The pain was fighting with the pleasure; the fear with the exhilaration. The struggle for the dominant sensation was sending my adrenaline through the roof. God, I was skipping along the top of the clouds. Shit, I was skimming the searing flames of hell. Pain, pleasure. Pleasure, pain. Right there on the edge. Would he love me or kill me? Would he fulfill my desires? Or would he take me to the edge of release only to abandon me to want and frustration? Either way, this was the edge that made me feel alive. This . . . this . . . this, right here, right now.
He had looped his belt around my neck and was arching my torso up toward his chest as he covered me at the end of my bed. The pressure was choking me. I don't know if this was better or worse—more painful or more arousing—than when he'd been grabbing me by my hair and jerking me back to him. He had the arm I wasn't stiff arming into the bedspread for some form of support painfully forced up my back with a strong fireman's grip on my wrist.
He was inside me, big and thick and deep, pounding my ass interminably, cruelly, gloriously. Would he never come? big, virile, young stud. Pounding, pounding, pounding. Fast and furious. I was gagging, whimpering, moaning.
My arm gave out and I collapsed on the bed, clutching at the choking collar created from the loop in the belt, almost blacking out at the tightening of the noose from the combination of him trying to jerk my head back and the weight of my body falling forward. He rode me down onto the bed, my belly on the edge of the foot of the bed, my knees struggling to find purchase on the carpet.
"Gonna come," he muttered. He released both the pressure on the noose and the hand forcing my arm up my back, pulled out of me, and flipped me over. My hands instinctively went to the leather noose around my throat, but he backhanded me across the cheek, grabbed both of my wrists, and forced my arms above my head, flat on the bedspread.
Moving his heavily muscled body up onto the bed, he straddled my chest with his knees and shot his load in three prodigious spurts on my face and chest.
"Not done, yet," he growled. "Open to it, bitch." He pushed his hard cock at my lips and, with a whimper, I opened my mouth and took it inside. He wasn't kidding. Four strokes to the back of my throat and he let off another load.
"Clean it," he demand, and I sucked the cum off his cock and coughed as he pulled it out of my mouth. In one swift move, he let loose of my wrists, slipped the belt off my throat and reached down and gave both of my nipples a cruel twist. I yelped, and he laughed.
I made to rise when he came off me, but he backhanded my face again, snapping my head to one side and making me fall back onto the bed with a groan.
"Stay right there, bitch. I might want to use you again. That was good. Enjoyed it. You like it like that, don't you?"
I whimpered some form of answer, croaking, my throat feeling like it had been crushed.
"What's that? Can't hear you."
"Yes," I managed in a gravelly voice. "I like it like that. I loved it."
"You love it and want it again. Say it."
"I loved it; want it again." I meant it.
"I know you did—know it's what you like. Came like Niagara Falls." He picked up his jeans, briefs, and T-shirt and padded out of the room. To shower, I assumed. There was a hall bath, but he could have used the one off my bedroom. Maybe he didn't know it was there, though, the door to it wasn't obvious. Like most everything in this house on a bluff overlooking a marshland running down to Coinjack Bay, it had been added on over the decades as an afterthought. The house was appropriately named Haphazard.
He was right. I'd come more than once during the ordeal—and had come big. Overall I'd have to describe it like that—an ordeal—though. Was it my fault that I loved ordeal, soared higher and came bigger from ordeal? Looked forward to the next, more cruel ordeal?
The man was an animal—and so strong and overpower. In his prime, a firefighter, probably half a decade younger than I was, I was sure. And on every level that seemed important, I'd enjoyed it immensely. There always seemed to be other levels, higher levels, though. And this firefighter I'd picked up was true to the form. Basically him saying he'd used me was spot on. A user. He was abusing me like this with no regard to my pleasure.
That I'd gotten pleasure out of it would bring him no pleasure.
I'd needed to get laid—and to get laid hard. I wouldn't have let him come home with me from the firehouse party in Maple if I hadn't. I'd had few illusions what he'd do to me; I'd sought him out. I'd gone there looking for just about what I got. A big bruiser of a man to take home and then take me hard. I even half knew it would be him—Chet.
I'd seen him before at Andy's, the gay-clientele tavern outside of Elizabeth City, some eighteen miles west, into the interior of northeastern North Carolina. And I knew he'd seen me there too. We'd spoken in passing—both of us working someone else at the time, and he'd dropped that he lived and worked in Maple. I'd said I didn't live far from there, on a bluff above the coastal marshlands on the west side of Coinjack Bay, separated from the Atlantic Ocean by the Outer Banks.
I'd checked around, which didn't take long in a small town like Maple, and found out that his name was Chet and that he worked part-time as a carpenter and part-time as a fireman—that his family lived in Elizabeth City, his father a prominent real estate lawyer there. I could believe the fireman part. He was a bodybuilder type. And all blond sunny looks. It scared me just to look at the hulkiness of him. And it aroused me.
I'd seen a guy stumble out of the back rooms at Andy's once, all sloppy grin, despite a black eye, and walking like he couldn't keep his legs together. Shortly he was followed out of the back by Chet, who was still tucking his T-shirt into his tight jeans and pulling his zipper up. It sent my blood boiling then—and in the weeks of running the image through my mind later. My fantasies focused more on the sloppy grin, the stumbling gait, and the bulge in Chet's crotch. The fantasy of him pulling that zipper down for me.
And when I brought him home today I hadn't been laid in a month or more.
A week before that I got one of those "gimme" calls soliciting support for the local fire department. I started into the regular "send me something in the mail; I don't entertain telephone solicitation."
"But this is the only call for money we do. We need the support, and we're the only fire station that could get to your house before it burned to the ground. Did I tell you that a contribution gets you an invitation to a firemen's party at the Maple firehouse the Saturday after next?"
The image of Chet, who I'd just found out was a Maple fireman, flooded into my brain, although I didn't know it at the time. I said I'd contribute and gave them a credit card number—all, I thought at the time, because I had been guilted—or maybe I realized that they were right. If there was no firehouse in Maple, my place didn't stand a chance in a fire. There weren't more than 25,000 people in the whole county, but we had to have a fire department. My rattletrap of a rambling wooden house clinging to a bluff was as likely to burn as anyone's—more likely probably. If I didn't contribute, who would?
I didn't even intend to go to the party at that point. It only occurred to me to do so when the ticket came in the mail—and, yes, after I'd connected this with the fireman Chet I'd seen come out of the back rooms at Andy's pulling his zipper up, a smug look on his face, and preceded by a scared rabbit with a hobbling gait and a black eye.
Chet was there, at the party. He saw me. He was looking magnificent in an athletic T, cut down to "here" both in the armholes and the neck, showing his bulging tanned chest and taut nubs, and wearing low-rise, tight jeans, rubbed to a lighter color over his basket. After a while, he sauntered over to me.
"I'm dying for a smoke. You are too, I think. Dying for something, I would guess. You're Rob Preston from out at that choice slice of land in the marshlands on the bay, aren't you? The book illustrator, I'm told."
