by Jamie Lake
“With me,” he said, offering no further explanation, and leaving no room for me to question him. We shifted into a stronger gear to climb back up the hill that led back to the bridge.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, mister,” I said, slightly hoping he would reject my refusal. He did not disappoint.
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “Just lay back and relax. We’ll be there in no time. You can call me Buck.” I couldn’t help but notice that the tension went out of his shoulders. His grip on the wheel relaxed, and his arms came down to rest by his sides as he casually steered us away from the city lights. I wondered what had made him so tense and why was he suddenly much more at ease?
I was honestly touched by how kind he was being to me, but at the same time, I was nervous. I didn’t know this guy. Although there seemed to be a part of him that seemed familiar, as if it were a déjà-vu feeling, I knew I didn’t know him from Adam. There was a dangerous side of him; a controlling, possessive side of him that made me quiver in my boots. But somehow I knew better than to say no to him. Somehow I didn’t think he would like that.
We went back up over the bridge and across the river. He steered us off to the right of the highway, just as we made it back to the forested side, on a slender unmarked turn that I probably would not have seen on my own. I had no idea that people even lived on this side of the river. I assumed that everyone preferred to be hemmed in by the safe circle of city lights. Meeting someone who lived outside those bounds was fascinating. This was a much smaller road than the highway, packed with dirt, not pavement. The further we got away from the water, the more the trees grew up around us. A shiver crept up my spine. I was about to speak up, if only meekly, to ask how much further we were going. Before I could, the truck ambled into a large moonlit opening that extended away from us as far as I could see. Houses rose up, one beside each other, extending back with the opening. This small dirt road kept going, past each house, with unassuming driveways to each one. None of the houses had a light on: at least I couldn’t see one. This place looked like a ghost town, like old memories haunted it, and as if most people had totally forgotten about it.
We pulled into the first driveway, the very first house on this street. It was a classic Victorian beauty. Large maples grew on either side, providing the house with a screen to shelter it from the world. A white porch wrapped itself around the left side, going back farther than I could see. It was at least three stories from ground level, with two levels of bay windows jutting out of the front. White brick framed the porch and window sills, a classy addition to the light colored vinyl siding. I didn’t think they built houses in this style anymore. This house was older but well kept. Buck drove down the driveway that wrapped to the right side of the house. It sloped down to a lower level that must be the basement. It looked like he had a two-car garage, but even though it was still raining, he made no move to open one of the garage doors.
He stopped the truck right there in the driveway, shut off the engine, and shoved his door open.
“Get out,” he said in a commanding tone. “Help me with getting a few things out of the back.” His commands weren’t questions, so I obeyed.
“Sure,” I said, obeying as I hopped out and shut the door. “Should I lock it?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smile that made me feel like a truck robbery was the last of his worries. He went to the back and unfastened a tarp that covered some tools and things. “Just grab that sports bag over there. Set it down right inside.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, reaching over the edge of the truck bed for it. When I got a good grip on it, I hoisted it back over the bed wall and ducked my head to avoid the rain. The bag was heavy with an uneven weight pulling down on the front, and it was half unzipped. I fell in step behind him on our way to the door. I couldn’t help myself and peaked inside the bag. All I could see was part of a thick rope wrapped around itself, tangled up but unknotted. Around the inside curve of one of the tangles I saw mud and a crusty red substance stained into the threads. I dreaded to think of what had caused that.
“Come on in,” Buck said, stepping inside the garage door that should lead into the basement. He was looking back at me again with that possessive look that made me feel like I was a piece of meat. Perhaps more like I was his piece of meat.
I followed him through a very dark garage. I had no idea if he had other cars parked in here or something else entirely. I tried to stay close behind him, as if I thought I was going to get left in here. On the other side of the room, he turned an unexpected corner and started up a flight of carpeted stairs. One loud thump after another, I followed his footsteps up to the main level. He opened the door at the top of the stairs and gave me just enough room to get past him.
“Come inside,” he said. I did what I was told and stepped into the immaculate foyer. I wasn’t surprised that he had few decorations on the wall. Not a single picture frame lined the entry way. He seemed like a simple man, and if he was staying here by himself, I imagine he had no reason to decorate. He did seem to have nice taste in furniture, though. He set his keys down on an antique white marble entry-way table. The slight crumble of the marble gave it character, instead of making it look cheap. I was immediately embarrassed for my shabby appearance. I was wearing just a hoodie and sweat pants which were soaked through to the bone, with my hair, clothes, and shoes dripping all over the hardwood floor. He was soaked too, though, and didn’t seem in a hurry to get cleaned up. I noticed the faint smell of wet dog and tried to look around for signs of an animal. I didn’t see anything - no leash or food bowls. Buck shut and locked the door behind me before I could say anything, and then said, “Just set the bag down there on the floor. We won’t need that until later.”
“Wha...?” I started to ask, but he cut me off.
“Thirsty?” he asked, making his way across the foyer to the dark open kitchen, past the center bar, to the refrigerator. His boots seemed to beat angrily on the tiled kitchen floor, drowning out the thumps of my pounding heart. I could enjoy a great view of his backside without fear of him catching me staring. His shoulder and back muscles rippled under his shirt in a way that hinted at subdued power. When he reached to open the stainless steel refrigerator, his triceps flexed out of his rolled up sleeves.
“Oh, I ..." I was, but I didn’t want to be rude. His comment about the bag and the quick transition had completely thrown me off guard. He never tried to turn on the lights, and I felt it would be too forward to do so myself, so we stayed in the barely-lit darkness. The glass front doors let in the occasional lightning bolt illumination.
“Water, beer, wine?” he said, looking in his refrigerator, without noticing the faltering look on my face.
“Um, yes, uh, a beer would be nice,” I said.
“Catch,” he said, tossing me one unexpectedly. “Take a load off.”
I started to take my hoodie jacket off, but it was getting caught on my shoulder. Before I knew it, I felt him come up behind me. His thigh brushed against my hip as he yanked the bottom of the hoodie up with such force that I let out a startled yelp. It almost seemed erotic to me, but I tried to shut such thoughts out of my mind. He was much too masculine, too large, too chiseled, to be interested in anyone like me. He crumbled my sweater in one hand, and I sensed his eyes looking me up and down from behind, as if he liked what he saw.
“Mmm. Nice,” he murmured, almost too low for me to hear.
It took me a second to realize that with the force of him removing my sweater, the crack of my bubble butt was showing. I swear I heard him licking his lips as he looked at me.
“Nikes?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, getting nervous about his possessive tone and grizzly stare.
“Your sweat pants, are they Nikes?” he repeated.
“Oh,” I said, pulling my pants up. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked him.
“Pull your pants up.
Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.” Just the way he said it was turning me on, and I prayed that my erection wouldn’t grow too big or fast that I couldn’t hide it in the folds of my soaked sweats.
He pointed me into the living room. For the first time in his house, I lead myself. This gave me a view that wasn’t obstructed by his silhouette. The foyer and living room shared the same ambiance. There was a fireplace across the room, just to the left of this entry. It was framed by the same colored marble pillars as those on the entry-table in the foyer. Still no pictures adorned the walls. I had a fleeting thought, almost just like it was a nagging at the back of my skull, that there were no deer heads mounted on the wall. In fact, there was no hunting paraphernalia lying around at all. I had never been in a hunter’s house that didn’t proudly display his trophies for everyone to see. Maybe Buck doesn’t hunt deer, I thought. There were burnt logs and ash in the fireplace, though, and that made me feel more comfortable: like this was a real house which was lived in by real people.
Coming in behind me, closer than would be normal for two strangers, he pointed me to sit down in a light brown leather arm chair. He sat down across from me on an identical chair. The way in which the furniture was set up, with the long couch against the side wall out of the way, it made me feel like Buck was used to have single visitors as company. These two chairs were set up perfectly so that just two people could sit across from each other and talk. I leaned forward in my seat nervously as he casually leaned back in his chair. His hair was soaked, and I could see how wild and unkempt it was. Finally in his own home, he closed his eyes for a second, as if he was exhausted from a day’s work. He stretched his strong arms behind his head, which made his shirt lift up just enough to see his ripped and hairy abs. With his eyes still closed, stretched out like that, he looked like the statue of a long-dead Roman god. Hardened, muscled, timeless.
God, he looked hot, and I couldn’t help but see his bulge rising up in his soaked denim jeans. I could see the full outline of how long and thick he was. He seemed to move his semi-hard cock up and down, twitching it under my sheepish glance, as if it were beckoning me to sit on it. I wouldn’t have dared with how much he intimidated me. He couldn’t be flirting with me: not someone as handsome and strong as him. Believe me, I wasn’t about to get my ass kicked by misreading what was happening, so I stayed on my side. He had to be straight.
“So, Nathan, tell me about yourself,” he said, in gravelly low voice.
Had I told him my name? I must have. How else would he know?
“Oh, well, I’m 21 years old. I’m from Hillsboro, actually, originally, and...”
“No, no.” He seemed angered by my lack of understanding as to how he wanted to be answered. “What I want is for you to tell me about your likes, your dislikes. What turns you on, what turns you off?” Now for sure I saw his lips rise in the same wicked grin I thought I saw in the truck. That smile transformed him from intimidating to absolutely malicious.
I swallowed hard around the knot in my throat. Had I heard him correctly? Did he actually ask me what turned me on? And if I did, was I misinterpreting it?
I decided to play it safe. “Oh, well ... I like lots of things: reading, animals...”
“Animals?” he said, opening his eyes and lifting one thick eyebrow. “What type of animals, Nathan?”
I felt like my answer carried a heavy weight. He was staring at me intensely. Again I felt like I was being sized up. “Cats.”
“Hate cats,” he dismissed my answer with a quick, angry shake of his head.
“Um ... reptiles...”
“They’re all right. What about wildlife? What about dogs? How do you feel about wolves?”
“Oh, they kind of scare me, actually. Well you see, it’s mostly a long story, but I got bitten by one a long time ago. It was on a trip I took with my dad...well, my brother was actually there too. And I don’t know, I haven’t shaken that completely, you know?” Instinctively, I rubbed the scar around my wrist, remembering the fear and pain that caused it.
Now a smirk spread across his lips, “You’ve got no reason to be scared of wolves. You respect them, they respect you. Canines are the most loyal of all the animal life.” His voice got deeper the more he talked. I was pinned to my seat under his piercing green eyes. “They treat you the way you deserve, however you deserve it. They know how to please you, but then and again ... they like to be pleased too. A good dog will defend you to the end, be there by your side, any time you need them, want them, but then ... they expect to be shown gratitude.” His emphasis on gratitude made my shoulders tremble.
He broke his gaze with me to thrust his hips out to adjust himself and he unmistakably had a hard-on.
When he caught me staring, I didn’t even try to hide it. I revelled in how thick it was, threatening to pop the button on his wet pants. He returned my stare, sizing me up without reservation. His gaze traveled over my smaller shoulders, down the curve of my hunched back, and rested on the crotch of my sweat pants. My smaller hard-on was unmistakable, tenting up the front of my pants, begging to be let out. Not a word was said. Drips of water ran off us and splashed mutely against the thick carpet. I was so riveted, so eager, that I couldn’t even be embarrassed that I was messing up a stranger's carpet and nice furniture. Outside, the weather beat down relentlessly. The window took the full brunt of the wind and rain, but it was built sturdy enough to withstand such things. As with the rest of the house, it was erected with enough care to make sure it was of high quality. I could see through the cracks in the heavy velvet drapes that clouds in the distance were starting to lift away, revealing the full yellow moon.
“Are you hungry, Nathan?” he asked me, his white and sharp teeth glistening. It wasn’t an offer of hospitality: it was a warning. A warning that he was about to serve me something I would not refuse.
I wanted what he had. My head nodded, and my heart pounded so hard, I could hear it in my throat.
His strong hands reached down for his zipper, unbuttoning the first button, then slowly unzipping his fly. “How about some of this?”
And then as if on cue, his massive cock snaked out. It was huge and dripping, a mushroom head that was plump and just begging to be sucked.
“Get over here,” he commanded, as the moonlight was starting to creep in through the blinds. I couldn’t help but wonder if my mind was playing tricks on me, but he seemed to be getting even more hairy than before.
I was so nervous that I was shaking. I was drawn to him, as some animalistic part of me that needed cock inside me, and I knew better than to disobey. But my fear got the better of me and I balked. Glued to my spot, across the living room from him, I did not move at his command. I knew I was making a mistake: I should have obeyed immediately, and I imagined I would be punished for not doing so.
“Now,” he instructed, with a voice that meant business. This time I did not hesitate. I climbed over to him on my hands and knees, like a dog obeying his master’s command to heel. My mouth opened wide as I couldn't imagine I’d be able to fit that huge tool in my mouth. He grabbed me by the back of my head, a fistful of hair in his right hand.
“Open your mouth wider,” he instructed. His raised his left hand to warn me that hesitation would earn me swift punishment.
“But...” I started to grumble. The look in his eyes shut me up.
“Wider...” he commanded, his voice getting more husky.
I obeyed silently.
“Wider...”
I did what I was told, and he plunged his cock in my mouth. He kept his right hand on the back of my head, still gripping my hair, so that he controlled how he shoved his cock in and out of my mouth. My vision was reduced to nothing more than his crotch. I had no peripheral vision. In that moment, my whole world was that massive cock and patch of thick, hairy pubic hair.
“Fucking suck it right, bitch,” he told me, as he let go of the back of my head, and it was my pleasure. It glided into my mouth and down my throat. It was sa
lty from sweat and pre-cum, and somehow it tasted like it was seasoned to perfection. I put both hands on either side of his hips, so I could have a better position.
Mmm ... his cock tasted so good. I slid it through my funnelled lips, gripping it with just the right suction that I knew would please him.
He leaned back his head back, his shoulders and neck arching. “Oh, yeah, good boy, that’s what I like. Give it to me good. Good boy.” He was all man. I released his dick and moved quickly down to suckle his balls. My pink lips circled his massive, hairy balls, and I reached back up to jerk his shaft.
“Oh, God,” he said, and I knew this was one of his G-spots. I intended to spend as much time as I needed there to make my man feel good. Every time he tightened his muscles in pleasure, I put more suction and more force on that spot to keep the sensation lasting. He smelled so good, musty and salty, but with a sweet scent that made me want more. I cupped his balls in my mouth, circling my tongue around each, slowly at first, then quickly, which seemed to drive him wild as the moaning continued and he gripped the leather arm of the seat. His grip was so large and intense that it engulfed the arm chair and made me fear that he was going to break it off.
I squeezed his balls in my mouth, sucking and playing with them with my tongue like they were candy balls. I held his balls against the roof of my mouth and snaked my tongue to that tender spot, right before you enter the butt hole. His response was an uncontrollable spasm that made me run my tongue back and forth with more pressure. He clenched and gripped onto the chair, his long fingernails piercing through the leather in glorious pain and unbelievable pleasure.
The more he moaned, the more he groaned, the more he growled, the more I wanted to please him. I was aching to satisfy him. I was drunk with ecstasy, and I wanted to do whatever I needed to do to keep him happy. He seemed to be getting more aggressive, and for a moment, almost as if my eyes played tricks on me, it seemed as if his hair was getting shaggier and his fingernails longer, sharper and darker. The hair on the back of my neck stood up again, a weak animal’s late instinct that danger was near. But there was nothing I could do to avoid his danger now. I had fallen victim, like I was his defenceless prey.
