Just Scratching an Itch

Or I could just submit to him. I could give him what he demanded. Why would I do that, when all he was promising me was degradation and pain? It was terrifying, and it made no sense. It was an awful risk. I think that's a lot of why I did it.

Two minutes later I flashed my room key to the guard at the elevator bank and whisked Dave past my first few lines of defense. We stood among a small group waiting for the elevators, and I could hear and feel my pulse pounding in my head. We got on the first elevator to arrive, and three middle-aged women followed us in. As the doors closed, I pressed the button for my floor, and Dave slid one of his strong arms around my waist, pulling me close beside him, possessively, letting the hand come to rest on my ass.

One of the ladies glanced over and flashed a pandering smile, proud of herself for approving of, and acknowledging, what appeared to be a gay couple on their way up to do who knows what. Dave gave her an exaggerated, saucy wink. Oh my god, we totally looked like a gay couple. For all intents and purposes, I realized, at that moment it was effectively true.

The elevator rose. The doors opened. I wanted this, I kept reminding myself. I wanted this so badly, but then why did it feel as though our trek down the hall to my room was like walking the Green Mile? Why the sense of dread? And why are Vegas hotel hallways so fucking long? We were moments away from this giant man being able to do whatever he wanted to me — no matter how uncomfortable or distasteful — and I was close to panic. But the excitement was intoxicating, and my hands' uncontrollable shaking was only partly due to fear.

As we finally approached my room, I heard the sound of loud music coming from the next door down. A Taylor Swift song, maybe, and the sounds of live female voices singing along to it. I pulled out my room key and stopped in front of my door. Deep breath. Moment of truth.

"Hold on a minute." Dave paused and gently but firmly took hold of my arm, leading me past my room to the door the music was coming from. What was he doing? He knocked on the door. Oh shit, what was he doing? I had no idea, but I was sure I wouldn't like it. The music and singing were joined by the sound of a hair dryer. Dave knocked again, more loudly. A shout from inside. The music stopped. Then the hair dryer. Footsteps.

The door opened a few inches and a young blonde woman peered out, perhaps early twenties. Very pretty in a sweet, wholesome way.

"Hi," Dave began, "I am so sorry to bother you, but I have the room next door, and —"

"Ohmygod," the girl interrupted him, opening the door wider. Behind her I could see a brunette of about the same age primping, half-dressed in front of a mirror. Noises coming from the direction of the bathroom suggested an additional occupant. The brunette was stunning in a much less wholesome way than the blonde — drop-dead gorgeous. I felt something misfire in my brain as it tried to reconcile my normal attraction to these beautiful young women with my current situation. It failed.

"Was the music too loud," asked the blonde who'd opened the door. "I'm really sorry; we were just getting ready to go out and . . . well, sorry, we'll keep it down. We try to be good neighbors." As she said the last, she was pretty obviously checking Dave out, top to bottom.

"Oh, no no no," Dave replied with a friendly smile. "It's not a problem at all. Just the opposite in fact. You see, I'm just about to take this little slut here" — he gave my shoulders a squeeze — "into my room, which is next door, and — without getting too vulgar about it — I'm going to be working him over pretty good." The girl's eyebrows went up and she glanced sideways at me with — was that contempt, disgust, curiosity, or a bit of each — as she accepted my classification as a pathetic queer slut. I wanted to die.

Dave continued, "Yeah, I'm really horny, and this one's a super-tight closet case . . . all I'm saying is I don't plan to be gentle, and it might get pretty loud. So you may actually want to turn your music UP if the screaming bothers you. Just, please don't call security. It's strictly consensual." The girl was a deer in the headlights for another second or two, but she processed the situation pretty quickly. And while she appeared slightly disappointed that Dave wasn't on the menu (for her), she accepted his overture with aplomb.

"Oh, wow, no, that's totally cool," she insisted with a nervous giggle. "Won't bother us at all, and we're going out in a bit anyway." She turned back to me with a superior smirk and a patronizing wink. "Good luck. Your friend looks like a lot to handle."

She closed the door, and I could hear excited murmuring, then giggles, then raucous laughter as she undoubtedly told the room's other occupants what had just happened and what was about to happen. I noticed that they didn't turn the music back on either. Terrific. Not only was I going to be defiled, perhaps violently, but an unknown number of college-age girls would have their ears pressed to the wall listening to my ordeal.

Dave looked at me and gestured impatiently back in the direction of the door to my own room. I'd figured he'd be feeling pretty pleased with himself for that little bit of mischief at my expense. But he wasn't smiling. He was coldly, frighteningly serious as he said in a low rasp, "Open the door, Bitch."

I swallowed hard. And then I keyed the door open. Dave imperiously waved me through and joined me inside. He flipped the light on, shut and locked the door behind us. He slammed the deadbolt into place. He was past my defenses. All of them. What the fuck had I just done.

I followed Dave into the room and mutely watched him survey it. It wasn't exactly a suite, but it was larger than your average hotel room. The entry fed into a sitting area with a sofa and two swivel chairs flanking a wide, leather-surfaced ottoman and a wall-mounted TV. Around a corner to the right — part of the same open space, but not in view of the doorway — was the bedroom area, with a king-size bed, night stands, dresser, and a full bathroom.

The entire rear wall that ran the length of the combined space consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows with a pretty spectacular view of the Strip.

"This'll do," he pronounced, and swaggered back towards me, his blue eyes boring into mine. I don't know exactly what I was expecting him to do then, but I definitely didn't see it coming when he grabbed me by the throat and shoved me backward against the wall. My head missed smacking the TV by inches, and it hit the wall hard enough to make me dizzy for a moment. And in that moment he leaned in, still gripping my throat in his huge right hand, and pressed his mouth against mine.

I opened my mouth to receive him, not because I wanted to — I didn't — but because I knew it was required of me. He shoved his tongue in and . . . you could call it a kiss, but really he just mauled me, forcing himself into every crevice, tasting me, gnawing at me, claiming me.

I wasn't into kissing guys, and never had been. At all. In fact it was a huge turn-off. It was funny how the thought of taking another man's cock in my mouth could get me excited, but his tongue completely grossed me out. I'd always supposed it was because of the intimacy inherent in a kiss, the danger of engaging the other as a person instead of just a tool to get off with.

But there was no intimacy in what Dave was doing to me. This wasn't a kiss. It was sheer, animalistic domination. He sucked on my tongue. He bit my lips and pulled at them, painfully. His coarse facial hair ground into me and chafed the sensitive skin around my mouth. He squeezed my throat harder between his fingers and snarled.

He tasted like whiskey, his hot breath filling my lungs. The hand that wasn't on my throat pulled my shirt untucked, reached underneath and squeezed one of my nipples. Not playfully, but cruelly, pinching and twisting it between his strong fingers. He dug his nails in and clawed deeply, pulled at my flesh. I moaned helplessly into his mouth in response.

He removed his lips from mine, put them next to my ear and growled in a low voice, "You're mine now, Boy." I panted heavily, trying to catch my breath from the assault, and my silence agreed with him.

Dave patted me sharply on the cheek, turned away and sauntered over to sit on the couch. "Get over here," he ordered. I pushed off the wall, gingerly rubbing my throat and gasping for breath, and staggered over to stand directly in front of him in the couple of feet of space between the couch and the coffee table.

"Strip." I was too afraid to hesitate. I kicked off my shoes. My trembling hands reached up to my shirt and pulled it over my head, revealing my bare torso. Dave learned back into the couch, watching me intently. I grasped my belt and fumbled it open, then unbuttoned my pants and slid the zipper down. As I let my pants drop to the floor, revealing my full nudity to him, Dave loosened his own pants, raised his hips slightly, and pushed the pants and his briefs past his knees to pool around his ankles.

I got my first real look at his cock. Already starting to stiffen with arousal, it rested against one of his tree trunk-like, muscular thighs. The shaft, maybe five or six inches long at that point, was improbably thick at the base and tapered to become somewhat narrower toward the tip. The dramatic increase in girth from top to bottom called to mind not so much a tube as it did an inverted cone or . . . or a wedge. It was crowned with a bulbous mushroom head about the diameter of a golf ball. I was pretty sure I could see it growing, threateningly, before my eyes.

"Get on your knees, Bitch," Dave commanded, as he lifted one foot out of the pants piled at his ankles and kicked them to the side with the other. He insouciantly spread his powerful legs apart and slid his hips — and his manhood — closer to the edge of the couch. I slowly lowered myself to the carpet, scooting my knees forward to press against the couch's base. My hands rested on my thighs.

"Do I really need to tell you what to do now," he chided. He didn't. I gingerly leaned forward and put my left hand on his thigh to steady myself, then reached out with my right, hefted his cock and timidly lifted it toward my mouth. It had a weight to it. A density that surprised me a little. A real man's cock.

I moistened my lips and tentatively licked the underside of his shaft, dragging my tongue up to the bottom of the head. I inhaled and was enveloped in a musk not quite like anything I'd encountered before. It was leather and sweat and aggression. I swooned. I let my tongue trace a path along the circumference of the head, then opened wide and took it carefully into my mouth, closing my lips around it, mindful to shield my teeth, bathing it with my tongue, tasting him. The once-familiar, salty hint of pre-cum mixed with the slightly, not unpleasantly, bitter flavor of his skin.

This was what I had been longing for. Servicing a cock. Feeling it in my mouth. I allowed myself a deep, shuddering breath through my nose. I closed my eyes and pushed my head forward and down, easing the head of his cock toward the back of my mouth and letting my lips and tongue drag lazily along the surface of his shaft.

"Open your eyes." Dave's voice startled me out of my reverie. My eyes darted open and rose to meet his. He stared back with contempt. I didn't move. His cock was still in my mouth.

"You're going to look me in the eye while you suck my cock," he said. I think I let out a muffled whimper. I shifted my position slightly so I could more easily do both at the same time. And I resumed, withdrawing gently to let the head slide back to my lips, and then reversing and pushing forward, drawing more of his length inside and feeling his knob press at the entrance to my throat. I stopped just before my gag reflex could kick in and then repeated the process.

Back to let it slide almost out, forward to take in as much as I could. As I worked into a rhythm, I could feel the blood pumping into his tool, expanding it to its full size. The increased girth and its unusual shape meant the base was at least as wide as the head. But I was a long way from getting him deep enough to have to wrap my lips around the bottom.

"Look at you," he started again, staring into me as I continued to work my way up and down on his pole, not daring to break his gaze. "Forty years. A million little crossroads. A million little decisions. All of them leading you here. Stripped naked and kneeling in a hotel room with a stranger's cock in your mouth." Shame flooded me; I'm sure it filled my eyes.

"You're just a natural-born faggot," he went on. And so did I. Up and down on his girth. In and out. Wet, lurid noises punctuated the silences between Dave's sentences. "You tell yourself that it's just an itch you like to scratch occasionally." *slurp ... squelch* "That you're a real man, a straight man, but sex and desire are complicated, and a forbidden thrill once in awhile . . . well, that doesn't really change anything." *squick ... slurp*

"Don't forget about my balls." I let his cock slide out of my mouth and lowered my head to service his scrotum with my tongue. I wrapped my hand around his shaft and gently stroked it, turned my head sideways so I wouldn't lose eye contact, and inhaled one of his balls into my mouth, rolling it around my tongue as Dave continued.

"But that's not really true, is it," he went on. "I mean, let's be honest, you're in Las Vegas. This city is filled with some of the most beautiful women in the world. Hell, for a few hundred bucks you'd be guaranteed to be fucking a Perfect Ten on that bed over there right now. With a half an ounce of game you could be banging one of the girls next door. But you're not. Instead, you're craning your neck to fit both of my nuts in your mouth."

It was true; by that point I was sucking on both of his balls at the same time while continuing to stroke his shaft and head with light caresses of my fingers. The testicles were heavy in my mouth. They felt full. Ripe. My mouth was flooding with my saliva, and I coughed a little, the reflex tugging at his sac. I withdrew and tongued the excess liquid from his scrotum, unable to ignore the acrid taste of his perspiration mixed in with my drool as I swallowed it. I softly licked the length of his shaft from bottom to top and back down, taking a furtive moment to catch my breath.

I also tried my hardest to disregard the fact that everything he'd just said was true. It shone a pinpoint spotlight on something inside me that was terrifying, and I resolved to ignore it.

"Get back to sucking it," he said. I closed my lips around Dave's cock once more, lightly brushing the glans with my tongue, and resumed rhythmically pushing my mouth down his shaft, forcing the head as far toward my throat as I could without gagging, and then back up again. Down and up. In and out. Compelled to hold his gaze. Nothing left to do but be a warm hole attached to a pathetic, delusional little faggot slut. Down and up. *slurp ... squelch ... slurp*

"Go deeper," Dave said, his voice taking on a husky timbre. I tried. I took a breath, opened wide and shoved his cock as deep as I'd yet dared, and then I forced my head even lower, squeezing the tip into my throat . . . and then gagged hard and pulled away, coughing and sputtering, tears filling my eyes as they pleaded for mercy. I'd hit my absolute limit, and he still had at least another four inches of meat I couldn't take.

"Again," he commanded, his eyes hard, showing no trace of patience. Panting heavily, I stockpiled a couple of quick breaths, swallowed, and took him into my mouth once more. Inhaling through my nose, I leaned forward, feeling his widening shaft penetrate further and further, willing the bulb at the end of his rod to push past my tonsils. The tears were dripping down my face. I pushed as far as the last time, almost gagged, paused, and pushed again. Another half inch. I felt a lurch in my stomach and fell back, gasping and hacking and trying not to retch.

"Look at me," Dave commanded. He was plainly disgusted with me. Coughing, trying to clear my windpipe, I looked up. "You know," he said, "I bet all of those little girls next door would know how to deepthroat this cock. The blonde definitely wanted to, and if I were into girls even a little bit, I'd ditch your pathetic ass, go over there and let her finish the job." I sputtered, tried to breathe. I was pathetic. I was a cock-hungry little slut but I couldn't even please a man.

"But you're not getting off that easy," he added. "Your throat is big enough to fit my cock into. Simple anatomy. Your brain knows you're not going to suffocate. Your body just needs to be convinced. Put your hands at your sides." I coughed once more, then slowly lowered my hands, fearful of what he was about to do.

"Don't fight this. Relax. Take a couple of deep breaths." I inhaled deeply, then exhaled. Then again. For a moment I thought he was showing a hint of compassion, but when I looked in his eyes I realized my mistake. They were ice cold. He wasn't being patient or understanding. He was just pursuing the most efficient path to take what he wanted. "We're going to do this again. You're going to take a deep breath and hold it, and you're going to relax your throat. I'm going to put my cock in it and hold it there, and when I pull it out, you'll be able to breathe again. Simple. Ready?" There was only one acceptable answer. I gave a quick, tremulous nod.

Dave reached forward and clasped my head between his giant hands, lacing his fingers behind my head. Oh shit, he was going to force it. I couldn't do this, I couldn't take it, and he was going to force it, and I was going to choke. My breathing became shallow and ragged. He noticed.

"Stop it," he barked. I tried to. "Relax your neck." I let the weight of my head rest in the strength of his palms. "Take a deep breath and open your mouth NOW." I did. He fed his knob into my mouth, and before I could react, in one smooth motion he pulled my face toward his groin and thrust his pelvis forward, ramming his cock past my uvula, and deep into my throat.

My gag reflex went off like fireworks and I started to choke, my throat fighting his invading cock, spasming around it, my eyes bugged open wide. I couldn't breathe in or out, and panic set in immediately. Desperate strangling noises spent what little oxygen I had. Ignoring his command, I grabbed at his wrists, trying frantically to free myself. I couldn't budge him. He held my head firm, his manhood buried to within an inch of its base, my lips stretched thin around his width.

I was getting lightheaded. I screamed with my eyes for relief. He smirked down at me. No mercy. And so this is how it would end. I had asked for it. Ignored all the risks. All because I was a stupid, stupid, little closeted faggot. I was going to die with a cock down my throat. Fitting, almost funny.

In a flash, Dave pulled my head away, ripping his tool back out of my throat and mouth. I gasped a frantic breath and coughed violently. He maintained his grip on my skull. Heaving as my body struggled to overcome oxygen debt, I looked up at him, temporary relief giving way to panic. I saw his eyes. He wasn't done.

"That was real good," Dave said calmly. "So we proved you can do it. Now you just need to follow fucking directions, and DON'T fucking panic, and keep your fucking hands at your fucking sides."

I fought to regain control of my breathing. Dave let maybe ten seconds tick by. "Open wide," he almost sang. I did. "Take a deep breath and hold it." I inhaled, and without missing a beat he shoved his full eight or nine inches into my mouth and invaded my throat once again. My gag reflex tugged, but yielded. I didn't panic. He held my head in place, his full length of stiff flesh plugging my entire oral cavity from lips to esophagus. "There it is," he said, satisfied. He kept it there for a few more seconds, and then withdrew. I panted, coughed heavily, and searched his face for his approval.