Jack was back in commission. He was kneeling next to the cage, his face right next to mine, watching me growl and stretch to accommodate the thick meat. “Good boy,” Jack murmured, “you’re making me so proud, little man. Sucking that big hunk of cock. You can suck him, boy, you can get fucked by him, I know you want that, baby, don’t you, can’t get enough meat, hot little man.”
That was it, wasn’t it? I was where I’d always wanted to be, and I turned into a little demon, throwing my ass back on Stone’s hard-pounding cock, suddenly finding room in my throat I didn’t know I had. My hands clutched the bars for support and I worked both men for all I was worth.
“Chew on it.” Jack was still right at my ear. “Chew that dick, boy. Don’t worry about biting him, he likes it.” I growled like a junkyard dog around Demetrius’s substantial cock, chewing it like Jack told me to. Freed from cocksucking’s one overriding rule—don’t bite!—I lost myself completely in the sensation of being filled up as full as I’d ever been. Thank god all the head I’d given already had filled my throat with that thick cocksucking slime—it lubricated even Demetrius’s thickness. Stone pounded away behind me, and I had a feeling I knew how he’d earned his name.
But at last even Stone, who had been rhythmically fucking my ass for what seemed like an hour, started fucking even harder and faster. “Take it, you pig!” he grunted, really close to shooting, I could tell by his voice, and I felt Demetrius speed up too, both of them about to hose me, mouth and asshole, full of hot cream. “Comin’!” cried Demetrius. “Comin’ right now!” And naturally, I was shooting up the ramp right along with them, I’d be a fine pig if I couldn’t come right along with my tops, right Daddy? I opened my eyes to look at Jack, wanting to know he was seeing this, pumped full of his friends’ jizz. I couldn’t suck any more—my mouth was open as far as the muscles would stretch it, in a silent orgasmic yell—but that was okay, because the big black man in front of me was fucking my face now with pounding thrusts.
I remember the first half of the orgasm, but not the second.
I blacked out. I lost it, don’t know exactly how it happened but it must have had something to do with my engorgable throat-flesh forming a seal with Demetrius’ expanding, coming cock. I couldn’t get enough air, I guess.
When I came to, I had no idea where I was.
I felt damp clothes, chill air and motion, saw nothing but darkness, smelled the reek of not-quite-fresh piss. Where the fuck was I? A vehicle—a trunk? I felt around me in the utter black and yes, I was lying in a capacious car trunk, not bound, my leather jacket thrown over me, some kind of scratchy car blanket under my head, what felt like trash bags underneath my body. If I hadn’t had such an extraordinary night, I’d have been terrified—but I was pretty sure this was part of Jack’s buddies’ idea of a good time.
The vehicle slowed, turned, turned again, and after a short distance stopped. I heard almost immediately the familiar sound of Jack’s bike. Next, a car door slamming, then another. Two people? Then the trunk lid lifted.
It took a second for my eyes to adjust even to the dim alley light. We were outside Jack’s place, back in the city. Jack and Demetrius stood there with a man I didn’t know. He had on a driver’s uniform, so I guessed that Sir Stephen had lent the use of his car to get me out of there. What would a distinguished man like him do with a pissy piece of fucked-out chicken? After all. But had I pissed myself? It wouldn’t have surprised me. Demetrius reached into the trunk and lifted me like I was an unwieldy but not-very-heavy teddy bear. Jack had his keys out. The driver stood silently by. Sir Stephen’s help weren’t a very talkative lot, were they? But at last, as Jack stepped up to the door, the driver said, “Shall I wait, Sir?”
“Yes, do,” said Demetrius, and he had me up the stairs and into the foyer.
“Here, let’s clean the pig up,” said Jack, gesturing Demetrius through his room and into his bath. He had the water running in the shower by the time we got there. Demetrius supported me while Jack stripped off my jacket, the bar vest, which I noted with chagrin was pissy too, and my boots and pants. He was about to thrust me under the hot spray with my shirt and jockstrap still on when Demetrius spoke up. “Go ahead, strip the girl down.”
Jack and I both looked at him, eyes wide. I was stricken. I had been so exultant about passing! What gave me away? Demetrius started to laugh, a low swell of a laugh that turned into a roar when he looked at me and saw my face. “Randy girl, you did good. I don’t know what the fuck that was all about, but you pulled it off. No one else noticed a thing. I’m the one who carried you into the car, darling, and I took the liberty of feeling you up. Yes, I know your Daddy made a rule, but I’ve broken plenty of his rules before.” At this, Jack started laughing too. “Well, it’s not like my meat hadn’t just been all the way down your little throat. I felt further familiarities wouldn’t be inappropriate. And your sweet little dick just seemed to come off in my hand. I tucked it back in, of course.”
Jack was howling.
“I trust you have a bigger one than that, since you appear to be keeping Jack interested. I liked ganging Jack with you very much, dear, and I’d be glad to do that again any time you two want to give me a call. Jack, I’m back at my former number. Do phone me when you get time. I see we have more catching up to do than I thought. Randy—it’s been a pleasure.” With that, he gravely extended his hand, and as I took it I started laughing too.
Jack still laughed as Demetrius engulfed him in a bear hug—god, he was larger than Jack by almost as much as Jack outsized me—and I went ahead and shed the damp T-shirt and jockstrap and unwound the binding. As I stepped into the shower, Demetrius took a look at me and said, “Sure enough, she’s a girl, all right. Jack, you sick fuck! If St. James ever gets wind of this, he’ll have his traditionalist boys come and turn your dick inside out. You and Little Bit here can go down to City Hall and register as domestic partners, and then you can spend your afternoons drinking coffee at the Whiptail Lizard Womyn’s Lounge. You fucking wild man!”
Jack kissed Demetrius goodnight as I scrubbed the piss off. He ducked his head in the shower and kissed me too, and then he was gone.
Still grinning, Jack dried me off, capturing me for a minute in the big white fluffy towel. “Want some ice cream?” he said. “Good boys get ice cream.”
“God, yes, I’m starving, Jack. I passed out before Peaches could come by with the sandwich tray.”
Jack installed me in the flannel-sheeted bed, disappeared down the hall, and came back with two bowls. Before he started on his, he stripped down, took a fast shower, and then joined me in bed. “Kid, you’re more fun than a barrel of novices. You were terrific. I’m very proud.”
I glowed as much from this as from the still very-memorable fuck I still hadn’t come all the way down from. The cold ice cream felt so intense on my throat that I almost squeaked. It was pretty sore from all that action. “Jack, I got piss on your bar vest. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened.” “No, I got piss on your bar vest. Leathers have to be broken in, child. We all doused you after you went out.”
“What?”
“Sometimes it wakes people up,” he said innocently.
“Don’t worry about going out, by the way. I think the first time I got down on that man’s cock I passed out too. I was younger then, of course.”
Then he told me what happened after I blacked out. I’d have fallen over but the men’s cocks kept me suspended—Jack saw it as soon as it happened, though he let the guys finish coming. At first, Stone and then Demetrius pulled their softening meat out of me, Jack reached into the cage to hold me up, and before he could even call for him, Peaches was there with the key, unlocking the cage door so Jack could undo my restraints.
“Jack, who were all those guys? Why didn’t Sir Sebastian and St. James play? Didn’t they like me?”
“Don’t worry, honey. St. James loves this group of men, but he almost never plays. He’s an old-timer. A traditionalist. He doesn’t app
rove of the free-form way so many of us play now. I think he has a group of men he plays with back in London. He wouldn’t be caught dead playing in a room with people who switch. Talk to him if you ever get a chance. Not many like him anymore. Sir Sebastian would have joined us if St. James hadn’t been there, but he’s too flawless a host to let a guest sit unentertained. As to who they are, I’ll tell you the whole story of how I fell in with them, but how about over breakfast?”
Jack snuggled me under his arm, the scent of which almost got me going again—but I was just too exhausted. I started to nod off to the sound of his murmurings, mostly of the “good little cocksucking pig” variety.
Right before I slipped under I whispered, “Thank you,
Daddy”—and then, “Daddy, can we borrow Peaches?”
Sexual Harrassment in the Military: 2 Performance Pieces for 4 Actors in 3 Lovely Costumes
Jack Fritscher
ACT 1. USMC SLAP CAPTAIN
QUANTICO, INTERROGATION ROOM. 3 AM. USMC Slap captain: Fleet champion kickboxer, clad in fatigue pants, military-issue T-shirt, heavy combat boots. Rubbing his hands, callused from extreme-fighting martial arts: num-chuks, pugil sticks, boduka. High on his left biceps, a tattoo: red cobra, fanged, coiled, ready to strike, in colorful relief against his dark hairy skin. His head shaved short in a white-sidewall military burr. His neck: thick, powerful, cruelly muscled. Long athletic arms: strong, hairy, muscular, threaded with veins. His shoulders: solid as a baseball slugger. His hard-palmed hands: meaty, thick, brutal as a boxer’s.
“Shoulders back!” he barks at the young Lance Corporal. “Stomach in. Eyes straight ahead. Don’t look at me, boy, unless you’re gonna ask me for a date. Get your back straight. Head back.” He slams his right fist into his open left palm. “Take your eyes off me, mister. Maybe you’re thinkin’ you want to get in my pants?”
“No, sir!”
A .22 pistol jammed in the waistband of the Slap Captain’s fatigues. Convincing. His breath, moving close in: thick spit-spray, sweet from his nightly Tampa Nugget cigar. “You want the back of my hand, boy!”
“No, sir!”
“Then sit your ass down, punk!”
The Lance Corporal sits on the heavy wooden chair bolted to the concrete floor. Padded asylum restraints snap around his ankles. Handcuffs lock his wrists together behind his back. Behind the chair. His head swerves to resist the black cloth blindfold.
The Slap Captain’s hard palm open-hands the Lance Corporal up against the side of his head. He feels the hot burning imprint of the slap across his face. Then the blindfold is knotted, secured. He can see out from underneath: thick fingers make metal-toothed electrical clamps chow down on his nipples. He moans at the sharp pain. The Slap Captain open-hands him again. Slaps his face. Hard. Right. Then left. Then right again. Harder. His ears ring.
The Slap Captain chains the clamps together. His finger crooks and catches the dangling chain at its center, raising the clamps horizontally, pulling them outward.
“You wanna kiss me, boy? Hey, boy, kiss me. Kiss me, boy.” It’s an order, but the Slap Captain’s voice is reassuring. The Lance Corporal tilts his cropped blond head up in the direction of the Slap Captain’s dark voice. He is not certain how he is supposed to kiss a man, even for the Corps; not certain how he can kiss a man he cannot see.
He leans his whole torso forward, pulled by his tits, raising his blindfolded face up to this man, offering his lips.
But it’s not a kiss the Slap Captain wants.
A fast slapshot.
The Lance Corporal’s face rebounds ninety degrees to the right. Then is back-handed to the left. His cheeks burn. Redden. The intense ringing in his head clouds out the Slap Captain’s voice. His head turns tentatively, as ordered, back to the front.
Under his blindfold he sees the Slap Captain’s thick gorilla fingers unbutton the green fatigue fly. His calloused palm lifts out an extra-large USMC jockstrap pouching his big hairy balls, overlaid with thick long uncut cock. The Slap Captain gropes his sweat-stained jock-cup with his left hand. His thick-muscled right arm swings out from his massive shoulder. The Lance Corporal, nose and mouth upraised, sniffs the wet drip of the Slap Captain’s hairy pits.
A pause. Shorter than his breath. Then starts the cadenced tattoo of open-handed slaps: left, right, left, right. Ten. His head slap-lashed, hard. Twenty. Back and forth. Thirty. His face: a boxer’s fastbag. Forty. Saliva in his mouth turning to blood. Fifty. Through the ringing in his ears, words, alternating with the stinging slaps, come through. Sixty. What is the Captain saying? Seventy.
Again. Another volley of open-handed slugs. The big uncut dick swinging free and mean and hard. The hot spit from the Slap Captain’s mustached mouth wetting his cheeks, escalating the stinging of the hard slaps.
He wants the Captain’s dick. He wants the Captain’s mustache, lips and mouth and tongue. He wants to swallow his heavy spit. He leans forward. Again, the unseen hand slaps his face. Hard. Left to right. Again, the ringing over rides the voice he can hear but cannot distinguish.
His blindfolded head flushes warm up from his neck, to his cheeks to his temples. He sucks and swallows the warm salt-blood taste in his mouth. The slaps bruise his inner cheeks against his gritted teeth.
He cocks his head. Hardened for the Corps. Angles his face toward the heat and the dripping sweat off the Slap Captain’s wet fatigues. Anticipating. Unquestioning. Waiting. Wanting. He sees the thick dick and balls drop out of the piss-wet jock. The balls hang low. The dick, uncut, blind, hard, rampant shows its rosy pisshole.
He leans forward.
The Slap Captain’s piss sprays in a direct shot into his mouth. He gulps, swallows, thirsty for the hot bubbling thick Marine piss that streams faster than he can drink.
Piss: spilling down on his chest, running down his belly, soaking his dick and balls, dripping down the inside of his naked thighs, pooling up under the wet pucker of his asshole bound into the worn seat of the wooden chair.
Again, he leans forward.
The Slap Captain’s tough hands box his face back and forth. His teeth clench. His eyes squeeze closed under his blindfold. His mouth tastes metallic. He smells the crusty cheese of the Marine dick swinging free near his bleeding nose. Both nostrils trickle blood down his upper lip. The hard slaps whip the trickles to blood-spray. He holds his head steady against the rhythms of the Slap Captain’s hand. The slaps slow. The palms grow sticky with the Corporal’s blood. Somehow the slaps increase his hunger for the Slap Captain’s dirty cock.
The Slap Captain plants his hand on the back of the Corporal’s neck. “I want me a bloodfuck USMC pussy-mouth!” He holds the burr-cut head in his hard-knuckled grip. “Now come on, boy!” The Slap Captain pressures the back of the Lance Corporal’s neck, pivoting the shaved head, with the bloody blindfolded face in his hand, positioning the mouth like a bulls-eye for his crusty cock.
“I figure I got me one of two things. I either got me an ambitious young Lance Corporal. Or I got me a .22 pistol to give a tight-lipped gyrene a new asshole.”
Still cupping and guiding the Lance Corporal’s head, pressing it down with all the power in his warrior-hand, the Slap Captain nuzzles the bloody nose and swollen lips against his big-veined cock. “Clean it up, boy!“
The Lance Corporal sticks his tongue through his bruised lips, and works his tongue tip in, under, and around the inner lip of the thick foreskin, sucking out the clots of cheese, old cum, sweat, piss, and gun-grease. Not needing an order, he pulls back from the hard cock, with the cheesy smegma melting on his tongue, and swallows.
“That’s my boy. That’s my good boy.” But the level, low voice is cut off by another slap that starts the ear echo-ringing. Behind the blindfold, the lights in his head are dazzling. He is being beaten, slapped silly. He is obedient. The Corps is all. In a moment, less than an instant really, he turns his head round again, straightforward, offering his face.
He is ready. Even for the heavy-handed wallop of
this palm-and-backhand slap, stinging his cheeks, purpling his temples, blackening his eyes. The Slap Captain’s hands reshaping his boy’s face into the tough, hardened, experienced face of a Marine.
The Slap Captain giving him a Marine’s face.
He feels his nose ready to give way, to break, but the Slap Captain pulls back; pulls his slap-punches; takes instead his big hand, gripping his hard dick like a brutal nightstick. He beats the bruised, tenderized face with his huge dick, wet with blood and cheese and piss.
The handcuffs cut into his wrists. Sweat and blood pour from his face, down his chest, over his clamped and torn tits. The Lance Corporal’s mind goes blank behind his battered face: Halls of... Slap!... zuma... Shores... Slap!... Punch... Shores of Trip...Slap...Punch...Punch! The rhythms of the Slap Captain’s fist and dick beating his face. The ringing in his ears. His chin held tight by the Slap Captain’s hand.
“Kiss it. Kiss it real soft, baby.”
He opens his mouth. He’s learned what kiss means.
“Kiss it.” The commanding voice becomes almost soft. “Kiss it...sweetly.”
As his bruised lips touch the swollen cockhead, its shaft, backed by the Slap Captain’s fullback butt and thighs, rams the rod through his lips, past his bloody teeth, across his tongue, and fucks long and hard deep down his gagging throat, until choking on the spit and blood and pumping cum, he feels the huge cock pulled like a deep root from his throat, still shooting white clots of cum on his face, feeling the large boxer’s hands rough-massage the slick seed into his bruises, slapping him lightly, always slapping him, across the cheeks with his angry red cock, pulling on the chains tearing at his tits, feeling the thick bristle of the Captain’s mustache and the Captain’s hard lips and the Captain’s mouth pressing hard in lust and discipline against his own lips, feeling the pressure of the Captain’s tongue sucking the bloody saliva from his beaten mouth, feeling the Captain’s fingers squeezing his cheeks, feeling the mix of the Captain’s spit, and his own blood, cum-honkered forcibly back down his throat, swallowing, writhing, tit-ripped, restrained, bound.
Best of the Best Gay Erotica Page 17
