Rudy started screaming, but the knife–it was definitely a knife, landed against his throat.
“I won’t kill ya–just…fuck up your voice box a bit. Or do you just wanna be quiet for daddy?”
He shut up. The knife rolled over his neck, and then the biker dragged the tip down his chest. He didn’t apply enough force to cut him, but Rudy stopped breathing anyway, freezing his body as best he could, feeling the knife slip lower, past his cock where it finally came up from his skin.
“Not an assman, what a crock a shit. Guys like you should be happy anyone’s willing tah offer you a hole at all. Can’t do to be that picky, you know.”
“I get plenty of tail,” Rudy spat at him.
“Heh, sure man. That’s why you’re prowlin’ ‘round the rest stop, cause ya got plenty a tail. No Rudy, no one wants tah get fucked a sad sack like you.”
Rudy started to retort, but froze when he felt something slip between his legs and between his ass cheeks. It wasn’t the knife, like he’d first expected–it was just the biker’s finger–and before he could object he started pressing at Rudy’s hole with the tip, massaging it slowly, and unable to stop himself, Rudy let out a long sigh, collapsed onto the bed and moaned.
“Don’t worry man, mah finger’s can work magic,” the biker said. “What do ya think, man? Think I can convince ya anal might not be so bad?”
“F-Fuck you…” Rudy groaned, his back arching, limbs tugging at the ropes holding him to the bed.
“Fuck me? No no no, fuck you, Rudy.”
He tried to shut his hole up, but the man’s finger just…just slipped into him effortlessly, and fuck, it felt good in there, like it fucking belonged. His cock was hard, and he could already feel it pulsing, getting ready to blow. Deeper still, fuck, more, another finger, something, he needed it, he was so close, he was gonna explode–
He woke up, with a suddering groan, two of his own fingers burrowed deep in his own ass, and his cock started spraying cum across the bed sheets he’d kicked off in the night. He just laid there, fingers still inside, panting and looking around. Hadn’t…he been tied up? Out the window, the sky was the deep purple of the hours before dawn, but it had been pitch black, hadn’t it? When he’d been in here? He realized his hand was still inside him, and he yanked it out, got up from the bed and immediately washed his hands over and over until he couldn’t smell it anymore, and then looked around for evidence, but found nothing. He had no bruises or marks on his wrists or ankles, not even a speck of ash from the biker’s cigar that he’d been smoking. So had it been a dream? He’d never had a dream like that, it had felt so damn real! He managed to shake it off after a bit, and by then it was time for work, so he got dressed and left the trailer, hoping he could just forget about it as quickly as possible.
The rest of the week was just…strange. He didn’t quite feel like himself. He’d look at himself in the mirror, and something would throw him off–the scraggly beard, the unkempt hair, the paunch–none of which he could recall having before. Sure, he was himself, but…maybe it was just his confidence or something, but he kept striking out. Girls who usually were desperate for a lay with him were suddenly throwing him cold shoulders or coming up with lame excuses for why they didn’t want to meet with him. The guys at the rest area seemed equally uninterested, and for the first time in long time, he went several days without fucking anyone, and it was driving him mad. It didn’t help that whenever he masturbated he…couldn’t get himself over the edge. He’d stroke for hours on end, but all that would happen is he’d end up even hornier than he’d started. He couldn’t sleep either. He was too terrified that he might…dream like that again, or worse that it hadn’t been a dream, and the biker would show up like before.
It was a week and a half, when it happened again. He’d started sleeping a bit better, but the crushing horniness was only getting worse. The heat was increasing too, as summer wore on, and he woke that night in a froth, his cock achingly hard, and resigned himself to try again. He started stroking, but nothing was happening, but he also couldn’t stop! He wanted to cum so badly, he’d…he’d do fucking anything.
His stomach tried to crawl it’s way out his mouth. He looked over, and there, smoking one of those nasty cigars of his, was the fucking biker, right there in his armchair, watching him try to jack off. “What…How did you get in here?”
“The door, Rudy–you fucking dumbass,” the biker said, and stood up, “Yeah, dumbass. Anybody else woulda put two and two together, but ya couldn’t even get tah two in the first place. You remember what made you feel so good last time, Rudy? Why don’t you try that and see what happens.”
No–not that. But his hand, it…it wouldn’t stop. He licked two fingers, rolled over a bit and poked at his hole, gasping immediately as precum started gushing from his cock. He fingered himself, deep, desperate to cum, but as good as it felt, it…wasn’t enough. “I still can’t cum, you fuck,” Rudy said, “What the fuck did you do to me?”
“You can’t cum, Rudy, cause fingers aren’t enough for you–you know that,” the biker unzipped the fly of his pants and let his huge cock fall from his pants. It…looked ever bigger than before, and fuck, Rudy wanted it inside him, he hadn’t even known how much he wanted it, but fuck did he.
“Oh god, fuck me, fuck me please! Please, I just want to cum, please…” Rudy said, rolled up on his hands and knees, ass towards the biker’s cock.
“Heh, if you insist Rudy, if you insist.”