Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

"Stop fussing. You have the night off. Just go."

Brad, Clinton's attendant was fluttering around the bed. "Sure you'll be all right? The urinal jar is just there on the nightstand."

"Yes, of course," Clinton answered through clinched teeth. It wasn't really Brad he was irritated with. It was good that the urinal jar was nearby. What irritated him were these legs of his that just didn't work. And what irritated him the most was that it had interrupted an active sex life. Brad was no help with that beyond full-body massages and the occasional blow job.

Brad was very much a bottom—and his effeminacy and androgynous looks turned Clinton off anyway. He wanted a man—a man like Larry at poker tonight. Imagine that he lived just five doors away. Clinton had had to buy men from a local gay dating service to come in and service him. Just once he'd like the excitement of someone showing up unexpectedly and fucking his lights out. Someone strong and good looking. Larry was older than he was, but he looked fit. Clinton hoped Larry had taken the broad hints he'd laid down at poker. He'd been thrilled when Larry had let that young, sweet-looking piece who had been hanging onto him know they wouldn't be going home together. If he only had taken the hint.

"So, I'll be off then. You want the lights off or on?"

"Off, please." They went off and Clinton listened to Brad flit around the living area for a few minutes and then leave. He turned his face toward the open French doors, open out onto the patio and then the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. He could hear the relentless surf lapping up on the beach, and it lulled him to sleep.

The next he knew he was being blindfolded and gagged with a ball gag and his arms were being pulled up above his head. Velvet-lined handcuffs were attaching his wrists to the slats at the corners of the headboard. He was on his belly. He had no idea where his legs were. They were useless to him. He couldn't feel them—hadn't felt them for years.

The man coming down on the bed on his knees beside him was turning Clinton's shoulders toward him. He knew it was a man, because the ball gag had come out, to be replaced by a hard cock filling his mouth and pushing toward the back of his throat. Clinton knew how to give head. He opened his mouth cavity to the cock, pulled back his teeth to give the cock depth, and made an O with his mouth. His lips closed tight over the cock. He didn't mind giving head at all. Larry had taken the hint. If only he could reach his own cock with a hand. He certainly had feeling in his body down to his cock and balls. His balls ached for attention.

And just as he was thinking this, his pelvis was turned on a hip, a hand closed over his cock and gave it a few pulls. Then it descended to his balls, laced fingers through them, and distended and squeezed them. Clinton moaned his pleasure and hummed on the man's cock, obviously, from the sound he heard, giving the man pleasure too.

The cock was so big. It was reaching for Clinton's tonsils. But Clinton didn't care. He knew, to the pleasure of his assailant, how to deep throat even a thick, long cock.

The fist returned to Clinton's cock, and just the thought of the sex he was having—and not having to pay for—keyed Clinton up to the point that he shot his load.

The man pulled his cock out of Clinton's mouth and put the ball gag back in. He pushed Clinton over on his stomach and then was below him, eating Clinton's ass out, while Clinton panted and moaned and groaned. The groaning increased as the mouth was replaced by a lubed finger, then greased fingers—two three, four—up to the knuckles. Fist fucking Clinton's ass up to the knuckles.

Would he go deeper? The whole fist? Clinton writhed from the waist up. Couldn't do it from the waist down, of course. He panted heavily, crying out for the stretching of his ass by knuckles to be replaced with a nice, big, juicy cock.

His wish was granted. He heard the snap of the condom being put in place and then he was covered close above by a heavy body. All muscle and vigor, pounding his ass with a cock almost as thick as the knuckle fuck had been—and much deeper inside him.

Clinton tried to talk, to scream, through the ball gag. He wanted something, something more.

As if understanding, the man pulled the ball gag out long enough for Clinton to mutter. "Yes, yes, fuck me. But I need to come again. My balls are aching. Can you—?"

The ball gag was replaced, but the man had understood. He pulled pillows over and stuffed them under Clinton's belly, pointing his ass toward the ceiling, but also pulling him up on his useless knees, lifting Clinton's pelvis off the bed so that his cock and balls could dangle. The man mounted Clinton again, covering him close, but now a hand went under his belly and milked Clinton's cock to another ejaculation.

Clinton was in heaven.

The snap of the condom again and then the man ejaculated, on Clinton's back. He left the bed and Clinton could hear him moving around the living areas. He returned after a half hour or so, though, and turned Clinton to his side, signaled another crowning with the snap of a condom, lifted up one of Clinton's numb legs, slid his cock inside Clinton again, and fucked him to another mutual ejaculation.

Exhausted, Clinton drifted off to sleep with the man still embracing him from behind and his cock going flaccid inside Clinton's channel. He was long and thick enough, though, that the cock didn't lose position inside Clinton.

When he was sure Clinton was asleep, the Hispanic waiter at the gay bar moved off the bed. He checked the pillow case full of loot he had pulled together from the living areas between fuckings. He was wearing skin-tight gloves that he wouldn't take off until he was well away from the house. He carefully removed the ball gag and blindfold from Clinton, waiting again for the man to settle down into deep sleep before slowly releasing him from the handcuffs. The waiter had brought all of these toys and probably would be needing them again—maybe even to come back here. The paralyzed man had seemed to enjoy the fucking so much that maybe he'd forget—or forgive—that he'd been robbed as well.

In any case, that wasn't Manuel's problem. He'd gotten what he'd come for multiple times. He hadn't done a crippled man before. It was kind of exhilarating. The man couldn't do anything but lie there and take it. His ass and cock and balls were just as sweet as if he could use his legs. It was fortuitous that the man had been so pointed at the poker table about where he lived, that doors would be open, and that he'd be alone and defenseless.