TITLE    : Room Service
STORYID  : room-service-20
SUMMARY  : Drink before sex can loosen a guy up-maybe too much!
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2006-10-07
CATEGORY : gay-sex-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |penis|cock|dick|prick|balls|ass|asshole|butt|buttocks|semen|


The flight from L. A., although mercifully short, was horrible. First-class accommodations were sold out, so I had to fly coach. There was no legroom. A fat fucker sat next to me, in the aisle seat, hogged the armrest between us, stank of foul body odor the origin of which I'd refused to consider, and talked incessantly (mostly to himself, as I refused to carry on a conversation, and, it appeared, he wanted only to use me as an ear for his soliloquies on politics, religion, sex, and the "conspiracy of the fast-food industry" to kill him), wedging me between his massive bulk and the window. We hit turbulence a few miles outside of L. A. X., and the pilot seemed to do everything possible to ensure that we rode this roller coaster of air currents all the way to our destination, San Diego. I thought I'd puke--several times; my seatmate did. To make matters even worse (as if they weren't bad enough), the idiot in front of me leaned his seat back until it was mere inches from my face. Behind me, a baby started wailing--non-stop, as it turned out, all the way from the City of Angels to America's Finest City, as L. A. and San Diego bill themselves, respectively. Twenty minutes into the flight, the air conditioning failed. When I finally arrived, hot, tired, and irritable, at San Diego International, my luggage, I found, had decided to remain aboard the jet and, consequently, was bound to Miami!



I'd come to San Diego for a souvenirs-and-novelties convention. I sell the latter, in a chain of stores I own that stretches across the country, from border to border and from sea to shining sea. Called What A Notion!, there's at least one shop in each of the fifty states and several in those that comprise the major markets. I do quite well; one would be surprised at the amount of money in kitsch (or perhaps not). To paraphrase P. T. Barnum, one might say that no one ever went broke underestimating the tastelessness of the American public.



The convention wasn't until the next day, so I decided to go directly to my hotel, the Ritz, which overlooks the harbor, offering a beautiful view of the water, especially at night. At last, I'd be able to cool off and relax in luxurious surroundings. Then, later, after a bit of exercise in the weight room, a refreshing dip in the pool, and a relaxing session in the Jacuzzi, I'd settle back for a movie over dinner, courtesy of room service. Tomorrow, I could shop for some clothes to wear to the convention.



I checked in, explaining to the clerk at the front desk that the services of a bellhop would not be necessary because the airline had sent my luggage on a vacation to Florida, obtained the keycard to my room, on the eighteenth floor, overlooking the San Diego Harbor, and walked the marble floor of the football field-length lobby to the bank of elevators in the distant Tower One Access vestibule.



"Good afternoon, sir," the operator said as I entered the carpeted car. "Which floor, please?"



"Eighteenth."



He pushed the button, and the car ascended skyward.



Halfway up, I remembered that my swimsuit was on its way to the Sunshine State. Like it or not, I'd have to visit one of the hotel's shops, hoping the store would sell swim trunks. A bit embarrassed, I explained my predicament to the operator, concluding, "I guess I'll have to go back down."



"May I offer a suggestion, sir?"



I nodded. "Please."



"Why not send for room service? I'm sure the hotel can dispatch someone to take care of this errand for you."



"I'm not sure of my size."



"I wouldn't be concerned about that, sir; the staff is very capable."



What the hell? I thought. I had nothing to lose, and I didn't like the idea of bothering with buying a swimsuit, although I did want to take a swim and sit in the Jacuzzi. "Good idea," I agreed, tipping the operator well before stepping out of the car and making my way down the quarter-mile stretch of hallway that led to my room.



A spacious suite, with two bedrooms, a cavernous living room stuffed with plush furniture, including overstuffed leather couches, a big-screen television, and a wet bar, and two full baths, my room--or rooms--boasted a balcony that overlooked the harbor, providing a view of the sailboats, speedboats, yachts, and, farther out at sea, Navy battleships. The beach was a crescent of sand, separating the ocean's surf from the lines of houses and storefronts that lined the boardwalk upon which joggers jogged, skaters skated, and bicyclists bicycled. Bikini-clad girls and sun-bronzed boys played volleyball, threw Frisbees, or tanned beneath the bright-hot California sun. No wonder everyone loved the Golden State. The climate was superb, and the scenery was breathtaking.



I turned from the spectacular view, crossed the carpet to the telephone, and pressed the button next to the "Room Service" button.



"Room Service," a polished, polite, feminine voice announced. "How may I assist you, please?"



A blowjob would be nice, I thought, smiling. "This is Randy Hollis, Suite 1818. I'd like someone to fit me for a swimsuit. And I need to order a few toilet articles. Is that possible?"



"Of course, sir. Someone will be right up."



"Thank you."



I poured myself a scotch on the rocks. A double. By the time I'd drunk it, there was a rap at my door, and a male's voice announced, "Bellhop."



The hotel had sent a bellhop to fit me for a swimsuit? They should have dispatched a tailor. In my opinion, one of the stars of this five-star establishment had just fallen.



I opened the door to a young man who was so handsome that the absurd uniform he wore wasn't able to make him look ridiculous. He had close-cropped, light-brown hair, a trim mustache, dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, symmetrical features, and a good build. I wondered what he looked like in a swimsuit. Not bad, I'd bet. He'd look even better, though, without any clothes on at all, I thought. "Come in," I invited, and he stepped past me, allowing me a glimpse of his firm, compact buttocks.



"Room Service told me they'd send someone up to fit me for a swimsuit."



The bellhop smiled. "That's why I'm here, sir." I guess he saw my skepticism, because he added, "Don't worry; I used to be a tailor."



"A tailor?" I repeated, wondering why a tailor would be working as a bellhop.



Again, he seemed to read my mind. "I've been a lot of things--bellhop, tailor, disc jockey, masseuse, to name only a few."



"Masseuse?" I'd love to have him run his hands over me, preferably while I was nude.



"I still do massages," he informed me. "By the way, my name is Rick."



I blushed, wondering if he'd read my thoughts. "I'll keep that in mind," I replied, pausing before I added, "Rick."



"What sort of swimsuit do you have in mind?"



I shrugged. "Something for the pool and the Jacuzzi." I explained how my wardrobe, such as it was, was winging its way to Miami.



Rick looked me up and down, with more, it seemed to me, than a professional tailor's concerns in mind. His gaze lingered on my crotch and seemed to caress my abs and chest. "Turn around, please," he requested.



I turned.



After a moment, during which I was intensely aware of his gaze upon my buttocks, he said, "You'd look good in a thong."



I gulped, unsure of what, if anything, to say. Finally, I said, "Thanks, but wouldn't that be a little too--uh, daring--for the Ritz?"



"Maybe you're right, sir," he said.



I turned back around, and Rick was standing only a foot or so away from me. He'd stepped close while I'd had my back turned. I swallowed, having caught a glimpse of his crotch; there was, no mistake about it, a bulge there that hadn't been present a few moments ago. My own cock felt stiff, too, and it showed through the fabric of my trousers. If he'd noticed my burgeoning erection, Rick didn't give any indication of his awareness of it. Instead, he said, "Let's measure you."



Measure me? What did he mean? I wondered, thinking, as men do, immediately of my cock. Did he intend to measure the length of my manhood. "It's seven inches, erect," I almost blurted, "and circumcised." Instead, mercifully, I uttered nothing more than, "Okay."



Rick reached into a pocket of his uniform, producing a tape-measure. He circled my waist with it. In an approving tone, he said "Mmm. Thirty-two inches." Then, he measured an inch or two along my inner thigh, tugging the tape firmly beneath my scrotum. "Mmm," he repeated, sounding as if he were sampling something sweet to eat. He looked into my eyes, holding our gaze for a few moments, showing me his desire and, no doubt, reading my own as well, before asking, "What color do you like? Do you prefer solids or patterns?" His words were appropriate to the topic at hand, but his tone suggested that he was talking about something entirely different than a pair of swim trunks.



I didn't break his gaze--our gaze. "Whatever you think best," I managed to reply.



After a long moment's pause, he said, "I think you'd like another drink."



"What makes you think I've had anything to drink?"



He indicated my empty glass with a nod of his head. "I saw the glass. Besides, I could smell the liquor on your breath. Scotch, right?"



I smiled. "Right."



"Let me pour you another," he suggested.



I shrugged. "Okay."



He picked up my glass and took it to the bar. I heard the clink of ice in the glass. "You like it straight up, I'd say," he declared.



"Do you?" I asked, aware of the double entendre.



"Oh, yeah!"



He poured the amber liquid into the glass and brought it to me. Handing me the drink, he said, with a wink, "Down the hatch."



I took a sip.



"How is it?" Rick asked.



"Perfect." I took another, longer sip. The excellent scotch warmed my throat and stomach.



He turned, smiling, and crossed the room. At the door, he looked back at me, smiling anew--or, perhaps, still smiling--and said, "I'll pick something perfect for you."



I nodded.



"Maybe you'd like a massage to go with your new suit?"



I swallowed, although there was no liquor in my mouth at the moment, and nodded.



Rick's smile broadened, and he winked at me. As if he were making a promise rather than an announcement, he said, "I'll be right back." He made a parting suggestion--"Why not relax with a drink or two?"--and the door closed behind him.



With afternoon drifting into twilight and lights beginning to shine out of the gathering gloom, I drank several more drinks before Rick's knock sounded at my door.



In his hands, he bore my suit. It wasn't a thong. It was a pair of dark forest green trunks that accentuated my complexion and, if I do say so myself, looked fabulous on me.



I'd slipped into one of the bathrooms to try on the suit. Rick had insisted upon seeing them on me, to make sure that, in measure and in taste, he had not been amiss. Reassured, he said, "Take them off, lie face down in bed, and I'll give you the massage you requested."



I started for the bathroom in which, a few minutes ago, I had doffed my clothes in favor of the swimsuit.



"Don't bother with the bathroom," Rick suggested. "Strip in the bedroom; it'll save time."



Strip? His use of this word made it impossible for me to rationalize my action in removing the swimsuit as anything other than what it was--stripping. I shrugged, slipping my thumbs under the elastic waistband and pushing the trunks down my thighs, over my knees, and past my calves, stepping out of the abbreviated shorts, and exposing my buttocks to the bellhop's gaze. I could all but feel his stare upon those twin spheres. I knew I had a nice ass. The mirror, women, and other men had told me countless times that my buttocks were "sexy," "beautiful," and "handsome."



Rick added another superlative: "Excellent!"



I turned, and his eyes found my genitals. My seven-inch, circumcised cock was half-erect above the large, loose pouch of my scrotum, in which my balls dangled--invitingly, I hoped.



"Magnificent!" Rick complimented me.



After staring another long moment at my burgeoning erection and my tightening sac, the bellhop proposed that I "climb into bed," lie on my "tummy," and close my eyes.



I did as he bid me to do, and I felt the mattress sag on either side of me as, a minute or so later, Rick, joining me, straddled my thighs. I felt the bare flesh of his own upper legs against my outer thighs, and his cock brushed against the backs of my thighs as he shifted on his knees, adjusting his position. I realized that he'd stripped out of his clothes, too, and that, like me, he was naked!



Again, he complimented me--or, rather, my ass: "Your butt is the best-looking I've ever seen."



I chuckled. "I'll bet you say that to all the boys."



My joke fetched me a sharp slap upon my ass, and I winced. "Hey!"



"One doesn't joke about perfection, sir," Rick admonished me. "Some things still are sacred, one of which is a perfect bottom."



His hands closed over my shoulders, opening and flexing. Then, he shifted the balls of his hands up and down my shoulder blades, alternating their directions so that, as the left ascended, the right descended. My muscles began to relax under the magic of his touch and, as they did, the stress of the day evaporated. I sighed, concentrating all my attention upon Rick's stroking, kneading, jabbing, flexing, rubbing, twisting hands and fingers. His efforts, along with the alcohol I'd drunk, were beginning to loosen me up.



His hands worked their way down my back, thumbs pressing each vertebra of my spine and fingers rubbing and pressing my back muscles. With each stroke and compression, the muscles loosened further, and I became more and more relaxed. My body went limp under Rick's touch. His hands were as dexterous and skilled as any concert pianist's. My breathing deepened, and I almost went to sleep, but I forced myself to remain awake so that I could enjoy the massage that Rick was administering to me.



He did not skirt or skip my buttocks. Instead, he gripped these mounds of muscle in his powerful hands, flexing his fingers so that their tips went deep into the gluteus maximi, working them firmly but gently, as if these firm-soft globes were dough to be kneaded. He manipulated my ass cheeks with expertise, relaxing them as well and as thoroughly as he had the muscles of my shoulders and back. A thumb pressed into the cleavage between my buttocks, teasing the tiny, tight, puckered muscle of my anus. The tip of his thumb dipped inside this hidden portal, wriggled insistently for a moment, and then withdrew. My cock sprang to full bloom between my groin and belly and the mattress upon which I lay, my balls rising inside my tightening scrotum. His touch of this secret, intimate part ignited my passion, and I willed him to shove his thumb all the way through my anus, past the guardian sphincter, and into my rectum. Instead, after teasing me as he had, Rick ignored my asshole, as he did my ass, and turned his attention to my thighs.



He scooted down the bed, his knees pressing the mattress alongside my knees and calves and his dangling cock rubbing against the backs of my legs as he repositioned himself. After he'd gained the position he wanted, he massaged me again, this time his hands and fingers pumping and squeezing and chopping lightly at my lower legs. The muscles loosened, relaxing, and I felt as if I were in heaven, lying upon a cloud rather than in a bed and being caressed by an angel instead of being massaged by a bellhop. I was nearly asleep when I felt the second resounding slap upon my buttocks.



"Ouch!" I protested. "What was that for?"



"Turn over," he said as he rose from the bed to allow me to reposition myself.



I rolled onto my back. Stiff and upright, my swollen cock was a tower; its rigid, insistent state brought a smile to Rick's lips, and he said, "Beautiful!" 



I half-expected him to grab and squeeze my prick, but he resumed his position, straddling my thighs. As he did, I observed that, like me, he also had an erection. Jutting stiffly from his groin, his cock, which exceeded mine in length by approximately three inches, was every bit as swollen as my own, and, like my member, his was circumcised, crowned with a glans as rich in color as a ripened plum. Without thought, I echoed his own sentiment regarding my cock: "Beautiful!"



"Close your eyes," he said.



I did, and his hands and fingers worked their magic on the front of me, massaging my shoulders, my chest, and my stomach. When he reached my waist, he skipped my genitals, resuming the massage with my thighs and working his way down my calves. His rub-down of my tired and aching flesh included my ankles, feet, and toes, and he ministered to these parts of my body with every bit as much enthusiasm and earnestness as he had shown when he'd tended to the rest of my body. When, at last, he'd finished, I was totally relaxed and limp. The terrible flight and all the stress of the day were forgotten as if they had never happened. I felt rejuvenated.



My eyes were still closed when his hand closed around my cock.



I opened them, lifting myself upon my elbows, and stared down, past my naked chest and belly at his fist curled round my stiff-standing organ. There must have been a quizzical expression on my face, for he said:



"Lie back. Close your eyes. Be still. Your session's not over yet."



I followed his directive.



Rick's fingers, already coiled loosely around my cock, tightened their grip, making a firm fist. His closed hand pumped up and down, drawing and shoving the skin back and forth upon the stiff, swollen shaft of my penis. Already erect, my cock stiffened still more, swelled to yet-greater dimensions, and throbbed, twitched, and jerked. My balls ached inside the contracted pouch of my scrotum. Rick's fist pumped more rapidly, jerking my cock and driving the taut skin more forcefully up and down upon the straining, lurching shaft. It wouldn't take long, as this rate, for me to reach orgasm--and ejaculation. I wished he'd slow the tempo a bit. I didn't want to come too soon; I wanted the pleasure of his magic touch to last a while, before . . . .



Again, as if reading my thoughts, Rick's almost frantic hand-pumping of my prick slowed.



My eyelids fluttered.



"Keep your eyes closed!" Rick ordered. "Stay still!"



I did, concentrating on the whirling eddies that fluttered and stirred within my loins, on the heavy breathing of my lungs, on the rapidity of my pulse, and the quickening of my heartbeat.



I waited.



The air was cool upon my exposed flesh. I felt my nipples harden.



I continued to wait.



I'd always thought that the phrase "sound of silence" a contradiction at best and an inanity at worst, but, now, I understood its meaning and knew what a deafening noise the absence of sound can make, especially when it is accompanied by absolute stillness.



With an effort, I kept my eyes closed, waiting patiently, faithfully.



I heard the ticking of a clock. No. It wasn't a clock, or even a watch. The alarm clock on the table beside the bed was electric, and the pulse of electrons within its wires and circuitry were too muted to be heard. The faint tick-tock, metronome-of-a-sound that I heard was the beating of my own heart. In the silence of this still room, it sounded louder and louder.



I would have supposed that Rick had left me alone in the room, except that there was no way that he could have lifted his leg over me, scooted to the edge of the bed, and stood without the mattress alerting me of his movements, nor was it likely that he'd have been able to dress and exit the hotel suite without my hearing at least the sound of the closing door.



I waited for him to say something, to do something.



At first, the silent stillness was a welcome interlude between Rick's massaging of my flesh and his masturbation of my cock. Then, it became something of an annoyance. Now, it was not only disconcerting but, somehow, a little frightening. Initially, I had supposed the bellhop to have been heightening the effect of his massaging and masturbation of my body and my sex by purposefully interposing a period of silence and stillness between sessions of sound and action, but, were that his intention, he had already accomplished this objective, and, still, he made neither sound nor movement, nor would he allow me to do so. What other motive might he have for maintaining such silence, such stillness?

<hr pg="2" />As several unsavory possibilities presented themselves to my imagination, my cock wilted.



Perhaps he was planning to rob me!



"I've been a lot of things--bellhop, tailor, disc jockey, masseuse, to name only a few," Rick had told me earlier. Did his list of past vocations include robber? I wondered.



A darker thought occurred to me. Maybe this bellhop meant to kill me!



Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to open my eyes. I must see what this man astride my calves and ankles intended to do to me!



"Don't do it!" he warned.



Again, it was as if the bastard could read my mind!



I dared not disobey him. What if a knife were inches from my throat--or eyes? If I defied him, would he plunge the sharp, pointed blade into my throat, my eyes, or, worst of all, my scrotum? Would he leave me dying, blind and naked, in a blood-soaked bed?



I opened my mouth to speak, but he refused to let me, silencing me with but a single word:



"Quiet!"



He made me wait, still and silent, for what seemed an eternity but was, perhaps, no more than a few more minutes. Finally, when I thought that I must go insane with dread, he said, "Open your eyes."



I did so, staring wild-eyed and wide-eyed into his perfectly serene, handsome face. He smiled at me. It was an unnerving, rather than reassuring, expression, though, which did not touch his eyes.



"What went through your head, lying there, in the stillness, in the silence?" he asked me.



I thought about lying to him, but I knew better. Any attempt at deception would fail. He'd read my thoughts often enough, or seemed to have. He would know now, instantly, whether I told the truth. If I lied, he would be displeased; I sensed that. I also sensed that I did not want to displease him. Whatever he was--bellhop or something much different, something that was perhaps dangerous and evil--I knew better than to lie to him, knew better than to displease him. I swallowed before stammering my confession: "First, I thought that you were alternating between massage--and masturbation--and rest; then, I thought that you might intend to rob--or even to kill--me."



He smiled--or, rather, his lips smiled; his eyes did not. I had the sudden conviction, borne of instinct and intuition, that this bellhop was very dangerous, indeed, and that, whatever else he might be, he was hardly human in any real sense of the word. The words "monster" and "fiend" flashed before my mind. There was no reason to suppose him to be such, of course, but hunches are not born of logic. This idea that Rick--or whatever his real name might be, if he had a name at all--might be more--or less--than human, and dangerous to cross, was the product of a gut feeling, predicated upon his strange serenity, his humorless smile, and the strangeness of the situation in which I found myself with him, here and now, in a luxury hotel in America's Finest City, hundreds of miles away from my home in The City of Angels.



Rick reached for my face--I managed not to recoil. His forefinger extended, he traced its tip slowly, tenderly, lovingly down the side of my cheek, and he spoke, softly, gently, slowly, as if to an uncomprehending child whom he would comfort with the tone of his voice. "And how did you feel, sir, when you were thinking such thoughts?"



Immediately, as before, I suppressed the impulse to lie: "At first, pleased; then annoyed; then, disturbed; finally, afraid."



Again, his forefinger traced the curve of my cheek. "How do you feel now, this instant?"



I gulped. "Terrified."



He chuckled. "Of me?"



"Yes."



He stared into my eyes. I wanted to avert my gaze, but I could not. His eyes were mesmerizing. "You have told the truth," he decided. "But you have thought--" he paused, seeking the word he wanted--"ungenerously--about me."



"I'm sorry."



He seized my testicles in his fist, twisting and squeezing them unmercifully.



I thrashed and writhed, shrieking in agony.



He released my balls.



I gasped, stifling my sobs.



"Don't lie to me," he said, his voice soft. "You are not sorry."



Tears had sprung to my eyes, wrung from my soul by the terror and pain I felt. They coursed down my cheeks.



"Your thoughts as to my motives were ungenerous," he repeated. "Were they not?"



"Yes," I blubbered. "They were."



"For that, you shall pay," the bellhop--or whatever he was--answered.



I said nothing, waiting.



"I was going to suck your cock," he announced, "but, now, you shall suck mine. I was going to let you fuck me, but, now, I shall fuck you. Kneel and suck me," he ordered. 



Rising, he allowed me to slide off the bed. He sat at the edge of the mattress, legs spread, and I knelt on the carpet, before him. Unlike my penis, which had softened and shrunk, going limp from fear and pain, Rick's remained stiff and swollen, standing upright before his six-pack abs, the glans a deep, ripe purple and the veins thick with surging blood; his balls were high inside his contracted scrotum. If anything, he seemed more sexually excited than ever. "Suck me, bitch!" he demanded.



My reservations about Rick, or whoever--or whatever--he was notwithstanding, I was happy to obey this command, and, bending forward at the waist, I parted my lips above his erection, letting them slide down, along the rigid column of flesh, pumping the circle of my lips back and forth, up and down, upon its stiff, swollen length. I felt a slight sense of humiliation. Although I had long ago come to terms with my homosexual inclinations, sucking another guy's prick always made me feel slightly ashamed--probably, I guessed, because, my own fondness for cock aside, the society--indeed, the culture--in which I lived and was a part continued to find this activity loathsome and the men who engaged in it, whether on the giving or the receiving end, detestable.



"Uh! That's right, slut! Suck my cock!"



I let his wet, saliva-glistening cock slide free of my mouth, kissing its purple glans, and licked it as if it were a lollipop. I lowered my head, licking and kissing the flesh of his scrotum and nursing at the balls within the velvet-soft purse of skin. The silken texture of a man's genitals--cock and balls, alike--had amazed me the first time I'd ever taken them in my hand or into my mouth. I'd expected them to be less soft and smooth, perhaps because of the rigidity of the swollen cock and the firmness of the egg-shaped testicles, but, instead, to my amazement--and pleasure--I found them to be incredibly soft and smooth--and sexy. I found Rick's prick to be no less stimulating, and I sucked his cock with relish, enthusiastically and energetically, making it my mission to bring him the thrill and exhilaration of orgasm and the intense, explosive release of ejaculation. I wanted his sperm in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat; I wanted his semen on my lips and nose and cheeks, and I wanted the scent of his salty, viscid seed upon my breath for hours.



As I continued to suck his magnificent cock, the organ took on a nasty taste. I wrinkled my nose in distaste, but kept fucking him with my face, jabbing my open mouth down over his prick and sliding my rounded lips back up its shaft. The nasty flavor became thoroughly disgusting, and I almost choked on the foul taste. However, I forced myself to continue to suck him, concentrating on the smooth column of flesh within the ring of my lips and the clump of his balls mere inches beneath my nose. I increased the tempo of my sucking, my head bobbing more and more rapidly and forcefully up and down upon his distended member. Again, the awful taste of his cock flooded my mouth. My tongue seemed to recoil from the odious flavor, and I had to repress my gag reflex, even as my stomach heaved. I made myself continue, afraid of what might happen if I quit before "Rick" permitted me to do so, riding his cock with my rounded lips and willing him to come, come, come and shoot his load now.



The Rick-thing hung on, refusing to reach the point of no return, groaning and moaning and rolling and bucking his hips as he thrashed about on the mattress, now on his back rather than seated at the edge of the bed. In a moment, his feverish groans gave way to howls and snarls and growls, as if he were a mad dog or an enraged werewolf.



My heart pounded inside my chest, not with sexual excitement but with fear--with terror--and the bedroom walls quaked, the ceiling sagging, and the bed upon which "Rick" lay sprawled upon his back actually rose into the air--me, kneeling on nothing, rising with it, my mouth still fastened upon the bellhop-thing's cock.



"Stop!" Rick thundered.



I paused in mid mouth-stroke, my lips, having traveled halfway down his trembling shaft, stopping inches from his balls. The taste of his member was so vile that I thought I'd vomit if I had to keep it in my mouth for even a second longer.



"Release me, bitch."



Gladly, I let his cock trail from between my lips.



The bed, like my kneecaps, had settled back onto the bedroom's carpeted floor.



In the dim light, I saw that his cock was covered in oozing, open sores. Pus ran down the length of his swollen cock, green and yellow and white. These were the foul emissions that I'd tasted while sucking his prick. Wanting with all my heart to spit out the putrid secretions, I dared not, for he might see such an act as insulting to him. Instead, trembling, I swallowed the fetid fluids.



"Get on the bed," I was instructed, "on your elbows and knees, with your whore's ass facing me."



I did as I'd been told, clutching the blankets to hold on, as the bed had again floated into the air and was spinning fast in the opposite direction to the room, which also rotated, so fast that the walls were but blurs and windows, drapes, paintings, mirrors, and other wall-mounted objects repeated themselves in a wild, whirling procession. I felt sick to my stomach, but I fought down the rising gorge, afraid to be sick without permission. Abruptly, the spinning--both of the walls and of the bed--ceased, and I felt "Rick's" prick press between the cheeks of my ass.



The rigid prick shoved hard against my anus, the rubbery glans seeking entrance to my depths, but my sphincter offered stout resistance, preventing the entrance of the would-be trespasser. "Rick" drew back his hips, plunging his cock forward, and the tip shoved through my asshole, propping open this narrow entranceway with its massive girth. He shoved his hips forward again and again, sending his hard cock deeper into my impaled bottom. I felt my sphincter open, widening to accept him, and then his pubes ground hard against my buttocks, flattening them. My ass was fully skewered by his prick.



My bowels felt watery. My knees would have buckled, had I not been kneeling, with my elbows supporting the weight of my upper body. As he remained still, occupying my bowels, it seemed that his already-stiff-and-swollen cock expanded more, lengthened further, and became even stiffer than it already was. "Rick" had a big penis; erect, it was a monster--but, it appeared, it could become larger still, perhaps truly gargantuan. I was afraid--terrified--that I would not be able to accommodate him and that, consequently, were he to fuck me, he would split me apart.



"How's it feel, bitch?" he snarled.



Tears fell from my eyes. "Please," I murmured, "please . . . don't . . . ."



He laughed harshly. "I'm going to fuck you to death!"



His hips drew back, and I felt his log-size cock slide roughly back through my asshole. When only the glans, now as big as a fist, remained within my reamed anus, he shoved his huge prick home again, with savage fury, and I felt the organ--now seemingly as thick, jagged, and splintery as a telephone pole, rather than smooth and sleek--thrust its way into my depths. I cried out, in anguish and in terror.



The bellhop-thing laughed, fucking me brutally. His enormous prick shoved back and forth within my asshole, within my entrails, and I knew, not merely believed, that he would kill me, that he would literally fuck me to death, as he had threatened, especially since his penis seemed to have grown sharp-pointed barbs that ripped and tore at my bowels and anus as he drove his instrument of torture back and forth through my asshole and rectum.



A mirror appeared before me, and, in its swirling, smoky surface, I could see his cock, as if it were someone else's prick, rather the one that ravaged me from behind, and I could see my huge-stretched anus and my impaled buttocks, as if they belonged to another version of myself. I wondered at this strange and startling vision, asking myself what was happening, and why, but there were no answers. I looked at the images in the mirror--I doubted that they were actual reflections--and saw that "Rick's" bloated cock, still oozing and streaming foul fluids, had erupted in thorns. These same spines assaulted my buttocks, my anus, and my rectum as the huge, blood-streaked prick shoved its way into my depths again and again. The bed, insanely, seemed to turn to quicksand, sucking me down, inside itself, but the monstrous, hideous penis remained impaled within my bottom, and its owner continued to fuck me mercilessly. Dully, I wondered what was happening, but my senses were too full of pain and horror and dread for me to concentrate much on the bizarre changes that were occurring to the furniture and the rest of my environment.



The walls had been painted, but now wallpaper stretched across them as if some invisible hand were spreading the covering across them with impossible speed. One layer replaced another, plaid giving way to paper bearing fruits, which was replaced by striped paper. The bed became a tomb, then a bucking bronco, then a speedboat, with the carpet changing from marble to sod to seas. Strange beasts and birds and plants slithered, sprang, crept, flew, streaked, and grew in an instant, out of nothingness, their bodies bizarre and perverted distortions of actual animals and trees, looking like the demonic creatures depicted in the nightmarish works of Hieronymus Bosch. Inside my asshole and rectum, the spiked penis writhed like a snake, hissing and boiling. My blistered buttocks burned and itched terribly. I cried out, shrieking, and the thing that was fucking me laughed.



The air filled with thick, acrid smoke and the scents of sulfur and brimstone.



Then, as the penis, now a slicing sword, split me asunder, all went black, still, and silent, and, I thought, I'm dead.



When I awakened, Rick was beside me, a worried look on his handsome countenance. He was naked, like me, but his cock, although unusually long, was not enormous, nor was it festooned with thorns, and no foul fluids dripped or oozed from open sores. It was, except for its larger-than-average size, normal in every respect, as beautiful as any cock I'd ever seen, and attractive rather than repulsive.



The bed was a bed, the walls were the same color as they'd been before they'd seemed to change, and the floor was neither marble, sod, nor water. It was as it had been before the sudden, wild alterations had warped reality, transforming things that are into things impossible to exist.



"Thank God you're all right!" the bellhop said. He looked relieved.



"What happened?" I demanded. "The last I recall--" I gave him a harsh look--"before you turned into a fiend and raped me--was your going out to buy me a pair of swim trunks."



"I got them. Forest green. You tried them on, remember?"



"Then why am I naked now?" I looked at his bare chest and his cock and balls. "Why are you naked?"



"You wanted a massage," Rick explained. "You wanted sex, too."



I considered his words. Dimly, I recalled wanting what he'd described. A massage. Sex. I hadn't wanted to suck a dick that tasted like death or be fucked in the ass by a cock as thick as a telephone pole, equipped with thorns, and able to transform itself into a fucking sword, though, remembering these things as well--and the bed's turning into quicksand, swallowing me--and the pain and the terror I'd felt.



"I was worried about you," Rick confided.



"What happened?" I demanded again. "Tell me, or I'll call the cops."



"I spiked your liquor with LSD," the bellhop explained.



"Why the hell would you do something like that?" I thundered.



He shrugged, averting his eyes from my angry stare. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he ventured. "I thought it would enhance your sensations, heighten your consciousness, intensify your perceptions, increase your orgasm. Now, I know it was stupid--stupid and dangerous."



It had seemed as if Rick could read my mind, but that, too, had been a mere trick of the drug he'd given me without my knowledge or consent.



I should call the police, I told myself. What Rick had done was stupid, as he'd said, and dangerous. He could have killed me. On the other hand, the orgasm I'd experienced was the best I'd ever had. It had made me feel one with the universe, one with nature, one with God; even as I felt as if I were drowning in quicksand, I'd ejaculated, and my semen seemed to fount and flow as lava from a volcano, an endless stream of molten pleasure. It had felt as if I were pouring myself out with the sperm I spurted into the sheets, into the thickening quicksand of my incipient unconsciousness, and, after losing myself to the silent darkness, it was as if I were all in all, everywhere present at once, in a timeless and eternal state of joy. "I could call the police," I told Rick, "and I probably should."



He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. "Forgive me," he pleaded. "I'm not a bad guy, really, just a stupid, immature ass."



"Instead, you're going to suck my cock, and then I'm going to fuck you in the ass."



The bellhop gulped.



"First, though, you're going to have a drink or two." I'd make him drink the same liquor I'd drunk, the whisky he'd spiked with LSD. 



We rose from the bed, walked into the living room, and went to the bar, where I poured him two fingers of scotch on the rocks.



I smiled as, with a trembling hand, he accepted the glass of amber liquid.



"Down the hatch," I said. 

