Uncertain Encounters

My eyes opened. Was that the sound of a door shutting? The room was dark, but not pitch dark. Not long after dawn? My mouth was dry and my head hurt. I knew this feeling, but I hadn't felt it often. And my ass hurt. Where was I? I swiveled my head. I still didn't know. This wasn't my bedroom. I hadn't been in my apartment more than a couple of weeks, but this wasn't it. This was a seedy motel room. I groaned. Shit. Booze and pills again. I hadn't done this in a while.

And sex. And I hadn't done it to someone else. Someone else had done it to me--I was a submissive, though, so...

I was on my back on the bed, naked. My legs were bent and spread, my feet flat on the sheets. My pelvis was raised, a couple of pillows jammed under my waist. My ass hurt. My ass felt like it was on fire. I reached down with my hand, groaning because I realized all of my muscles ached. I knew this feeling too, but not for some time either. I knew what had happened, but how bad? How often? Who? I sure as hell hadn't done that for a while. I moved here resolved I would be more careful than this. But I don't think I did this. I think somebody did this knowing I was vulnerable.

Shit, he must have been a monster. I was dilated for a really big one. He'd barebacked me. My fingers came away with cum on them. The cum had dribbled down almost to my knees. He'd pumped me full of cum, he had.

Where was I? What had happened? Who? Where had I been last night. With whom? How much had I had to drink and why? I knew I had to have had one tied on--enough that I lost my senses and my control, or I wouldn't be here now. Not just drink. Pills too. Watch out for those pills. Wherever this was. And I wouldn't be in this position--naked and on my back and what obviously was a hotel room and with my legs spread--or in this condition--fucked, unless I'd been on a drink and pills binge. Not just fucked, but royally fucked from what I could tell of the pain in my ass and how dilated I still was. My hole was still pulsing. It pulled at my finger when I moved it down there. And there was cum smeared up my belly too. I'd cum as well. How many times? For that matter, how many men? I had been drugged and gangbanged before. I thought those times were over. I felt drained. I felt violated.

But why was I purring. I felt satisfied as well.

But I'd gotten blotto drunk and had lost total control. I hadn't gotten here on my own steam. And from what I could remember, it hadn't started here. A party. I'd been at a party. I'd been under a guy with him stroking my legs, coaxing me to open them for him in someone's house--a bedroom. There was something before here. How? With whom?

I rolled over onto the side of the bed on my buttocks with a groan, putting my feet over the side. I stepped onto something squishy and looked down. Condoms. Spent rubbers. Two of them on the floor by the side of the bed. Not just barebacked but condoms had been used too. More than one guy then, probably.

Shit. I'd been fucked more than once. Black bulls. That just flashed through my brain. It was a black bull night.

I picked up the portfolio on the nightstand. It claimed this was a Super 6 motel in Blacksburg, Virginia. Well, at least I was still in town. Clothes were strewn out on the floor between the door and the bed. My clothes. I recognized them. The clothes I'd worn last night. To a party. A party off campus after a Virginia Tech football game. Bits and pieces were coming back to me. I hadn't gone alone. It was a party I'd known about. I was surprised about the party actually. I wonder why I was surprised.

Dr. Mason of the Sports media department. That was it. My faculty sponsor. He'd invited me to go to a victory party while we were watching the Virginia Tech-Pitt game in the stands. It was part of the faculty identifying with the students, he'd said. A faculty party but with students there. Hunky students, he'd said. Real studs. Some of the faculty too, he'd said.

Did he do this? I knew he was gay and he was being quite friendly to me. I'd even admitted to him that I was gay too. I'd also admitted to have been quite a player at one time. That was before, when I was being interviewed for this job. I knew he was gay because he'd fucked me then. Part of the interview, he'd said. I'd passed with flying colors, he'd said. I knew he'd be after me again here in Blacksburg. I'd expected it last evening when he invited me to the party.

But he was what, in his fifties? He couldn't have manhandled me into this position. And he didn't have the size to have dilated me this much. I was sure it had been a stud--at the party and then here. And he was the wrong color. I'd been fucked by a black bull.

Now why did I think that? Why was I so certain he was black--and a bull? I stretched back out on the bed and calmed myself. I'd think about this. It would come back into shape. I maybe wouldn't remember it all as drunk as I'd been, but I should be able to piece more of it together. What was it about a black? No, not one black. There were a lot of guys at the party from the sports program. A lot of black bulls roaming around, getting close, touching, speaking in double entendres, trying to make me.

Well, one of them or more had made me. But which one? Would I encounter him again? Was I getting into a master-slave position again? I'd been determined to avoid that when I moved. Bits and pieces were emerging from the fog. There was no question that I had been mastered--held immobile, penetrated, fully possessed, fucked by a bull stud.

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift. The sense of black arms around me, a black body entwining, possessing, controlling mine swam up into my mind. We were on a bed, in a bedroom, but not here in this motel--not at first. There was music and loud conversation nearby. Hands all over me. Rough hands, big hands. Between my legs, coaxing my legs open. Moving between them. The encompassing strength of the embrace. The gasp of the penetration. The immediate demand to stretch or split, the vigorous, complete taking.

There at the party, and then again here, in the motel room.

I lay there, on the motel room bed, moving my pelvis, stroking my cock, half way remembering the muscular black body enveloping me and being possessed, stretched, consumed inside. But... I... just couldn't quite bring the image together more than that. And it wasn't this motel room. It was a bedroom in a house--where the party was. Not here--not at first. But later.

I shot my load up my belly with a little cry and sank, exhausted, into the sheets. I turned my cheek to the side and tried to remember more--tried to remember how I got here. What I had done here? Who I had done it with? Who had done it to me?

But my last thought before I drifted off into an exhausted sleep was, welcome to Blacksburg. Welcome to Virginia Tech.

* * * *

I suppose it would be justified to finger me as being fickle as, at twenty-five, I had come to Blacksburg and Virginia Tech to begin a third career, this time somewhere more rural, because international and urban venues had not been too kind to me. I was, though, trying to bring all of my previous training to bear on this new career.

I had started as a male figure skater, which required every bit of athleticism as being a football or hockey player did. Whatever I seemed to do in life, though, sex scandal seemed to follow me. I trained in the era in which Rick Callahan ruled as the male skating coach in Colorado Springs. He took me on the Grand Prix circuit and to a top-ten finish at an Olympics. After I had moved on to acting and commercial male modeling, though, he'd become the center of a sexual abuse scandal, charged with sexually mastering the skaters he trained. The media came after me for my comment on that, which I never have given. But, yes, of course he mastered me sexually. That was crucial to his training technique. But he wasn't the only one at the time. The gymnastics coach when I started college, a muscular black bull, also was covering me at the time. When his abuse was uncovered, my attendance at the small sports college in Colorado Springs was mentioned in passing, but, again, I had moved on by then and the media had current students of his to feed on.

I could see that my skating career would be short-lived, if notable, and I also was being covered by a former skating star who was doing commentary on the skating events, so I got the idea of following that line--taking acting and media communications and training to be a sports commentator. My second career was in commercial modeling and some Broadway acting, though, while I was studying media communications at New York University and then picking up an MFA at the NYU Tisch School of the Arts. At the same time, I reveled in New York social life, parties, booze and liquor, and sex. That's what I really was skilled in--submissive sex, trading on my slender, boyish good looks, flexibility, and willingness to give blow jobs and take cock.

This, unfortunately, had led to another scandal when a Broadway actress named me as correspondent in a divorce case from her even-better-known Broadway and movie actor husband. It was all true, of course, but before the scandal broke open, I already was burned out on New York and constant, indiscriminate sex and thus, MFA close enough in hand to do the final papers from a remove, when Professor Mikhail Mason of the sports media department of a rural university in Virginia, Virginia Tech, who was doing a guest lecture at NYU, proposed while he was fucking me after I'd acted as his student guide that I take a junior teaching slot in his department, I accepted between him on top in a doggie fuck and me on top in a cowboy.

I assumed that when I came to Virginia Tech, he would expect me to service him regularly and maybe even enter in a long-term relationship with him, but I was open to the possibility of something more steady and monogamous than I'd been dealing in in New York City, so I came to the countryside willingly. He was good-looking and in great shape for his age. He also could protect my back in the department for as long as I pleased him. I knew that was important in university teaching departments, which I understood could be real political snake pits.

But after going with him to the first party he asked me to attend with him, I hadn't pleased him.

"You disappeared from the party last night," Mason said when I dragged into the university. Luckily, the only class I had to teach--in constructing a sideline interview on the run, elements always to include--didn't start until 2:00 in the afternoon. I managed to get back to my new apartment, shower, change, and get to the departmental offices by 10:00 a.m. I needed to be that that early because I hadn't written out the lesson plan yet.

"I had a headache, and when I needed to leave, I looked around and couldn't find you. You were talking with an undergraduate student the last time I saw you, and--"

"Right before you went up on the table in just your briefs to show them how flexible a figure skater had to be and to dance," he said. He was smiling, though, so I guess Mason wasn't going Puritan on me.

"I'm not good with liquor," I said.

"Or pills. I told you it wasn't a good idea to take the pink ones."

"Or pills. Yes, I'll be careful." I'd been shooting in the dark with the suggestion he was taken up in conversation, and more, with an undergraduate student, but I apparently had been right. He didn't contradict me and he, in fact, hadn't been in view the last I could remember of the party. Maybe he could help me, though. "There was a black guy there when I climbed up on the table, I think."

"There were black guys all around, Conner," Mason said, his tone one of amusement. "The party was at Dalton Ashby's house. He's the football team's Offensive Coordinator. And this is the south. Most of the team and those working with them are black. When you were on that table, I think everyone swirling around you were black athletic types. I hope they don't intimidate you."

"Of course big black guys intimidate me," I said, but being what we were, my smile told Mason they aroused me too. Mason had used a belt on me in New York and I'd responded well to that. He couldn't tell me what black guy had taken me back to the bedrooms last evening, so it was time to change the subject while we were talking about--or around the topic of--rough sex. "I was sorry we only went to the party together--that we didn't leave it together. Maybe we could--"

"I could take you to dinner tonight--or, rather, Eli Banks and I could. You haven't met Eli yet. He's a former Virginia Tech football star who does the color commentary for the university's home games. If that's what you're interested in doing for sports, you need to know him."

"Sure," I answered. That didn't sound like a sex date, but I'd offered openly enough, and there was time to go there if Mason had that in mind. "What time? Where?"

"I don't know where. Let's say I pick you up at your apartment for drinks first and... maybe if you bring an overnight bag, I could bring you into the university tomorrow morning."

Well, OK, there it was. "Fine," I said.

The 2:00 p.m. class in sports interviewing that afternoon was the third one of the semester. It wasn't hard to do because it consisted mostly of a video of actual interviews, along with background information on what was happening on that sports day and in the life of the athlete who was actually interviewed. We watched the video and then critiqued it. I'd viewed all of the videos to be used in the class before arriving in Virginia Tech, so I was at least one step ahead of the students.

It was an easy A class for the university athletes, so that's what most of the students were. Some of the students were smarter than others--the basketball and baseball players, in particular--in realizing that the class also could be useful for them in the future. Sports casting was a possible career--or later career--choice for them, as it was for me. On the flip side it gave the football player and idea of what questions he'd be asked in an interview and pointers on what a good response would be. The football players hadn't seemed to get this, though, and, although several were enrolled in the class, none had shown up to the first two classes.

They all showed up today, though. They all were big black bulls. And they all stared me down with smirks on their faces for the whole class. At least two of them, Tyree Waller and Jermaine King, I recognized from the party the previous night at the assistant football coach's house. I couldn't say they were floating around the table I'd been dancing on in my briefs--or if some of the other football players who had suddenly shown up for class had been there too--but it was obvious that I had become a focus of their amusement. And I'm not sure that was all it was. A couple of them were giving me "those" looks that I knew so well from pickup bars.

At the end of the class, Tyree Waller, who was the second-string quarterback, a sophomore training to move up into the lead quarterback slot the next year, lingered in front of my desk, which I had been standing behind for the class because the black bull football players may have thought the situation was amusing--at least some of them having seen me dance the pole on a table in nearly the altogether the previous night without a pole--but, in addition to embarrassing, I found it arousing. As soon as I saw the eyes go to my crotch, checking me out when I, at least, knew I was half hard, I'd gone behind cover. Tyree stood there the longest moment, giving me an assessing look. It struck me that he might have been either the guy who had fucked me at the party or later in the motel.

But Tyree had to be not much younger than I was. He wasn't of sophomore college age from the look of him--tall, big, all muscle, and mature looking, with dreadlocks and extensive tattooing. He had the thuggish look of having taken his time to get out of high school and then maximizing his eligible playing time so that he'd be highly honed when he got the chance to show what he could do with a football on the television.

The look he was giving me indicated that he knew what to do with me if he wanted to--and that I would let him do it. I wondered if that meant he'd already done it. But, without saying anything and just giving me a bit of a smirk, he followed his teammates out of the classroom.

He'd made an impression on me, that was for sure. That night I dreamt of him. I didn't know it was him at first. At first, it was just a black bull of a football player stripping off his football jersey, and standing there, smirking at me, in just his low-rise, tight football pants. I was lying on some sort of ottoman in my dream, out on a green-grass football field. I was reclining back on my elbows, my legs spread. I was naked. He stood in front of me, identified as Tyree now, and slowly unlaced the fly of his pants until his thick, long, jet-black cock popped out. Of course he was huge and of course he was in hard erection. As he moved toward me, between my thighs, I raised and spread my legs, using my well-honed leg muscles to raise them in a perfect V without help from hands. There are those who say that you don't have the sensation of feeling in a dream, but I felt every inch of Tyree's thick, long, black cock entering me. I felt him possessing me and fucking me between those perfectly Ved legs.

I felt every thrust. He put power behind the thrust. It wasn't lovemaking. It was fucking. It was domination. I felt a vein of hate and resentment behind it. I was a white man, he a black, and he was getting a bit back that went beyond me being Conner Blair and he being Tyree Waller. He was gripping my hip between his hands, holding me steadfastly in place. I attempted to roll away from him in the dream just to assure myself he didn't totally control me if I didn't want him to. But he surprised me by backhanding me across the face. It was a dream; it didn't physically hurt. But it effectively dominated me and I lay back in the dream and let him take whatever he wanted. He wanted to slap me a couple of more times and then ride me hard. In the dream I found the rough domination arousing. I'm afraid I found it that way in real life too.

I had thought it had been an older man in the motel the previous night. But it very well could have been Tyree, I realized when I woke, on top of the sheets, naked, my cock in my hand, but spent, cum globbed on my belly.

Dominating black bulls had been my weakness in New York. It appeared they might prove to be my weakness in Blacksburg as well.

* * * *

Eli Banks, the university's media sports announcer, was black. He also was one of the men I remember from the party at Dalton Ashby's. The three of us--Professor Mason, Banks, and I--met at PK's Bar and Grill on Faculty street across North Main Street from the Virginia Tech campus. It shouldn't have surprised me either that I'd seen Banks before or that he was black, but it did, and I immediately started wondering if he had been either the guy who fucked me at the party or who took me to the motel and fucked me. It was becoming an obsession of mine to figure that out.

He was a handsome man, but he didn't have the body build I'd imaged. I'd had the sensation of muscular men. I'd been controlled closely, not having the feeling that I could struggle against the man embracing me. Banks was tall and rangy. I couldn't imagine what position he'd had on the football team when he was at Virginia Tech. It must have been a runner and receiver of some sort--or maybe the quarterback if his specialty was evading tackles. Or he must have trimmed down a lot. He looked like he was in his thirties, which also was a surprise. I'd heard some of the games being announced, and I would have thought the announcer was some older white dude from his voice. When he spoke to me on the patio at PK's, I knew that he was the announcer.