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Crossroads Chapter 1 The Roadhouse and the Cottage By Tina Foster, [email protected], Edited by Lilliana (author of The Greatest Lie), [email protected] © Tina Foster 2007 Whether you like this story or hate it, please post your comments, as criticism is the lifeblood of creativity. I take a final, acrid puff from my cigarette, wash down its sour aftertaste with the tepid dregs of my coffee and look around the caf?. Nearby a table of fellows are talking furtively, but excitedly about a nearby place. I hear snippets. One speaks of all the cars parked in an empty lot, seemingly to no purpose. Another mentions its somewhat dubious reputation. A third tells of strange noises coming from the place, comings and goings late at night, and of apparitions flitting about in the gloomy copse that surrounds the place. I am intrigued. Classes and final exams have ended. I have nothing to do; all of my friends are away for winter-break and I feel at loose ends: glad to be alone, but restless and bored. The "Roadhouse," as the gossipers had called it, is a point of interest in a dull landscape. I have leisure and an inclination for a bit of adventure, and it seemed worth a visit. I pay my tab and walk about aimlessly. I zip my windbreaker against the light rainfall. With each squishy footfall I feel farther adrift from everyday mores and closer to my own anarchic spirit. When I come to a dark and windy country lane that passed nearby the roadhouse, I choose to take that detour. Dusk comes early in the late autumn in England. It is nearly dark when I approach the Roadhouse. There are several cars parked outside, in the lay-by. Their nervous drivers look askance, but they are watching my tentative progress as I walk toward the threshold. I am anxious and hesitant. I turn about, and start to walk away, as if I had remembered something more pressing than investigating this strange place. I retreat a few steps before my curiosity overwhelms my anxiety. I look briefly around, to see if my audience has reacted to my ambivalence. They regard me with silent indifference, so I turn back and walk toward the roadhouse. The roadhouse is an old red brick building, sturdy pre-war construction, but now decaying from decades of damp and neglect. It is inset a few yards from the ragged pavement of the car park, and accessed by a small pathway that curves through a weed and nettle-studded embankment. It's mossy facade is shrouded by bushes and trees. At the end of the path, it forks: to the left it leads to the entrance to the ladies room, a cheap and ramshackle converted caravan. To the right is the gents' loo, a rotting brick structure even more decrepit than the roadhouse. The three cups of coffee I'd nursed through the afternoon are now roiling in my bladder, so I take the right path and walk toward the gents. The light switch doesn't work, and it's dark inside, so I take out my clipper and flick the wheel. The room flickers spectrally in the stuttering flame: cracked mirrors, stained sinks, and a gritty tile floor. There are two cubicles to my left. In front of me, there is an old fashioned urinal. I piss better when I am sure of my privacy, so I choose the first cubicle. I slowly open the first door, enter and close it with a clank that is loud enough to awaken all of the denizens of the parking lot. The lighter has gotten too hot to grip, so I take a last look to orient myself and let the flame die. I close the door and blindly shuffle forward. The only illumination is the faint glow of the new moon through a small dirt encrusted window high above. The gloom is punctuated by occasional swoops of light from the passing cars speeding by on the road. I find the toilet seat, loosen my belt, unzip my jeans, lower them to my thighs and sit down on the cold, slimy seat. The dampness and chill jolt through me, and I wish I'd covered the seat with some tissue, like my mum had told me, but it is too late. My bum and thighs are already coated with whatever residues were on the seat. I breathe hard, cough, take out and lit up a cigarette. My mum hates smokes; killed her own dad, she says, but I have taken them up at college, just to prove I am free of her. But I'm not. She is like my own private Maggie Thatcher, hectoring me from within my own mind. When I light up I notice writing on the walls, names, phone numbers, and filthy words I rarely say aloud, and I am shocked and scared, but I am entranced. I want to know more. I flick it again and again, reading about this one and that. I wish that I'd brought a torch, pen and paper, and I tried to commit names and numbers to memory, but it is too much. They blur together, I can remember nothing, and my lighter will soon run out of gas. I shake it to stir up the remnant, light another cigarette, and study an inscription in the flickering light. "Call Louis, 555-1870, for a night to remember." And beneath that, "I called, and fucked Louis's arse right where you are sitting. Call me and wait there, and I'll fuck yours too. JT, 555-4769." I imagine my name and number written on the wall. If I had a pen, I would proclaim, and defame myself on these walls. I have crossed a boundary when I entered this place. I will never be the same. I reach down to wipe myself and my finger bumped my own erection. I had been so obsessed with the newfound secrets of this place that I have not noticed that I have gotten hard. Now that my hand has discovered my cock, I grasp my erection in my left hand, and then involuntarily I begin to pump it as I listen to the whir of the traffic outside and the pounding of my own heart. As I masturbate, I begin to calm down. My eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. I find myself at ease with the sewery smells and wavering shadows. Then, I notice a ball of toilet tissue stuffed into the wall. I pull it out, and discover that it is a plug, blocking a hole that someone has fashioned between my cubicle and the one next to it. I get down on my knees and peer into the darkness behind the partition. No one is there. Then, I hear footsteps on the gravel, the creak of the door, and then clomp of boots on the tiles of the loo. The door of the neighboring cubicle swings open, and then slams shut. Then, in the narrow gap beneath the rusty iron door of my cubicle, I see the shapes of two tall Wellingtons on the tiles outside. I am frozen, paralyzed with expectancy and fear. I hadn't shut the bolt home, so when the person outside presses on the door it rattles loose, and the door swings open. A burly man stands in the doorway, obviating any possibility of retreat. He stares at me, and gives me an intimidating glare as he closes and bolts closed the door with his left hand. As he does this with his right hand he rubs an all- too evident bulge in his trousers, and whispers "Well then, it seems that you and I both like the dark, don't we, sweetie?" I guess he is in his forties. He's a salesman perhaps; practical shoes and trousers, and wearing a beige car jacket. But he is bulky, at least four stone more than my nine, and several inches taller. His face is grizzled with several days' stubble. My chin is as smooth and soft as that of a boy several years younger than my nineteen years. I would be no match for this man if I had wanted to resist. And tonight, I want to succumb. I look up into his dark eyes and try to communicate silent acquiescence with a submissive nod. He stares back, as though both revolted and attracted, and begins to knead my slender shoulders. My flesh yields beneath his firm knuckles, and as my tension releases, it sends shivers of pleasure down my spine. He raises his hand, and I cower, fearing a blow, but instead he leans forward and grasped my wrist. I instinctively cover my face with my other hand, expecting to be slapped, but instead he removes it, replaces it with his own, and strokes my smooth cheek, murmuring, "Nice, soft, smooth." His comment pleases me. I murmur thanks in a breathy voice. Then he squeezes my wrist hard, and pulls my head forward roughly for just a moment. I am afraid of violence, but his soft voice comforts and seduces me. He says "Get on your knees and suck me." His domineering tone captivates me. I willingly do as he has bid. I kneel nervously. My stiff corduroys are dampened by the urine-sprayed tiles. I am nervous, but anxious not for myself, but for him. I have never sucked a cock, and I am afraid that in my inexperience, that I will hurt him. I search my fantasies, and try to imagine the correct way to stretch my lips over my teeth, and the correct angle to tilt my throat. This is the first time I've been with a man like this. I am dumbstruck by my boldness and certitude. Is this really me, or some creature that has been loosed from the depths of my soul? I yield to these forces. I am at once disoriented, and fully focused. In my subconscious I have craved this moment, and now I am in it. His erection is hard and warm. It twitches in an unruly and uncontrolled arc through my fingers and slaps the underside of my chin. I giggle, and study more closely my first cock. Exams were over, but my test is just beginning. His circumcised cock has a thick head and narrower shaft. Blue veins bulge like Amazonian tributaries up and down the shaft, and there is a thick tuft of pubic hair at its base. There are ripples of and bulges of veins all up and down his prick, especially on the underside. I lick every one of them, tracing my tongue over them as though to learn a map. It is much longer and thicker than my smooth, pink member. I close my hand around his damp and swollen shaft, and slide my hand up and down. In a moment, my fingers became slippery with a drizzle of pre- cum. I touch my forefinger and thumb to my tongue, taste it, and then kiss the tip to slurp the rest like a deer on a salt lick. It is sweet and savory. I want all of him in my mouth, but I decide to tease him a bit, so I keep sliding my hand up and down, touching the tip to my lips at each apex, and giving him submissive, longing gazes through up-turned eyes. My heart is hammering in my throat, with the sheer excitement of the moment. Leaning forward I stick my tongue out as far as it'll go, as I barely touch the tip of the bloated crown experimentally with my tongue. I trill it in a circle around the mushroom cap of his glans, and then take the lid into my lips. His taste isn't unpleasant, like the kippered herring at the pub. He closes his eyes and throws his head back. His mouth gapes open and he gasps aloud. I open my mouth, and tilt back my head so that I envelope his penis fully, beyond my gag reflex, beyond my palate. I can just barely accommodate his full length. But my mouth seems to make him grow ever larger and harder. I catch a breath and burrow his penis deeper into my throat. He responds with a groan, and a spasm of his thighs. His hairy thighs scrub my cheeks, and his pubic hair grazes and tickles my nose. I hold his left thigh with my left hand, whilst with my right I caress his shaft and ball-sac, licking at him. Little by little I take ever more of his warm flesh into my mouth. He moans audibly. He braces his right hand against the back of my scull. He bashes his thighs ever harder into my face and slams my head against his thrashing quadriceps. My face burrows into his flesh and my nose is pinched between his thighs, so I can hardly catch a breath. I cup his buttocks and reinforce his skullfucking. He is covered with fur like an ape. I fondle his well-muscled buttocks. They are hard and hirsute. He guides my slender fingers stealthily toward his crack, and then slides them down toward his anus. I gradually ease the tip of my right middle finger towards the entrance to his anus, seeking entrance. Nowhere is it more impenetrable than the hairy mat of coils and snarls around his rectum but my finger is relentless, and it finally finds its target. His ass is already supple and lubricious with K.Y., as though he had fully anticipated this moment. When I press my finger through the morass of hair and inhibitions, his sphincters part easily. My finger entered him, and I finger fucked him up to the second knuckle. He sighs with pleasure, his grip on my shoulders softened, but his thighs tense. And he exhales as I try to enter him deeper and suck on his manhood, cupping his ball-sac gently, moving my mouth up and down his rock-hard shaft. Then he holds my head, as he slowly begins to thrust with his hips, using my mouth to satisfy his desire. And soon I'm taking him to the back of my throat, as his flesh pistons in and out, his thighs slapping against my chin. When I gag a little, he loosens his grip on my head, so I can breathe freely. Then having found my breath, I suck anew, occasionally looking up, to ensure that I satisfy: his heavy sigh and groans of pleasure tell me that I do. The stranger's breathing quickens. His lust is rising. I grasp at his buttocks, caressing his flesh, pleased that he seems to enjoy the intrusion of a fingertip into his tight sphincter. He gasps aloud, "Oh yes. Suck me off, you little slut." I nod as his cock jolts in and out. He manhandles my head brutally, forcing his cock deep into my throat. I can only catch a little breath between each ever deeper lunge, and I am nearly asphyxiated when his erection begins to pulse, like a ghoul coming to life from a crypt. He retracts, and as I finally inhale it erupts with a spew of salty cream which shoots into my gasping mouth. The next load showers my face and hair, but I close my lips around him and the last gushes of sperm sluice directly down my throat. I suck him dry, drinking all I can, and squeeze his balls to extract the last droplet, allowing it to fall on my outstretched tongue. I smile up at my lover, expecting gratitude for my heroic efforts. He looks away, as though he were ashamed of his conquest, and disgusted by me. Instead of an embrace or a word of gratitude, he shoves me back into a crouch, and my back bangs into the toilet tank with a clank. He does up his zip, then turns to open the door and walks away, saying loud enough for me to hear, "Not bad for a bathroom slut." And then he is gone, except for the residues in my throat, and the trickles of semen down the side of my mouth. Now I am conflicted and ashamed. Was my bold adventure an anonymous and empty humiliation? Had I displeased or disgusted my partner? My best efforts at pleasing a man had resulted in my being left abandoned and scorned. Regret for my actions, and a profound desire to perfect myself fought for control over me, and tears flood my eyes. I wipe his seed, mixed with fresh tears, from my cheek. Then, on shaky feet, I rise and bolt the toilet door. I sit back on the toilet and try to compose myself, and to contemplate my destiny. Should I get up, leave this place and never again experience the pleasure of submission? Or should I explore this dark world and make myself part of it? The darkness envelops me. I try to make sense of these crazy moments that had changed me forever. I had chosen subjugation to his selfish and bullying desires. I had willing taken his flesh and seed in my mouth. If I called it rape, I was as much the perpetrator as the victim. And that was what I wanted, to be a submissive slut, used, cast aside, and used again. I realize that I have for the first time experienced perfect sexual pleasure as I serviced this stranger. I am unhappy only that I seem to have failed to please him. I realize that I changed forever the moment I set foot in this place. To sexually please a man was what I had craved for as long as I could remember craving. I am torn between exhilaration and embarrassment from my first sexual encounter. I breathe deeply to clear my thoughts, and purify my consciousness. Then, I hear a scuffling noise to my left, from the wall of my cubicle. The tissue plug of the hole between the cubicles is moving, twisting, and pushed through. It wavers in the breach, and then tumbles to the dank, piss-puddled floor. My eyes are captivated by this, and I cast my gaze toward the gaping hole. I fall to my knees and peer into in the dark void. From the other side of the partition, a beady eye is peering back at me. Then a piece of paper and a pen are pushed through. I read the note. "I saw you coming in. What do you like?" I think of how much I've enjoyed going down on my knees, to please the first man and so on the other side of the paper, I write simply: 'To please a man' I pass the note through, then crouch and draw my cheek close to the hole. A car schwooses by and a split second its headlights shine through the small window high above, illuminating the adjoining cubicle He stands with his foot braced on the toilet, jacking his cock to an erection. It is even longer than my last partner's, at least eight inches. He sees me watching him and hands me a new note. "Bring your face to the hole." I shuffle forward on bended knees. The hole is the perfect size and height for its purpose. His cock pokes my lips in the darkness, and I take him in deep and bob my head over the anonymous penis. His foreskin pulls back and my mouth is suffused with a savory, meaty flavor. I hear a stifled groan in the dark, and set to work in earnest, flailing my face into the hole, and back again. His moaning becomes more urgent. I pause. If I am to be a slut, I should be paid for my work like a proper whore. I speak into the dark hole. "Give me five quid and let's meet me outside. We can go somewhere more private." "You'll stay where you are and finish me here, you little bitch." "In that case, maybe I'm finished now." I feel secure behind the thick iron door. If I hold out, he'll either pay me to finish him, or jack off and leave. "You little slut, there are ten more waiting for you to finish me, so you might as well get on with it because you're not leaving until you finish the lot of us. And you'll do us gratis or you'll never leave at all. Right, fellas?" A chorus of gruff male voices responds in ominous unison. I have been caught and trapped. My thoughts flash to Peter Rabbit in Farmer McGregor's garden. Like Peter, I am helpless, and must somehow survive until I am rescued. A large, pale cock dangles through the glory hole. I reach into my pocket and find my chap stick, glide it over my lips, and kneel on the floor. Wordlessly, I kiss the tip. The cock springs upward instantly, and I suck it gently to a full erection. It exudes a salty flume of precum and I lap at the glans, digging my tongue into the tiny hole, and then, when I have lapped up every drop, I bury the cock as deeply as my throat will take it. I hear a grunt though the wall, and the cock begins jumping in my mouth. I keep burrowing my head into the hole, keeping the cock inside my mouth on the upstroke, and ramming it past my tonsils to the depths of my soft esophagus on the down stroke, taking swift, shallow breaths through my nose. I lose consciousness of everything but the movement of my head over his flesh. I am hungry, I am starving, and my appetite is insatiable. The throbbing flesh spasms and erupts, and I bury the spewing semen deep within me. I feel the warmth as it spatters deep within me. I try to swallow it all, but after one gulp, my muscles fail me. My throat overflows with a gush of semen backs up into my mouth and spills onto my shirt. My partner pulls out with a grunt and the last squirts of cum cascade over my face and hair. His last spurts splash into my eyes and hair, and he shakes the last droplets free and smacks the tip against my already cum soaked cheek and then the cock disappears into the darkness through the hole. I am panting from exertion and collapse onto the slimy, smelly floor of the cubicle. The residues of semen drip and join the puddle that has escaped from my exhausted mouth onto my shirtfront. In the now chilly night air, they emit a wisp of steam and quickly harden into a rough crust. I grope for the tissue and wipe my eyes clear, just in time to see a shadow looming through the glory hole. I pull myself to my knees come close. It is a thick black fire plug, thick and long, tapered at the tip like a medieval weapon. I lick it from the ball sack to its tip and then circle my tired lips around it and begin to bob my head again. It is so big I can scarcely circle my lips around it, and my cheeks begin to ache as the precum glides into my mouth. I know I cannot bring this massive thing to a climax with my tired mouth. And, my ass has begun to tingle and tickle so insistently as to demand instant relief. So I stop, and drain the mixture of saliva and precum into my palm. My partner begins to protest, but his grumbling stops when my belt buckle clanks on the floor and my corduroys rustle to the floor at my feet. My thighs goose bump in the cold, and my ass puckers as I rub the chilly mixture over my rectum. I brace my legs into a crouch and push my butt back toward the hole. I reach back and take hold of his cock. It has drooped a bit in the cold, but a few strokes of my moist palm bring it back to a full and alarming state of erection. I target the tapered tip to my anus, and drive back on him with all of my strength. He lunges forward at the same moment and enters me in a rush. At first, I feel only a sharp stab into the tender flesh of my ass. After a few second, the rending flesh screams out a protest, and I am paralyzed with pain as he pulls back and slams back into me. I involuntarily flinch back from the source of my agony and collapse to the floor and curl in a fetal ball, with my ass afire. My partner growls a protest. "Finish me now or I'll come in and finish you." I grovel to my feet and slipped the waving cock back into my mouth. "I liked your ass better. Filthy as it was, it was cleaner than your slutty mouth." The black cock chokes and gags me. My neck is sore and my knuckles are raw, scraped by continuous bracing against the rough wall of the cubicle. Naked from waist down, I grow cold despite my exertions. Eventually, even the fire in my ass is quenched by the deepening chill of the evening. When he finally comes, I welcome the hot blast of semen that showers me in the end. But as it drips down my neck, it made me even colder. I hurriedly pull on my cords as the next cock pops through the glory hole. I bend down and went to work on it, blowing it, and the half dozen more that follow, as much to keep warm, as satisfy my audience, each of whom left me with a smear of semen on my face and an insult. When at last the loo was empty and quiet, my shirtfront is caked with a flood of come. My throat is raw, my lips are chapped, and my belly is distended as though from a large meal. I try to open the door. My assailants have left a brace in place to entrap me. I am imprisoned in this freezing dungeon. I collapse on the floor, weeping, but my tears grew cold and stood still, as though frozen, on my cheeks. I see flashes of passing headlights in the tiny window above me, but my cries for help are unanswered. I huddle in a ball on the filthy floor and relive the endless cycles of penises and orgasms. What have I done wrong, to be so mistreated, abandoned and imprisoned by those to whom I had given so much pleasure? I had offered no complaint or offense, but still they abused and punished me with harsh words and now, a cruel imprisonment in a freezing cell. Then, another rustling of paper breaks the stillness and offers me hope of redemption. "If you come with me freely I will help you escape." I take the proffered pen and respond, "I will follow you anywhere if you help me." He pulls the brace that had imprisoned me loose and opens the door. I scramble to my feet as he hands me a jumper, which I pull over my head. I am glad of the warmth and to cover up my cum-stained clothes. I whisper thanks in a hoarse voice. "We'll fix you a spot of tea and a warm bath, and then you'll feel all the better." I nodded. My throat was too sore to speak. He is a middle aged man, tall, and a bit stooped from a lifetime of meeting lesser men at their level. He has kindly gray eyes and walks with a loping, equine gait. We take a path from behind the toilet block, across the graveyard, through an apple orchard redolent of rotting fruit falls, and a field stubbled with harvested corn, and up a lonely, oak lined lane. After a long walk, we come to a small cottage, a mile or so distant. He tells me it's his home. I infer as we enter the hallway that he is into do it yourself. All around there are bits of walls being built, or re-built. In the corners of the room I spy scraps of timber, cast aside tools, and piles of sawdust. But, once the sliding door to the vestibule is closed, we enter the living room, where he built himself a cocoon of manly comforts. "You must be freezing, after your ordeal, trapped in that loo and our long walk. I've got some tea on; would you care for some?" "I'd love it." "Have a seat then." I really see him for the first time in the warm light of his home. He is wearing a blue plaid shirt and faded blue jeans, he has little hair and a small graying beard; his face is gentle. As he bustles in the kitchen, I relax, and survey this bachelor's world of creature comforts. I recline on his very serviceable couch, and across from me my host's favorite armchair, adorned with a half finished Guardian. His cabinet holds a good supply of plonk and fine sherry. He has a costly a hi-fi and a large collection of jazz and classical recordings: Satie, Ellington, Schumann, and Coltrane. He even has a Moody Blues record on the turn table. He brings me the tea and looks at me sympathetically as I sip at it. "It's Darjeeling. Do you fancy it?" "My favorite." I don't comment on a slightly medicinal aftertaste. I don't want to be rude to my savior. He settles in his easy chair as I drink up the tea. It warms me from within, and makes me feel comfortable and calm." He smiles over the top of his paper. "Nothing like it to make a bad time right, is there?" "It's lovely." "Would you like some more." I nod. I am feeling relaxed and happy. "Perhaps you would like to wash up and change. I can bring you something to wear, while I wash these things for you." "A shower and a change would be lovely." In truth, I would be happy to burn my filthy, piss and cum stained clothes. He escorts me down a narrow hallway to a bathroom. He turns on an electric heater and the shower. "Now you just get in and I'll bring you that tea and some clothes. Just put your clothes outside and I'll bring you some of mine." I strip, throw the clothes out the door and shower. The hot water sluices the crusts of dried semen from my skin and hair. I notice there is a razor in the shower. I am feeling bold again. I lather my pubes with some soap and shave myself clean as a newborn babe. I reach back and scour my ass and poke a soapy finger in, both to cleanse and prepare myself. My ass is nearly hairless, but I carefully swipe it too, and then my arm pits and the tiny clump that has sprouted on my breast bone. I am surprised at the calm dexterity with which I do this. I turn off the shower, and realize that I have been so wrapped up in my ritual that I didn't notice that my host had returned with a bundle of clothes and toiletries. I open it and smile. It is not the flannel and denim that I had expected. It is black lace and white chiffon, lipstick and eyeliner, and a blonde wig styled after Jean Shrimpton. I wipe the mirror clean blot my face. I have practiced many times in the secrecy of my room, and so I know well the ritual: powder, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, lip gloss. Then slip on the bra, panties, hose, robe, and high heels. Each bit of make up and attire seems to come to life as I put it on. My flesh tingles in a warm awakening as the silk brushes my skin. In this magical place, I feel as though I have become half man, half woman. I emerge, and walk carefully on unsteady legs down the hall. I stumble and nearly fall as I enter. "Oops, for some reason I can't walk. I'm a little dizzy." He stares at me. He's speechless. To put him at ease, I say "I love my clothes and everything fits, although the heels are just a bit tight." I do a quick model's turn and stumble again, but he leaps to his feet and catches my fall. I love the way it feels when he puts his arms around me. "It's because they're new. Like you. You look like a princess." I sway my hips as I slink to and sink into his comfy couch. He follows, and takes my hand and holds it for a moment. "Your fingers are so slender; they look like a girl's." I notice his hands, pitted with scars and calluses from all of his hobbying. I can't wait to have those hands all over me. He walks across the room to the television and flicks it on. "I'll put something. What do you like?" I like the madness of Monty Python, but instead I say "Perhaps Brideshead Revisited. I so love Sebastian." "Then perhaps you might like this as well." He turns on the set and presses play on the video machine: and suddenly, on the screen are two men using a young man and I'm entranced by what I see. "I'll put the fire on," he says, turning to the flame-effect gas fire, pressing the ignition. Then he pours me a sherry, and gestures me to sit beside him on the couch. "Tell me, what music do you like?" I love the Clash and the Sex Pistols, but he probably hated them if he ever heard them. "You choose your favorite." I relax on the couch and watch his delicate fingers lift the stylus from the turntable. He peruses a vast collection and selects "Ein Klein Nachtmusic." He returns to our couch and carelessly flings aside his unfashionable light-tan, zip-up jacket. "You like Mozart?" he asks, sitting by me on the couch. "My favorite." The music fills the room; its warm tones seem to massage me from within. My spine is trilling with the energetic first movement. "I have never so thoroughly loved a piece of classical music." He puts his arm on my shoulder and kneads my taut and tired muscles. Cool jolts of tension release and ricochet through my nerves, unleashing cascades of pleasure. "Oh, keep doing that." He turns me around to access both my shoulders and resumes his massage. "Tell me, do you go the roadhouse often?" With this question, he places his right hand on my breast and massages there. Its presence is not unwelcome. "No, that was first and last time." "Well then, lucky me that I got to take you home." I turn around to see if he is leering, but he has a genuine smile. I return it with a demure pout. I reach toward his left cheek and just touch him gently, with my fingertips, saying, "I do hope you'll be saying that later." And, suddenly I remember that this gentle stranger was just the last in line for my gang rape, and that I don't know him any more or less than the other anonymous penises that have enjoyed me this night. "What is your name, or rather, what shall I call you?" "Call me Dave, and that is my real name. What's yours?" "Well Dave, call me your slave for the evening..." I feel both shy and brazen. "Well, then slave, we must continue with your training." He says this very slowly and I'm very aware of his hand on my thigh, slowly moving to the growing bulge in my groin. Then he adds, "My slave. I like the sound of that." He stands, walks to the kitchen, which is partitioned off with a half- wall and small counter. "So, to help you with your studies, would you like to try some poppers? If you do, I'll go get them from the fridge." I'd heard of poppers, a slang term for a heart drug called amyl nitrate. At school I'd heard it described as the ultimate sex drug, but I'd never tried or anything else other than a few puffs of hashish. "Why the fridge?" I sip daintily at my sherry. He opens the fridge, and speaks from behind the door "After they're opened they evaporate quickly, and they taste better chilled. At least I think so." He takes a small brown bottle from the fridge and a plastic white tub from a cupboard in the kitchen. "It's better than K.Y. this..." he tells me, holding up a tub of white cold cream. I waft a bit to my nostrils. Its aroma is redolent of almond and rose. I think of my ass slathered with it and get even more aroused. I swig the dregs of my glass and quickly refill it. The rich wine warms me and stills my pounding heart. Dave sits by my side and within seconds his hand is where I want it to be; and he begins to rub in slow circular motion over the bulge in my panties. "Then, I command you to inhale one of the poppers now." "I don't know how, Master Dave. Tell me what to do, please." I take the proffered bottle from him. "Just take the top off and inhale the vapors, but not too much." I close off my left nostril and inhale with the right, then reverse the procedure. Then I have to sit back: my heart races and my breathing becomes faster. Every sensation is enhanced. The press of my bra's straps on my back and shoulders tingles, the chiffon gown tickles, and the satin of my panties caresses my skin. When he touches my cock through the satin panties I am overcome, and close my eyes. For the moment I am conscious nothing else except my own pleasure. Then the hand is gone and I open my eyes. It is good to be a slave. Dave gently takes the bottle and cap from me, and my unresisting fingers yield, although I crave more. "Remember? It evaporates quickly." "Oh, sorry, thanks, it would be a pity to waste it" This is all so new to me. Dave stands and strokes my face. "How does that feel?" "Like the touch of Heaven." I luxuriate in his touch, and crane my head upward and smile. "Well, just lie back, watch the teevee and enjoy." He pulls the gown up and kneels between my legs, and his hands fondle my thighs. Onscreen, I watch the young man, now taking on three men, as Dave rubs at my crotch. He slips the panties over my hips. I move to help him, but he pushes my hips back into the couch. "No, let me." He studies my eyes, and passes me the poppers again. "Try some more of these" As he takes my erection into his hands I do as he has bid. I inhale the heady fumes. A rush of euphoria sweeps through me. He holds my erection gently. "You are so pink and clean, like a baby. Do you always shave yourself?" "No, Master, I shave only for you." Dave extends his tongue, running it up the sensitive underside of my hairless balls and cock, licking slowly. Moaning with pleasure, I grasp his jaw as he slowly accepts my prick in his mouth, leaving the head resting on his soft tongue, while I try to suck air into my starved lungs. He looks up at me as I writhe and gasp pleasure. He sucks back and forth, slurping noisily. The poppers, my costume, and the sexy ambience that Dave has created have banished the memories of the long night of sexual degradation and fatigue in the roadhouse. The long line of penises and my long imprisonment in the freezing cubicle now seem like an earlier episode from the porno playing on the screen. I was the young boy who pleasured and satisfied the ravenous mob, and now is coddled and pleasured in turn. Dave sucks me and fondles my nipples, and waves of pleasure flow like an electric current between them. I am about to orgasm, and then he ends abruptly and pulls away from me. He kneels before me, looks at me and smiles, and then laughs. "Not quite yet, my little slave. We must train you to wait. Take some more poppers, they will make your pleasure last." I unscrew the cap on the bottle and inhale more of the medicinal fumes, holding the cap in one hand, the bottle in the other. Then, as I replace the cap, Dave leans in toward me again and undoes the clasp of my bra, leaving my exposed flesh, as he moves up my body. He kisses my left nipple, toying with my right. I feel the nipples erect with ecstasy. I close my eyes and see myself as a voluptuous woman being suckled by her lover. Then, clutching my left arse cheek, he suckles on my other nipple. I sniff the amyl nitrate again and return to my dream. I can envision the roundness and softness of my imaginary boobs, how they flatten against his cheek, as he suckles and fondles me. He switches back and forth, and cups both my buttocks. They too have rounded and softened into the ass of a fashion model, and the flesh molds and melts in his tight grip. Finally I am lying beneath him, naked and feeling very submissive. Then he slides up my body and our lips meet, as he holds me, moulding me to him and I acquiesce, as his tongue searches my mouth. His touch leaves me feeling loved, used and pleasantly abused. "Turn over," he tells me. I roll over, and aim my ass toward him. "Very pretty." He uses the poppers himself, breathing heavily on the fumes, telling me, "Now, at last you are ready, slave. I think I'm going to enjoy this." Dave wraps his arm under my belly and lifts my up, so that my ass is pointed up toward him. I am totally exposed from the rear. I love the feeling of helpless vulnerability. His press his thumbs against the sides of my butt crack, and parts my buttocks. He glides his tongue over the smooth skin. I feel something slick being rubbed into and around my asshole! It is warm, wet, and firm, and small enough to enter me easily. I cry out, clutch fabric of the couch, and gasp pleasure as he wiggles the tip of his tongue inside me. I cry out when he stops. Then, I feel a slick flume of the cold cream rubbed around the periphery of, and then into my ass. I gasp, breathless when I feel his cream slicked finger first press upon, and then penetrate my rectum. This makes me squirm and moan. It only hurts a little, but I know what will inevitably follow. I struggle to get used to the finger as it wiggles its way past one joint, then another, and then I feel the knuckle against the soft skin near my ass. I pump against it, trying to enlarge and soften myself. "You like that, slave." I nod and bob my head. The hair of my wig tumbles over my shoulders and obscures my view of him when I try to look back. With his other hand he pulls it back and I watch him observing me. "Slave, you look very pretty when you are in a little pain." He presses and pushes another finger into my hole. The amyl nitrate makes the muscles yield and so it slides in easily, and a wave of sensation ripples through my core to my nipples. Then, quickly, he pokes in a third and a fourth finger. My taut ring easily opens to them, and it feels like a pleasant stretching rather than the ripping that I had recoiled from in the cubicle. I turn back, brush the hair aside, and smile and nod a wordless assent. Then he digs in his thumb. "This will make it easier for you when we make love." He is widening me, making my almost virgin ass ready. His fist digs deeper, and I feel as though his knuckles must be inside. I push back as hard as I can, wanting all of him inside me. But now my body is struggling against this invasion. I have to force myself to tilt my hips to face the every deepening fist. I bury my face in the couch and hide my grimaces behind the curtain of the wigs hair. I should be grateful. I do not complain. Then, he pulls it out, one millimeter at a time. When the last finger is gone, I feel empty. I want to be filled again. And I know that soon I will be. I revel in anticipation until I feel something big and hard pushing against my hole! I look behind me. Dave, naked now, looms over me. He is stroking KY onto his penis, which has hardened into an eight inch rod. He is going to fuck my ass. "Be careful. You are my first." I enjoy my little lover's lie. "I know what I'm doing, slave. Just obey my commands. Now, roll over and throw your ankles over my shoulders." I obey, and look up as he mounts me. His face looks fierce and determined. I throw my head back and close my eyes. I abandon myself to him. He pokes his penis at my ring. At first it slides off its target. I have tightened up, and the finger fucking has left me puckered and resistant. He aims his cock more carefully. I feel it pirouette on the exterior, and then, in a moment, stab into me. I am wracked with a jolt of pain as his cockhead pops through the sphincter, and then pulls back through, and returns. With each cycle, he pushes another millimeter deeper, until his shaft plunges deep into the depths of my colon, far past the depth that the black cock had reached. The narrow coils of my colon take him, but even the amyl nitrate, which eased him into me, does not make my colon soft and pliable. Each thrust hurts me more, and I cover my eyes as tears form. He commands me, "Breathe," and I take a deep breath each time he rises and expel it with every thrust. I bite my baby finger to distract me from the pain deep within me. My cock shrivels into tight, rubbery nub, not erect, but tumenescent. It wobbles as he rises and falls over me. Each descent brings a fresh measure of pain. I want to take it all, but he is too much. "Take it out, master, please, I beg you. You're too big." He slaps my ass. "Beg me more, slave." "Please master, I am not ready for your fullness. Please give me more time to prepare." He pulls out and retrieves the KY. "Very well, prepare both of us." I squeeze a large dab of KY onto my ass and rub the frayed ring. I press as much as I can past the sphincter and into my stinging colon. "Now, lick me clean before you lubricate me." I cautiously take the tip of his cock, uncertain of my own flavors. Too my surprise, it is delicious, savory and a bit sweet. I begin sucking enthusiastically. He grabs my head and adds force to the blow job. His cock bangs my sore tonsils and penetrates past my palate into my esophagus. "Suck me, slave." Then he pushes me away, and I collapse back onto his couch. He grabs my ankles, and rams back into me in one swift rush. The lubricant lets him slide in smoothly, but my muscles have contracted into the void, and are tight and resistant to his thrust. I feel an explosion inside me. I close my eyes and grit my teeth a wave of agony sweeps over me, and I think I will faint. But it passes swiftly, washed away by warm currents of pleasure as his cock slides up my ass and gently nudges my prostate and seminal vesicles. I begin to think about his big cock sliding in and out, stretching my ass and finding the secret girl inside me and pleasuring her. I begin pushing back against each thrust and moaning for more, harder, harder, deeper, deeper, and I imagine I'm a girl, his girl! Dave gently reaches around my waist, rubbing my dick softly, while driving his cock to the hilt with each stroke. I imagine my prostate, massaged by a hundred powerful strokes of cockhead, remolded into a cervix, that my ass is a pussy, and my cock a swollen clit. I am on the verge of exploding. He holds my hips and I feel like his captive, helpless and vulnerable. He enters me ever deeper and now I am stiff as a rock. I love being 'taken' like this. I love when his thighs slap on mine. I love each time he penetrates me, when he pulls out with a pop, and buries his cock in me again, ever deeper and harder. Then, he thrusts become quicker. He flails like a barbarian, grunting and bellowing as his cock throbs and bucks. The lube has melted and run down my thighs, and the natural lubricity of my colon has been overwhelmed by the intensity of this assault. It feels that he is tearing my flesh from within. Then, suddenly, his rhythmic battering ram become chaotic and uncontrolled as his panting is replaced by a cacophony of growled expletives, and my battered insides are soaked with a hot spray of soothing, slippery liquid. He has climaxed, and collapses into a profound stupor, so leaden atop me I fight for my breath. I wonder if the effort has killed him. I flutter my shoulders, and cock my ear toward his face. He is breathing deeply, in post orgasmic slumber. His cock gradually softens, and I feel it slip with a final gentle pop from my gaping hole. I shrug my shoulders, and he stirs. "Thank you master, for a wonderful lesson." Master awakes, lifts himself from my back for a moment, and then kisses my neck, just below my ear. It feels lovely, but I can hear he is still quite breathless. He pushes up from me, sits on the floor on his haunches and slaps my right buttock. "That was good." Then, on shaky feet we rise and turn to stand facing each other, exchanging a deep French kiss. As we exchange tongues, Dave cups my buttock and slides his finger into my anus. It is wet with his escaping fluids, which are dripping in tingling rivulets down my thighs. "Mmm, I already miss having you inside me, Master." "I'll be back." With his right hand, he takes my nipples between fore- finger and thumb, and rolls it back and forth. The neural path between my ass, nipples and cock reactivates, and I notice my erection brushing against his hair thigh. I hold him tight, my eyes closed. I press him close, my cock is squeezed between us, and my body flattens against his. I never want this moment to end, but it does, as my lover pulls his finger from out of my tight sphincter. Our embrace ends, and we follow one another to the floor. We lie together, he on his back, me on my tummy, in front of the fire. He is tired and breathless, I am restless and wanton. I rise, kneel at his side. I bend over him, and take his flaccid penis gently in my hands, and lick it again, like a mother cat bathing her kittens, making it thoroughly clean. I toy gently with his nipples, as he had mine. He reaches toward my groin, and touches me. "You're still hard..." He rubs my erection against his thigh. "It's OK; you're satisfied, and tired." "I won't be satisfied until you have finished." I lie down, so I can watch the television screen and the young man, now on all fours being buggered by one man, using his mouth to satisfy another man, whilst yet one more stands nearby, stroking his flesh making himself ready for seconds. "Use this," I'm told, as he hands me the poppers again. And, my lover crouches over me, taking my hard flesh in his hands. I inhale on the fumes as his mouth envelopes the head of my throbbing shaft, in his warm, inviting mouth. He swirls his tongue around the crown at first then he begins to suck on me, teasing my sphincter with an inquisitive fingertip and the first wave of drug-heightened euphoria sweeps through my body, as he deep throats me: and I lift my hips, as I thrust into his mouth and very soon, I clasp either side of his jaw, moaning with release, my seed spouting from me, as he milks me dry. I draw him up from where he nestles with his face in my groin, his tongue still licking at me and as we kiss I'm able to taste myself on is lips. I love the sweet taste of my cum on his lips. And the fire warms us, as we hold one another, completely satisfied. We lie like that for a while, both of us slowly coming down from our sexual high. "It's almost morning." "I know. I have to go. My train to Manchester leaves in two hours." "There's a bus stop nearby the road house. Just follow the path through the apple orchard." "Can I ... call again?" "Of course you can." But as we lie there making lovers' promises, I am wonder whether we are both lying. Had my tryst with Dave been nothing more than an extension of roadhouse gang fuck, with a gas effects fire to keep me warm, and drugs to keep me calm? Of that, I could not be sure, but of this, I was certain. I had changed forever. I want nothing more than to be Dave's slave, or some other master's slave when we tire of one another. I got up and found my neatly folded and laundered clothes. I knew as I slipped on my flannel and corduroy, that someday I would want more than Dave could give me. And when that day comes, I could find it at the roadhouse. TBC Liverpool, UK, 1979