Blue Dragon

I set the burger down in front of him.

"Yes, I take cock," I blurted out and then found some counter cleaning that cried out to be done and meant I didn't have to look at him.

"They call me Angel," he said, his voice muffled a bit by the bite he'd taken of the burger.

I'll just bet they do, I thought.

"You have a name?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm Casey," I said, turning now, leaning on the back counter, my arms crossed over my chest, letting him take me all in, if that's what he wanted to do. The shock was wearing off me, being replaced with lust and want. The man screamed of Key West—of release. Of good times. "And, yes, I take cock, I just said." I hadn't thought when I'd said it the first time. But since it had been said, I didn't want it to be forgotten.

"And you want to take cock? Mine, for instance?"

"Yes, sure, why not?"

"You're not sure?"

"Yes, I'll take your cock." And then when he just sat there looking at me like I hadn't said enough, I said, "Yes, I want your cock. Yes, I want you to fuck me."

"How much?" he asked, relaxing and smiling.

"Excuse me? I'm not going to pay you to fuck me."

"No, how much do you want me to pay you for your ass? And then how much for more than that?"

I couldn't help but sound wounded by that. I turned away again.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend, just to have the understanding between us quite clear. Have you ever been given a ride on a Harley, Casey?"

"No, never," I answered, turning back to face him again. Not interested in a little misunderstanding that I was a whore getting in the way of what I suddenly wanted. That I suddenly wanted to be a whore for him.

"So, you've never been ridden on a Harley either?"

"Excuse me?"

"Ridden on a Harley, Casey. Fucked on a Harley. Strapped down on a Harley with your butt in the air, a cock working your ass. You want to get out of this town, Casey? You tired of the same old, same old? I can take you to places, do shit to you that you'll remember forever. I'll make you part of that Harley out there and fuck your lights out. What do you say?"

What I wanted to say was how did he get into my mind? How did he know what I wanted—know that that, indeed, was what I wanted from him? But it was all moving so fast, so far. "You move pretty fast. Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" is what I said. I moved down the counter from him and worked at taking the coffee basket out of the cappuccino machine and tossing the grounds out.

"I know what I want when I see it," he answered, his voice still calm, matter-of-fact. We could be talking about what he wanted for desert here—the apple pie or the chocolate cake. "And I told you I wanted it too bad to play around getting it. I want to fuck you, and I think you want to be fucked. Fucked in a special way. I think you want to have Clarksburg fucked out of you. I think you're wearing that T-shirt on purpose."

"Sorry, I got work to do," I said, scrubbing needlessly at the counter with a rag. "But it's something to think about." I could just as well have said "bingo."

"Yes, it's something to think about," he said. "Think about the message you have scrawled across that nice chest of yours. For a couple of hours I can take you not just anywhere else, but over the moon." He went back to biting on his burger. It was three quarters gone. I had one fourth of a burger to decide one way or the other. Just how brave was I? Did I believe all the shit I had been saying to Jewel about what I wanted?

"And, yeah, sure, I'm cocky about what I have to give. I have a cock that I could put in your ass and scrub the back of your teeth with."

I grabbed a wet rag, came around the end of the counter, and started scrubbing tables down, getting ready for the 4:00 p.m. crowd. It already was pushing 3:30.

I was leaning over a table when I first became aware of his hot breath on my neck. Next I knew he had slapped the stack of Drummer magazines—the gay male BDSM magazines—down on top of the table I was swabbing. He obviously had gone behind the counter and found them laying there. He came in close behind me, pushing my body forward so that I had to stretch out my arms and dig my knuckles into the table top for support. I was looking out on the deserted street through the front window. How long would it be deserted, though? A shudder went through my body, at least partially, I had to admit, from the thrill of the danger of possible discovery.

"Is this what you want?" He hissed, his finger stabbing at the covers of Drummer.

"Yes . . . I think so," I stammered.

"You think so. I can give you this. I can give you lots of this."

He had his hands on my hips. But they slid around to the front from there and he was working my belt buckle, and then my zipper. And then I felt my jeans and briefs shimmy off my hips and down to my knees. I was huffing and puffing, hyperventilating.

"Nice," he muttered, in reaction to moving a hand around to my lower belly, finding me in full erection, and fisting my cock. "I can do everything you see in those magazines. I will give you a great ride."

"Oh shit, oh fuck," I whined as he began to stroke my cock. And then a more forceful "Oh fuck!" as his fingers went to the rim of my asshole and inside. He began to finger fuck me.

I looked wildly out on the street. A car pulled up across the street and a couple got out of it and went into the furniture store. I was just that far from being seen being sexually assaulted. And there were Phil and Jewel in the back, from whence they could emerge at any moment. It was scary. It was exhilarating. It was so Key West. So much not Clarksburg.

Feeling me tighten, ready to blow, his hand moved down to the base of my cock, where he could get a grip on my balls too. He rolled the balls in his hand and then squeezed hard. Totally turned on, I ejaculated quickly, spouting my cream out on the cover of a Drummer magazine.

He laughed, moving his hands around to cover my pecs under the cut-off T-shirt and nuzzling his face in the hollow of my neck. He bit me there and I gave a little yelp. He laughed again. "You're a sweet little piece. I'll do you six ways from Sunday. I'll do you in Drummer style. What time do you get off?"

Both relief and disappointment flooded in from different corners. He wasn't going to do me right here—at least not any more than he'd already done me. "5:45, I croaked."

"I'll be here. Waiting for you out on the Harley. And just so you know, I bareback. I don't do rubbers. But I keep clean."

Both my arms and my knees gave out as he let loose of me, turned, and strode out the door. I was almost totally spread out on the table top, my bare belly rubbing my own cum into the cover of the Drummer magazine, as I watched him mount the Harley and drive off down the street.

The image of him mounting the Harley segued into the image of him mounting my ass, and I moaned.

No way I was going to do this, though. He was a sadist. He'd latched right into the Drummer world. Too chicken despite all I had said. Come 5:35, I'd be out the door in the back, into my Honda Civic, and taking back roads home.

This threatened to be way, way beyond Key West.

But it wasn't a question of whether or not I wanted to have sex with him. I'd already had sex with him.

* * * *

So, this was what he'd meant about being made one with the Harley. The motorcycle was secured on strong stands, and I, naked, was belly down on the saddle, my arms raised and spread, tied off with leather strips on the handlebars. My ankles were pulled back on either side and tied off on the hubs of the back wheels. One of the saddlebags was under my lower belly, raising my ass toward the sky. Standing on the stirrups over my back, crouched over me, his hands on the handles of the Harley, a naked Angel was fucking my ass hard, deep, and fast.

I'd be screaming my head off except for two things. One, I had a ball gag in my mouth. Two, we were out in the country—who knew where?—behind what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse well off a country road. Who was out here to hear me scream? I was completely at this man's mercy. If anything, that made me go harder.

I couldn't say my screams wouldn't be cries of passion. God, the man had a talented cock on him. Other than the threat of it—or possibly because of the threat of it—the fuck was glorious, and I was loving every exotic, pain-pleasure stroke of it.

Angel hadn't been sitting out front, on his Harley, waiting from me at 5:45. He had been sitting on his Harley beside my Civic, in the back alley at 5:35—waiting for me.

I didn't argue. It was karma. Fate, I decided. I swung my leg over the saddle, behind him, encircled his waist with my arms, and held on for dear life as he took me for a ride all through town and out into the countryside in several directions, not arriving at the abandoned farm until after 6:30. He seemed to know where he was going—and I knew the general area we were in, to the east of town. We'd crossed I-70—and took a sharp turn into the farm's drive at a good clip, sending up gravel, and scaring the shit out of me—not for the first time during the ride.

Not for the last time that night.

I was exhausted when we arrived, in a grove of trees at the back of the dark and obviously abandoned Cape Cod-style farmhouse. And I think that exhausted—and cowed—was how he wanted me. We stood off at the side of the Harley, our bodies rocking against each other, as Angel pulled his jacket and mesh shirt off his body and then my T over my head. We kissed deeply as he worked both belt buckles and sent my jeans and briefs and his leather pants to the ground.

He was sucking on my tongue and rubbing our dicks together—his quite a bit longer than mine—when he broke away and whispered, "Tell me you're over eighteen again."

"I'm twenty. Want to see my driver's license?"

"Tell me again you want me to fuck you."

"I want you to fuck me."

"Tell me you want me to do things to you. Things you've seen in Drummer."

"What things?"

"Whatever I want. You don't tell me that, I'll take off and leave you here unfucked."

"Do what you want with me. Do what they show in Drummer. Just don't hurt me bad." It was reluctantly given, with a whine. But he'd taken me too far for me not to want completion.

Fucking me, bound, on the Harley, was what he wanted to do with me. At least for the second round. For round one, he had me kneeling in front of him, sucking his cock. I'd given blow jobs before—lots of times—but, as with everything with Angel, this was something else. Not only did he have a thick Prince Albert ring through the glans, but there also were little gold balls running up the underside of his cock. I'd experienced a PA in Key West, but never those gold balls.

As over-the-top arousing as the subsequent belly-down position on the Harley was, I went up to cloud thirteen when Angel turned me onto my back on the Harley and retied me—my wrists to the handlebars again, but now my ankles bound together around his waist—and fucked me head on. What was special about this position was that I he held his torso away from my chest and I could watch the blue dragon on his chest move as his chest and belly muscles undulated in the effort of the vigorous, deep fuck. He also, somehow, got deeper inside me in this position. Deeper than I could remember anyone else having gone. And vigorous enough to pull multiple ejaculations out of me.

As he hit the zenith—and after I'd shot my load up his belly—he leaned his face down into mine, our foreheads touching, our eyes locked, as I felt him tense, hold, jerk, and give me his cum deep inside me. I'd never been barebacked before, and I didn't know if I'd ever risk doing it again—or escape the consequences of having let him do it this time—but I'd never forget having done it, the total taking of it. Condom sex would never feel as complete again.

He pulled the ball gag over my head, tossed it to the side, and went immediately into a deep kiss—sticking his tongue down my throat and making me gag, before sucking on my tongue, holding my tongue between his teeth—applying pressure with his teeth. I began writhing under him, sure he was going to bite my tongue off, but just when I thought he was going to do it, he released the tongue, laughed, and whispered, "I never want you to become complacent with me. I always want fear to be part of your pleasure. But now all pleasure."

I wondered what he meant, but only for a moment—until I realized that he was hard inside me again and was beginning to pump. Slowly this time, and this time I felt both the PA and the gold beads working my channel walls. Slowly, caressing them. He reached for my wrists, one after the other, freeing them, and reached back for the tie around my ankles, letting them separate, my heels to glide down and press into his buttocks. We embraced closely, rocking against each other, rocking with the rhythm of the slow pumping of his cock.

When I felt him tense again, ready to explode, he suddenly pushed up from me, and with his first release of cum slapped me hard against one check. Then he backhanded me on the down sweep at a second spouting. My head snapped back and forth in surprise and I cried out.

"Never want you not to know it can hurt," he muttered.

Then he moved up my body, suspending his torso out over the front of the Harley, with his hands gripping on the handlebars, bearing his weight, while he presented his cock to my mouth for cleaning.

I'd thought we were done. We were both off the motorcycle and picking up our clothes.

"No, don't put your jeans on. Let's go in the house."

"In the house? The place is deserted. No one lives here."

"I do, at least for now," he said, with a laugh.

We were in the kitchen, me sitting, still naked, and with my ankles bound to the back legs of the chair on either side and a dog collar around my neck, chained to the top slat of the chair back. Angel, naked, with me watching how the dragon played on his torso, moved around the kitchen like he really did live there. The electricity, if there ever had been any, was turned off, so, as it was getting dark, the candle light took over. There were candles everywhere. I was afraid he'd burn the place down. And, yes, it frightened me. I was bound to this chair. I could muscle it to the back door, but could I do it fast enough if the fire started in here?

"Aren't the candles dangerous?" I asked.

"Scared?"

"Yes."

"Good. It keeps you on edge. More sensitive to everything I do to you." He stepped over to beside the chair and wagged his cock at me. "Suck it."

I took his cock in my mouth, and he reached down and crushed my balls in a fist. My eyes were watering; I was writhing and moaning. I pushed on his belly and thigh with my hands, but he was too strong for me. He didn't budge.

"Don't you dare bite the cock," he demanded. He released my balls and started pumping my cock with his hand. But he was just teasing me. He released me, pulled his cock out of my mouth, and moved back to the stove. It was a wood stove, so he could fry the steaks he had in a skillet.

"I can burn the place down, if I want, you know. It's mine."

"What? For as long as you are squatting here?"

"No. It's why I'm in Clarksburg. Signing the final papers that dump this place. It really is mine—for a couple of more days. Shall we fuck on the floor in the living room with the house burning around us?"

"Maybe not a good idea," I said.

"But it would be memorable, wouldn't it? Give you a memory of Clarksburg worth having."

"I guess so." I didn't even want to think whether he was serious about that. By now, I would have believed it. The man was a fiend. But he also was an angel. I was lost to him. Even his torture made me go instantly hard and come fast and big.

After we ate. Fried steak, hunks of bread, and beer to wash it down—I don't know when I'd had as big an appetite as this—he pushed my chair away from the table, knelt down in front of me, leaned over, took my balls in his mouth, and started to suck on them. At first gently, with me moaning and holding his head between my hands and then ever harder, with me writhing and whimpering and begging him to stop and trying, unsuccessfully, to push him away. He did pull away from me, but only to again tie my hands behind the back of the chair, and then he was back sucking my balls hard, with me crying and begging him to stop.

But I was hard. Not only that, but I came for him again. Never before had I come as often and prodigiously—not even during that week in Key West. It told me something about what I wanted. I couldn't hide that this turned me on—and turned me up—as well. He moved his mouth to cover my cock and gave me head. But at the point of my next ejaculation, he was fisting and crushing my balls again. I gave him my cum in thrashing agony-pleasure, and even I noticed that I was so aroused that I just kept spouting.

He left me there, torso sagging in the chair, whimpering and fully exhausted, as he moved out of the room, taking two of the biggest candles with him. He came back several times, leaving with more candles.

"You'll spend the night, of course," he said when he came in for the last two candles. It didn't sound like a question.

"I hadn't thought I would. I hadn't really—"

"I like you. I like you a lot. I want you to sleep with me tonight. I think we're both lonely."

What could I say? For starters he had me tied up, I had no transportation out of here other than his Harley, he was strong enough to manhandle me as he wanted, and my curiosity was always my downfall. For closers, I didn't want this fantasy to end—even the pain part of it. Maybe especially the pain part of it. This was my Key West dream—over the top of my Key West dream. Right here in Clarksburg. When I woke up from this fantasy, I didn't want the wonder and disappointment of having cut anything off short of what he wanted to do to me. Even if I could stop it.

I'd been thumbing through the Drummer magazines for years. I had melted at the thought of the experiences depicted in them. I'd never come this close to testing that out.

I'd had no idea two men could do what we did in his bedroom, a room with just a double-bed cot with a thin mattress.

I knew what doggy style was, but I was surprised when he said we were playing horsey, and he brought out a bridle tailored for such play, put it on me, and rode my ass around the room, with me moving on my hands and knees on the bare, worn wooden floor. I'd seen this done in Drummer. So this was what that was like.

Later, my wrists tied together and my legs bent around his waist, the ankles bound together, I was upended on my shoulders, my back rising against the side of the cot, and he was standing over me, facing the cot, and jack-hammering his cock down into my hole, while reaching back and milking my cock.

There was more, but it was the last act, deep into the night, that had me crying, jerking at the restraints, and, eventually blacking out. I was spread-eagled on the bed, my wrists and ankles tied off at the four corners, the ball gag back in my mouth. I was finding that the candles had another purpose than lighting the room. He was holding them, one by one, over my writhing body, tipping them, and letting the molten wax drip on my body—on my thighs and belly, my chest and arms. My calves and feet. Even on my dick and balls, although he was careful not to let the wax hit my bulb.

After doing my front, he turned me on my back and did it there too. I watched him, then, standing beside the bed, gathering molten wax, letting it cool a bit in his hand, and then slathering it on his cock. He came up on the bed, put an arm around my belly, lifting me up to my knees, mounted me with the still-warm wax slathered over his cock, and fucked me hard. Sometime after that, I blacked out, more from the rush of too much adrenaline and the exhaustion of the evening and night than from any real damage from the wax.