Saturday, February 27, 2010


“Hey,” I said into my cell phone. The parking lot of the Comfort Suites was slick from a thin layer of early morning ice; even though I’d been running the car for fifteen minutes, I could still see my breath wisping out before me when I breathed. “You ready?”

“Room 219,” was all he said. I heard a click when he disconnected.

I’ve always felt awkward walking into a motel where I’m not a guest. I used to try to saunter in as if I were renting a room for the night—looking at the snack machine, peeking at the pool to see if it were occupied. Now I don’t even bother. With a brief smile at the friendly people manning the front desk, I strode in as if I knew where I was going, found the elevator, and took it a floor up.

His door was unlatched, as he’d told me it would be. I stepped inside to find the room almost completely dark, save for a slice of muffled morning light from window’s edge. Soft dance music played from the laptop open on the desk. And he lay exactly as he’d told me I’d find him, sprawled on top of the neatly-made bed with his knees dug into the mattress, head down, ass up and waiting.

A tight nylon hood covered his head, the black fabric obscuring his face; a black leather collar with metal studs fastening it across his Adam’s apple. A blindfold, again of leather, covered his eyes. As he’d told me, he wore a tight-fitting wrestler’s singlet, faded from countless washes, green, with ragged blue piping around the edge. He let out a sigh. “Is that you?” he asked, in what was barely a whisper.

I let the door click behind me in answer. I dropped my coat onto the floor, kicked off my shoes, and positioned myself by the bed, exactly between his legs. When I unbuckled my belt, I did it noisily, letting the metal jangle. My pants I unzipped slowly, pulling out the fabric so that he could hear the slider unfastening every tooth. As I’d hoped, he twitched, grinding his hips against the air, anxious. I let my pants fall to the ground, and stepped out of them.

He’d cut a hole in the singlet—a perfect cat’s-eye that framed inches of shaved, pink flesh beneath. I dropped to my knees, hooked my hands where his legs met his hips, and pulled him to the bed’s edge, so I could flick my tongue across its length. The stranger groaned loudly, trying to pull away, but I held firm. The more insistently I worked on his hole, the more he tried to struggle away. Despite his musculature, though . . . and he did have the same enviably perfect, unflawed body from the photos he’d sent me . . . he was a small man, barely feet-foot-five, and so lean I could have flung him over my shoulder without much exerting myself.

Everything I could have needed for the encounter he’d laid out on the bed beside him. I dipped two fingers in the tub of lube he’d left opened and greased him up, feeling him twitch and squirm as my fingers dipped inside his hole. After I’d readied myself, I rubbed the tip of my cock around his butt. “Yes,” he whispered. “I want it.” Then he added, “Hold me down. Please.”

Without a word, I set one foot on the bed, grabbed his collar from behind, and shoved him deeper into the mattress. Concrete-hard, I began slowly sliding into his ass, while his fingers clawed for handfuls of the comforter.

“Hold me down!” he whispered, his voice strangled and frantic.

While I fucked him, I kept hold of the collar and wrapped my fingers around the hood’s fabric, pulling it even more tightly against his face. I used my weight and my forearm to keep his right shoulder against the bed, still grinding deep inside. He tried to shift his weight, but I kept him fastened against the mattress, letting him know that it was my scene now, and that I was in control of it.

For long minutes we struggled like that, with him occasionally trying to break away and me refusing to let him. He responded with what sounded like sobs of happiness when I hauled off and whacked his butt. I would convulse with pleasure whenever he’d squeeze me tightly during one of his attempts to shift me. After several minutes, I spoke what had been my first words to him: “I’m going to shoot.”

His hands clutched at my hips behind him, then, holding me firmly and trying to draw me even more deeply inside than I already was. I grunted, shuddered, and let the fingers of my right hand splay over the nylon covering the back of his head; it felt like I could almost hold his entire skull in my palm. After a moment my head cleared.

“Not yet,” he said, begging, when I attempted to pull out. “Pin me.” Both his hands reached up and clutched for mine; I took them with my left hand and restrained them over his head. My weight I shifted so that I was now lying atop him. “Pin me,” he asked again, his voice breaking. I rested my right forearm across his shoulder, pushing him further into the bedclothes. “Yeah,” he said, trembling. “Pin me!”

Over and over he said the two words, like a prayer, unless at last they trailed off into nothingness. Then, all at once, he yelled, "Breed it!" His body shivered in quick spasms; our hands were so tightly intertwined that my left fingers felt swollen and puffy. After a moment, though, he relaxed, and I felt small prickling sensations return to my digits.

I shot in his guts, turned on by the way he'd contracted and writhed while he came. Carefully, I slid out of his cummy hole. When I rolled him over, he panted. A pool of sticky wetness splotched his abdomen, spreading by the second from where his cock bulged under the fabric. He lay there, lifeless and limp, his chest heaving up and down as his breathing returned to normal.

I pulled on my clothing, took a moment to put on my shoes, and left. Downstairs in the lobby, I smiled at the hotel clerk as I grabbed a pastry from the continental breakfast. “Thanks for staying with us!” he said as I exited to the parking lot.

I nodded, as if I’d belonged there.