Blue Dragon

A gay story: Blue Dragon “No, sweetie, I don’t want to hear about Key West again. That’s your little impossible dream. I’m getting my dream right here, thank you very much.”

“I’m telling you it’s neither a dream nor impossible, Jewel,” I said, as I mixed two cappuccinos for a pair of matrons incongruously dressed to the nines over by the front window. You only needed to look out of the window and up and down the street to realize that there wasn’t anything in Clarksburg, Ohio, to dress to the nines for. Nearly half the storefront windows on the three-block Main Street were soaped over. The dusty little burg too far away from both Springfield and I-70 to attract any real business was dying. So was I—dying from boredom from being stuck here.

Dying from the boring sex. What good was it to come out as gay in middle America when the gay sex scene where I was so boring?

“Soon as I’ve got enough money scraped together,” I continued, “I’m going to blow this joint. Key West was a real eye-opener. That was what real living was like—not like you and I face in this town.”

I took a long look at Jewel. That wasn’t his real name, of course. He had been Jerry most of the lifetime we’d known each other, growing up in this hick town, hanging together as the only two from the town who would admit to having the “affliction” the townspeople didn’t want to give an honest word to—even though I could name a few leading lights around here who were equally afflicted.

Jewel, the other guy who worked behind the counter with me as a coffee maker—in a more sophisticated town we’d be called baristas—was more “out there” than I was. We both were wearing tight slim jeans and cut-off T-shirts that showed our sculpted abs and pert belly buttons as a lifestyle statement. But Jewel was pushing it. He wasn’t into a sex change or anything, but he swished around like a junior high school cheerleader; grew his auburn hair long, down to his shoulders; and used heavy makeup on his face.

I said nothing, as his “coming out” became more pronounced. He was my best—just about my only—friend, and I wouldn’t have even this job in the Coffee Palace, the only shop with pretentions on the dying three-block main drag in Clarksburg, if it hadn’t been for him. As it was, we were key to the ambiance of the place. Most of the square-cut, “upright” citizens of the area surrounding the village drank their coffee in one of two diners. We were here for the eclectic crowd. The wealthier matrons who wanted to pretend Clarksburg wasn’t still in the Middle Ages and students from the colleges in nearby Springfield—Wittenberg and the community college—who wanted to brush against gaydom but didn’t want that known where they went to college.

I had the job because Phil, the owner, did guys and preferred them cross dressed. His choices in Clarksburg were down to Jewel, and Jewel didn’t agree to work either for or under Phil unless I was given a job too. Happily, Phil, middle-aged, dumpy, and rarely in the mood, wasn’t attracted to me. I wouldn’t put on a bustier and garter belt for him in private. I would, though, occasionally meet up with one of the supposedly upright citizens of the area for a quickie in the back of their car.

Despite the drought here, I did need occasional reminders that I wanted to be fucked by another man.

I had thought that was something—an occasional furtive suck or fuck—until I’d gone to the Florida keys for a week and gotten into one long fuck fest with men to be drooled over. Now, there was nothing more I wanted to do than to get out of this town to some place freer and more interesting in the way I’d experienced in Key West.

The topic had come up today because of the cut-off T-shirt I’d worn to work. Jewel and I both were wearing them, but whereas his had the saucy word “Anytime” across the front, I, steeped in misery from a “nothing happening” life, had chosen one saying “Anywhere Else” on it. Phil had scowled at me when he’d seen it and might have sent me home to change if the early morning rush hadn’t been so heavy.

Jewel had asked, “Where else, for instance?” and of course I had answered “Key West.” He knew I would. It was him picking at this scab, not me.

Twenty minutes later, almost precisely at 2:30 in the afternoon, the daily phenomenon set it. The customers had deserted the coffee shop, not to return until 4:00 p.m., when once again they would be there in force, each in her or his own section of the room—matrons in at least pairs in the windows; artsy college students, mostly males and most of these nervously looking around, in the center of the room; and in the afternoon hours, the last hour and a half we were open, occasionally a middle-aged man from the area skulking in the shadowy corners. Men who watched the other two groups: the women, to ensure their wives hadn’t shown up, and the center to speculate on picking a likely young man off.

This was what kept the Coffee Palace open—this last hour and a half of business—when nervous young male college students came in to hook up with a middle-aged local who would as likely shoot you dead for even hinting they were interested in young men. But I knew who they were. Men like the senior Realtor and owner of Slocum Reality down the block, Jim Slocum, that leading citizen and head of household for a bouncy blonde wife, three tow-headed teenagers, two dogs, and a cat.

College students from nearby Springfield weren’t the only ones who sometimes left the Coffee Palace at 5:30 with these upstanding town fathers. Sometimes, when I was desperate for attention, it was me.

No one I’d ever hooked up with from Clarksburg was anything like that week I’d gloried through in Key West the previous summer, though. A quickie blow job on the sly or a lap fuck in the backseat of a car or one bent over the hood of a car in a deserted, shadowed park lot. That was it here. Everything on the sly and quick and furtive. Vanilla at its blandest.

What that left me with was wanting some of what I’d experienced in Key West—not knowing anything about any of that before; not experiencing any of it since. Wanting to get out of this nowhere town. To somewhere more exciting. Could I live full time in Key West? It scared me to think of doing that, though, a small-town hick like me. I had the looks, I thought. But the style? No way.

And I was frightened to even think of getting the sex that had turned me on the most.

At the both mysterious and predictable café clearing at 2:30, I walked to the front window and looked out. Nada. People didn’t just clear out of the Coffee Palace. They’d cleared out of the center of the dying village. I went out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the road. A few cars were parked at the curb. There had to be people around somewhere. Just not anywhere I could see.

I lifted my head and arms and gave a howl. Nada. No one came to the windows of the few stores open to see what was happening over at the Coffee Palace. No one came out onto the street.

I went back inside and behind the counter. Jewel wasn’t here, of course. This was his “quality” time with Phil. I don’t know what they did at home at night, but they certainly did it here, in the kitchen during the mystical hour and a half downtime in the afternoon. I guess it gave them a little thrill to do it here, where there was a chance a customer might walk in and want more than coffee and somehow would get as far as the door into the kitchen and see what was happening back there. Any sandwiches or anything like that were made by Phil, who wasn’t just the shop owner, he also was its cook, accountant, and floor scrubber.

I had to be a little jealous of them—of Jewel and Phil—I thought. They at least had a little danger and “something-other-than-vanilla” in their lives. It almost made me want to put on a dress and join them. Almost; except. Except that someone had to man the counter just in case. And the big except—Phil was an ugly pig. A one-time muscle man who had gone soft and to fat and who had lost three too many fist fights. All of the men I’d met and hooked up with in Key West were gods, not Phils. To pander to Phil’s fetishes would definitely be going in the wrong direction.

Jewel just didn’t know. He hadn’t experienced anything better. Better that he not, I thought. Key West had ruined me for real life in the Midwest.

With a sigh, followed by another “just to be sure” look beyond the front window to the deserted street, I pulled my stash of Drummer magazines—the gay male BDSM mag from the seventies through the nineties—out of my personal drawer under the counter and started scanning through a well-thumbed Drummer issue.

Some of this, yes, in Key West. But only the mildest elements of it. Still, even the thought of what little of it there was was stirring me. I felt myself harden as I thumbed through the magazines and looked at the photos and illustrations and read the captions.

My long sigh segued into a rumbling sound from beyond the café window, a sound that grew louder until, there, appearing on the street just outside the window, as if he were one of the models from Drummer, was a black-clad figure on a muscled-up Harley-Davidson. I looked down at the magazine and blinked my eyes and looked back up, through the window. It was like the man was walking off the page of Drummer as he swung his black-booted leg over the saddle of the cycle, lifted the monster machine on a kick stand, and turned and looked at me through the window of the café.

He couldn’t actually see me from the outside, of course, but it seemed like he could more than see me—that he could read my whole pathetic life with his eyes boring into me.

I gave a little gasp and a shudder, already fantasizing him inside me, as he strode to the door, opened it, and walked in. It was 2:45 in the afternoon. No one came into the coffee shop between 2:30 and 4:00. I knew I was in a dream. But it also seemed all so real. I knew my hard on was real.

He stood inside the door, looking around, his eyes taking me in, undressing me, and then moving on, around the room, seeing it all—all the dreary hick townness of it. His eyes came back to me, and a little smile formed on his mouth.

He looked dangerous. Swarthy, Italian, sensual, and pouty—a little cruel even. A shiver went up my spine. And he exhibited as being in total control of everything around him. Dominant. He certainly was in instant control of my emotions.

He was dressed completely in black, which went with his dark complexion and the black curly hair on his head, a lock of which hung down on his forehead. He took a couple of steps toward the counter, and I gasped as he came more into focus.

Still all in biker’s black, tight black leather pants, polished black boots, a black leather jacket hanging wide open. It was the shirt, though, that had me gasping—and more what it caged. The shirt was a black mesh athletic muscle shirt, and inside that, on his bronzed skin, was a caged animal. A full chest tattoo, mostly in a dark blue, with black outline and a few highlights in orange and red. Some sort of lizard was caged under his black-mesh T. The head was in the hollow of his left shoulder, a flicking red tongue reaching up and lapping around the man’s neck. An appendage reached up to his right shoulder, claws digging in there. The body of the lizard—or dragon, I guess, as I looked more closely at it—slanted down from his left to his right side, disappearing into his pants—making me, yes, want to see him pantless to be able to see where it went from there. Where was the tail? Was there a tail? The dragon’s right front appendage wrapped around the man’s chest on the left, reaching who knew where?

This couldn’t be real. This had to be a hallucination—stepping out of the pages of the Drummer magazine I’d been thumbing through.

But then he became all too real. “You open? Can a guy get a sandwich and a beer here?” he said, his voice baritone low, as he strode forward and perched on a stool on the other side of the counter from me.

* * * *

“We can do the sandwich, but we don’t serve beer here. Sorry. Here’s a menu of what we can do.”

I handed over the menu, captivated by his eyes. I had thought they were black, but they weren’t. They were a dark blue—dark as the blue of the caged tattoo on his chest I was having trouble not speaking to.

“Not old enough to serve beer?”

“No, that’s not it,” I answered, defensive and a little breathless. “I’m twenty. We don’t have a liquor license of any sort. This is a coffee house. There’s a beer joint—a roadhouse—out west of town on the cross street two blocks down. But they don’t open until 8:00.”

I don’t know if I would have told him about the roadhouse if I didn’t know it was closed. “There’s a minimart across the street and at the end of the block where you can buy an iced six pack, but you couldn’t drink it in here.” Had I said too much? Was I going to lose him?

“You don’t look twenty,” he said. “I’ll have a burger with fries and, I guess, coffee. A big one.”

“Anything special coffee?” I asked, pointing up to the menu board on the back wall. I knew I didn’t look twenty. Didn’t hardly look eighteen. Most of the men I encountered liked that. But I knew, I guess, why I established age right away. As for him, he could be anything from his late twenties into his early thirties. He was solid, not too tall or too short. He wouldn’t have to adjust his height when he bent me over.

Now why did I think of that?

And he had a weathered look about him. Probably went from riding the cycle across the country. He had to have come from somewhere else far away. He was much too exotic for southwest Ohio.

“None of that shit, thanks. Uh, sorry. Just make it black—and strong,” he said.

“I’ll put your burger order in and then come back to make up the coffee.”

I must have sounded like a dummy. He had me tongue-tied. I backed off to the swinging door to the kitchen, not taking my eyes off the guy. Still half believing I was hallucinating from something I’d seen in Drummer.

“Hey Phil,” I said, as I came through the door just enough to be in the kitchen rather than the café. “Customer out here wants a burger and fries. Medium?” I asked, looking back at the counter. My heart racing to find he was still sitting there.

“Moo, moo rare,” he answered.

I sent the word on. I was having trouble keeping a straight face. Here there was this rough-trade-looking dude bellied up to the counter and giving me a hard on, and there in the kitchen I’d caught Phil pushing Jewel, face to wall, up against the tiles next to Phil’s office door. Jewel’s jeans were off, and he’d been wearing black mesh stockings underneath held up with a garter belt. His feet were in red heels. Phil was fucking him from the backside.

Here was me, suspended between two worlds. Not getting anything from either one—or at least not yet. It would have been comical if it didn’t have me wound up so tightly.

“It’s the down hour,” Phil growled, without extracting himself from Jewel’s ass.

What? He thought I was playing a joke? Rattling their cage for kicks?

“Nonetheless there’s a customer out here wanting a burger, and we have the ‘Open’ sign turned on. Want to check it out yourself? An out-of-towner.”

I could safely say that. There weren’t so many folks living here that I didn’t know them all at least on sight.

Phil then did pull out, zip himself up, and turn and walk toward me, giving me a hard look all the time. “This better not . . .” But he didn’t get any further, as he could see through the door to the counter now and verify for himself that there was customer. “Oh, for the love of . . . ,” he started to say, but then, after taking a hard look at the customer, he turned and headed for the stove.

I thought he was going to say something like no one was sitting at the counter. I would have believed that and it would have halfway verified what I already suspected. This was just too delicious to be real. But I guess that him going for the burger patties told me he could see the mysterious stranger too.

I went back to the counter, just on the other side of the exotic hunk, and, with hands trembling, started to make his coffee. Before the smell of the brewing coffee took over, I could smell him—a musky aftershave, but also the heady scent of man sweat. He’d been on a cycle on the road for who knew how long under the sun. And he was wearing black leather. My mind flipped back to Key West. It didn’t help me get control of my trembling hands.

There was a lot of sun and worked-up man sweat in Key West too. And release. A lot of glorious release in Key West.

“You aren’t from around here, are you?” I asked. I had to do something to cut the thick silence and my mind flipping off into all sorts of fantasies. Also, the look Phil had given the guy had startled me—sort of like he recognized him. It made me think I should recognize him too. I didn’t. I’m sure I would have remembered him if I’d ever seen him before—and subsequently dreamed about him. A lot.

“Just passing through,” he answered.

That surprised me and I let him know that it did. “Passing through? This isn’t really a passing through town. The town you would have come from would have been Nowhere and the next one you’d reach would be Nowhereelse.”

“I can appreciate that. A lot of nothing around here, it appears. I have a bit of business here, though. You don’t like being here much, do you?”

“Oh, does it show that much?” I asked. God, I wasn’t showing him a bad attitude, was I? It was circumstances just like this that kept me from becoming flouncy, like Jewel. I didn’t want to be all girlie and whiny for a macho guy like this.

“It’s on your shirt. The ‘Anywhere Else’ statement sort of gives you away.”

I laughed. He smiled. It was going to be OK. “Yeah, the shirt says it all, I guess.”

“It also says nice abs and belly button,” he said, pointing to what the cut-off T revealed. “Bet you’re sculpted nice up top too.”

Was he flirting with me? Oh, god, was he putting the make on me? I already was as hard as I thought I was going to get. Yes, I worked my body. But it wasn’t anything like his.

“That earring—in your right ear,” he went on to say. “Is that a statement in the traditional sense?”

“This earring?” I asked, lifting my thumb and forefinger to the diamond stud in my right ear. There wasn’t a matching one in the left. “Traditional sense?”

“Yeah, as in the old signal of an earring in the right ear meaning you take cock. You are gay, aren’t you? So, do you take cock? Do you want to take cock?”

“Yes, I’m gay,” I said. But, blushing, I turned away. The coffee was screaming that it was ready. And just at the right moment. Or wrong moment. Or whatever. I was beginning to hyperventilate. This had to be a dream. It was all moving too fast—and maybe too far too. Was what I thought I wanted being tested? Is this you, God, testing me?

I turned, still blushing, not able to look into his eyes, and set his coffee mug down on the counter in front of him. My eyes were on the turbulent liquid almost sloshing out of the cup because of my trembling hand. He reached for the hand and held it, maybe to calm me. But it wasn’t working that way.

“I asked if you took cock. I’ve had a long, dusty ride today. I need to get laid pretty bad. I’m tense. I need to give cock, and I don’t need a runaround about who will take it from me.”

The bell from the kitchen rang. “Your burger must be ready,” I said. And fled into the kitchen, where, indeed, the burger and fries were ready. Phil was already pushing Jewel’s cheek back to the wall when I came out of the kitchen.

The guy was sitting there when I returned, plate of burger and fries in hand, bottle of catsup under arm. He sat there calmly, completely nonplused, like he hadn’t just dropped a “let’s fuck” bomb on me, a bit of a smile on his face, and drinking his coffee.

I set the burger down in front of him.

“Yes, I take cock,” I blurted out and then found some counter cleaning that cried out to be done and meant I didn’t have to look at him.

“They call me Angel,” he said, his voice muffled a bit by the bite he’d taken of the burger.

I’ll just bet they do, I thought.

“You have a name?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m Casey,” I said, turning now, leaning on the back counter, my arms crossed over my chest, letting him take me all in, if that’s what he wanted to do. The shock was wearing off me, being replaced with lust and want. The man screamed of Key West—of release. Of good times. “And, yes, I take cock, I just said.” I hadn’t thought when I’d said it the first time. But since it had been said, I didn’t want it to be forgotten.

“And you want to take cock? Mine, for instance?”

“Yes, sure, why not?”

“You’re not sure?”

“Yes, I’ll take your cock.” And then when he just sat there looking at me like I hadn’t said enough, I said, “Yes, I want your cock. Yes, I want you to fuck me.”

“How much?” he asked, relaxing and smiling.

“Excuse me? I’m not going to pay you to fuck me.”

“No, how much do you want me to pay you for your ass? And then how much for more than that?”

I couldn’t help but sound wounded by that. I turned away again.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend, just to have the understanding between us quite clear. Have you ever been given a ride on a Harley, Casey?”

“No, never,” I answered, turning back to face him again. Not interested in a little misunderstanding that I was a whore getting in the way of what I suddenly wanted. That I suddenly wanted to be a whore for him.

“So, you’ve never been ridden on a Harley either?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ridden on a Harley, Casey. Fucked on a Harley. Strapped down on a Harley with your butt in the air, a cock working your ass. You want to get out of this town, Casey? You tired of the same old, same old? I can take you to places, do shit to you that you’ll remember forever. I’ll make you part of that Harley out there and fuck your lights out. What do you say?”

What I wanted to say was how did he get into my mind? How did he know what I wanted—know that that, indeed, was what I wanted from him? But it was all moving so fast, so far. “You move pretty fast. Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” is what I said. I moved down the counter from him and worked at taking the coffee basket out of the cappuccino machine and tossing the grounds out.

“I know what I want when I see it,” he answered, his voice still calm, matter-of-fact. We could be talking about what he wanted for desert here—the apple pie or the chocolate cake. “And I told you I wanted it too bad to play around getting it. I want to fuck you, and I think you want to be fucked. Fucked in a special way. I think you want to have Clarksburg fucked out of you. I think you’re wearing that T-shirt on purpose.”

“Sorry, I got work to do,” I said, scrubbing needlessly at the counter with a rag. “But it’s something to think about.” I could just as well have said “bingo.”

“Yes, it’s something to think about,” he said. “Think about the message you have scrawled across that nice chest of yours. For a couple of hours I can take you not just anywhere else, but over the moon.” He went back to biting on his burger. It was three quarters gone. I had one fourth of a burger to decide one way or the other. Just how brave was I? Did I believe all the shit I had been saying to Jewel about what I wanted?

“And, yeah, sure, I’m cocky about what I have to give. I have a cock that I could put in your ass and scrub the back of your teeth with.”

I grabbed a wet rag, came around the end of the counter, and started scrubbing tables down, getting ready for the 4:00 p.m. crowd. It already was pushing 3:30.

I was leaning over a table when I first became aware of his hot breath on my neck. Next I knew he had slapped the stack of Drummer magazines—the gay male BDSM magazines—down on top of the table I was swabbing. He obviously had gone behind the counter and found them laying there. He came in close behind me, pushing my body forward so that I had to stretch out my arms and dig my knuckles into the table top for support. I was looking out on the deserted street through the front window. How long would it be deserted, though? A shudder went through my body, at least partially, I had to admit, from the thrill of the danger of possible discovery.

“Is this what you want?” He hissed, his finger stabbing at the covers of Drummer.

“Yes . . . I think so,” I stammered.

“You think so. I can give you this. I can give you lots of this.”

He had his hands on my hips. But they slid around to the front from there and he was working my belt buckle, and then my zipper. And then I felt my jeans and briefs shimmy off my hips and down to my knees. I was huffing and puffing, hyperventilating.

“Nice,” he muttered, in reaction to moving a hand around to my lower belly, finding me in full erection, and fisting my cock. “I can do everything you see in those magazines. I will give you a great ride.”

“Oh shit, oh fuck,” I whined as he began to stroke my cock. And then a more forceful “Oh fuck!” as his fingers went to the rim of my asshole and inside. He began to finger fuck me.

I looked wildly out on the street. A car pulled up across the street and a couple got out of it and went into the furniture store. I was just that far from being seen being sexually assaulted. And there were Phil and Jewel in the back, from whence they could emerge at any moment. It was scary. It was exhilarating. It was so Key West. So much not Clarksburg.

Feeling me tighten, ready to blow, his hand moved down to the base of my cock, where he could get a grip on my balls too. He rolled the balls in his hand and then squeezed hard. Totally turned on, I ejaculated quickly, spouting my cream out on the cover of a Drummer magazine.

He laughed, moving his hands around to cover my pecs under the cut-off T-shirt and nuzzling his face in the hollow of my neck. He bit me there and I gave a little yelp. He laughed again. “You’re a sweet little piece. I’ll do you six ways from Sunday. I’ll do you in Drummer style. What time do you get off?”

Both relief and disappointment flooded in from different corners. He wasn’t going to do me right here—at least not any more than he’d already done me. “5:45, I croaked.”

“I’ll be here. Waiting for you out on the Harley. And just so you know, I bareback. I don’t do rubbers. But I keep clean.”

Both my arms and my knees gave out as he let loose of me, turned, and strode out the door. I was almost totally spread out on the table top, my bare belly rubbing my own cum into the cover of the Drummer magazine, as I watched him mount the Harley and drive off down the street.

The image of him mounting the Harley segued into the image of him mounting my ass, and I moaned.

No way I was going to do this, though. He was a sadist. He’d latched right into the Drummer world. Too chicken despite all I had said. Come 5:35, I’d be out the door in the back, into my Honda Civic, and taking back roads home.

This threatened to be way, way beyond Key West.

But it wasn’t a question of whether or not I wanted to have sex with him. I’d already had sex with him.

* * * *

So, this was what he’d meant about being made one with the Harley. The motorcycle was secured on strong stands, and I, naked, was belly down on the saddle, my arms raised and spread, tied off with leather strips on the handlebars. My ankles were pulled back on either side and tied off on the hubs of the back wheels. One of the saddlebags was under my lower belly, raising my ass toward the sky. Standing on the stirrups over my back, crouched over me, his hands on the handles of the Harley, a naked Angel was fucking my ass hard, deep, and fast.

I’d be screaming my head off except for two things. One, I had a ball gag in my mouth. Two, we were out in the country—who knew where?—behind what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse well off a country road. Who was out here to hear me scream? I was completely at this man’s mercy. If anything, that made me go harder.

I couldn’t say my screams wouldn’t be cries of passion. God, the man had a talented cock on him. Other than the threat of it—or possibly because of the threat of it—the fuck was glorious, and I was loving every exotic, pain-pleasure stroke of it.

Angel hadn’t been sitting out front, on his Harley, waiting from me at 5:45. He had been sitting on his Harley beside my Civic, in the back alley at 5:35—waiting for me.

I didn’t argue. It was karma. Fate, I decided. I swung my leg over the saddle, behind him, encircled his waist with my arms, and held on for dear life as he took me for a ride all through town and out into the countryside in several directions, not arriving at the abandoned farm until after 6:30. He seemed to know where he was going—and I knew the general area we were in, to the east of town. We’d crossed I-70—and took a sharp turn into the farm’s drive at a good clip, sending up gravel, and scaring the shit out of me—not for the first time during the ride.

Not for the last time that night.

I was exhausted when we arrived, in a grove of trees at the back of the dark and obviously abandoned Cape Cod-style farmhouse. And I think that exhausted—and cowed—was how he wanted me. We stood off at the side of the Harley, our bodies rocking against each other, as Angel pulled his jacket and mesh shirt off his body and then my T over my head. We kissed deeply as he worked both belt buckles and sent my jeans and briefs and his leather pants to the ground.

He was sucking on my tongue and rubbing our dicks together—his quite a bit longer than mine—when he broke away and whispered, “Tell me you’re over eighteen again.”

“I’m twenty. Want to see my driver’s license?”

“Tell me again you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Tell me you want me to do things to you. Things you’ve seen in Drummer.”

“What things?”

“Whatever I want. You don’t tell me that, I’ll take off and leave you here unfucked.”

“Do what you want with me. Do what they show in Drummer. Just don’t hurt me bad.” It was reluctantly given, with a whine. But he’d taken me too far for me not to want completion.

Fucking me, bound, on the Harley, was what he wanted to do with me. At least for the second round. For round one, he had me kneeling in front of him, sucking his cock. I’d given blow jobs before—lots of times—but, as with everything with Angel, this was something else. Not only did he have a thick Prince Albert ring through the glans, but there also were little gold balls running up the underside of his cock. I’d experienced a PA in Key West, but never those gold balls.

As over-the-top arousing as the subsequent belly-down position on the Harley was, I went up to cloud thirteen when Angel turned me onto my back on the Harley and retied me—my wrists to the handlebars again, but now my ankles bound together around his waist—and fucked me head on. What was special about this position was that I he held his torso away from my chest and I could watch the blue dragon on his chest move as his chest and belly muscles undulated in the effort of the vigorous, deep fuck. He also, somehow, got deeper inside me in this position. Deeper than I could remember anyone else having gone. And vigorous enough to pull multiple ejaculations out of me.

As he hit the zenith—and after I’d shot my load up his belly—he leaned his face down into mine, our foreheads touching, our eyes locked, as I felt him tense, hold, jerk, and give me his cum deep inside me. I’d never been barebacked before, and I didn’t know if I’d ever risk doing it again—or escape the consequences of having let him do it this time—but I’d never forget having done it, the total taking of it. Condom sex would never feel as complete again.

He pulled the ball gag over my head, tossed it to the side, and went immediately into a deep kiss—sticking his tongue down my throat and making me gag, before sucking on my tongue, holding my tongue between his teeth—applying pressure with his teeth. I began writhing under him, sure he was going to bite my tongue off, but just when I thought he was going to do it, he released the tongue, laughed, and whispered, “I never want you to become complacent with me. I always want fear to be part of your pleasure. But now all pleasure.”

I wondered what he meant, but only for a moment—until I realized that he was hard inside me again and was beginning to pump. Slowly this time, and this time I felt both the PA and the gold beads working my channel walls. Slowly, caressing them. He reached for my wrists, one after the other, freeing them, and reached back for the tie around my ankles, letting them separate, my heels to glide down and press into his buttocks. We embraced closely, rocking against each other, rocking with the rhythm of the slow pumping of his cock.

When I felt him tense again, ready to explode, he suddenly pushed up from me, and with his first release of cum slapped me hard against one check. Then he backhanded me on the down sweep at a second spouting. My head snapped back and forth in surprise and I cried out.

“Never want you not to know it can hurt,” he muttered.

Then he moved up my body, suspending his torso out over the front of the Harley, with his hands gripping on the handlebars, bearing his weight, while he presented his cock to my mouth for cleaning.

I’d thought we were done. We were both off the motorcycle and picking up our clothes.

“No, don’t put your jeans on. Let’s go in the house.”

“In the house? The place is deserted. No one lives here.”

“I do, at least for now,” he said, with a laugh.

We were in the kitchen, me sitting, still naked, and with my ankles bound to the back legs of the chair on either side and a dog collar around my neck, chained to the top slat of the chair back. Angel, naked, with me watching how the dragon played on his torso, moved around the kitchen like he really did live there. The electricity, if there ever had been any, was turned off, so, as it was getting dark, the candle light took over. There were candles everywhere. I was afraid he’d burn the place down. And, yes, it frightened me. I was bound to this chair. I could muscle it to the back door, but could I do it fast enough if the fire started in here?

“Aren’t the candles dangerous?” I asked.

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It keeps you on edge. More sensitive to everything I do to you.” He stepped over to beside the chair and wagged his cock at me. “Suck it.”

I took his cock in my mouth, and he reached down and crushed my balls in a fist. My eyes were watering; I was writhing and moaning. I pushed on his belly and thigh with my hands, but he was too strong for me. He didn’t budge.

“Don’t you dare bite the cock,” he demanded. He released my balls and started pumping my cock with his hand. But he was just teasing me. He released me, pulled his cock out of my mouth, and moved back to the stove. It was a wood stove, so he could fry the steaks he had in a skillet.

“I can burn the place down, if I want, you know. It’s mine.”

“What? For as long as you are squatting here?”

“No. It’s why I’m in Clarksburg. Signing the final papers that dump this place. It really is mine—for a couple of more days. Shall we fuck on the floor in the living room with the house burning around us?”

“Maybe not a good idea,” I said.

“But it would be memorable, wouldn’t it? Give you a memory of Clarksburg worth having.”

“I guess so.” I didn’t even want to think whether he was serious about that. By now, I would have believed it. The man was a fiend. But he also was an angel. I was lost to him. Even his torture made me go instantly hard and come fast and big.

After we ate. Fried steak, hunks of bread, and beer to wash it down—I don’t know when I’d had as big an appetite as this—he pushed my chair away from the table, knelt down in front of me, leaned over, took my balls in his mouth, and started to suck on them. At first gently, with me moaning and holding his head between my hands and then ever harder, with me writhing and whimpering and begging him to stop and trying, unsuccessfully, to push him away. He did pull away from me, but only to again tie my hands behind the back of the chair, and then he was back sucking my balls hard, with me crying and begging him to stop.

But I was hard. Not only that, but I came for him again. Never before had I come as often and prodigiously—not even during that week in Key West. It told me something about what I wanted. I couldn’t hide that this turned me on—and turned me up—as well. He moved his mouth to cover my cock and gave me head. But at the point of my next ejaculation, he was fisting and crushing my balls again. I gave him my cum in thrashing agony-pleasure, and even I noticed that I was so aroused that I just kept spouting.

He left me there, torso sagging in the chair, whimpering and fully exhausted, as he moved out of the room, taking two of the biggest candles with him. He came back several times, leaving with more candles.

“You’ll spend the night, of course,” he said when he came in for the last two candles. It didn’t sound like a question.

“I hadn’t thought I would. I hadn’t really—”

“I like you. I like you a lot. I want you to sleep with me tonight. I think we’re both lonely.”

What could I say? For starters he had me tied up, I had no transportation out of here other than his Harley, he was strong enough to manhandle me as he wanted, and my curiosity was always my downfall. For closers, I didn’t want this fantasy to end—even the pain part of it. Maybe especially the pain part of it. This was my Key West dream—over the top of my Key West dream. Right here in Clarksburg. When I woke up from this fantasy, I didn’t want the wonder and disappointment of having cut anything off short of what he wanted to do to me. Even if I could stop it.

I’d been thumbing through the Drummer magazines for years. I had melted at the thought of the experiences depicted in them. I’d never come this close to testing that out.

I’d had no idea two men could do what we did in his bedroom, a room with just a double-bed cot with a thin mattress.

I knew what doggy style was, but I was surprised when he said we were playing horsey, and he brought out a bridle tailored for such play, put it on me, and rode my ass around the room, with me moving on my hands and knees on the bare, worn wooden floor. I’d seen this done in Drummer. So this was what that was like.

Later, my wrists tied together and my legs bent around his waist, the ankles bound together, I was upended on my shoulders, my back rising against the side of the cot, and he was standing over me, facing the cot, and jack-hammering his cock down into my hole, while reaching back and milking my cock.

There was more, but it was the last act, deep into the night, that had me crying, jerking at the restraints, and, eventually blacking out. I was spread-eagled on the bed, my wrists and ankles tied off at the four corners, the ball gag back in my mouth. I was finding that the candles had another purpose than lighting the room. He was holding them, one by one, over my writhing body, tipping them, and letting the molten wax drip on my body—on my thighs and belly, my chest and arms. My calves and feet. Even on my dick and balls, although he was careful not to let the wax hit my bulb.

After doing my front, he turned me on my back and did it there too. I watched him, then, standing beside the bed, gathering molten wax, letting it cool a bit in his hand, and then slathering it on his cock. He came up on the bed, put an arm around my belly, lifting me up to my knees, mounted me with the still-warm wax slathered over his cock, and fucked me hard. Sometime after that, I blacked out, more from the rush of too much adrenaline and the exhaustion of the evening and night than from any real damage from the wax.

When I woke up in the morning, he was gone. And the restraints were gone as well. But I was covered in wax, so I knew it hadn’t all been a fantasy. I padded out to the kitchen, found a case knife, and peeled as much of the wax off me as I could reach. There was no way I was going to try the grungy shower in this house, and cold water—there surely being no hot water available—wouldn’t help.

I dressed and went outside. No Angel and no Harley. I’d been used, abused, and thrown aside. There was nothing that the Drummer magazine layouts had on me. This was more than Key West had been. It had been frightening, and it had been painful. And it had been glorious. I never had been taken that totally before. I was scared and ashamed and walking on the clouds.

I walked up the driveway and out onto the road. Not too far down the road, a Cadillac sedan came up behind me and honked its horn. Jim Slocum agreed to give me a ride to Main Street in Clarksburg and refrained from asking questions after it was obvious I wasn’t going to answer them. All I had to do for him was to lean over from the passenger seat in a remote parking area of the William Rogers Clark Park on the way into town and give him a vanilla blow job.

Usually he paid for it; this time the taxi ride covered the bill. Harkening back to having been insulted when Angel asked me for a price, I decided I was a too-tier provider. The Angels of the world didn’t pay; the Jim Slocums did.

“Your car was here when we opened up this morning,” Jewel said, when I entered the back door of the Coffee Palace and hobbled in. The ass hurt, yes, but the balls ached, having been totally drained of cum—not to mention crushed.

“I didn’t go home last night. I went somewhere else.”

“That dangerous-looking hunk who was sitting on his Harley out there when we closed?”

“Yep,” I answered, noncommittally as I started up the coffee machines. I saw no reason to keep secrets from Jewel. I never had—other than not telling him I wasn’t thrilled he had so obviously gone “girl.”

“What’s that all over your arms?”

“Wax,” I said. “Candle wax.”

Jewel whistled. “Did we perhaps have a Key West night?”

“More than that,” I answered, not looking around.

“So, you met Angelo Fonti.” The voice was Phil’s. He was standing in the door to the kitchen, a big grin on his face.

“Who?”

“Angelo Fonti. The guy who was in here in the quiet hour yesterday. The burger and fries.”

“You know him?”

“I knew the family. They had a farm out east of town. Wops. A strange crew. There were stories about happenings out there—and about this kid, Angelo. Suddenly just packed up and left. Nothing’s happening out there now. Just as well they left. Didn’t fit in here.”

I almost laughed at the “nothing happening out there” comment. If Phil only knew. He probably thought his fetishes were what was happening. He didn’t have a clue. But Angel was telling the truth then. He was here to sign papers on the sale of that farm. It was his farm. He wasn’t squatting. But it also meant he was just passing through.

Well, he had used me and thrown me aside. That was that. I wouldn’t give it much thought.

“You’re covered with goop,” Phil said, not curious enough to pursue the question of what goop and why. “Go home and clean up. I don’t want the customers to see you that way. And change that damn shirt. The statement of ‘Anywhere Else’ doesn’t cut it with the customers here either. Most of our customers are stuck in Clarksburg, just like we are, and will continue to be stuck in Clarksburg.”

I went home and stood under a hot shower until I could get the wax—all that I could reach—melted off my body. And it certainly wasn’t true that I didn’t give Angel another thought. He was all I thought about the whole day.

Thus, at 5:45, I wasn’t driving home. I was driving out to the old Fonti farm. I’d kept mental notes of where it was from here while Jim Slocum was driving me into town.

The Harley was there, in the backyard of the run-down house, when I pulled in. But so was an old farm truck. It looked like one that Jim Slocum drove into town occasionally. But surely it couldn’t be Slocum’s—unless, of course, they were doing a walkthrough of the house. It stood to reason that Slocum was the Realtor on the sale.

I knew I should turn the Civic around and drive out of there, but I’d come all this way. I don’t even know why I’d come here. Angel had cast me aside after using me hard. What else could I hope for but more pain and sadism? Yeah, I guess that’s what I was hoping for, truth be told. More releases. Coming until my balls ached. A little fear with my sex.

I walked around the house, as quietly as possible. I’d just peek in the windows and assure myself that Jim Slocum was there in connection with the sale of the farm. I couldn’t see him and Angel together for any other purpose.

There was a Slocum there, all right, but it wasn’t Jim. It was Jim’s eighteen-year-old Wittenberg University son, Jason. And it depended on your definitions on whether it was a social or a business call.

They were in the living room—Angel and Jason. Both naked. Jason was suspended from the ceiling on a chain with wrist restraints. Jason could barely stand on his tippy toes and move a limited distance each way from center to try, unsuccessfully, to escape the flicking of the multistrand leather whip on his torso and legs. He was in full erection, so I decided he didn’t need to have the cavalry called in. Angel was in erection too, and my eyes immediately went to enjoying the undulation of the blue dragon tattoo on his chest as he swung the whip and connected with a snap and a jerk of Jason’s body. I could hear Jason’s muffled responses, but I couldn’t hear whether he was begging Angel to stop or egging him on, because he was wearing a ball gag—no doubt the same one with my teeth marks in it from the previous night.

I stayed around long enough to see Angel dispense with the whip, run his hands over Jason’s body, to crush Jason’s balls with his fist in that way I remembered so well—making Jason’s eyes water just as mine had done—and to watch him fuck Jason. Jason was flexible. I think he was on the Wittenberg gymnastic team. He managed to hold his legs straight out to the side, toes pointed, as Angel held his thighs up with his hands and fucked up into him from the rear. I watched through the point at which Jason, young and virile, shot his load in a high arc across the room. And I watched until I was sure that Angel, with a jerk and a little victory cry, had bathed Jason’s insides.

Knowing Angel, even though it had only been for a day, I continued watching, as he rode Jason to the floor and continued fucking him, doggy style, until he’d come again, and then rolled Jason over, straddled his chest, and made Jason clean his cock with his mouth.

Then I turned, returned to the Civic, and drove off.

Fuck him, I thought. He wanted me so bad that he left me in the house by myself and has already moved on to a younger model.

Still, I wasn’t happy.

* * * *

“You left the other day.”

My head snapped up. It was 3:00 p.m. the next day. Dead time at the Coffee Palace. I had been flipping through copies of Drummer, looking for the depiction of the wax sex. I knew I’d seen it somewhere in these pages before. I thought that looking at it now would give it extra meaning—an extra little jolt to my cock—for me.

The question gave me that jolt, though. I looked up and into Angel’s dark blue eyes. The blue dragon wasn’t just caged today, it was behind doors. The tight T-shirt Angel was wearing was a solid black.

“You left me, don’t you mean?” I responded, trying, probably unsuccessfully, to keep the whine out of my voice. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“There wasn’t any breakfast in the house. I came back with enough breakfast sandwiches to choke a horse and had to eat them myself. If I become a fatty, it’s your fault.” He was just laughing it off. There was a worse part to this.

“You could have left a note or something.”

It hit me then. He hadn’t left me. God, he hadn’t walked out on me. My spirits were soaring—at least until the memory of Jason’s visit to the farm roared in.

“Not much in the way of paper or pen in the house,” Angel answered.

“I came back last evening. Jason Slocum was there.”

“I know that you knew that. I saw you watching us from outside. You couldn’t have been too disgusted. You stayed through the first show. You could have come inside and I would have done you both in some special way. Maybe bound you together hanging from the hook, his cock inside you, and flogged you both together.”

I knew it shouldn’t have, but that made me tremble in arousal. I’m sure he wasn’t lying.

“Just the first show? How many shows—?”

“There were only three. Jason doesn’t have your stamina. He also didn’t hold my interest as long as you did. He doesn’t bring out the creative juices in me like you do.”

“Is that some sort of compliment?” The suspended flogging and fuck seemed quite creative enough to me. I sure would have liked to have Angel do that to me.

“Yes, it is. Doesn’t it sound like a compliment? I want to fuck you again. I want to take you beyond where we went.”

I could feel my chest tighten, my air becoming constricted. I wondered if Angel could hear me panting. I was hard hard again. Yes, dammit, I wanted it.

“But you went right to Jason. You didn’t come to find out why I’d walked away.”

“For most of the day I’d thought that’s what you did—walked away. And I had to give you that right. Seeing you coming back, I then knew it hadn’t been too much. You wouldn’t have come back if you didn’t want more of it. You wanted more of it, didn’t you, Casey?”

“Yes,” I answered in a small voice—although not immediately. I was still struggling with myself on my own wants. But, shit, I wanted Angel to go on and on.

“You want more if it, don’t you? You want it now. You want it harder. You want it more cruel. You want to show me stuff in Drummer and have me do it to you, don’t you?”

“Yes. But if you’re going to run right to the next—”

“I’ll fuck anyone I want, anytime I want. Got that?” Angel growled. “If you accept that, most of the time it will be you. Can you live with that?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m leaving town. Are you going with me?”

“Just up and leave? Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that. What is it you want, Casey? Clarksburg or excitement? Excitement and fear and not knowing what comes next? Pain and unbounded ecstasy? Do you want to live or do you want to die along with Clarksburg? You can always come back to Clarksburg; you can’t always move ahead into new sexual testing.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

The shot came out of nowhere, his fist connecting with my chin. I went down to the floor behind the counter in shock and total surprise. Then he was behind the counter, dragging me up by my hair, unzipping his leather pants, forcing his cock between my lips, making me suck him off.

“This is what you want, baby, isn’t it? The excitement of never knowing what it will be when. This goes with the territory.”

I couldn’t argue with him. It was exactly what I wanted.

He gave into my only request before we left the Clarksburg area, me just leaving the Coffee Palace with him, thrown over his shoulder and dumped on the Harley, leaving my whole world behind, not even saying good-bye to Phil and Jewel, who were having their own party in the kitchen.

He took me back to the farmhouse, suspended me from the ceiling, flogged me, and gave me the same fucking I’d watched him give Jason Slocum the day before.

“I was thinking of your body the whole time I was doing Jason Slocum,” he whispered in my ear as he was releasing my wrists.

I soared up to heaven on the comment.

“Did I give you what you want, Daddy?” I asked.

“You will always give me what I want. We will keep at it until you do. Now I have a little surprise for you before we go. Casey, I want you to meet Neal. He’s going to be riding with us. That’s after he and I ride you together, of course.”

Angel laughed, as I turned to see that a hulking black man, swathed in black leather, had entered the room.

I immediately began to pant and Angel embraced me close so I wouldn’t entertain any idea of bolting.

All I can reveal beyond the obvious about the surprise was that it was glorious and far, far more than Key West, where, before the week was out, I’d been doubled more than once. But nothing like Angel and Neal did it, right there, right then.

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