"Fuckin' shit. Here, take this. Not a word about the other one," Tom said gruffly, as he shoved the paper bag containing a sealed bottle of vodka over into my lap. In the same motion he was pushing the opened pint bottle under his seat. In the flashing of the blue light bouncing off the dashboard of his Dodge Ram, I could clearly make out the "oh, shit" expression on his face.
I'd been worried he was driving too fast and swigging vodka too much, so it was somewhat of a relief to me that we were being pulled over. It was an "oh, shit," moment for me, though, because I didn't know now whether I was going to get what I'd built up the courage over the past few weeks to seek out. His raw and overbearing behavior was arousing—it was much of what I imagined I was after in going on this blind date.
We'd hooked up for a blind date on Craigslist, getting pretty explicit what we wanted before we agreed on a date. My affair, if you could call it that, with Professor Teller was OK, but I was itching to try something more adventuresome, rougher—I wanted to try a bigger cock, one with more vigor and stamina, if truth be known. Somebody more controlling and raw. Also muscles—and youth.
The professor was amorous enough and certainly long enough, but he was nearly three times my age and so delicate and sensitive about everything. He insisted on doing it on clean sheets and with nearly the same fastidious pattern to it each time. The same few positions. Just once, I'd like him to fuck me wildly on his kitchen table on top of the breakfast service. But I'd never even been there at breakfast, and I doubted he could survive to lunch if he tried it.
I wanted to try a construction worker type or someone like that, someone who worked hard with his body and thus was hard bodied—and maybe a bit crude. Something different. I wanted to be taken—ravished—not just fucked.
Tom posted that he was a construction worker and volunteer fireman, twenty-eight, and into bodybuilding, all of which spelled "bingo" to me. His language was direct and his misspellings and frequent use of "fuck" in his Internet postings showed a welcome and risk-taking contrast to the fastidiousness of Professor Teller. He very directly stated that he was eight inches, cut, and thick and was looking for a submissive.
Fireman. Maybe just the ticket. My eyes had gone up to the New York Firemen beefcake calendar I had on the wall behind my computer. Yeah, a fireman. Maybe just the ticket.
It all spelled out what I wanted to try as relief from the norm. Still, it had taken three weeks for me to agree to meet after we'd exchanged photos and he said he was interested—and would take care of the date. He was quite direct in how he expected the date to end up and that he'd book a motel room.
"If you won't bottom for me and don't want me to fuck the shit out of you, don't bother to come," he'd written.
We were on our way to the motel room when the cop pulled us over.
* * * *
But that's not how the evening started. Tom picked me up in front of the college library and took me to a sports bar for dinner while we watched a pro basketball game on the overhead TV. He was much into the game, and I pretended to be even though I don't follow basketball and didn't have a clue who was playing. It must have been a gay bar, because he pawed me while most of his attention was going to the TV screen and no one around us seemed to be disconcerted about that. By halftime he knew about all there was to know concerning my body and he'd made sure I knew he, indeed, was thick and hung. He'd crammed my hand below his waistband so I'd know none of that down there was padding.
"Nice, very nice," he'd said more than once when he was doing his survey, which made me want to purr. I shuddered when he said, "Small. Like them small. Bet you've got a tight hole," but that had aroused me as well.
Then there was an hour of pool, where I did know a thing or two about the game, but made sure that he came out the victor. I was prepared to let him be the victor in everything. He was self-assured and cocky and, at least on the physical level, had every reason to be so. A big-boned Nordic blond, built solid, and with a strut. He went out of his way to muscle in on me during the pool, and I yielded to everything. He liked showing me how I should hold the pool cue, which gave him the opportunity to cover me from behind and let me feel his bulge against my buttocks. I could tell that he was testing me and that was what he wanted. He was no genius in the mental realm, but if I had wanted a steady diet of genius, I'd have been completely satisfied with the professor.
He seemed to need to signal to the others in the pool area that "I'm taking this one home and fucking him," but I didn't mind that. It was exactly the adventure I was after. I wanted steam, demanding power and control, and a whopping big churning cock inside me—at least for a change—and there was every indication that the fireman hunk, Tom Fielder, was going to give that to me.
Normally I might have thought he was overcompensating with his bravado, but he'd made sure I had gotten the measure of him early in the date and when I got into his car, he reached over, took my hand, and laid it on his basket and said, "I wasn't lying about what I was packing. If you can't handle this, there's no reason to do this date."
As coolly as I could I asked him what, if anything, we were going to do that evening before he fucked me. What he told me did include a stop on the road by a cop.
* * * *
"Evening, sir. May I see your license and registration, please." The voice was deep and in control—polite but no nonsense. What I had seen as he walked up to Tom's side of the truck was tall, dark, and handsome. Also muscular, and he walked with confidence and a bit of wariness, keeping his hand on his gun holster, the holster unsnapped. He filled his police uniform arrestingly well. He had a flashlight that he beamed at Tom's face, as much for defense as identification, I thought. It was a long one but not as thick as most flashlights I'd seen except in at the bulb end. It illuminated his face for me too, though. Strong, chiseled features, five-o-clock shadow of black hair on his lower face, laugh lines around the hazel eyes, deep tan. A rugged, but strikingly handsome and confident face.
"Something wrong, officer?" Tom asked, his voice a bit tight, as he reached over my knees to open the glove compartment and take out the registration. I could see—and hoped the cop couldn't—that while getting at the registration Tom had to make sure that the pistol in the glove compartment was hidden behind the service booklets. I felt a tightening in my chest. But I also felt a bit of arousal. I had been looking for adventure, and I felt I was in a thriller movie.
Tom gave me a "I know you see it, but you don't see it, do you?" look and I gave him my best "you're the boss, whatever you want" submissive look in return.
"Well, you were driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit back there," the officer said, as he turned the beam of the flashlight on Tom's license and registration cards.
"Uh, sorry. Occupational hazard, I guess," Tom answered. "No one else on the road, though, so I just slipped into it. I can keep it down from here. Not far to go."
"Occupational hazard?"
Tom pointed to the red light case on his dash. "Fireman. I get locked into a need to get there fast. You know how it is."
"Ah, a public warrior," the policeman said. "Guess that can slide, as long as you try to keep it down to your destination. You're not drinking, though, are you?" he asked, his light now shining on the unmistakable shape of the bagged pint bottle in my lap.
"No, sir," Tom answered. "On my way to a party, but the bottle is sealed. Show him the bottle, Chris."
