Cock of the Walk

The sun’s beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the motel parking lot, still damp from the morning’s brief rain shower. There’s a faint metallic air of ozone in the air from its rapid evaporation. I knock at the door—110—and am greeted by the rattle of the chain, and a thunk of metal as someone draws back the deadbolt.

It’s pitch black inside. To my sun-bleached eyes, anyway, it seems as if I’ve stepped into a state of blindness. The door closes behind me. I sense noises from every corner. There’s a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you could make it,” whispers a voice in my ear. I feel the long bristles of the man’s mustache scrape my ear, shiver as the pads of his palms press into my shoulders, massage my neck. “Make yourself at home. You’ll be in demand.”

I let the host guide me to the back of the room, where there’s an open sink by the washroom door. I kick off my flip-flops, slowly remove my shirt. I’m trying to kill time until my eyes adjust to the dimness. By the time I’m down to nothing more than my rubber cock rings, I can see the noises are coming from shadows, and that the shadows are moving all around the small hotel room. There’s a cluster of them in a corner, where I can see the outline of a man bracing himself against the wall while another kneels behind him, licking and snuffling his hole. There are a few on the other side of the washroom door frame, where the sounds of grunting and sucking and the wet squelch of mouth meeting mouth echo on the tiles. And there are many on the bed, which is a mass of writhing naked flesh.

How many men are here? I can’t tell. I’d guess between a dozen and fifteen. I fold my clothes neatly, place the sandals atop them, and store them on the highest shelf in the closet, where I hope they’ll be safe.

Then I move to the bed.

I realize I’m a magnet, and the men are iron filings. At my approach they all move toward me. A hand reaches out to seize my hardening meat. Another hand reaches up, pulls me down by the neck. A tongue invades my mouth. Someone’s standing behind me, rubbing the downward-facing bulge of his cock into my butt crack. There’s a mouth on my nuts, and then another on my hole. I’m pulled down by the current of hungry men seeking to consume me. I sink into the mattress, and find myself drowning in flesh.

It’s the sweetest kind of drowning I can imagine.

I spent a lot of my life hating my appearance; I could go weeks without any but the most cursory glances in a mirror. It’s only been the last half-dozen years that I’ve actually been at peace with my exterior and what it’s become. My gifts are modest, but hey. They’re my gifts. It would be folly not to enjoy them. So I think of myself as foxy, rather than toxic. I dress to present myself to advantage. I use my smile to disarm men, and my eyes to let me know how much I want them. I put my modest gifts to their best possible use.

But here. Fuck. I’ve got too much confidence. Arrogance, even. I know I can have anyone I want in this room. These men are hot, too. The guy sucking my dick and staring up at me gratefully is a compact, bald, muscle stud, smooth all over and with a round bubble butt that twitches and gapes and closes again as he grinds against the bed. There’s a black man demanding my mouth. His body is as hard and muscular as my skin is pale and soft. A guy my age with long, curly hair to his shoulders stands staring at me from the other side of the bed. He’s stroking his cock, and pushing off a tall man trying to play him.

I don’t know where this insane confidence I’m feeling comes from. Maybe it’s the mood of the room. Maybe it’s long experience telling me what I know will happen. I just know that now I’m here, these men are mine to direct. Mine to choose. Mine to fuck and fill.

This is my party. The dark is my territory.

I start with the muscle dude. He’s not letting go of my meat, anyway; he’s determined to be the one who gets the first and best of my inches. I haul him up between my legs as I lay back against the headboard of the rickety bed. I shove my mouth against his and thrust my tongue deep into his mouth. I can taste my own precum inside. He gets angry when another man—short, solid, built, mustached (I find out later that he’s a state trooper)—dives for my cock when I’ve pulled the bald guy off it. He shoves back with his feet, tries to push the trooper away. He wants the monopoly on what I’m offering.

But the trooper is determined. He forces his head beneath the bald guy’s crotch, attaches his mouth to my cock, and sucks like he’s starving. The bald guy breaks away from our prolonged kiss and for a moment, looks like he wants to deck the trooper.

And I’m sitting there, smirking a little bit, and enjoying the near-fight as my just due. Yeah. I deserve this.

The trooper will get his turn before the afternoon’s end. I choose the bald guy first. I just use my hands to turn him around. I pull up my knees so they’re pointing at the ceiling, spread them wide, and let him grapple with finding a comfortable position to sit on it. He’s been popped before I got to him. His hole is slimy and wet and juiced, but it’s also warm and hungry as it slides down on my shaft.

This fucker knows what he’s doing. He’s not messing around with any half-hearted wiggles or coquettish jiggling. Fucker is slamming down to the base. Clutching at my rod with his expert hole. Angling it expertly to give me the maximum friction and sensation. He’s squeezing it, clamping down on it like a vise. Other men are trying to get to me. There’s a mouth on each nipple. Guys take my hands and rub them over their bodies, so I can feel the muscle and the meat. But the bald guy owns my mouth and cock, and he’s determined to get the first load.

He does. I let it out in a loud gush, crying out with mingled joy and need as it arrives. It’s an animal cry muffled by the bald guy’s tongue down my throat. For a moment we stare at each other in the darkness.

He nods. I nod back. Mission accomplished.

Next.

There’s a mouth on my dick, cleaning me off. It’s the black guy who’s been waiting his turn. His mouth completely consumes my dick; his tongue flicks out to lick my balls. Then he’s pushing me into one of the two thin pillows. His hands close around my wrists, locking them up and over my head. I’m hard again at being dominated that way. His dick is thick and nearly as long as mine, but he doesn’t give a shit about it. He just wants to kiss me, softly and tenderly. It’s a style completely different from the bald guy’s. This man is a lovemaker.

A lovemaker on his own terms, though. He refuses to let me up. His wrists still hold my arms. I offer a token resistance; his grasp tightens. He only lets go when he goes down between my legs to suck my dick again. Someone shoves a dick in my mouth. I open up and obediently take it. There are hands pinching my nipples and a mouth at my hole—probably the black guy’s. I don’t care who’s doing what to me. All I know is that on that bed, for the eight or nine men crowding around, I’m the center of attention.

And a cocky part of me, deep inside, sneers and thinks that’s just as it should be.

It takes a while for me to get to the point of orgasm again, but when I do, it’s deep inside the black man’s gut. He’s enticed me onto my knees, so that I can pound it into him while he’s gobbling down the dick of the state trooper. “You married?” the trooper asks, nodding down at my ring. I reply that I am. “Me too,” he says. “Kids?”

I nod.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. Past doubts be damned. At that moment, as I juice up the black guy’s hole, I know it. The tide of red recedes as my pulse slows. My vision returns to shades of black. The men close in around me. I’m a nocturnal beast, surrounded by shadows. This is my home. Like I said: my territory.

I’m in just about every mouth in the room at some point. I fuck eight different asses, shoot in four. Men jostle for their turn between my legs, and I sit there like some kind of god-damned king of the night, relishing every fucking second of it.

Men come and go. Three hours pass. At last it’s just two of us. Me, and the party’s host. He’s a handsome older man, a fine specimen with long wavy hair and a retro mustache like Sam Elliott in Lifeguard. He’s standing at the end of the bed, naked, his dick still hard and angled off to the side. “You think you’re cock of the walk, don’t you?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I say. I’m sitting at the top of the bed again, dead center, like it’s my fucking throne. My legs are spread, my knees bent, my arms resting on their crowns.

“You just assume everybody wants to worship that thing,” he says, nodding at what’s hanging down, four times spent, between my thighs.

I look him up and down. My dick stirs yet again, coming to life and rising obscenely into the air. It’s still wet from a dozen men’s mouths, still stinking of too many holes to count. “I think you do too,” I tell him, feeling arrogance swell my chest.

He stands stock still, like small prey caught in my sights. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I do.” Then he slides down onto the sheets, and up between my knees to claim his long-awaited prize.

And the nocturnal beast in me roars, satisfied.