than watch—and had stuffed money in the pocket to his pants.