Victim POV 6–The Hog and the Pig

It’s chilly tonight, but not cold. I’ll go with my leather bomber jacket; if I leave it open over a white t-shirt, it’ll show off my torso. Not that I’m a big, muscely guy; I’m slim and lithe. But that shows off just as well and lotsa guys like it.

Enough of ‘em like it that it pays to keep in shape. I’ve just gotten in from the gym. Their pool is chilly and crowded, but the pool in my complex isn’t heated, so it’s where I go in the winter. Plus, I find a lot of contacts there. Half my income comes from guys I meet at the gym.

Not tonight, though. A lot of looks, but no bites. Well, there was that one dude—old and fat, but I’da done him if he’d had any money. But he didn’t; I could tell just by looking. I always know where the money is. Like my momma said, “Don’t marry money—just fuck it.”

Bless her heart, crazy old bitch was right.

I need to find a new daddy soon though; the money from the last one has just about run out. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’ll fuck a dude just because I think he’s hot—but if he don’t have cash, he better be real hot.

At any rate, I’m home and getting ready to head out on the prowl. I’ll start down at Club 69 and work my way down the other bars on the strip. If it’s a bad night, I’ll have to head out to The Underpass. Most nights I’m able to avoid that place, though. Good thing, too.

Too many rentboys vanish from that place.

Let’s see, tight jeans that highlight my package, check. And I won’t need to strip them off; I’ve cut a slit in the ass. I ain’t wearin’ shorts underneath—I’m ready to go. After all, if my jeans are tight, it can take too long to peel ‘em off; I ain’t gonna break the mood—I like getting’ fucked in tight jeans. Equally tight t-shirt visible beneath my sleek leather jacket, check. Ok, what kinda boots do I wanna get fucked in? Lessee…

Oh fuck yeah, these black leather Demonia boots with the buckled straps around the calf. Laces and a zipper for easy access—not that I’ll be taking them off. I’ll be watching them hanging in the air beyond the shoulders of whoever is fucking me tonight.

And whoever the john turns out to be, he’ll be lucky. I’m a good lay. Worth the price. My slim, smooth body, my firm denim-covered and leather-booted legs—yeah, whoever gets to fuck me better appreciate the favor I’m doin’ him.

Let’s get goin’.

Like I said, I need to find a new daddy. Car is on the fritz—I could call a cab, but I ain’t gonna waste the money; it’s only two blocks out to the main drag and then three blocks down. And this leather jacket blocks the wind pretty well. But still, I deserve a working car. I’ll find someone to pay. And even if not, I’m horny. One way or another, I’m gonna get fucked tonight, but believe me, someone’s gonna pay.

Someone’s gonna pay a lot.

It’s dark down these side streets. I wish they’d repair the streetlights. Not enough tax dollars in this neighborhood, I guess. But it gets kinda dangerous. On the other hand, most people have their headlights on, so you can tell when a car is coming. But what’s coming now isn’t a car, it’s a motorcycle.

Ok, I’m interested. It’s a Harley, a Softail Classic. Gleaming black and chrome with studded black leather saddlebags, two seats—when it glides through the gleaming circle of the streetlight, I can see that the black finish is highlighted by strategic points of dark midnight blue.

Guys on bikes are always hot; guys on Harleys especially so. And this dude doesn’t disappoint. As his bike rumbles up to the curb, I get a good look. Older than me, but not more than, say, thirty-one or two. Long, shoulder-length black hair—no helmet laws in this state, so it fans out under the red bandanna tied over his head.

He’s dressed—well, actually, he’s dressed a lot like I am. His leather jacket is the huge bulky kind favored by bikers, with zippers over half the surface. On him, it looks real. He’s clearly not a poser or one of those weekend warrior types, desk jockeys who like aspire to street cred by tooling around the suburbs on overpriced bikes.

This one’s a real biker dude. The waves of testosterone his hard body gives off are damn near visible. His diesel jeans are skin tight. They outline the thick, firm muscles of his thighs. Below his knees, his legs are encased in black motorcycle boots, rising most of the way up his tight calves. The thick-soled leather boots are held on by five leather straps with bright steel buckles. They look like mine, but they’re real—no zipper for easy access.

Bet he leaves them on when he fucks; too much of a pain in the ass to take them off. Fuckin’ hot.

He’s got a dark t-shirt under his jacket; in the shadows, I can’t make out the color. It doesn’t matter; what I can see of him shows me how well-built he is. Strong muscled dude on a crotch rocket—man, I already want his dick. Now, if I can just figure out how to make some money outta this, it’ll be a perfect night…

He’s pulled to the curb just past where I’m standing. I’ve been able to take all this in within a matter of seconds. Now, he turns to look at me.

His eyes are like embers of coal—blazing, yet hard as stone. I’m both attracted by their beauty and repelled by their coldness. A well-groomed black goatee covers his strong jaw with fur; his handsome, chiseled face is almost emotionless.

I can’t tell if he wants me or not.

It’s cold. And once he shuts the Harley off, it’s quiet, too. The apartment buildings along this stretch of the street are set well back. And the tenants in the front basically install iron bars over the windows and ignore anything that happens on the street.

The biker stud appraises me coldly. I’ve never felt such an icy, impersonal sensation before and it scares me.

There are literally hundreds of people within the sound of my voice, but I’ve never felt so alone and helpless before. There’s something about this guy, about his mere physical presence, that seems to take control.

I’m his and we both know it. I don’t know how it happens, but it does, when I catch his eye again. His face contorts with a contemptuous smirk, and I know I’ll do whatever he wants.

Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He won’t pay me; for all I know, the dude might actually hurt me. But it doesn’t matter. Even if he’s one of those sick fucks who gets off on pain, he’s still gonna fuck me tonight. I want it. I want him—no matter what.

He grins at me and I flinch. It’s a sly grin, full of complicity and dark promises, and it gets my cock hard (like it wasn’t already). He twists his head, more or less beckoning with it and I approach him.

When he speaks, his voice grinds through the lower registers and makes my dick and balls vibrate. “Hey, bitch,” he rumbles, “get on and I’ll give ya a ride.” He chuckles and stares at me brazenly.

Not daunted in the slightest, I stare right back. Dammit, I’m the one in control. Or at least, I’m gonna show him I’m not a pushover.

“Yeah?” I sneer at him, “I like a long ride—how long can ya last?”

He stops chuckling. “I’ll last longer than you will, cunt,” he snaps coldly, “get on. Now.”

I obey. I don’t know why. I mean, I’ve done dozens of guys—dozens of dozens. But I’ve never come across anyone like this guy before. And I don’t know what to think or how to react. He’s such a fucking stud, but he scares me. He scares me a lot. And part of my fear is that I’m so attracted to him, I’ll let him do whatever he wants, as long as I get his load.

And that’s a bad thing. It puts him in control, not me. And there’s something about this guy—I don’t think he has a lot of control.

And the fact that that thought gets me hard is the scariest thing of all. But it doesn’t stop me from getting on his bike.

I slip onto the Harley’s rear seat and wrap my arms around the stud as he throttles the bike up and heads out toward the highway. I cling to his torso like it’s a boulder—and it’s just as hard and firm as if it truly was. I press my face against the biker’s back, burying it in the slick, smooth leather, inhaling its scent, feeling his muscles flex against my cheek as my shaft grows so hard it aches.

I enjoy the ride. I enjoy it a lot. Fuckin’ crotch rocket, vibrating on my sack and my tool—this dude must be so fucking horny, riding around like this all time. I’ll bet he needs some release. That’s ok; he can release it all in my aching fuckhole.

He zips past the Underpass and stops at the light at the interstate access road. I know where he’s going; there’s a cheap motel on the other side of the highway. Wonder if he’s local. Maybe; I didn’t need to give him directions here.

I’m surprised when he pulls around back of the motel. No idea why he didn’t park in the main lot—but he fishes a key out of his pocket; he’s already got a room. I follow him across the gravel parking lot, my boots crunching in the large marks left by his boots.

We walk around the building and enter room 134. He unlocks the door and steps inside; I follow and he shuts the door behind me, leaving us in total darkness. Only when the door is completely closed does he turn on the light.

I immediately turn to face him, grabbing for his crotch. I’d thought it was what he wanted and I’m surprised when he shoves me forcefully onto the bed without touching his cock.

“Get your pants off, whore, I’m gonna fuck ya,” he growls, pulling off his leather jacket. His t-shirt, I can now see, is dark brown and tighter on him than mine is on me. He peels it sinuously to reveal a flat furry belly and hairy hubcap pecs; the biker is a damn near perfect archetype of masculinity.

I sit up and pull off my jacket and my shirt. The biker looks down at my smooth, firm chest and breathes heavily. “I said pull your pants off, cunt, not your shirt.”

“I don’t have to. There’s a hole cut in the ass,” I tell him, staring him defiantly in the eyes.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do. His dark blazing eyes turn on me with a burst of lust and rage like I’ve never seen before. I’m suddenly strongly aware that I’m alone with a strange man and no one knows where I’ve gone or with whom.

I’ve been in this situation many times before. What is it about this time that makes me aware of my vulnerability?

And more to the point—why do I not care? I’m so fucking horny right now—and there’s something about the dude’s look—that sneering, disgust-filled look of domination—that makes me want him even more.

He thinks I’m a piece of shit. And as long as he fucks me, I’m ready to let him treat me like one.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m better than this; I’m the one who decides, the one who chooses…

Oh my god, I don’t care. He’s unzipping his fly. Holy fuck—the hog that flops out is enormous. It’s a thick, long uncut slab of meat—and it’s not even fully erect yet.

Now I know there’s something wrong with me. His tool is gonna split me wide open. I can tell just by looking that this is gonna hurt like all kinds of fuck. And even so, my own shaft starts to throb at the thought.

I’ve never really believed in pheromones, but it’s the only explanation. The dark, muscled biker reeks of sex, and I want it so bad, I’ll do whatever it takes to milk the sex right out of his hard body…

He leans over me. I gaze up into his granite face, merciless as stone as he speaks quietly in white-hot rage. “You fuckin’ whore. Ready for any dude’s dick, huh? Any place, any time, as long as you get paid, right? Bet you’da taken my rod right there on the street if I’d flashed some bills at ya, huh, cunt?”

He grabs my boots and thrusts my legs apart and I feel the weight of his lithe, panther-like body on me.

He’s on top of me, his hard, cruel, bearded face filling my field of view. The hot musky scent of mansweat washes over me, pinning me to the bed with an almost physical force. I place my hands on his chest as he lies on top of me, feeling his rock-hard pecs under the fine black fur covering his torso.

His eyes are lit with an icy gleam as he sneers down into my face. “Lick me, you faggot whore. I worked up a lotta sweat, ridin’ my hog all day. Get your fuckin’ punk tongue into my pits and slurp up my sweat, you cheap-ass cumchugger.”

He reaches down and grabs a hank of my hair, pulling my face into his left armpit. The reek of his sweat and hormones is as overwhelming as his wiry hair; it’s like his pits are lined with steel wool that grinds my face as he chuckles evilly.

Goddam, this ain’t right. He’s such a man—oh fuck, I want him so bad. Yes, if this is what it takes, I’ll lick your musk. I’ll lick anything ya want, dude…

He manipulates my head like I’m a puppet; I simply let my tongue hang out of my mouth and let him apply it to whatever part of his body he desires. He sits up on his knees, pulling my head up with him, never letting my face get out of contact with his hard chest. He twists my head to one side as he applies my mouth to his left nipple. “Suck it, cunt,” he snaps before spitting in my face. I close my eyes and feel the warm trickle of his spittle sliding down my cheek as I fervently tongue the hard knot of his nipple.

Without warning, the biker stud drags my head roughly to the right, scraping my skin along his chest hair—much smoother than his pit hair, but still being ground against my skin—to stop with my face buried in the moist valley between the swellings of his iron-hard pecs. Oh fuck, this hot alpha dude wants me, wants my tongue to taste his pheromones and sex chemicals…

My cock is so hard, it hurts. I don’t know how this is gonna end—and I don’t care. The call, the sexual need emanating from this man is overpowering; I already know that I’ll do whatever it takes to make him fill me with his DNA.

And that scares the fuck outta me. There’s something wrong with this guy. He doesn’t just wanna fuck me.

He wants to hurt me.

And I want his load so bad—oh fuck, god help me—I’ll let him.

As my face is forced abrasively across the biker’s chest, I soon find his right nipple forced into my mouth. As I slurp greedily at the small hard mound of flesh, I feel his free hand scrabbling around my ass, gripping my firm cheeks, squeezing, probing—finding the tear in the seat.

He drops me abruptly, looking expressionlessly down into my face. “You worthless fucking slut,” he says levelly, coldly.

I have to release my dick. It’s straining in my crotch, too tight, too hard. I have to set it free. I don’t break eye contact with the biker—I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. He has control and I know it. But my hand gropes down, unseeing, and unzips my fly, letting my thick, dripping cock spring out.

The biker looks down at my face and still his expression doesn’t change. “Did I tell ya you could get your dick out, slut?” he drawls, savoring his building rage. “You were ready to fuck any dude who came down the street, huh, you useless motherfucker? Yeah, ain’t that right, cunt? Goddam cut open your fuckin’ jeans so anyone can come along and shove a cock up your loose faggot asshole, yeah?”

Oh shit, I’m scared. He’s angry. Goddam Jack the Ripper type, down on whores—but still…

What the fuck is wrong with me? This guy is bigger and stronger than me. And he’s a fucking sadistic psycho who’s gonna get off on hurting me—

Why do I want to let him?

It’s his domination. No, no—I’m my own fucking person; I can’t be enjoying this—

He shoves me back down on my back and jerks my legs up, resting my boots on his shoulder. I remember putting them on tonight—I was gonna watch them bob in the air as I got my ass drilled by some hot stud.

Ok fuck, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen but this isn’t what I meant…

He’s grinning at me as he reaches into his crotch. He’s gonna stick that monstrous shaft into me. No, dude, no; I’m not ready for that thing—you haven’t even used any lube—

OH GOD NO GET IT OUTTA ME FUCK GOD NO

please please please pull it out it’s too much please pull it out

oh god yes I can feel it receding oh thank you god

NO NO NO FUCK DON’T SHOVE IT IN AGAIN HOLY FUCK WHY IS MY DICK SO HARD

his face, his dark, cruel, handsome, sneering face

Ok. Ok. Ok.

My sphincter has collapsed. He’s torn it. He’s hurt me. Oh fuck, he’s hurt me bad; no one’s ever fucked me so bad I’ve needed to go to the hospital…

What? What’s he saying?

“You worthless fucking whore. How many cumshots has your worn-out fuckhole sucked up, huh, cunt? See, even now, your shredded colon ain’t used to mancock after all them homo dicks you been willin’ to ride. You need a real man to show you your place. And ya know where your place is, faggot? It’s screaming and writhing on the end of my cock. And you’re gonna be doin’ it tonight, cunt.”

I hear the words, but they don’t make sense. I can only absorb so much anyway and right now, I’m full of cock.

The pain, the pressure is phenomenal. I’ve been fucked a lot, but this guy is… Well, he’s…

Oh fuck, he’s compacting my guts. I don’t want this. I want to get fucked, but this dude’s raping my guts. He’s reaming my innards violently.

Oh my god it hurts it hurts so bad this isn’t sex you’re gonna kill me this is gonna tear me open I’m bleeding you’re tearing me apart in the inside…

I don’t understand why I’m so helpless. He’s tearing me open on the inside, but he’s such an alpha stud I can’t stop him…

“Fuck, dude, I was almost there. Your ass was nice and tight around my tool, but I think I stretched ya out. You really are a worthless cunt, ain’t ya? Can’t even make me cum. What kinda faggot whore are ya?”

The pain. Everything he’s put me through, and it’s not enough. His hard, muscled body, pressing against me, is slick with the sweat of his efforts; even his jeans are streaked with dark sweat marks trailing down to those strapped-on boots rising nearly to his knees.

Beyond him, I can see my own Demonia biker boots hanging in the air as he rapes me mercilessly. I remember putting them on, thinking about how I’d watch them bob as I got fucked by a john who’d pay well for the privilege…

No. He’s not getting away with it. Enough. I start grabbing and scratching at his slick, muscled body, my fingernails snagging and tearing at his body hair as he bends over me and fucks me violently.

Mistake. Oh fuck, his anger. His face is twisted with fury as he reaches down and—

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Fuck his hand is like a vise around my thought OH MY GOD I CAN’T BREATHE WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOUR OTHER ARM—

pain pain he’s punching me in the face piledriving his fist into my face as his other hand clamps down on my throat

I can’t breathe

fuck the pain he’s talking what’s he saying names he’s calling me names

he wants me dead I need to die to make him cum

my face his fist into my face every blow

“Fucking cunt!” WHAM

“Cocksucking faggot whore!” WHAM

Stars lights bright lights in my head my cock is hard I can feel it straining

“Die, you worthless faggot cumdump!” WHAM

my head my face the pain I can feel his cock fill my ass with every blow but I CAN’T BREATHE

it’s him that’s all there is he’s over me and on me and in me this biker stud, this hot hard reeking man, I can see him, his face contorted in lust and rage as he dominates me

wasn’t supposed to die like this wasn’t supposed to die tonight

oh fuck, solid streams of molten metal, life, genes, my inner material flowing up outta my cock I give my sperm as the teeth of my zipper tear open my scrotum

it hurts so bad I’m cutting my sack the pain in my chest he’s still punching me why god why I only wanted sex I didn’t want to get used and die

OH MY GOD THE CRUSHING PAIN IN MY THOAT MY WINDPIPE COLLAPSED

no air no air he’s still punching me my nose it crunched just like my throat

pain crushing pain my chest my throat my head

tearing pain my sack my swollen balls

fire flowing lava being pumped into my ass the biker’s spunk it’s filling me overflowing burning lava flowing out of my own dick is it my cum or the bikers

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