The Hardest Thing

Little bit late for the cavalry.” He started stroking himself with one hand, feeling my chest with the other. “You’re going to die, Stagg.”
    He pinched my tit—hard, of course; he had to hurt me. I saw his tongue run over his lips. My dick was getting stiff again.
    “You’re going to suck this, aren’t you?”
    I opened my mouth and let my tongue rest on my lower lip.
    “Yeah!” A note of triumph in his voice. “You’re all the same. Just like your little friend. Right at the end he was begging for a dick up his ass.” He twisted my tit; god, it hurt. “Your dick. Didn’t know that, did you? You were fucking him just when we…” Thump! He rammed his fist into my stomach. “Decided…” Thump! Again, harder, but this time I tensed to resist, trying to block the stabbing pain. “To kill him!” Another blow in
the gut, but this time with an open hand that rested on the hairy ridges of my abdomen, moving up and down, feeling the sweat and the muscles.
    One hand on my stomach, the other hand on his dick.
    Careless, Ferrari. Careless, you murdering bastard.
    I kept working my wrist around and around, side to side, feeling the blood trickling over my skin. Soon it would be loose enough to tear my hand free—leaving half the flesh behind, perhaps, but that would heal. I’m not frightened of injuries. As Ferrari can see, looking all over my body like he is, I’m covered in scars.
    He was good and hard. I knew how he felt. When you spend your life hiding the way you feel, then even the most degraded sexual encounter is enough to send your dick super-stiff. I guess Ferrari had been waiting a long time to get me alone. Well, now he was going to get what was coming to him. It wasn’t quite what he expected—a rough blow job before he strangled me or shot me, silencing the only witness. The harder I could make him—the more I played along with his fantasy—the better my chances of escape.
    His dick was back at my lips; he seemed to have a one-track mind. I licked him in welcome, and he shuddered. “Oh, fuck…” I placed my lips around his head and started moving up. The angle was painful in the extreme, but I figured if I could get him in a couple more inches—just as far as that midshaft point where his dick thickened like a zeppelin—then I’d have him at my mercy.
    His left hand traveled down my stomach and under the sheet, where it found what it wanted. He grabbed
my cock and started tugging. The other hand moved to my left bicep, squeezing it hard as Ferrari started to fuck my mouth. He was raised up on his tiptoes, and my head was skewed around in a position you only usually see on dead people. If this had been my first experience of sex, I don’t think I’d have bothered coming back for more. Okay, I had a chemically-induced erection, and Ferrari’s rough handling was sending some basic pleasure signals to my brain—as was the taste and feel of his cock in my mouth—but the pain tipped the balance. My neck felt like it was breaking, that invisible kitchen knife was still plunging between my ribs, bloody chunks were coming off my bound wrist—and over all of this washed the sick dread that Jody really was dead.
    Just when we decided to kill him.
    It took all my training not to chomp down hard on Ferrari’s prick and spit the fucking thing against the wall. But that would never happen. He’d shoot me the moment he felt my jaws tightening. Maybe I’d break the skin, cause him some pain and embarrassment in the emergency room—“You appear to have tooth marks around the base of your penis, Mr. Ferrari”—but I’d pay with my life.
    Too high a price.
    So I kept on sucking and working that wrist, and I breathed deeply through my nose, feeling his hand working on my cock, feeling the ache building in my balls. From the way Ferrari was panting and cursing, he wasn’t far off either. He shuffled his pants down around his thighs—at least he had to stop squeezing my arm to do that—and half-climbed onto the bed. This enabled him to fuck me hard in the mouth—I was gagging, but
he didn’t care. He was in the final stages of the ride, and his concentration was shot. I was working that right wrist hard now, pretty certain that the gap was big enough. If I could free that hand then I’d push him over and twist us both to the floor…
    “Oh, Jesus…Jesus…”
    Was the angle right? Was I risking my one chance of escape on a bad calculation? His feet were still on the ground—he