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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

The Married Rat - 1. Chapter 1

1


Alan Damschroeder

48. 6'-1" 180. Blond-brown hair. Light blue eyes. Clean shaven. Athletic. Well-educated. Married. Cedar Rapids, Iowa.


Pablo Ruiz

26. 6'-0" 185. Black hair. Brown eyes. Mustache/beard. Gym rat. BS in Business/U of I. Single. Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

 

2

From Ruiz


Woke into darkness this morning and immediately knew that I was in a bed I’d never slept in, in a room I’d never been in.

Tried to remember how I got to this place and everything was so vague. I barely remember agreeing to meet a guy for a drink at a bar somewhere.

I remember that it was just a regular bar in its vibe. I can’t even remember its name.

I remember things going well enough between us and thinking through conversation that he seemed too normal, too nice to have met online.

I remember the second drink then the walk to the parking lot. I was definitely buzzing. I remember slightly some conversation about the torn briefs I’d been wearing in the pic I sent him and thinking that it was interesting that they only came up near the end of our meeting, in the parking lot.

I remember some awkward conversation around how my jeans were going to get opened so I could show him the briefs. Was he going to do it or was I.

Was I going to do it voluntarily or having been told to by and for him.

I remember him cutting through the discussion and unbuttoning my jeans then unzipping them. I remember that rush of cool air going in followed by his hands which were warmer.

Then I remember his hands pushing my jeans down and that air hitting my thighs and then calves and thinking immediately that this hadn’t been mentioned as even a possibility. I remember looking down at my jeans bunched up on top of my shoes and suddenly having a hard time focusing on all of that. The last thing I know I remember is leaning forward and reaching down to grab my jeans and pull them up. Then nothing, save for maybe a feeling of pavement against my face.

Now I’m in the dark and there’s an almost silent fan running somewhere close. I move around enough to feel that my legs and feet are all bare between the sheet and blanket. My jeans are gone but the torn briefs are still on me as is my t-shirt.

I immediately start thinking about having been drugged and kept in captivity but if that’s what’s happened why am I still wearing anything. I do feel mildly drugged but it doesn’t feel bad and as I struggle to maintain any focus in my head for answers or how I’m going to get out of this, I feel myself start to swell in my torn briefs and my right hand finds its way on top of them, slowly moving back and forth, pressing down onto the fabric and what’s under.

Am I awake again or still dreaming. I think I’ve woken and fallen back asleep so many times in this bed that I don’t know which is which.

The light in the room is constant. There isn’t much. A vague pale square outlines a window and never dims or changes. I’ve can’t even figure out the dimensions of the room - it’s too dark. Still I keep trying to work it all out, trying to remember.

I remember the very first thing was a message about a photo where my jeans were open. Then some conversation and a meeting. It all seemed fine.

Then something happened in a parking lot but it’s all so vague. Did he open my jeans or did I. I think I did. Maybe he told me to and I followed that first order. I think I remember the feelings - submission, exposure, risk - as I followed the order and unbuttoned my jeans. I remember the almost silent sound the button made as it came through the button hole. And it was just the button. There was still time for things to stop or not go that way.

Then I remember my pulse racing as I unzipped my jeans, looking around to make sure we were alone in the parking lot and not being watched. Although now I think that if someone else had come out or noticed us there would at least be someone to see what happened. And tell someone.

Then my jeans were open and I thought I could smell my body as I opened them but I probably imagined that too.

I tried to hold his eyes as I watched them look down. I honestly didn’t think this would happen so I hadn’t arranged anything in my briefs and things were just as they were. A warm feeling came over me but I still can’t be sure what it was.

Was it a flush of pleasure from letting him see what he wanted to or was it some drug hitting me. Was it arousal or intoxication or both. Would I have felt that way without the two vodkas I drank to relax my inhibitions plus whatever else was in me now. It was all happening in seconds and I don’t even remember conscious thought.

I remember something in his eyes, a look I couldn’t place. What was it. Then maybe a slight grin and I suddenly felt embarrassed to be standing in this dark parking lot with some guy I had only texted. And with my jeans open and him looking down and that look in his eyes.

I told myself to look down and I followed his gaze. I wanted to see what he was looking at, to see what he was seeing. My jeans were open and the flaps were hanging undone. My torn white briefs were clearly visible. Why had I even worn them to this meeting. Had he asked me to or told me to. Was it because of that first message to me mentioning them. Did I just want to have them on underneath without intending to show them to him.

Now he was seeing them and as my eyes went to them I also saw - clearly visible for him - a large wet area of precome, so much that it was actually coming up through the fabric and glistening in the parking lot lights. I felt instant shame.

But also arousal as I felt my breath hitch and I understood that the look in his eyes was a response to seeing my precome, not just my torn underwear. This entire encounter was already unprecedented and was too intense now. I heard myself say - out loud or just to myself - that it was time to go and I remember my arms coming up, my hands going for my jeans but his got there first and my jeans were suddenly going down so fast.

I felt the cool air on my hips and ass as they were both instantly exposed to anyone looking and I remember thinking “Well they’ll just think I’m wearing a jockstrap.” But then my eyes fell back to that shining wetness and I felt another wave of humiliation come over me. I knew I had to go. I think I said something to him in exasperation like “Come on” but even then I still felt certain I’d get out of there.

When I bent forward to reach for my jeans I knew something was wrong and that this was bigger and that I wouldn’t be going anywhere. Then darkness.

I probably shouldn’t have responded to that first message.

Now I’m awake or asleep again. It’s quiet around either way and I can’t tell if this is a house or a hotel room. But it’s above ground and sometimes I’m sure it’s a hotel.

My head still feels groggy and I wonder if it’s from that night or am I getting something to keep me this way. When I try to remember what I know I always run through a checklist to see what’s different.

I don’t really feel hungry or thirsty but there aren’t any tubes going into me. How can I eat and drink without being awake for it. There must be a way. My t-shirt’s gone. That’s different. Where is it. Is it with everything else I was wearing or someplace else. What was I wearing. Jeans, a t-shirt, maybe a hoodie, white socks I think and running shoes.

All that’s left on me are these briefs. I wonder why, but I’m also grateful not to be lying here naked.

There’s something around my left ankle. I know I touched it once. Was it metal or leather.

Where’s my car. Where are my clothes. How long can I be away before someone notices and calls someone. How long is he going to keep me.

What’s he going to do to me.

What will I have to do for him.

I wonder who this guy is and how long he’d planned all of this. Am I the first and did that photo of my torn briefs send some kind of signal to him that I would be what - easy to take.

I’m afraid but before I get too afraid I always think that he left my underwear on even as he took my t-shirt. So that’s one good thing about him - he didn’t take everything.

When I think about what he took and what he left my hand goes to my briefs and they’re always wet in the same area.

I wipe my thumb across it and wipe my thumb across my lips, tasting it - tasting myself. Sometimes my left hand comes over as well. Sometimes I bend my knees outward and my feet come together. They’re both bare and I think about what shoes I was wearing in the parking lot. Was it my running shoes or was it the leather high tops with the zippers. Did he have to unzip those shoes to get them off me when I was passed out.

My right hand starts going back and forth across the fabric, thinking about it.

I think a lot about what it will be like when he finally comes back for me. I haven’t done that much with men. I don’t know if I’ll be good enough at whatever I have to do to get myself out of here.

I wonder if he’ll use his hands on me and whether he’ll find those places on me that girls have found and will I be able to keep quiet and keep them hidden from him.

Sometimes while I’m lying here thinking I end up eating more precome. Sometimes I just rub it around my head while the torn elastic band holds it to my stomach. Sometimes I use my fingers to move what’s left of the front panel of my briefs aside and I feel my warm palm against myself.

I think about how that photo started with a dream I had of being stripped at an airport and how this is like that dream now. Lying in the dark in what’s left of my underwear. Thinking about this guy who wanted to see me so badly that he drugged me and brought me here. How he took off almost all of my clothes and chained me to a bed.

I precome some more and rub it into my shaft - which so few guys have ever seen. I think about what will happen if he walks in to find me masturbating. Whether that will be trouble. I can’t even see the door so I don’t know where he enters from or what he sees when he walks in.

I keep precoming.

I wonder how long the awake cycles are with whatever he has me on. Whether he’s pulled me out of my briefs while I’m out. Whether he’s touched me enough to get me hard. Maybe he’s already found the secret areas on me. Maybe he’s heard me whimper or moan when he touches me there. Does my body move under his hands even while I’m out. Has he made me precome in my sleep. What did he do with it - rub it into me or across his lips. Has he already taken me into his mouth or kissed me even on the lips. Has his tongue already been in my mouth. Or elsewhere.

The room seems to get warmer and more stuffy and I move the covers off me suddenly not caring if he walks in and sees me like this. I wonder if he’s seen and maybe felt all of me and was disappointed. Whether he hoped for a better body under the clothes of the guy he met in the bar that night and decided to take the risk and drug me to find out. I wonder if he looked and touched and made me hard and was disappointed that my cock is only average for my body. If he already knows exactly how much or how little he’s going to make me do - with myself or to him.

I wonder if he knows what he’s going to do with me after I do it.

I find myself thinking the door is opposite this bed.

I find myself thinking about what he would see if he walked in right now - what he would think.

My feet are together sole to sole. My knees are bent up and out. My briefs are still on but the front panel is pushed aside exposing my hardon.

He has to have already seen this. He has to have gotten me hard already.

My right hand alternates between my shaft and my balls, the precome pouring out. I find myself wondering if he’s already in this room and how would I even know in the dark. Would I hear him breathing. I guess.

Maybe he’s behind a mirror that’s actually a window to another room and he’s watching me masturbate. What if he brings other people with him to watch or if he’s working for someone. What if I’m meant to be sold off and smuggled out.

I fell asleep again and woke up with my hand in my briefs. How long have I been here. Has it been a week or two days. I remember clearly now that I wore a black button down shirt to that bar, not a t-shirt. He wanted me to unbutton my shirt because I’d said I was self-conscious about my chest and I wouldn’t do it. Still he persisted - “Unbutton your shirt.” I refused but offered to open my jeans to placate him. I had no idea I was precoming or hard. I was so freaked out to be in a public parking lot.

If I’d unbuttoned my shirt would I be here now. I wouldn’t have had to bend over for my jeans. That’s when I blacked out.

He tried to talk me out of my shoes as well. Why didn’t I see this coming. Why didn’t I feel the drug while I was standing up. What was the name of the site I met him on. I can’t even think. Did I actually give him my car keys. Did he suggest a hotel. Did this happen by my car or his. What was the name of the bar. I can’t remember parking my car.

Wait. I was barefoot in the parking lot. First he told me to take off my shoes but why did I go along so easily with that. Then he made me hand my shoes to him and I remember he put them on the roof of his car.

Then he told me to take off my socks. I thought it would stop there so I did it. I remember that feeling of cold pavement underfoot. I remember him smiling as he watched me do it.

Then he wanted me to unbutton my shirt. When I wouldn’t do it maybe it pissed him off and that’s why he pulled down my jeans.

Fuck it’s all like a dream...

(continued)

copyright by Richard Eisbrouch 2018
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental. Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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