Man across the River

When Chet had beaten me, it had been pain, but mixed in that had been some pleasure too. Chet had seen something in my reaction too. He knew he could abuse me and I’d still come for him—sometimes more explosively then. When Chet slapped me around, I’d go straight to the floor, open my legs to him, and take him deep, meeting his thrust with counterthrusts of my own. He had exploited that, thinking that even more pain would trigger sexier reactions. What I grew to fear was that he may have been right. I had the same urge to present my ass with just the snap of the belt.

I think Phil saw it too. He didn’t take advantage of it himself, but it gave him impetus to pull me out of Chet’s clutches.

When Carlos had mounted my ass and was riding my channel, he flicked my biceps and flanks with the belt. He laughed at the feel of my reaction to that. My passage opened more to him, pulling him deeper inside me; my moan was lower, more guttural in the throat. He reached under my belly and grasped my cock. Snap, snap against my flanks and my cock stiffened further in his hand. Wham, wham, wham, the strike on my buttocks were harder. I spouted for him, moaning hard. I came for him three times with the kiss of the belt as he seeded me twice in quick succession and left me panting and groaning on the ground under the tree.

I lay there and watched him finish plowing his field, after which he drove the tractor back over to the tree line, climbed down, approached me, gripped my ankles, split my legs, and plowed me as well in a vigorous missionary fuck, almost splitting my ass channel.