A gay story: Falling Like Rayne All he could think of was the pain. It was a long time since something had hurt this much but he was determined that he would not give them the satisfaction of knowing it. So he curled up in a foetal ball and tried not to let them kick him to death, or damage his face too much. When he had given them the missive for this job he had specified that they did not touch his face, but you could never guarantee that someone doing a thing for money you’d already paid them would stick to the rules. He closed his eyes tightly and focussed on the video shoot earlier this afternoon. That was where the idea had come from of course. Well, in truth, the germ of it was planted in his mind during the spring when they did that Adam photo shoot for the album and he’d first come up with the Animorous concept.
Peter Adam was a famous photographer, notorious even. In Barcelona, promoting the first single, Rayne Wylde, glamorous lead vocalist with the notoriously bisexual Glam Rock band Whipsnade, had met up with Adam’s people, who insisted that the snapper desperately wanted to take his picture. SOLD, Wylde’s record label was moderately enthusiastic about it. Adam had a reputation for risqué material and this fitted in quite snugly with Whipsnade’s existing portfolio.
Consequently, Rayne Wylde found himself posing nude for the first time in over ten years. It was Adam himself who had brought the matter up. He was an ebullient fellow; a big, blond German with a rack of impressive muscles and a seriously warped genius to boot. He invited Rayne to his studio in Barcelona and in his no-nonsense way proceeded to regale the singer with tales of his time making porn movies and running sex clubs in Berlin prior to becoming a photographer. The walls of his office and studios were covered in framed prints of his work, including a spectacular shot of one very famous young male model and It-Boy kneeling in mud to his mid-thighs, in a pig pen, splattered with filth, masturbating vigorously whilst some pigs and an old man and a little boy in peasant clothing looked on impassively.
“You have done porno before, no?” Peter Adam asked as Rayne was beginning to enjoy himself.
“Er… no,” the singer assured him, moments before his companion produced a slim portfolio and flicked it open, slapping a number of cuttings and pictures onto the desk between them.
His heart had performed a back flip at the sight of them.
“Is you?” said Adam, pointing to the face of a boy he had not seen for fifteen years.
Rayne just blinked at them in astonishment.
“Where did you get these?” he wanted to know.
Adam shrugged and smiled wickedly; “Ah, you know… I collect, over the years.”
Rayne studied each clipping with wide, pale, horrified eyes. His hair had been bottle blond back then, a near-white, floppy cow’s-lick tumbling around his sharp-boned, sixteen-year old face. He could recall everything about the shoot from having his makeup applied (the make-up girl had been amazed by his naturally long, thick, black eyelashes) to walking out into a room where two strangers were waiting to have sex with him whilst a third photographed the proceedings. It had been very amateurish, when all was said and done; just a semi-detached house in Willesden. He had been prepared in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the toilet seat and the session took place in a near empty back bedroom, stripped of all furnishings except for a spartan bed and a simple, wooden chair.
He pulled his thoughts back to the present smartly, lifting his head to meet Peter Adam’s shrewd gaze.
“Is this why you wanted to take my picture?”
“You photograph well,” the older man said with another shrug. “You have a good face. The camera loves you.”
He did not argue. It was true he supposed. Some of the promotional pictures for the last album had to be seen to be believed. No one who had known Raymond Wilde as a skinny, rebellious child would ever recognize the man he had become.
“I’m not sure this is what the record company are after,” he said mildly, his soft, husky voice recovering some of its gravity as he pushed a black and white photograph back across the desk. It depicted his naked, teenaged self sprawled supine on a mattress with his knees over the shoulders of one tattooed, muscular skinhead and his lips wrapped around the hard cock of another, who was holding him roughly by the hair. He shifted a little in his seat to try to disguise the fact that the overt physicality of the image was making him very aroused.
Adam grinned wickedly at once.
“Is no problem,” he reassured his potential sitter. “We make nice pictures for SOLD; sanitized pictures that do not offend the mothers of your little kiddy fans. Then we make other portraits, more…” he paused and sucked on his teeth for a moment, considering the word he wanted; “…more explicit portraits, for my own portfolio, no?”
Rayne raised one eyebrow cynically.
“You want to take dirty pictures of me?”
Peter Adam looked massively offended. He huffed and puffed and sat back in his vast leather chair with a martyred expression on his face.
“I do not take dirty pictures, Mr. Wylde! I am a professional.”
“Ahh…” Rayne nodded slowly, his eyes wandering around the walls, taking in the images hanging there. A few were innocuous enough; curiously phallic shots of tall buildings in black and white and a misty picture of a naked woman with long blonde hair sitting astride a massively well-endowed white stallion like some modern-day Lady Godiva. In contrast there was the pig-pen print (blown up almost to life-sized proportions); and two smaller portraits of a black-skinned male, his muscles gleaming as though he had been polished with wax, standing framed by the vast window of a tower-block apartment, high above some anonymous cityscape. In both pictures he was completely nude; the first depicted him standing with his back to the camera showing off the perfect curves of his firm backside; in the other he had half turned to look at the camera, displaying his muscular, hairless physique and massive, erect phallus. “Is that Warren Miller the baseball player?” he asked, indicating the pair of prints.
“It is,” Peter nodded, delightedly. “Is he not a beautiful specimen of manhood? Warren wished to come out as a homosexual and he decided that he would commission these pictures as a celebration of his sexuality.”
“Lovely,” Rayne drawled with a wry smile. “Does the US Baseball Federation know about that?”
“I believe his team use them to terrify the opposition!” Adam said, deadpan.
The singer laughed appreciatively.
Now Peter Adam added; “I am told by certain sources that you are promiscuous with other men, is this true?”
Rayne cleared his throat.
“I have been known to indulge from time to time.”
“It would give me pleasure to photograph you unclothed,” the other man informed him bluntly. “Are you shy about going naked in front of strangers?”
The singer shook his head at once.
“In that case,” Peter told him enthusiastically, “I have some very excellent cocaine in my desk. If you would like to share a couple of lines with me and then remove your clothing, I will take some test shots and we can set up a proper session.”
The tester session took most of the afternoon. Rayne still had some prints of the pictures, half of which were taken with him sitting shirtless and wasted in Peter’s leather chair with his fly unfastened and his prick hanging out in various stages of erection. In the others he was fully nude, either sprawled in the chair with his legs spread or bent over the desk, licking residual traces of coke off the leather surface. He was mildly embarrassed by this, coke invariably made him do crazy things that he knew he would regret. So it was that when Peter Adam set up the camera on a tripod and a timer and unfastened his pants, telling his subject that he was so beautiful it was making him furiously horny, Rayne was quite willing to go with the flow. The sex was quick and brutal and his rectum ached for days afterwards but the pictures gave him a hard on every time he looked at them.
That had begun it. Since his very early twenties Rayne had not been involved in a relationship with another man in which he was not the dominant partner but Peter was somehow so very in control of things that it seemed impossible to deny him what he wanted. Whilst the band were in Spain, Adam came along with the entourage and whenever there were a few hours free he photographed Whipsnade’s glamorous lead singer in a variety of erotic poses. Some were relatively innocuous as he had promised SOLD they would be, although the underlying theme of them was one of submission and domination. The album shots were taken with a pair of beautiful black panthers on loan from a unit which trained animals for movie shoots and featured Rayne in heavy make-up, chains and manacles, and very little else. His entire body was waxed, (which was agony, although the cocaine he had snorted earlier helped) and then draped in emerald green silk. The panthers were posed to firstly seem as if they were mauling him, then finally curling around him and protecting him as tenderly as two lovers.
In a second session based upon the panther shoot, the two creatures were replaced by oiled, naked, black bodybuilders in studded collars and Rayne was collared and manacled on a green-silk draped bed within a cage, blindfolded with a skein of black silk and used vigorously by both men in an echo of the skinhead photograph Adam had shown him earlier. The photographer also video-recorded this hour-long session and took his own turn between Rayne’s legs once both black studs had coupled with the singer.
The cage theme recurred in a lot of Peter Adam’s work. He took pictures of Rayne in the role of tortured martyr, imprisoned and dripping blood from faked wounds on his head and body. He was dressed in a flimsy toga-like garment which was gradually removed during a session which saw him bound to the cage bars in a cruciform pose by three models in Romanesque apparel and flogged with apparent vigor. As his assailants whipped him they grew visibly more excited. At last, unable to constrain their erections they forced him to his knees with his wrists still bound to the bars, stripping the last rags of clothing from his battered body and gang-raping him violently. In all of these sessions, the sexual intercourse was real and deeply penetrative. The models wore discreet rubbers and little else. Peter Adam always went bareback and Rayne never objected.
That had awoken something dormant in him for a long time. He returned to London with the past preying on his mind. In April of that year, Whipsnade filmed the video for Animorous on the London Underground at four in the morning. Adam directed, using a theme that echoed his panther prints. A pair of shadowy black cats stalked the band through the tunnels. In the ultimate moments of the video (which were promptly banned by MTV and most terrestrial channels too) Rayne fled into an empty elevator compartment and was cornered there by the cats, who metamorphosed into nude, muscular, feline-looking men who stripped him half-naked and pushed him roughly to his knees. As the doors closed, Rayne was apparently being forced to submit to oral and anal sex.
The uncensored version of the video was cut throughout with brief glimpses of writhing, naked bodies and moments of penetrative action. The ending was extended and a silent, fifty second sequence filmed from the ceiling of the lift compartment showed Rayne sexually satisfying his two male assailants, who came simultaneously whilst fucking him as the singer wanked himself off.
Naturally, this version never made the TV, but bootleg copies did the rounds for unspeakable sums of money. Peter Adam, it was claimed, possessed a seven minute version of the elevator rape sequence, which was exactly how long the scene took to film. Once the doors closed, three cameras tracked the action within the lift operated remotely from outside. Adam directed the movement of each camera and within the cubicle his three performers fucked hard for seven whole minutes. By the culmination, Rayne’s mouth was running with cum and the spunk trickled down his naked thighs from his own cock and the one that pulsed between his arse cheeks.
That was a set up, of course and the ‘cum’ was mayonnaise and flour and water.
After the shoot was over, Rayne Wylde paid two gay black bouncers from a nightclub to attack him in a toilet cubicle at the club and rape him for real. He shivered with perverse pleasure as they beat him bloody and ripped his clothing apart with rough hands. When he cried out in genuine pain one of them gagged him with a strip from his own shirt. Once he was unresisting and utterly submissive they forced him astride the toilet bowl and took turns to fuck him violently up the arse. He struggled and his wrists were then tied to the down pipe from the old-fashioned porcelain cistern for his pains so that his assailants did not have to hold him down.
Once they had him arranged to their satisfaction, naked except for his jewelry and boots, they operated a tag system whereby one stood and watched, masturbating vigorously as the other bucked his way into the singer’s hot, tight anus without the aid of lube. Rayne yelped and grunted, his protests muffled by the gag in his mouth. His attackers did not seem to mind. In fact, they quickly settled into a rhythm. After about five minutes, the ‘observer’ would tap his colleague on the shoulder to indicate that he was ready for some action and they swapped over. Rayne resisted the first couple of times that he felt rough fingers spreading his buttocks but by the fourth or fifth penetration his own penis was rock hard and dribbling a constant flow of cum.
As he writhed in pleasure, riding one of their chunky black dicks, they seemed to catch on to the fact that their ‘victim’ was loving his punishment and grinned at one another. Rayne was freed of his gag and his mouth quickly pulled onto the currently ‘redundant’ cock of the watchman. He sucked willingly and the bouncer’s fingers tightened in his silken black hair, pulling his erect phallus deep into the singer’s throat and pulsing hard and fast there. His colleague was thrusting away fiercely behind the lean, good looking young pop star and this time it sounded like he was going to cream himself up the kid’s well-fucked hole.
Rayne trembled with ecstasy. He was so close that it felt as though he would explode any moment now. The gold watch on the wrist of the man he was deep-throating told him that they had been screwing him for about forty minutes, non-stop. His balls felt rock hard and heavy and the tip of his cock was hot and engorged. His rectum felt stretched beyond recall but the trickling sensation of pleasure from his roughly tormented prostate more than made up for it.
The Blow Job was trying to get his nuts into Rayne’s mouth before he came. Rayne obliged him; the fellow’s cock was meaty and thick, but not long. He figured there was room for those big, black balls as well. He was almost twisted around on his side by now, with one knee on the rim of the toilet bowl and the other foot on the ground as the guy behind him rammed it in over and over, holding him firmly by the hips so that his ball sac bumped against Rayne’s as they fucked. Rayne quivered repeatedly, rapid spasms of heat and cold that made his head spin and his ears buzz with pressure. He was seeing stars as he began to cum hard; hot creamy gouts of spunk that splashed on the rim of the bog and splattered Blow Job’s trouser leg. The burly Afro-Caribbean stiffened and moaned as urgently as Rayne Wylde. A flood of hot jism welled up in the singer’s mouth, curiously sweet and spicy and he swallowed as much of it down as he could. The bouncer kept hold of his hair and Rayne did not stop sucking, it felt too good to let go.
From behind him he felt the other guy push eight and a half rock hard inches up into him hard and keep it there for the longest time. He uttered a little grunt of astonishment and release, as Rayne’s alimentary canal was abruptly pumped full of prime Jamaican semen. In the singer’s mouth, Blow Job’s cock was quickly getting hard again. He withdrew it as his colleague jacked off into the white boy’s arse hole and slipped out of him, letting the cum trickle down Rayne’s naked thighs and over his scrotum and balls.
“Ahhh… you’s a good fuck!” he gasped at last, the first words he had spoken since they dragged Rayne in here and began to kick him and strip him off.
Blow Job was still rock hard and lowered his pants now, sitting on the bowl.
“Come an’ sit on my boner, Top of the Pops,” he invited now.
As Rayne’s wrists were still fastened tightly to the pipe behind his head, this was not an easy instruction to disobey. He was pulled forcefully into his attacker’s lap with his arms around the big man’s head, his naked body close against a muscular black chest and shoulders. Strong hands lifted and parted his knees and at once he was manoeuvred down onto six chunky inches of spit and spunk-lubed dick. Rayne gasped and moaned as it slipped into him without resistance. He was grasped around the waist and eased slowly up and down on the two inch-thick phallus inside him. Immediately he began to get a hard on.
So did the other bouncer who had been watching this with hungry eyes. He stroked Rayne’s hair with one hand and his erection with the other as he stared at the naked singer with blatant longing.
“There’s a good little whore,” his colleague crooned as Rayne Wylde rode him faster and harder.
“You gonna suck me nice and clean, whore-boy?” the first asked, guiding Rayne’s dark head down to his stiffening tool. It was sticky with drying spunk, mucus and flecks of dark, dry fecal matter but Rayne had dealt with worse and he licked the Jamaican’s long, hard shaft skillfully, pausing to spit every few strokes until the tall, black bouncer grew impatient and made him swallow some cock.
“Oh yeah…” he moaned, over and over as the pretty-faced white boy gave him the best head of his life. You could see it in his face; sucking dick was almost a religious experience for this kid. He was sick in the brain for sure, but right now, his assailant did not care; watching Wylde take it was getting him so horny.
He withdrew before he was close to coming and the young man’s pale green eyes lifted to his face, puzzled and a little bit disappointed. He was as beautiful as a girl with his shoulder length, ebony bangs, rumpled and sweat-soaked and flecked with semen. There was drying cum on his lips and chin and his bare chest and the sweat ran down from his hair, mingling with it so that it dribbled from his face. He just looked so sexy; so dirty. He was totally begging for what they were gonna do to him next.
Rayne caught his breath as the taller guy moved behind him again and touched rough fingertips to his anus, bending down to look closely as his partner’s cock pumped in and out of that snug orifice. One of those fingers pressed into him suddenly and he cried out in astonishment, then another that sent him writhing upward in shock as it spread him wider. The man sitting beneath him hauled him back down again roughly and kept on pulling him down until Rayne Wylde had four probing fingers inside him, in addition to his assailant’s thrusting cock. He keened like an injured animal, tearing himself back and forth, thrashing uselessly against the tightening strip of cloth that bound his wrists, almost cutting into tender flesh as he struggled. The Jamaican stuffed the gag back into his mouth to shut him up as his rectum was stretched and manipulated. They toyed with him this way until his sphincter was elastic enough to take a second prick.
Rayne bucked and moaned incoherently as he felt the swollen, spunk-wet head nudge steadily into him from behind. He bit down on the gag and groaned huskily deep in his throat, closing his eyes tight shut as he was doubly penetrated by his merciless captors. The tall guy was straddling his colleague’s thighs, bracing himself against the other man’s legs and the toilet bowl as he urged his cock upward with long, determined thrusts that felt as if they were splitting Rayne apart. He was no virgin but this was agony and he yelped and fought them in vain as his second rapist penetrated deeper and began pulsing more urgently.
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As with the first round of fuckings, neither of them touched Rayne beyond spreading him and pulling him harder onto their savagely thrusting cocks. They were both grunting with lust and a slow kindling satisfaction and though it hurt, Rayne was also hard. His prick and balls were rubbing insistently against Chunky Dick’s bare belly, beneath his half open shirt and his swollen purple bell-end was leaking a steady flow of pre-cum as the pair buggered him eagerly. He could feel his balls beginning to tingle with anticipation of release.
Completely at their mercy, Rayne leaned his head back against the Jamaican’s powerful biceps with his knees over Chunky’s shoulders and his wrists still tied to the pipe behind that fellow’s close-cropped scalp. He was moaning deep in his throat, the sounds driven out of him by each hungry thrust, too weak to fight them much longer. With a sickly chuckle, he thought of how Peter Adam would give his left testicle to be able to film this gloriously seedy fuck-fest.
The idea of being observed and recorded whilst this was happening made him lose control of firstly his bladder and then his balls. He soaked Chunky in a fountain of piss, burning hotly out of his tormented cock in an arc of gold that felt like purest joy. Chunky cursed in disgust as Rayne whimpered an incoherent apology. This only made his colleague laugh out loud, then whilst that fellow was still chortling and pounding away like a stud horse at Rayne’s tenderised arsehole, the singer jerked wildly and uttered a strangled yelp of arousal and desperation. His balls contracted uncontrollably and spewed forth a deeply satisfying gush of cum that soaked his chunky assailant’s shirtfront yet again.
Rayne was completely wired, so high this time and so turned on that he was not even aware when his co-conspirators also reached their climaxes up his sore, stretched arsehole not long afterwards.
The concierge at the club called a taxi for him and he went home in a daze. The cabbie looked with some distaste at his disheveled appearance in the rear-view mirror – bloody nose, ripped shirt and spunk-splattered jeans and hair – but said not a word about it. Wylde slouched back in his seat, watching the city roll by in a blur, feeling deliciously sore and slutty. His prick twitched and stiffened insatiably in his pants. When the cab reached number 14 St John’s Gardens shortly after two in the morning, Rayne tipped the driver very generously and vanished as quickly as possible behind his own front door, sliding his hand down urgently into the crotch of his jeans even before the catch had caught.