Take me to You, imprison me, for I,
Except You enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except You ravish me.
— John Donne, “Holy Sonnet 14”

He’s been following me for a while, moving in and out of cloud shadow, a small dark image in my rearview mirror. Then, just as the interstate sign announces Vermont, his motorcycle pulls up alongside me, and I can see how big he is.

“Holy shit,” I groan. I’m bleary-eyed, having driven all night, but the sight of him shakes me awake. It’s almost painful, seeing a man that hot, that close to my ideal, cruising only a few feet from my elbow. Big bike, big man, keeping level with me as we tear into the first miles of Vermont this sunny July morning, sun glistening on the dark-gray slate roadsides.

His bike’s a Harley, so massive and so magnificent that I actually take a few seconds to admire it before shifting my attention back to the business at hand: flirting with a beefy biker at 70 miles per hour.

It’s a warm day, so he’s dispensed with a jacket. He’s wearing black harness-strap boots, dirty jeans, and a black sleeveless T-shirt. The shirt’s tight, showing off huge pecs, a beer belly, and thick arms, both of them covered with tattoos. He looks like some kind of avenging angel, actually, one I couldn’t shake off if I wanted to.

My luck, I figure I’ll get just enough of a glimpse of this guy to get me hard before he roars on ahead and out of my life. But no, he holds level with me, sun flashing off his helmet. He turns his head toward me and smiles. White teeth in a bushy black beard. Jesus, I love a big man with a black beard.

Then, to my disappointment, he veers in front of me, and I figure that’s the end of this particular daydream, but no, things just get better. It’s then that I see the sticker on his bike. Same sticker I’d just recently affixed to my own rear bumper. The black-and-blue leather flag. Hell, this mysterious biker and I are brothers.

When he raises one gloved hand and motions towards the next exit, I realize I’m ready to follow him anywhere.

The town’s called Raburn, and he seems to know his way around, threading us purposefully through the streets. I follow right behind him, hope stiffening my dick, breath a little short. This feels dangerous, but danger’s what a good part of me wants. Yesterday Thom broke my heart, the bastard, and today I want to find a man big, hot, hairy, and mean enough to make me forget that heartbreak and that self-pity for a while. Before summer school starts up again, I have two weeks of freedom to fill, and I have no specific itinerary now that my plans with Thom have blown up in my face, now that I’m no longer his emotional captive.

The width of that biker’s shoulders convinces me that it’s time to relinquish schedule and control and just follow whims for a while. I’m sick of the prosaic. I want some rough magic, some poetry. Somewhere deep inside me, somewhere unvisited, there’s unexplored wilderness, and I’m hoping that this black-bearded biker Bear might show me the way.

The sign says “Donna’s Diner.” When I pull my Jeep into the little parking lot, he’s standing there, helmet in his hand, grinning. I swing out of my seat, stand before him and look up into the glint of his dark glasses. Deep laugh lines, thick curly black hair tied back in a ponytail, with some gray on his temples and in his beard, iron-gray like the slate hill-flanks I’ve been driving past all morning. Mid-forties, I’d say, and a good foot taller than me. Hoo, Daddy! Seems like those shoulders are almost as broad as the hood of my Jeep. If we end up alone together, I realize, he’s big enough to do anything he wants to me, whether I like it or not. That thought only makes my dick harder, though, at the same time, my confused heart starts throbbing with fright.

In the few seconds of silence before we exchange our first words, his eyes range over me, and I think he likes what he sees. I’m twenty-one, six foot tall. I’m wearing a buzz cut, a couple of hoop earrings and a dark, closely trimmed goatee. I have a decent build, thanks to the campus gym, and I’m showing it off this morning in army-drab shorts, work boots and a white A-shirt. I can feel his eyes on my chest—I got me a tolerable set of pecs—then on my crotch, then on my hairy legs.

The big biker nods, as if in approval. “Donna’s got some good flapjacks, if you’re interested,” he rumbles, voice deep as a distant thunderstorm, and I relish that Yankee edge to his voice. I’ve been brought up in Virginia to be suspicious of Northerners, but somehow New England accents sound sexy to me. Especially when the speaker has arms this big. For a second, I try to make out the tangle of images in his tattoos before meeting his eyes and smiling back. What would the weight of that beer belly be like on top of me? I’m already in love with this guy’s beard and bulk. Bulk means power, and power gets me hard faster than anything.

I must look a little scared, a little uncertain, because he says softly, “I won’t hurt you, kid. I just saw your leather flag and thought you might want to play. You think about it while we dig into those pancakes.”

The flapjacks are about as big as the plate, and, according to my new buddy, the maple syrup’s locally made. I’m starved—didn’t have any dinner last night, too busy escaping Thom and the tangle of Boston—so I wolf down half the stack before remembering my manners.

“Shit, I’m bein’ rude! My name’s Allen.”

“Drew.” The biker grins, reaching across the table to hurt my hand in his strong grip. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He cocks his head, trying to figure out where my accent’s from.

“Nope.” Didn’t take him more than a few syllables to figure that out. “I’m from West Virginia. The southern part.”

“Ha! What’re you doing up my way, Southern boy?”

I take a big bite of pancake and chew for a few seconds before blurting it out. “I have—had a boyfriend in Boston. A long-distance thing. Came up here to spend some time with him over my summer vacation—I’m a forestry student at West Virginia University—but he, uh, well, when I got there, he told me he’d found someone new. So I broke a few things and then tore outta there.”

“Well, hell,” snarls Drew, dropping his fork. He sips his coffee and shakes his head. “He let you drive all the way to Boston before he—?”

“Wanted to tell me face to face, he said. So now here I am in New England for two weeks’ vacation-time I’d planned to spend with him.” I can feel my eyes getting a little moist. Don’t want to make a maudlin fool of myself in front of this big rough guy, so I shut up, drop my gaze to my plate, take a sip of coffee and start stuffing my face with more syrup-sticky pancakes.

“Tough time for you, kid. The guy sounds like an asshole. So what’re you gonna do now?”

I shake my head and finish my coffee with one gulp. “Well, my family down in West Virginia doesn’t want to have much to do with me since I came out, so I’m pretty much on my own. School starts up in two weeks, but, hell, with my bad grades, I’m about ready to flunk out anyway. Think I’ll stay here in New England for a while, camp out some. See the sights, maybe even look for a job. I’ve never been up here before, so I might as well—“

“Have some fun?” Drew’s boot nudges my foot beneath the table. I jump, heart throbbing again, then, after a second’s hesitation, nudge back. “Meet some Yankees?”

“Yeah, you can’t be all bad,” I smile, suddenly casting my sadness aside and eager to flirt with this burly ideal. “Despite those Northern sons-of-bitches Sherman and Grant!”

“Oh God, a rebel boy! You dumb Southerners should never have shot at Fort Sumter,” Drew growls. For the next five minutes we’re fighting the Civil War again, rolling our eyes at each other’s arguments, boasting about our Civil War ancestors’ exploits, and rubbing the toes of our boots up and down each other’s calves. Then Drew gulps his last bit of coffee and says, “So, look, kid, I’ve got the day off. You wanna continue this battle at my place?”

Turns out Drew’s a local, all right, descended from a long line of Vermont farmers. He’s living in the old family farmhouse, a big white clapboard thing in the woods. I follow him down a long dirt road lined with birches and pines, then pull into the dusty driveway beside him. He shows me around the place—a gnarled apple orchard in the back, wildflower-edged meadows, a broke-back barn, some beehives, a vegetable garden with huge potato plants. Every now and then he squeezes my shoulder or brushes his fingers along my buzz cut, just to remind me of why we’re really here, what we’ll soon be doing.

By now, early afternoon, the heat’s rising, so Drew offers me a beer. Fine timing, since I’m a little nervous, and alcohol would really take the edge off. With Thom, I was always Top, but I’m guessing that won’t be the case with this huge man. Now that I’ve gotten myself into this situation, I’m not sure I can take what he might have to offer. I’m not sure that I’m safe, out here in the woods with a stranger who looks like he could heft his own Harley over his head.

I drink the beer fast, and by the last bitter sips I’m convinced things are fine. The attraction between us suddenly feels relaxed, companionable, as if we know we’ll fuck, and fuck hard, real soon, there’s no rush. We settle side by side in padded aluminum rocking chairs, sip a second round, and silently take in the long view, the staggered horizons of the Green Mountains. Every now and then Drew pats my leg.

After a beer and a half, last night’s sleeplessness starts to catch up to me. Bees are buzzing somewhere, heat drifts off the meadow, and despite my attraction to this guy—I can smell his armpits from here, and it’s a rich, rich musk—my eyes are drooping.

“C’mon, boy, time to take a nap,” Drew announces, rising and stretching. “You look tired, and I worked late at the mill last night.” With that, he tugs off his muscle-shirt and tosses it on the chair. Then, before I can even get a good look at his bare chest, he’s pulled me out of my seat, wrapped his arms around me, and pressed my face into the thick fur on his torso. God, he smells good. I run my fingers through the thatch and over triple-pierced nipples. It occurs to me, dully, that I’ve never had a nipple ring in my mouth before.

“Take it all off,” Drew whispers, releasing me. I’ve been looking for some beefy guy to tell me what to do. I shuck off my shirt, then my boots and shorts, then my briefs. I stand before him, naked in the warm air, in the sunlight slanting across the porch. I drop my eyes, look down over the sparse hair on my chest and belly, my stiffening cock, and hope he’s pleased by what he sees.

“Good boy,” Drew says, and then, before I know what’s happening, he lifts me into his arms as if I were his child. Excitement and exhaustion are warring within me as he nudges open the screen door with his big shoulder and carries me inside.

What wakes me? Fingers fumbling at my neck. I’ve slept naked in his big antique four-poster, curled in his arms, for several hours. Now Drew’s buckled a collar around my neck.

I put up about three seconds of drowsy, half-awake fight before Drew’s palm slams into the back of my head and pushes my face into the pillow. Then he’s on top of me, the weight of that big belly and chest, and I can feel the thick fur against my bare back and my ass. I try to thrash free, but I can barely move. Bulk means power, as I’ve said, and this power has decided I’m staying put. He’s got me now, and we both know it.

I shout into the pillow once, twice, and then his big hand’s over my mouth. He pulls my head back and whispers in my ear, “Relax, kid. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Now his other hand’s wedged beneath me and fingering my left nipple. His beard brushes the back of my neck. Gripping my jaw, Drew forces my head up and down in an acquiescent nod.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he laughs softly, fingertips playing over my goatee for a few seconds before clamping down hard on any sound I might make. Now he rolls us over onto our sides—a good thing, since that great furry weight that grabbed my attention in the first place has about smothered me—pulls my head back against his shoulder and wraps one tattooed arm around my chest, pinning my arms to my sides.

I’m completely helpless, I realize, feeling his hard muscles trapping me against him. This man could kill me. This man might kill me. How could I have been so stupid?

I start fighting him, but his grip around my torso tightens till I can barely move. When I start shouting against his hand, he tightens that grip too, then rolls over on top of me again.

I can hardly breathe. Spots start floating over my eyes like unmoored boats. Dimly, I realize that he’s rubbing his denimed crotch against my ass. Teeth on my ear, hot breath.

“You gonna behave, kid?”

Again he forces me to nod. Against the unremitting gag of his palm I start to whimper.

“You’re not gonna get hurt, I promise. As long as you do what I tell you to do. Okay?” Again the hard grip on my jaw as he moves my head up and down.

“You got two weeks off, right?”

Fright has brought tears to my eyes, but somehow my cock’s harder than it’s ever been. Isn’t this what I’ve been looking for? To submit to power, male power greater than mine? To feel what Thom felt when I bound and topped him?

This time the nod’s my own.

“Think I’m gonna keep you here,” Drew breathes into my ear, rolling us again onto our sides and wrapping his legs around mine. “Two weeks, or just maybe for good. Sounds like nobody’s gonna miss you back home.”

Behind his big hand I start moaning, shaking my head from side to side, and his grip tightens again, pulling my head against his, stilling my protest.

“You’re a butch little guy. You can take it. Think about those ancestors of ours we were talking about in the diner. All they endured. Those Civil War prisons.” His fingers have returned to my nipple, squeezing hard, tugging. No one has ever made me hurt like that. I close my eyes, grunt into his hand, and grit my teeth.

“You think you’re man enough? Two weeks’ worth? Prisoner of war?”

His palm’s pressure over my mouth suddenly eases up. Now the fingers on my nipple are tender, soothing. “C’mon, kid, you’re gonna enjoy being a captive. It’s not as if you have much choice.” He presses his hard-on against my backside and waits.

“Yes, sir,” I manage, a muffled gasping against his sweaty palm. Now I’m nodding again and again, closing my eyes as his hand grasps the base of my cock, as his fingernails start digging into my nipple.

Drew’s left a digital clock on the bedside table so all I have to do is turn my head to see how much more time I have.

Another two hours. I tug at the ropes just to remind myself of my total helplessness. I bite down on cloth—a bitter-tasting rag Drew pissed on before he stuffed it in my mouth and duct-taped it in.

It’s hot in here—old farmhouse, no air-conditioning—but Drew’s set an oscillating fan in the corner of the room, and the breeze it creates brushes over my chest, along my sweaty flank, off the foot of the bed and then back again. I study cracked paint on the ceiling, then look down the length of my bound body, my now-hairless chest, my recently-shaved, rawhide-wrapped cock standing straight up, despite my discomfort and my residual fear. There’s a fly buzzing behind the window shade. Through the screen, I can hear Drew working in the yard, the rhythmic scrape of hedge-clippers. Every now and then, he yells “All right?” and I do what I can, with that rag packed in my mouth, to shout back affirmatives.

By this point I’m pretty sure he’s not crazy and I’m not going to die here, because, for the two hours I’ve already spent tied down, he’s checked on me regularly. Weird combination of a ruthless captor and a solicitous father. Still, I’m not certain about anything. Lying here, helpless and sweating, tugging at ropes tied far too expertly to give, I vacillate between sick doubt and a sort of passive ecstasy. I wonder whether or when he’ll let me go, if I’ll ever see home.

When he first tied me spread-eagle to this bed, I was terrified. I’m a pretty muscular guy, but, bound so securely, I hadn’t been so totally at anyone’s mercy since I was a child. When he gagged me, I knew then that my life was in his hands. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. And then, when I heard him sharpening the razor in the bedroom, I started to cry.

Drew sat on the edge of the bed, the steel gleaming in his hand. With the flat edge of it, he stroked my cheek. Our eyes met, mine wet and wild, his calm and hard.

“You’re mine,” Drew stated softly. “Right?”

I nodded, very slowly, and the buckle of my dog collar clinked. The cold metal slid down my face, then the warm trickle of tears .

“I could kill you right now,” Drew said, lifting the razor from my cheek and carefully licking salt water from the steel. “Right?”

My head sank back into the pillow, and I closed my eyes.

“My great-great-grandfather was a prisoner of war in one of those shit-hole Southern prisons. Lost an arm to gangrene. Bet he’d love to see us now. Hot little rebel like you, my captive. I’m gonna keep you here as long as I want. Right?”

I gulped. I opened my eyes, then started to shake. Sobs rose in me, cowardly sobs I choked down.

Drew bent over me, licked more brine from my cheeks, pressed his lips hard against my gagged mouth. “That tape’s a nice Confederate gray,” he laughed. “How about a Union blue blindfold to match it?”

The bandana had been knotted over my eyes for only a few seconds before I heard an odd whooshing sound and a cool, wet substance was spread over my chest. When I felt the razor against my skin, the slow, careful strokes, I went limp with relief.

A hand patted my head. “Good boy,” Drew muttered. “It’d be wise of you to hold very still. First the chest. Then we’ll clean up your crotch.”

It felt as if a god had taken my life and then given it back to me. As if I’d just been pulled out of an open grave.

The four hours Drew allotted me are up. My muscles are sore and cramped by the time he’s finished in the garden and strides into the dim bedroom. The bed sags under his great weight as he sits beside me, sipping a beer, his dark eyes ranging over me.

“Had enough?” Drew slaps my cock a time or two, and it bounces in its web of rawhide.

I nod.

“Want a sip?” He drops his mouth onto my left nipple and starts chewing.

I arch my chest against his teeth—God, it hurts good—then—I’m beginning to know my place—mutter a muffled “Please, sir.”

Drew lifts off my nipple, strokes my chest—“Nice and smooth,” he mutters approvingly—then reaches down and slowly starts peeling the tape off my mouth. I grimace as the adhesive takes a decent number of goatee hairs with it.

“Yeah, that hurts, doesn’t it?” Drew grins as he tugs the piss-sour rag out. “Think it’s time for the razor again, kid. We’re gonna take off that goatee, so you can take tape more easily. I’ll leave you a little shadow maybe, just because I like some stubble on my boys.”

Drew tips the can to my lips, and I sip the beer greedily. It spills over my jaw, through my just-condemned beard and over my chest. Drew licks it up, gives me another sip, lets me swallow, then works his big thumb into my mouth.

“Suck,” he says, and I do. His other hand’s on my nipples again, which, after hours of chewing, twisting and tugging, are on fire. Somehow, though, it’s an agony I’m beginning to relish. When his callused fingers let up, the pain’s hardly subsided before I want it again. What is it about this man that makes me want to please him, no matter what pain that pleasing brings to me?

“Gonna shave your head next. Maybe get that hair off your wrists too, since you’ll be spending a lot of time with tape wrapped around them. Right?”

By now I’ve learned to nod. By now—as Drew’s mouth presses itself over mine, first brutally, then tenderly, then brutally again, as Drew drops his jeans to his ankles, pushes his huge cock between my lips and slowly rides my face—by now I’m learning to be grateful.

I shift in my seat like a restless child. My buzz cut and my goatee have been scraped off and washed down the sink. Now my hands are taped behind my back, my thighs spread wide, my ankles tied to the chair legs. Yards of rope crisscross my chest and arms, securing me to the back of the chair. There’s a hard rubber plug up my ass, and I move around in the seat—as much as all this rope will allow—just to feel it inside me. It hurt like hell going in, because, having always been Top, I’m not used to things up my ass. But Drew took his time, whispering “Easy, boy, easy” over and over, stroking my buttocks and kissing the backs of my thighs, and finally it popped in.

Now I’m beginning to enjoy the feel of it, the way it fills me up. And besides, as long as it’s there, Drew isn’t. My jaw’s aching after several hours of being forced up and down on his cock, so I’ve gotten more than a passing acquaintance with its length and its thickness. But when I think about how big he is, and how tight my inexperienced ass is, well, my mind’s having almost as much trouble handling the idea of such a fuck as my ass will handle the fact of it.

No matter. Out of my very tightly taped hands. Sooner or later, he’s going to fuck me. And that’s the way it should be, I know now. That’s what a captor does to a captive, what a Daddy does to a boy. Just when he fucks me is his choice, not mine, and that’s a terror and a relief. Having been bound in various positions for hours, I’ve pretty much given up on the concept of choice. I left my free will in that diner parking lot, in the bottom of that first beer can, on Drew’s big bed, when I first felt his hand over my mouth and his big belly pressing me into the sheets.

“Taste good, kid?” Drew’s eyes are level with mine, and his voice is tender.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

We’re sitting at the dining room table. Drew’s in nothing but jeans, and in between bites, I study those tattoo thickets covering his biceps and triceps. He’s poured some good red wine, put on some music, and lit candles whose light glints off his nipple rings. It could be any married couple’s quiet dinner, except, of course, I’m naked and bound.

“Open up then,” he says. I lean forward, the white rope tight against my chest, and he feeds me another bite of pot roast with his fingers.

Drew let me stretch for a while after those four hours I spent on the bed. Part of me thought about running for the door, even though I knew I wouldn’t get far, tearing bare-assed through night-dark woodland. And part of me wanted to stay, just so, when I wasn’t blindfolded, I could look at him. At the way sternness alternates with gentleness in his dark brown eyes. The way his gray-streaked wavy hair, freed of its cord, falls down around his face like some Biblical prophet. The way he smiles when he grinds my tits between his work-roughened fingers and my groans grade into stifled sobs.

He let me slip a jockstrap on before he cuffed my hands behind my back, hooked a leash onto my dog collar and led me out the door. We sat on the porch steps, the wood still warm against my bare ass, and talked for a long time. About Thom and about my estranged family. About his lover Bill, who died a few years back in a car accident. The sun set, pink, then lavender, over the Green Mountains. Drew lit citronella candles, then sat by me again. He pulled me against him, and I rested my head on his big shoulder.

“Are you gonna ever let me go?” I whispered.

A tree frog started up at the edge of the woods, then an owl.

Drew sighed. He patted my bald scalp. “Don’t know, kid. You want me to?”

I stared at the sunset, silent with uncertainty.

“You want to go home?” he whispered, tugging gently on the leash, then at the metal around my wrists.

“Don’t know where that is anymore.” My turn to sigh.

The sun slipped behind the horizon, and a breeze came up, hardening my bruised and scabbed nipples. Drew kissed me, then rose, tugging on the leash. I stood and followed him into the house.

He’s snoring only a few feet away, and he’s instructed me to wake him when I can’t take it anymore. I sit here in the dark, wrists, ankles, arms and legs aching, trying to be strong for him, trying to impress him with my ability to endure.

Bucked and gagged is the term. Drew showed me a drawing of the old Civil War punishment in a history book. “Here’s some of what my ancestor suffered in those Confederate prisons of yours,” Drew had said, knotting rope around my wrists and ankles, then pressing my calves against my thighs, my knees against my chest, and finally slipping the wooden dowel between the crooks of my knees and the crooks of my elbows and roping it in place.

Tomorrow is the day I’m slated to make the long drive back to West Virginia and summer school. That is, if Drew will let me. I’ve spent every day of the last two weeks handcuffed in a basement cage while Drew was at work. Every evening I’ve been restrained in a different way, while he cooked us great meals, stopping occasionally to pull out of my mouth whatever gag he’d chosen for the evening and tenderly give me sips of cold beer. Every night I’ve spent bound, either in his arms, or roped to a chair, or hog-tied on the dog bed. He’s fucked my face, he’s clamped my tits, he’s beaten my ass with a belt. But he still hasn’t ass-fucked me.

A drop of cool moisture hits my chest, and it takes me a second to realize it’s my own drool. You drool a lot with a bit gag in your mouth. It’s incredibly humiliating. And Drew loves it, loves to watch the spit trickle down my stubbly chin and drip onto my shaved torso or crotch. Tonight, after he bucked and gagged me, after he worked another, larger, plug up my ass, he simply sat and watched me struggle for a good hour, tugging on himself dreamily before patting my bare scalp and climbing into bed.

The glowing numbers of the bedside clock say 3 am when I finally break. No wonder this position was a standard punishment in Civil War prisons. My muscles are stiff to the point of agony, my elbow and knee joints are throbbing, I just can’t take it anymore.

Tonight he’s chosen the bit gag not only for its ability to make me drool, but also because it allows some speech, albeit distorted, and so I can wake him when I must, with these muffled grunts I’m making now.

Drew snorts, shifts around in the sheets. He stretches those huge muscles and sighs.

“Is it time, kid?” He kicks off the sheet, rises, and sits on the bed-edge.

“Uhhh uh,” I groan. There’s the snick of a match as Drew lights a candle on the bedside table.

“You hurting bad?”

My head bobs in the candlelight.

“Hmmm, four hours? Not bad. Looks like you’re pretty well broken in.”

I can feel his fingers fumbling in the dark, unknotting rope, and soon he slides the dowel out from between my knees and elbows. I wince with pain as I stretch out my stiff joints. Rolling on my side, ankles and wrists still roped tight, I look up at him, a black mountain edged with candle-glow. The gag’s rubber rod squeaks between my teeth.

Drew’s lighting more candles, humming under his breath. Now he stands over me and wedges one big toe around the bit and into my mouth. I suck greedily, even as some distant part of me stands silently amazed at such an incongruous scene. Here I am, aching, shaved, bruised, bound, sucking on a man’s feet, and all I can feel is a wild welling of gratitude.

Drew scoops me up then, bends me over the baseboard of the bed, and carefully works out the butt plug. Then he pushes me into bed, stretches out beside me, and pulls my back against his chest. His hard-on’s brushing my ass; his hands are stroking my face, probing my mouth, worrying my torn-up tits.

“Tonight you gotta decide, kid. I’m leaving it up to you,” he whispers in my ear. “You gonna stay here, be my boy? Or go home?”

I’m silent, amazed at being given a choice. I’m not sure what I want. Then I remember Thom’s impassive face. I remember the way my father threw his beer mug against the wall and shoved me out the door.

“Let me put it this way, kid. Either I untie you now, or I fuck you now. Once my dick’s inside you, you’re mine for good. Understand? You’ll stay here, roped up for a good part of the time. I’ll take good care of you. I’ll love you hard and long, but you’ll be mine. You get it?”

I nod once, twice, then press my face into the pillow.

“I feel a lot for you, Allen. Haven’t felt much since Bill died,” Drew says, almost reluctantly, almost ashamedly. “But, understand, if you stay, well, tonight’s decision is the last one you’ll be allowed to make.”

Fingertips trace the welts across my ass, tug at the tufts of hair between my cheeks. How often is a man given the opportunity to change his life?

“So, you wanna be free?”

This is a decision I made days ago without even knowing it.

“No, sir,” I slur, pushing my ass back against his hand, his cock.

Silence, then a deep exhalation of breath. Drew brushes his beard across the top of my scalp. He rolls me onto my belly, slips a pillow under my groin, unties my ankles, and spreads my legs. He unropes my wrists only long enough to tie them behind my back.

Cool lube’s spread over my asshole. One finger’s worked in, then two. Suddenly I’m very thankful he’s been breaking me in with plugs for two weeks.

“No condom, kid. I’m clean, I promise. Hell, if I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have done it already.”

I stiffen up for only a few seconds before relaxing as best I can. No way Drew’s going to harm me. I’ve learned that by now.

The third finger slips in, working me open, and I’m moaning into the mattress and bucking back against his hand.

Now the head of his cock’s rubbing against my hole and his hairy bulk’s stretched atop me. “This is going to hurt like hell for a while, Allen. But we’ll take it slow,” Drew mutters, his long hair falling around my face like mountain rain. “Pretty soon you’ll love it. Pretty soon you’ll be begging for it. Trust me.”

I bite down on spit-wet rubber as the first half-inch edges in. It’s my trust in him, I see now, that makes sweet, perverse freedom of this captivity.

Drew pushes gently, and another half-inch slides into me. I groan, the groan of some graveside mourner.

“You all right? Want me to stop?” Drew breathes in my ear.

I shake my head. I push my ass back onto him and swallow another agonizing inch. The tears that edge my eyes are ones I think I recognize. The tears of the new-born, of the exile come home. The tears of someone long imprisoned in the dark, now at last released, whose eyes squint and water, unaccustomed to so much sunlight.

 

© 2005 Jeff Mann - Contributor's Bio