Cold Stone Tomb

I entered the Club Fantastic for the fuck. It was a rough bar. I knew I would find a cock here. Maybe one that would satisfy me.

It was a biker night. There were several possibilities. All eyes had gone to me as I entered, and I knew that several of the men wanted me. I surveyed the room. A big bruiser of a biker was sitting in the shadows in a back corner. I hardly saw him for the black leather and cigarette smoke he was swathed in. He must have been nearly seven feet tall when he stood and was massively muscled. He could break me in two if he wanted too—and perhaps that was what I was seeking.

I pulled my T from over my head and gave him a submissive look from across the room, conveying “fuck me” to him.

In response, he pushed the table that had been in front of where he sat to the side and revealed a freed, erect, hard monster phallus encased in a hand.

I walked slowly toward him, unbuttoning my jeans and allowing the fly to part to show him that I wore nothing else underneath, watching his tight smile turn into a sneer and a promise that he would at least try to take me to the edge that I sought. The conversations in the vicinity ceased and men turned toward where the monster biker sat, lips already being moistened with tongues, already anticipating the punishing fuck that was promising to be on offer. Taking bets in low voices on whether I could sheath it—how long I could take it.

“You sure?” he muttered to me as I approached. “I’ll split you into tomorrow.”