Gittin' It All

"You sure he's on board with it? I mean other than you haven't told him."

"Yes, Mr. Gillespie, we won't be popping any male cherries or working on tight holes here. I've had him several times and now he's beggin' for it. And he's been on a train with some of the football players. Just one more step into what we do—and I've already heard him being curious about it. Tough little bugger. The football players balled him for hours and he took it like a soldier. Some monster cocks on the football team."

"Don't call me by my name after we've snatched him. Not even Ed. I'll be E and you'll be P."

"Gotcha. And what will we be calling him?"

"We'll call him The Fucker. And he's to call both of us sir, remember. If he doesn't, apply the screws until he gets it. On a train, you say, and big cocks. But he hasn't been DPed yet? The weekend's not really long enough . . ."

"No, but he's mentioned he was curious about it. That's why I thought of him. He's what you like, I think. And he's taken it both long and thick. From the football team LeRoy's nearly seven feet and built like a New York skyscraper. He's got to be over nine, and Dale . . . The Fucker . . . took that fine—three times in a train of two or more hours. And Alphonse was really thick. The Fucker opens right up for me, and you know what I got. And speakin' of, there he comes. Leavin' class; always goes back to his dorm after this class. That brings him along here, right beside the van."

"Which one? I can't pick him out."

"Which one walkin' this way would you like to spike the most?"

Gillespie did some scrutinizing. There were a lot of choices. "That little one, the blond with the mop of curls and the cute 'fuck me' face."

"Yep, that's the one."

"You sure he's old enough? Looks just like a kid, all innocence and 'golly gee' and bushy tailed."

"That's him. He's got a tail to die for, and I told you he'd be the one you wanted. Yes, he's old enough; I checked. Freshman. Wants to be in my fraternity real bad. Says he's willing to do anything to get in, and when I mentioned some things he might want to do, I could tell that it heated him real up. He's our guy. I told him I wanted to hook up with him this weekend, and he was all excited. Said he had nothin' better to do. Asked about some of the SM possibilities. I said I'd contact him—just not this way."

"All sounds good," Gillespie said, "but seein; what a twink he is, we'll call him Little Fucker. Here's your mask. He'll recognize you eventually, I'm sure. I'll put mine on and get in the back of the van and open the door. I'll snatch, but you come around the side of the van to make sure he doesn't get away. Try to do it so no one sees you."

It worked smoothly. They'd parked next to an overgrown lot, and Dale Benton was the only student coming down this way to his dorm. It was almost like the young blond hadn't put up any resistance at all before he was manhandled into the van and trussed up in the windowless back. But the combination of the surprise factor and that Gillespie was one of the university's assistant wrestling coaches and was about double Dale's weight and bulk explained away a lot of this.

Gillespie had the young man bent over a stool in the center of the van bed, with his knees on a thick pad, and was cinching up a belt around his waist against his skin and imprisoning his hands in the restraints attached to the sides of the belt before his cohort, a muscular dark-haired university junior, who was on the wrestling team, was pulling the van away from the curb.

It was a forty-minute drive out to Gillespie's remote A-frame cabin in the words. After quickly tying Dale's ankles together and then his knees and struggling with Dale a bit to get a ball gag in his mouth and tied off, the wrestling coach called up to the driver's seat and said, "Give me an hour at least with him before arriving. He'll be docile as a lamb when we get there. I'll fuck all the fight out of him."

Paul laughed from the driver's seat. "Thought you'd like the one I picked out."

Dale was coming out of the initial shock enough to start squirming and trying to make some noise through the ball gag, but the movement was cut down when Gillespie closed a leather collar around Dale's throat and attached the end of a chain to it that was anchored in the floor of the van in front of the stool. this kept the young man's head down so that all he could see was his bound thighs on the other end of the stool.

Gillespie pulled the young blond's shorts and briefs down to his ankles, crouched his muscular body over that of the slight twink's, reached around and fisted Dale's balls in one hand and gave them a little squeeze while growling in his ear. "Stop the fuckin' noise or I'll crush your balls."

After another initial reaction of squirming, which was met by eye-watering squeezing of his balls, Dale subsided into trembling and quiet sobbing.

"There now, we're all friends here," Gillespie growled. "And we're gonna get a lot more friendly as the weekend progresses. We've got a long drive now, and I'm gonna screw you royally. Just so you know. And I know you want it. So, quiet down and enjoy the ride."

While still maintaining a grip on the balls, Gillespie slapped Dale hard on a butt cheek with his free hand and then the other cheek. Then he repeated on both. The small blond jerked with each blow and groaned in a high tenor range that made the groans come out as squeaks. When Gillespie went down in a sitting position behind the trussed up young man and parted the now-rosy cheeks with the palm of his hands, blew across Dale's asshole, and then stuck his tongue in and began to flick around the sensitive entrance walls, the groans subsided into lower-register moans.

"Shit," Gillespie called up to the driver's seat. "You're right. I thought he'd be tight, but he opens right up real nice. The weekend might be enough."

A couple of more slaps on the buttocks and then Gillespie stuck a finger in his mouth to wet it. He inserted it in the young man's ass and worked it around a bit. Dale was groaning again and wiggling his butt. Another wetted finger and then another, and Gillespie was satisfied—much more than he thought he'd be.

He also was aroused and hard as a rock. The student was just the little blond piece of tail he loved to fuck.

He stripped off his own shorts and crowned his cock, beat it against the reddened butt cheeks, and dragged it across the hole several times before starting to work his way in. The Little Fucker was panting in short, jabbing breaths but was otherwise holding steady. The older man's cock went it a couple of inches and held for several seconds, waiting for the channel to open more, which it did. Out and then in again and hold. Out and in a little further and hold. Then out, leaving the Little Fucker in suspense for several seconds, and then a long, strong, deep thrust to the hilt, which almost lifted the young man's body off the stool and produced a muffled cry. Then again, and again, and again.

But then Gillespie pulled his dick out most of the way and held.

"If you want this, fuck yourself on the cock," he growled. "If not, when I'm finished, we'll take you back and leave you in front of your dorm. Your choice. Either a weekend of getting it all and finding out what you might like or just this fuck and back to your dorm. You want it, fuck yourself."

There was a moment of suspension and then, with a long sigh, the young blond began to leverage with his knees and to move his pelvis back and forth, taking and then giving up the cock—fucking himself on the hard dick.

After a few minutes of this, Gillespie laughed, pulled away from Dale, and slapped him on the buttocks a few more time. Then he rose up and crouched closely over the back of the young man, thrust the cock hard and deep inside him again, and began fucking in earnest. His hands came up under the young blond's T-shirt and he began pinching Dale's nipples on his smooth, boyish chest. Gillespie inhaled one of Dale's ears into his mouth and held it there between his teeth, and rode the young man hard and fast to completion. When he came off of Dale's back, Gillespie looked down and saw, with satisfaction, that Dale had come on the floor of the van.

He pulled up his trousers and moved to the passenger seat in the front of the van, leaving Dale trussed up and bent over the stool in back.

"Thought you said you'd want an hour," Paul said. "You've got twenty more minutes."

"Didn't take him any time at all to open up. Didn't need as much time as I thought. And I want to do him again when we get to the cabin. So, I gotta stoke up again. You want to do him now too?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Want me to finish the drive, while you go back there and screw him?"

Gillespie was whistling happily and looking in the rear-view mirror from time to time for the last leg of the trip to the cabin, while Dale's friend, Paul, covered him and rode his hips in the back of the van. The deep rumbling sounds coming out of the trussed-up young man were sounds of pleasure.

Late Friday morning and so far, so good.

* * * *

Dale was in a daze and staggering when Gillespie helped him down from the back of the van at the cabin, which was a cedar wood A-frame raised on an English basement built of stone and with no apparent window or door openings in the stone. The cabin was in a heavily wooded area on the side of a mountain. The trees around it had only begun to leaf out. It could be seen that there was another mountain rising beside it—with only hints of a couple of similar cabins for miles around, but none of them near.

It was the sort of place that someone could scream their heads off in a windowless rock-walled basement for weeks and no one would hear them outside that basement. This was exactly the reason why Gillespie lived out here.

"Paul?" Dale asked, his voice cracking when the dark-haired college junior came around the side of the truck. Paul still was wearing the half-face mask, but only boots in addition to that, and if he had fucked Dale as often already that he'd told Gillespie he had, it wasn't a revelation that Benton would know it was his university friend.

"We're wearing masks for you," Paul told him. "So you can claim you have no idea who we were."

"If you want to stay and see this through," Gillespie added gruffly. "We've been led to understand you wanted to experience everything. You'll get a lot of if this weekend if you stay. There will only be a couple of times you'll be given this choice this weekend. This is one of them. Do you want to be driven back or do you want to see what's waiting for you in the cabin?"

The young blond, looked at the older man. He was a hunk and a half, but Dale couldn't place him anywhere in his experience. There was no reason why he should. Dale didn't play any sports; there was no reason for him to recognize one of the assistant wrestling coaches at the university. But he was a hunk and a half. Dale couldn't say he hadn't enjoyed the fuck the man had given him—or that the mystery of the snatch and binding hadn't contributed to the enjoyment. For all he knew he already was being tested for the fraternity and that this was just part of the hazing. He looked down at the dirt between his feet. "I want to see what's in the cabin . . . for now."

The young man only got a glimpse of the inside of the upper levels of the A-frame, which offered a well-appointed vacation cabin, before he was hustled downstairs and pushed into a windowless, rock-walled room that would be both his living quarters and his prison for the weekend. It was about twelve by twenty feet. A double bed was located at one end and a small sofa and armchair and a round table with four chairs at the other, with a short kitchen wall. There was a full bath off the bedroom on one side and a closed and locked metal door on the wall on the other side—in addition to the strong metal door on the entrance into the bedroom from the stair hall.

Dale had been left with Paul to show him around his quarters—including that the refrigerator was stocked with some basic food but overstocked with beer and that there were joints under one counter in case he wanted to be high through some of what he'd experience. Paul told Dale he'd have to strip down completely and that there would be no more clothes for him until the end of the weekend.

When Dale was naked, Gillespie reappeared in the room. He too was naked now, except for the black face mask, a studded leather harness criss-crossing his chest, black combat boots, and a condom on his low-hanging, but now-erect cock. Dale took in a deep breath at the sight of the smooth-bodied musculature of the older man. He clearly was a bodybuilder or wrestler—Dale never would be told that he was an assistant wrestling coach at the university—and he had a more mature, developed body than anyone Dale had hooked up with yet. Dale had been fucked by members of the football team, and Paul, although hirsute with black curly hair, also had a fine, muscular body. But they didn't have the deep definition and sense of power and experience that Gillespie's body exuded.

Of the two fucks in the van, the one by the older man had been more expert in finding Dale's triggers and providing the timing and rhythm that put Dale on a high and kept him there.

The older man had brought in a plow belt, a wide strip of black leather with handles on the two ends, and had his hands through the handles. "If you want to learn some stuff this weekend and have a real fuckin' good time, you're going to have to trust me, you little fucker," Gillespie growled. "That's you this weekend, the Little Fucker. To you, I and the other guy are the masters. And you will address us as sir. For the trust, you have to give it to me freely now, no restraints now—those will come later. But you have to just give me full control and take it. Got that?"

There was a bit of hesitation, but Dale answered with a quiet, "Yes."

"Yes, what?" Gillespie barked.

"Yes, sir," came back almost immediately.

"Leave us now, P." Paul backed out of the room and closed the door.

Gillespie told the young blond to stand still and he circled him a few times. The last time, he stopped behind the young man, whipped the plow belt over Dale's head and down to his waist and jerked up on the belt, jackknifing Dale at the waist. In surprise Dale tried to maintain his balance, but Gillespie growled, "No fighting it. Go limp like a ragdoll."

The younger man did so, flopping over so that his head, arms and legs dangled toward the floor—Gillespie was much taller than Dale was and had brought the younger man's body full off the floor.

Dale cried out in surprise and pain as Gillespie thrust his cock up into his channel but then, at Gillespie's repeated command, let all of the tension drain out of him and just dangled there, whimpering and moaning, as Gillespie fucked him hard and deep, adding a rhythmic tightening and release of the tension on the plow belt to the rhythm of the thrusts of his cock. It was one of the most expert fucks Dale had ever had.

As he fucked, Gillespie demanded to know how Dale was reacting to it, and, through pants and short sobs, Dale did everything he could to convey that this was the fucking, the attention, the exotic experiences that he wanted to have. He admitted that being snatched and bound and fucked hard in the back of a moving van had aroused him greatly. He repeatedly said he wanted to experience more.

"We don't operate like most do in BDSM," Gillespie said. "There's no safe word for us, to make us stop. Sometimes, but not always, we'll ask you if you want to go on to the next experience or level. But there's no safe word to stop the present. Do you understand that."

A bit of a hesitation and then, "Yes, I understand."

"Yes, what?" Gillespie said, eliciting a sharp cry out of Dale as he thrust unusually hard and deep.

"Yes, sir."

The two were reduced to the groans and the grunts of the fuck effort. Dale shot off on the toes of Gillespie's combat boots, and the older man fucked on for another five minutes before dumping Dale on the floor, ripping his condom off, and ejaculating on the side of Dale's face.

"Lick your cum off my boots," he growled. When Dale had done so, Gillespie went to the door. Without turning, he muttered over his shoulder. You'll find food for lunch in the kitchenette. Eat up. You'll need your strength for the afternoon.

"What are you going to do to me then?" Dale asked, his voice trembling.

"This is not one of the points you are given a choice to back out," Gillespie muttered.

"But what is this all about?"

"This is about you being able to take two men at the same time—and any more kinky shit they want to do to you. You've been overheard to be interested in doing that. Are you?"

"Yes, sir." Given, again, after a little bit of hesitation. Fantasizing about it and facing the prospect of it were two entirely different matters, and it only now was occurring to Dale that he may have bit more off in his imagination that he could manage.

"Remember that, then, no matter how rough the weekend gets. We have the same goal for you."

The door slammed behind him. When Dale was able to pull himself up off the floor, he hobbled over to the door Gillespie had exited through and then tried the other door that had been closed. Both were locked tight.

* * * *

"Thank you."

"For what?" Paul asked. They were sitting at the dining table up on the main level of the A-frame. Paul was outfitted in leathers like Gillespie was.

"You know fuckin' for what. He's fuckin' perfect. Just like I like them."

"But you'll hold yourself on check with this one?" Paul asked. "The fraternity wants him, and I'm supposed to return him in one piece. We need another fraternity punch. This is supposed to give him experience and toughen him up. Not break him."

Gillespie flared up. "I treat them all good," he declared. "And I don't give a fuck what your fraternity wants or doesn't want. I do this to get my rocks off to break nice little pieces like the one you brought me down to groveling for the kinkiest experiences. I am the fulfiller of fantasies. Even the experience of being snatched and used roughly is a fantasy many have and few can experience."

"Not all of them," Paul countered. "I'm afraid this one might be just a bit too perfect."

"Fuck that, and who the fuck you are to be questioning me? You forget yourself. Stand up."

"Ed, please."

"Not Ed, fuckin' moron. E to you this weekend. I said stand up and bend over this table. And what do you say."

The pause was pregnant, laced with testosterone and challenge, but Paul did stand up, meekly, and bend over the table. "I say yes, sir."

He gasped as the older, stronger man, bent an arm painfully up his back and slammed his chest on the table top. When he'd worked his cock inside Paul's channel, he released the young man's arm, but put him into a full Nelson and arched Paul's back up to his chest, as he fucked with hard strokes up into him. He went to just a beefy arm around the younger man's throat while he jacked Paul's cock off in the rhythm of his own cock strokes.

Paul collapsed, panting, on the top of the table after both had ejaculated, his breathing ragged.

"So, who's the only master here?"

"You are, sir," Paul managed with a whimper.

"Want you to sleep this afternoon while I work him over," Gillespie spoke down at the finely muscled back of the young man he had just ravished. "I want you to be with him and to wake him and fuck him every two hours or so. I want him completely exhausted and compliant tomorrow morning. We've only got the weekend, but there's more I want to do with this one than some of the earlier ones. He's just perfect."

"What . . . are you going to do to him . . . this afternoon?"