Number Twelve

Number Twelve

Number Twelve

By Stephen Scot

Note: If you enjoyed this story, please contact me at Joe_Gillis_2000@yahoo.com

And a no-prize if you recognize the name.

The room was nondescript. Dark, but the darkness itself secreted nothing of importance.

There were only three items of furniture: a spacious, well-used (and stained) double bed denuded of its blanket; a plain wooden desk chair; and a small, wheeled cabinet with a set of drawers. What light there was--and there wasn't much--emanated from a desk lamp that sat atop the stand.

The man stood in the room and stared at the boy before him, silently appreciating his features. The young man sitting in the chair was short of stature, slender of form, firm and lithe of body. His youthful face was framed by a head of short, tousled brown hair.

He looked innocent. Virginal. Frightened.

The man grunted softly to himself in approval.

The boy tried to hold the man's gaze, and failed.

He was, despite his resolve not to tremble, afraid. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck and collected in his softly tufted armpits. His stomach pitched, his bowels felt loose. His sphincter spasmed in an odd mixture of fear and anticipation, and warmth suffused his crotch. His genitals tingled and his testicles roiled tightly in his scrotum.

He raised his eyes again, slowly, peering at the man from under thick lashes.

The appraising stare hadn't lessened. Indeed, the boy reflected through his fear, he seemed to have been waiting for their eyes to lock.

The man was pleased to see the boy looking back at last. He was looking forward to this--had been waiting, it seemed to him, his entire life for this encounter. And it couldn't begin until the boy looked up at him.

Before then, however, he was mentally cataloguing the boy's features: the fineness of his features, the untested beauty of his face and young body. His muscles tensed, he slowed his breathing, and waited.

And now ... now he held the young man's eyes, his gaze penetrating into the youth's psyche.

It had begun.

"Stand up," the man growled softly.

The boy stared at him, uncertain, immobile.

The man spoke again, a short, harsh bark.

"I said stand up!"

The boy started. Uncertain, afraid, he steeled himself for what was to come and lifted himself from the seat. He stood, trembling lightly, in front of the man, and waited.

The man's movement was so quick the boy had no time to react. A strong fist took hold of his head and jerked his head back, hard. The boy gasped, then held himself in check, waiting for the blow he sensed was coming.

Instead, the man spoke, softly but with undeniable authority, and menace.

"When I speak, you will listen," he whispered. "When I order, you will obey. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded, but the hand on his hair merely yanked his head back again.

"Answer me, boy."

"Y--yes!"

The hand jerked again.

"Yes what, boy?"

"Yes, Sir!"

The hand immediately let go of his hair.

"Good boy," the man said softly.

The boy's eyes were wet, and he wanted to run his fingers along the pain on his head, but he did not move. Any movement not ordered, he sensed, would be a mistake. He moved his eyes back to the man's and stood silently, awaiting his next order.

Saying nothing, the man knelt before the boy and gently gripped his thigh. His hand moved languidly over the boy's leg from front to back. His caresses were as soft as his grip on the boy's hair had been harsh.

The boy stared ahead, not looking down.

The man slid his hand up the young man's thigh, stroking the inseam.

"Good behavior is rewarded," the man said softly. "Bad behavior is punished. This is how it should always be between a man and his boy."

The hand moved up.

The man's palm lay squarely against the boy's crotch, the tips of his fingers touching the young man's scrotum.

The boy closed his eyes again. His breath became more labored, and sweat began to form on his palms.

Above his balls, not yet quite within the man's gentle reach, the boy's penis stirred, excited.

The hand moved up again, the palm sliding across the young man's scrotum and along the lengthening contour of his penis. The boy gasped in sudden pleasure.

"I think we understand each other," the man whispered.

He stood then and moved back a step.

"Strip."

The boy's shaking hands quickly undid his shirt buttons. As the man watched in approval, the young man's hairless chest was revealed, the pectorals tight, the nipples hardening. The boy slid his arms from the sleeves and let the shirt fall to the floor. He bent over and untied his shoelaces, slipping out of his sneakers. When he reached down to remove his white athletic socks, the man shook his head.

"Leave them."

The boy nodded, and reached for his belt. When he had undone the buckle the man held out his hand, palm up. Uncertain, the boy looked into his eyes. The man nodded again, and the youth slid the leather belt into the outstretched hand. The man said nothing, but toyed idly with the belt as the young man unzipped his jeans and slid them down his hairless legs. Stepping out of them, he stood for a moment, trembling, feeling the light, cool air on his moist flesh. The man held up a finger.

"That's far enough," he instructed.

The boy swayed slightly before the man, all too aware of the signals his body was expressing. The front of his white cotton briefs betrayed his excitement. It was tented, and the bulge was growing larger; his hard-on threatened to push its way out of his underpants as it expanded.

"The bed," the man said, gesturing toward it with a move of his head.

The boy moved to the bed and waited.

"Climb up."

The boy placed one knee on the mattress and moved his slender body up and onto the bed. He knelt, looking sideways at the man, his lashes hooding his eyes.

"Face the headboard and place your hands behind your back."

The boy did as he was told, aware of his extreme vulnerability, and made even more tumescent by it. He closed his eyes and saw himself as the man must: subservient; nearly naked; defenseless, his backside prominent. The image turned him on.

The man came toward him, the belt in his hand.

The boy lowered his head, wincing. He felt the belt being slid slowly up his naked thigh and he trembled, waiting for the slap of leather on bare flesh. Instead, the man quickly bound the boy's hands with the belt and stood back and away again.

The boy waited, frightened yet as deeply hard as he'd ever been. In a moment he heard a drawer open, then close.

A moment passed, the only sound in the room the rasp of the boy's fervid breathing.

Suddenly, the boy's ears were assaulted by the abrupt shock of noise behind him: the unmistakable sound of duct tape being unrolled from its roll. He wanted to turn his head, to look back, but did not. He stared straight ahead, trying not to flinch or in any other way enrage the man behind him.

In one swift move the man was behind the boy, the tape secured across his startled mouth. He tried to cry out, but the sound was muffled to nothingness.

His cock expanded.

The man tore off the tape and, getting off the bed again, placed the roll on the floor. He stood in the silent room and gazed at his handiwork.

The docile boy, securely tied and muzzled now, took his breath away. The lines of his young body were perfect, from the tension of his shoulders and arms to the soft bubble of rump beneath the white briefs to the curve of his firm, trembling thighs.

They were ready.

It could begin.

"N--number Twelve. Please."

The bouncer nodded, turned toward the microphone, and repeated the phrase.

"Number Twelve."

He turned back to the boy and nodded.

"Go down that hallway and knock on Door Number Twelve. When he answers, go sit in the chair."

Joey nodded back, walked out the door, and closed it. He leaned against the hallway wall, his eyes closed, his mind buzzing. Trying to steady his nerves, he reminded himself that he'd already paid. There was no turning back except to lose it all: his money, the night, and the chance.

Recovering his poise, he stood up and walked to Number Twelve. Breathing deeply one last time, he knocked on the door.

It opened quietly, and the boy was greeted by the sight of the man he'd chosen. Large, dark, muscular, with commanding eyes and a physique that promised pleasure and pain in equal measures.

The man gestured to the chair.

Joey sat.

"Number Twelve."

Dave put down the paperback novel and stood, his face blank. He turned and, walking past the row of other men, all lounging in various attitudes of boredom in chairs identical to the one he'd just vacated, opened the door at the end of the small room and exited into the dark hall beyond.

Now, only a few minutes later, Joey knelt on the bed, his arms bound, his mouth gagged, his cock like stone.

For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted this. To be taken, harshly, by a man like this one: hard, uncaring, steel-like, merciless.

To be bound, gagged.

Raped.

Not truly raped, not actually taken in violence. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to go that far, although he suspected there were guys who did. But in a controlled setting, where the violence of the act would be measured and the entire scenario his to manipulate ...

Yeah.

Rape my hot young ass.

At 18, he knew he looked more like 16, which just added to the fantasy--and, he hoped, to the pleasure of the man behind him.

"Well, now. Ain't this somethin'."

The boy moaned behind the tape, his body slackening in surrender.

Without warning, the man leapt onto the mattress behind the boy, the bed groaning in protest. He pressed his strong, muscled body tight against his prisoner's. His thickening cock was nestled against the young back, and he knew the boy could feel it.

"You like it, boy? Huh? Trussed up like a pig? Mm-mm."

He pressed his lips close to the boy's ear. As he spoke his hands began roaming freely over the exposed young skin: arms, neck, nipples, belly, thighs.

"Just the way I like my boys. Helpless. Vulnerable. Putty in these big, strong hands."

He placed both palms over the boy's crotch. His victim jumped, whimpering.

"Turns you on, don't it, boy?" he murmured, stroking the hardness beneath his hands. "Makes you rock-hard, bein' my bitch. Yeah. Oh, yeah."

The stroking both frightened and aroused the boy. He found his hips moving, involuntarily thrusting his cock against the man's expert palms. Moans of pleasure, muffled by the duct tape, escaped his lips.

"Yessir, boy. You need this. Don't ya? Need a strong man to tame your pretty young ass. Need it bad."

Callused hands tugged suddenly at the elastic band of the helpless young man's briefs, yanking them down roughly in front, unconcerned for the young dick that popped painfully out and bobbed beneath the boy's flat, hairless belly.

The man leaned forward, hands encircling the boy's cock. He stroked the rigid pole of flesh, gently yet insistently with one hand as the other reached down further, cupping the hairless ballsac.

"You need a man to show you how to be a man, don't ya, boy? Need to be shown how a man uses his cock. Oh, yeah. Feel how hard your boy-cock is gettin'? Your cock knows the difference between the touch of a man and the fumbling of a boy. It wants a man. You want a man."

Although this was his first such experience, the dream had haunted Joey so long that he was fully up to its actual performance. He continued to thrash and moan, all the while parting his thighs, spreading open his pliant young buttocks. He squirmed, moaned, tried to free his hands, even as his ass-cheeks quivered in anticipation and his cock stabbed itself into the big hand that encircled it.

The man used the fingers of his other hand to tickle the boy's balls, tracing their contours. When Joey moaned in pleasure, he reminded the boy who was in charge by yanking his balls roughly.

Joey's eyes bulged and he let loose a groan of startled pain.

Satisfied, the man rolled off the young man's body and moved back to the nightstand.

Joey blinked away the tears that had formed in his eyes following the unexpected assault on his tender balls. The pain was real, but didn't linger, and the boy was relieved to discover that his erection was as stiff as before. It throbbed below his belly, anticipating the action to come.

He felt cold metal against his thigh and stiffened. The sound of snipping relieved his mind; his underpants were being scissored off. Soon the cloth over his seat parted and fell away; he felt the air caress his naked buttocks. He squeezed the cheeks together nervously, listening alertly to the sounds behind him.

He could hear the big man undressing, his pants and shirt slipping to the floor. He relaxed his butt-cheeks, whimpering slightly. Next he heard the squish of lubricant being squirted onto the man's cock, and the ass-tightening slurp of the man's hand massaging the liquid onto his hardened pole. He relaxed further, allowing his anus to open up.

The fantasy was its own reward, and brought with it--now that it was, fully, finally, coming to fruition--its own set of realities. You don't have to act, Joey thought, when you're tied up. It feels like the real thing.

So it was that, the moment he felt the rough hands grip his middle and the slick, hard cock-head kiss his dilated hole, the boy's eyes widened in terror and he screamed, mutely, behind the duct tape.

The man's big cock moved resolutely to the task. Holding tightly to the boy's naked waist, Dave pushed his dick deeply up the waiting, willing hole. No half-measures here, no gentle probing. The boy had asked for--paid for--a swift, brutal fuck, and that was what he was going to get.

Like any sex professional, Dave instantly graded the flesh he was to service, and he approved of the body he was fucking. The kid had a nice ass, no question. Young, of course, and lightly dusted with silken hair. It was a round, delectable young butt, ripe for fucking. Just another john, sure, but not every male butt he fucked was desirable.

This one was.

He enjoyed fucking it. He enjoyed especially being given no boundaries. So much of being a working boy was taking orders. Nice to turn the tables once in a while, even if it was according to a strict scenario. Nice to plow his cock up a sweet young boy-cunt and be as wild as he wanted.

For his own part, Joey was in ecstasy.

The big, mean cock pounding his wet, loose ass-lips was everything he'd wanted from the experience. It slammed into him, pushing his body back and forth, up and down on the cheap, sleazy mattress, which groaned rustily beneath them. It pulled back suddenly, hooked up again just as quickly, hard and swift, the head glancing brutally off his prostate.

The boy's cock swung below his waist, hard and dribbling. He didn't need to touch it, just as he knew he wouldn't. The hot man grinding away inside him was going to fuck the cum right out of his dick.

And it was going to be soon.

The boy groaned, yelped, shouted, cried out--all muffled to nothing by the tape across his mouth. He writhed, fought, pushed this way, pulled that, even as he astutely shoved back his ass toward the man at crucial moments, matching the professional's fuck-rhythms.

Just when Joey thought his entire body would immolate, burst into spontaneous flame, the man brought one meaty paw down, hard, on the boy's right butt-cheek.

Smack!

Joey howled, stiffened, cried out.

"You love this, don't ya, boy?"

Smack!

"Love bein' fucked by a man!"

Smack!

"Love a man spanking your sassy butt!"

Smack!

The hand began a steady slapping: first one cheek, then the other. And all the while the man's ass-busting cock kept fucking him. Deeper. Harder. Deeper.

Smack!

"Spankin' you like a bad little boy while he fucks you!"

Smack!

"Spank an' fuck!"

Smack!

"Fuck an' spank!"

Smack!

"Rape that boy-pussy!"

Smack!

"Fuck it!"

Smack!

Joey's head jerked back, his eyes clamped shut, his body stiffened. He came.

And came, and came, and came.

His body shuddered, wracked, stiffened. His asshole spasmed frenziedly. His cock erupted, spraying the wall with gush after gush of hot, creamy boy-jizz.

The man astride him could hold back no longer. As the boy's asshole began to flex and loosen rapidly on his cock, he shoved up, hard, one last time and let fly, spewing his load up the boy's throbbing hole.

Dave continued to play his part. Once he recovered from his climax, he unceremoniously yanked his cock from the john's well-used asshole, un-cuffed the boy's hands and pulled the duct-tape roughly from his youthful face.

That hurt. Joey's cry of pain and shock was genuine.

Without a word, Dave exited the room.

Joey rolled over on his back, his head spinning. His mouth felt raw, his arms sore. His butt was wet with lube, his cock with spunk. His asshole felt empty.

He had been used, abused, and thoroughly degraded,

It felt wonderful.

As he played the scene over in his mind, his dick began to stiffen again.

God_damn_, but that was hot!

It would take him some time to save up for another round. He'd have to consider it a treat, not to be taken lightly, or indulged too often. He didn't want it to ever become old, or routine.

One thing was going to stay the same, though.

Number Twelve.