Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I was warm, perhaps warm for the first time since that last All Hallows Eve night. Only now was I fully recovered from the experience on this night one year past. Too warm. I lay in my bed, entwined in the sheets, first covering myself and then pushing them away. It was too warm in the room; the revolving fan not helping—neither in the weak breeze it provided nor in the wonk, wonk, wonk of its revolving blades.

I knew it wasn't the unseasonably hot October New Orleans night that was keeping me awake. It was the longing, the yearning. I had been dissatisfied ever since that night. Yearning. No man had satisfied me. I had searched, returning again and again to the Club Fantastic, even though knowing that it was no use. That it never was that night, the All Hallows Eve night.

I had stopped looking, having to will myself to stop and disgusted with myself and, with time, letting the fear of it overshadow the incredible pleasure. I had tried to forget, throwing myself, with little satisfaction, at any big-cocked man who would possess me. The cock had to be huge or I didn't feel a thing. I had thought the fever of it had melted away from me. I was wrong. I knew now that I was just waiting for All Hallows Eve.

The veins at my neck began to pulsate, the blood yearning to be freed. This sensation had not swept over me for a year. Was that a beckoning murmur I heard behind the wonk, wonk of the overhead fan?

I rose from my bed, prepared myself for what I hoped and yearned for, pulled on a T and a pair of old, tight, worn jeans, and left my room, letting my eyes roam around the walls reflecting back my all-to-brief life, perhaps for the last time.

I walked into the French Quarter as I had so many time before. The streets were aswirl with costumed revelers, just as they had been before. I was looking for the fuck, as I had so many times before. But, no, not like so many times before. Not for the same fuck. Not for any fuck but for that fuck—the ultimate fuck—no matter where it led.

I had offers aplenty as I walked. I sucked a man in a Harlequin costume off in an alley, but refused further servicing as his cock was normal sized no matter how I tried to make it swell. I almost went with a clown, but when he drew out his cock, I knew that would not be enough, would not satisfy.

He was standing under a street light a block beyond the entrance to the club, leaning against the pole, his black cape wrapped tightly around him.

There was no way that, from this distance, I could tell that it was him. But I knew it was.

I would have gone straight to him, knelt to him, begged for what he could give me. But something inside me told me that he would reject me if I did. He had to want me; he had to select me. I knew that without having any reason to know it.

I stood at the door of the club, looking toward the light post. He wasn't looking at me. I don't know if he'd even seen me. I had to believe he knew I was there. He was giving no signal—not even looking at me. I would need to continue as with any other night I needed the fuck. If he wanted me, he would come for me.

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."

"Yes, I'm sure," I answered in a hushed tone. All I wanted was someone who could touch me where I'd been touched a year before. Many had tried; none had satisfied—not since last All Hallows Eve.

He reached out with both hands and jerked my jeans down to my knees. In one swift movement, he'd turned me, managing to completely control me just with the grip of his hands on my buttocks cheeks, spreading them and, at the same time, stretching my entrance wide. He swiftly impaled me on his staff—to gasps and groans from the salivating crowd, not just from me—and was raising and slamming me down, pulling me closer to his crotch with each pull. I, indeed was split, and my channel was tested to the limit. Almost to the limit. But not quite to the limit. I screamed for him as he knew I would until the strength and size of him reduced me to a mumbling babble.

Someone in the crowd was counting out the seconds aloud while another, gruffer voice, counted the strokes. Money was still exchanging hands in the gathered crowd, and the decibel level rose in frenzied amazement the longer I endured.

Good. Almost great. Not quite satisfying. The curse of last All Hallows Eve. Nothing short of that was satisfying now. I had been ruined. I might as well have died that night.

The biker was setting a rhythm. He didn't need me to do anything. I relaxed, barely yielding just a bit more to him with each thrust, my attention going elsewhere.

I looked over toward the door to the club and saw that he was standing there. I gave him an imploring, pleading "choose me" look. He returned a level, knowing stare that sent shivers up my spine. And a wicked smile that had me climbing off the biker's cock to general applause and boisterous laughter, pulling up my jeans as I moved toward the door to the street, and walking quickly out of the club and out of the quarter, and up Promenade, toward the cemetery, my pace quickening, my panic growing—but held in check by my remembering want—my blood already running cold.

I walked through the cemetery to the old, overgrown section at the far reaches, farther than the asphalt trails extended. There would be no searching light this year.

I climbed up on a tomb, laid on my back, opened my legs to him, and rolled my hips up toward him as, with sneering smile and extended canines, he loomed over me, cape spread in the breeze, heavily muscled chest heaving, cock at full, viciously curved staff.

As he thrust his punishing cock inside me, and I cried out at the ultimate satisfaction, I turned my head to the side, offering the pulsating veins of my neck to him in supplication. I was his. I had been his for a year. I would be his for as many years more that he wanted to grant me.