Room ServicebyCal Y. Pygia©
As several unsavory possibilities presented themselves to my imagination, my cock wilted.
Perhaps he was planning to rob me!
"I've been a lot of things--bellhop, tailor, disc jockey, masseuse, to name only a few," Rick had told me earlier. Did his list of past vocations include robber? I wondered.
A darker thought occurred to me. Maybe this bellhop meant to kill me!
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to open my eyes. I must see what this man astride my calves and ankles intended to do to me!
"Don't do it!" he warned.
Again, it was as if the bastard could read my mind!
I dared not disobey him. What if a knife were inches from my throat--or eyes? If I defied him, would he plunge the sharp, pointed blade into my throat, my eyes, or, worst of all, my scrotum? Would he leave me dying, blind and naked, in a blood-soaked bed?
I opened my mouth to speak, but he refused to let me, silencing me with but a single word:
He made me wait, still and silent, for what seemed an eternity but was, perhaps, no more than a few more minutes. Finally, when I thought that I must go insane with dread, he said, "Open your eyes."
I did so, staring wild-eyed and wide-eyed into his perfectly serene, handsome face. He smiled at me. It was an unnerving, rather than reassuring, expression, though, which did not touch his eyes.
"What went through your head, lying there, in the stillness, in the silence?" he asked me.
I thought about lying to him, but I knew better. Any attempt at deception would fail. He'd read my thoughts often enough, or seemed to have. He would know now, instantly, whether I told the truth. If I lied, he would be displeased; I sensed that. I also sensed that I did not want to displease him. Whatever he was--bellhop or something much different, something that was perhaps dangerous and evil--I knew better than to lie to him, knew better than to displease him. I swallowed before stammering my confession: "First, I thought that you were alternating between massage--and masturbation--and rest; then, I thought that you might intend to rob--or even to kill--me."
He smiled--or, rather, his lips smiled; his eyes did not. I had the sudden conviction, borne of instinct and intuition, that this bellhop was very dangerous, indeed, and that, whatever else he might be, he was hardly human in any real sense of the word. The words "monster" and "fiend" flashed before my mind. There was no reason to suppose him to be such, of course, but hunches are not born of logic. This idea that Rick--or whatever his real name might be, if he had a name at all--might be more--or less--than human, and dangerous to cross, was the product of a gut feeling, predicated upon his strange serenity, his humorless smile, and the strangeness of the situation in which I found myself with him, here and now, in a luxury hotel in America's Finest City, hundreds of miles away from my home in The City of Angels.
Rick reached for my face--I managed not to recoil. His forefinger extended, he traced its tip slowly, tenderly, lovingly down the side of my cheek, and he spoke, softly, gently, slowly, as if to an uncomprehending child whom he would comfort with the tone of his voice. "And how did you feel, sir, when you were thinking such thoughts?"
Immediately, as before, I suppressed the impulse to lie: "At first, pleased; then annoyed; then, disturbed; finally, afraid."
Again, his forefinger traced the curve of my cheek. "How do you feel now, this instant?"
I gulped. "Terrified."
He chuckled. "Of me?"
He stared into my eyes. I wanted to avert my gaze, but I could not. His eyes were mesmerizing. "You have told the truth," he decided. "But you have thought--" he paused, seeking the word he wanted--"ungenerously--about me."
He seized my testicles in his fist, twisting and squeezing them unmercifully.
I thrashed and writhed, shrieking in agony.
He released my balls.
I gasped, stifling my sobs.
"Don't lie to me," he said, his voice soft. "You are not sorry."
Tears had sprung to my eyes, wrung from my soul by the terror and pain I felt. They coursed down my cheeks.
"Your thoughts as to my motives were ungenerous," he repeated. "Were they not?"
"Yes," I blubbered. "They were."
"For that, you shall pay," the bellhop--or whatever he was--answered.
I said nothing, waiting.
"I was going to suck your cock," he announced, "but, now, you shall suck mine. I was going to let you fuck me, but, now, I shall fuck you. Kneel and suck me," he ordered.
Rising, he allowed me to slide off the bed. He sat at the edge of the mattress, legs spread, and I knelt on the carpet, before him. Unlike my penis, which had softened and shrunk, going limp from fear and pain, Rick's remained stiff and swollen, standing upright before his six-pack abs, the glans a deep, ripe purple and the veins thick with surging blood; his balls were high inside his contracted scrotum. If anything, he seemed more sexually excited than ever. "Suck me, bitch!" he demanded.
My reservations about Rick, or whoever--or whatever--he was notwithstanding, I was happy to obey this command, and, bending forward at the waist, I parted my lips above his erection, letting them slide down, along the rigid column of flesh, pumping the circle of my lips back and forth, up and down, upon its stiff, swollen length. I felt a slight sense of humiliation. Although I had long ago come to terms with my homosexual inclinations, sucking another guy's prick always made me feel slightly ashamed--probably, I guessed, because, my own fondness for cock aside, the society--indeed, the culture--in which I lived and was a part continued to find this activity loathsome and the men who engaged in it, whether on the giving or the receiving end, detestable.
"Uh! That's right, slut! Suck my cock!"
I let his wet, saliva-glistening cock slide free of my mouth, kissing its purple glans, and licked it as if it were a lollipop. I lowered my head, licking and kissing the flesh of his scrotum and nursing at the balls within the velvet-soft purse of skin. The silken texture of a man's genitals--cock and balls, alike--had amazed me the first time I'd ever taken them in my hand or into my mouth. I'd expected them to be less soft and smooth, perhaps because of the rigidity of the swollen cock and the firmness of the egg-shaped testicles, but, instead, to my amazement--and pleasure--I found them to be incredibly soft and smooth--and sexy. I found Rick's prick to be no less stimulating, and I sucked his cock with relish, enthusiastically and energetically, making it my mission to bring him the thrill and exhilaration of orgasm and the intense, explosive release of ejaculation. I wanted his sperm in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat; I wanted his semen on my lips and nose and cheeks, and I wanted the scent of his salty, viscid seed upon my breath for hours.
As I continued to suck his magnificent cock, the organ took on a nasty taste. I wrinkled my nose in distaste, but kept fucking him with my face, jabbing my open mouth down over his prick and sliding my rounded lips back up its shaft. The nasty flavor became thoroughly disgusting, and I almost choked on the foul taste. However, I forced myself to continue to suck him, concentrating on the smooth column of flesh within the ring of my lips and the clump of his balls mere inches beneath my nose. I increased the tempo of my sucking, my head bobbing more and more rapidly and forcefully up and down upon his distended member. Again, the awful taste of his cock flooded my mouth. My tongue seemed to recoil from the odious flavor, and I had to repress my gag reflex, even as my stomach heaved. I made myself continue, afraid of what might happen if I quit before "Rick" permitted me to do so, riding his cock with my rounded lips and willing him to come, come, come and shoot his load now.
The Rick-thing hung on, refusing to reach the point of no return, groaning and moaning and rolling and bucking his hips as he thrashed about on the mattress, now on his back rather than seated at the edge of the bed. In a moment, his feverish groans gave way to howls and snarls and growls, as if he were a mad dog or an enraged werewolf.
My heart pounded inside my chest, not with sexual excitement but with fear--with terror--and the bedroom walls quaked, the ceiling sagging, and the bed upon which "Rick" lay sprawled upon his back actually rose into the air--me, kneeling on nothing, rising with it, my mouth still fastened upon the bellhop-thing's cock.
"Stop!" Rick thundered.
I paused in mid mouth-stroke, my lips, having traveled halfway down his trembling shaft, stopping inches from his balls. The taste of his member was so vile that I thought I'd vomit if I had to keep it in my mouth for even a second longer.
"Release me, bitch."
Gladly, I let his cock trail from between my lips.
The bed, like my kneecaps, had settled back onto the bedroom's carpeted floor.
In the dim light, I saw that his cock was covered in oozing, open sores. Pus ran down the length of his swollen cock, green and yellow and white. These were the foul emissions that I'd tasted while sucking his prick. Wanting with all my heart to spit out the putrid secretions, I dared not, for he might see such an act as insulting to him. Instead, trembling, I swallowed the fetid fluids.
"Get on the bed," I was instructed, "on your elbows and knees, with your whore's ass facing me."
I did as I'd been told, clutching the blankets to hold on, as the bed had again floated into the air and was spinning fast in the opposite direction to the room, which also rotated, so fast that the walls were but blurs and windows, drapes, paintings, mirrors, and other wall-mounted objects repeated themselves in a wild, whirling procession. I felt sick to my stomach, but I fought down the rising gorge, afraid to be sick without permission. Abruptly, the spinning--both of the walls and of the bed--ceased, and I felt "Rick's" prick press between the cheeks of my ass.
The rigid prick shoved hard against my anus, the rubbery glans seeking entrance to my depths, but my sphincter offered stout resistance, preventing the entrance of the would-be trespasser. "Rick" drew back his hips, plunging his cock forward, and the tip shoved through my asshole, propping open this narrow entranceway with its massive girth. He shoved his hips forward again and again, sending his hard cock deeper into my impaled bottom. I felt my sphincter open, widening to accept him, and then his pubes ground hard against my buttocks, flattening them. My ass was fully skewered by his prick.
My bowels felt watery. My knees would have buckled, had I not been kneeling, with my elbows supporting the weight of my upper body. As he remained still, occupying my bowels, it seemed that his already-stiff-and-swollen cock expanded more, lengthened further, and became even stiffer than it already was. "Rick" had a big penis; erect, it was a monster--but, it appeared, it could become larger still, perhaps truly gargantuan. I was afraid--terrified--that I would not be able to accommodate him and that, consequently, were he to fuck me, he would split me apart.
"How's it feel, bitch?" he snarled.
Tears fell from my eyes. "Please," I murmured, "please . . . don't . . . ."
He laughed harshly. "I'm going to fuck you to death!"
His hips drew back, and I felt his log-size cock slide roughly back through my asshole. When only the glans, now as big as a fist, remained within my reamed anus, he shoved his huge prick home again, with savage fury, and I felt the organ--now seemingly as thick, jagged, and splintery as a telephone pole, rather than smooth and sleek--thrust its way into my depths. I cried out, in anguish and in terror.
The bellhop-thing laughed, fucking me brutally. His enormous prick shoved back and forth within my asshole, within my entrails, and I knew, not merely believed, that he would kill me, that he would literally fuck me to death, as he had threatened, especially since his penis seemed to have grown sharp-pointed barbs that ripped and tore at my bowels and anus as he drove his instrument of torture back and forth through my asshole and rectum.
A mirror appeared before me, and, in its swirling, smoky surface, I could see his cock, as if it were someone else's prick, rather the one that ravaged me from behind, and I could see my huge-stretched anus and my impaled buttocks, as if they belonged to another version of myself. I wondered at this strange and startling vision, asking myself what was happening, and why, but there were no answers. I looked at the images in the mirror--I doubted that they were actual reflections--and saw that "Rick's" bloated cock, still oozing and streaming foul fluids, had erupted in thorns. These same spines assaulted my buttocks, my anus, and my rectum as the huge, blood-streaked prick shoved its way into my depths again and again. The bed, insanely, seemed to turn to quicksand, sucking me down, inside itself, but the monstrous, hideous penis remained impaled within my bottom, and its owner continued to fuck me mercilessly. Dully, I wondered what was happening, but my senses were too full of pain and horror and dread for me to concentrate much on the bizarre changes that were occurring to the furniture and the rest of my environment.
The walls had been painted, but now wallpaper stretched across them as if some invisible hand were spreading the covering across them with impossible speed. One layer replaced another, plaid giving way to paper bearing fruits, which was replaced by striped paper. The bed became a tomb, then a bucking bronco, then a speedboat, with the carpet changing from marble to sod to seas. Strange beasts and birds and plants slithered, sprang, crept, flew, streaked, and grew in an instant, out of nothingness, their bodies bizarre and perverted distortions of actual animals and trees, looking like the demonic creatures depicted in the nightmarish works of Hieronymus Bosch. Inside my asshole and rectum, the spiked penis writhed like a snake, hissing and boiling. My blistered buttocks burned and itched terribly. I cried out, shrieking, and the thing that was fucking me laughed.
The air filled with thick, acrid smoke and the scents of sulfur and brimstone.
Then, as the penis, now a slicing sword, split me asunder, all went black, still, and silent, and, I thought, I'm dead.
When I awakened, Rick was beside me, a worried look on his handsome countenance. He was naked, like me, but his cock, although unusually long, was not enormous, nor was it festooned with thorns, and no foul fluids dripped or oozed from open sores. It was, except for its larger-than-average size, normal in every respect, as beautiful as any cock I'd ever seen, and attractive rather than repulsive.
The bed was a bed, the walls were the same color as they'd been before they'd seemed to change, and the floor was neither marble, sod, nor water. It was as it had been before the sudden, wild alterations had warped reality, transforming things that are into things impossible to exist.
"Thank God you're all right!" the bellhop said. He looked relieved.
"What happened?" I demanded. "The last I recall--" I gave him a harsh look--"before you turned into a fiend and raped me--was your going out to buy me a pair of swim trunks."
"I got them. Forest green. You tried them on, remember?"
"Then why am I naked now?" I looked at his bare chest and his cock and balls. "Why are you naked?"
"You wanted a massage," Rick explained. "You wanted sex, too."
I considered his words. Dimly, I recalled wanting what he'd described. A massage. Sex. I hadn't wanted to suck a dick that tasted like death or be fucked in the ass by a cock as thick as a telephone pole, equipped with thorns, and able to transform itself into a fucking sword, though, remembering these things as well--and the bed's turning into quicksand, swallowing me--and the pain and the terror I'd felt.
"I was worried about you," Rick confided.
"What happened?" I demanded again. "Tell me, or I'll call the cops."
"I spiked your liquor with LSD," the bellhop explained.
"Why the hell would you do something like that?" I thundered.
He shrugged, averting his eyes from my angry stare. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he ventured. "I thought it would enhance your sensations, heighten your consciousness, intensify your perceptions, increase your orgasm. Now, I know it was stupid--stupid and dangerous."
It had seemed as if Rick could read my mind, but that, too, had been a mere trick of the drug he'd given me without my knowledge or consent.
I should call the police, I told myself. What Rick had done was stupid, as he'd said, and dangerous. He could have killed me. On the other hand, the orgasm I'd experienced was the best I'd ever had. It had made me feel one with the universe, one with nature, one with God; even as I felt as if I were drowning in quicksand, I'd ejaculated, and my semen seemed to fount and flow as lava from a volcano, an endless stream of molten pleasure. It had felt as if I were pouring myself out with the sperm I spurted into the sheets, into the thickening quicksand of my incipient unconsciousness, and, after losing myself to the silent darkness, it was as if I were all in all, everywhere present at once, in a timeless and eternal state of joy. "I could call the police," I told Rick, "and I probably should."
He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. "Forgive me," he pleaded. "I'm not a bad guy, really, just a stupid, immature ass."
"Instead, you're going to suck my cock, and then I'm going to fuck you in the ass."
The bellhop gulped.
"First, though, you're going to have a drink or two." I'd make him drink the same liquor I'd drunk, the whisky he'd spiked with LSD.
We rose from the bed, walked into the living room, and went to the bar, where I poured him two fingers of scotch on the rocks.
I smiled as, with a trembling hand, he accepted the glass of amber liquid.
"Down the hatch," I said.