Just Scratching an Itch

NOTE: This is my first attempt at writing a story after years of enjoying the work of other authors on this site. All feedback is welcome - please be gentle with a first-timer!

*****

"I am going to fuck you until you've had enough, and then I'm going to keep on fucking you."

That was the sentence that had sealed it. It was the closing seduction in a series of emails with a stranger I knew then only as "Dave" that had begun when I posted an anonymous Craigslist ad. I was in Las Vegas for a conference, but traveling alone and with plenty of free time on my hands. It had been many years since my occasional, youthful experimentation with other men, and for one reason or another — despite a healthy existence of happy heterosexuality and a successful marriage — I'd been having that long-dormant itch lately. To suck a cock. To swallow a load of cum. To get fucked? God, I don't know why — I'd only done it maybe a handful of times back in my twenties — but lately it had become a growing distraction.

So I sat in my hotel room on the Strip and posted a short ad identifying myself as a married, occasionally bi-curious, fit 40-year-old guy looking to give head and "possibly more." I attached a dick pic and one with my bare torso — glad that I'd continued to keep myself in shape — and asked for tall and masculine tops to send pics and info.

A short while later, my inbox started to fill with more responses than I'd anticipated. I guess Vegas is a good spot for this sort of thing. Most of them were not what I was looking for and easy to weed out right away, but a couple of them showed promise. One in particular was from "Dave."

Dave's initial reply included not just the obligatory photo of his cock, but a full nude body shot from the neck down, and it made an impression. The photo showed the figure of a powerfully built man, broad in the shoulders, with very little body hair, well-developed arms and thick, muscular legs, between which hung a barely aroused but amply sized penis that, at maybe five or six flaccid inches, held the promise of reaching considerable size once stimulated.

Dave let me know up front that he wasn't interested in a protracted back-and-forth. In the space of just a few messages we covered all the necessary ground. He told me he was 52, gay, disease-free, a dominant top, and lived in the area. I confirmed that I didn't have any diseases either and told him I hadn't done this in a long time, that I definitely wanted to give head, and that I was curious about trying anal again sometime but really doubtful I could handle it, especially with his intimidating size. It startled me a little to realize how readily I was sharing my most intimate thoughts and secrets with a total stranger. And then he sent the email that set things in motion:

"It's totally normal to be nervous," his email said. "Don't let that hold you back. You put up your ad, and you responded to my reply, because you want to feel a dick inside you. Part of you is thinking you'll just suck somebody off and satisfy your curiosity and that'll be that. But another part of you wants more. You don't have to admit it to me. You just have to admit it to yourself. That you want to be taken. That you want to have your body filled by a real man. That you want to be somebody's hole to fuck. You're worried you can't take it? That you're just too tight? Boy, yours would not be the first tiny little asshole I opened up. Don't you worry — I'll take care of that for you. And it will feel so good.

"So here's what we're going to do," it continued. "At 8:00 pm you're going to meet me in the main casino lounge of your hotel. We're going to have a couple of drinks, let you relax a bit and get comfortable. And then we're going to go up to your room together, and I'm going to take charge. I'm going to tell you what to do, and you're going to do it. And you're going to love it. Yes, you're going to suck my cock, and yes, I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you until you've had enough, and then I'm going to keep on fucking you."

That line sent a shiver through me — excitement, dread, possibility, foreboding — and when I read it I couldn't turn back. His message concluded:

"Send a reply to confirm, and include a photo of your face so I'll recognize you. And two more things: be punctual and don't wear any underwear."

I read the preceding paragraphs again, and then again, and realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly, and tried to corral the conflicting thoughts that were racing through my mind.

It was like a spell had been cast. My mouth was dry. My eyes flicked back and forth from his words — "I'm going to keep on fucking you" — to his picture, his cock hanging heavy with the threat. I was rock hard; I had a telltale wad of pre-cum leaking through my boxer briefs. I started to imagine what it would feel like to take him into my mouth. I briefly worried that I wouldn't be able to please him at all — that for all my fantasies I'd be a useless amateur not worth his time. He'd just laugh at me and ... no, he knew I was an amateur. That was probably part of the kick for him. What I didn't have the experience to provide, that huge man would simply ... take from me, I supposed ... from my body. I shuddered.

Before I could lose my nerve, I took a pic of my face and sent it back in a new email that simply said, "Confirmed." Shit, if I failed to show up now, who knows what he would do with my pictures.

I had about an hour and a half until 8:00. I stripped and got into the shower. As keyed up as I was about Dave's "threat" to fuck me, I was also pretty nervous about the inevitable pain involved. Maybe I would just be able to blow him and explain that I simply can't physically take being fucked. That could make him mad. I wondered what he would do then; there was no way I could know how he would react or whether I'd be in any danger. But I was going to go ahead anyway and put myself in that situation. It was reckless. It was exhilarating.

All of this had me at peak arousal, and I fought the urge to jerk off. I was afraid if I got off I'd lose my edge and not go through with it. And the nervous tension I was feeling was something I wanted to savor. So I just ended up keening on the edge as I got ready. As I ... fuck, as I prepared myself for him. My stomach fluttered a little at thinking about it that way.

I finished my shower and got dressed — no underwear though, per Dave's instructions. While primed and ready, this is when I really thought through potential safety issues. Dave could be some sort of psycho, after all, or try to rob me or blackmail me, or who knows what. I couldn't eliminate all the risk (and, in that moment, wouldn't want to), but I stashed my valuables and anything containing my full name in the safe, and pocketed only my phone, room key and some cash, hoping the bar didn't have a policy of checking the ID of every customer appearing to be under age 80.

Finally, I straightened up the room and took a long look around, realizing — hoping and dreading — that the next time I walked in there I would be inviting a man who could easily overpower me inside to use me.

Riding the elevator down to the casino level, I was literally trembling. When the car stopped along the way and more guests entered, I felt a rising paranoia that they could tell what I was on my way to do. Like I was emitting a pheromone that signaled to everyone on an instinctive level, "I'm not a real man; I'm a faggot who craves dick." In my mind they were all laughing to themselves at the pathetic cocksucker. I stared a hole in the floor until the doors finally opened to the casino, and then I stepped out into the cacophony.

The casino was buzzing. Row after row of slot machines jingled and rang and formed a maze around gaming tables. Gamblers flitted from one attraction to the next, oblivious, I hoped, to my shameful purpose. At the center of the clamor was a lounge area where twenty or so tables surrounded a circular bar, all protected from the controlled chaos of the casino floor by a waist-high half wall and strategically placed flora.

I was a few minutes early — I'd taken Dave's admonition about punctuality to heart — and I figured I'd have a quick drink to temper my nerves before he showed up. Unless he was already there, I realized. I furtively scanned the lounge as discreetly as I could, but there were too many people, they were all clothed, and Dave hadn't sent me a picture of his face. He would recognize me first, and so I would have to let him make the first move. I supposed that was intentional.

I found a sliver of open space at the bar and waited for the bartender to finish serving another group of customers so I could get his attention.

"Hi, Shawn." The deep, baritone voice had come from directly behind me. My breath caught in my throat, and my pulse quickened. I turned around too fast, trying to look casual but failing utterly, and saw him then, for the first time. A pair of piercing blue eyes commanded my attention, but I somehow registered the rest of him.

Dave was every bit as big and broad as I'd gathered from his picture, at least a few inches taller and thirty pounds of muscle heavier than my trim 5'11, 175 frame. He had very close-cut, graying hair and a neatly trimmed goatee to match. He was handsome — he could have passed for younger than his 52 years — and he was wearing an arrogant smirk along with his casual attire. He was imposing, intimidating. He had the bearing of a veteran military officer, or maybe a retired pro wrestler. Either way he was unquestionably a predator.

I found my voice. "I guess you're Dave?" He raised his eyebrows in gentle mockery of my stating the obvious.

"Good guess."

"Well . . . nice to meet you, Dave." I had nothing clever or intelligent to say. I thought for a second about extending my hand to shake his, but he had made no move to do so and I immediately rejected the idea. Shaking hands is a ritual shared by social equals — business partners and golf buddies. I didn't feel like his equal. I felt like prey. I was certain he saw me the same way.

A primal instinct told me to flee. But by this point the anticipation and the fear and . . . something else . . . yes, the shame of what I was possibly about to do — that was it — had become a potent drug cocktail. I steeled myself for it.

"Come on; I have a table over there," he offered, tilting his head slightly to his left. He turned and walked away, fully confident that I would follow. And of course I did.

Dave took his seat at a small, square table that was set off a comfortable distance from the crowd around the bar. He already had a short glass of some sort of brown liquor in front of him.

"Have a seat," he said, and indicated the chair next to him rather than the one across from him. I complied.

"So," he began, peering at me. I looked at him dumbly. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. "We're off to a good start."

"We are?"

"Sure," he said, "you're on time. That counts for a lot in my book. Punctuality is a sign of respect."

"I've always felt the same way," I replied, and it was true.

"Did you follow my other instruction," he asked. He was referring to underwear.

"Yeah," I answered sheepishly, suddenly acutely aware how close I was to literal exposure. It heightened my sense of vulnerability.

"Good, I'm just going to go ahead and check," he replied. "'Trust but verify' and all that." He winked. Before I could react, Dave leaned closer, reached his right hand down the front of my pants and gave my cock a gentle squeeze before withdrawing just as smoothly. The entire motion took about three seconds, and he was subtle enough about it that I don't think anyone else noticed. I was frozen in place. I couldn't believe he'd just done that. I was totally off balance now.

Dave sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair. "So, exactly how long has it been since you sucked a cock," he asked, as naturally as if he'd asked what my favorite baseball team is. My eyes widened, and I hurriedly glanced around to see if anyone had overheard him.

I lowered my voice to where it was just audible above the noise of the room and leaned in a little towards him. "Do we really need to talk about that here?"

He raised a finger in sober warning. "You've done a real good job following my lead so far, Shawn. Do you really want to stop now? Because there's only one way this happens. That's for you to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. And if I want to ask you personal questions right here, right now, that means you answer them. The alternative is I leave, and you go back to Craigslist to start from square one.

"I have a hunch you're really desperate for cock," he continued, "and I don't think you want to go back up to your room and roll the dice on maybe, possibly meeting another real man who can give you what you want. 'Bird in the hand' and so forth. So I think I know what you're going to choose." My stomach roiled. He was right.

"Look," he went on, his tone pragmatic, "you're in a hotel in a city you don't live in, surrounded by people you don't know. You have nothing to worry about. So. Let's try this one more time. How long's it been?"

"Fifteen years, give or take," I mumbled to the table.

"What's that?"

I looked up and shyly met his gaze. "I'd say it's been about fifteen years; I don't remember exactly." The arrogant grin returned to his face.

"Fifteen years since what, Shawn? Go ahead and say it out loud for me."

I took a deep breath. "It's been about fifteen years since I . . . since I sucked a cock." A flash of movement over my right shoulder made me turn my head sharply to see an absolutely stunning — not to mention stunned — cocktail waitress staring at me with poorly veiled surprise. I guess servers in Vegas casinos see and hear a lot of interesting things, though, because she quickly dialed her expression down from astonishment to bemusement.

"Okay then," she managed over the din. "Sorry if I'm interrupting, guys. Just wanted to know if you'd like something to drink, Sweetie." The question was directed to me. And so was her wry wink removing any doubt that she'd just heard my confession. I felt my face go flush, and I think my body temperature went up a couple of degrees. This was not happening to me. I needed a rock to crawl under and never come out.

"He'll have a White Russian," Dave chimed in. "Shawn here put up a Craigslist ad looking for some company; I answered that ad, and now here we are getting to know each other. I think a nice White Russian would be a fitting way to get him warmed up." The waitress almost managed to stifle a short, surprised laugh and then looked back to me as if for confirmation, wincing apologetically, but still unable to fully suppress her mirth. I wanted to correct her and ask for my preferred Jack and Coke, but I was overcome with humiliation, and asserting myself would have been impossible. I nodded, defeated.

"Be right back with that," she promised and glided off to the server station.

I looked at Dave, shame and helplessness overwhelming my thoughts. He leered back at me appraisingly, as if monitoring my response to the public humiliation he'd just inflicted. The waitress now knew what I was doing there and what Dave was probably going to do to me. She had almost certainly already told the bartender, and it was inevitable that the entire lounge staff and some of the patrons would catch wind of it by the time I even received my drink.

And, for reasons I can't explain, my arousal level had actually ratcheted up a notch, which I hadn't even thought possible. I'm pretty sure Dave registered that, too.

"Right then," Dave picked up where he'd left off. "So you haven't sucked a dick in a long time. You also mentioned you'd been fucked before. I assume that was a long time ago, too. Tell me about that."

I guess I decided there wasn't any resistance left in me. I sighed and started telling him about the few fumbling, usually failed, efforts at receiving anal sex. About using a toy to loosen myself up back when I was single and could risk having such a thing hidden in a drawer.

"Makes sense," he said, nodding matter-of-factly. "Tell me about the kind of guys you used to get with." And so the conversation went, Dave asking me probing questions about my prior experiences, me answering honestly, if ashamedly. At some point the waitress returned with my White Russian. It was creamy and a little bit frothy. I drained it more quickly than I'd planned to, and Dave signaled for another round for both of us.

The questions continued. Had I ever tried BDSM? No. Had I ever been curious about it? Being honest, I had, but it was frightening and seemed risky. Was I into water sports or scat? No and most definitely No. Had I ever topped? Yes, but it hadn't been a turn-on.

He asked me about my experiences with women. Did I consider myself straight? How many women had I fucked? How often did I have sex with my wife? I answered his questions and explained that, apart from this occasional itch, I had a full and happy sex life and generally was attracted to, and preferred being with, women.

Our second drinks arrived. Dave's questions were pointed and intimate, but I was becoming marginally more comfortable, if only because I was engrossed in answering them and for a few minutes I'd taken my mind off of what was to come.

As our drinks disappeared, the waitress stopped by again to offer us refills. Dave declined for both of us and asked for the check. His posture changed, and his tone shifted from conversational to almost grave. No, not grave. Hungry.

"Shawn, I'm glad you opened up to me. This has been an enlightening discussion. But I didn't come all the way down to the Strip just to make a new friend." I nodded guiltily, as though I were being called out for some misdeed I'd hoped would go unnoticed. "It's time to go upstairs and get what I came for," he said.

The waitress returned and placed the check on the table. I reached into my pocket to take out some cash, and Dave stopped me with a chuckle. "Call me old-fashioned," he said as he pulled out his wallet, "but when I'm about to fuck somebody I like to buy the drinks." He caught my eye as he said "fuck" with a cold intentionality that gave me a chill.

"Look, Dave, about that . . . I really am kind of concerned that I just won't be able to —"

"No YOU look, Shawn," he interrupted. His icy blue eyes narrowed. "Let me tell you what you are. You are a submissive bottom bitch." The words stung like a slap in the face. "Since we first made contact, I've given you instruction after instruction, and you've submitted to every one of them. You want to know why I told you not to wear underwear?" I had kind of wondered. "That was just to see if you'd comply." And I had. Unquestioningly.

"You went online and begged the world to put a cock inside you. You announced in front of the waitress that you're a cocksucker, and the shame of it aroused you." He was right again. I remained silent. "We both know where this is going. And, yeah, it's gonna hurt some. But you'll survive." I was stunned.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry again. This was taking a bit of a dark turn. I'd posted my ad hoping to give someone a nice pleasant blowjob, savor the naughtiness of the transgression, jerk off and go to sleep. Dave clearly had a different vision.

I could just say no. I could apologize for wasting his time, offer to reimburse him for the drinks and just retreat. If he made a scene or threatened me or tried to follow me, there were security personnel everywhere that I could get help from. He didn't know my room number, and he couldn't get past the guard posted at the elevators without a key. I could just stay inside the hotel for the rest of my trip, go straight to the airport, fly home and never come back. I had multiple lines of defense available to me.