By Victor Terry
“Get that interview, Mac. That’s final!”
“Yes, Chief,” said Mac, nodding his head, all his arguments having failed. No matter that he knew nothing about rodeos, that he had scarcely heard of Bronco Thoms the champion, that his specialty in news coverage was music criticism, not sports, that he was due for a vacation. His chief had met each of those arguments: no one else was available at the moment to do the job and the New York Spectator needed that interview with Bronco Thoms, that Mac was a reporter, wasn’t he? And a reporter got facts and Wrote them, didn’t he? And this was an assignment for a reporter, particularly a good one, and Mac was a good one. It was well known that Bronco Thoms never–repeat, never–gave interviews; but if Mac, who had three times gotten an interview with Greta Garbo, couldn’t interview Bronco Thoms no one could. Besides, at 33, Mac should get some broader knowledge of the world than just music and the arts.
“Yes, Chief,” said Mac again, and went to the morgue where Annie Halverson dug out the info on rodeos and Bronco Thoms.
The tall blond reporter read the stuff diligently and took notes. He learned that rodeos is not pronounced “ro-dee-os” as he had done but “ro-de-os” or “ro-day-os”; that the events of a rodeo pit men against animals and against each other in contests of endurance and strength and skill; that the animals may include horses wild and broken, bulls and calves; that the events may include bareback bronco riding, Brahma bull riding, bulldogging, calf roping, wild-cow milking, lassoing; that many states have rodeos, including Colorado, Montana, Wyoming; that one of the most famous is the Calgary Stampede up in Canada; that professional rodeo riders have an organization called the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, Prorodeo for short, with headquarters and a museum in Colorado Springs. Colorado; that the rodeo opening this weekend in the New York Amphitheatre was touring to various cities to publicize the Prorodeo Hall of Champions in Colorado Springs and to make money for the association, its member cowboys, its Hall of Champions.
“Hmmm,” he muttered, and read on.
The main performers in the Amphitheatre rodeo included Jason Stavros, “The Greek Cowboy” who was from Athens, Greece, and became a cowboy after he got to the States at the age of 22; the Walton Brothers, Obadiah and Zephania, black twins who specialized in calf roping; Wick Jackson who rode broncos bareback; Vachel Masefield who was the bulldogging expert; and Bronco Thoms. Performers was not an accurate word even though each performed in the rodeo: they were more than performers, for each was a working cowboy who’d go back to his home ranch after the tour.
Mac concentrated on Bronco Thoms, who at 38 was the oldest of the performers. Bronco was a champion; he did everything in a rodeo better than anybody else did. But, rumor said this would be his last year as a performer, that he was retiring after this tour to live on his spread near the Black Hills where he would breed and train horses. Bronco never gave interviews, saying in his last printed comments–given fifteen years earlier–that, first, he was a pretty dull guy, of no interest to anyone except his horse; second, that what he did in the rodeo was his work and there for anyone to see; and third, interviews were a waste of time.
Mac smiled grimly. Waste of time. Dull fellow. Never gave interviews. Well, by God, he’d give Mac one, or Mac’d die trying.
At his desk, Mac made some phone calls, leaving messages for Bronco Thoms at the Palmer House in Chicago, where the cowboy was staying while the rodeo was in the Windy City. Mac called a guy who “owed him one” and asked for repayment of the favor.
The next day he made more phone calls, left more messages. Left still more the next day—the rodeo’s travel day from Chicago to New York, Wednesday—and on Thursday.
On Friday, the day of rodeo opening, he made contact. The guy who owed the favor knew someone in Prorodeo in Colorado Springs, and Bronco—under pressure—agreed to an interview. Mac called Bronco at the Amphitheatre and got him; the time was set for Saturday night after the evening performance, in the locker room of the Amphitheatre. Bronco wasn’t happy about it, and sounded unhappy.
Mac went to the rodeo Friday and enjoyed it. All those well built, slim, powerful men in their faded Levi’s and scarred chaps, cowboy boots and spurs got him in his crotch. He spent much of his time with his notebook open on his lap to hide his erection. Two cowboys in particular turned him on: Vachel Masefield and Bronco Thoms. Both were tall, darkly tanned, lean, surging with power, brown hair tumbling down, radiating confidence. Bronco had a mustache and Vachel didn’t; and Bronco’s nose had been broken once when a bull’s horn connected with his face. The resulting set had made Bronco’s face even more masculine, and sexy. During the rodeo Bronco demonstrated conclusively why he was a champion.
Mac returned for the Saturday matinee and enjoyed it even more. This time he wore loose fitting Levi’s which made his hard cock more comfortable against his thigh. He cheered Bronco lustily, his voice lost in the roar of the crowds, when Bronco rode the Brahma bull for sixteen seconds, twice the required minimum.
When the show was over he went into the john and jerked off, his bigger than average shaft spewing his load of hot white cum into the toilet. He thought about Bronco and the interview.
He had supper, then collected his tape recorder and note carrying case, returning for the evening show.
Instant hard-on! He might as well not have jerked off at all; the sight of Bronco made him hot all over again. This was one interview he was going to enjoy.
The last segment of the show as an exhibition of rope tricks, and Mac decided to skip it, allowing a few extra minutes to get down to the locker room and set up for Bronco. He slipped from his seat and headed into the lower regions of the Amphitheatre, to the locker room, past the stalls where the animals were kept.
He took a deep breath as he entered the hall. Upstairs, sawdust and horses and bulls and human sweat had filled his nostrils; down here, the smells were more intense, heavier, acting like an intoxicant on Mac’s senses. He stood for a moment, breathing deeply, then moved forward. Ahead he heard noises, men laughing and joshing, working with animals.
Going past the second door, he heard a voice.
“Hey, you. Mac. Mac Rhodes?”
“Yeah. What is it? Who’re you?”
A man emerged from the doorway. It was Vachel Masefield. Mac’s cock lurched. Vachel was holding his chaps in one hand, in the other a grease-stained rag which the cowboy was using to rub over the brown leather to keep it supple and flexible.
“Come on in. Bronco told me you’d be along, asked me t’ look out for you, tell you he’ll be a little late t’ the interview ’cause he got a phone call from Wyomin’ he had t’ return right away. He wants me t’ entertain you.”
Vachel was bare-chested. The fine hairs were plastered to his skin with sweat, and the odor flooded Mac’s head. He swallowed.
“Couldn’t we wait in the locker room? That’s where I’m supposed to meet Bronco.” His cock hardened more.
Vachel looked deliberately at Mac s cock before raising his eyes to Mac’s. “Nah. Here’s fine. That’s a noisy place. Bronco’ll be here about fifteen, twenty minutes, ’n’ you might’s well stay here.” Vachel groped his own cock. “You kin interview me, if you want.” He led the way into the room. “Mac’s an odd name, isn’t it? I mean, common nickname or for callin’ someone you know, hey, Mac–but t’ have Mac as a name on a birth certificate, well, seems odd t’ me.” Vachel stared from Mac’s face to his crotch, still groping himself.
Mac swallowed. “My name’s Allan. Allan Rhodes. My older brother is named Steve, but of course he’s called Dusty. You know, dusty roads. So my dad called me Mac, short for macadam roads. My dad built highways. Hey, if I’m going to interview you. I’ll ask the questions.” Mac stared at Vachel’s groping hand, at the long tube under the taut Levi s, so long the big hand could not conceal it all.
Vachel laughed. “Ask away.” He did not remove his hand.
What came out was not what Mac had intended. “Can I suck your cock?”
A half-hour later Mac looked at his watch, lifting his head from Vachel’s naked crotch, releasing the thick clipped ivory tube, swallowing the last drops of spicy cum.
“I’d better get to the locker room. Don’t want to keep Bronco waiting.”
“Didn’t realize it was that late. Time surely does fly when your cock is gettin’ well sucked. I reckon.”
Mac thanked Vachel and reluctantly headed for the locker room, past the stalls where a few men were caring for animals. He adjusted his hard cock in his Levi’s, noting that his shorts were wet with pre-cum.
The locker room was deserted.
“God! I hope I’m not too late. Or that he didn’t get angry and leave. Didn’t know time passed so quickly with Vachel… If Bronco’s not here, maybe I can find Vachel again and fuck his ass.”
Mac looked around the locker-lined corridors. No one. A few lockers hung open, but most were closed. He heard a distant noise. He put down his carrying case on a bench and listened.
In the distance, running water. A shower! Bronco was in the shower! Mac headed toward the sound.
In the door he stood and looked. The shower room was about twenty feet long, fifteen wide. At intervals around the white-tiled walls were shower heads, so about twenty men could shower at the same time without sharing a shower head. Several drains were in the tiled floor, and wet patches showed where men had showered earlier.
One man stood under a shower, about seven feet from the door, the water streaming down his back, running over the curves of his tight little ass, streaming over his broad shoulders and running over the flat planes of his hairless chest, dripping from his big nipples, down the washboard belly and muscular thighs. He was facing the door, feet wide apart, pelvis forward, shoulders back, head forward, eyes closed, one hand holding his big balls and the other slowly stroking his thick long erect cock. The cock was unclipped, and the foreskin formed a circle of flesh behind the bright pink head, and as he stroked, the flesh came forward to cover the head and then back to reveal it. The pink head was mushroom shaped, wider in diameter than the thick shaft, and the piss hole gaped in the end, crystal fluid oozing out and mingling with the shower water. His fist was planted in the flattened wet dark cock-hair, and a good three inches of cock stuck out beyond the loose grip of his fist.
Mac’s own cock leapt to stiffer attention, and his hand moved without his conscious volition and gripped his cock, straining against the denim. My God, he thought, is everybody around here horny?
The showering man’s black hair was plastered against his head, framing the face with its five o’clock shadow. His straight brows nearly met over his nose, and he appeared to be biting his lips under the full black mustache.
It was not Bronco in the shower. Mac recognized Jason Stavros, the cowboy from Athens whose picture and story had been in many papers and magazines in recent weeks.
Mac forced his hands into his pockets, hoping the pocket bulge would hide his cock bulge.
“Hey,” he called over the running water, “hey, excuse me, but have you—”
Jason opened his eyes and saw Mac. He smiled and went on stroking his cock, but his other hand reached behind him and turned the water off. The shower head dripped, but other than that there was quiet in the room.
“Hi.” He stroked and his free hand reached again for his dangling balls.
“I’m looking for Bronco Thoms, he was supposed to meet me here in the locker room, and I was wondering if you’ve seen him.”
“Yeah,” said Jason lazily in his combination Greek-Western accent, “I’ve seen him. He had t’ go out for a while, but he’ll be back. You’re supposed t’ wait. Maybe I’ll do while you’re waitin’.” Jason walked lazily toward Mac, pointing his stiff cock right at Mac. “You want t’ interview me while you’re waiting’?” Jason stood about two feet from Mac.
Mac stepped backwards into the locker room. Jason followed. “I didn’t mean to block the door for you, Mr., ah. Stavros.”
“Jason. Or Jase. Everybody calls me Jason or Jase.”
“Jason. Jase.”
“You don’ wan’t’ interview me, I kin think of somethin’ else t’ do.”
Jase’s hand dropped his balls and reached out, cupped Mac’s groin and felt the hard flesh tube arched over his right thigh. Mac gasped.
“I kin think of somethin’ right nice t’ do, right pleasin’ for both of us.”
Mac felt paralyzed as Jase’s right hand left his cock and joined his left at Mac’s groin. Mac’s hands slid out of his pockets. Jase unbuckled Mac’s belt, opened the buttons, laid back the flaps of Mac’s levi’s and worked them down over Mac’s hips. He said “Tsk tsk” when he saw the white jockey briefs straining from the pressure behind them, said “Don’t you know that shorts is a hinderance in times of crisis like this,” pulled the jockeys down and watched and heard Mac’s hard cock slap free up against the reporter’s belly, said “That’s a mighty fine cock you got, kid, not too big and not too small, just the right size for a good mouthful.” Jase fell to his knees before Mac, stuck out his tongue as he moved his head forward, and he licked the pink tip of Mac’s hot flesh.
“Oh. God! Gawd! Gaaawd!” groaned Mac, shoving his hips forward, forcing the head of the clipped cock into Jase’s open mouth, “you do that again and I’m going to cum. I’m so hot!”
“Then I’ll stop ‘n’ let you cool down a mite afore goin’ on.” Jase worked Mac’s pants and shorts further down his legs till they were bunched at his ankles. “Let’s get you over to that bench,” and he nodded his head toward the nearest bench. He stood and helped Mac obediently shuffle over, his ankles hobbled effectively. Gently he shoved Mac down on the bench, and Mac sat dazed and numb as Jase knelt again and took off his shoes, socks, and forced his pants and shorts off, stuffing them all into an empty locker which had its door swinging open.
Mac got his wits back.
“God. Jase, no. I got to meet Bronco, what if Bronco comes back and finds us—”
“He’d say, ‘Have a good time.’ Bronco don’t mess around with us much, the joke is he’s in love with his mare, but he sure don’t mind if he rest of us get our rocks off t’gether.”
Jase straightened up and unsnapped the blue and white checked cowboy-style shirt that Mac had bought at The Gap, slipped it over Mac’s shoulders and down his arms, tossed it into the locker and pushed the door shut. Mac’s hairless muscular body gleamed, lightly coated with sweat.
“Now, we kin really have some fun.”
Jase, between Mac’s legs, lowered his head and lightly flicked with his tongue the tip of Mac’s throbbing cock. Mac groaned. Jase moved to Mac’s balls, swiping them roughly with his tongue, his wet hair against Mac’s belly. He moved up Mac’s hairless body, licking and kissing, nibbling, till he reached the nipples where he sucked and lightly bit one and the other and back and back again till Mac was writhing on the wood bench, moaning and groaning Jase’s name over and over. His hands were on Jase’s head, moving it where he wanted the hot lips and hotter tongue to go. “Let me fuck you, Jase, Greek, let me fuck you, I’ve never fucked a cowboy, let me fuck you.”
Jase murmured, “Mmmmmmmm,” and went on licking. His hands took and held Mac’s; and his head, free again, plunged down and swallowed Mac’s cock to the root, his nose buried in the honey blond hair. His head came up. “You got a nice cock, nice balls,” and he went down and swallowed the nice balls, licking and rolling them in his mouth, “nice nipples, nice body, good body, you c’d be a cowboy if you wanted t’ work hard, you got a nice body, nice muscles,” and his head went back down on Mac’s cock, all the way. And stayed down there. His mouth vacuumed and sucked and vacuumed and Mac shouted and came, shooting spasms of hot ropey thick cum down the open throat into Jase’s belly. Mac groaned and shouted and fell forward over Jase’s back. “I wanted to fuck you, wanted to fuck you.” Jase just sucked on, but one of his hands reached down and stroked his own hard cock, sticking up between his kneeling legs.
Mac sat up, his hands on Jase’s shoulders.
Jase raised his head, licked his lips. “You taste good, baby, you taste good. Now, it’s my turn.” He stood. “It’s my turn t’ cum, ’n’ I’m goin’t’ fuck you.”
“No,” said Mac, “Not now, not right now, not just after I’ve cum. I’m not in the mood, not after just cumming.”
“Now,” said Jase, his voice harder. He stood between Mac’s legs, holding Mac’s head between his powerful hands, his cock pointed straight at Mac’s mouth. Mac felt paralyzed again, numb. “You ain’t goin’ t’ be one of them selfish bastards who gets his rocks off and then won’t help his buddy get his rocks off, ain’t you? No, of course you ain’t, so open your mouth wide and make my cock wet. You want t’ have some lube when I shove my big cock up your ass, don’t you? Sure you do, sure you do.” Jase’s thumbs pulled at the sides of Mac’s mouth, forcing it open, and Jase slid his cock between Mac’s teeth across the smooth hot wet tongue. “No teeth, now, no teeth, if you want t’ have teeth left t’ take home with you. That’s a good boy, good boy, takin’ my cock all the way down. Relax, relax. All the way down.”
Mac’s hands were on the outside of Jase’s hands, trying to slow the advance, the relentless advance of Jase’s cock into the hot mouth, but Jase was in control. Mac felt the power latent in those hands, in those arms, and he knew that he could not defeat Jase in a fight. The only way he could defeat Jase in physical combat would be to get a surprise advantage, and he knew he couldn’t get that. Mac knew he was going to be fucked, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Jase smiled, and pulled his cock out. “Suck it, lick it, make it good and wet,” shoving it back in. Mac gagged, but Jase held it till Mac got used to the girth and the head tickling his palate, knowing that the gagging was coating his cock with phlegm. Jase slowly fucked Mac’s face till he felt the fires burning higher in his cock. Then he pulled out. Time to fuck.
He talked to Mac while his hands moved over the reporter’s unresisting body. “Turn over, baby, turn over on your belly, that’s right; let your legs fall on each side of the bench, that’s right, and your arms. Grab the feet of the bench with your hands, that’ll help you stay in position, that’s right. You look good, baby, lyin’ there, your legs apart, your ass just waitin’ for my cock t’ plow up into it, mighty good, baby.” Jase straddled the bench behind the waiting Mac, his knees spreading Mac’s legs even wider.
“Please, Jase, no, please, wait, not now, wait a minute. Please,” pleaded Mac, hopelessly.
Jase spread Mac’s cheeks, exposing the pink hole. He spit in the crack and watched the moisture slide down the crack and nestle in the pink folds. He placed his cockhead against the hole and pressed. Mac groaned and jerked. Jase smartly slapped Mac’s ass. “Hold still, you fucker!” He slapped the other cheek. Mac groaned. Jase smartly slapped each cheek again, then shoved the head in. The pain of the slaps deadened the pain of entry somewhat, but still Mac cried aloud as he felt his ass muscles shoved wide apart by the invading cockhead, the largest cockhead he had ever felt. “You’re wrecking me!” he shouted. “Not likely,” said Jase, shoving more inches into Mac’s body. Another plunge, and Jase was all the way in, feeling the skin of the rectum grasp his flesh like a tight elastic tube, the sphincter closing over the root of his shaft as if it would cut the tube in two.
Jase groaned in pleasure.
Mac groaned in agony.
Mac felt as if he were splitting.
Jase began to fuck.
With Mac’s groans a constant accompaniment, Jase pulled his prick slowly out of Mac’s body, looking down to see the ass lips extended out, as if they did not want to give up the thick pecker, were fighting to keep it in. Slowly he shoved it back until the pubic hairs were ground against the white smooth cheeks of his victim, impressing in the skin a pattern of the wet wiry hairs. He increased the vigor of his strokes, angling his prick from left to right, striking against the prostate of the helpless man beneath him. Mac felt a glow of warmth in his ass, welcomed it, knew that his body was taking over, that he would be getting the wonderful feeling he always got when he was fucked by someone with expertise, and Jase he knew had expertise. The pain was still there, but now Mac welcomed it, knowing that it would soon turn entirely to pleasure, and he wiggled his hips under his attacker, shoving up to meet Jase’s downward thrusts. Jase recognized the movement, smiled, and began to pound his body against the body of the reporter.
“Write a story about this, reporter, write how you got fucked by Jason Stavros. You could call it The Great Locker Room Fuck,” each phrase punctuated with a thrust of the hips, forcing his cock deeper into areas yet unexplored; “How I Interviewed Jason Stavros, you c’d call it, or you c’d call it, Greeks Make Better Fuckers, or maybe The Greek Cowboy Rides Again.”
“More, dammit, more,” moaned Mac, “more, fuck me more, harder, use that cock, don’t just talk, use that goddam cock, what’s the matter, you just playing games, Greek, huh, just playing games, fuck me. Jase, fuck me!”
“I’m fuckin’ you, reporter. I’m fuckin’ you.”
For ten minutes Jase rode Mac’s ass, slowing down frequently to cool off. His was, he told Mac, the hottest ass he’d fucked in a long time. He reached down and took hold of Mac’s cock, hard under his belly, and pulled it to the side so he could see the pink head sticking out, poking a couple of inches into the air. Mac was dripping again, ready to cum. His eyes were closed.
“God,” breathed Jase, “you’re a hot one!” He straightened his body, supported only by his hands on the bench over Mac’s shoulders, by his feet planted firmly on the floor on either side of Mac’s feet straddling the bench, by his cockhead inside Mac’s ass. Then he shouted again and dropped heavily down, forcing his prick back into the warm dark nest, and he felt the hot cum boil out of his balls and surge through the narrow tube inside the cock and spurt out, flooding the dark inside of the man he was fucking. He pumped again, and another spurt forced its way into Mac. And another, and another. “Seven, eight, nine,” he panted, falling to rest on top of Mac.
Mac was breathing heavily, eyes closed, head facing the lockers. “God. Jase, that was good. Now, me, now, me, now I’m going to fuck you. I’m hard again! God, I’m so hot, I got to fuck you. Jase, Jase… Then I got to find Bronco…”
Jase pulled out and stood next to the well-fucked man.
“Well, no. No to both counts. You got some more interviews t’ do here.”
Mac opened his eyes to look at Jase, but what he saw was ten legs, four black, standing around the bench. None of them belonged to Jase. “What the—” He pushed himself up but hands pushed him back down, and quickly the legs bent and turned into bodies with hard cocks, hands, hands with leather straps and ropes: and the straps went around his wrists and the ropes went through the straps’ D-rings and tied his wrists to the legs of the bench. Other hands strapped his ankles and with ropes tied them to the middle legs of the bench. A rope slid around his knees and pulled them forward, the ends fastened to the front legs of the bench. Mac protested and struggled in vain. He was outnumbered and taken by surprise, taken in a disadvantageous position. He was a prisoner, a captive, tied securely to a bench in the locker room of the New York Amphitheatre late on a Saturday night. No one knew he was there except the naked cowboys surrounding him; no one would come to his rescue. Mac went numb.
“What the fuck—?”
“Exactly,” said Jase. “Fuck is what it’s all about. Lemme introduce you to your new pardners. This handsome black lad of 25 is Obadiah Walton and the stud next t’ him is his twin Zephania. Obie ’n’ Zeph are experts when it comes t’ tyin’ thin’s up, like calves, ‘n’ people too. They’re the ones who did such a nice job on you, tyin’ you up like a calf ready t’ be branded. Say hello t’ Zeph ‘n’ Obie.”
Jase dug his fingers in Mac’s hair, pulling his head back, while his other hand took hold of Mac’s balls under his body and pulled them back so they stuck between his legs.
Mac yelled.
“I said, say hello t’ Zeph ’n’ Obie!”
“Hello,” gasped Mac. His cock was still hard, the head still slicking out under his thigh.
“Hello there, white meat,” said Zeph. Obie smiled.
“Now, this here is Wick Jackson. He’s purty good when it comes t’ ridin’ broncos, so he’s goin’t’ have fun ridin’ you, if you give him a good ride like you gave me. And you’d better,” threatened Jase. “Say hi t’ Wick.”
“Hi,” gulped Mac.
Frank stood smiling, holding his cock in his right hand, his balls in his left. “Heard you squealin’ there when Jase was pluggin’ you. Sounded good t’ me. I kin hardly wait t’ plug you m’self.” A drop of white fluid fell from the tip of his cock, stringing to the floor before it broke off. Another oozed out of the piss hole.
Mac groaned.
“N’ you already done met Vachel. Vachel’s a bull-dogger,too too. Vachel says you suck a mean cock. That right, reporter? You a cocksucker?”
“Yes,” gulped Mac, “yes, I’m a cocksucker.”
“You like t’ suck cock, reporter? You like dick?”
“Yes, yes,” Mac groaned, “I like dick. I like dick!”
Jase twisted his balls again. “You want t’ get fucked by all these lovely cocks here?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Another twist. “Oh, God! Please!”
“Say it,” said Zeph. “Say it. Say it t’ us all, how you want t’ get fucked by us, how you want my big black cock shoved up your shitty ass and m’ brother’s big black dick shoved down your throat, how you want m’ cock down your throat and m’ brother’s up your ass. Tell us!” The light shone on his blue-black skin.
“Fuck me, fuck me, shove your cocks down my throat and up my ass, fuck me, let me suck you, fuck me, only get it over with!”
“Get it over with?” said Obie. “That don’t sound very friendly t’ me.” He frowned.
Mac looked around desperately at his captors: Jase, Obie, Zeph, Wick, Frank. Vachel, powerful men standing naked around him, biceps bulging as each fisted his big cock sprouting from the forest of pubic hair. The block cocks had reddish-brown heads, Mac noted; he had never made it with a black guy before, and he had somehow thought the cockhead would be bright red. He noted as he moaned that Obie, Zeph, Frank and Vachel were clipped; the others were as God made them. Good reportorial training to notice details, he though irrelevantly.
“I don’t mean to sound unfriendly,” Mac said falsely humble, “but you got me tied down like a calf ready for branding, like you said, but you don’t understand, I got to meet Bronco Thoms, he promised to meet me, let me go, please, I’ll come back tomorrow and we can get it on, you don’t need to tie me.”
“Ah. Bronco.” said Zeph. “Bronco’s why you’re tied down.” He straddled the bench, sat down with Mac’s head between his legs, slapping his enormous cock with its brown head across Mac’s face. “Yep, Bronco. Bronco don’t give interviews. Bronco don’t like anybody tellin’ him what t’ do, and when some high muckeymuck in Prorodeo calls and orders Bronco t’ give an interview t’ some twerp named Mac Rhodes, Bronco don’t take kindly t’ it. So Bronco set this up, ‘n’ since Broco’s our friend, and especially since there’s a piece of ass involved, we’s glad t’ help Bronco out.”
“Yep.” said Obie. Now he was sitting on the bench behind Mac, and Mac could feel his legs pressing Mac’s even farther apart. Something touched one thigh and then the other, and Mac knew it was Obie’s cock. He was going to get fucked. Or was it Zeph behind him and Obie in front? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell the twins apart, but it didn’t matter, they looked alike and their cocks were exactly alike, that much he had seen, thick black sausages with clipped heads.
Obie went on: “Yep, we’s glad t’ help Bronco out. They ain’t goin’t’ be no interview with Bronco. None a-tall. No, sir, no interview a-tall. Just a good ol’ fashioned gangbang with you as guest’v honor. We goin’t’ teach you a lesson. Bronco lent us a few toys, like the straps ‘n’ the ropes, and the paddle Wick is holdin’, toys just for you. This is your interview!”
He shoved forward and his cock drove into the chute recently fucked by Jase, sliding in on the cum Jase had left there. Mac screamed but the sound was muffled by the big cock driven n at the same time into his open mouth. He was speared at both ends, mouth and ass, by the two big black cocks. Obie and Zeph grinned at each other over the back of the helpless man as they set to work. It was obvious they had worked in tandem before, for they set up a good driving rhythm. Obie going in while Zeph went out, forth and back. Mac groaned around the cock in his throat, his hands clenching the air, his cock hard as it poked from the fork of his belly and his thigh, dripping to the floor.
Mac’s thoughts tumbled. His ass was hot, battered by the black sausage that drove his body forward, forcing his head farther onto the black sausage that pounded his mouth and throat. His helpless position, bed to the bench, unable to resist the attentions of the sweaty studs who surrounded him, plundering his holes, filled him with excitement, reminding him of his stretch in the Marines where he had to take everything his sergeant had to give him. He had bent over then, for the sergeant, for the goddam prick of a lieutenant, even for the goddam prick of a lance corporal who outranked him; he had taken what they had given and come up grinning, a survivor, and by God! he’d survive this, too! His cock throbbed and he wanted to stick it up an ass; he was turned on by the scene, by his helplessness, by the thought of mastery of one man over another; he wanted to fuck, he wanted to fuck Bronco, not these men who were raping him, but Bronco! Bronco who had set him up for this. Bronco who had delivered him into the hands and cocks of his buddies. He vowed as he swallowed cock juice that Bronco would pay, that Bronco would give that interview whether he wanted to or not, that a good reporter never quits, that he’d get that interview come hell or high cock!
Mac realized that Obie and Zeph had changed rhythm. Both were slamming forward at the same time, now, bunching him up between them, both gripping him with their hands, hanging on, and suddenly he was swallowing cum, spurt after spurt of cum, as Obie shot, filling his belly with the white juice. And Zeph in his ass was cumming, too; he could feel the spasms of the cum going through Zeph’s cock clenched by his asshole, or thought he could feel them; maybe all he could feel was the shock of Zeph’s hips against him as Zeph shouted.
Both men shot, and when they finished pulled roughly out. Mac groaned at the brutal withdrawal. He shouted in surprise when a sharp pain struck his ass and filled it, a burning sensation that turned to a dull red ache before it was repeated.
“Whip you ass! Whip your ass good!” shouted Wick, raising the leather paddle that Bronco had lent. “Goin’t’ get me a piece of red hot ass!” And he struck again. And again. Mac cried out with each stroke until Wick tossed the paddle on the floor where Mac could see it and climbed onto the red hot piece of ass. His cock was thicker than Zeph’s, and Mac yelled. It was the last loud sound he made for a while, for immediately his mouth was filled with Frank’s cock, long and thin, snaking its way down his throat until Mac thought it would reach the cock poking its way up his guts.
“The cocksucker likes it,” sneered Jase. “Look, Zeph, Obie, his fuckin’ cock is still hard.”
Mac turned a dull red between his fuckers.
“Nice cock. Too bad ain’t nobody goin’t’ play with it.”
“Gimme that paddle,” grunted Wick, “want t’ heat his ass up some more.”
“I’ll do it,” volunteered Obie.
“OK.”
Each time Wick pulled out of the clenching asshole, Obie smashed the paddle down on the exposed buns, turning them back to the bright red they had been when Wick had finished. Mac cried out, the sounds muffled by cock.
Slap! went Wick’s hips against the helpless spread thighs and cheeks. Smack! went the paddle against the smooth rounded cheeks. Zeph and Jase began to clap in unison each time the paddle connected. The pleasure in Mac’s ass changed to pain, and he felt as if he were on fire. Tears gathered in his eyes as he sucked valiantly on the long cock in his gullet, and his cock wilted, shrank, crept back under his belly for protection.
It seemed a long time, but it was not really, until Wick poured his offering up Mac’s ass. When he dismounted, his place was taken by Zeph, singing “Back in the Saddle Again” before beginning to fuck in earnest the tenderized ass. The paddle was not used again.
Each cowboy was back in the saddle again before he quit, several times back in the saddle, and as they repeatedly fucked him, Mac’s cock hardened again. Mac’s chute could not hold all the cum poured into it, and a stream ran out and down his perineum, over his balls, puddling on the bench before falling to the floor.
Mac lay trembling on the bench, quivering under the repeated assaults. His asshole was tender from the thick cocks that had been shoved up it, and his cheeks were hot and burned, bruised, from the paddling. God! this paddling had been savage, Wick had been like a maniac, it has been beyond anything Mac had ever received or given before, and Mac knew that his ass would be violently black and blue and purple before too many hours passed. But inwardly he glowed that he had taken it all, had taken everything they had given him. His hitherto unadmitted desire to be the victim of a gang rape had come true. All due to Bronco. Bronco! That bastard son of a bitching mother-fucker! The toys. They had been Bronco’s toys. Bronco’s leather toys! Bronco was into leather! Mac’s prick lengthened as he thought of the possibilities. Bronco was into leather!
Bronco was into leather! Mac’s hard cock surged with anticipation.
“Good time,” said Zeph. “Be nice if Bronco wouldn’t give interviews like this more often.”
“Man, I’m tired. If I’d known this reporter here’d be such a good piece of ass I’d’ve fucked Sammy Blake only twice instead of four times this afternoon, saved some of that for Mac here. I’m right tuckered out,” said Vachel.
“Me, too,” echoed Frank. “You take the toys back t’ Bronco?”
“I will,” said Jase.
They dressed. All but Jase left.
Jase untied Mac’s ankles, put the ropes and leather straps and the paddle into a paper bag. He did the same for Mac’s wrists. The bag held toys they hadn’t used, too. Mac pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbed his wrists. His prick stuck ceiling-ward between his thighs; his balls sprawled loosely in their sac.
“Your clothes’re in that locker.” Jase nodded his head toward one. “Your other things’re in that case, right where you left it,” nodding toward the carrying case where it sat on another bench.
Mac leaned over, opened the locker and pulled his clothes onto the bench. He shrugged into his shirt.
“It’s been a pleasure havin’ your company, Mac. I surely do appreciate your droppin’ in like this, ‘cause I was wonderin’ who I was goin’t’ fuck t’night, ‘n’ you solved my problems. Much obliged. See you again some time, I hope. Now, you just fuck off back t’ your newspaper and tell them Bronco don’t give interviews.”
Jase sauntered from the room carrying the toy bag.
Mac scrambled into his clothes, tossing the jockeys into the locker, not having time to put them on–or wanting to put them on. His socks he stuffed into a pocket, his bare feet into his loafers, his prick down his left pants leg. He was still buttoning his fly with one hand when he picked up the carrying case and slung it over his shoulder. He hurried out, hoping that Jase would still be in sight.
Jase was taking the toys to Bronco. Jase was going to lead him to Bronco.
Bronco owed him an interview!
Jase was just going through a swinging door when Mac saw him. Just in time! Mac followed cautiously, tucking in his shirt.
Jase walked through the stable area, checking on the horses, before leaving the Amphitheatre and walking the several blocks to the New York Penn Hotel. He went to a house phone, and Mac managed to get close enough around a corner to hear him ask for the room number.
“Bronco? Jase. Just checkin’ t’ see if you’re in. Busy?… I’ll drop your toys off now, then… Like clockwork… The guy took it like a trouper. Humpy number. A real live one. You should’ve seen him, tied down t’ the bench, cock in both ends, and his own hard as a rock till Wick went paddle mad, but he was hard again by the time we all finished… Well, we taught him a lesson, like you said, but I’m not sure he learned it. I mean t’ say, he may be after you t’morrow, said you promised him an interview… I’ll bring ’em up now. Good toys. Some day you’ll have t’ show me how they all work. I think maybe Sammy Blake’d go for havin’ his ass blistered before gettin’ fucked… You have?… Well… Maybe you c’d demonstrate the toys on Sammy t’morrow night, show me how, let me try on his ass… Yeah… See you in a minute.”
Jase hung up and strode to the elevator.
Mac went into the bar and had a beer, knowing he’d have to give Jase time to see Bronco and leave. He put on his socks. Drinking, he realized he needed to piss, that he had not pissed for hours. He started to the john, was struck by a thought, went back to his seat and finished his beer, ordering another. He’d piss later. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. His ass was tender and he sat lightly, flexing those muscles. His cock lay hard over his left thigh, and absently Mac stroked it while he thought about the leather games he had played in the past, about the toys Bronco had lent and how he’d use them tonight, about other toys Bronco might have.
He wondered what Walter Cronkite would do in this situation. Walter Cronkite would get the interview somehow.
Mac realized the bartender was licking his lips, staring at his big erect blatant cock. Mac and the bartender were alone in the bar. Mac grinned and reached inside his fly, openly adjusted his cock so it slid down his leg, buttoned up and smiled at the bartender who looked up at his face just then. Mac said, “Some other time. I got a date right now.” Tongue-tied, the bartender blushed scarlet and nodded. Mac went out.
On the house phone, Mac asked for Jase’s room, checking to make sure he wasn’t still with Bronco.
Jase answered. “Yeah?”
“Herman?” said Mac in a squeaky voice. “I got the chicks in room 703. Come on down.”
“Wrong number,” laughed Jase. “You have a good time.”
“Sorry,” squeaked Mac, and hung up.
Bronco was alone, unless he had company Mac knew nothing of. He’d have to take the chance.
Mac rode the elevator to Bronco’s floor, thinking, planning.
The corridor was empty.
Mac put his carrying case on the floor next to Bronco’s door.
Mac knocked.
“Who is it?”
“Telegram,” said Mac.
“Put it under the door. I’m in bed.”
“Sorry, but you have to sign for it.”
“Goddamit. All right, I’m coming.”
A few seconds later the door was opened by a tall man who had just slid into Levi’s, only the top button was buttoned, and his pubic hair spilled out the open fly.
It was Bronco.
He scratched his tousled hair, blinked his sleepy eyes.
“Yeah? Where is it?”
“Here, Sir,” said Mac, and swung, connecting his right fist with Bronco’s belly. Bronco’s belly was flat and hard, but he was unprepared, and he bent over with a whoosh. Mac connected again with an upper cut, solid on Bronco’s chin. Bronco staggered backward and Mac followed with two more punches. Bronco fell to the floor, groaning, dazed, trying to get his breath.
Mac swiftly brought in his carrying case, dropped it next to the door which he locked and chained.
He turned to Bronco.
Bronco was lying on the floor, twitching, moaning, not unconscious but not really conscious either.
Mac looked about. Only the two of them were in the room.
There were two twin beds in the room. Bronco had obviously gotten out of one of them.
Mac went to work.
He stripped Bronco and carried him to the used bed, dumped him down unceremoniously on his belly, noting that Bronco was unclipped, which pleased him as he spreadeagled the semiconscious cowboy.
The paper bag Jase had brought was on the floor next to the suitcase rack. Mac took it, dumped it open on the bed, fastened the black leather straps on Bronco as they had been fastened on Mac himself. He tied Bronco’s wrists with the ropes. Bronco was placed about half-way on the bed, the foot of the bed at his belly. Mac spread Bronco’s arms wide, like the T-bar of a cross, and fastened the ropes to the mattress frames and spring. The knots were not so pretty as those Zeph and Obie had tied, but they were good knots. They’d hold.
Bronco smelled of sweat, his and his horse’s. He hadn’t showered after the rodeo, had set out while Vachel had waylaid Mac on his way to the interview. And obviously he hadn’t showered once he’d reached his room.
Bronco began groaning, and Mac knew he’d call for help when he realized what was happening. Mac looked around. A small black leather case stood next to the suitcase and hanging over one edge of the top opening was a silver chain. Bronco’s toy case! Mac dumped it all on the floor, quickly taking the piss gag that fell to one side. He jammed it in Bronco’s mouth, fastened the straps behind the cowboy’s head and buckled it tightly. The gag itself consisted of a tube of some black plastic material, about two inches long. One end of the tube was fixed into a hard-rubber and metal ring which was fastened to the head straps. The tube went into the mouth, the teeth bit on the rubber-metal circle, and through the diameter of I inches could be poured liquids. Mac knew what liquid he’d be pouring.
Mac spread Bronco’s legs wide apart, so his feet fell over the bed’s edges. He took three pillows and roped them together, stuffed them under Bronco’s belly so his ass was elevated. Mac tied Bronco’s feet to the bed legs, then tied a rope to each of Bronco’s knees and ran these to the head of the bed where he tied them to the front legs of the bed. Bronco was immobilized, tied down the same way Mac had been roped, wrists and arms outstretched, legs spread wide, knees pulled forward, ass raised up toward the ceiling. His brown puckered asshole was exposed. Defenseless. Helpless. Vulnerable. Waiting.
The raunchy smell of horse was strongest between Bronco’s legs.
Mac went back to the door and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside, relocked and rechained the door.
Then he slowly undressed, putting his clothes on the low dresser and went to the toy collection where he looked at everything. He had similar toys in his own apartment, he noted. He made a selection which he carried to the bed.
Bronco was stirring now, aware he was helpless, tied, in bondage. He tested his bonds, twisting, groaning, threatening through the piss gag, but his words were unintelligible.
He turned his head, trying to see his assailant, failing.
He shrieked in surprise when Mac roughly grabbed his balls and pulled them down to the bottom of their sac, fastened the wide, studded ball-stretcher around the scrotum compressing the skin inside the narrow tube. The stretcher was lined with tiny sharp pins that caught the thin skin and pricked painfully as they embedded themselves. Mac squeezed the stretcher, pressing the pins firmly in place, and Bronco cried out in agony. Mac fastened a tight strap to separate the resilient large balls, squeezing them tighter in their confined space, and was rewarded with more groans of pain. The skin was stretched taut over the hairy balls, turning a rich red, the veins clearly showing. Mac snapped his finger against one ball and Bronco shouted into his gag, twisting frantically in his bondage, his back arched and his head thrown back. Mac snapped the other ball and Bronco responded the same way, only his yell was more agonized. Mac chuckled. Another snap, another yell. Again. Again, and Again. Bronco was moaning continuously now. His ass was covered with sweat.
Bronco’s noise caused Mac to turn on the radio; heavy rock and roll would hide future noise.
Mac opened the tube of deep heat and put a gob on his hand. He stared down at the helpless stud tied before him. Bronco was 38, the morgue accounts had said, but he looked younger than that in the Amphitheatre, and here, while looking older than in the Amphitheatre, looked younger than his years. Bronco had dark brown hair which matched his full mustache. His back was smooth and lightly tanned–the really tanned parts were his face, his neck, his wrists and lower arms and hands, the parts which were in the sun a lot. His ass cheeks were milk white and smooth, lightly covered with brown down that grew heavier on his legs and arms. His chest was lightly covered with a lawn of soft brown hair which concentrated around his nipples and his pecs and especially around the base of his cock. His sac was covered with the same soft hair. He exuded power and masculinity. He was a few years older than Mac, and Mac preferred men older than himself.
He was the type that Mac dreamed about, dreams that’d be wet if Mac didn’t cum so often during waking hours.
Mac rubbed the deep heat thickly over the taut skin of the trapped distended balls. The gel was cool and soothing at first, icy, but as the heat penetrated. Bronco began to buck and snort, jerking wildly in his bondage, moaning and crying out. He twisted and thrashed on the bed. The bonds held. His balls felt as if they were on fire, cindering, red hot coals of charcoal. He groaned incessantly now, and Mac thought it prudent to stuff something in the open mouth hole, muffling the sounds further. Mac grinned, wiped his sticky fingers on Bronco’s nipples, reaching under the bound chest to do so. The resultant heat there drove Bronco to further struggles, moans.
Mac went back to the leather case, took the filthy unwashed piss- and cum- and shit-stained jock strap, well used and raunchy. He rubbed it over Bronco’s nose so he had to inhale the ripe smells, and stuffed it in the opening of the piss gag. Bronco could not breathe without drawing into his lungs the smells of dried piss and shit and cum from the gag right below his nostrils.
Mac grinned again, his cock hard, as it had been since he left the locker room.
Mac took a condom he found in the toy kit. With a knife he cut the head off the condom and then slid it over his throbbing shaft, fixing it firmly at the base of his cock. Only the lower six inches were contained in the transparent sheath; the shiny head and foreskin were exposed.
Mac took a paddle, he thought the same paddle that Wick had used on him, stood between Bronco’s spread legs, and let fly. Bronco grunted and then yelled through the gas the pain spread through his right cheek. A dull red flush appeared where the paddle had struck. Mac waited, and then struck the other cheek. A yell, muffled through the gag. Waited, and struck the first one again. Another yell. Waited and struck the second. A yell. Grinned all the while. Waited, and struck.
Bronco’s jerkings and yells and whimperings made Mac’s cock pulse even harder, get thicker, stretch the condom sheath tighter.
After the helpless ass was bright red and glowing and hot to the touch, Mac took Bronco’s own belt and whipped him. Shoulders, back, thighs, lastly his ass. He did not aim for the taut deep-heated stretched balls, but once in a while the edge of the belt would hit the balls, and Bronco’s gagged yells would be even louder, more agonized. Mac kept grinning. Sweat glowed on his body.
He picked up the tube of deep heat again, rubbed the get over the sheath of the condom so it was thickly coated, rubbed more over the already heated balls, wiped his fingers again on the tender nipples. Bronco struggled and twisted, crying out almost continuously as the icy fire penetrated. The ropes were jerked from point to point, but the knots were good. Sweat beaded Bronco’s back and legs, dripped from his armpits.
Mac fucked him with no warning, just plunging his cock into the helpless puckered opening, driving all the way in in one long stroke. He rested against Bronco’s back, safe in the nest at last, fucking as he had wanted to fuck since he first saw the cowboy in the rodeo on Friday. He did not move, letting Bronco feel deep inside his chute the deep heat from the condom, feel that he was burning up inside as well as outside.
The cowboy bucked, living up to his name, trying to dislodge his rider. Mac rode his bucking Bronco.
“Feel it, Bronco.” he growled, “feel my cock up your shitty ass! Love it, Bronco, ’cause I ain’t taking it out till I cum, it’s going to stay up your ass till I shoot my load. Bronco, they call you Bronco, well, you’re going to act like a bronco, you’re going to give me a ride, a good ride, I ain’t moving my hips at all. You’re going to do all the work, you’re going to fuck yourself on my cock, so move your hips. Bronco boy, move your hips, make me cum, make me, ’cause I ain’t leaving your ass until you make me cum.”
Bronco did not need the encouragement. Within the limited movements allowed by his bondage as he moved, thrashed around, jerked and pulled, bucked his hips up and down, trying desperately to make Mac cum, to get Mac out of his rarely fucked ass, to get the burning fire in his ass put out. Mac held on while Bronco gave him a ride, his hands on Bronco’s arms, his feet on the floor between Bronco’s legs, his prick embedded deep in Bronco’s ass.
He rode as Bronco bucked.
The deep heat diminished and Bronco found himself used to the big prick stuffing his asshole, and his hip movements slowed. Mac was prepared for this. He reached between their legs and pulled Bronco’s prick out so it stuck down against the pillows, pointing toward the floor. Its hardness proved to Mac that Bronco was digging this action, maybe not all of it, but part–most-of it. Pity they had to meet this way. And the way Mac handled his prick proved to Bronco that indeed he himself was digging this action, was digging being plowed. There was no doubt about it.
Mac wondered if Bronco was a bottom man, or a top, usually.
Bronco lay still, gently flexing his ass muscles around Mac’s prick, talking through the gag. Mac just put more deep heat on his fingers and rubbed it over the tight balls again, and this time coated the hard down-pointed pecker. Bronco stirred as the icey fire penetrated the shaft and the sensitive head. More gel went on his nipples.
Bronco bucked.
Bronco gave Mac a ride until Mac shot, and shot, and shot. It seemed as if he’d never stop shooting, and Mac fell heavily on top of Bronco, still writhing and bucking beneath him, still hard. Bronco had not cum. Sweat glued them together.
When he caught his breath Mac pulled out and stood unsteadily on his feet, one hand resting on the flogged ass still writhing and gently bucking from the deep heat.
Mac pulled the condom off and tossed it away. He walked to the head of the bed and sat, sliding his feet and legs under Bronco’s bound arms, stretching those bound arms upward.
Bronco looked up as best he could at the man who had mastered him. Mac eased himself into position and slid his cock into the tight fitting piss gag after taking out the jock. The tube was a tight sheath around his cock. He worked forward until his cock extended beyond the two-inch tube in Bronco’s mouth. His cockhead felt Bronco’s tongue and the roof of Bronco’s mouth. Bronco began to suck the cock that had just fucked him.
Mac relaxed, his upper back and head against the headboard.
Bronco, his mouth stuffed with piss gag and with cock, looked up the length of Mac’s body, past the thick hair at the base of the tube, past the smooth flat belly and arched pecs with their high-riding nipples to the smooth good-looking face topped with honey blond hair. Mac was grinning at him. Bronco wanted to grin back. He couldn’t. His cock was still hard, throbbing, pointed down, tight against the pillows.
Mac slid lower, and more cock went into Bronco’s mouth. Mac’s cock thickened and the piss tube got tighter. Mac’s pubic hair tickled Bronco’s nose.
“Hi, Bronco. I’m Mac Rhodes. I’m a reporter with the New York Spectator. You made an appointment with me to give me an interview tonight in the locker room of the Amphitheatre, but you didn’t show up; some of your buddies did, though. Now, I’m sure you’re an honorable man–cowboys are noted for defending their honor, aren’t they? Seems so in all those cowboy movies and books–and as an honorable man you want to keep your word. You want to give me that interview. I’m sorry you didn’t show up, ‘cause then you and me’d have met under other circumstances, maybe better circumstances, we wouldn’t have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’ve a feeling we’d have been good friends, right good friends–maybe we still can, once I get my interview.”
He shifted position slightly.
Bronco tried to talk around the cock and gag. His ass was still gently bucking up and down, his asshole twitching.
“Now, you hush. Bronco. Seems to me you’ve done enough talking; talking to your buddies is what got you here, tied up on your bed with your ass all whipped and red and your asshole stuffed with cock and deep heat and your mouth stuffed with cock and gag and your balls burning, and you in bondage so you can’t enjoy my cock as much as you could.” Mac ran his fingers over the piss gag and jock strap. “And your toys. You got some nice toys. I bet you like to use them on other people. Wonder how you like having some of them used on your?” Mac leaned forward, cupping Bronco’s ass cheeks, driving his cock deeper into Bronco’s throat. “Your ass is tender,” and Bronco wiggled, pressed against his hands and then against the bed. “You’re going to have fun sitting on your bucking bull tomorrow in the rodeo. Hey! Your cock is still hard,” and Mac fingered the stiff prick. “I wonder if you liked the rough stuff or if it’s just me that turned you on, or what.”
He laughed, spanked each tender cheek, leaned back. Bronco groaned and twisted in his bondage.
“Bronco, you’re in a quandary. You got a choice of two things. First choice, you can give me the interview you promised and maybe, just maybe, you and I can become friends. Or, second, when I take that gag out, you can refuse.”
Mac shifted on the bed as he felt his internal plumbing adjust. “Aaaahhh,” he sighed, and the long pent-up stream of piss flowed through his cock. “I like the feel of a good strong piss, don’t you, Bronco?” he asked as the hot r’ream flowed into Bronco’s mouth and Bronco’s belly. Bronco jerked his head when he realized that Mac was pissing in him, but he could do nothing; the cock was too deep in his throat to spit out. He slumped and his head fell forward. His eyes closed as he humbly accepted the salty flow. “Drink it all, Bronco, drink it all, drink all my good hot yellow piss,” murmured Mac. Bronco drank, submitting, his humiliation deepening as his belly filled. Mac patted his head.
Mac went on when he finished pissing.
“Like I said, you can refuse to give me the interview. In that case, this is what I’ll do. I’ll take my felt tipped pen and write on you, in big black letters,” and as he spoke the words Mac leaned forward and indicated where on Bronco’s ass he would write, “ ‘Whip me and fuck me.’ And I’ll call Jase and Wick and the twins and Vachel and the rest and I’ll tell them I’m you, Bronco. I’ll tell them you’ve got a trick tied up in your room, good body and really digs the rough stuff, that you’ve got to go out for the night to stay with another trick and you don’t want the one tied up in your room to feel lonely, so Jase and the rest can come in and whip and fuck the trick tied to your bed, use your toys on him, and you’ll have put a hood over the trick’s head so he can’t recognize them. Well, they won’t be able to see the trick’s face, either. And you. Bronco, will be that hooded trick. You’ll be hooded and tied with the printing on your ass just waiting for Vachel and the others to come in and whip you and fuck you and maybe use some of your other toys on you, and they won’t know it’s you. Bronco, you, their buddy. Bronco Thoms the champion. How’s that sound, Bronco? Sound like fun?”
He caressed Bronco’s hair.
Bronco’s eyes were still closed.
“That’s the choices you got: you give me my interview or you get whipped and fucked by your buddies. Shall I get my tape recorder ready for the interview? Which is it going to be, Bronco?”
Mac slid back, eased his cock out of Bronco’s mouth, unbuckled the straps and released Bronco’s head from the gag. Bronco worked his strained jaw and lips, licking them and clearing his throat, looked at the big cock an inch in front of his mouth, looked beyond the cock into Mac’s eyes.
Mac looked at Bronco, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Bronco licked his lips again.
“Well, Bronco? How about that interview?”
