Summer Deceptions

"That was good, very good," he murmured.

"Yes," I answered.

"I want to do it again. I got to do it again."

"Yes," I responded.

And he did. He was Superman. I had quickly found my role of a total submissive.

I'd done a lot of thinking during the night, between fucks. I had been moving toward having sex with a man. I wouldn't have chosen a black man or one with such a massive cock, but it was too late to have a first time with anyone. Letting Bud fuck me meant I didn't have to try to hold him off any longer. That had been getting tiresome. Increasingly I had become mesmerized by the charisma and talents of the man—and comfortable with him being black. I probably would have eventually gone with him even if I had been fully sober. And each time he did it, it got to be more pleasurable . . . the fuck became as pleasurable as his kissing, fondling, and cock and hole preparation, and then we got into the rhythm of it more quickly each time, fucked more intensely each time. We became fused in the fuck, one smoothly fucking machine.

I couldn't deny that the second time was more pleasurable during the fuck. The panicked pain and shock of the first time had been nearly all me. He had tried to guide me as long as he could hold off. I wouldn't think about him going ahead and taking me when I wasn't ready to receive him. The second time I was ready to receive him. The second time showed the promise of what it could be with him. The third and fourth times achieved the natural rhythm of life.

But, God, he was huge. I suppose that later, when I was going with more men, I could be grateful that I'd been reamed already by the biggest.

The band was still giddy the next day, Christmas Day. We partied in the hotel bar around a decorated Christmas tree there and generally floated around on Cloud Nine and discussed what tracks to put on our first labeled album. It was Christmas Day. We had the bar all to ourselves, other than the bartender, who partied with us, no doubt just glad that he wasn't all alone on the day.

We were a relaxed, close-knit band of brothers—at least in those days before the tensions of our individual pairings began to permeate the atmosphere when we were grouped together. Ten guys living out of a bus when we were on the road couldn't help but get tense after a while. There were hugs and smiles all around that day, though. I tingled at Bud's hugs, starting out frosty but melting as the day wore on. I let him touch me and kiss me, to put his arm around me, and to whisper in my ear suggestions that made me shiver. The memories of the previous night, especially the second coupling, were becoming more arousing.

The other band members couldn't help but realize that Bud had spiked me at last. They certainly had known he had been working on doing it. The innuendo of the two of us doing it stopped that day. It was done, and they knew it had been done.

The image of Bud's big black cock and what he did with it filtered into my mind and took over. I had been afraid of it at the start the previous night. Now it began to dominate my fantasies. I wanted to touch it, to fondle it, to have it in my mouth as Bud had taken mine into his mouth the previous night. The arousal went to my groin and I hardened. Bud, who was holding me and touching me, knew I had gone hard. He didn't know it was from the thought of his cock, but he was in heat as well.

"Let's go someplace," he whispered in my ear. "I'll take good care of you." I didn't respond by answering verbally, but he could feel me shudder. "Come upstairs. I need to get it off," he whispered. I was embarrassed at the change in the rest of the band's attitude toward us both and I wasn't ready for them to know what they obviously knew. I resisted. I didn't go with him, and he left for an hour, saying he needed to take a nap. We were having a good enough time as a group that I didn't think on his absence, and when he came back he was as affectionate and touchy feely as he'd been before. It was only years later that I was told that Bud had gone off with the bartender for that hour and fucked him.

But he had asked me first. In all that time that I refused to accept that this wouldn't be an "only me" relationship and blamed myself for him going off with the bartender that day, I kept telling myself that he'd asked me first. It was my fault for not saying yes.

I think that Christmas Eve was the last time I didn't just get up and follow Bud when he told me he wanted to take me away and fuck me, though. He very quickly learned that I was a total submissive to him, at his command. When we were alone, all he had to do was say, "Go down on your knees and suck my cock" or "Lay on your back and spread your legs for me," and I would do it. The more gruff the command, the quicker I would respond. He would growl, "I want to fuck you now," and I'd stop what I was doing, drop my trousers, and lie down on the bed on my back or belly, depending on how he said he wanted to do it. And I would shiver with arousal that I had a master to use me.

As soon as the other guys in the band knew Bud and I had finally gotten it on the previous night, they started treating us as a couple. They were mostly paired up too. As far as I knew, they were all at least bi. They seemed sexually quite free and loose about sex. Bud wasn't the only band member who had propositioned me in the past. I don't know why I didn't think about Bud maybe being bi or freer with sex at that point, but I didn't. I was naïve and warming to the idea of being with him.

Morgan True, a guitarist I'd flirted with in the months that Bud intimidated me and I'd been avoiding, made a pass at me while Bud was gone that day, but Bud returned before anything developed from that. My mind was still obsessed with Bud's black monster cock, so I wasn't moving into Morgan's frequency at that moment. Morgan wasn't black. At one time that would have been in his favor, and having now been initiated into man sex, I was letting Morgan get closer to me than before. Maybe if I wasn't latched into thinking about black cock . . .

Years later, when I was letting loose on the rebound from Bud, Morgan and I did get it on briefly. But that didn't last long, and they all were revenge fucks.

The band did another concert that night and thus we spent the same night in the hotel before driving our converted school bus back to Nags Head the next day.

That night I learned to worship Bud's long, thick, black cock, with him sitting, naked, on the foot of the bed and teaching me to fondle it and stroke it and suck it. I became fascinated with it and became increasingly obsessed with taking something that big—and black—inside me. And then it was inside me, and, sensing that I was becoming lost to him, Bud took his time in fucking me with it in a missionary that night and then in a doggie, and, finally, in a side split. He taught me to open fully to it and to take more pleasure from having it inside me than when he wasn't inside me. The poetry he spun for me in my ear in his deep bass voice that night was all focused on the big black cock, taking every advantage of the hold it had taken over me. It wasn't just Bud and his personality that owned me; it was as much that big black snake between his legs. It almost had a separate, controlling personality all its own.

* * * *

For the next five years I couldn't get enough of Bud and his cock and I thought I had every reason to believe he was as connected to me. Bud, the man, also slowly became more central to me than the obsession of having that big, black cock working inside me. At the point when the break came, my heart was broken and I realized that I had been in love with him.

And that I had deceived myself.

The whole world flipflopped in early summer 2015 because of two events. The first was on the unofficial start of summer, not the calendar day. Our flighty keyboarder didn't show up for a concert we were doing at Harry's in Wanchese. We remained grounded at Harry's despite now having a national reputation because that's where we'd gotten our start. The Bob Hawley band had become a major benefactor for the whole Roanoke Island-Nags Head region, where the locals protected our privacy, and we regularly played there to "give back." Although the band had always been pretty stable in membership, we'd gone through a series of keyboarders. When Steve didn't show for the afternoon rehearsal, Bob was ready.

Manuel Gonzalez, who went by Manny, was twenty-eight years of muscular hard-labor Hispanic beefcake who had come to Roanoke Island from Texas as a migrant worker to pick strawberries in the field. He was working class and gay and he was a musician, so he had gravitated to Harry's in his off hours. His favorite band was the working man's rock band, the Bob Hawley Band, and he'd come to the island without realizing the band was grounded here. He'd sat in with a pickup band at Harry's and Bob heard him play. When the Bob Hawley Band had a Memorial Day gig at Harry's and Steve, the regular keyboarder, didn't show by dress rehearsal, Bob invited Manny to sit in. As of that night, he became the band's keyboarder.

He also became my sexual harasser just as Bud had been when I first joined the band four years earlier. He was as aggressive as Bud had been with me. The other band members were laying off me with the understanding that I was Bud's territory. Manny recognized no such barriers. Bud didn't give him any shit about Manny using dirty words and suggestions with me. He seemed to be amused by it. I only later realized that he let Manny work me because Bud didn't feel as attached to me as I thought of being attached to him. It was a minor irritant for me; I'd been through that with Bud and that was when I was a virgin. I was experienced now, and Manny was a hunk. I could enjoy the arousal of him without feeling pressure to do anything about it. I had Bud—or so I thought.

Manny certainly had his attractions, beyond his body to dream about, well-honed by his hard work in the fields. Manny was hung and in a different way from Bud. Bud was long and thick. Manny was just extremely thick, having what we called a beer can dick. He made sure I saw it, flashing me at the most unexpected moments, which amused the band members who saw it. They were one laid-back, sexually loose group. He delighted in taking advantage of our placement on stage during a concert to flash me with his dick where only I or one or two other band members could see him even though the place was filled with a crowd. He liked how that put me off my stride while I was singing. I couldn't say that his cock didn't arouse me, especially since it not only was the thickest I'd ever seen but also because it was black. He was a dusky-skinned Hispanic, but his balls and dick were black. These was a feature Bud had that turned me on. It had the same effect with me when it was Manny.

The other event a little later that year was that Keith Dunlop, a sexy little blond guy, just graduated from First Flight High School, as I had done four years earlier, joined the band as the sound and light technician and equipment guy—just as I had. I was twenty-three now. Keith was eighteen. I'd been nineteen when I'd started working with the band and Bud had taken an interest in me. I didn't know that part of Bud's fetish was taking young guys, for the first time, if possible. He'd been my first. The other band members apparently knew this, but it was only later that any of them told me they knew this and that, further, Bud had been knocking off other late teenagers even as I started marching into my twenties. I was the only one who didn't see it at the time.

Manny had his way with me late in the summer of 2015. I was writing songs then for the band and they were doing well. All of us were making big bucks, I more than most because the songs I was writing were hitting the charts and the residuals from that were piling up in the corners. By then I'd bought my parents their dream house in Florida and I'd moved into the East Driftwood Street cottage.

I was composing a song and had invited Manny over to play the keyboard while I worked my way through some of the rough edges. He'd thought I'd invited him over to finally give myself to him, and he was both a little buzzed when he arrived and a little irritated when he found out I hadn't invited him over for sex.

"Why do you play so hard to get?" he asked. "You know I'd do you good. You don't have any trouble putting out for Bud."

"Bud and I are an item—together—just us," I said.

Manny snorted. "Why don't you tell that to Bud? He's screwing everything in sight. Not just you. The other guys in the band put out left and right too. Why are you different? Bud isn't just with you. And he likes them young. You're getting on."

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly beginning to see what he meant. I'd worked hard at fooling myself—at kicking all of the contrary evidence into the corners.

"He was in one of the back fuck rooms at Harry's when I just left there. He was screwing Keith. He screws Keith regularly, although Bud told me he likes it best when he's the first to do them. He got to Keith first. He tells me he was the first one to get to you too. He says you went down hard. I want to screw you. I've seen how turned on you by my dick. Take it."

He had it out, erect, thick as a beer can, pointed at me, and I couldn't hide either that I recognized the truth of what he was saying about Bud and that I went all wobbly at the sight of his thick, black cock.

He took me then and took me hard. And I let him, in anger at Bud, thinking I could hurt Bud by letting Manny fuck me. He grabbed me by the hair—I wore it long, down to my shoulders, then—and forced me to my knees in front of him. He brought me face to face with his cock. He knew I wanted it, and I did. I worshipped it just as I had long worshipped Bud's cock as having a separate personality from the man. It was so thick that it nearly unhinged my jaw in taking it in my mouth. He pulled me up, slapped me a couple of times, and propelled me up the stairs to my bedroom. He fucked me bent over the foot of the bed, my arms stretched over my head, my fists bunching up handfuls of the bedspread, crying out in passion, as he stuffed his impossibly thick cock inside me and rode me hard in a doggie. I writhed in delicious agony as he stuffed it in me, panting hard until I had opened enough to sheath it. He slapped me on the buttocks again and again, muttering "Open up. Take it; take it," as he impatiently pushed in.

I took it all, crying out for the cock and moving my hips with the beefy Hispanic's thrusts. He reached down; grabbed my ankles with his fists; raised my feet off the floor, wish boning me into a wheelbarrow position; and spread my thighs wide. I had no leverage left; I was completely at his mercy. I cried out in passion as he pounded me fast and hard. He pulled out of me and shot his load on my hole. I only realized then that he had fucked me without protection. I moaned as he pushed his cock in again, sliding more easily through the lubrication of his cum than he had done before.

"Fuck yourself on it," he growled, letting my feet go back onto the floor so I'd be able to push off on them. I did so, surrendering completely to him. I whimpered as I moved my ass on the shaft, fucking myself.

"There, now we're doin' it together," he muttered. And we were.

"Now you want it from me." And now I did.

He reached around my hip and fisted my cock, and stroked me. I whimpered more when he released my cock, moved his hand under his balls and grasped mine, lacing his fingers through them and squeezing and distending them.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, shit," I moaned as he crushed my balls.

"I didn't say you could stop fucking yourself on my dick," he growled. And I resumed moving my hips on the shaft, my eyes watering from him working my balls.

"Come for me," he commanded, and I did. He pulled out of me and pushed me down into a fetal position on the bed, where I lay, panting, as he went off to the bathroom.

After he'd screwed me and had screwed me good, I served him a beer from the refrigerator in the kitchen and took one myself. I stood on one side of the kitchen counter, naked, and he, naked, sat on a stool on the other side and we looked at each other from some time before either of us spoke.

"That was good. Very good," he said at last.

"Yes," I agreed. He had been cruel. He had surprised me, though, in showing me that I wanted to be dominated and used a little cruelly. What I was thinking was that it was too bad I didn't have a video of it to show to Bud. I was sure that Bud, seeing it, would be so jealous that he'd realize that it should just be Bud and me. I was still being stupid. I was still in love with him.

"You are a great lay," Manny said. "You take it like a champion. I'm thicker than Bud is, ain't I?"

"Feels that way, yes," I said. I wished Bud was here to hear me admit that. It would bring him down a notch or two.

"You don't seem too thrilled. I've just screwed the shit out of you and you seem distant."

"You were great," I said. "I didn't know before now that I sometimes wanted what you did to me—to be used hard. I'm just . . . I'm just thinking about something else."

"Bud? You're still thinking about Bud?"

"Yes."

"You want me to leave now, or . . ."

I rode his cock in a facing cowboy on my bed, him lying there on his back, knees bent and feet flat on the bed, grinning at me and holding my waist between his calloused, beefy hands, as facing his head, arms flung behind me, fists pressed to the bedspread beside his feet, and my feet planted on either side of his waist to provide leverage, I rose and fell on his cock, fucking myself.

"You're gonna be there for me any time I want it," he said after we'd both come.

"Yes," I replied.

"I'm gonna stay here tonight."

"Yes."

"I'm gonna fuck you again."

"Yes."

The next morning after riding him in a reverse cowboy, hands gripping his bent knees and churning on his cock, facing away from him, I fixed Manny breakfast, and he left the cottage whistling, knowing that he owned me as much now as Bud did.

Over the next few months, I slept around the band as openly and blatantly as possible, trying to make Bud jealous and to bring our relationship to a head. He cheerfully ignored my change in behavior while just as openly fucking Keith and me too. I was hot and heavy with Manny for a month and then with Morgan, the guitarist, for another month. Bud didn't change.

After Thanksgiving, with the band taking off until New Year's beyond some recording in our Manteo studio, Bob Hawley took me aside and said that this "thing" or "not thing" between me and Bud was beginning to sour the atmosphere, and . . .

"You want me to leave the band?" I asked.

"Bud is the band's biggest drawing card," Bob answered.

I left the band, saying I was going to try it solo. The press was good to me, saying that I'd developed into a front singer and was in a band that already had a front singer, who the band was named for. It was understandable that I'd go out on my own. And I was a song writer too. As a last straw, I'd composed the "Big Black Thing'" song. The public liked that song enough to take it platinum without giving the lyrics much thought. The band members thought was about Bud, but I knew was about Bud's cock, which I'd seen as a personality in its own right for some years past. It didn't bring Bud back to me solely. Nothing did.

I told Bud I loved him. He said he loved me too. But then he went off and fucked Keith. We obviously didn't have the same definition of "love."

People had started mumbling about the band and sexuality. Gay bands had a niche, but not as big a niche as we already had. Some of the band members, including Bob Hawley, had taken wives to tamp down the rumors, not wanting to tarnish the macho band image the band had.