[Part 3 of The Scott Chronicles appeared in Issue 37, November/December 1993]
3.
Terror on Fuck Night
One night (we had been seeing each other for about a year), Scott had fucked my ass thoroughly and completely, and I had jerked off on my knees in front of him, when he asked me what I was doing Friday two weeks off.
This question was interesting because Scott had never before suggested a date, always waiting for me to grovel on the telephone for him. I said I had a dinner party but was free after that. Then he told me that he had told a friend of his about me, how I liked getting tied up and being fucked, and how he told his friend I was an ex-Marine, and how he, Scott, liked fucking Marines (It would turn out later that this friend was actually no one he had ever really met.) His friend, Scott said, became very interested and suggested a party at which I would be the main course and dessert. Scott said that his friend worked in Wilmington Delaware, and, to use the friend’s description, “tied up and fucked yuppies who wanted to be slapped around.” Scott told me I would have to pay to have this guy come up, and that I wasn’t to have sex, even jerk off, until that Friday came.
I agreed.
This story is about what happened that night, and although many aspects of it were, and are, intensely sexually exciting, a large part of it was sheer, mind-numbing terror. The experience was, in a lot of ways, every man’s worst nightmare, when he gets tied up and then is faced with the unknown. Well, you be the judge.
Scott called me Wednesday before Fuck Night, as I had written it in my diary, and told me his friend was on, but wanted another $100. I was so horny I would have agreed to $500, but I didn’t say so. Scott also said that I was to present myself to a motel on Rte 95, just north of Philadelphia. He gave me the address, and told me to drive around the motel until I found his car.
Thursday night he called, and reminded me of the date, as if I had forgotten it. I was also told to kneel while I talked to him on the phone, and to bind my cock and balls that night with leather thongs (we did this a lot), and wear the cock bondage at the dinner party.
So Friday night came, and the damned dinner party, which was black tie, and boy-girl, boy-girl, meaning I had to be polite to a lot of debutante types looking for husbands. All the time my cock and balls were tied up, and every time I thought of the motel room where I was to meet Scott, my cock stiffened. I thought of his massive fuck tool up my ass, and I drooled into the salad. I was as hot and horny as an 18-year bouncin’ buck in Texas, getting ideas from watching the cattle fuck. And the damn dinner dragged on.
Finally even the dinner had to end, and I bid farewell to my hosts, and got into my car, trembling with sexual excitement. I kept telling myself, as I drove, to slow down, to ease up, now is not the time to be stopped by the police, etc., etc. Of course I couldn’t find the motel at first, and overshot it by a mile or so. But I did find it, and my heart was pounding like a steam engine as I entered the motel parking lot, looking for Scott’s car. It was near enough to ten o’clock, and here I was, in black tie, looking for a motel room where two guys planned to fuck my ass forever.
The motel was typical: all rooms on one level, cars parked in front of each room. Scott’s was at the end, and I found it easily. There was a little comic relief, as I impatiently had to wait for some dimbulb who was backing out of a space, and who took forever to do it. But he did it, at last, and I slid into his spot, and got out.
It was a hot night, still, late June, early July, and the motel was set back away from Rte 1, so that you heard only the murmur of traffic. A sign flashed “No Vacancy” off and on; there was a light in the parking lot, but the end, where Scott’s car was, wasn’t lit any too well. I tapped on the door, and receiving no answer, walked in.
The room was dark, but I could see Scott clearly. He was sitting in a chair, facing the door. He was stark naked, and he was stroking his cock. I knew Scott pretty well by now, and I knew what he liked and didn’t like. One thing he didn’t like was me talking or saying anything during a prep scene for sex. So I kept my mouth shut, and stripped naked too, kneeling before him in as submissive an attitude as I could do.
Scott spread his legs a little, and I crawled forward to lick his balls, my hands behind my back, my own cock rock-hard, while Scott leaned back in the chair. He suddenly got up, and motioned to me to stand. He quickly and very tightly bound my wrists behind my back, and pushed me towards the beds.
There were two twin beds in the room, and one was obviously intended for me. It had been pulled away from the cheap headboard into the center of the room; all the sheets and covers had been stripped off; towards the bottom, two pillows were stacked. It was classic Scott fucking setup. Scott liked the pillows under my hips because they raised and spread my ass. He liked me tied up with my hands behind my back, rather than the traditional 4-corner spreadeagle, because he enjoyed watching me twist my trunk and body while he fucked me.
In less than five minutes I was tied up in a position in which I was to remain for many hours, and in which I was to endure not only ass torture but also an incredible sense of fear and outright panic. I survived it, thank God, but no matter how horny you are, don’t end up the way I did.
Well, anyway, so far so good. Scott got me to lie face down, hips on the pillows, legs spread, ass open for Scott’s male sex tool. Scott tied the legs, not at the ankles, but just above the calves, tying them down to the bed legs. Tying them this way meant that the spread was much wider, the ass more open and split, the crotch and ass, forced upwards by the pillows, thus the centerpieces, you might say, of the bed.
This all happened before AIDS, and poppers were still used. Scott took a handcloth from the bathroom, and strutting around, showing his erection off to me, he poured poppers on to the cloth. Then he mounted me, and held the cloth under my face, covering my nose and mouth. I breathed and then, as the poppers hit, I started bucking in the ropes. Scott had been kneeling between my legs, his cock resting on my ass cheeks; now he started penetration. I ass-lusted up into his crotch, taking his massive meat in my ass, and feeling the huge cock slide up and into my ass.
Scott started fucking me.
As I say, I knew Scott well, and his fucking technique was one I knew very well, having been on the receiving end of it many times. Scott is what I call a long fucker, meaning not just his cock length, but the time he spends fucking. When he feels himself about to come, he stops, and pours water on his cock so that the head cools down, and then starts again, In an hour, for instance, he routinely fucks for 12 minutes or so, then stops, then starts again. In an hour he will fuck for 45 to 50 minutes all told. Over the long haul, when he spaces himself out, he will fuck for 35 to 40 minutes an hour. Outside of this one Friday night, the longest Scott fucked me was close to four hours, with the actual fucking time being (probably) about 3 hours, the rest with him stopping so that he wouldn’t shoot.
Anyway, the fucking had started, and my ass was lusting for Scott’s cock. After about an hour or so (I gauged the time by the number of times Scott stopped to cool his cock off), the poppers were wearing off, the booze from the party was wearing off, and the intense sexual pitch I had been in for 2 weeks had eased off. All in all, I was very tired, and suddenly I wanted to hold Scott, and kiss him, and make love to him, as we sometimes did after rough sex and heavy bondage scenes. But then the door to the motel opened (Scott had left it open for me to get in without a key), and this guy came in.
At first I didn’t know who it was, and started struggling to get Scott’s attention, thinking it was the motel manager. But then, as the guy came in confidently, and dumped his overnight bag on the other bed, I became aware that this was Scott’s friend from Wilmington. The room was completely dark, except for what light came in through the curtains, and of course the open door, where the guy stood, but if he was surprised at walking into a room where one male was being rhythmically fucked up the ass while tied to a bed, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was so nonchalant that he jumped on the other bed, lit a cigarette, and put his hands behind his neck.
Scott didn’t say anything, so of course I didn’t, and it became apparent that from Scott’s actions he was showing off to his friend. He would draw his cock out of my ass like a sword from a sheath, show off its length, and bounce it up and down on my ass cheeks, and then shove it hard and solid up my butt. I helped out by grunting and groaning for my friend Scott’s benefit, and to show the stranger how good a job Scott was doing. I needn’t have bothered.
Scott was super horny that night too, and fucked my ass good for a long time while the stranger lay on the bed smoking. Finally he stopped, and from my best guess, it would have been about 12:30 or 1:00 AM, but who knows? He went over to the other bed, and he and the stranger smoked a joint, and drank some beer. Then Scott got up on the bed, and lay face down. Soon he was sleeping, and I could hear the soft in-and-out of his breathing. No one had spoken since I came into the room; I never heard the stranger’s voice, nor ever knew his name.
Anyhow, I was stark naked, tied up face down, Scott asleep, and my still-bound cock slowly hardening with the excitement of a stranger being in the room and in total control. He was a big guy, bigger than me, about 6'2", and though it was hard to tell in the semi-darkness, built. He had on tight jeans, and a shirt open down his chest. What his eyes were like, or hair, or even face, I couldn’t tell.
Suddenly he got up, and stripped naked, dumping his clothes on the floor. Springing from his crotch was a huge erection, which he deliberately slapped my face with. My ass started acting up for this piece of male meat, but I was not prepared for this professional fucker of yuppies. He swung his cock around a lot so I could see it, and took Scott’s cloth (the one he had poured poppers on) and soaked it in more poppers. The room suddenly became filled with the odor of amyl nitrate. Quickly, deftly, and expertly, this guy jammed the cloth up my mouth, and taped it in place, using not wide bands of tape, but narrow bands of ordinary adhesive tape, around and around and around my head.
The poppers burst in my brain, and again I started fuck-lusting for male cock up my ass. The professional breaker of yuppies tantalized me with his steel-hard erection in front of my taped mouth, and then he mounted the bed behind me, with rope. I saw him get the rope from Scott’s bag, and wondered what for, but then the poppers hit again, and I wondered no more, I just wanted my ass fucked.
He tied my arms. Not just tied them, but laced the arms together from the shoulders down to the wrists, and pulled them very, very tightly together. This just made me hornier, and I started heaving my ass up towards his crotch, trying to get fucked. But he wasn't through. He used more rope and bound my arms to my body, along the spine, rope across the arms and across the chest, above and below the tits. More rope pulling my wrists down into my back, and tightened across my abdomen. And still I didn’t see it.
I didn't see it even when he started fucking me, which he soon did.
This guy’s shaft was like the worst dildo you ever had up your ass—he shoved it in at angles which were meant to hurt, and hurt they did. The poppers were starting to wear off in my mouth, and I tried to make sounds to protest a very rough treatment of my ass, but my throat was clogged. Scott fucked me smoothly: he fucked for a long time, true, but he fucked along the natural groove of my ass. This guy fucked to give pain.
I started grunting, and felt his fingers close on my nostrils. He was cutting off my breathing, and I hit a terrible, screaming panic, and bucked like hell in the ropes. Over to my right I could see Scott, asleep on the bed. Even if I weren’t gagged, it took more than screaming to raise Scott—he was a heavy sleeper, and I was very tightly, very efficiently gagged by an expert, and by a guy who obviously got his rocks off by tying up guys like me and making them suffer.
He let loose my nostrils and I breathed free air, desperately. The fucking started again, and this time I was sober: I mean the booze and poppers had worn off, and I wanted this to stop. So I bucked and tried to reach his shaft with my fingers, and made grunting noises as loud as I could.
Again fingers closed on my nostrils. Air was shut off, and yet this guy still pumped his cock up and down in my ass. I could not breathe. Scott was breathing, not 3 feet away, but he was asleep.
My nostrils were released, and immediate I started grunting and moaning. Again the fingers closed, and I slowly, dimly realized, that I was being told something, that as long as I kept quiet, I could breathe. And the way he closed off my breathing suggested very strongly to me that he didn’t much give a damn. And all the while the vicious fucking continued, as painful as this son of a bitch could make it..
A crawling, hideous terror crept into my bones and a mind-numbing panic: I was tied up, gagged, stark naked, in a motel room, and being fucked repeatedly by a guy whose name I didn’t even know. I started crying, and I think the yuppie fucker liked that, because he increased the length of his fuck. By that I mean he drew his cock out very slowly, and then shoved it in at a new angle very slowly, so that my screaming ass had to submit to it. All the time he must have been able to feel and hear the wracking sobs as my chest heaved up and down, and I sniveled and begged through my nose. Probably all the yuppies he had fucked did the same thing.
He knew a lot about this particular scene, though, and this part is really pretty degrading. He let me sob for a while, I don’t know how long, but the fucking continued. Then he took his poppers bottle, and opened it. The aroma filled the hot, stifling air of the motel room. Carefully, still fucking my ass, he poured poppers on the bed exactly where my head could reach, so if I rolled my head to the right or left to escape the fumes, I would roll into poppers. It was as if someone grabbed my heart with his hand: this guy didn’t care about me, in fact he probably hated me. He wanted me to suffer, and then he might very well kill me. I went very still, in a cold panic.
And all the while this yuppie breaker fucked me. Over and over, until my ass was the center of my mind and soul with the pain.
I don’t mean to say that I was fucked non-stop by this guy. He would stop every now and then, use the bathroom, walk around, smoke. It was after about an hour of fucking me on and off, that this guy escalated the scene.
Let me try to explain how I felt, both mentally and physically. Physically I was tied up, supertight: my legs had long since gone dead, and my fingers I could barely move. My arms, trussed up expertly by the yuppie breaker, were dead too. And my head was pounding from the after effects of the poppers, my throat was parched dry, and the tape across my mouth and around my neck cut down on the blood circulation to my brain, so I was in a perpetual state of woozy drowsiness, which, as a matter of fact, helped with the panic which every now and then surfaced in what was left of my mind.
But back to the escalation. The yuppie breaker brought an ashtray over to the bed, and placed it in my almost nerveless fingers. (My wrists had been tied crisscross, not palms together, so the hands made a natural dish). He then slowly reinserted his cock up my ass, very slowly. Then the rhythm began again, the torture rhythm, the ass-pounding not for pleasure but for pain. And all the while this guy smoked. I knew it because I could smell it, and feel it when he stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray I was holding for him. I fought and fought the searing pain of this cruel bastard’s cock, crying and sobbing uselessly into the tape gag, banging my head up and down on the bed.
Finally (I admit it!) he broke me. The yuppie breaker got another victim. It’s difficult to explain exactly what happened, but all of a sudden, I stopped resisting mentally, and completely surrendered. The fucking filled my ass and my mind, and my only thought in my very dreamy mind was male cock, particularly this guy’s rock hard maleness. He opened up dirty little rooms in my mind until his cock dominated everything in my mind.
The only sounds in the room were the horrible sucking and thrusting noise of the yuppie breaker’s cock going in and out of my ass, and the slap of his abdomen and hips against the tortured buttocks. And every fuck thrust me down further into groveling submission to this guy’s stiff sex organ. I believe he knew it, too. I believe he knew just exactly how much fucking it took to reduce this ex-Marine and yuppie to a state of mentally kneeling before him.
Finally he stopped, but I don’t know when. I was passing in and out of consciousness at the time; I would wake up to find his cock still thrusting up my ass; or I would wake up, and he was wandering around the room, naked, his dick still erect. At that time I would think he was through with me, but no, he came back, and with a remorseless cruelty, remounted my tortured ass, and forced me back into submission.
Anyway, finally he did stop. I think he was one of those guys who keeps a hard-on for a long time and then when he finally does come it gives him no release and no pleasure. A modern satyr. Scott, my 20-year-old, could fuck me for hours without coming, but he fucked for pleasure and his release was always massively orgiastic. This guy was a cock sadist.
I went out again, and woke up to see Scott sitting on the edge of the bed, and the yuppie fucker lying on the bed, smoking. Scott evidently thought it was his turn, and equally evidently he wanted to show off again for this guy. I, on the other hand, tried in every way I could to communicate to Scott that this guy was very bad news, and I had to be untied at once. But I couldn’t reach him, and of course yuppie breaker had gagged me very tightly. So Scott, like the 20-year-old he was, walked around the room, stark naked, cock stiff, stroking his chest and his tits. I twisted around as best I could on the bed, trying to get his attention, but the room was still dark, and you could see only forms and outlines.
And then Scott mounted my ass, the last thing, except being fucked by yuppie breaker, that I wanted. I heaved up and down, I tightened my ass muscles, and still Scott’s insistent manhood was shoved into the ass crack. Apparently he thought that my resistance was part of the fun. All this while yuppie breaker was lying over on the bed, watching and smoking. I knew something bad was going to happen, very bad. I was desperately, panic stricken scared, and Scott was acting as if it were just any old fuck night.
Slowly Scott’s cock broke my muscles’ resistance, and once more my ass was hurt by the penetration of a male cock. I was physically just not up to being fucked any more: this whole scene had gone way out of control, but since Scott had slept through my being fucked by yuppie breaker, he had no idea that I wasn’t having fun, in fact that I had the strongest premonition of evil in the air.
It was kind of like being speechless while watching your friend walk, unknowing, towards a precipice. Scott was walking towards disaster, and I couldn’t warn him. I didn’t know what the disaster was going to be, but its source was the guy lying on the bed, smoking. He had a kind of controlled rigidity about him, not relaxing at all, but then this might have been the impression of an overheated brain.
Scott started fucking me slowly, the way he always started, luxuriating in his young male hardness and the ass raised up before him, the bound-and-gagged body, and the pride he felt in his stiff cock. He was putting on a performance for yuppie breaker, that was clear. Soon my mind was numbed again, and the premonition of disaster faded, and Scott’s cock took over for me. Reality was Scott’s rockhard fuck tool fucking my ass and my brain. I surrendered totally to him, and was stiffening in my own crotch, when yuppie fucker jackknifed up from the bed, and strode over to my head, his cock again erect.
To give you an understanding of how fucked up I was, I tell you that while Scott fucked my ass, I started lusting for yuppie breaker’s cock, which he held inches from my taped mouth, and which he stroked with one hand, while smoking with the other.
Then he moved off towards the bathroom, and suddenly I went cold. He was standing at Scott’s bag, which lay open on the desk. In it Scott kept his bondage stuff, dildos and so forth. I watched with a sense of alarm as he took out a pair of handcuffs. The premonition of evil beat very loud, like a drum, in my head, and I twisted desperately to reach Scott and warn him. Too late. In another minute I suddenly felt Scott slammed up against my ass, his cock still stiff, and I heard the sound of the handcuffs clicking; once, then twice. The horror had started.
This guy, remember, was six foot two, and Scott only five eight, so he had six inches on Scott. I watched while he propelled Scott across the room, and slammed him up against the door. He held Scott by the scruff of the neck, the way one does a puppy, and Scott’s still stiff dick, and his head and body, all hit the door at once.
The room was perceptibly lightening as night ended and day began, and I could see Scott lifted up on his toes as this guy fucked his ass right up against the door.
Scott is like me, when you fuck him, you have to start easy. This guy just fucked him, hard and mean, and Scott’s mouth opened in a rictus of pain. Outside the room, only an inch or two through the door against which Scott was being fucked, was freedom; inside the room was a sickly miasma of fear and violence. You knew from the way the guy threw Scott around, and stomp-fucked him, that he was practiced at this, and had beaten up a lot of guys. He looked as if he was waiting for some resistance so that he could escalate the level of violence. There was violence and hatred in the air, and I lay as still as death, watching my friend get torture-fucked.
I don't know how long Scott was slammed up against the door, but after whatever time, the yuppie breaker, who was still holding Scott by his neck, slammed him down on the bed to which I was tied, so that Scott lay half on, half off the bed, his wrists handcuffed behind him. His face was near mine, and I could see he was crying.
The guy left him there, and came back with a belt, with which he played tunes on poor Scott’s ass. The awful sound of leather hitting Scott’s bubble ass, and Scott’s crying, were all the sounds in the room.
Again Scott was fucked, and his grimaces of pain I could see very clearly in his face. He was fucked for a long, long time. Finally yuppie fucker got off Scott, and grabbed him by the neck again. He marched him over to the chair which Scott had been sitting in when I had arrived here, years ago it seemed. He pushed Scott into a kneeling position in front of the chair, and started pawing through our clothes. He took Scott’s jeans, and emptied the pockets, even taking the small change. He took Scott’s wallet and lifted the few bills Scott had. These he put in his own jeans, although he remained naked.
I was hoping that his taking the money meant he would leave soon, but the yuppie fucker had other plans. He picked up my tux, and rifled through it, taking my wallet, and emptying it of cash. He took out all the contents and my wallet, and threw them on the floor. Any money he found he put in his jeans. Then he found a sealed envelope in my coat, with Scott’s name on it. He opened it, and my heart sank.
Picture the scene: Mike spreadeagled and gagged to a bed, Scott kneeling, stark naked, his wrists cuffed behind him, and both of us watching the yuppie fucker who was also stark naked, half erect, and reading a letter one 32-year-old yuppie had written to his 20-year-old stud friend. It was full of submission stuff: how I longed to kneel before Scott’s huge cock, and so on and so forth. There was enough light now in the room for the guy to be able to read the letter without turning on the lights. Inside the letter were two 100-dollar bills, a lust token for Scott’s crotch. Yuppie breaker stuffed them into his jeans, and then walked back before the chair, before which Scott was still kneeling. He held the letter in his hand.
Suddenly, without any warning, he lashed out with his foot at Scott’s crotch, and with searing horror I watched his foot meet Scott’s cock and balls. Scott’s head shot back, and his mouth went distended and ugly with the god-awful pain. Yuppie fucker balled the letter and jammed it in Scott’s mouth. Scott’s shoulders started heaving as he sobbed, but he knew enough now to know he shouldn’t even think of moving from his knees. So he remained kneeling, with the letter in his mouth, and waited for whatever the sadist was going to do next.
The sadist obviously wanted to humiliate and degrade Scott as much as possible, for the next act was viciously cruel. He duck-shuffled Scott over to the bed where I lay, up at my head, and pulled the letter from his mouth. Then, inches from my face, he fucked Scott’s mouth until the half-erection became stiff again. Then he viciously fucked Scott’s mouth, ramming his meat down Scott’s throat until the boy choked. Scott’s eyes and nose were running, and he was having trouble breathing, but yuppie fucker forced his shaft down his throat over and over. Scott’s mouth drooled as he choked and suffered, and then the man stood back, and slapped him across the face. Scott tried controlling his sobs, but the man fucked his mouth once more. Then, oh blessed sight! we watched as he dressed, searched our stuff once more for money, and then left, slamming the door of the motel room behind him.
A car started, and then silence. Blessed silence. The unbearable atmosphere in the room, the heavy electric atmosphere and sickening, oppressive fear, was suddenly gone. Scott still knelt, crying, but as we didn’t hear the yuppie fucker return, he had presence of mind enough to stand, and use his cuffed wrists to lock the door, the same door against which he had been so mercilessly fucked. Then he went and looked for his car keys. As a backup, in case we lost the handcuff keys (which we did once), Scott had always kept a spare on his car keys. With the spare, it was a couple of minutes, and then Scott’s hands were free, and soon so was my tortured and nearly dead body.
Tired as we were, we got our things and went home, leaving forever that awful room of horror.
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