The Summer After

It lasted for no more than five minutes—this time. He'd been in such heat that I think he could have come just from the sensation of entering me, but he'd stuck with it. I had come too, which he'd noticed as he'd had a hand under my belly, stroking my cock while he fucked me.

We held there, in position, him inside me, still half hard, both of us breathing heavily. I couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. He had me in a close embrace. He was still slow stroking my cock and was fondling my balls.

An unnerving sense of relief flooded through me. All of the indecision was gone now. It no longer was arguing with myself on what I was going to do—what I was going to let Coach Wilson do to me. Whether I was going to go with men. Whether I was going to let them put their cocks inside me and fuck me. Whether I'd let the man bind me. It was over now.

But of course it wasn't over. I was cooling down. He was shuddering like he wasn't finished—and he was far from finished. He was muttering. I could hear him muttering, "Shit and fuck."

The sense of relief was folding into a sense of uncertainty and disappointment. Hadn't he liked it? I had found it deliciously exhilarating and liberating, despite the pain I felt where my body parts had been chaffed against the rock. I had been fucked at last. And it had be OK. No, better than OK. And, strangely, it had given me a feeling empowerment, even though I'd been bound. An authority figure—my track coach—had wanted me so badly that he'd lost it like this and taken me like an animal in heat. But now he was acting like I had disappointed him. Had I not done it right? Were there responsibilities of the bound submissive in sex that I hadn't done. I could hardly breath he had me so controlled. I don't know what else I could have done.

"Sorry," he whispered in my ear. "Next time I'll last a lot longer. I'll give you a real good time. I'll fuck the shit out of you."

"The next time" rang through my brain.

But then we were both on alert. We heard voices on the trail and sounds of crackling of the underbrush.

"Fuck," Coach Wilson growled. He quickly released my restraints, sprang up, pulled me up as well, and dragged me off into the bushes by the pool. He dragged me a couple of dozen yards. We came to a patch of ferns under a big oak tree, where he pushed me down on my back, slapped my legs open, and shoved his knees under my buttocks.

Then we were fucking again. And this time I fucked him back. He pumped me and I went with the rhythm of the fuck, clutching at his biceps with my claws and releasing and digging in to the beat of his fuck. He realized I was going with him and pulled the jock strap out of my mouth and replaced it with his lips. When we'd set a steady rhythm, he started kissing down my throat. I arched my back and his lips found and worried my nipples one after the other. Then, in turn, he straightened his back and I moved my mouth to his torso, tracing the veins running down his hard chest, as I dreamed of doing.

He did it all without missing a beat in his thrusts. He was strong, virile, powerful.

"Yes, yes! Fuck me! Do it! Take it all! Do me hard and deep!"

He did me hard and deep.

Realizing where I wanted to be headed with my mouth—that I was going to give it all to him—he pulled out of me and turned onto his back. I followed the veins down across his flat belly and into his bush. He grabbed the back of my head and controlled my movement as I opened my mouth over his cock and sucked it, gagging, but managing to take most of it. Before he exploded—which was after I had done so—I straddled his hips, skewered myself on his erection, and rode him to paradise.

This time we'd taken at least twenty minutes.

* * * *

He bound my wrists and ankles again, slung me over his shoulder, and carried me down the mountainside on an auxiliary trail parallel to the main one up to the pools. It occurred to me that it wasn't only the students at Stevens High School who knew about the pools and used them. My mind went to two boys who had gone missing the previous summer from an athletic summer program camp where Wilson coached, with some mention in the media coverage of the pools, but my emotions were swimming around too much to dwell on that.

When we reached the parking area, there was just the blue van and my bicycle, with my riding gear hanging on it. If the hikers we'd thought we had heard had come from this side of the gap, they had already come and gone while Coach was fucking me under the oak tree—and I was fucking him back.

He set me down behind the van, opened the back doors, pulled the restraints off from my ankles, and growled, "Get in."

"Get in the van? I have my bike over there. We're done here, aren't we?"

"No, we're not done here," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "Get in the van."

When I hesitated, he backhanded me across the cheek and I fell into the back of the van. He pushed me further up the floor, climbed in the van, and, while I was still in shock from having been slapped, turned me on my stomach on the padded blankets. I didn't want to do this, though—it was getting out of control—and I moved to come back up into my bloodied and bruised knees. He pulled a knife from somewhere, though, held it up to my throat, and growled, "Lay down on the padding on your belly."

Whimpering and murmuring "please" and "don't hurt me," I did as he ordered, and he rebound me, spread-eagled with the restraints spreading my arms and legs to the corners of the van enclosure. He stuffed folded padding under my belly to elevate my rump. He shoved my jock strap back in my mouth to gag me. Then he mounted my ass and fucked me hard again. The van rocked back and forth as he took me forcefully and without mercy. I prayed that someone would drive into the lot, see the van groaning on its shocks, and intervene.

But this didn't happen.

When he was done he sat next to me on his haunches and glared wildly at me while he recovered. I watch him go fully erect again under the attentions of his stroking hand.

"I'm going to unbind you. Don't fight me."

I didn't believe he was done, but I didn't have any fight left in me. Still when my ankles were unbound, I lashed out at him with my feet, coming close to catching him in the groin, but missing. He backhanded me again, and I fell back onto the padding. I fell where he wanted me, on my back, my arms crossed painfully behind my back as he hadn't unbound them yet. He redid that, changing the wrist bindings from one side to the other. The ankle bindings now, though, led to the top corners of the van ceiling on either side of the door, so that my legs were raised and spread.

The folded padding went under the small of my back. He knelt between my spread and raised thighs, grabbed my waist between his hands, and pulled my passage onto his cock. Grunting and panting he pulled my passage on and off his cock for what seemed like an eternity. Once again, the van groaned, rocking on its shocks from the power of his thrusts. He was fucking slower now and it was taking him longer to build up an ejaculation. I swiveled my head around, looking everywhere in panic, looking for any hope I could see. There was a tool box beside my hip. The top was open and I saw a wrench lying on top.

Having ejaculated again and gone back on his haunches, he was eyeing me with dull eyes now. I figured he was deciding whether he had another fuck in him or not. He must have decided not. While he was undoing my ankle restraints, he said, "We'll take a nice little walk into the woods now. I'll untie your wrists, but I'm gonna tie them together behind your back again."

I think not, if I can help it, I thought. When he'd unbound them, I reached over, grabbed the wrench and swung it back against his head. I heard the pop when it hit and the surprised expression on his face as he fell over backward toward the front seats of the van. But I didn't wait to see what the effect of my defense had been. I lunged at the back doors, swung them open, rolled out of the back of the van, and slammed the doors shut again. I turned the handle, hoping that it would lock him inside so that at least he'd have to take the time to go over the front seats to get out.

I ran to my bike, not stopping to pull any clothes on—or even to pull the jock strap out of my mouth—hopped on it, and peddled like hell, barefooted, out of the lot and down the mountain road. I hadn't gone far before I hopped back off the bike and pulled it into the bushes by the road, struggling through underbrush far enough to know I was well away from the road. I stayed there for an hour or more, recovering and, eventually, pulling my clothes and shoes back on. I reviewed the damage and decided that it wouldn't stop me from cycling down the mountain.

As I calmed down, I reviewed in my mind what had happened. I couldn't say I hadn't enjoyed the fucking. I couldn't even claim I'd been assaulted without my consent—at least until the action in the van, although that I aroused me too, and I'd come as many times as Coach had during that, what? Hour? Hour and a half? I looked up in the sky through the branches of the trees. The surface of the reservoir was just below me, so it was clear to the sky over that. The sun was low, but it was still afternoon.

I'd been fucked how many times this afternoon? I tried to count but lost count on the individual occurrences. I was fucked now, that was for sure. I'd never have to wonder what it would have been like. Would I let men fuck me again? Yes. I had to be honest about that. Would I go with Coach Wilson again? That wasn't as easy to be honest about. He had scared me—terrified me there at the end—but he had fucked me good. He had fucked me great. He had fucked me totally. I'm sure I was bleeding from my ass, and nearly every inch of me was in pain. But there was overwhelming pleasure there too. I was going hard now again just at the thought of Coach's cock churning in my ass.

I took the bike back out to the road, gingerly mounted it, and slowly glided down into the valley, applying the brakes all the way to keep my speed down. I was still shaking like a leaf.

As I passed the Green Hill country store, I saw it in the parking lot—the blue van. It was close to dusk, but there was no chance Coach hadn't seen me bike past. The van's headlights came on as I passed. I put the foot to the pedal and picked up speed. He caught me within another mile. I could see the headlights in my rearview mirror. The van was coming on fast, headed right for me. I turned off the road and went down the embankment and into a stand of trees at just the right moment. He caught my rear wheel and we both could hear the crunch of the contact. It was enough contact and I flew off the road enough that he surely thought he'd done for me when I plunged into the thicket. Luckily, I fell between bushes and the ground was soft and marshy.

I was stunned for a moment, and I had new bruises and cuts, but the adrenaline was flowing and I was in a fighting mood. I turned and looked up in the road. I think the van had stopped down the road, but then there were headlights coming from both directions, and he went into motion again and drove off. I pulled the remains of the bike up to the road and surveyed the damage to that and to my poor, abused body—which conveyed back to me that at least I had been fucked good.

An SUV stopped beside me in the road and the passenger window lowered. "Did you have an accident, young man?" a matronly woman asked. "Are you hurt?"

"I'll live," I answered, "but could you possibly give me a ride back down into Benton. This bike has had it." I had had it too, but I wasn't going to tell this nice woman about that.

As we loaded my bike into the back of her SUV, I realized that the burning question that had sent me biking up to the reservoir to mull had been answered. As soon as I got home, I'd toss my stuff in my car and drive off to Wake Forest University for an early check-in there. I wouldn't be sticking around here any longer. I'd go with guys again, but not with Coach Wilson.