Dangerous Enticement

But he didn't fist me to the wrist. With a laugh, he pulled away and stood up in the sand, at my feet, between me and the sea, backlit by the reflection of the moon off the water. He unzipped himself, flared the front panel of his jeans, and pulled his cock out. I gasped at the length and thickness of him. He was in full erection. I was a pretty good judge of measure, having taken quite a few men. He was a leader among the rest, a stallion of a man.

He'd taken a can of beer up with him and he drank it off now, hovering over me, looking down at me, stretched out, legs spread and bent, pelvis raised, open and vulnerable to him. He smiled down at me while he drank the beer off and tossed the can aside, more litter for the beach patrol to contend with the next day. Then he came down on top of me, grasped my hips to put them in fully accessible position, thrust inside me, and fucked the shit out of me.

Possibly because he'd seen me in this position with the Hispanic and had liked it, he lifted my ankles and hooked them on his shoulders, which rolled and raised my pelvis for ready and straight access. He could kneel or stand between my thighs, as he liked, and put my hole in any connection with his cock head that he wanted.

I was helpless in his control. He was on top of me, his weight on his knees between my thighs and on his hands pressing my arms spread and raised into the sand. He was deep in my core, working me there, snorting his pleasure at the muscles of my passage gripping at the thick, thick shaft, undulating over it, joining in the rhythm of its throbbing thrusts. He was barebacking me, fully possessing me, totally working me. His body was in motion over me and I fell into the rhythm of the fuck. He released my arms, one hand going back to clutching my throat and the other one gliding over my body as I reached down, grabbing his buttocks, and held him into me as he thrust, thrust, thrust.

"Take it, bitch," he growled as he clutched my throat and pounded me. And gasping and gagging, I took it. I took his long, thick, hard cock. I took his hard cock deep. I took the power-hammering pistoning of his cock. I took the cock forever.

A lot of big-cocked stallions like him liked fucking small guys like me because they wanted to know the guy was suffering. I suffered for him. I gloriously suffered for the big-cocked stallion. I panted and groaned and screamed for him, competing with the sounds of the pounding surf in suffering for him. He laughed and hummed and commanded that I take it while he worked. And I gloriously took it, rarely being taken this fully. I was getting what I had desired from him and then some.

He stiffened, jerked, and I cried out as he blasted me deep with a pud of warm cum. He stiffed, jerked, and ejaculated again. And then again. And again. Virile, prodigious, all man. A big-cocked stallion of a man.

He stood over me, feet planted between my thighs, high up, looking down at me and smiling as he tossed off his fourth beer--the last one. One of his feet was planted firmly in my genitals and I reached down and covered the foot with my hands and moaned as he drank the beer. Dropping the empty can, he reached down, jerked the towel and the backpack from underneath me, taking up the other towel as well.

And then he was gone, leaving me gasping and panting, and almost baying at the moon.

The Hispanic sailor had fucked me, but this stallion had FUCKED me.

* * * *

"His name is Hank. He's an ex-Marine. An American. He's forty-seven. He moved here to Bermuda and takes guys out on fishing charters from King's Wharf. He's a stallion. And he almost fisted you and he cruelly dominated you, called you a bitch, fucked you bareback, and just left you there on the sand at night, Clay?" Tony asked.

We were at the breakfast bar in the resort bungalow the five of us were sharing with our manager--Tony called him our pimp. We were eating breakfast, but it was after 1:00 in the afternoon. Tony was working a gay club in Hamilton and we both had gotten in so late that the afternoon was our morning. Two of the other guys were splashing in the small pool that went with the bungalow. The fifth guy, the black transvestite, Pauly, was being fucked by our manager, Steve, on a lounge bed. Pauly was riding his cock in a cowboy and working her store-bought tits with her purple-lacquer-fingernail hands.

"He sounds dangerous, honey. Almost crazy. I suggest you stay as far away from him as you can," Tony added.

Dangerous, yes, but oh so enticing--and this was the edge. It was unlike anything I'd done before. "He's a stallion. He's dangerous. He's cold as ice and totally dominating. It's got to be at least ten thick inches," I said.

"Listen to yourself," Tony said. "You find all of that enticing?"

"Yes, I do," I answered. "I can't help myself; I do. Maybe I've had too many vanilla fucks."

"But the money of a five-inch dick is as good as a ten-incher, Clay, and a whole heck of a lot easier to handle. He did pay you, didn't he?"

"Of course he did," I said. Of course he hadn't.

"Just give that one a wide berth, especially if he's there again tonight. He's had his fun. He'll want even more the next time than you let him have last night. He'll fist you, for sure."

"Good advice," I said.

He was there again that night. He hadn't come into the bar, but he was there, waiting at the shadow line, backlit by the string of lights along the eaves of the bar's porch. I heard the voice uncurl from the shadows and say, "Come along now" and turned to see that it was Hank. In shorts and sandals, bare-chested, meltingly hard-bodied. No backpack or six-pack of beer this time. "You didn't think I was finished with you, did you?"

"No, sir," I answered, the obedient, trembling soldier.

He put his hand out. "I live near here. Just a couple of blocks, off Scott's Hill Road." As if that meant anything to me. I put my hand in his and my body in his care. He put an arm around me, palming my buttocks, with me leaning into him as we walked into the dark.

"I'm gonna fuck you into the dawn," he whispered in my ear as we moved up the hill. I was sure he could feel me trembling in his embrace. He laughed and started to hum.

He did that--fucked me into the dawn. He fucked me on the double bed in the bigger of two bedrooms in his small bungalow. His bedroom was outfitted for rough fucking. My wrists were restrained over my head, at the corners of the headboard, and he worked below me, my legs spread and bent, my feet dug into the edge of the foot of the bed. He had a can of grease and a string of graduated tear-shaped balls. The biggest of the balls had to be as wide and thick as the heel of his hand, I thought. He was as naked as I was and in full erection the entire time he was working on me.

He was enjoying himself, humming. I went from delicious agony to sheer pleasure; from groaning fear to gasping pain-passion; from crying out for mercy to begging for the cock. I deliciously suffered. I had never been so fully possessed. I had never felt so alive sexually. The stallion was a god. I sobbed and strained and cried out "Yes, Yes, YES!" as the greased balls mastered and filled me and, with time, effort, and determination--both his and mine--I managed them, panting hard and gasping at the effort.

"Ride them, bitch," he growled, and as he tugged and pushed the stringed balls with one hand and stroked my cock with the other, I dug my heels into the edge of bed and moved my hips in a rowing motion, moving the balls inside. With a little cry, I came in his hand and collapsed into the mattress.

And then the balls were slowly withdrawn and put aside, and he was crouching over me, between my spread thighs, grasping my ankles and putting them on his shoulders, pulling my buttocks up to his jutting cock head, slowly entering me and sinking, sinking into me. He leaned down to me, took my lips in a kiss, and started to pump me deep in my core. I went soft and spongy for him there, loving him and what he was doing to me, suffering for his pleasure, building again toward another climax. How many times would he make me come tonight?

As he fucked, I turned my head to the side. A black leather sling, suspended on silver chains, was slung from the ceiling in the corner of the room. He noticed me looking over there.

"Do you want me to do you in the sling?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"Do you want the fist now? Are we ready for that?"

"Yes," I whispered. I thought the circumference of the biggest of the tear-drop balls was as large as the heel of his hand. I didn't think it mattered what I answered, though. If Hank was ready for it, he would do it.

I was wrong about the balls being enough preparation, but not by much. I lay on my back in the sling, wrists and ankles restrained high on the four chains, buttocks vulnerable and accessible, hanging out at one end. I squirmed and panted and moaned and groaned as he worked my channel with the greased fingers of his right hand. He was worrying the rim with the heel of his hand and I was crying out that it wasn't going to work, that it couldn't happen, when it did happen. The sensation of the pop, the blinding flash of pain, and he was through the sphincter with the heel of the hand.

He held there for the longest moment, capturing my eyes with his, his fist inside me.

"Take it, bitch, take it," he growled. And then, up to his wrist inside me, he flexed his fingers rhythmically inside my channel and began the fist fuck. He fucked me with the hand for what seemed to be an eternity, as I lay there, fully restrained, defenseless, tense.

"Relax," he growled. "Take it, bitch."

I tried relaxing, letting the tension drain from my body, and that helped. As he fisted me, he took my cock in his other hand and stroked me off again. His body was hovering over mine, his eyes drilling into mine, capturing every nuance of my response. There was a cruel smile on his lips. I started rocking against the hand, moving my buttocks, going with the rhythm of his punches.

I hated him; I loved him. I hated the hand; I loved the hand. All hail the power of the man! All hail the power of the hand! Every nerve in my body was concentrating on the hand. Moving in and out, in and out. Fingers flexing and bunching. Hank humming. In and out, in and out.

"The hand, the hand, the hand," I moaned in glorious agony, raising my buttocks as I could, sacrificially thrusting it up into the invading hand.

"Yes, the hand," he agreed and fucked on with it. I increasingly relaxed to the stretching invasion, surrendering totally, becoming just an extension of the man. Letting the man... have... anything... he wanted.

"Now you getting with it," Hank muttered. "Now you're a good little whore."

He moved his arm back and forth, his bulging pecs expanding and contracting with the effort to maintain the cadence of fucking me with his fist. My eyes latched onto the movement of the tattooing on his breast and down his arm as it bunched and released the fingers and fist at its extension. I fought to relax and go with the cadence. He laughed. "Good, good. You've got it now." He was humming as he worked.

When I'd shot my load, he pulled his hand out, moved between my thighs, penetrated me with his erection, and fucked me to his own climax. Once again, my eyes went to his right breast and arm and to the flexing and rolling of the tattooing there, the design alive, the nipple puffed up, the tattoo hungrily taking its pleasure of me as if it were a separate force from the hard-bodied man. Wanting me; having me. Having whatever he wanted from me, me deliciously sacrificed to the lusts of the stallion.

While he was releasing me from the sling, he said, "I'm going to take a shower now. Be gone when I come out of the can. I have a charter to take out at noon and need some sleep. There's money for you over there on the dresser," he added, almost as an afterthought.

He had left me three American hundred-dollar bills. So, that was it. I was just a whore to him for him to take his pleasure as he pleased. He didn't even ask me if I had enjoyed his fist. I felt shame, having now been paid for the use of my body as he wished, at the answer I would have given him if he had asked. I had meant this night as a sacrifice to a god, just as the night before had been--a meaningful use of my body and my suffering. I felt it was cheapened by having been paid for it.

At least this was it. I would be leaving in a couple of days. I wouldn't have to give myself to this man again. This dangerous man. This dangerously enticing man. This stallion of a man.

I stumbled back to the Willowbank Resort on my own. It was only about ten blocks and the sun was already coming up over the island to the east. Hank hadn't lied to me. He had fucked me into the dawn. Oh, how he had fucked me.

Shit that man's dangerous, I thought. Never again.

The next night when I came out of Ricky's bar, again after 2:00 a.m., I looked around and Hank wasn't there. I waited for fifteen minutes and he still wasn't there.

His bungalow wasn't hard to find. When I arrived out in front of it, the lights were on in his house. The front door was open. He was standing there in the doorway, in just low-slung shorts and sandals, magnificently muscular, leaning against the door frame, backlit by the light from the house, knowing that he wouldn't come for me anymore; I would come back to him.

God, his body was beautiful. He was tall and lean and hard-bodied. And he had a ten-inch cock to die for. And die for it I would. Every night a little death until I was dragged onto an airplane or until he wouldn't open his door to me again.

That wasn't tonight, though. He reached his hand out, and I walked to him and then past him, down the hallway, into his bedroom. He was humming.