I felt a hand on my cock, cupping my cock at the root, on the underside--holding my cock up at a raised angle, my hips already being raised by the wedge. Then I turned stone cold and a chill went through my body as I felt the cold steel tip of the wand at my piss slit. I screamed out as the first of the wands slowly entered me there. Violation, stuffing, remarkably little pain, an electric zing through my body, my cock engorging, an indescribable feeling of sensual pleasure--enhanced by the mere thought of now having had every orifice of my body dominated and fucked by my dark angel.
"Relax, relax," I was hearing in a soft, soothing, hummed tone. "Relax and go with the feeling. It will be so much better,"
A sucking, emptying feeling as the wand slid out. A strange sense of loss and emptiness when it is gone.
Then a thicker wand, entering me, making me scream again despite myself. Tightening up, but then remembering, and relaxing. But as this wand glided up through my urethra, I knew I was about to cum. I yelled out to the dark angel. Asking for mercy. Letting him know I was going to blow. And the wand glided back out and I did blow my wad.
A husky laugh from the dark angel and a cleaning of my penis with his tongue.
That's it then, I think. Yet another, deeper, darker experience. That was OK then.
But then an even thicker wand at my piss slit. pushing in, stretching me. Loud humming. I cry out. "Oh, God, oh God. Noooo. Yessss. M-o-o-a-n-n..."
Hardesty reached over and clicked from the Sandman story on the computer screen to the accompanying video. William Hopkins, the National Art Gallery curator, tall, slender, lightly but nicely muscled, and naked, was draped over Hardesty's lap as the vice cop sat at the foot of the bed, looking into the computer on the table in front of him. They were in Hopkins's apartment. The party was going on out in the living area without them. Hopkins didn't seem to mind that he was abdicating his host role for the party. He'd paid Hardesty a thousand dollars to attend, and this was what he was paying Hardesty for.
"Fuck, you're a monster. Your dick is enormous," Hopkins whimpered.
He should know. Hardesty's hard shaft was deep up into Hopkins's anal passage. The gallery curator was sitting in the vice cop's lap, skewered on Hardesty's erection. His arms ran up Hardesty's chest and were bound together behind Hardesty's neck. His ankles were bound to Hardesty's calves. While he was naked, Hardesty wasn't. He was still wearing his mesh muscle shirt and his tight trousers, although the trousers were unbuttoned and flared to allow his cock to jut out and snake up into Hopkins's passage.
Hopkins was pressing the back of his head into Hardesty's chest and panting hard. With one hand, Hardesty was twirling the fourth sounding wand they had used down into Hopkins's urethra slit. He was palming the other man's flat belly with his other hand, holding Hopkins steady to prevent slippage of the steel wand fucking his cock.
Hopkins was more of a pro at this than Hardesty was. He had wanted it. He had told Hardesty that was what he wanted from him. He had found the story to do it to. He had written out a check while Hardesty stood there, and when Hardesty had pressed him on why Hopkins insisted on having this from him, Hopkins had said, "Being taken that way by a hunky vice cop makes it twice as arousing. Do you want the money or not?" Hardesty was happy to fuck the guy anyway and he could use the money.
Hopkins was well aware that his intern assistant, Kit Helms, was also the hardcore porn writer, Sandman. He knew what Kit wrote. He wanted to experience what Kit wrote. He could afford to pay for it. He thrilled that a hunky, thuggish vice cop had taken his money to do this to him.
The top in the story had been humming. The top in the video was humming. Hardesty was humming as he worked. Once started, he decided this was quite interesting.
"This is something a lover showed me," Hardesty murmured. "Have you ever done this before?" He'd only buried the rod in Hopkins's slit four inches, leaving three exposed. He pulled his cock out of Hopkins's ass, adjusted their positions until his cock was touching Hopkins's shaft, slowly buried the exposed three inches of the rod skewering Hopkins in his own urethra slit, pulled Hopkins's foreskin over his bulb, held both cocks in hand, and gently masturbated the skewered and kissing cock heads together.
Hopkins panted hard, murmuring, "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. No, I've never... Oh, my god that's hot!"
He went silent as Hardesty masturbated the two rod-joined cocks together until the vice cop pulled his shaft channel off the rod, grasped it, and pulled it out of Hopkins's dick.
"You're cruel. You're a nasty thug," Hopkins called out as the fourth wand emerged. "You're a beast... a brute. You're a monster."
Then he moaned low as the fifth twirled into his piss slit. "Oh, Fuck. Oh, shit. Punish me. Take me to heaven. You're a fucking thug. Yes, yes, YES! I'm going to..."
"Do you want me to do the same with this one as the last? Play kissing cock heads with you?" Hardesty asked.
"Yes. Yes! Do it!" came the reply.
Hardesty did it, with Hopkins panting and Hardesty humming.
And, as the fifth, thick sounding wand twirled out of his dickhead, Hopkins cried out and shot his cum up onto his belly.
"Oh, shit. Oh, fuckin' shit," he called out as Hardesty twirled the sixth wand into the slit. "You're killing me. Fuck me. Fuck me to heaven!"
Leaving the wand buried deep in Hopkins's urethra canal, Hardesty grasped the man's hips, settled his channel once more on Hardesty's shaft, and raised and lowered Hopkins on his cock until he too tensed and released, tensed and released.
Meanwhile, down the hall, in the living area, the party Hopkins was throwing for visiting French artists was winding down. Hopkins, still bound to Hardesty's front, mewed and panted as the two cooled down.
"Don't--" he whispered.
"When we've cooled down, I'll fuck you again," Hardesty murmured.
"Oh, shit yes," Hopkins answered. "God, you're a beast. You're a brute."
"Which you want me to be," Hardesty said. "That's what you're paying me for."
"Fuckin' right. Fuck me again, you fucking stud."
Hardesty smiled in a amusement from getting this response from the usually very dignified National Art Gallery curator.
* * * *
"You OK, Kit?"
"Yes, thanks, Hardesty. I'll be just fine."
"With the peroxided hair you look like a street whore."
"Do you think so?" Kit Helms asked. "Should I dye it back to red until the natural color comes out?"
"No," Hardesty answered. "That was a compliment. I like street whores. I get my rocks off on street whores. Hasn't Toby told you that?"
"Yes, he has." Kit gave a little shiver remembering back to when Hardesty had misunderstood who he was and gave him the first rough ride that had told Kit that this was how he liked to have it. Even now, when the big thug reached out and touched Ken's arm, the young man trembled from the remembrance of lying helpless in his embrace with that big cock of his working its way down to Kit's soft core and playing him there, alternating from violin to kettle drum.
He liked that he could have straightforward banter with the big, beautiful stud Toby lived with. No pretenses here. Of course, Hardesty had fucked him three ways from Sunday already and had been instrumental in bringing Kit out to live what he wrote. There was no reason there should be pretenses between them. That Hardesty was a vice cop only added to the thrills and shivers he produced from his nasty take-no-prisoners bent sex.
Kit had seen Hardesty roaming around the party for French artists at the apartment of William Hopkins, the National Art Gallery curator, the Saturday after the decisive end was put to the Ian Marcus case. Kit had been nervous about that. Marcus had won him over. When they parted, Kit would have let the man do anything to him that Marcus wanted. It didn't matter that the man was a psychotic killer. Of course, Kit hadn't known the man was a killer at the time. He hadn't told anyone that Marcus had broken him and Kit had become the man's willing slave. He certainly didn't tell anyone that Marcus had lost interest at that point and had rejected Kit. He never would reveal all of that. But it made him both nervous and tingly "down there" to know he had that capability in him. He'd written some really hot and dirty stories for the Internet site under the Sandman name since then. And he was ready now to live that life.
