Marsh Assault

"Tell me that was good for you."

"That was good for me," I answered. "Hadn't had that in too long. I don't know, guess I need the intensity, the lack of control." Had Jesse ruined me for more normal sex? I wondered. One thing was for sure, it helped me in drawing my special collection book illustrations. The porn publishers were coming to me for all their kinky sex illustrations. Positions I could draw, because I'd been in them. I knew what expressions to put on the model's face.

"Call me Daddy," he growled, as he reached down, laced my balls between his fingers, and squeezed.

"Oh, God. Oh, shit."

"Do it. Call me your daddy. Tell me you love this."

"I love this, Daddy. Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"You're my bitch. Say it."

"I'm your bitch!" He released the pressure and turned away from me, putting his hand in the lower drawer of my nightstand, coming up with linked wrist restraints.

"We're going to have a lot of fun, you and I. You're going to be my bitch and I'm going to beat you down to where you'll do anything I want." He had pulled my arms around to my back while he said this and put my wrists in the restraints.

"Anytime, anywhere I want it, bitch. Say it."

"Anytime, anywhere you want it, Daddy."

I was exhilarated. A replacement for Jesse. Not as cruel as Jesse . . . yet. But it was early days.

He lay on his back. His erection had returned. "It's time for you to take care of me again. I want you to ride my cock. Tell me you want to ride my cock."

"I want to ride your cock, Daddy."

He pulled me onto his lap, straddling his hips, facing him, screwing my channel down on his hard cock again, my wrists bound behind my back. I started riding the cock in churning back and forward, side to side, revolving motions. He raised his torso to me, grabbed my butt cheeks—squeezing them, separating them, kneading them in the same motion I was making in riding his cock. Slapping them, digging his claws into them.

He took my lips in his, brutally kissing me. biting my lower lip when pulling out of the kiss. Laughing at the yelp that produced from me.

"Tell me you want me to punish you."

"I want you to punish me, Daddy." I whimpered. And, fuck help me, I did want him to punish me.

He laughed, leaned down, and chewed on my nipples, one after the other.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Oh fuck," I whimpered as his teeth chewed on my nipples, his claws dug into my butt cheeks, and I rode the cock, and rode the cock, and rode the cock.

An hour later, after he'd left me moaning on my back on my bed, the telephone on the nightstand rang.

"Hello," I answered groggily.

"Got you up?" Larry Heger asked cheerily.

"Already been up. Now I'm down again," I answered.

"Just wondered if Jack Dorsey had contacted you yet about upping the offer for your land."

"What? Who?"

"Jack Dorsey. He's the developer trying to buy your land—the guy who's built that pile of wooden crap on the beach to the south of you. He's offering four mil now."

"Son of a bitch," I yelled when I'd put the telephone down. "Interested in me, was he? I should have seen that coming. No way in hell that man's going to get my land—or anything else from me. Son of a bitch! Anything he wants me to do? I'm his bitch? Screw that."

But why did I feel I'd lost something I only now had refound?

* * * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon making telephone calls. I was talking to my financial manager—my parents had left me a healthy portfolio of stocks and I did well myself with the book illustrating—and various banks where I had accounts socked away. By an hour after dinner, I was cooled down enough and mellow enough from wine that I could return to working on my illustrations for an hour.

The wind is what first caught my attention. I went over and turned on the TV. A hurricane warning was running along on a band at the base of the screen. I turned that off and turned the radio on, which informed me that a hurricane I'd thought was on its way to Bermuda had taken a nasty turn to the west. It wasn't going to hit us here on the North Carolina coast directly, but it was going to brush close enough to whip anything into the air that wasn't anchored down.

Having everything anchored down outside was my mantra anyway. Patio furniture got moved out from a storage room when I wanted to use it and then moved back in. And the house had a low profile on the top of the bluff—a rambling one story, with berms around it to disrupt wind currents. There were no trees near the house, along the driveway, or even near the road running in front of my land. That was by design. We'd weathered more hurricanes on this property without any damage than I could count. The place looked like it was falling down, but looks were deceptive in this case.

As for the marsh, it thrived from the occasional passage of a hurricane.

Feeling safe, but knowing the electricity easily could cut out, I turned all of the lights off; unplugged the computers; took a long shower; hit the bed early, in the nude; used the Fleshjack to jack off and mellow out, and went to sleep, listening to the humming of the generator that backed up the power to the refrigerator and freezer.

I woke up in the middle of the night in bondage, only coming fully awake when a yoke rod was being set in place. It was totally dark. I heard no sound other than the howling wind clawing at the house. A man, obviously naked other than black gloves and a balaclava hood, was wrestling me into submission. He was bigger and stronger than I was. I knew it was a man because I could feel his erection poking at me as we struggled.

I was making a little progress, both of us breathing hard, me not wasting what breath I could muster in screaming or even trying to argue with him, because the howling wind made anything I could scream futile. But just to be sure he could control me, he hauled off and popped me one on the chin. While I was trying to recover from that, he put the yoke rod in place, my wrists trapped in fleece-lined leather restraints at the far ends of the bar and another leather collar around my neck.

When he'd turned me over on my belly and put a thigh spreader in place, I was almost entirely immobilized. He then attached leads going from the wrists restraints on the yoke rod down to the thigh spreader that forced me up onto my bent knees in a doggy fuck position. A lead going from the end of the yoke rod down under the bed and up to the other end of the rod and pulled tight held my cheek flat on the bed. A blindfold, that seemed a little excessive considering the darkness, although, granted, there was an occasional flash of lightning that would have given me some glimpse of the figure assaulting me if my mind was clear and my adrenaline wasn't pumping—which they were.

A ball gag completed the total incapacitation.

Then the ass work started. A dildo. A vibrator. His cock—a big, thick one. What writhing I was able to do in that confinement was accentuated when he started with the dildo and his cock together.

He was mounted over me. I'd gone to sleep without putting the Fleshjack away, and while he rested between the first and second fucks, he moved his hand under my waist, holding the Fleshjack, and jacked me off with it. While he did that he licked the disappearing welts on my back and bit all over my back and up into my neck.

After hours of torment and fucking, a small vial of something came around to under my nose, I inhaled a pungent smell, and went out like a light.

When I woke, it was calm outside—and light. I was sore as hell, and felt cramped from the position I'd been bound in. But the toys were gone—except for the Fleshjack that was encasing my cock.

I gingerly rose from the bed and padded out to the living area. Nothing seemed amiss. I opened the refrigerator, suddenly in need a beer. But all my cold beer was gone. I say "all." I probably had been down to a six pack in there. There was more stashed out in the garage.

I went around the house looking for how he'd gotten in. One hallway went on forever, having two bedrooms and a bath on either side of the hallway and the garage at the end. There were patios on either side of the house there and all of the bedrooms had sliding glass doors out to the patio. In the last bedroom toward the land side, the sliding glass door was ajar. The carpet was soaked because rain water had come it. I'd attend to that later. When I tried to slide the door shut, I found it wouldn't latch. I'd have to get someone out to fix that too.

It was up for grabs whether this was how the assaulter had gotten in or if the storm had pulled a door with a faulty catch open.

Getting that fixed probably couldn't happen for several days, though. In looking outside, I could see that the hurricane had brought a lot of limbs and some trees down. Since we had the trees well away from the house, there probably wasn't any structural damage here. But there would be damage elsewhere in the region, so fixing a sliding glass door wouldn't be much of a priority for workmen for a while.

I'd just have to live with it. I don't know who it was who had assaulted me in the night, but I had my candidates. It also had had me skipping along the clouds, so if this was some sort of warfare tactic to get me to sell the land, they were going to have to get a lot rougher than that.

It certainly wasn't something I could report to the police without resulting in more questions than answers.

It meant I should start activating my own plan, though, which would require me to go into town and see Larry Heger. The phones didn't work. Neither did the electricity, although my generator had kicked in to take care of the refrigerator and freezer. Cell phone coverage seemed to be out too.

Larry lived right on the edge of Maple, in a big plantation house that had been there since the early nineteenth century. He could walk to work even after a storm like this. But he lived close enough to work that I could walk to his house if he wasn't at his office.

He was about the only one in the area I could trust with my plan.

I went out and got into the truck and started driving toward town. I only got as far as the driveway into the land at the south of mine—the parcel owned by the developer who I now knew was Jack Dorsey. From the top of the drive into that parcel, I could see where fire trucks had tried to get in but had been stopped by two large trees that had fallen across the drive. An ambulance was there too. Beyond that, down toward Dorsey's beach area, I could see the column of smoke.

A hurricane had gotten his ill-placed wooden McMansion already. I parked the truck out of the way on the main road and walked into where the fire engines were parked. When I got to those, I was met by Chet, in full firefighter's gear, carrying the naked body of a young man—not Dorsey, I could tell at a glance. The young man was breathing and didn't look like he'd been burned, but he was unconscious. Other firemen and EMTs, the latter receiving the young man and moving him to the back of the ambulance, were milling around.

"Nothing we could do for the house," Chet told me, with a grin that indicated he enjoyed playing fireman—and probably had enjoyed carrying the naked body of the young man. I recognized him. He was a soda jerk at the town's drug store—a cute guy, barely twenty. Willowy, but obviously effeminate, limp wristed to the max. Too obviously queer and delicate for me.

"The wind was too strong for the structure and it was too exposed to the waves where it was," Chet said. "Shitty construction. Before the electricity went off lines came down and started a fire. The place is a wreck. No way should anyone have been permitted to put up a house like that there."

"The owner, Dorsey?" I asked.

"Already in the bus. Smoke inhalation. No burns, though. They were in the basement. But both of them will be in the hospital for a few days, learning to breathe again. Reinforced concrete, the basement room. Quite a setup down there. Better than my own chamber." Chet was grinning wide. "Lots of toys. The cutie was hanging from the ceiling. I liberated this. Thought we might use it."

All the time he was talking, Chet was holding up a yoke rod. One exactly like the one that had been used on me in the night. Maybe it was the same one. Fuck help me, my thoughts went immediately to Jack Dorsey. After resolving to have nothing more to do with him, what I was thinking now was that he really was into heavy-activity domination. My thoughts last night were that maybe this was just a persona he'd taken on to get to me, to make me bend to his will and sell him my land. But now? Shit help me, I was thinking of the possibility of hooking up with him again—when he'd gotten out of the hospital.

Even if he was the one who had assaulted me last night? Did I really want to answer that?

Chet was still talking. "Had half a notion to use the little honey myself where he was hanging. But he was gasping for air, and not in a controlled choke sex fun kind of way. Has left me horny, though. I'll have to hang him up somewhere when he recovers and give him what I would have liked to give him today."

"You have a chamber of your own?" I asked.

"Yep. You need to come over there—and come for me. We'd have a whole lot of fun. You'd come a lot." He laughed.

"And a hang bar?"

"Sure. A sling too. Nothing like all the shit this Dorsey guy had in his basement, though."

He held up the yoke rod again and wagged his eyebrows at me. "Let's let the other firemen clear out. Busy day. I'll do you right here. Pity the yellow tape is up and the structure ain't sound. We could use his chamber."

I was thinking again that maybe it was the same yoke from last night. If so, it was used on me twice within nine or ten hours. Chet stood there, grinning at me, as the ambulance and fire trucks got loaded with firefighters and pulled out onto the road. Chet, though, stood still, holding the yoke rod and smiling at me. A pickup truck was left when the dust settled by the departure of the other vehicles. His, I guess. He must have gotten the alarm when he was off duty and came over in his truck.

"Ain't got long, but that made me horny," he said. "Good thing you're here. March your pretty little ass over into those bushes over there. Strip as you walk."

For the second time that morning, I was on my knees, cheek to earth, incapacitated by a yoke bar, while Chet, in full firefighter gear, only his fly open, mounted my ass and rode me hard. He used my belt this time for reins, running the loop between my teeth, like a gag, and pulling hard back on that when he wanted my attention. Rode me like a cowboy, slapping my buttocks and commanding me to buck like we were in a rodeo ring while he plowed me.

When he let me up, he asked me where I was headed.

"Into Maple," I said. All I wanted at the moment, though, was a shower and a soft pillow to sit on.

"It'll be hard getting there for some time," he said. "The fire trucks had to use all sorts of back roads to make it. I suggest you stay at home. If you've got beer on ice, I might show up later and give you a good fucking." He winked at me.

So, I thought, just maybe you already did that last night.

I gave up on the day, though, and went back to my drafting table and made good progress on my current project. The electricity came back on about noon. I took that as a reminder and went out to the garage, brought in another six pack of beer, and put it in the frig. The telephones came back up soon thereafter. No one answered at either Larry's office or home, though, so I decided he must have taken his family inland the previous evening, in advance of the storm.

I was wrong about that, though. Larry called me at 5:00 p.m. and invited me over to the house for dinner.

"Sally says she doesn't want to chance refreezing the meat that was in the freezer while the electricity was off, so it's steak night for anyone who can show up. I'm told the roads are clear out your way now. Why don't you come in and join us?"

I was feeling the claustrophobia and I wanted to talk shop with Larry anyway, so I drove into town. I found him and a good many of his neighbors already plastered with beer and sitting around the pool while the steaks cooked on several grills gathered in by the same neighbors. Larry saluted me with a beer and handed me one of my own.

"We got plenty of beer and steak," he said, slurring in words. "So life is good."

I'd obviously gotten there too late to consult with him on business—he was too far gone. But I enjoyed the dinner anyway, and begged off early, after coffee had been passed around a couple of times, saying I'd had a rough night during the hurricane—which I sure as hell had—and wanted to turn in early.

I went straight home and put in another two hours working on illustrations. I stopped when I realized that I was replicating the position and bondage restraints I'd been put in the previous night. Drawing them made me go hard, but most of them were of no use in a book on gay male Kama Sutra positions. "Fuck it," I said to the walls. I'd do an early night again—or try to.

If the guy who had assaulted me the previous night was Dorsey, as I suspected, I was safe now. He'd be in the hospital for a few days. By the time he was out, I'd have a surprise for him. And after today my plan had an even greater chance of working.

* * * *

The feeling of safety didn't last long.

I woke—briefly to a gloved hand over my face and that pungent smell at my nostrils again.

When I came to, I was hanging from a floating beam in the ceiling, fleece-lined wrist restraints extending my arms far apart on individual leads from the beam. I was dangling with my toes barely able to reach the bedroom carpet. My legs were held out wide by a stretcher extending from one ankle to the next. I couldn't see anything—I was blindfolded. I couldn't say anything—a ball gag was in place.

I could hear, though. Heavy breathing. And I could feel. He was running gloved hands all over my body, making me moan and go hard. He knelt in front of me and took my cock in his mouth, sucking it hard. Off and on, he pulled away and, with a laugh, he slapped my cock and I writhed within the confines of my restraints.

A gloved hand encased my balls and pulled them down. A ball stretcher was wrapped around the base of the sac, bunching my balls in one packet, which he patted and then crushed with his fist until I was writhing and screaming through the ball gag. Heavy weights were hung from the ball stretcher, distending my aching balls toward the floor. He patted the weights, sending them swinging back and forth, making me moan at the aching stretch of the balls.

Another slap of the cock, making me jerk and gasp, and then nipple clips, connected by a chain were being put in place. He pulled on the chain, pulling my nipples painfully away from my body. Eyes watering again, throwing my head back and screaming again through the ball gag to the ceiling. Pull. Release. Pull. Release. Enjoying my deep moans and groans.

Once again a slap of the dick and a squeeze of the balls.

Then the flogging began. "Dance for me," he growled in a low, purposely changed voice.

And I danced for him as well as I could, in the confines of the restraints, trying to get away from the lash as he flogged me. On the back, on the chest, on the thighs. On my cock and balls. Never with as much power behind it as Jesse had used. Never enough to leave the angry red welts that Jesse did that last night. But with enough stinging force to have me huffing and puffing, dancing, and writhing for him.

A laugh and then a slap of the cock, a squeeze of the balls. A pull at the nipple chain. And then another, and another.

Then the sound of a zapper. "Dance for me," he growled.