Sex & Mayhem 01 Road of No Return (4 page)

Stitch exhaled so deeply, his breath seemed to ripple through the air. “Holy fuck,” he whispered and didn’t move a muscle, as if he were glued to the seat. A drop of precome slid down the rock hard shaft and onto Zak’s hand, as if in slow motion.

Zak bit his lip, pushed forward by an unstoppable urge, a hunger that seemed to open up his throat and make his mouth salivate. He yanked the glove off his other hand with his teeth and put the now bare palm on Stitch's stomach. Pure muscle. There were some blond hairs below the navel, leading him right back to the stiffening dick. “I’d have lots of space to work with on this one.”

“Get the other fucking glove off,” Stitch uttered and sat up, watching Zak from above. His chest was heaving like a pair of bellows. “Let’s fuck the chit-chat. You want to suck me, don’t you? You want to.” There was a clear tremble to his voice, but there was nothing nervous about the way Stitch’s hand gripped onto Zak’s nape, just like Zak had fantasized earlier. It was big, hot, a bit damp.

Zak gave a breathless laugh and let go of the cock, letting it slap against Stich’s stomach as he removed the glove, empty-headed. A thick vein went all the way up the underside, and he was overcome by the urge to follow it like Dorothy followed the yellow brick road. “Sure I do, it’s a great cock.”

Stitch was worked up as if it was the first blow job of his life and judging by the tattoo that had been covered earlier, Zak highly doubted that. “Then get to it,” Stitch whispered, while a bead of sweat trailed down his abs and into his navel. He gave Zak’s nape a squeeze to emphasize his point.

“Someone’s too bossy,” murmured Zak, stroking the cock with his hand. He was kneading the vein with his thumb, greedily drinking in every twitch between his fingers. With his left hand he zipped open his jeans and pulled out his own dick, relieved when the pressure was finally gone.

The fact that Stitch actually bowed forward to see it was making the situation painfully obvious. “Come on, I just want that cocksucking mouth… sucking cock.” It sounded offensive to say the least, but the desperation in Stitch’s eyes and the gentle stroking of his thumb against Zak’s neck softened the blow.

Zak pulled closer, leaning over Stich’s thighs to get comfortable. He grasped the dick again and followed its slow ascent up the length with his tongue. Even the smell of antiseptics could not kill the mood, and he sucked on the warm skin, pressing his tongue against the vein.

“Oh, fuck…” Stitch uttered, massaging Zak’s neck with a hand so hot it burned. He spread his thighs to accommodate Zak better, only making him wish he had gotten a glimpse of Stitch’s ass. Not that he couldn’t imagine what it looked like minus jeans, but it wouldn’t be the same thing. The background soundtrack of Stitch’s gasps was making Zak’s cock throb. He’d love to hear the guy moan and lose control, and that was precisely what he intended to make him do.

“Yeah,” agreed Zak and flicked the tip of his tongue over the underside of the corona before sticking it into the wet slit at the tip. His body shuddered at the bitterness of the precome, but the sensation only made him hotter for the guy. He bobbed his head, sucking in the bulbous head and squeezing his own cock with his other hand.

Stitch slid both of his hands to the sides of Zak’s head and gently pushed it down. He was one impatient bastard. The heat his body produced was making Zak dizzy and transported him to a reality where they lay together in bed, all sweaty and satisfied, with Stitch still clinging to Zak’s back. Would he stay? Why not? He didn’t have a wife to go home to anyway.

Zak took the cock in deeper, inhaling the scent of arousal and male sweat, which was the more intense the closer his face was to the trimmed bush over Stitch's cock. It was one magnificent piece of meat. Heavy, soft on the outside but hard as steel beneath the skin. Zak's tongue was a red carpet, ready to invite that prick deep into his throat.

“Yes,” Stitch hissed, holding onto Zak’s head with that delicious force. One of the hands slid over the shaved sides and untangled Zak’s ponytail, only to get a better grip on Zak’s hair. This was so odd. Zak never went for guys so deeply in the closet they chose to marry. Those who did were open enough to write about their preferences on Grindr or go to a gay club. It seemed that Stitch was a different kind of animal, rough, uncultured, demanding, but so hot Zak never once considered pulling away. Stitch’s fingers were so rough on his skin, like they had been sprayed with acidic chemicals, but the cockhead was sliding so smoothly over Zak’s palate that he was already jerking off under the tattooing chair, with hair bristling all over his skin.

When the cockhead started hitting the back of Zak’s throat, he got the most arousing moans out of Stitch, long and guttural, accompanying the pulsing in the dick. Stitch’s hips rocked forward to meet Zak’s lips, leaving the leather seat with a slapping sound. “Yeah, suck it like that,” he whispered, moving his thumb over Zak’s jaw.

Zak shivered, trapped between the firmest thighs he’d ever touched, breathing slowly to fight off his gag reflex, but the sensations coming from the assault were making his knees soft as butter. He started jerking his cock at a higher speed, massaging the head at the same pace as Stitch's cock was moving in his mouth. He still tried to suck on the delicious prick, and the slobbering sounds he made seemed to excite them both. Zak was getting so hot, he’d love to just rip off his tank top, but he gave up on the idea since it would mean having to unsuck himself.

The grip on Zak’s hair became painful, but he was beyond caring. Stitch held him in place and fucked his mouth with a vengeance, pushing deep into his throat every now and again. Stitch’s precome was already covering all of Zak’s taste buds when he came with a grunt, holding onto Zak’s head as if belonged to him. “Fuck, yes!” he moaned as he made his last thrusts, thighs trembling with strain.

Zak coughed, clearing his abused throat but pressed his face against Stitch's spent member. It was damp with his own spit and clung to his cheek as Zak groaned, squeezing an orgasm out of his painfully hard dick. The comedown was so sudden he was close to falling asleep with his face in Stitch's crotch, possibly to awake to another erection poking his cheek like a greedy pup. His jaw muscles and throat were aching, but it was the kind of pain he associated with a good, rough fuck. He’d had it worse anyway. “You have somewhere to go?” he muttered.

Stitch fell back to the chair, desperately gasping for air, his stomach nicely displayed when he stretched. “Yeah, I— yeah,” he uttered between one breath and another. Zak had no idea what his train of thought could be, but he wouldn’t let that affect him and got up, with his dick slowly softening where it stuck out of his open zip.

“Remember to call me about your tattoo, or if you happen to need something else,” said Zak with a grin.

Stitch pulled up his pants with more urgency than seemed appropriate. “Don’t get any stupid ideas, yeah?” he rasped, clinging onto his briefs as if he weren’t sure what he wanted to do next.

Zak frowned. “Stupid ideas?”

Stitch pulled his pants all the way up, over the tattoo, and buckled his belt up so quickly as if the demonic trio from
The Master and Margarita
were after him. “You know, gay ideas, how the fuck do I know?” He raised his voice and spread his hands to the sides.

Zak frowned. All of a sudden the rough edges all over Stitch didn’t seem all that tempting. He pulled off the band off his messed up hair and put it back into a ponytail. “Said who? It was you who asked me to suck your dick, so what the
fuck
is your problem?”

Stitch’s nostrils flared, and Zak assessed the bulky body more for how much damage it could do than how hot it was. “It’s you who was all over my dick! No one told you to do shit!” Stitch slid off the chair and took a step closer, suddenly making the room seem smaller.

Zak stepped back, touching the drawer where he kept scalpels and other paraphernalia. His brain was waking up rapidly, as if someone had given him a shot of pure caffeine. “Get out of my house.”

“No, you listen to me, and you listen to me good,” Stitch hissed and grabbed Zak’s arm. The grip was nothing like the exciting force in sexual context, and Zak felt blood draining from his face. With one swing of his wrist, he opened the drawer and grabbed a heavy steel object from a plastic tray inside. He brought it against Stitch's throat and pressed the blade against the Adam’s apple. He wasn’t able to breathe, completely lost in the moment as his eyes met Stitch's.

As much as Zak didn’t want to go there, the scalpel did make Stitch pause and struggle not to swallow against the blade.

“Watcha gonna do with that, huh?” he said quietly, but lessened the grip on Zak’s arm.

Zak gritted his teeth. Was that the gratitude he was going to get from this bitter fucker? The soreness in his throat that previously was so satisfying turned into a nauseating sensation. “Depends. Now get lost.”

Stitch slowly pulled his hand back, never even blinking. “Okay, okay,” he said in a calm voice. He took a step back, but the moment Zak dared to lower his hand, Stitch made a swift move at him. Before Zak could slash him with the blade, he met the wall face-first. It hurt like a motherfucker and for a moment got him so dizzy, he forgot what got him into this position in the first place. Stitch slammed Zak’s hand against the wall so hard Zak dropped the scalpel himself, and froze, shocked by the pain spreading through his wrist. A sudden panic overcame his senses at the notion that it could have been damaged and prevent Zak from carrying on with his work. Stitch’s big body was right behind him, pushing him into the wall and forcing him to his toes, one hand in Zak’s hair, the other on his right wrist.

“You know how I got my nickname?” he whispered into Zak’s ear in a low hum.

Zak gasped and glanced at his hand, trapped in the grip of that meaty hand. It was aching all over, and he was afraid to move his fingers. Hell, at this point he didn't dare to move his other hand, which hadn't been restrained in any way whatsoever. He stiffened with the realization that he was defenseless. There was no doubt Stitch knew what he was doing. The frightening ease with which he’d slammed Zak into the wall and had made him lose his only weapon froze Zak in place. Cold shivers were dancing all over his spine but he refused to talk, afraid his voice would tremble.

“It’s because I got all those stitches in me after a guy stabbed me in the gut and tried to cut me up.” Stitch’s breath licked Zak’s ear in the most unpleasant of ways. “You know why I got skulls and fire inked up all over those scars? Because I burnt his fucking house down with him inside. So
do not
pull a fucking blade at me. Understood?”

This time, Zak wasn’t able to stop himself from shuddering. He’d never been in a situation like this, and his mind went into chaos, as if dozens of different voices were screaming at him from all directions but ultimately left him disoriented and powerless.

Stitch backed off and pulled Zak with him, only to push him right back at the wall. “Some fucking advice? You get lost. Better leave this town before you settle in because you’re not gonna like it here.”

Zak gritted his teeth, curling the hurting hand against his chest. He looked back with a snarl. He
would
talk to strangers. “Or what?”

Stitch took a step back toward the door and crossed those beefy arms on his chest. “You don’t wanna find out, sweetheart. But it will be nothing like blowing me.”

Zak was struggling to get his breathing back to normal, raw fury rising in his veins. “Fuck you.”

“Do we have an understanding?” Stitch raised his voice again and ripped a poster off the wall in the most random of attacks Zak had ever seen.

“Like what? You’re throwing me out of
your
town?”

“Yep. People don’t like your kind around here. Go on, stay. Try me.” Stitch said and threw the poster to the floor before storming out and presenting the patch on the back of his cut. ‘Hounds of Valhalla’ over the triangular Nordic sign with the head of a snarling dog sticking out.

“Don’t you ever set your foot in here again!” yelled Zak, picking up the scalpel and following him at a safe distance. His temples were pulsing like mad. “No wonder you don’t have anyone to suck your junk!”

Outside, Stitch was already approaching his beast of a bike, but he turned around to show Zak the finger. “Shut your cocksucking mouth!”

Zak saw white. “Then get your faggot ass off my property!”

All he got in reply was Stitch spitting on his lawn before putting the helmet on and getting on his bike. A black Harley worthy of one of the Riders of the Apocalypse.

Zak reached into an open bag of charcoal Aunt Virginia kept on the porch and threw one at him as hard as he could. It bounced right off the dog muzzle on Stitch's cut and fell into the dirt. Zak needed a gun. No, a
shotgun
to scare off this closeted bullterrier.

Zak looked at the white ceiling for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. The moonlight cast a cool, unearthly glow onto the flowery wallpaper, the antique furniture, the framed portrait of Versailles, Aunt Virginia’s show poodle, which dozed off in his basket by the wall.