BarbarianSpy Xtreme: Rough gay sex, domination and control, BDSM, orgy, and initial reluctance.
A young classic automobile collector is doing no more than shopping for a new toy when he is seduced by, and becomes entrapped in, the never-ending sexual debauchery of himself and others at the hands of two master male lovers, in the seemingly possessed house on Park Street.
It almost seems as if the sexual ravishment of anyone entering the house is being orchestrated by the house itself, and it requires all of the young man's fortitude and strength—and the help of a smitten burglar—to break free of the siren song of the house on Park.
This is an expanded version of the e-book, of the same title, previously published by eXcessica Publishing LLC.
I found I had a carefree weekend on my hands, so I had driven into the small college town in the far reaches of Maryland to answer an ad for a classic Triumph convertible that I might want to add to my collection. But I had been up and down the Park Street address given in the ad several times without finding the house I was looking for. So, I just parked my car and started hunting on foot. I did find the address, but no one seemed to be home. There wasn’t any evidence of the Triumph, either.
I looked around, hoping to find a neighbor or someone I could ask about the car, when I saw them, there, across the street. They were both looking mighty fine. The car was a 1963 Pontiac Tempest convertible in pristine condition, and the guy working on the car seemed to be in pretty pristine condition as well. I was sure I was in luck. This guy must be a classic car buff as well and would be able to tell me about the Triumph. But my foot wasn’t even off the curb before I forgot all about the Triumph I’d come to see.
As I crossed the street, I kept my eye on the young man, who was about my own age and might have gone to the same serious-work gym I did. Not that he was muscle bound; just the musculature he had presented extremely well. He was smiling very enticingly, and I saw him slowly move the wrench he was holding to his crotch and move it up and down against the taut material. He was long and lean, and tanned. His jeans waistband started just below a hint of curly black pubic hair, and I loved the way the line of his pelvis V’d down to the jeans and the flatness of his belly—and the pertness of his navel. The material was worn at his crotch, which tended to focus attention and the crotch itself jutted out with a promise that started my own basket to start to swell.
Any sense that the day was lost from not being able to find the Triumph for sale was beginning to drain away from me. And I wondered. . . . And almost involuntarily my hand dropped to my own crotch, and I put whatever question I could in my gaze when his eyes came up to meet mine. I thought I’d have to telescope some further question, but then he came through with the signaling that made my day.
The move of the wrench scratching whatever itch he had in his pelvis provided an unmistakable message. When I reached him, I started to speak, but he turned and walked around to the trunk of the Tempest, in the shadows from the buildings on either side of the drive. I followed him around to the back of the car to where I faced him, very close, but not touching. My eyes were locked on his, and the lust in his eyes was almost electric. He sat back on the car’s trunk and, winding his left hand around the back of my neck, he pulled my face to his.
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