Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Holt was standing at the beaded curtain to the back room in the bar he owned at the lower end of Buena Vista, watching Rocko put a blond Lynchburg College student through his paces before a more intense session up at the house later in the evening. The naked young man was stretched out on his belly on a padded massage table. His wrists were cuffed at the front edges of the table and his legs were spread by an extender cuffed at his ankles. Rocko, naked except for the leather chest harness and black half mask, was on his knees, straddling the young man's hips.

The student was writhing under Rocko as Rocko tickled him mercifully. Holt watched, licking his lips, knowing what came next, as suddenly Rocko reached between the young man's thighs, grabbed his nuts and began to squeeze and twist them. The writhing increased, the young man screaming ineffectually through his ball gag, his eyes bugging out. Holt began to pant, this being some of his own favorite play, imagining that it was him under Rocko, receiving this attention. Knowing that later that night, after the young man was completely spent from Rocko's play in the basement room of the house, it would be Holt.

The young man jerked, spasmed, and groaned deeply as Rocko positioned himself above him, fists down on either side of the blond's shoulders, split the young man's butt cheeks with a mammoth black bull's cock, and started to pump.

Holt lost interest at this point. It was one thing when the play culminated in this for him, but, in watching another man being sub fucked, the fun for Holt stopped with the torture play.

He moved back into the barroom and stood at the bar, ordering a beer from Manuel, the bartender on duty.

The gay part of the tavern wasn't large—just an entrance foyer, where a bouncer ascertained that the patron really wanted to be there; this barroom with a long bar, a few tables, and a small stage with a dancing pole; and a couple of multipurpose back rooms with toys, beds, and special equipment. The Lynchburg College student had been made to dance the pole until Rocko got in the mood and took him to the back. There had been few patrons present then. It was the middle of the afternoon, and this pretty much was a night-time club. The student was doing this willingly—but probably, like most, not having fully understood what "this" was. College students always needed money, were willing to try anything, and thought they were invincible.

After Rocko got through with them, most of them were subdued and broken. They certainly were broken in. If they tried to fight him, they were broken down.

The gay part of the tavern was on the back of the building, entered in back, in a corner of the parking lot and through the fenced-off area where the trash bins were kept. It didn't look like the entrance to anything and that's how the small gay community in the area liked it. The girly bar was on the street side and was much larger and covered with neon signs. There was a lot of business in this area of the state for that part of the club.

Howard Holt, mostly taken at face value as a white, good-old-Southern-boy, who had accumulated a lot of lucrative businesses and who spent enough time in the gym to look very good as a fifty-five-year-old extrovert glad-hander, hid his true sexual desires well. Very few in town would take him as a pain-loving gay sub who melted at big black bull cock and maximum body testing and humiliation. As long as he kept the gas station, car garage, and small grocery store open in Buena Vista and the residents didn't have to come down in the east from the Blue Ridge to Lynchburg or to the west to Lexington to get the necessities of life, any other businesses he ran were overlooked or quickly forgiven.

Most of those who knew he spent time at Stella's assumed he camped out in the girly bar in front, not in the gay bar behind, which few knew about. They assumed Stella was a wife who had died long ago or one who had walked off and left him, not willing to put up longer with his orneriness or the mistresses a successful businessman in central Virginia was assumed to have. They wouldn't have guessed that he'd never married, because he was stuck on men. And not just any men. His choice was big black bulls who would tax his body mercilessly and entertain him by letting him watch what they could do with young college students—and then, usually, as the spent young man hung there and watched, do him as well in the same way.

Even those few men and drifters who saw Holt in the gay bar assumed he was a power top. Few of them related him to Rocko, who they correctly sensed was a cruel sadist who could split them asunder and who they studiously avoided. They were aware what he did in the back room with the pole dancer talent Holt brought to the club, but they either assumed Holt didn't realize that was going on or, at best, ignored it, because word got around and hopeful young twinks did turn up looking for what Rocko gave them.

Holt was on his second beer when Rocko reentered the barroom from the back, dressed in shorts and a T, ordered and received a beer, and sat at one of the nearby tables.

Holt was talking with Manuel, the bartender, who had no other business to take care of at the moment.

"You been up on the Appalachian Trail yet this season, Mr. H?" Manuel asked, making small talk. "I know you like to hike up there."

"It helps keep me in shape."

Manuel took a moment to appreciate the shape Holt was in. He was older, but Manuel liked them mature. They had more experience. And Holt was one well-built older man. Manuel was a power bottom and he, like most, figured Holt as a power top. He'd really like to get Holt on top of him, but he assumed that the man was so steeped in the South that he wouldn't go with blacks or Hispanics. He was friendly enough with Manuel, though, so that was good enough. Good jobs were hard for a Hispanic to come by in this town other than cleaning toilets and picking fruit in orchards and here there were enough cruising power tops drifting through the bar to keep Manuel sexually satisfied.

"I'm going up tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I plan to hike north to The Priest and back," Holt added. The Priest was one of the higher mountains on the eastern edge of the Blue Ridge range between Lynchburg and Charlottesville down in the Piedmont.

"Should be nice," Manuel said. "If I was off, I'd like to go with you." It was a half hint, which Holt didn't take. Holt could have given him the day off. They could have hiked north, gone off the trail a couple of times, and Holt could have fucked him on the mountainside by streams. It was a dream of Manuel's, although Holt never seemed to bite.

The barroom had been mostly deserted as the two chatted. It was this fact that made Holt aware of the two men—both black—who had entered the bar and took up position very close to Holt on each side as he and Manuel had been engaged in bantering talk.

Holt liked to talk with Manuel. Holt had dreams of the well-built Hispanic trussing his body up and abusing and using him mercilessly. He had an obsession about whether there was any black in Manuel's blood and how big his dick was. He'd known Hispanics with black blood who had big cocks that were jet black in contrast to the dusky skin otherwise, the focus of attention going directly to the cock. Holt had dreams of Manuel's jet-black cock waving as, Holt strung up to the ceiling, Manuel danced around his body, flagellating him with a hand whip. If he'd had any hint that the Manuel of reality matched up with the Manuel of Holt's fantasy, he'd be asking Manuel to join him on the hike tomorrow—and they'd never get half way to The Priest. They'd be off the trail with Manuel abusing a gush of cum out of Hold's body.

Holt knew both of the men who had come in and hemmed him in at the bar—they were regulars here and were a couple. Holt and many others knew them as Mutt and Jeff. The tall, older—in his late thirties—thinner of the two was Buck Taylor. The squat one—in his late twenties—was Alfonse Jackson. Both were construction workers. Both were well-muscled. Holt had it on good authority that Taylor was a pure top, with an extraordinarily long dick as the major attraction to features that were on the ugly, gangling side. Alfonse, the smaller, chunkier, and better looking of the two had a high, squeaky voice and was known as a flip flopper. It was supposed that he stuck with Taylor mainly for the length of his cock, reputed to be an eleven incher.

The two muscled in so close on either side of Holt, ordering their beers in harmony, Taylor's voice a bass and Alfonse's a high soprano, that Holt knew they were there for him. He also figured he knew why they were visiting.

"What were you up to last night, Howie?" Taylor opened up.

"At home, alone—probably while the two of you were screwing at the back of your truck," Holt answered in a calm, "we're all just friends here" voice.

"Sure about the alone part?" Taylor persisted. "Sure you weren't up to the rumors on you?"

"What rumors would that be?"

"I had occasion to visit my nephew, Ray, at his dorm this morning. He was supposed to go out on a mowing job with me. But he wasn't up to it. I had to take him to a clinic. He said he was riding his motorbike yesterday up on the Blue Ridge Parkway and went over the edge. Managed to walk out but had wound up in a briar bush. The welts and such I saw on his body don't come from no briar bush, though. I've heard what goes on in your house up there. You do somethin' to my boy last night?"

"No, I didn't. I don't do that stuff," Holt answered, trying to put some indignation in his voice. And, indeed, he didn't. Someone else did that. That someone else did it to Holt too, and Holt got off in gushers in having it done to him. Tense up to this point, Holt relaxed. It may not have looked like he was out of the woods on this, but he now knew that Ray hadn't talked—hadn't told his uncle what had really happened to him. Taylor suspected that it was Holt who did it, but Ray knew better. He knew he was worked over by a black bull and Holt had done no more to him than watch—and had stuffed money in the pocket to his pants.

Ray was good enough with it. Holt would use Ray again. Ray surely wanted more work done on the jalopy he drove.

"Sorry to say, but Alphonse here and I would like you take a little ride with us, Howie. Just come along nice now."

Holt looked over at Rocko at the table. The big black, having heard it all, looked ready to spring. Holt gave him a negative shake of the head. He didn't want the possible involvement of Rocko to get into these two dummies' minds at all. Instead, he nodded to Manuel, who pulled a shotgun out from behind the bar.

"I think one beer is enough for you boys today," Manuel said, "and I'm sorry to report that the bar is closing early today."

Taking the point, Taylor gave Holt a piercing look and simply said, "Later, then."

The two men left the bar without a fuss. When Holt was ready to leave, both Rocko and Manuel were at the edge of the fence at the parking lot to make sure that Holt's Town Car was clear and that Holt got to it safely.

Holt kept thinking of the Taylor-Jackson pair in the vein of a harmless Mutt and Jeff and thus didn't give them much of a thought at all. He kept his mind on what was coming later that night.

The blond Lynchburg College student performed well for Rocko in the stocks that night, kneeling on a pad, his neck and wrists trapped in the holes of a wooden stock contraption, his ankles cuffed to a leg extender, his cock and balls extended painfully by heavy weights, and Rocko tickling him mercilessly before mounting his ass and whipping his back, buttocks, and thighs while fucking him deep and hard.

Holt appreciated the identical treatment later even more, as the blond student, totally exhausted, hung from an X frame and watched through slitted, half-glazed eyes while Rocko repeated the session on Holt.