Falling Like Rayne

As with the first round of fuckings, neither of them touched Rayne beyond spreading him and pulling him harder onto their savagely thrusting cocks. They were both grunting with lust and a slow kindling satisfaction and though it hurt, Rayne was also hard. His prick and balls were rubbing insistently against Chunky Dick's bare belly, beneath his half open shirt and his swollen purple bell-end was leaking a steady flow of pre-cum as the pair buggered him eagerly. He could feel his balls beginning to tingle with anticipation of release.

Completely at their mercy, Rayne leaned his head back against the Jamaican's powerful biceps with his knees over Chunky's shoulders and his wrists still tied to the pipe behind that fellow's close-cropped scalp. He was moaning deep in his throat, the sounds driven out of him by each hungry thrust, too weak to fight them much longer. With a sickly chuckle, he thought of how Peter Adam would give his left testicle to be able to film this gloriously seedy fuck-fest.

The idea of being observed and recorded whilst this was happening made him lose control of firstly his bladder and then his balls. He soaked Chunky in a fountain of piss, burning hotly out of his tormented cock in an arc of gold that felt like purest joy. Chunky cursed in disgust as Rayne whimpered an incoherent apology. This only made his colleague laugh out loud, then whilst that fellow was still chortling and pounding away like a stud horse at Rayne's tenderised arsehole, the singer jerked wildly and uttered a strangled yelp of arousal and desperation. His balls contracted uncontrollably and spewed forth a deeply satisfying gush of cum that soaked his chunky assailant's shirtfront yet again.

Rayne was completely wired, so high this time and so turned on that he was not even aware when his co-conspirators also reached their climaxes up his sore, stretched arsehole not long afterwards.

The concierge at the club called a taxi for him and he went home in a daze. The cabbie looked with some distaste at his disheveled appearance in the rear-view mirror - bloody nose, ripped shirt and spunk-splattered jeans and hair - but said not a word about it. Wylde slouched back in his seat, watching the city roll by in a blur, feeling deliciously sore and slutty. His prick twitched and stiffened insatiably in his pants. When the cab reached number 14 St John's Gardens shortly after two in the morning, Rayne tipped the driver very generously and vanished as quickly as possible behind his own front door, sliding his hand down urgently into the crotch of his jeans even before the catch had caught.