Gay Erotic Stories

(Corbin and Ethan both go looking for it on the New York docks)

(sounding, fetish, docks, gay male clubs, domination, gay anal, rough sex, daddies, obsession, collections)

“Yo, there, buddy. Lookin’ for somethin’? Cause I got somethin’ for you.”

Corbin took a good look at the burly man who had materialized from behind a stack of metal barrels beyond where the light over the alley door into the Christopher Street bar reached. He took a good look, reaching a quick decision because of the overly friendly way the man was extending a hand toward him.

“Ummm, no, I don’t think—”

“I could show you a real good time. A tasty little trick like you.”

“Sorry, just made a wrong turn back there,” Corbin mumbled and backed out of the alley and into the street-lit gay bar district just up from the Manhattan docks.

He stumbled up the street, toward the upper end of the strip. That was where it was. Back there in the alley. He was sure of it. But it was a bad idea to come down here again. What did he think he’d find? And what did he think he wanted to get out of it if he did find it.

“Got a light?” The man was older, maybe in his forties. He’d been quite a looker in his day. Still not too bad. But there was no way he was right. He was built well enough, but not built like Corbin was looking for. Corbin didn’t even have to think about seeing it. He was OK . . . and on a normal trip down here . . . maybe before what had happened, what Corbin was now obsessed with finding . . . it would be just fine. But this wasn’t what Corbin had come down to Christopher Street to find.

“Aw, come on. I can pay well for the right service. Up front. And I’ve got a room. It’s a nice room. Clean and just here. Just over there across the street.” He gestured toward the Christopher Hotel. Corbin knew it well. He knew it had recently been refurbished and the rooms indeed were clean and better than most here on the strip—certainly better than one of the back rooms in most of the bars here. And better even than the one he’d been in three nights ago.

“I was just ready to leave . . . to go on home,” Corbin answered. But that wasn’t true. He had checked out more than three bars yet and he had been determined to walk the whole strip tonight until he’d found what he was after. He’d steeled himself for this for two day. Had wanted it again for two days. Had thought about little more than having it again, even though it made him shudder to even think about it.

The man came up close and put an arm around Corbin’s waist, loosely though, as if not wanting to push him . . . too much . . . but not wanting him to bolt away either.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the man whispered in Corbin’s ear. “Good money and I give a good ride.”

He smelled clean and the musky scent of his cologne was intoxicating. He felt firm. Trim and well dressed. He probably did have a fat wallet.

“I was going to go home. I just wanted to look in at a couple of more bars and then call it a night.” It was true that he was going to check some more of the bars—at least that was what he’d planned to do before the encounter in the alley. That had unnerved him a bit. Too much like the other night, but not the right one. Not the right one at all.

“I can ride all night, and good money each time,” the man murmured. “You’re sweet. The best I’ve seen down here all night. You want to go into bars, I’ll take you into bars. Give you whatever you want to drink. Here’s Joey’s right here. Come on it and let me buy you a drink.”

It had been Joey’s Corbin had been in three nights previously, and he indeed had planned to go in there to check. He had had high hopes that that was where he’d find what he was looking for. He’d come all this way down here—ignored what he should do. Go to the police is what he should do. But he’d built up courage to come down here. It would be a pity to cut and run now.

“Well, maybe just one drink. Here in Joey’s.”

When they entered the bar, Corbin’s eyes scanned the room. Not many in here tonight. Very few of the build he thought was right. Several turned their faces toward him and smiled as he came through the door with his smooth-talking, well-dressed forties guy. The men always smiled for Corbin, and most showed interest. The forties guy put a hand on the small of Corbin’s back and guided him toward the bar, his eyes also sweeping the room, challenging, claiming territorial rights.

Corbin continued to look, but what he wanted to see was the right-hand wrist of any guy who was anywhere close to the right build. He wasn’t seeing what he was looking for.

Later, Corbin was thinking that the refurbishment if the Christopher Hotel hadn’t really changed a couple of things that probably should have topped the list in getting fixed. The bedsprings still made that tinny, irritating grating sound and the headboard still thumped against the wall.

The forties guy had been right. He sure could ride. And he could get back in the saddle fast. Corbin lay on his stomach, naked, on the white chenille-covered bed, his hips raised to give the forties guy, knees clutching Corbin’s thighs and fists pressing in the hollows below Corbin’s shoulder blades, a good angle to bottom out as he seemed to want to do as he rode Corbin’s ass.

The guy was good and the cock was thick and long enough, and Corbin didn’t have any trouble giving him the gasps and groans and the usual “Yes, fuck me just like that” and “Give it to me good, Daddy,” phrases that were expected of him, as he bunched up folds of the coverlet in his fists and thought about what he’d hoped to find down on Christopher Street tonight. And it wasn’t this. But this was safe . . . a lot safer than the other. And maybe he could build up the courage to give it another try in the next couple of days.

* * * *

Ethan had never been in New York before, and the buildings soaring overhead, picked out majestically in the gathering twilight, exhilarated him. In fact, having grown up in Vancouver, British Colombia, he had never been on this side of the continent before, having signed on as crew for Ted Gleason’s yacht and pretty much just sailed between Gleason’s interests in the United States, most of them in Boston, and his preferred home in Bermuda.

What Ethan did know as he was tying the bow of the yacht up to the pier in the shadow of Manhattan skyscrapers is that he wanted to get laid—and bad. When he’d signed on with the Seaskipper crew, Liam, one of his fuck buddies from the fishing fleet in Vancouver, had gone east and gotten this cushy job on the yacht. He had enticed Ethan to follow him and he’d been taking care of Ethan’s needs. And he done a great job of it—so good that Ted Gleason wanted Liam to take care of his needs too, and now Liam was laid up on land in Bermuda as manager of Gleason’s estate.

Ethan had been four days on the Seaskipper without getting any. Liam had told him, with a wink, though, that he’d helped take the yacht to New York before, and that all Ethan needed to do was walk up a street called Christopher Street from where the yacht would tie up and he’d get all of the taking care of he needed. Ethan sure hoped so.

He didn’t know what guys wore for cruising in New York—or how they signaled their need. But another guy on the crew had warned him that he’d probably not want to wear his working duds—baggy white cargo shorts, hanging low at the waist; a white cut-off T-shirt, showing his hard-muscled midriff; white deck shoes; and gold stud earrings—around this area of the city if he didn’t want to get hit on. And so that’s exactly what he wore. He just tied off his auburn hair in a ponytail, and didn’t bother to shave his four-day beard—mostly because it made him look older than his nineteen years, and he didn’t want guys passing him by thinking he was too young—and started walking up Christopher Street from the docks as soon as he saw where it opened up from the water.

He had been warned correctly. He basked in the cat whistles he heard as he sauntered up the street. A group of three black guys waved at him from across the street and started to cross. Ethan had no experience with black guys—and he didn’t like the idea of there being three of them—so he waved and shrugged as if he was meeting someone, and then turned and entered the closest bar door to him. A flashing neon sign over the door told him it was Joey’s Bar. The black silhouette of a well-built guy was slouching against the “J” of the bar name with his back, so Ethan figured he’d guessed right on what sort of bar this was. As soon as he entered, he knew he was right.

The light was dim, the music was loud, and there was smoke reflecting in the roving multicolored beams of light revolving around the room, which gave the initial impression that the bar was crowded. But when Ethan’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that that wasn’t so. Still, most of the attention of the men in the room—of those who weren’t already far into making moves on each other—became focused on him.

The three black guys entered the bar and Ethan moved defensively away from the bar and farther into the area with tables as the three bellied up to the bar and, after voicing their drink orders to a bartender, turned toward the room. All three of them were staring at Ethan and smiling. Ethan moved back farther into the table area, until a hand reached out, gripped his wrist, and pulled him into enfolding arms.

“Hello there, sailor,” a deep, gruff voice rumbled from the dimness. Ethan found himself drawn into the lap of a bulky, big-boned, heavily muscled bruiser of a man in jeans and a black muscle T-shirt. The man’s strong arms encircled him and held him close. Even before more could be said, Ethan could feel the hardness of the man’s staff rising at the cleft of his buttocks. The cargo shorts were light-weight material. Part of his Bermuda duds. A large, strong, calloused palm was pressing on Ethan’s belly, holding him firmly in place. “Playing sailor today, are we?”

“I am a sailor,” Ethan muttered defensively, gasping from the suddenness of being imprisoned. He turned his face toward that of the other man, seeing him more clearly with each passing second as his eyes adjusted to the light. The man was ugly as sin. His features were severe, bordering on gross. He was bald but he had dark, bushy eyebrows that made it look like he was permanently glowering. There was a wild look about the dark eyes, his nose had been broken and badly reset, and there was a scar that sliced down from the corner of an eye and across both of his thin lips. His chin jutted. But while he was ugly and thuggish, he had the air of power and “able to have what he wanted” about him.

“Oh, a real sailor, then. Not Navy?”

“No I work a private yacht,” Ethan answered through heavy breathing.

“Too bad. Navy guys fuck well; usually have well-used holes.”

Ethan squirmed to get up, but the man held him fast.

“Calm down,” the man muttered. “You came in for this, didn’t you? Or did you come in with those guys at the bar staring you down.”

“No, I didn’t come in with them.”

“And don’t want to be with them, I guess.”

Ethan didn’t answer. But his trembling probably answered for him.

“You’d rather be with me, wouldn’t you? Black guys are known for big dicks, but I bet mine will do you just as well.”

Ethan didn’t answer that either. He had been squirming, but he could feel that that was only arousing the man—and he knew he couldn’t break the guy’s grip anyway—so he settled down.

“Yes, good. Just quiet down. You a working piece?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you come in here to pick up a john?”

“No,” Ethan made his answer sound wounded without the least bit of acting.

“But you did come in here to get fucked, didn’t you? Comin’ in a bar like this, dressed like that. You came in to get laid. Feel that? Like that?” He was moving Ethan’s butt around in his lap, letting him get the feel of the hardening cock. A hand had gone up under the hem of Ethan’s cut-off T-shirt too and had found a nipple. His face was close in to Ethan’s ear and he was licking the side of Ethan’s neck under his ear lobe. All Ethan could think of was that he didn’t think he could kiss the guy on the mouth. No, that wasn’t all. He also was very much aware of the strength of the hardening cock he was sitting on. Ethan wasn’t a large man—it seemed to him he was only half the size and weight of the big bruiser. He could barely touch the floor with the balls of his feet. But when he did so and tried to rise a bit out of the bruiser’s lap, he was pulled back down, hard on the hardness of the man’s tool.

Ethan moaned, which the man chose to take as a vote of appreciation for the feel of his cock.

“You want me to fuck you or do you want me to walk you over to those three black dudes at the bar? They look like they want to give you what you came in for too, but times three. Bet they could try to double you.”

Ethan looked at the bar. The black guys were still watching him—closely. They weren’t making any moves of approaching the table, however, even though there were three of them. This only added to Ethan’s feeling of being overpowered by this man. Three well-built guys and they were just hovering there, watching.

“I . . . I don’t . . . know. Here?!” he burst forth with, as he felt the man working on knotting of his belt.

“Maybe here, yes. Maybe no. But you’re going to sit on my cock and ride it like a good little boy, ain’t you?” His hand moved to grab and squeeze Ethan’s cock through the material of the cargo pants. “Or do you want me to give you to those black dudes?”

“No . . . I mean yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“You want to ride Daddy’s cock?”

“Uh . . . yes.” Ethan’s eyes were on the black guys at the bar. They still were watching. He was panting shallowly now. The man was stroking his cock through the material of the shorts—and the man’s cock was rhythmically pushing between his butt cheeks.

“Yes, what? Say it.”

“I want to ride your cock, Daddy.”

“Good. see what’s on the table top right here?”

Ethan looked down at the surface of the table. There was a sheaf of condom packets beside a half-full beer mug.

“Oh. Please.”

“I want you to open one of those rubbers and put it in my hand.”

With trembling fingers, Ethan picked up the sheaf and pulled one packet away. He was shaking so badly that even with two hands it was hard for him to slit open the packet.

The man laughed and brushed the packet out of Ethan’s hands. “Just testing you. Seeing how much you wanted it. But we’ll play a bit.”

The hand that had brushed the packet away was on Ethan’s bare knee and began working its way up Ethan’s thigh, up under the wide leg opening of the baggy cargo pants. Ethan could feel the metal of a ring on the man’s finger—and he felt something else there, but couldn’t quite figure out what it was. The hand was going under the hem of the pouch of the jock strap he was wearing when the man turned Ethan’s face to his with his other hand and pushed a thick tongue between Ethan’s lips. Ethan gasped and almost choked, but the man maintained his possession, his control of Ethan’s mouth.

The other hand had reached Ethan’s cock, flesh on flesh, and it was slowly stroking him hard. Ethan involuntarily was moving his hips, pressing and then releasing on the man’s covered cock. He suddenly wanted the cock inside him. This is what he’d come for. It didn’t matter that the man was ugly, Ethan could tell that he had a monster cock and could do him well.

Ethan’s mouth was freed and he gasped at the arousing sensations he was being given below the waist.

“What’yer three lookin’ at,” the man’s voice bellowed out. “This one’s taken. Go find your own pigeon.”

Ethan turned his face to the bar. The three black guys looked angry. But they also looked defeated. Two of them downed their drinks and then joined the other one who was already half way to the door.

“Please,” Ethan murmured.

“Please what?”

“Please. Fuck me”

The man laughed a low, husky laugh. “Here and now?”

“If you want. But soon. Please.”

“So, you want me to make you come?”

“Yes. Yes!”

The man laughed again. Then he retook possession of Ethan’s mouth with his. The man’s mouth tasted like stale tobacco and booze, but Ethan didn’t care anymore. He’d come here to get a good fuck, and this man would give him that. A back room? a fleabag hotel room? right here? It didn’t matter. Not as long as he could cock as well as he could make Ethan want it.

But then Ethan was shuddering and trying to pull away to gasp and object and ask what the hell was going on. The strange feeling of the hand coming up his leg. It must have been the underside of the ring on the guy’s finger. A metal bead. A big one. Being pressed in his piss slit.

The man held him fast in a strong hold, with one arm encasing his torso, a thumb and finger pinching Ethan’s nipple. Ethan’s mouth fully possessed. A hard cock between his butt cheeks, pressing at his hole even between the layers of intervening material. And the big bead on the underside of a ring pressing into his piss slit. Releasing and pressing. Releasing and pushing in. Rhythmically fucking his piss slit.

Ethan came in a pent-up spouting of cum and collapsed in the man’s arms.

The man laughed another deep-chested, hoarse laugh and released his hold on Ethan so that the young sailor just sank into himself on the man’s lap. The man reached over and tossed off his beer at one go, swept up the packets of condoms, and pushed Ethan off his lap. Ethan almost fell to the floor, but the man swung him around as he himself stood and dropped Ethan into the chair.

“Like piss slit fucking?” he leaned down and asked.

“It’s . . . it’s different,” Ethan murmured.

“I asked if you liked it. There’s more like that if you liked it. Did you like it?”

“Yes,” Ethan answered truthfully, although he was a bit ashamed that he had liked it as much as he did.

The man took a couple of steps toward the bar exit.

“What? Are we . . . ?”

“Those guys are gone now. That’s what you really wanted, isn’t it? And you got to come. I got other things to do. Unless you want more of what you just got.”

He laughed his way to the exit and was gone. Ethan just sat there, wilted. When he looked up, he saw that there were still guys interested in him. One, leaning at the bar and looking back at him, was a well-dressed, slim guy who was maybe in his forties. He’d obviously been a looker in his day, and he still looked like he was in good shape. He was dressed expensively. He lifted a glass and inclined his head like he was offering to buy a drink for Ethan.

They fucked in a back room of Joey’s, which Ethan on the small of his back cross-wise on a massage table, and the forties guy holding his legs up and together with fists on his ankles while he pumped Ethan’s hole vigorously with a fair-sized cock.

This was the fuck that Ethan had come for but, even though this guy was handsome and had a good, strong stroke, the young sailor couldn’t help but feel having been let down by the dangerous, ugly bruiser. And that fucking of his piss slit. He had never . . . ever . . . And the guy had teased him. Asked him if he liked it and maybe wanted more and when he said he did, just walked off.

* * * *

The forties man had released his legs and was pulling off his condom and releasing his seed on Ethan’s stomach.

Ethan rolled to his right, ready to pull himself off the bed.

“Hey, wait. Where are you going? I told you $100 for two fucks. Roll onto your back. I’ll be ready again in a few minutes.”

* * * *

Ethan stumbled out of Joey’s. He needed to piss, and he probably should have done it in the bar. But for some reason he just wanted to be gone. The forties guy was OK, but he wanted to exchange phone numbers and addresses and such, and Ethan wasn’t into that. He still had the sour feeling in his stomach that the ugly guy had ruined his night. Ethan was $100 richer when that wasn’t even required, but, despite what should have been two decent fucks, he felt unsatisfied. And it was all the big bruiser’s fault.

He looked around to make sure those three black guys weren’t still hanging around and then turned the corner and stood facing a wall beside a parked black van. He unzipped and pulled his dick out of the pouch of the jock strap and, leaning into the wall supported by the heel of the other hand of an outstretched arm, and pissed a strong-arced stream of piss against the cinder brick wall.

God, that felt good, he thought, as he shook the dick dry.

He didn’t even have time to cry out as a hood was forced over his head and he was slung sideways through a van door and onto a carpeted floor. His wrists were being cuffed and his arms were being pulled over his head and attached to something. He heard the van door slide shut with a solid thump. The cargo shorts and then the jock strap were jerked down his legs, which were wishboned and raised, with strong fists grabbing his ankles.

He cried out inside the hood and arched his back, as a cock slid into Ethan’s channel—with difficulty as it was thicker than the forties man’s had been—but yieldingly as Ethan was lubed and opened up by the two recent fucks.

The man was breathing heavily and muttering something Ethan couldn’t make out from inside his hood. Was he talking to someone. Were there others there? The three black guys?

But the cock was thick and long and was pumping him even better than the forties guy did. And longer. Almost interminably. Hands were moving up his torso, grabbing his pecs under the cut-off T, digging into his nipples, punishing him. Ethan cried out under the hood and his hips went into motion. This was a fuck! He was meeting the cock thrust for thrust, and he could feel the vehicle they were in rocking back and forth. The man’s torso lowered to his. It was brushing up and down on Ethan’s chest in rhythm with the thrusts of the man’s cock.

Hairy. The chest was hairy. Chaffing Ethan’s chest, but he didn’t care. Bulging muscles. The man was strong. And vigorous. And long lasting. Or was it just the one. He would pull out and then thrust in again. Was that someone else taking over?

Ethan shot his load and soon after, with a couple of jerks and a grunt and groan, the man’s body tensed and he too came. Ethan felt no flow inside, so he must have been capped. It was almost a disappointment. Ethan wanted to feel the creaming of his insides. But maybe it was for the best. Maybe it meant Ethan wasn’t in mortal danger. Or maybe the man was just protecting himself.

He was left there, where he lay, his wrists bound above his head, a hood covering his head, when he heard the van door slide open and then close, another door open and close, and then the van was on the move.

* * * *

Ethan decided they must be in a bathroom. his knees, painfully were on a hard, tiled floor. His belly was on the cold rim of a porcelain tub, and his arms were dangling in the tub, still bound at the wrists.

A man was hunched over him from behind and fucking him. It was a glorious fuck. If the floor and porcelain weren’t so hard and cold, it would be an even better fuck. The hood was jerked off his head—and, sure enough, he was draped over the rim of a bathtub in a small and barely functional bathroom—and he gasped for air.

“Please,” he pleaded when he could get his breath. “my knees. My belly. It’s killing me. Please can we do this another way.”

“But you want it, don’t you?” The voice was muffled. Ethan managed to turn his head enough to get the impression, his eyes following the line of bulging muscles of an arm, of a massive, heavily muscled, and quite hairy—dark hair—chest. And a head covered by a hood. The man was tanned, but either white or Hispanic.

“Yes,” he conceded. “I want it. But could we . . . ?”

The man laughed, that too muffled, but he pulled Ethan up and backed him the few feet it took to get to the opposite side of the room. He sat on the toilet and then brought Ethan down on his lap and onto his cock and resumed the stroking by lifting Ethan up and down on the cock. Ethan didn’t fight it. He placed the balls of his now-naked feet on the tiled floor and helped with the rhythm of being raised and lowered on the cock.

His eyes free to see now, Ethan looked around. The bathroom was clean and neat—just small and old-looking. The man’s thighs between his spread legs were tan and hairy. Black hair. The man had forced Ethan’s arms up with Ethan’s bound wrists locked behind the man’s neck, which made Ethan arch his back, putting his torso in the form of a taut bow. When the man stopped raising Ethan up and down on his waist and had felt that Ethan was willingly doing that himself by the leverage of the balls of his feet, the man’s hands had gone to covering Ethan’s pecs again and playing with his nipples. When he did that Ethan saw, for the first time, the tattoo on the man’s wrist. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, but he was working on it.

That was forced out of Ethan’s mind, though, when the man raised his feet, massive, hairy-toed boats, to where his heels were on the rim of the tub across the room, This forced Ethan’s shoulder blades back onto the bulging, hairy pecs of the man and lifted his feet off the floor. At this angle, the man’s thrusts up into Ethan’s channel, using the leverage of the man’s heels on the tub rim, sent the cock ever deeper and Ethan was panting and groaning and moaning. And luxuriating in the exhausting fuck.

Ethan was totally exhausted after the fuck, but the man seemed as vigorous and hyper as ever. He stood up from the toilet and moved Ethan to where he was draped over his arms in front of him, Ethan laid across his arms, dangling like a rag doll, still panting softly from the total fuck, and looked up at the massive hairy chest and the bulging arm muscles. Ethan had never been taken by such a strong, beautifully built man as this before.

He was carefully carried into another room and laid on some sort of medical table. The man unbound his wrists but immediately bound them in cuffs on the edge of the padded table parallel to his shoulders. Ethan’s feet were bound in stirrups that raised and spread them. His buttocks was raised by a wedge at the bottom end of the table.

Still wearing the hood and nothing else, the man then rolled a table up to below and somewhat beside the table. Ethan’s eyes went from the massive tube of now-flaccid manhood dangling between the man’s beefy thighs and to his right wrist, where Ethan could see the tattoo again, but still could not make out what it was. But his eyes also went back to the barrel chest, with the matting of black, curly hair, cascading down to his pubes—and to the pronounced curves and bulges of all of the muscles and the armor-like plate of his six pack. Now that he could see the man’s body completely, the line between the tan and that of the Speedo he must have been wearing when he was getting his tans revealed that he was a white man.

Ethan wished he could be free to let his hands roam on that body, to follow the tan line with his fingers, to taste that cock and watch it engorge, and to pull it inside him and ride it like a cowboy. And maybe after this . . .

But, what was that? What was the man doing? He had picked something up from the surface of the table he had rolled over. A long, thin, metal wand.

“Do you know what this is?” the voice, muffled by the hood, asked.

“No,” Ethan murmured.

“It’s called a wand. Do you know where it goes?”

“No.”

“Think about that.” The man had cupped Ethan’s cock and raised it. The tip of the want was lowered toward the tip of the cock. “Where could it go?”

“No. Noooo. Please no!” Ethan cried out.

“Ah, you’ve guessed it. Now you must hold very still. I tell you this for your own good.”

“Noooo!”

The man slapped Ethan on the belly, and said in a more forceful voice. “I said you must hold still. You will thank me for warning you of that.”

“Please don’t,” Ethan said with a whine. “Don’t do this. Please. Why are you . . . ? Oh, shit. Nooo!”

He could feel the cold steel slowly enter his piss slit. Just a little way. Enough for him to realize that this was going to happen. He gasped and then whimpered, “Why?”

“I have enjoyed fucking you. I can tell you have enjoyed it too. We are going to be friends. Very intimate friends. And I am going to teach you control. Ultimate control. I liked the look of you from the very beginning. And dark hair. That five o’clock shadow. It completes the package. We’ll have to keep that.”

Ethan had been concentrating on trying to understand what the man was saying through the hood. If he hadn’t been, he would have realized that the thin metal wand was nearly half buried inside him. He was trembling, but as warned, he was trying to remain as still as he could.

He gasped and moaned as the wand was slowly pulled out of his penis. He was going hard in spite of the horror of what was happening.

He looked down the line of his body and saw the man picking up a thicker wand. “Please . . . oh my god,” he whimpered as the thicker rod entered his slit and slowly was pushed in.

“Just to this point and then just watch what happens,” the man said. “You want it. You’ll see.”

Ethan looked down as the wand half buried in his raised penis. The man didn’t have a hand on it, and yet it was moving. It was sinking into him. And he could feel it sinking in.

“See. Your cock wants it. It’s taking it in on its own.” Then the gasping and the sucking in of air as the wand was pulled out.

As the man was turned to the table, selecting a thicker wand, Ethan could see that the man was aroused by this. His cock, huge and curved up toward his belly, was hard again.

With the fourth wand buried three-quarters of the way inside Ethan’s penis, the man pushed the stirrups Ethan’s feet were tied to toward the base of the table so that Ethan’s legs were bent. Ethan watched him roll a condom on his cock. Then he placed his hands on Ethan’s knees and moved in between Ethan’s thighs and entered his channel with his cock.

Ethan sighed and moaned as the man slow-pumped him. The young sailor almost forgot that over four inches of a thick wand were buried in his penis. The man moved Ethan’s knees back and forth with the rhythm of his stroking and Ethan became lost in the fuck. He was close to coming, when the man stopped and pulled his cock out. He stood there, holding Ethan’s knees still, while Ethan’s breathing slowly returned to normal and he lost the urge to ejaculate.

Then the man said, “Ultimate control,” and Ethan watched in fear, renewed horror, and fascination as the man brought his cock head up to the exposed tip of the wand. He squeezed the head of his cock and the piss slit opened right up and then he swallowed two inches of the wand in the cock. One end of the wand was in Ethan’s cock and the other end in the man’s.

“The ultimate fuck,” the man said. “You are mine now . . . unless . . .” One of his hands enveloped Ethan’s balls and pulled and released them as more of his cock swallowed the end of the wand and the two cock heads came close together. The hand left Ethan’s balls and moved down. Fingers entered Ethan’s ass and worked their way in and out, stretching for the prostate.

Ethan arched his back and turned his head to the side and moaned deeply. The man started to move his penis, moving the metal wand back and forth in both Ethan’s penis and his own, bringing the cock heads closer together.

“Oh shit yes. Oh fuck. Oh god, yes. Yesss,” Ethan moaned.

“Do you want me to stop? To free you? To send you back to that yacht of yours?”

“Oh god no. Fuck me. Fuck me like this forever. Oh, shit . . . I’m going to come.”

“Go ahead.”

And Ethan did come, and so did the man, obviously having been able to hold himself for a mutual ejaculation, the cum of the two burbling out around the sides of the wand and lathering each other’s cock bulbs.

The man leaned over Ethan and released his cuffed wrists. Ethan’s hands immediately buried themselves in the silky chest hair of the man’s pecs, hungrily seeking the man’s taut nipples. The man pulled the hood off his head.

It was the bald-headed man who piss-slit fucked him with the bead of his ring in Joey’s bar. It hit Ethan then that he should know this. The man had alluded to a different, more intense piss slit fuck that he’d given with the bead on the ring, and just now he’d revealed that he knew Ethan sailed on a yacht.

“Do you want to go home or do you want it again?”

“Again. And again and again. Oh fuck yes!”

The man had begun to move his hips again, moving the wand connecting their penises back and forth inside them. “I’m ready if you are. But do you want to try a thicker wand?”

“Whatever you want,” Ethan murmured between gasps and heavy pants, his hands greedily tugging at the man’s nipples. “You are in control.”

“Good answer. I knew you could accept that,” the man said as he raised off of Ethan and moved his hand over to select a thicker wand.

Later, the man carried a totally spent Ethan down and hall and into a bedroom with four twin beds against the walls. A young blond man was on one of the beds. He was naked and his body was beautiful—slender but well-muscled. He had been reading a skin magazine, but he looked up, eyes flashing, as the man carried Ethan in.

“This here, the blondie, is Mark. Mark meet Ethan. He’s going to be the dark headed one.”

Without acknowledging Ethan, the blond turned his eyes on the man and raised up on his knees in a provocative pose. “You going to do me again now, Seth? Sound and fuck me again. I need you. I need you bad. I need the wand. The cock fuck. Please, are you—”

“Yes, Mark, I’m going to do you now.” The man—who had now been named Seth—walked over and picked the blond up in his arms. “Bathroom’s through there, and the kitchen is down the hall, darkie. Make yourself to home.”

Ethan laid back on the bed he’d been placed on after picking up the magazine the blond guy had been reading. His eyes roamed the bodies and sexual positions of the guys on the glossy cover without seeing them as he heard the cries of passion from the blond in the room down the hall—wishing all of the time that it was him again. Not wondering where he was, how long this would last, or how he was going to get back to the yacht he should be sailing on to Bermuda in a couple of days. Only thinking of that steel rod joining his cock to that of the big, ugly, magnificent bruiser Seth and living variously what the mouthy blond in the other room was screaming was happening to him.

* * * *

When Corbin came out of the back room at Joey’s after being fucked by the handsome forties guy with the open wallet, he realized that this was the bar he’d been looking for. He had been three sheets to the wind when he’d left the bar that night and had been pulled into the alley and into that van and fucked like he’d never been fucked before in his life.

He’d never even heard about sounding before. After the hooded guy had done him and then sounded him and then pushed him out of the van and driven off, Corbin had gone home and researched it. It had taken him quite a bit of research to find that ultimate fuck—what the hooded man had called the “ultimate control”—but he’d found it eventually. The two-cocked sounding, with the dominate guy controlling the action of the mutual penis fuck. Nothing had been said about coming at the same time and slathering each other’s dicks, but Corbin just couldn’t get that out of his mind.

The man had been hooded. And so had Corbin been hooded. But Corbin’s had come off during the fuck and he’d seen it—the tattoo on the guy’s wrist. It was only after it was all over—the next day, in fact—that Corbin had realized that the tattoo depicted exactly what he now craved again. Two penises, their heads connected with a thick rod.

Corbin had to have it again. And again and again and again. He wouldn’t recognize the guy by his face, but there couldn’t be more than one tattoo like that on a man of magnificent, hairy build cruising the Christopher Street bars. It was just a matter of time and research.

Corbin bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer. Then he turned and surveyed the dimly lit room, with the colored beams of light roaming around. A yellow light highlighted the man at the table. It was only for an instant. But it was enough. He’d had his hand raised, and Corbin had seen the tattoo. Just in a flash, but enough.

They were at one of the tables. The big man had a younger, slender man, in his lap. A redhead, with freckles. But good looking and built nicely. The man was ugly as sin, but that didn’t matter. That wasn’t what Corbin wanted from the man. The redhead was being held tightly in the big man’s lap and there was movement at their hips. The back of the redhead’s head was pushed into the hollow of the big man’s shoulder, black hair curling out of the neckline of the big man’s T-shirt, and the younger man had the look of being in dreamland on his face. A pair of shorts and bikini briefs were laying at the feet of the redhead.

It was clear that the big man was lap fucking him. It was also clear to Corbin from memory, that, although the redhead’s shirt was covering his lap, the position of one of the big bruiser’s hands underneath the front of the shirt told Corbin that the bead on the underside of the man’s ring was busy fucking the piss slit of the redhead’s penis. And the redhead was loving it, without having any knowledge just how far that could be carried.

Corbin didn’t want to watch this, but he didn’t want to leave either. He’d wait until it was done and then he’d follow the big guy—at least get the license plate of his van. The redhead thought he was in heaven now, but if the big bruiser gave him the sounding treatment he’d been in higher glory yet. Corbin was already shaking in anticipation of getting it again.

But Corbin was not destined to be satisfied by the ultimate fuck again. Corbin was a blond. The big bruiser, Seth, already had a blond in his collection. Corbin was fine for a fuck and a sounding in the back of the van, but Corbin wasn’t going to experience the ultimate—again and again—as he dreamed of.

Tonight, big Seth was shopping for a redhead for his collection.