tagGay MalePublic Warrior Dating

Public Warrior Dating


"Fuckin' shit. Here, take this. Not a word about the other one," Tom said gruffly, as he shoved the paper bag containing a sealed bottle of vodka over into my lap. In the same motion he was pushing the opened pint bottle under his seat. In the flashing of the blue light bouncing off the dashboard of his Dodge Ram, I could clearly make out the "oh, shit" expression on his face.

I'd been worried he was driving too fast and swigging vodka too much, so it was somewhat of a relief to me that we were being pulled over. It was an "oh, shit," moment for me, though, because I didn't know now whether I was going to get what I'd built up the courage over the past few weeks to seek out. His raw and overbearing behavior was arousing—it was much of what I imagined I was after in going on this blind date.

We'd hooked up for a blind date on Craigslist, getting pretty explicit what we wanted before we agreed on a date. My affair, if you could call it that, with Professor Teller was OK, but I was itching to try something more adventuresome, rougher—I wanted to try a bigger cock, one with more vigor and stamina, if truth be known. Somebody more controlling and raw. Also muscles—and youth.

The professor was amorous enough and certainly long enough, but he was nearly three times my age and so delicate and sensitive about everything. He insisted on doing it on clean sheets and with nearly the same fastidious pattern to it each time. The same few positions. Just once, I'd like him to fuck me wildly on his kitchen table on top of the breakfast service. But I'd never even been there at breakfast, and I doubted he could survive to lunch if he tried it.

I wanted to try a construction worker type or someone like that, someone who worked hard with his body and thus was hard bodied—and maybe a bit crude. Something different. I wanted to be taken—ravished—not just fucked.

Tom posted that he was a construction worker and volunteer fireman, twenty-eight, and into bodybuilding, all of which spelled "bingo" to me. His language was direct and his misspellings and frequent use of "fuck" in his Internet postings showed a welcome and risk-taking contrast to the fastidiousness of Professor Teller. He very directly stated that he was eight inches, cut, and thick and was looking for a submissive.

Fireman. Maybe just the ticket. My eyes had gone up to the New York Firemen beefcake calendar I had on the wall behind my computer. Yeah, a fireman. Maybe just the ticket.

It all spelled out what I wanted to try as relief from the norm. Still, it had taken three weeks for me to agree to meet after we'd exchanged photos and he said he was interested—and would take care of the date. He was quite direct in how he expected the date to end up and that he'd book a motel room.

"If you won't bottom for me and don't want me to fuck the shit out of you, don't bother to come," he'd written.

We were on our way to the motel room when the cop pulled us over.

* * * *

But that's not how the evening started. Tom picked me up in front of the college library and took me to a sports bar for dinner while we watched a pro basketball game on the overhead TV. He was much into the game, and I pretended to be even though I don't follow basketball and didn't have a clue who was playing. It must have been a gay bar, because he pawed me while most of his attention was going to the TV screen and no one around us seemed to be disconcerted about that. By halftime he knew about all there was to know concerning my body and he'd made sure I knew he, indeed, was thick and hung. He'd crammed my hand below his waistband so I'd know none of that down there was padding.

"Nice, very nice," he'd said more than once when he was doing his survey, which made me want to purr. I shuddered when he said, "Small. Like them small. Bet you've got a tight hole," but that had aroused me as well.

Then there was an hour of pool, where I did know a thing or two about the game, but made sure that he came out the victor. I was prepared to let him be the victor in everything. He was self-assured and cocky and, at least on the physical level, had every reason to be so. A big-boned Nordic blond, built solid, and with a strut. He went out of his way to muscle in on me during the pool, and I yielded to everything. He liked showing me how I should hold the pool cue, which gave him the opportunity to cover me from behind and let me feel his bulge against my buttocks. I could tell that he was testing me and that was what he wanted. He was no genius in the mental realm, but if I had wanted a steady diet of genius, I'd have been completely satisfied with the professor.

He seemed to need to signal to the others in the pool area that "I'm taking this one home and fucking him," but I didn't mind that. It was exactly the adventure I was after. I wanted steam, demanding power and control, and a whopping big churning cock inside me—at least for a change—and there was every indication that the fireman hunk, Tom Fielder, was going to give that to me.

Normally I might have thought he was overcompensating with his bravado, but he'd made sure I had gotten the measure of him early in the date and when I got into his car, he reached over, took my hand, and laid it on his basket and said, "I wasn't lying about what I was packing. If you can't handle this, there's no reason to do this date."

As coolly as I could I asked him what, if anything, we were going to do that evening before he fucked me. What he told me did include a stop on the road by a cop.

* * * *

"Evening, sir. May I see your license and registration, please." The voice was deep and in control—polite but no nonsense. What I had seen as he walked up to Tom's side of the truck was tall, dark, and handsome. Also muscular, and he walked with confidence and a bit of wariness, keeping his hand on his gun holster, the holster unsnapped. He filled his police uniform arrestingly well. He had a flashlight that he beamed at Tom's face, as much for defense as identification, I thought. It was a long one but not as thick as most flashlights I'd seen except in at the bulb end. It illuminated his face for me too, though. Strong, chiseled features, five-o-clock shadow of black hair on his lower face, laugh lines around the hazel eyes, deep tan. A rugged, but strikingly handsome and confident face.

"Something wrong, officer?" Tom asked, his voice a bit tight, as he reached over my knees to open the glove compartment and take out the registration. I could see—and hoped the cop couldn't—that while getting at the registration Tom had to make sure that the pistol in the glove compartment was hidden behind the service booklets. I felt a tightening in my chest. But I also felt a bit of arousal. I had been looking for adventure, and I felt I was in a thriller movie.

Tom gave me a "I know you see it, but you don't see it, do you?" look and I gave him my best "you're the boss, whatever you want" submissive look in return.

"Well, you were driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit back there," the officer said, as he turned the beam of the flashlight on Tom's license and registration cards.

"Uh, sorry. Occupational hazard, I guess," Tom answered. "No one else on the road, though, so I just slipped into it. I can keep it down from here. Not far to go."

"Occupational hazard?"

Tom pointed to the red light case on his dash. "Fireman. I get locked into a need to get there fast. You know how it is."

"Ah, a public warrior," the policeman said. "Guess that can slide, as long as you try to keep it down to your destination. You're not drinking, though, are you?" he asked, his light now shining on the unmistakable shape of the bagged pint bottle in my lap.

"No, sir," Tom answered. "On my way to a party, but the bottle is sealed. Show him the bottle, Chris."

I pulled the neck of the vodka bottle out of the bag for the officer to see. The beam of light went from that to my face.

"You say you don't have far to go?" the officer asked Tom.

"Just over on Taylor Creek Road; just a few blocks away." About the only place there was to go to a party on Taylor Creek Road was the Wildwood Motel, a notorious rent-by-the-hour fleabag.

The light came back up onto my face. "How old are you, son?" the office asked.

"Nearly twenty, officer," I answered, trying to keep the nervous squeak out of my voice.

"You got a license I can see?"

"Sure," I said, digging it out and handing it to him across Tom's chest.

He looked at it in the beam of the flashlight. "Chris Collins. Address over by the college. You a student there?"

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"And you're good with this ride you're taking?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"Well, you drive more carefully now, Fireman Tom," the officer said, "And keep in mind that you're not the only one in the car or on the road when you're driving."

"Sure will keep that in mind," Tom answered through tight lips. I could tell that he didn't like the lecture at all.

We both watched the policeman saunter back to his car—probably with different thoughts in mind. Tom was muttering, "Arrogant son of a bitch," under his breath. I was thinking about how tight the man's butt was and how muscular his thighs looked in those tight trousers.

"Cocky bastard," I said under my breath but loud enough for Tom to hear. It wasn't anything I meant, but I thought it would assuage Tom's ego, and it seemed to. He relaxed the fists he was making on the steering wheel.

If anything, the police stop had made me more horny than ever for what the cop had called a public warrior booty call. I reached over and palmed Tom's package as he revved up the car. I knew he'd felt emasculated in front of me by the cop's presence and control of the situation.

"I want you to fuck me good at the motel," I murmured, trying to move him back into a dominating swagger.

"I'll fuck your lights out," he growled as he let the engine rumble longer than necessary before putting it into gear and moving away from the revolving circle of blue light.

* * * *

Indeed, Tom, the hunky and primeval fireman, did fuck my lights out at the motel—roughly and demandingly just as I had wanted and nervously looked forward to. He wasn't all bravado; he delivered.

I knelt between his legs, both of us naked, his body hard-bodied muscular and smooth skinned other than the blond bush at the pubes, and gagged at being forced to try to deep throat eight thick inches of him while he held my head close into his groin. He knew I was having trouble with it and was gagging, but he just kept on holding my head and pushing himself down my throat. I kept telling myself that I'd wanted to try it this rough.

We'd already finished off the pint of vodka Tom had started—or, more correctly, Tom had finished it off; I'd had half a Dixie cup full of the booze, but I was trying to keep on the clear side of a buzz as I didn't want to miss any sensation of this long-anticipated fuck. We'd already had several beers at the sports bar—Tom more than me—before stopping at the liquor store when we left the bar for the motel.

He was slurring his words, but it certainly didn't cut into his ability to gain and maintain a mammoth erection, his sexual athletic ability, or his mastery of control. Just when I didn't think I could take any more of his cock pushing at the back of my throat, he leaned over, grasped my waist between his hands, and with a "Whoopsy do," raised, turned, and flipped me. He had me by nearly a hundred pounds and six or seven inches in height and wingspan, so he manipulated me with ease. That, as much as anything else, I found highly arousing, and I was as hard as a rock and panting. Tom was rock hard too, if not panting. He handled me like he totally debauched a small guy like me three times a week, and, for all I knew, he did. He certainly left no doubt that I had been royally fucked.

Before we had started he'd casually laid three Trojan Magnum condom packets out on the nightstand along with a can of lube—all in a line, natural as you please, and he'd grinned at me when I shuddered. I'd involuntarily moved a bit from him where we were sitting side by side on the bed, but he'd reached out, pulled me roughly to him, and held my back into his chest, with a hand cupping my chin and pulling my head back into the hollow of his shoulder. He undressed me with his other hand—he remained dressed—unbuttoning my sports shirt and pulling it off my back and unbuckling and unzipping my jeans and pushing them down to my knees. I was going commando, which he seemed to appreciate. He fisted my cock and I squirmed ineffectually in his embrace as he jerked me off. There was no question that I was going to arc my cum for him, and I did.

"That's you; the rest is all me," he growled.

Then he'd pushed me over on the bed, propped up on my elbows; stood between my spread knees; and stripped off his own clothes. He took up the bottle of vodka from the nightstand and took several swigs as I started sucking his cock and balls in that position. It was only after a bit that he pushed my face away, sat on the side of the bed, put me on my knees between his thighs, and started controlling the serious deep throating, which lasted until he'd grown just too thick and long to handle.

When he pulled me up and reversed and flipped me, I came down with my shoulders on his thighs and my legs waving in the air in the splits. I grabbed for his ankles as, pushing at my butt cheeks with his facial cheeks, he went for my asshole with his mouth. He slathered me up good there, getting lube and his fingers into the process, and muttering, when he'd moved to using his fingers, "Open for me. You'll want to be open. Relax. Yes. Give it to me. Open up. Want you tight, but don't want to split you."

It's a little hard to open up your channel when you're upside down and your legs are doing the splits. I'd never been in a position like this before. But he was strong and holding me in place. I at no time thought I was going to fall over. In fact, he pulled me up and swallowed my cock as he took a break from eating my ass out, which brought my head up into his lap and put me in a position to give his cock more suck too.

"Ummm, nice," I heard him say after a while. "That should be good for starters. I want it tight anyway."

He then flipped me again and set me down on his thighs as he reached over for a condom, rolled it on, and lubed it up. I could feel the huge cock at the small of my back as he prepared it. I began to hyperventilate as he grabbed my waist, lifted me, and set my passage opening down on his cock. I wasn't nearly open enough to take him yet, but he was ready to fuck me, so that's what happened.

I squirmed and panted and whimpered and almost sobbed, while he muttered for me to relax and open to him and relentlessly pressed me down on his cock.

"Hey, you said you've done this before. You weren't shitting me, were you?"

"Yes, I've done it. Just not this big," I managed to croak out for him. That seemed to be good enough for him. I certainly didn't get the feeling he was cutting me any slack after that.

I struggled to accommodate the shaft and then found myself stretching and taking him. When I felt my butt cheek pressing into the curls of his pubes, he embraced me closely and gently rocked back and forth for a few brief moments. The longer we rocked the more open I was to him and the thicker he became, until I felt comfortable enough to turn my face to his for a deep kiss.

"Just relax now," he whispered. "Go limp and let your body fall forward between our legs. Grab my ankles or knuckle the floor. I don't care which. Leave it to me. Just give me your hole and stay open for me. I'm gonna' fuck you like you've never been fucked before."

And then he did just that, pulling me on and off his cock, at first slowly and deeply, but quickly increasing the speed and the vigor of the fuck—pulling me on and off the cock for a good fifteen minutes before he tensed, jerked, and filled the bulb of the condom.

He pulled me off the cock immediately and tossed me over onto the bed on my back. Then he stood, turned full frontal to me—with me gasping again at how muscular and hung he was—and smiled as he pulled the spent condom off his cock and dropped it in a wastebasket.

"That was a good one. You're a sweet sub," he said, as he reached for the bottle of vodka and took a deep swallow. "And a nice, small bod. I want to watch you jerk yourself off now."

So, I did that for him, lying on my back, legs spread and bent, my eyes watching his as I masturbated and he fondled and stroked his still-half-hard cock. When he was hard again, I watched him pull on the second condom and then he was on top of me on the bed, turning me over, slapping my legs up onto my knees, my thighs spread. He crouched over my back, mounted my ass, thrust inside me, and power fucked me for another fifteen minutes.

I rolled over onto my side in satisfied exhaustion as he came off the bed.

"I'll shower and then you can and I'll drive you back to your apartment," he said, adding, "Nice fuck. I'll want to nail you again."

I turned my eye to the nightstand and the third condom—not that I was that anxious for him to fuck me again; he'd pretty much worn me out, but very satisfactorily so. His eyes followed mine, and he laughed.

"No, I'm not finished with you tonight. Want to do you under the stars in the bed of my truck, though. I'll find somewhere on the way to your apartment. Give you a little romance. Won't that be nice?"

"Yeah, sure," I mumbled.

"And give you all eight thick inches again. Won't that be somethin'?"

In answer, I moaned and threw my arm over my face. He laughed, scooped his clothes off the floor, and headed for the bathroom.

* * * *

"Here, this looks like a good place to pull off for a little . . . oh, shit. Fuckin' shit!"

The blue light was pulsating off the dashboard again. And this time Tom was obviously drunk as a skunk and was driving erratically. I'd been wondering if he even could perform if he got me in the bed of his truck, and I had still been mulling whether I regretted it if he couldn't get it up again. I'd had the rough, athletic fuck by a hung hunk that had sent me into this blind date. Had I had enough to be satisfied now? He was getting a little ugly.

"It's a cop car—no, two of them," I said, looking around to the car following us—and the car following that one. "Aren't you going to—?"

"Shut the fuck up. Did I ask you your opinion?" he growled, and as he did so, a hand came off the steering wheel and he backhanded me across the mouth. I fell back against the passenger door, and my hand shot up to my mouth, feeling for damage. But, although, it stung, I didn't feel a cut or blood. Still, the unexpected violence of it raised mixed sensations. I was shocked, yes, but I also was aroused. I felt myself harden up. If he'd been in a position to follow the hand strike by falling upon me, I knew my hands would go to his cock to pull him inside me. And that scared me.

For the briefest moment I thought he was going to stomp down on the accelerator and try to outrun them, but then he hit the steering wheel with the same fist he'd hit me with, muttered, "Fuckin' hell. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck," and pulled over to the side of the road.

Turning to me as one cop car stopped behind us and the other one pulled around in front of us, Tom said, "Keep your fuckin' mouth closed. We did nothin', you hear? That license you showed him is fake, isn't it? You're sixteen, ain't you?"

"No, I'm not. The age on the license is right," I stammered out.

"I said not to fuckin' say a word," he said. "There's some reason they stopped us. They been waitin' for us to leave the motel."

I wanted to scream that they stopped us because he was drunk on his tail and using both lanes of the road to drive on, but I dared not say anything else.

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