Prisoner’s Prisoner

I was lost now. I was taking over and thrusting my pelvis up into him as he rode backward and forward on my lap. He was crying out for me now, talking dirty, biting at my nipples, bringing his mouth to mine, trying to pull every ounce of power out of me, doing everything he could to bring me to a quick finish.

And he succeeded. With a sob and the ejaculation of both my strained voice and of my seed, I capitulated to him, became his prisoner of passion.

We sat there, both panting, trying to regain our breath, me still inside him, but retreating, withering from the knowledge and shame of what I had done—what I had let him do to me; what he had lowered himself to do for his own need, which really wasn’t my need at all. I knew I meant nothing to him really except for the two words I could give him.

It was then that the larger man, the beefy man of the mean aspect, went into action. He was at us now, pulling us apart. The young man was roughly lifted off me and thrown down on his back on the table that was in the center of the room. The young man tried to rise, and the larger man backhanded him across the face. With one hand the man gripped the youth around the neck, holding him down on the table top with a strong strangle hold. With the other hand, he undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and pulled out a baseball bat of a hard cock.