Taken Hiking

Noah was quickly stripped and John was fucking him missionary style at the end of the bed. Tom was on one side holding Noah’s right leg up and out. James was on the other side holding up the left. Both had lost their briefs. Both had made Noah grasp and stroke their cocks to erection while John pounded his ass. Noah lay, inert, on the bed, his back arched, his head buzzing from the liquor, and not really minding the cock working inside him. John wasn’t sheathed, which was a new sensation for Noah. Tom wasn’t sheathed when he took his turn next. Nor James. Nor were Keith and Scott, the two guys who had been waiting outside in their trucks, when they entered the room. Keith and Scott had turned Noah and were taking him doggie style.

This wasn’t lovemaking. This was pure animal-need fucking, throbbing cock sliding in channel, coaxing the walls to stretch for it, pistoning every faster, deeper, seeking release and, finding it, being replaced by yet another cock. This wasn’t personal. Noah was just providing a sheath. He could endure this. Even as buzzed as he was, he was able to analyze it, to consider each cock separately, each man’s technique even in a straightforward pumping like this. In the months since he’d become sexually active, he’d studied the cocking of each man who had taken him—the chamber choir bass, Mr. Connor, Mason. Not a long list. But each one different. If he concentrated on the differences of these cocks, he could get some enjoyment and instruction out of this gang bang. He’d wondered about the life of a male prostitute. He’d even wondered if it might be a life for him. There were so many gay men at the conservatory—and there was talk of only being able to make it in one of the music capitals of the world if you took tricks to augment your income. Could he? This would help him decide.

He wasn’t fighting them. He was going with it. That probably was why they weren’t manhandling him, beating him. It may help him to come out of this alive.