As a writer for such gay magazines as Manifest Reader, Honcho, and Inches, old-school leather lover Terry R. Vidal honed his skills in telling dark, noirish tales of intense man-on-man BDSM and sex. Here, some of Vidal's hardest and most intense leather stories are collected for the first time. In "Highway 101," a professional gambler steals a rival gangster's slave boy - along with a pile of ill-gotten cash. In "Down for the Count," two college wrestlers struggle for ultimate dominance, with one craving victory in defeat. "Broken and Entered" and "Resisting" depict intense scenes of crime and humiliation, and in "Minnesota Strip," a fleeing rent boy gets tracked and shackled by a biker-for-hire who loves nothing more than making runaways pay. With "Shore Leave," a sailor on leave and horny as hell finds his darkest desires on order in a leather bar - only to discover a few of his "homophobic" shipmates secretly share his cravings. "Hard Labor" sees a tough guy getting way more than he bargained for in a forced abduction scene, and "Deck Hand" features a straight college boy who thinks he can put one over on the owner of a high-class yacht - only to become the kind of pirate's slave that makes his cock hard. "The Cage" features a leatherman who just can't resist a kidnap when his best friend loans him his caged boyslave. And "The King" shows how the briefest encounters with one's past - in this case, with a badass leather biker on the run from the law - can have dramatic consequences. Gay erotica doesn't get any hotter than this! Step into the hard and fast world of Terry R. Vidal's erotica and you'll find yourself turned on like you've never been before!
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DOWN FOR THE COUNT
I suppose it was a momentary urge to get my ass pounded that got me to do it – fuck, there's no shame in that. I let the bastard take me down, and he did what any victor would do – to the victor goes the spoils, right? And thus was I spoiled. Hah hah hah. Not that I'm complaining. Arnassen knows he's a loser, knows I'm going to pound his ass one of these days. Maybe tonight. But this was last week, and I was the one who got his ass pounded. Not that I'm complaining. Fuck no, I'm not complaining.
* * * *
He was waiting for me as I left the gym, after my late workout. It was practically six, and dead winter, a couple of weeks before Christmas, so it was pitch black and everyone was already home or at the library cramming for midterms or some bullshit. I was the last guy to leave the shitty little weight room, and the janitors had already finished up and gone home. He was waiting there by the exit to the locker room. He looked pretty pissed.
I just stood there looking at him, grinning, arrogant, unflinching. I figured he was going off about what happened earlier and wanted to kick my ass. What the fuck, I thought. I can handle that fucking attitude. I fired it right back to him.
"What's up, Arnassen?"
"Kicked my ass today at practice, didn't you, Wilson?"
I laughed. Arnassen and I had been paired off in a match. We'd had some shit going down between us, like in the locker room and shit. Just a kind of low-boil competition. He was a pretty boy, which isn't to say I had a problem with that. He had a nice tight round ass and was a little bit of a lightweight, which is the way I like 'em. His hair was blonde and his eyes were blue, his skin so white and clear, which I figured was 'cause his parents were from Scandinavia or something. I remember hearing in this lit class on myths how "Scandinavia" got its name. Something to do with the goddess of death. I got a chuckle out of that one.
Arnassen was a pretty boy, all radiant arrogance and shit, and that's why I took him down a peg. Well, that's not the only reason. But it contributed.
"You kicked my ass," said Arnassen, with a shit-eating grin on his face. I figured any second he would take a swing at me.
"That's right. Cum hoc signo vinces," I said, flexing. "Guess you just couldn't hold up when it got down to it. Let's say you couldn't get it up."
His smile fell, his face got hard, rigid. "You sure could," he said.
"Oh yeah," I chuckled. "You noticed that."
"Couple of the other guys, too. You were like a fucking horse, faggot. You were ready to fuck me up the ass."
"That skinny ass? What if it was?" I was playing it real cool. This asshole wasn't going to fuck with me, as far as I was concerned. "You woulda taken it."
"Yeah, maybe. You had me down pretty good. You get off on wrestling guys? Holding them down and shit?"
What the fuck was his game? What kind of sick game was this fucker playing? Did he have a fucking bug up his ass about queers or something, figured he shouldn't drop the soap around me? What a fucking asshole.
"I get off on teaching sophomores who think they're hot shit just what's what about the wide world of sports, you fucking eighteen year old punk."
"I'm nineteen," sneered Arnassen.
"Got left back? Couldn't learn your times tables?"
"Fuck you." Arnassen didn't flinch. "So maybe you're ready to see if you can keep it up when no one's watching, right? Maybe you're ready for a rematch."
I watched him. It was starting to make sense. I could finally start to figure what game this guy was playing.
I let my face soften a bit. Just a bit.
"What the fuck are you talking about, punk?"
"You and me. On the mat. Just like this afternoon." Arnassen held up a big jailer's key ring. "Coach is letting me lock up tonight. So we've got the back gym to ourselves. For a rematch. Only this time we play with a couple of extra rules."
I was interested. But where Sophomores are concerned, I like to play hard to get. "Look, I'm wiped out."
"To the victor go the spoils," said Arnassen.
I froze. It was a phrase coach screamed at us all the time, to psych us up before a match or berate us for being wimps. To most of the pinhead guy on the team, it meant that the winning wrestler got the pick of the juicy sorority babes, cheerleaders or something, I can't fucking remember. But that's not what it meant to Arnassen. Or to me. I never would have fucking figured him for a queer, but it explained a lot of things.
"You and me?"
"That's right," he told me, grinning. "Doors to the back gym locked. No one to save your sorry ass when I whip it."
I laughed. "You and me," I said. "Get your wimp ass in there."
* * * *
Arnassen had his own special rules picked out, and he told them to me after he got his clothes off.
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