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 THE MASTER OF THE WOLVES

   Few know why the Master of the Wolves rides with the chain to a handcuff
welded to each of his handlebars.  As I lie prone and stretched on the big
machine, with a wrist in each of those cuffs, my ankles lashed to the
passenger pegs, the Wolves around me laughing and stroking their cocks, I
know what they are for.  The bike on its hard stand thunders in neutral
between my legs with each twist of the throttle, making me writhe and buck,
but I cannot escape its inexorable power.

   They surrounded me as I rode, the Wolves, gleaming in steel and glowing
darkly in leather, and I was afraid.  "Let me through," I said, "or I'll
get the police!" They only laughed harder, slowing their bikes so I had to
stop my own or collide with them.  The Master himself eased up beside me.

   His voice was muffled by his mask.  "My brother the Chief of Police
would be delighted, I'm sure.  Shall I invite his officers to share the
fun?" He lifted the mask, and his eyes were ice blue, snow cold, chilling
my anger, my fear, my resistance.  "I think not.  This is one prize we will
keep for ourselves." They took me to the old warehouse they had
appropriated, and I could but go with them, my fear and excitement at war
with each other.

   Now they stand around me, and the Master says, "Who shall sate himself
on this one?  Handle yourselves like men, my Wolves, no shirking and no
cheating, and the longest-lasting shall be given his climax in a warm body
instead of a cold hand!" And they obey, the Wolves, unwilling to be slow or
slack with the Master's eye on them.  Some come right away, and stand,
still stroking themselves gently, hungry eyes on me, some taking their turn
to twist the throttle and send fire through my loins.  Others last longer.
Finally, there are only two, both tall, bearded, with long dark hair. 
One's cock is short but thick, with a dark red head; the veins stand out on
it like the veins on his neck, and his eyes are half-closed with
concentration and desire.  The other's is long and curved, and his hand
alternately skins the glans and conceals it again in its foreskin; the
sweat stands out on his body.  The Wolves begin to stamp their boots,
slowly, and the duellists turn their eyes to each other.  The uncut one
tosses his head and grits his teeth; the other lets his chin sink to his
chest and I can feel his focus withdrawing even as his hand works.  Just
when it seems that they must both come or die, the Master shouts, "Stop!"
Immediately they drop their hands.  "There are two perfectly acceptable
openings," he says, "let both heroes take their portion."

   They turn to me, and the passion in their gaze burns on my skin like
sulfur.  They come up, and the other Wolves back away.  They run their
hands over my naked body; the thick one lifts my chin and turns my head to
face him over my right shoulder.  He bends and pushes his tongue between my
teeth, then bites my lip.  The uncut one spreads my ass cheeks with his
hands and runs his tongue up and down between my legs while the other
twists the throttle.  Then they both push their cocks into me, one
straddling me from behind, the other stretching my jaws open.

   My eyes are watering, and I look past the one in my mouth, and I see the
Master looking on, reflectively stroking his grey wolf whiskers.  His ice
eyes capture mine, and I suddenly want the two men inside me, I want their
cocks and I want their cum.  I press the underside of the thick one's cock
with my tongue, and arch myself to the uncut one, and now with the sudden
application of my intent, the two men get truly excited.  The one in my
face holds my head up with one hand under my chin, and with the other he
reaches out and claps a hand on the shoulder of the other man, who puts a
hand of his own on his bro's shoulder.  I look up and see the one close his
eyes for a moment, and see in the mirrors that the other is doing the same.
Then the uncut one reaches out, and as they open and look into each other's
eyes, he torques the throttle to redline, and they both come, the uncut one
with strangled cries, the thick one with howling.

   The bike idles quietly under me, but the seat is wet and I taste bitter
and salt at the back of my throat.  The two Wolves are tall, but the Master
is taller, and he lays a hand on each of their heads as though they were
boys and he was proud of them.  Then he pushes them gently away.

   "Did you want them?" he asks me.  I am not able to speak, but I nod, my
eyes streaming.  He lifts my face and drinks deeply of my mouth.  "And do
you want me?" he says.  I cannot answer.  "Speak!" he commands.

   "Master, I want you," I say.  He smiles, throws a leg over the bike.  I
feel his cock head at the opening of my ass, rubbing in the juices.  He
rocks the bike down off the stand and as it thumps down, his cock stabs
into me.  "Now you must come," he says, so softly that it seems I could not
hear it over the roar of the bike, so softly that I hear it in my soul. 
"Come!" And I do, over and over, unable to stop.

   "Wolves," he calls, "let's ride!"

   Few know why the Master of the Wolves rides with the chain to a handcuff
welded to each of his handlebars.  As I fly through the streets, wind
whipping over my naked body, both of the Master's machines between my legs,
the one made of metal and the one made of meat, I know what they are for.
(C)copyright 1992, Leigh Ann Hussey