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I drove across the Moor at least four times a year; eight times if you want to be pedantic and add into the count the return part of the journeys. I was the Area Rep for an ice cream machine company and we had an isolated franchisee in the small seaside town of Godber. Occasionally I had to make an extra visit if there was a special reason for doing so. And there was a special reason for my crossing the Moor that January day. My CEO had requested it.
I liked my job. I was approaching forty, divorced, and had eschewed the greasy pole of ambition and promotion. A large geographical area was “my patch” and I had about a hundred franchisees and other customers to visit, mainly on a quarterly basis. I liked driving, I liked my own company and, by and large, I liked my “clients” – as the CEO insisted on calling them.
I did not like being ordered to visit godforsaken Godber on a specific day in the middle of winter, but the CEO, Ted Outhwaite, was like a kindly patriarch and we, his employees, were loath to disappoint him. “Denzil,” he had said, “I know it is inconvenient, but I have a favour to ask of you.”
Ambition had helped fuck up my marriage and I had come to terms with living alone and caring for myself. I did have a couple of lady friends on whom I could call when the sap arose and, them being married, I felt safe from any ideas of matrimony. I was happy in my own skin, and the least I could do was to react to a request from Ted Outhwaite with a show of alacrity.
The day I was to visit Godber started badly and became worse as the hours rolled by. I forgot to reset my alarm the night before. The ninety mile outward journey needed an early start and I lost that opportunity. And, as I left the flat, the weather was beastly, sheeting with rain with my fellow road users driving cautiously. Of course I knew the route I was to take very well, and I did not need my Satnav’s help. so I didn’t switch it on.
The Moor, a National Park, is a wild and deserted pace; no roadside cafes or public houses for much of the fifteen miles of the main through road; just a few farm houses and worker’s cottages in the main. Thankfully the rain eased although visibility was still poor and snow was forecasted. I arrived at Godber close to lunchtime, two hours later than expected. My original plan was to be close to being on my way back home by then. and I was really choked when the client insisted on “lunch before business”. He met my reluctance with a confidential, “I’m diabetic you see. Type two, but I need to eat regularly.” That revelation put me back nearly another hour.
By the time I climber the winding road up the steep hill out of Godber it was gone three o’clock in the afternoon, the light was fading and the rain had turned to snow as the road ascended up to the Moor. To be fair to the client, he had offered to find me a bed for the night. “The Moor can be tricky this time of year, Mr. Hopper,” he had warned. “Best stay here and travel in the morning.”
Half an hour later I knew exactly where I was; just over halfway across. I had passed the sign pointing to a side road on my right with the single word “Pellow”. I had often wondered when I traversed the Moor, what Pellow was all about. A village, just a farmhouse, or a secret military installation? Why not? The Moor was just the sort of place that suggested intrigue.
I had not progressed much further when I was flashed by a Landrover coming towards me. It had to be a farmer – and it was. “The road’s blocked up ahead,” the driver shouted down at me in a local accent. “You’ll have to turn back to Godber. You’ll not get through this way.” I looked around and opened my hands in a questioning gesture which the man correctly interpreted as, “where can I turn?”
“Reverse about a hundred yards. You’ll see the lane that leads to Pellow. You can turn there. Then follow me to Godber if you like.”
I did as the man suggested. I turned the car round successfully but, for some reason I cannot sensibly explain, I shot down the lane in the direction of Pellow. Going back to Godber, finding somewhere to stay for the night, fucking up my schedule for the following day – it was all too dreary. I never gave it a thought that what I was letting myself in for was likely to be much worse.
A half mile or so on, I came to a steep hill downwards which I was on almost before I knew it. I braked as an automatic reaction, but the car just slithered on and I felt an edge of fear. I tried steering my way out of trouble. My brain was telling me that there was no way I would be able to drive back up the incline if ever I was to be given the chance to do so.
The hill turned a shallow corner and I was able to negotiate that and felt a little more confident, especially when the car came to a stop. There was more of the hill to come however, so I gritted my teeth and ventured forward again, gears in neutral and relying on gravity and brakes. The gradient became slightly less steep and I became cocky as Kartal Escort well as relieved. What I believed was an obstacle caught in the headlights caused me to brake sharply, the car slid sharply to the right. There was a thump and the right headlight abruptly cut out.
I had ended up so close to a drystone wall that, with difficulty, I had to slide across into the passenger seat in order to get out its door. A stone wall was part of a small bridge protecting a culvert containing a virulent stream by the sound of it. Almost anywhere else I would have gotten away with little damage, if any, and the remainder of my story would have been entirely different.
In the gloom my crippled car could be a danger to any traffic I should meet coming towards me. That was probably unlikely in the country lane I was in, but further on? And especially so in a snowstorm where visibility was extremely poor. There must eventually be some form of habitation ahead. That would be my immediate goal. After all, the signpost had mentioned a place called Pellow.
About two miles further on, with the snow covering the road averaging about four inches and counting, I saw pinpricks of light ahead and I came across a roadside sign confirming my arrive at Pellow. I passed some lighted windows on both sides but carried on to see if the village had a heart to it. If not I was prepared to walk back and knock on as many front doors as necessary.
Then, blow me down, a lighted pub sign came out of the curtain of snow; The Pellow Dragon. I pulled over and into its empty excuse for a car park where I pulled up right in the middle. I wasted no time in making virgin tracks in the snow marking my journey to the front door of the establishment.
A balding man, I was right to presume he was the landlord, was standing behind his bar polishing a pint beer glass with a blue and white striped tea towel. It seemed as though he had been awaiting my arrival and seemed oblivious to the tempest raging outside. “What can I get you sir?” he asked in a voice ever-so calm.
I was surprised to hear myself reply “a half of bitter please.” I looked around. There were just two customers in the one bar; oldish men, now drawn from contemplating their near empty beer glasses and watching me as a preferable substitute.
“A half of Bass it is sir.” He started to pull the handle of the appropriate beer engine. “Come far?”
“From Godber, heading South. The road was blocked.”
“That sometimes happens crossing the Moor at this time of the year. So you saw the sign to Pellow and took a chance, eh?”
“That’s correct,” I said
“And did you ignore your Satnav?”
I baulked my reply. “I wasn’t using it,” I replied warily.
“If you had of, sir, it would not have sent you down here. Pellow is a dead end as far as most cars are concerned. The only way out is the way you came in.”
“You’re joking?” were the first words to come to me. “How does this pub provide you with a living then?”
There is a huge camping site nearby – the only one in the whole of the Moor. It’s open all year round with statics and holiday lets. Winter weekends are often very busy.
I told him about the damage to my car and asked if he might suggest a way forward for me. “Do you do accommodation?” I asked finally.
“I can rent you a caravan I own just here, in my back yard. That will give you a bed for the night. As regards repairs to your car, Town End Garage in Godber are the only garage who will come down here. I can give them a ring in the morning if you like? Would you care to ring your wife to warn her you are out for the night?”
“I don’t have a wife anymore. There’s no-one I need to tell,” I admitted, unguardedly.
I prepared to make the best of a bad job and I cheered up considerably when the landlord, whilst we were chatting generally, invited me to join him in a “Winter Whisky Warmer – on the house.” I didn’t normally drink whisky but how could I refuse? He poured us both a hefty measure from what I thought was the same bottle. I couldn’t see to be sure as he had his back to me.
Very soon after, a couple of guys entered the pub; one about my age and the other looked to be in his mid twenties. They were educated and affable and seemed keen to join the conversation I was having with the landlord – now my new friend Pete. The older newcomer was Alistair, calm and collected and urbane. The younger, Jay, was excitable and vain and, I thought, somewhat effeminate.
It was great to be with good company, warm and safe in the wilds of the Moor after my ordeal that late afternoon. I felt that I was back in the safety zone even if it took a day or so to have my car recovered and me back to work. I would need to ring Mr. Outhwaite first thing though, and ask my secretary to cancel my appointments, perhaps for the next couple of days.
That was about the last thing I remembered with any certainty, until I woke up the next morning with a king-sized Tuzla Escort headache and a really foul taste in a dry mouth. I had been sleeping on my front with my arms above my head, which was unusual for me. I started the process of repositioning myself only to find my wrists were secured by a thin chain attached to a couple of hooks set into the wall above the apology for a headboard. What the fuck was all this about?
I made the effort to half turn my body and succeeded at the cost of a shooting pain that seemed to originate in my backside; my arsehole to be precise. Using the chain I managed to pull myself along and up eighteen inches or so in order to try and get a better slant on things – and I certainly did not much like what I saw. I knew immediately that I had been the subject of anal rape. I had been given a mickey, date-rape type of drug, for sure. The proof of the former was the brown stained wet circle in the middle of the bottom sheet where my arse had lain.
The chain securing my wrists gave me enough manoeuvrability for me too stand up straight close to the head of the bed. I looked down on the scene wondering what I could do next. My penis was a thimble, hiding away in its foreskin as if out of shame. I started shivering, not from the sub-zero temperatures outside, the room was warm, but rather, I suspected, from the after effects of being drugged.
Hand on heart, I could not rightly say that I had never imagined what it would be like to be fucked by another man. And particularly more of sucking a stranger’s cock. I had never done so in the flesh. Or ever got near to doing so. But perhaps, because I had fantasized to a small extent in my past, or because the spiked drink had an element of aphrodisiac which was still working, I was then not totally outraged as to the liberties that had been taken with my body, and any predicament I was in as a result. Bottom line; I was still alive, wasn’t I?
I called out. I shouted. I hollered. I demanded attention. Eventually the door opened a small way and a wary face appeared round it. I recognised Jay straight away. “Was it you that deprived me of my anal virginity last night?” I asked so matter-of-factly that I surprised myself.
I am sure it surprised Jay too as he might have been expecting a lambasting, a torrent of verbal abuse. It appeared that my words gave him the courage to walk fully into the room yet keeping his back close to the far wall. He was dressed in Indian pyjamas and sandals, just as if he had walked in from a street in New Delhi.
“How are you, darling?” he asked with more than a trace of camp. “You seemed to enjoy our little dalliance.”
“Dalliance? Is that how you describe anal rape. Arse-fucking and drugging a man against his wishes?” I kept my voice level.
“You seemed to enjoy it,” Jay countered, his eyes straying and then locking onto my penis. “The Dragon brings out only what is there. It was another drug in the concoction that knocked you out. The real you wanted your arse fucked. The Dragon found you out.”
“You what?” I snapped back. At the same time I felt my penis starting to take an interest in the events as they were unfolding. The restraining chain allowed me to drop my hands and clasp them in an attempt to camouflage any penile movements.
“Yeh. When it came to Ali’s turn ;last night, he was fucking your arse and you had a real hard on. You shot your load, you were that randy. Pete filmed it – all of it. It’ll be on the bill at our next meet.
My heart sank. “You filmed it? All of it?”
“Of course. That’s the important bit.”
“Important?”
“You ain’t half stupid. We have to have enough on you so you don’t go blabbing when you get back off the Moor.”
“Are we talking blackmail here?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary with you. You’re halfway there already.” Jay smirked. I swear he did. “The trouble is, darling, we can’t let you go quite yet. We need to make sure that when you get back to where you came from, you will not tell anyone what has happened here.”
“You should have thought of that before you raped me.”
“Oh, we did, darling. It’s all in hand. You’ll see.” Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Jay called out of the doorway. “Dan, Spiv, we’re ready for you now.”
One of the men I recognised as having been sitting in the bar when I turned up the evening before. The other, with slick black hair combed back, Spiv I guessed, was much younger. Each looked as though he could handle himself in a fight – enough for me to allow them, as naked as I was, to march me out of the room, once Jay had unshackled me from the chain.
I was transferred, in open daylight, the short distance from the static caravan into the back door of the pub, through a kitchen and straight up some stairs. The room I ended up in could have been a boudoir. An attractive, mature woman was apparently waiting my arrival. I was made to stand in a bowl of warm soapy water and then my two Anadolu Yakası Escort guards stepped away and watched from a distance. Obviously they were a deterrent against any misbehaviour on my part.
Escaping did not occur to me. I was in a “process” and I had seemingly just accepted that fact. It was all happening so quickly anyway, and I suppose my brain was having difficulty in keeping up with the reality of it all. My mind kept slipping back to the fact that I had been arse-raped and possibly gang raped – if two or three persons constituted a gang.. I was having flashbacks in regards to the state of the under sheet and the soreness of my anal passage, and wondering how many men had contributed their semen that night. Strangely I was not horrified; more curious than anything else.
The woman fastidiously concentrated on cleaning my groin and the cleft of my arse and she even popped her finger in and around my sphincter. I found it totally non-sexual until I noticed the woman’s Adam’s apple. She was wearing tights, I thought, and was on her haunches with her knees slightly apart. What made me do it? I waited my chance. When she stood up I bent down and quickly ran my right hand up her nearest leg. I found a stocking top to my surprise, then a suspender belt followed by a thoroughly roused penis. Not a large one, but a rock hard penis without any doubt. What would he do by way of retaliation?
The needed a few seconds to recover by way of shock. He then hitched up his skirt then pushed me to my knees. A hand came round and he lodged his penis in my mouth. I, for my part did not need to heed the command to “suck you cunt”. It must have been the effect of the drug they had given me the evening before, that was inducing me to cock suck. If I could have seen myself I would hardly have believed it. I sucked greedily, squeezing with my lips and my tongue, bobbing my had crazily. I pushed forward to deep throat, but that was never going to happen; his penis was short and stubby, just long enough for to make me keck.
I pulled away and licked down the prick to his scrotum and took his balls in my mouth one a a time. I licked and licked, then returned to cocksucking as my other hand I slid up the back of his thigh, hesitated at the stocking tops, then a suspender belt, before tracing up between his cheeks. I teased his sphincter for a short while before pushing a finger into his anal passage. I slowly pushed it in as far as it would go and as I made a shagging motion I gradually introduced my forefinger too.
Disappointingly, that triggered the man’s ejaculation as he speeded up fast fucking my mouth. His sperm was hot and thin and not the virulent stuff I had imagined in my wanking dreams. A resolve that I did not own flashed across my brain – I would do better next time. “Next time?”
The older of the two men standing behind clapped his hands together a few times. With the remains of sperm in my mouth I turned round to see Spiv with his cock out and masturbating energetically. I had a second flash. His spunk would likely satisfy me much more. Too bad.
When I turned back I saw my cross-dresser remove the nozzle of a tube of lube (I presumed) and anoint his arsehole profusely. He then arrange himself over the back of an armchair allowing me an uninterrupted view of his anus. The invitation was obvious and urgent. I stood to my full height, still naked of course, and shoved my eight inch boner to where its destiny lay. Of course, I had never experienced giving anal intercourse. Before arriving at the Pellow Dragon, I had not experience being fucked in the anus either. And yet, here I was, fucking this tranny in front of an audience. That could not have been any more out of character. There just had to be a link with the drugs I had been given.
I had no reservations. I actually salivated as I prepared myself, my eyes fixed on the lubricated, dark and puckered entrance to the man’s bowels. I pulled my foreskin right back and wiped up some of the excess lube with my other hand. This I smeared over the purple head of my cock. Every bit of me was raring to go.
I put the tip of my penis against the man’s arsehole. He let out a little moan and so did I. Slowly applying pressure the hole widened voluntarily, testament to the likelihood he had had been fucked dozens of times, perhaps hundreds, before. Just as well – otherwise my size could have been a problem.
I was too cautious, I wanted to enjoy each centimetre, one bit at a time. But my fuck-mate was impatient and lustful. He allowed me a few minutes before suddenly thrusting his arse backwards and taking the whole of my head. I felt a flash of irritation at having had my exhilarations so rudely curtailed and I felt tempted to ram my prick right in and up to my scrotum. But that might have given him even more pleasure at the expense of mine. Instead I gave him a hard smack on his bare arse.
The man let out a low yelp of what turned out to be pleasure. Again, again, more, he cried. We then seemed to hit a happy balance. I took my time sowing my prick into him and gave him a regular spank for his indulgence. Right into the hilt the thick scrotum end of my prick actually stretched his sphincter and encouraged him to moan, in pleasure I assumed.
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