Clint and I had negotiated hard on me saving more money by letting him drive me to Myrtle Beach to meet up with my buddies for a week in the surf. He'd wanted to go the slow and easy route and stop for fun and games for two nights as the price of travel, but I told him that was not going to happen. In the end, I gave him one more straight fuck and he promised to drive me all the way through to the South Carolina coast.
But Clint knew something I didn't. You can't get from where we were to Myrtle Beach in one day in anything slower than an airplane. He made like he was giving it the old college try, but in the outskirts of Charlotte, North Carolina, I saw that we just weren't going to make it and agreed to stop for the night.
He drove into a posh area of the city and pulled up to a stop at a pretty elegant looking Marriott, the SouthPark.
"I can't afford this, Clint," I said.
"Well, I can," he answered. "If I'm going to sleep anywhere but my bed, it's going to be in a better bed. That's what my daddy taught me about traveling, and that's the way it is with me."
"Surely there's a Red Roof around here somewhere," I whined.
"There certainly may be," Clint countered, "but I'm staying here. You might walk down in that direction and see if you can see one."
We just sat there, the motor still humming at us, him waiting for me to get reasonable.
"I can't afford this hotel," I said stubbornly.
"You can stay here a whole hell of a lot cheaper than at the Red Roof Inn," he said with a sly grin.
"Meaning?" I asked. But I didn't really have to ask. I knew what he meant.
"A night free in a high-quality hotel room. God, it isn't as if sex is a nonrenewable resource for a quick-loading stud like you, Ben. Come on. It's not like I'm an ugly ogre or something—or that you have something I haven't seen or fucked before."
I didn't say anything, but I opened the car door and swung my legs out and he had the trunk popped before I got back to it.
The restaurant Clint picked out was even glitzier than the hotel.
"Shit, look at these prices," I exclaimed. "This'll cut my food budget in half for the week at the beach."
"I'll pay, of course," Clint said, glowering at me, signaling for me not to embarrass him and attract the attention of waiters who were buzzing around us.
"I can just imagine what that will cost me," I said in a clipped tone.
But Clint didn't say anything; he just buried his face in the menu.
"What?" I asked, "What?" And then I just stopped and stared at his knuckles clutching the menu—realizing.
"So," I then asked sarcastically. "What's it going to cost?"
I looked at the menu. "What's the scale like between the shrimp and this juicy Delmonico steak?" I laced my voice with just as much sarcasm as I could manage.
Clint took a swig of the wine he'd ordered and pushed my filled but thus-far-untouched glass a bit toward me. Then, with a blissful smile he gave his terse answer in a hoarse whisper. "A bit of bondage for the shrimp. Dildo play for the steak. You can have the chicken, of course, but I hardly think that would be worth my investing in a condom."
"Very funny," I replied. He was putting me on. Well I'd show him. When the waiter appeared, I ordered the Surf and Turf—a Delmonico steak piled high with fried shrimp.
Clint just sat and smiled his Cheshire Cat smile.
* * *
The night was late. Soft light from recessed lighting sent a warm glow around the luxuriously appointed room, picking out the highly polished Southern-style Chippendale-replica furniture, the richly colored paintings on the wall, and the soft, heavy textured bedspread under our bodies.
Clint was laying, nude, on the bedspread, My equally nude body was draped on top of his. My back was lying at a slight angle along his left breast, both of my arms raised to the left of his head, my wrists bound together by strappings tied off at the headboard above us. My legs were spread wide, held in the position by straps around my ankles that were tied off at the opposite foot posters of the bed. Spread-eagled taunt on top of Clint's heaving chest and pelvis.
Where we met squarely, Clint and I, was at our pelvises, where my butt was rolled up a bit toward his belly, giving his hard, slowly pumping cock, full entry in my ass.
I was panting and moaning, writhing slowly atop Clint, as he held me to him with his left hand on my belly. He was holding a slender dildo in the form of a long vibrating wand in his other hand and he was stroking that around on my body, teasing me with it, letting me feel its pulsating power everywhere—across my nipples, on the inside tender skin of my thighs, on my arm pits, sliding across my abs, probing my navel, under my ball sac, introducing buzzing tip to tender piss slit, buzzing my cheeks, parting my lips with in and gliding it in—sliding it in across my tongue to the back of my mouth and pressing it against the inner walls of my cheeks, guiding it in and out. Pulsating, pulsating, pulsating.
I was groaning in anticipation, in fear. My ass wasn't feeling the fear, though. It was loving the stroking it was getting from Clint's cock. I moved my hips with his slow, undulating rhythm. I was feeling him in every crevice and cranny inside me, and he was throbbing and lengthening, moving ever deeper inside me.
The Dildo slid out of my mouth, moistened now, and it left a cool, wet, throbbing trail as it descended between my pecs, pausing again to visit my navel, dipping lower and lower down my belly. Poised there under my balls, giving them a tingling sensation, at the rim of my hole, pulsating just at the rim, nuzzling up against Clint's buried, slowly rocking cock root.
"Clint . . ." Icy cold with the fear. Trembling almost uncontrollably.
"Clint!"
"Remember the gift you gave me?" Clint was whispering in my ear. "You doubled me. A gift worth receiving is a gift worth giving."
