Ready and Submissive

"I know," he answered.

"You know my name is Troy?"

"Two of those sweet young giggly things your friends were throwing at you were discussing you at the bar. Said they wanted to share you. I decided to save you. I could see how distressed you were by the attention."

"You decided to save me? So you could totally fuck me yourself?"

"Precisely."

"You knew that all you needed to do was beckon and I'd come to and for you? You knew I was gay and willing?"

"Yes, I knew. I read you for a submissive slut right off the bat. I'm going to take a shower now. You are welcome to stay the night. In fact, I hope you do stay the night. You will stay the night, of course."

Again, any hint that I was included in the decision making snapped shut as soon as it was proposed.

Yes, I would stay the night. We both had known I would if he wanted me to—if he'd let me stay. He had exhausted me. I went to sleep almost immediately, on my back, my legs bent and spread, my channel still throbbing from the memory of his cocking, before he'd gotten out of the shower.

In the morning, there he was again when I woke. With his camera. Naked and moving around the bed, his cock in half erection, the gold bead looking menacing. Already sheathed in a condom.

"Yes, stay on your back. But spread your legs and bend them, feet flat on the bed. Now masturbate for me. Slowly. slowly."

The camera went click, click, click. It wasn't my decision to let him photograph me beating off. He'd already warned me he planned to put photos of me in his books. I hadn't made any of these decisions.

But I lay there, looking dreamy-eyed into the camera, and slowly beating my meat. His decision' my submissiveness. He commanded; I submitted.

He came up onto the bed on his knees and scooted up between my thighs. I watched him reach for a pillow with one hand while still clicking off photos. Capturing my reactions to what was just dawning on me we would be doing in a matter of seconds—what he'd be doing, what would be inside me again.

I turned from him with the intent to wipe the smug look off his face—to not give him what he wanted, what he assumed he could have. But as I turned, he palmed my belly, and I was lost to him once more.

The pillow went under the small of my back and his knees pushed under the pillow. I gasped and took in air at the sensation of the long—but slow, under the circumstances—slide of his cock inside me. This time I hadn't had time to dilate. In the tight, slowly yielding channel, the presence and working of the bead was even more pronounced than it had been the night before. He didn't seem to mind that I was groaning so deeply. Taking longer for the pleasure to swallow the pain.

"God yes, so tight this morning. Nice," I heard him murmur. He grunted but labored on. I threw my head back and began to huff at the impossible size of him without having been given more notice, more time. But then my passage walls yielded and the muscles began to ripple, and I moaned a deep moan of welcome. The bead. Oh, god, the working of the bead.

His hips started to move back and forward, driving his cock deeper inside me. I continued to beat my dick. And he continued to click off photos of my face, my torso, my hand gripping my cock, and then, as he leaned back, the various lengths of the root of his cock as he moved it in and out of my hole. The arc of my ejaculation and then his withdrawal, the unrolling of the condom, and the arc of his own cum onto my belly and chest. Him moving his knees up the side of my torso, grabbing my head between his hands, presenting his shaft for cleaning, as I opened my mouth to him.

"I'm taking you shopping today," he said when he put down the camera.

I had a ski lift appointment for 10:00 a.m. But I knew I was going shopping instead.

* * * *

I didn't even know they had this kind of shop in Breckenridge, although we had to go down a narrow lane to find it.

He bought me a cock ring. The top of the line, the man said. An Esculpta, the greasy-looking man behind the counter said, as he leered at me, looking back and forth between me and the gray-eyed man, knowing exactly who was doing what to the other. I picked out a black overlapping tube with silver lions' heads at each end.

The man said he was sorry that he didn't have it in gold—that gold would suit my golden blond looks so well, he said, leer permanently in place. I knew he was imagining me in it and what he'd like to do with me when I was wearing it. But he didn't look like a big-cock man to me.

"And you, sir?" the greasy one, turning knowing eyes on my companion. "Perhaps some cock jewelry to add a certain . . . sensuality?"

"Already covered," came the terse answer, and I saw the man's eyebrows go up and his hand steal down his belly and below the top of the counter.

So, the man with the gray eyes—he still wouldn't tell me his name—bought me a gold lamé G string. And also lacy black bikini briefs. And, I gasped at this, a rope of graduated silver balls.

Before we left the shop, Mr. Gray Eyes exercised his control over me. When the greasy-looking clerk had his back turned to us and was working the cash register, my man came up close behind me, palmed my belly and whispered in my ear, "I want you to climb up on that counter, open your legs for the clerk, and let me watch him fuck you. He obviously wants to fuck you, and I'd like to get a discount."

I had a knee up on the counter, because he pulled me back, gave a low laugh, and told me he was just kidding.

I passed Tony in the lobby of the lodge when we returned. The man had said he would go in first and I should follow in ten minutes. It turned out to be a good decision. It's not one I would have thought to make, but it was a good one. I didn't mind that he had made it.

Tony gave me a worried look. "You missed the date at the lift. I haven't seen you on the slopes today."

"No you haven't," I said, not saying anything further because I didn't know what to say. I knew that Tony had been speaking with Rupert, trying to clear up our spat. I didn't want him to get any further into this subject. Tony didn't know the half of what Rupert's beef with me was.

"You haven't been giving yourself to some stud here just because he crooked his finger at you, have you?"

How did he know? How did all of them know? And, no, he hadn't crooked his finger. He'd nodded his head and looked at me with interesting eyes. And he'd palmed my belly and shown me that he was horse hung. And, no, I don't know why I was giving in to him so easily—on all of his wild ideas. All I knew is that he understood me, knew my erogenous buttons, and had a big dick and knew how to use it to make me melt.

"See you at happy hour at least?" Tony asked, with a sigh.

"Sure," I said, wondering if my happy hour was going to start before his did.

It was and it did. I wore the gray-eyed man's purchases. He took photos of me doing so. Then he fucked them off me, taking photos during that process too.

I probably should have called a halt to the photo of me on my belly and the half of the rope of graduated silver balls inside my ass. But I didn't.

I made no decisions the entire afternoon . . . or evening . . . or night. I was putty in his hands. And he had me six ways from Sunday. And he photographed most of it.

In the morning, he told me I should go ahead and get in some skiing—that he had other plans for the day.

I did ski, but I came back to the lodge early, early enough to see one of the lodge's SUVs drive up and the gray-eyed man descend from the passenger seat. And then a blonde woman, probably in her late thirties, but very well preserved, come out of the backseat, followed by two young children, both auburn-haired, just as the gray-eyed man once had been, both beautiful, smiling children. Both with the man's smile—and also with his gray eyes.

He looked at me and smiled before turning and shepherding his family into the lodge. No surprise that I saw him; no apologetic look.

That was that, I decided. It was over. I don't know if he decided it was over or I did. It didn't matter, I would decide it was over even if he didn't.

Later in the afternoon, I saw the family out on the terrace of the lodge. They were strapping on skis. Or, rather, most of them were—the wife and the two children. The gray-eyed man was helping them on with the skis, but he wasn't dressed for skiing as they were. And he stood there and waved them away toward the bunny slope.

And I stood there and watched him, waiting, but not knowing that I was waiting. Certainly not deciding to wait. If I'd even thought about it, I probably wouldn't know why I was waiting. For an explanation? For an apology? To ask if he really was Jacques LeGrand and would be putting my nude sex photos in a book? To ask him if he wanted the Esculpta cock ring back so he could wear it himself when he fucked his young, submissive wife?

Whatever, the decision had been made. It was finished. His fun was over.

He must have seen me, because when the family was out of sight, he turned and entered the lobby and walked right to me.

"Now. Your room or mine? I say your room. It would be safer."

Still making the decisions.

He fucked me in my room. Then and later and the next day too.