Can't Help It

He turned and smiled at me and, rather than running ahead, as I expected him to, he stayed beside me, which made me run faster than I otherwise would do and to be more aware of my form in running. I wanted to look good to him. At the next fork in the path, he took the smaller branch, the one going down toward the river, running deeper into the trees and branching off from there on more narrow, rarely used trails.

Instinctively, I turned back and followed him although I'd intended on staying on the upper, asphalted trail. He rewarded me with a smile when I followed his lead, as if he realized that I was signaling that I would follow his lead in other ways. He turned and ran backward a few steps, looking at me and beckoning to me with one hand. His other hand dipped to his crotch and he made jerkoff motions. There wasn't much question what he was proposing we do if I followed him. Then, with a laugh, he turned back and kept running, not checking on whether I followed him.

I followed him.

I'd seen him before but it took a few minutes for me to remember where. About six weeks previously, I'd gone to a Pride Day picnic event in Roanoke, south of Lexington. For some time I'd been thinking of coming out, but when I finally got to the point, there really wasn't much of anyone to come out to. My parents and sisters said they'd known that for some time and didn't care. That was a bit deflating as I'd prepared myself for a firefight, especially from my father, a macho sportsmen type. I was the last male of the line. I assumed he'd counted heavily on me continuing the line. He didn't--or at least he said he didn't, giving up any hope in that direct he had, at least for now. I suppose he could have thought I'd "find my hetero self" eventually and there was little reason to fight over it before then.

There was no big occasion to come out to my fellow students. They obviously wouldn't see it as a big deal either and I wasn't close enough to any of them that telling them I was gay would be a significant event. My fraternity brothers obviously knew that I not only was gay but also was good for a three- or foursome. Adrian already knew--we'd been sleeping together for two years--and he had no plans to come out, so doing it with him was out of the question. So, I went to a Pride Day picnic in Roanoke as some sort of symbolic coming out.

This guy running beside me again and guiding me deeper into the woods by the Maury River--both of us knowing why--had been at the picnic and was sitting in a large circle of us on the grass as we ate lunch after having marched to the park through the city. He'd introduced himself to the group as Craig Singleton, thirty-five, who worked in the physical education department at the Virginia Military Institute. The VMI campus was right next to that of W&L, where I went. He was some sort of strength trainer and an assistant coach for the lacrosse team. His gaze had kept coming back to me that day, but he was clearly there with another young man, so there hadn't been any one-on-one contact that day. He had aroused me, though. He had an aura of hardness to him and of domination control. He'd made me go hard. From the looks the guy he was with gave when Singleton touched him possessively, I surmised Singleton made him perpetually hard too and kept him well fucked.

That day, when he knew he had my attention, I saw him pull his leather belt out of his shorts, fold it over, and flick it against his leg as guys were talking. I don't know if other guys were getting the message, but I sure did, and it seemed to be directed at me. Yes, it made me go hard at the time.

That had been six weeks ago, though. Now that I was running beside him, already being submissive to his lead, I realized that all of this urge for something rougher than I was getting from my professors or Adrian had arisen from that day and thinking of writhing under this body beautiful Marine type from VMI, the campus immediately adjacent to where I was attending university. My trip to Buddy's Tavern to let myself be gangbanged in the parking lot had its origin in encountering and fantasizing about this guy at the Pride Day picnic in Roanoke.

At the next fork in the trail, he slowed down a bit and chose the smaller of the paths, leading into dense woods. He smiled and put a hand on my butt as I followed alongside him, making no move to separate from the hand on my buttocks.

He was pulling me deeper into the woods to have his way with me. I would be totally submissive to him. I hoped he'd be masterful, rough, and forceful. He was.

Deep in the woods, within hearing of the flow of the Maury River, he stopped, grabbed and turned me, and pulled me into a controlling embrace. His lips captured mine, I opened to him, and his tongue snaked in. He placed the heel of a strong hand on the base of my spine, moved his fingers down into my crack under the waistband of the athletic shorts, and plunged a finger up into my hole. I gave a muffled yelp and writhed under the penetration, but he cruelly dug in, and, with a whimper I went limp in his grasp. I raised a knee to his hip to give him deeper penetration with the finger, and he took advantage of the greater access to add a finger--and then another. The fingers were moving; he was finger fucking me, and I opened to him, lying docilely in his grasp, whimpering and moaning.

Coming out of the kiss, he muttered, "I'm going to fuck you. You're going to get it hard."

"Yes," I whimpered.

"You wanted me back at the picnic in Roanoke."

"Yes."

"Rough and hard. That's how you want it. And you want to be whipped."

"Yes."

And that's how I got it. He pulled me off the path and into the woods, forcing me to my knees in front of him in a stand of ferns between the radiating roots of an old oak tree. He stuffed his erection in my mouth, his fingers grabbing and twisting the curly hair on my head and controlling me as he forced me to deep-throat him with gags and nearly to tears.

Pulling me off him, he slapped me across the mouth and I fell back on the ferns between the tree roots, banging the back of my head on the tree trunk. I was dazed as he pulled my shorts and jock off my legs. I lay there, panting, as I watched him look around, locating a thick switch from among the fallen branches on the ground, turning me on my belly, and whipping me with the switch on the buttocks with one hand, while holding my head down into the ferns with a grip on the back of my neck with the other. I gave him what he wanted--cries of passion and begging for the cock.

Throwing the switch aside, he turned me onto my back, came down between my thighs, folded my legs up into my chest, rolled my pelvis up, and attacked my cock, balls, and holes with his mouth and tongue.

I dug my fingernails in his shoulders and cried out, as he crouched over me, and thrust up inside me. He was relentless in his pumping. After initially writhing under him in the pain of open to his attack, I settled down, taking his gold medallion in my mouth to suck on and hooking my knees on his hips as he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

"Yes, yes," I cried out. "Harder. Deeper."

With a laugh, he complied.

"I'm going to come," I yelled through clinched teeth, and then did so between our bellies. He just laughed and continued pumping hard and fast. And then he stopped, held, tensed, jerked, and came inside me, tensed, jerked, and came; tensed, jerked, and came.

It was only then that I realized that he wasn't sheathed. At that moment I didn't give a shit, although I knew I'd need to make a trip to the men's clinic in downtown Lexington. Something else new for me in this lifestyle.

With a huff, he started to rise from me, but I clutched his buttocks with my hands and murmured, "No, please. You're still hard. Give it to me again."

He laughed, but he remained inside me. He lowered his mouth to mine and we greedily worked each other's mouths until, fit and virile, he was on the rise again and resumed pumping me, slower, deeper this time. I clutched his shoulder blades, moved my hips with his, turned my face to the side, and groaned and moaned the pleasure of the deep fuck.

After coming a second time, he did rise from me, slapping me across the face again, and saying, "You wanted that bad, didn't you?"

I didn't bother to answer, but we both knew I had wanted it bad. I lay there, watching the muscles of his beautiful body ripple as he pulled his jock and athletic shorts back on and, with a "See you," which sent me into a spiral of affirmation, he was off running the trail again and quickly out of sight.

... leaving me there to luxuriate in what had been both different and so much more than the two extremes of sex I'd been getting up to that point--the vanilla sex of the professors and Adrian and the gangbanging of the Buddy's Tavern leathermen.

* * * *

I had morning classes on the Friday Professor Carson wanted me to spend the weekend with him in his mountain cabin in the Bald Mountains northwest of Asheville, North Carolina. Leaving in the afternoon, I'd be getting there very late, taking I-81 down through Virginia, and then I-26 southwest through Tennessee and North Carolina toward Asheville. Carson had said he didn't care how late I arrived. We could always go to bed right after I got there. He had said it with a little smile. I was only smiling on the outside. The things I did to get good grades.

I had a lot to think about while I drove south. I'd gone to a private party of gay guys connected with the open-air Lime Kiln Theater, a play and music venue, the previous night and they'd been handing around a flyer for a big talent show and body-beautiful competition at Buddy's Tavern Friday night and a couple of guys there had urged me to go to it with them and compete. With memories of my rough taking by leathermen there, I couldn't get that out of my mind. The thought of going back had made me hard. Was that what I really wanted?

And, on top of the that, I'd gotten a note from the VMI physical education department guy I'd had the encounter with on the Maury Ridge trail, Craig Singleton. He'd tracked me down and said he wanted to see me again. He gave me an address and said anytime Friday night or Saturday would be a good time for him. Unfortunately, it wasn't a good time for me as I was going up into the Bald Mountains to curry favor with Professor Carson. What Craig had to give was much more arousing than Carson could muster--but how did it compare with the rough fuckers at Buddy's tavern?

Apparently, I wouldn't know, as I was on my way south down I-81. Just thinking about it had me all keyed up, though. And as I drove, I also thought of something else the guy I met at the Lime Kiln party told me about when I'd said I would be driving down I-81 tonight. He was a mixed white-black muscular guy named Steve, a guy who worked the lights at the Lime Kiln Theater and who looked mostly white when dressed but, when he was naked and stretched out beside me as he was Thursday night, both of us puffing on the same joint, proved, intriguingly, to have a jet-black cock and balls.

"If you want some action on your way down to North Carolina on I-81," he said before he rolled over on top of me, put that jet-black cock inside me, and fucked me, "stop at the Radford Safety Rest Area, the last one inside Virginia headed south, well after dark. They have a way of taking good care of a great-looking guy like you there."

And what was just coming up as I was hyped up and in need this Friday night, well after dark? The Radford rest area.

I pulled into the rest area and parked right in front of the traditional-style brick building that housed the restrooms. I didn't really intend on anything happening. I just wondered what Steve had been talking about in the way of them having a system of taking care of guys like me here.

I sat in the car, scoping out the activity. There wasn't much. There were a few cars parked in a line on either side of me, and, while I sat there, others came and went after their occupants had used the facilities and hurried away again. In a separate parking area between the one for cars and the highway, a couple of semitrailers hovered. There was no activity there and the trucks were dark, like maybe the drivers were catching some shuteye.

The front of the restroom building was lit up. A middle-aged black guy, gaunt looking and wandering around with a broom and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I just sat there in the driver's seat of the Challenger, looking at him. He noticed me and looked back as he lethargically worked on sweeping the path in front the building. It was a standard rest stop, with the men's room on the right and the ladies' room on the left. In the middle was the unisex room that was locked except when one of the others had to be shut down for cleaning.

As I sat and watched, the area attendant took out a cell phone and made a call. While he was talking to someone, he stood there, looking at me just sitting in my car. After a few minutes, he put the phone away and went over and sat in a patio chair in the walkway between the bathrooms. Another minute or so and I was surprised by a guy--in his forties maybe, stocky and thuggish looking--coming up from behind my car--probably from the truck parking lot. He came up beside the driver's side of the Challenger and turned and gave me a look before continuing up to the rest area building and talking to the attendant briefly.

They both turned and looked at me through the windshield of the Challenger. I'd been there a good fifteen or twenty minutes then and hadn't gotten out of the car. I was just sitting there, taking a rest from the drive, and looking around, thinking of what I'd been told about this place, what could be gotten here, and what the special "system" was here.

I'd gone into sort of a trance, I guess, because it startled the hell out of me when the trucker guy was bending over beside my driver's window, looking at me through the glass and thumping on the window with his knuckles.

"Roll the window down," he said. I instinctively did. "You looking for some action, Pretty Boy?" he said when the window was down.

"Looking for what?" I mumbled dumbly.

"Action. You want to ride a cock? You're just sitting here. You're looking for some action, ain't you?"

"No, of course... well, maybe," I said. I was hard and throbbing. I'd been that way before driving up to the rest stop.

"Well, come on up to the building, then," the trucker said.

I was looking at the building. The attendant had risen from his chair and was unlocking the door to the third bathroom. No other cars were coming into the parking lot at the moment. It was just the three of us. The trucker popped my door open and said, "Come on out of there, Sweet Cheeks."

The trucker was taller, hunkier, and stronger than I was. His grip on me was assured and controlling as, looking this way and that to make sure there weren't watchers, he hustled me up to the building and through the door of the spare restroom.

The attendant closed the door and locked it--with him inside. The trucker released me and spun out over to the urinals, where he turned; unbuckled his belt, puling the leather belt out of the loops; flared his jeans; and had his shaft out and in his hand. The folded over belt was in his other hand and he was slapping it against his thigh. The attendant came up behind me, close. His hands came around my belly and he unbuckled and unzipped me and pushed my jeans and briefs down to my ankles.

"Step out of them," he whispered in my ear. As I did, he fisted my cock, which was already in erection. I sighed and leaned back into him. We stood there for more than a moment, the trucker working his cock up and the attendant stroking mine.

"This is what you came for, ain't it, Pretty Boy," the trucker said, flicking his belt against my thigh.

I didn't answer but I wasn't trying to move away and my eyes were glued on his quite respectable cock.

"You ain't gonna give us any trouble here?" he then said.

"No, Sir."

"Either one of us."

I sucked in air. They were both going to fuck me. "No, Sir."

"Come'er," the trucker growled, motioning me forward. The attendant pushed me forward from behind. I was already in the process of going down onto my knees in front of the trucker, but he put one hand on my shoulder and ran the fingers of the other hand into the hair on top of my head, and pushed me down. He raised the belt in his hand high over his head and brought it down on me again, and again, as I writhed on the floor below him.

The beating stopped, and he growled, "Blow me," it a voice thick with lust. And so I did.

I felt him tensing up, ready to blow, and I tried pulling off him, assuming he wanted to save his ejaculation for an anal fuck, but he didn't. Knowing he was going to shoot off, he held my head in place, his cock down my throat, and tensed, jerked, and squirted; tensed, jerked, and shot off a second time. I gagged on the cum released in my throat.

So, what now? It would be a while before he could reload. He already was going flaccid inside my throat. How was he planning to proceed with this?

He wasn't planning anything for a while. The gaunt black attendant pulled me up roughly from behind and hustled me into one of the toilet stalls. He threw me against the wall behind the toilet, my legs going to either side of the bowl. My head banged against the tiled wall behind the toilet, and I gave no resistance, as he grasped my wrists and pressed the palms of my hands against the tiles behind the toilet. One of his hands palmed my belly, jutting my hips back toward him, as he put the bulb of his shaft in place.

I cried out as he thrust up inside me with a thick cock. He gripped the back of my head and banged it against the back wall, twice, growling, "Settle down. No noise."

And he fucked the shit out of me.

When he was done, he turned me and pushed me out the cubicle. I came down in a heap at the foot of the trucker, who was dressed again and holding my jeans, briefs, and T-shirt.

"Put these back on. We're going for a walk," the trucker said.

The black attendant, his jeans back on now, went to the door, unlocked and opened it, and went out. A moment later, he returned and said, "All quiet. You can take him out now."

"Play nice across the parking lot," the trucker growled, and we left the spare rest room and moved across the parking lot, past my car, to where the semitrailers were parked. The trucker opened the door of one of them and hauled me up into the cab--and to the cubicle between the driver's seat, were there was a bed-sized bench. In the light from the overhead dome while the truck door was open, I saw the gleam of a pair of handcuffs hanging from a strap on the passenger side of the cab. The trucker closed the driver's door, plunging the interior of the cab into darkness. He climbed back into the back of the cab where he'd forced me and slapped me around until I just lay there on the bench, docile and moaning.

I gave him no resistance as he stripped me and put my wrists in the handcuffs. I was on my knees, my arms hanging from the handcuffs while he beat me on the buttocks, thighs, and back with his leather belt again. It was more a declaration of control than painful. Then he mounted my hips, grabbed a hank of hair on the back of my head to arch my head up into his chest, thrust inside me, and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.

God help me, once the trucker was saddled and stroking inside me, I cried out for the fuck, put my hips into a rocking motion, and concentrated on the cock pumping inside me. He was forceful and vigorous and, moaning, "Yes, yes, fuck me hard," I went with him. "Punish me!"

I couldn't help it. I wanted the cock, and he was giving me the cock deep, hard, and fast. I only regretted that my hands were handcuffed and I couldn't take care of myself. He took care of me, though, moving a hand around to my belly and lower, and stroking me off as he fucked me.