Stolen

I had the creepiest feeling I was being watched. I was sitting at the table in the small dining L of my high-rise apartment and diddling through my favorite Web sites.

I liked all-male bondage fucking. It certainly wasn’t something I admitted to in my day job down on the stock market trading floor, but that’s how I unwound. In the evening, after a tough day among the bears and bulls, I retreated to my small seventy-second-story platform in the sky and entertained my sensations and my cock in a solo session with my male bondage sites on the Internet. I had them all booked so that I could quickly run through them, looking for what was new until I found something I wanted to masturbate to—to erase the tension of the day and to entertain a fantasy that I was too shy to bring to reality.

I was sitting, sprawled at my table, naked, and cock in hand. Just beyond the table was a full plate-glass window that would probably have a gorgeous view out over Central Park if there wasn’t another, taller high-rise apartment building just across a narrow street between my building and the park. So, in essence, I had a straight-on, full view of three floors of someone else’s high rise.

I stood and moved over to the window and leaned into it to scrutinize the other building. I still had the creepiest feeling of being watched. It was only when I felt the head of my erect cock rub up against the cool pane of glass that I recalled that I was naked—exposed to several stories of the brooding building just across the narrow divide of Colombia Street. Had there been lights on across there earlier, I wondered. Now the windows were either dark or close-draped.

I must try to put the money aside to buy draperies for my own windows, I thought. And the time and effort in getting it done, which was an even greater nuisance for me.

Anyone could be watching me from inside those darkened windows in that other building, I thought. My dining L was brightly lit, and I couldn’t see into any of those rooms. Wasn’t that one just across lit up when I first padded naked into the dining room? That’s where that hunk who was always working out, building muscles on his muscles, lived. Boy I’d like to meet him in the back room of one of those gay clubs down near Times Square I’d heard about but never been brave enough to go into. I frequently sat and watched him work out—in just sport shorts—and fantasized having sex with him. He was arousingly hirsute, with black curly hair all over his body.

I moved away from the window and turned off the lights in my living area and settled in front of my computer again. I pulled up URLs with one hand and stroked my cock to the images I found arousing with my other hand. Then I reached for the dildo that was on the table top, lubed it liberally, and scrunched down in my seat, my eyes glued to the computer screen as I held the head of the dildo to my hole—and started to gently press in.

* * * *

I knew I’d been ripped off as soon as I got off the elevator after work. The door to my apartment was ajar. Someone had jimmied the lock, and they hadn’t even bothered to shut the door after them.

Well, they were sure to have been disappointed, I thought bitterly, as I entered the apartment, because I lived quite sparsely. Virtually the only thing of value that I kept in my apartment beyond the TV system that was firmly bolted to the wall was my computer.

And, sure enough, my computer was the only thing that had been taken—although I was somewhat distressed to find that my bureau drawers had been opened and my underwear briefs were strewn on the floor. And then, when I entered the bathroom, I discovered that my dirty clothes hamper had been turned over—and all of my soiled briefs were missing.

How odd, I thought. But a little chill went up my spine that wasn’t at all unpleasant, and I had the urge to go to my computer and run through my favorite Web sites. Only I didn’t have my computer anymore.

What a bother. I’d have to file a police report—which I knew would go nowhere other than support an insurance claim that would also be almost more of a hassle cashing in on than it was worth. And I’d have to get a new computer. And, oh yes, the lock would need to be fixed on the apartment door. But it was late already. I’d stopped for a couple of beers down at O’Donnell’s after work—trying to build up the courage, unsuccessfully, to move on to that gay leather bar across the street from the tavern, and it was already dark when I’d returned to my apartment, the gay bar unvisited. All of this hassle would have to wait for tomorrow.

So, I just shut the door with the broken lock, with the assurance that lightning didn’t strike twice in quick succession and that it was unlikely anyone would be trying the doors on the seventy-second story of my building to see if any opened. And I showered, toweled off, and pulled on a pair of the red silk bikini briefs I liked to sleep in.

As I was sitting at the side of the bed, I had that creepy sensation once again of being watched. There was another full-length uncovered plate-glass window beside my bed, just on the other side of the wall from my dining L. I got up from the bed and padded over to the bedroom door and switched off the light. Then I went over to the window and let my eyes travel across the surface of the building across the narrow canyon of Columbus Street.

Nothing was amiss, but the feeling of being watched didn’t go away.

* * * *

I was jolted from a deep sleep by a heavy body covering me as I lay on top of the covers on my belly. Swimming up from unconsciousness, I drunkenly tried to turn and push the weight off me, but the sharp crack of a backhand across my cheek snapped my head to the side and brought bright orange stars to my eyes. Before I could recover, my wrists were being bound together and tethered to the rails of the headboard.

I started to cry out in shock and indignation, but my bikini briefs were being stripped off my legs and stuffed in my mouth.

I gagged for breath as I was being forced up to my knees on the bed, and I felt the wetness of a tongue at my asshole. I moaned deeply. This had never happened to me before. I had dreamed of it happening to me, but I’d never been brave enough to bring reality to fantasy.

This was no fantasy, though. My cock was being pulled through my legs and was being swallowed and worked and my balls were being licked and fingers were invading my asshole. I squirmed and tried to pull away, but big hands roughly pulled my hips back into position, and my buttocks were slapped hard.

“Stay still,” a low growl commanded.

And then I felt him crouching over my hips, his thighs encasing me and a fist between my shoulder blades forcing my chest into the surface of the mattress. And I knew it was a “him,” because I felt the cock head at my hole. Moving insistently inside me. Spreading my virginal hole, making me gasp and groan at the thick invasion of him. Until suddenly his bulb was past my sphincter muscle, and I felt my channel drawing him in—different from any of the dildo work I had done on myself: warmer, throbbing, more pliable and filling. And moving with a purpose of its own.

I panted hard and moaned deeply as his cock moved deeper into me. And then he began to pump inside me and I writhed under him in agony mixed with ecstasy. I never knew it would be this way. Fully possessed; fully under his control. Whimpering for release but now not wanting him to stop either. A fist on my cock, stroking me. For the first time being stroked by someone else—being worked at someone else’s whim and rhythm other than my own. I couldn’t help myself. I quickly creamed the sheets beneath my pelvis.

But my tormentor fucked on and on. My knees got weak with the exertion, and I collapsed onto the bed, but he just followed me down, straddling my pelvis between his knees, and continued stroking into me in long, deep thrusts. At last I felt him stop abruptly, nails dug into my hips, and then a jerk and a little cry and he was finished.

I felt the weight of him leave me, and then he turned me onto my back on the bed. Even though it was dark, the lights of the city coming through my uncurtained window let me clearly see my attacker. He was a big brute of a fellow, all muscle and dark curly hair. His head was covered with a ski mask, but I had little trouble identifying the rest of his body as the bodybuilder from one of the apartments in the high rise across Columbus Street from me.

No more mystery. He had been watching me just as I had been watching him. And I had little doubt who had burgled my apartment and taken my computer—no doubt wanting to verify in a search of my favorite sites that I was drawn to what he was doing to me.

And I was, in fact, drawn to it. And perhaps he could see that in my eyes, because, as I watched him, he stripped the condom he’d been wearing to fuck me off his cock, which was still half hard, and scrambled back up onto the bed and straddled my chest. He pulled the sleeping briefs out of my mouth and pressed his cock head at my lips. I opened my mouth to him, not knowing what to do but, having now been taken over the edge, more than willing to learn. I gagged as he possessed my mouth with a cock that was coming to life again. But he held my head in place with a palm on my cheek and a thumb under my chin and face-fucked me in shallow strokes that weren’t too taxing, as I sucked on his cock head. Meanwhile, he raised the other hand, holding my sleeping bikini to his nose and sniffed the essence of me.

Then he was untying my wrists but rebinding me as I laid on my back, trussing up a wrist to an ankle on either side in a form of hogtying that had me helpless, bent over, and spread wide.

He disappeared for a while, and I heard him rummaging in my refrigerator. He returned, drinking a beer from a bottle—just sauntering into the room as if he possessed it—and me—and at least for now he did possess me. I should have been scared and angry. But I was beyond anger now. He was doing to me just what I had fantasized for months and had been too much of a coward to initiate myself.

He set the beer bottle down on my bureau, and I watched in fascination as he rolled another condom onto his rehardened cock. Then he walked over to the bed and pulled me down to the foot so that my rump was on the edge of the bed. He leaned over and took the beer bottle from the bureau top, tipped me over so that my hole was pointed to the ceiling, and let a stream of the cold liquid tipple into my hole.

Then he was fucking down into me again, lubricated by the cool beer. On and on he stroked inside me—until I was exhausted and had passed out.

When I awoke, he was gone and my wrists and ankles were free of bonds. My bikini sleeping briefs were missing and the fingers of dawn were creeping down the canyon that was Columbus Street.

I rose, sore, but exhilarated and padded into the living area. He wasn’t there either, and the door to the apartment was shut. My computer had been returned and was turned on. I keystroked it to life and there on the screen was an e-mail address and the words, “If you liked it.”

I sat down at the computer and, with tremulous fingers, opened my e-mail and keyed in the e-mail address. “Yes, yes, yes. Again tonight, please. Door unlocked.”

And then I made myself a cup of coffee and sat back in the chair and luxuriated in the hassles that had been removed from me today—no missing computer, no need to file a police report, no need to replace the lock on my door, and no reason to sit for hours in O’Donnell’s and try to build up the courage to walk across the street and enter the world of the gay leather bar. And above all else, no need to buy drapes for my windows.

The only thing that had been stolen—other than a few soiled briefs—was my virginity—spectacularly stolen—and I certainly wouldn’t miss that now.