Chained

This is my first submission to Nifty. I wrote it ages ago and submitted it to Drummer magazine. They accepted it but changed editors before it went to print, and that's the last I heard. Time to get it off my hard drive and into your horny hands.

It's an S&M riff on the movie DOUBLE INDEMNITY with BONDAGE, S&M, CONTROL, WATERSPORTS, FISTING, SLINGS, NO ARROWS. Don't read if you're underage or troubled by "bad thoughts" about your gay impulses. Crazy Christians, please at least try to resist.

COPYRIGHt 2007 reserved to the author. Feel free to download for your personal reading pleasure, but please refrain from any other uses or republication in any format without contacting the author first.

Send email, appreciative or otherwise, to dogeboy2@yahoo.com. Thanks for reading.

CHAINED

PART 1

"Maybe he'll beat my ass, as soon as he opens that door, and then fuck it," I thought . . .

I liked these words as they ran endlessly through my mind. I liked the promise they held. I could see and hear the contours of my own degradation in them. The situation I had grown -- been trained -- crave was now my present reality, and I was so overcome, chained in bed, naked, my strong legs spread wide, that I had tears in my eyes. Once, and not long ago, I would never have let somebody, definitely not another man, see my crying. Now I didn't give a damn.

When he watched me those first days, I couldn't have guessed I'd end up as his slave and property, and happy to be so. At that time we worked on a construction crew together and he was my boss.

Ironic, isn't it? My boss then and my boss now -- forever. Not something I would have dreamed of on this earth.

I don't even want to leave this room, unless he tells me to. (I couldn't anyway, of course, since legally I'm dead. I'll explain that later.) I'm happy spending every day and night in the cool quiet of his black-walled bedroom, not alone because I'm always either with him or thinking of him, and waiting.

I can hear him stirring in the next room. He's fooling around in his office before he goes to work. Of course I don't know what he's actually doing. How could I? I stay chained to his bed. He's always kind, though, always thoughtful. He unhooks me to go to the bathroom. I've learned to hold it while he's at work.

It's funny how a man can forget his past and his present in favor of a future that flies right off the map. Six months ago if somebody had described my present situation to me, I would have said he was crazy. No one could have placed me in this black room, naked and chained in a state of constant sexual agitation, much less a slave to another man. Yet he did this. I guess he took advantage of my good nature -- before I understood what was happening.

I'll never forget the details of our first meeting and how even then he was working me, molding me into what he wanted. Being hooked into an elaborate leather and steel apparatus with my legs forced open and movement nearly impossible gives you lots of time to think. I can even hear my heartbeat -- fast now -- in this dark room empty except for a bed, a chest, and a few torture devices.

Sometimes I think farther back, to how I was in high school. I was always popular. I networked constantly, hung with the party crowd, but didn't party much myself. Something always held me back, but I was glad. I wanted to be good. That's how I thought of myself, amazingly enough -- "good." I watched lots of my buddies fuck up and pay dearly -- caught stealing cars or crazy from smoking crack. It's strange to see kids you grow up with, innocent guys you played ball with, looking for some fun and ending up as petty criminals who gradually kind of disappear from the world. I was determined to avoid this, and my parents, who are good people (I'm sure they still are, and I'm sorry they think I'm dead), helped by being supportive. They always told me I was "different" and had "more to give to life" than the other boys. These were actual things they said and I believed them.

So I developed a kind of moral feeling about life that kept me happy and a little detached. I felt like I could do anything I set my mind to, and I always wanted to be kind to people and make them feel better and still enjoy my own life in the process. I think my friends respected me for holding back. I even got invited to the pot parties and the beer bashes and they never expected me to indulge. They'd joke about it -- "George is saving himself till he's 21." But it was good-natured joking and they all cared about me. I know they did.

Of course now I smoke marijuana quite a bit. Mike gets me high. He says it makes me more "pliable" and I'm not so "hung up" about things. In other words, he can degrade me with less fuss. At first I hated it. Instead of relaxing me, it keyed me up and I'd get agitated and afraid. I know this was because I felt I was doing something really wrong and it hurt me so bad to compromise. Now (to show you how things can change in life, radically) I look forward to it, knowing it'll heighten the feeling for both of us when he starts massaging inside my butt just before I get the fist.

But back to the beginning. I had been working as a skilled carpenter at a big office complex in Evanston, thirty miles away, when the developer got sued. This had never happened to me before, but Mike tells me it's common nowadays, "everybody's lawsuit-happy." A bunch of us guys were laid off and it couldn't have come at a worse time. My wife Sue was pregnant with our second kid, I was just twenty, and I had expected to make a lot of money off this job. That's one reason we decided to have the kid. I talked to my dad and he did some calling around and couldn't come up with anything, so I phoned some of my friends from high school and put the word out that I needed work bad -- now.

Pretty soon I got a call from Jeff Healy, who had a cousin in construction. He had talked to this cousin just that afternoon, and they needed a skilled carpenter and he gave me the number and said I better call pronto. They might fill this position, the last on the site, any time.

"One thing, though," I remember Jeff saying, "the site boss is apparently a real sonofabitch. The men don't like him, he's some kind of little Hitler."

"A little mean guy? I've seen the type. I can deal with that," I said, feeling confident and strong enough to do whatever I must to make money.

"I don't mean he's little. He's a little shorter than you but big. It's just, he's a Hitler type, you know, a wise-ass know-it-all who muscles all the guys."

I just laughed and asked Jeff if he knew how much they paid.

"Jim said thirty bucks an hour."

"No problem, then," I said. "I'll kiss the guy's ass in church for that much money."

I never believed any of that kind of smart-ass talk, but sometimes I enjoyed saying it -- kind of a guilty enjoyment.

"I don't think you'll have to do that," Jeff said. "Just be careful. I don't want it said I helped lead my favorite goody two-shoes down the path."

I kept the joke going. "I won't tell anybody you put me on the road to hell."

"Okay, guy," he said, laughing. I always did like Jeff. Like me, he was a good, strong, settled-down guy, with a sweet wife and two kids. He had his wild side, but that was long ago. He was an insurance salesman now. He sold me a ton of life insurance after I got out of school and started working. I remember how happy I was to see him happy at making such a deal.

I never would have thought about Jeff as other than a friend, but now I wonder how he would feel seeing me chained up like this, what he'd say if he just opened that door. He'd probably hesitate a minute, size up the situation, maybe look at me kind of puzzled and sad at first, then look around to see if anybody was watching and then maybe smile seeing no one there and then walk over to me and unzip his pants and lay his dick in my mouth. Jeff was a wrestler in high school and, like Mike, he has a big uncut dick. I remember how he liked to use it, too -- brutally sometimes. I watched him fuck a girl at a party once and she was crying and bleeding and he told her to shut the fuck up and kept ramming away. "He's too big," I remember she whispered.

Anyway, so Jeff gave me the number and I called his cousin, Jim, and he said, "Fine, come over tomorrow morning and we'll go in together." I got his address and he's a nice guy like Jeff, family man and all, and he started talking about this site boss, saying strange stuff. And now I'm a little less confident, after getting two warnings. I feel like maybe he's going to make my life hell for who knows what reason. "Just watch out," Jim said, and I asked him exactly what for, and he hesitated, then said in a cool tone, "yourself."

The next morning I met Jim and we talked about high school and what we do now. He's a little older than me, and he's got three kids. After these pleasantries, the discussion returned to the site boss, this Mike.

"It's not something I wanna go into, but everybody hates this guy. He does a few obvious things, like ranking on you while you're trying to do your job. And god help you if you fuck up."

"What'll he do?" I said, a little nervous now.

"Well, fair-haired boy, he'll probably take you in his office and paddle your sweet butt. I'm not kidding. He's been known to whip a guy's ass!"

"Paddle a grown man? He couldn't!"

"What are you going to do, complain? Go whining where? Tell your Daddy your boss pulled down your pants and whipped your poor ass?"

"Where does a guy get off spanking another guy?"

"I've tried to figure that out -- "

"Has he ever whipped you?"

"Once. But now I never fuck up. I just stay out of his way and do a nice clean job... On a job like this you get a lot of time to think. So I been thinking about Mike. And I figure it like this. He's got a big crew on his hands, most of them young rowdy guys. They're not all family men like us, George, not all settled in with their lives. Some of them get into carousing, drinking. You might even catch one porking a babe on one of the half-made floors. You've seen the sluts that hang around a site wanting dick. So, see, Mike's like the high school coach trying to keep his boys in line for the season. I think that's how he sees it."

"Isn't this guy nice at all, ever?"

"He can be, if he likes you. He treats a couple of the guys especially good. But I wouldn't want that either. People say it's as bad for him to love you as to hate you. I learned to stay somewhere in between."

"What do you mean, love?"

"I don't know, there's been talk. A couple of the guys have been in his office a bunch of times and they come out looking mighty relaxed!"

"You think he's a ... homo?"

"I don't know. Just watch your ass."

"Thanks for the tip, Jim," I said, feeling now like I was back in high school just as he described it, under the thumb of some kind of tyrant. Of course, I was sure I could get along, win him over with my nice ways. I had gotten so many compliments over the years about what a "good guy" I was. I would do my job and do everything I could to please Mike, I determined that right in the car. I'd bend for him. I had no choice. With Sue pregnant and the bills piling up (my one area of weakness is finances), I had to get good, well-paying, steady work, and keep that work no matter what it involved.

PART 2

"Slow, slow rhythm, hand into fist, punch-fuck punch-fuck, faster, a little harder, oh god please..."

The words roll through my mind, remembering what Mike did to me last night. He said he wanted to experiment with me to see how many slow, steady punches to my face would result in a discoloration. He said I would probably get a yellow bruise, and he hit me, over and over, and I did. "You yellow up good," he kept saying, with that smile. All the while with me on his lap with his dick way up in my ass. Mike knows everything.

So there I was stretched out on the bed like a "big sexy fuckin' rag doll," as he puts it (because I tend to go limp when he walks in the room, it's a body thing, I don't know why). He had unhooked me for the evening, and pulled my apparatus up to the ceiling. My legs always stay open and ready, kind of bowed, since they're forced into that position for most of each day. I wonder what it would be like to walk around all the time, now that I'm bowlegged?

I asked Mike about this and he said I could get up and walk around anytime I wanted to. He also said (as he does sometimes) that I could leave him anytime I chose. I knew this was a test. In response I took his hand and rubbed it along the crack of my ass and smiled, and he nodded like an indulgent dad and unzipped his workpants and pulled out his fat dick and stood up, climbed onto my chest, and gently inserted it in my mouth. I knew this routine. I was simply to lie there with my mouth just clamped onto the head, not sucking, just holding it there to "ponder your Master's dick." This was part of my training that, he said, would "never end."

After a few minutes, his dick now rock hard, he began easing it down my throat, doing it carefully like he didn't want to damage me in the process. It could happen too – with a dick almost as thick as a beer can.

PART 3

I first went to the site on a Friday afternoon. When I knocked at Mike's office door, I heard a deep voice say, "Come in." I opened the door and saw him sitting at his desk writing something. He didn't look up at first. The room could not have accommodated much more than the desk, chair, file cabinet and single mattress that it held.

I stood for a moment while he continued to write.

"Lock the door," he said, and after I obeyed, he looked up and extended his hand to me. Mike had a surprisingly light grip, like shaking hands didn't mean anything. I expected him to crush my hand. He seemed a little distracted. I guess he had more on his mind than just our interview, with the project going on.

He was pretty much as Jim had said. He looked like a high school football coach, you know, the kind of guy that couldn't or wouldn't be a player himself, but could happily boss all the players around. He had an aura of casual authority, and when he talked it was with a kind of finality in his voice that said, "This is the way it is, don't even try to challenge me." He had black hair cut in a buzz, and he was maybe 5'10" and he was built very stocky and had a bull neck and blue, clear blue eyes and wore glasses.

"I talked to Jim about you," he said, putting his feet up on his desk and lighting a cigar and staring at me with his big blue eyes. "He said you'd be all right."

"I'll work hard, I promise, sir," I said, ready to impress on him that I always knew my place.

"You call everybody `sir'?" He smiled slightly, like he was enjoying some private joke.

"No sir, not everybody."

He nodded and started blowing smoke into my face.

"I like a good attitude in a worker," he said.

"Yes sir." I tried not to choke, as he blew more smoke into my face.

"Not too much, though. I like a little fight in my boys ..."

"Yes sir."

"Know what a good attitude is, George?"

I nodded.

"What?" he wanted to know.

I thought for a minute, then said, "Knowing who's boss, sir, and giving respect."

"Good answer. Also -- doing what you're told, when you're told. Are you capable of that?"

"I am, sir." I was thinking about the things Sue and I'd be buying with all the money I'd be making. I was mentally ticking off the items: new big-screen tv, new wallpaper for the baby's room, new countertop for the sink --

"You smoke, George?" He stopped my train of thought, brought my back to this cramped, locked office.

"No sir."

"What if I told you to?"

"Sir?"

"What if I told you to smoke?" He sounded impatient.

When I said nothing, but only looked at him, he reached across his desk and held his cigar as if I was supposed to put it in my mouth.

"Put your mouth on it," he said, like a bored teacher.

I hesitated but only for a minute, remembering my vow that I had to have this job no matter what.

"Suck it," he ordered.

"Yes sir," I said, and I did, thinking this was probably the same kind of ritual he put every applicant through. We were supposed to be grateful to our boss, and know how lucky we were, and I was determined to do so. I had expected more questions about the work itself, but figured since he knew I was a skilled carpenter and could read blueprints and all, he didn't need to trouble about that.

I couldn't help coughing as some of the smoke got in my lungs. Mike laughed.

"You're a real innocent, George. How's it going to be for you working around a bunch of real men?"

"Sir?" This question I really couldn't fathom. Was he implying I wasn't a real man?

"Are you used to being around rough guys, or are you cherry?"

"Cherry, sir?"

"You know -- "

"I guess I'm cherry, sir," I said, willing to accede on this, even though I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"There's room for a few cherry guys on any construction site," he said philosophically, leaning back in his chair and taking a few drags on his cigar.

"We've got a couple here now. They're working out fine. Real popular boys." He sounded as if he were trying to reassure me.

"You play sports in high school? You look pretty strong."

"A little, sir. I was on the wrestling team."

"Take off your shirt."

"Sir?"

"Take off your shirt. I want to see if you're strong enough for this kind of work."

I shrugged and stood up and suddenly felt claustrophobic in this small locked office with this strange boss asking me questions I was sure he shouldn't be.

He stood up and walked around the desk and touched my bicep. His hand felt rough, calloused as he ran it over my skin. I looked down and saw he had thick, muscular legs. Instead of pants he was wearing a pair of flimsy nylon jogging shorts and his dick was clearly outlined. It looked big, and was it my imagination or was it getting hard?

"You'll do," he said, squeezing my arm a little too hard and making me wince. He told me to put my shirt back on, then started humming faintly, as if he were distracted by some private thought. I wished the interview would end, and maybe he sensed this, because he unlocked the door and said, "Report Monday, 8 o'clock."

"Thank you sir," I said, relieved. On my way out, I noticed he was looking intently at me and nodding and scratching his balls.

PART 4

"Please take it out just for a minute, it hurts, I can't take it, I thought I could, but I can't. Take it out, then you can put it right back in..."

Mike went to work late the other morning. He said he had some intense dreams and woke up feeling very horny and he remembered his "fuck toy" chained up here and knew I'd be ready for him.

I nodded and smiled and tried to open my legs wider. I used to resist appearing as anxious as I really am, and still feel nervous about this because sometimes I'm afraid if he sees me too eager, he'll want to get rid of me. I think any slave -- that's what I am now, I can say it -- must feel the same.

Mike came in wearing only his boxer shorts, and his dick was sticking out through the hole. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth and felt him climbing on top of me. Sometimes he likes to "fuck without fanfare," as he says. He just climbs on top, inserts his dick in my ass and fucks hard and methodically until he comes. Sometimes he'll bite my nipples and slap me hard in the process.

Other times he'll come in and ask, "What kind of mood are you in?" And I think I should at least pretend to put up a fight, beg him not to hurt me. Sometimes he'll order me to look only at his dick and ass throughout the session. In reality, I'm only too happy to do this, of course. He'll then put tit clamps on me and tie my (hard) dick to them, strap my balls into a wire cage, then climb up on my bed and sit down on my face. He smacks my dick hard while I lick his asshole in a frenzy. If it looks like I'm getting so excited I'm about to come, he'll reach back and slap or punch my face hard, to jolt me out of my own selfish feelings.

"My pleasure first, pig," he says, "then yours -- maybe."

"Thank you, sir," I'll say when -- laughing -- he lifts his ass off my mouth just long enough for me to speak.

PART 5

Fear of failure seems to invite it – that's something my dad used to tell me. I don't where he heard it. Anyway, that saying was running through my mind at 8:15 Monday morning as I stood on the freeway ramp, waiting for Triple A to arrive to help me start my car. I wasn't sure what had happened, why it stalled, then stopped, on the way to my new job. I managed to get it onto the shoulder. Frantic, I raced to the nearby phone.

I felt like I was in prison – only allowed one call. Triple A promised to be there within a half hour. Forty-five minutes had passed.

When he did arrive, I told the guy if he couldn't fix it to just tow the goddamned thing to the Greenleaf Garage, where I did all my repair work. I told him I'd give him 20 bucks extra if he'd drop me off at Evanston, only a few miles down the road, before taking the car away. He was a good guy and agreed.

I could only think of one thing -- get your ass to work. I tried to step back from this thought for a minute, wondering if I should be this obsessive about it. After all, anybody -- even Mike -- would understand about a broken-down car. On the other hand, he might get a feeling about me, that I was stupid, or unreliable, or incompetent. I tried so hard at our first meeting to show him the respect I felt he wanted, to show him that whatever way he wanted it played, I was willing to do it. I tried to relax, but kept wishing I had some expensive cigars to take in with me. No, no, no, I told myself, I don't want to seem too pathetic-- he'll suspect I'm desperate and take advantage of me.

When I got to the site, Mike was not in his office. Instead of wandering around looking for him, I spread the word that I was there and would wait for him. Instinctively, I knew this was the right move, and Mike told me so when he arrived at his office a few minutes later.

"You were right in waiting here for me," he said. He seemed surprisingly calm considering my first morning fuck-up.

"I'm really sorry, sir," I said. "I left early as it was. I still don't know what's wrong with the car. It's been towed. I feel like an idiot."

"Don't be sorry," he said, putting his arm around me and appearing to take command of the situation. "I hate that word `sorry.' You couldn't help it, George. Nobody can predict that kind of thing. It happened, now let's make the best of it."

He looked at me kind of intensely then and I thought for some reason that he was not talking about the car at all. He walked over and locked the door.

"Fate intervenes, sometimes, and spoils our best plans."

"You sound so philosophical, sir, kind of like my dad," I blurted out, and immediately regretted the remark. He moved closer.

"Well, son, it's true I've been around a little longer than you. I'd have to know more about life than a ... boy like you."

"I guess you would at that, sir," I said, wondering how I could be feeling relaxed and nervous at the same time. Maybe it was the pressure of his hand on my neck.

"What lesson could I teach you?"

I suddenly felt the air was stifling in the room, but I wanted to answer his question.

"Respect for experience, sir?"

"Respect for your betters, George."

He began to squeeze my neck harder, kind of kneading it. I tried to smile, as if to show he was doing something perfectly acceptable, even though he was hurting me. I was determined not to make waves. I wondered if he took my reaction as a sign of instant compliance.

He sat down next to me and made a fist and put it against my mouth, staring like he might hit me if I made a wrong move.

I half-closed my eyes, wishing I were back home, maybe cozy in bed with Sue in my arms.

"What are you thinking about, George?"

He pulled back his fist, and I felt strangely sleepy, as if I were kind of hypnotized. Maybe his eyes, that penetrating blue, had lulled me into this state.

"Nothing, sir," I said.

He opened his hand and covered my face with it and said, "Lick it."

I felt like this was going too far and with visions of kitchen countertops and bassinettes in my mind, I stood up. He pushed me back down.

"I want to get up," I said, half-statement, half-plea.

"I know you do," he said, smiling at me, "but you can't. See, I'm stronger than you."

"Is this some kind of weird game?" I said. I was beginning to feel angry, and I now withdrew the obviously too-respectful "sir."

He patted my head and smiled. "What do you think?"

"Maybe you test your guys, is what I think." Now I felt it was important to re-establish myself on an equal footing, let him know I was in on his little game, and even though I still felt desperate about this good job, I wouldn't be pulled into something I'd have no control over.

"Test them how?" he said, his voice almost courteous.

"Test to see how much loyalty they have. See if they're really reliable."

"You make me sound like a high school coach," he said, laughing.

"Well -- "

"But you boys are all grown men. Do you think I do the same thing with all my guys that I'm doing with you?"

"I don't know," I said, frightened at a sudden vision of armies of abused men.

"Well, I don't," he said. "How bad do you want this job?"

"I do want it bad, I'm sure you know I do," I said angry now. "But not at any price. Why should I get involved in ... weird things like this -- "

I stopped because I was getting confused. He put my hand on his crotch, and I could feel his dick pulsing through his pants. I was taller than him, but he was stronger. He unsnapped the top button of his pants, unzipped, and pulled out a very fat, kind of dark uncut dick with big blue veins on it. He put both hands behind my head and forced me down. He used one hand to guide his dick into my mouth, the other to push my head up and down on it.

I tried to resist, but every time I pulled my head up, he pushed it back down. This went on for some minutes and even though what was happening made me feel sick and strange, I tried to relax and not fight him so much. I figured, if I can just think of Sue while I'm doing this, just think of Sue.

PART 6

Within two weeks, Mike had upped my salary by five bucks. When he told me about this, he said, "Don't worry. I'll get it back," a remark I didn't want to contemplate at the time.

This raise, I learned, was predicated on my spending time with him locked in his office. I didn't want to, but I felt like I should. I kept thinking, if I get through this "test period" I'll be home-free, then he'll leave me alone and I'll still be making big bucks. I figured learning how to suck another guy's dick, as long as it served some specific purpose, wasn't so bad. Of course, he made me do it the way he liked, usually with me on all fours under his desk, so if anybody came in, he'd zip up quick, walk over and unlock the door, then sit back down, quietly unzip and, while he was talking to this person, guide his dick back into my mouth -- "where it belongs," he'd say later -- and have me blowing him secretly under the desk while he talked.

I didn't know if the other guys were hip to what I was doing, but I began to feel odd around them. If they did know, nobody said anything. Maybe he'd already gotten to some of them, and figured out a way to shut them up. Or maybe they just didn't care. Maybe they were like me and figured, "a job's a job," no matter what it entails.

Mike explained to me one night, just after he'd finished "face-fucking" me, as he called it, that me being his "fuck-boy" was a job like any other.

"You're getting paid for it. Plenty. And you're even starting to like it."

"I'm only doing this," I insisted, "till I prove to you I can be a good permanent worker." I had heard from many of the guys that Mike's crew was the best around, they were in real demand and worked all the time, unlike many crews.

"You're proving that and more," he said. "I'm going to start fucking your ass tonight."

I could understand giving him a blow job every couple of days. I remembered hearing about the olden days of the Greeks and Romans where men fooled around with each other. But I couldn't let him get on top of me and stick his dick in my ass. How could I? I'd be just like a woman.

"That's where I draw the line," I said.

"I draw the lines," he replied, smiling in the kind of pleasant way he had. I looked up at him and noticed maybe for the first time that he had kind of a handsome face, along with his blue eyes.

"If I like your ass, if it's hot and tight, if it's good pussy, I'll take possession of it," he said flatly.

"Maybe I've made a mistake," I said, under my breath. The room seemed smaller than when I'd first seen it.

He handed me a beer from a little cooler he kept by his desk.

"Drink!"

He seemed to relish giving the order.

"Drink it straight down," he said quietly.

"I will, but I won't like it."

"You'll learn to."

I drank it fast, to show I was as much a "man" any day as he was.

"Good. How do you feel?"

"A little dizzy." I reached out to steady myself.

"Already? You are a cherry boy."

"That word again -- "

"Cherry boy," he repeated.

I suddenly felt relaxed, almost sleepy.

"Stretch out, cherry boy," I heard him say. With his big hands, he lifted me onto the mattress behind his desk. He carefully lay me on my belly, like he was putting away an important package, then handed me another beer.

"I want you relaxed," he said.

"I am, Mike," I replied. My stomach hurt.

He handed me the beer and watched while I propped myself up and drank it.

"All of it again?" I asked. I somehow wanted to impress him with my good manners even though I felt sick now, afraid of what was coming at me.

"Every drop, cherry boy," he said. I looked up at his thick, hairy legs.

When I was done, he bent over, pulled my pants down, and began rubbing my ass. I tried to turn around, figuring if he saw the look on my face, the plea, maybe he'd stop, or at least delay. But he pushed me down and continued stroking my ass. Then I heard the sound of his zipper.

"Ready, cherry boy?" he said.

I said "No!" I wasn't ready and never would be. I didn't want this to happen, felt I must do anything to prevent it. But my muscles failed. I'm usually strong, but that night I couldn't fight him. Two beers did me in, honestly. All I remember from that night was a hot pain in my ass, and him sweating so hard it dripped off his body onto my back, and us like two greased pigs, with him shoved deep inside me, ramming away and making grunting sounds and me no longer resisting him but -- for some reason I couldn't begin to fathom -- thrusting my ass up and down in time to his hard painful strokes.

READERS: That's it for Parts 1-6. For the exciting conclusion, check out the rest (Parts 7-10) as soon as Nifty lets me post. Thanks for reading! Email dogeboy2@yahoo.com.