I, Mannequin

I came to with a jolt—literally—Dwight was standing over me, naked, except for those horn-rimmed eyeglasses he hadn't taken off in the living room either. He was leaning down and jolting my nipples with a vibrator with a big, globular head. I was flat on my back, legs together, and arms straight out from my side like someone being crucified—and I could feel my legs and arms, but they were tingling from something other than the effect of the vibrator and I could only move them with great effort. It wasn't effort I wanted to invest at the moment, because I was still trying to figure out where I was, how I had gotten here—and why.

Sensing my head would soon be immobile from whatever was paralyzing the rest of me, I swiveled it enough to see that we weren't in Dwight's living room anymore, but in some sort of work room. Idiotically, tailor's shop is what first entered my mind, because there were four or five male dummies hanging on stands around the edges of the room, facing the wall. Or a medical examination room, I thought, because there was a tan and green-enamel examination table behind me. A wheelchair was a couple of feet off beside me. That must have been how he got me in here. He wasn't much bigger than I was. I would have been dead weight unconscious.

The dummies gave me a double take, as they all had big holes where their assholes would be with plastic tubes attached behind the holes.

What is this shit? I wanted to scream at Dwight. I had marked that I'd fuck on the first date on the Internet hookup dating site application. And we were almost into it when I blacked out in the other room. When Dwight did something to make me black out. And when he had done something to make my systems start to close down—not my ability to feel; my ability to move.

But, as far as getting on with it, Dwight was getting on with it now. He was kneeling below me and had pulled the red silk jock strap, which was the only thing I was wearing, off my legs. I had worn it for him—for him to slip off my body—or not, as he could fuck me wearing a jock strap without pulling it off. It had been for his pleasure. But he didn't need to be doing any of this immobilization shit. I had clearly marked that I'd fuck on a first date—and that I was a submissive—that all he had to do was get it in me and I'd go all docile for him. Even that I'd take it rough. I'd marked all of those boxes.

He grasped both of my ankles, bent my legs, and placed my feet flat on the floor. It seemed that he could place my body parts where he wanted them, and they'd stay, but I couldn't. I felt his hands feeling up my inner legs from calf up high on my thighs, and he was nudging the legs open wider.

I screamed inwardly, which came out only in moans and groans, as he applied the bulb of the vibrator under my balls. I writhed inside my skin, but remained paralyzed—and increasing so—on the outside, as the vibrating ball rolled across my balls, and up and down the sides of my erect penis and down under, at my ass opening rim. I could feel it all; I just couldn't move anything and react to it. I did react to it eventually, as he held the vibrating bulb to my piss slit until I shot my load.

Hey, Dwight, this was OK, I called out in the silence of my brain. This was kind of sexy. It made me hard; I shot my load. I would have let you do this without being paralyzed. I'd signed up with the hookup service because I was tired of vanilla fucking. I wanted something jazzy like this.

Dwight then pushed his knees under my buttocks to raise my pelvis to his entry, slid his hard cock into me, and fucked me, in long, languid strokes. He was manageable and I wasn't particularly being violated; I had marked on my application that I would fuck on the first date, and I had every intention of letting Dwight fuck me when we'd been paired up. I even was good with the vibrator. I'd signed up with the hookup service, marking the fetish and rough boxes, because I'd gotten tired and frustrated with my soccer coach's vanilla fucking in the backseat of his Honda Accord when he could get away from his wife and kids.

So, all of this incapacitating stuff was so unnecessary, I kept screaming on. But Dwight, concentrating on varying the stroking of his cock inside me, didn't hear my internal-only voice and probably didn't care.

With a sudden movement, Dwight was out of me and pulling himself up on his feet. He did a fast pull of the condom off his cock and I thought, here it comes. Is he going to hit me in the face or somewhere else with his cum? But he didn't shoot off then. I watched out of the periphery vision of my now-paralyzed head as he stumbled over to one of the male mannequins, Stuffed his cock through the hole in the dummy's ass, grabbing its hips in his hands, and pumped the transparent plastic tube until, with a deep groan, he ejaculated in that. I clearly could see the spurt of the cum in the tube.

OK, so he doesn't want to come with a condom on.

* * * *

"Your profile says you have modeled."

"Yeah, if you could call it that," I had answered. He seemed to be interested, for the first time really that we'd been on this date. Not that he didn't give the impression that he'd get around to fucking me, but after the movie, we'd been sitting at this outdoor café with him talking all sorts of technical scientific stuff that I couldn't understand and was having trouble giving him the idea that I was fascinated by.

Dwight had said to meet him at the movie theater. We were starting the date by watching the new Star Wars movie. No introductions or anything, just meeting near the box office. He paid, so it was OK with me—getting to see a Star Wars movie for free was a pretty good date right there. He paid for everything, of course, as I'd signed up at the Web site as a submissive bottom and he'd signed up as a seeking top. The one who dominated paid the fee.

There was something during the movie, during the lull periods in the action, although there weren't many of those. The usual gripping of my knee and thigh, moving to tracing my cock through the material of my jeans with the murmured, "Nice; we're gonna have fun," and me returning the favor, finding what I could feel of his cock OK, but nothing to write home about. A kiss and a whispered, "I want to be inside you so bad," even when the lighting on the screen went real dark. But nothing in the way of conversation more than a phrase here and there to get my cock interested.

He gave a couple of grabs on my knee at the café too, took a foot out of his loafers and pushed his toes up under the hem of my jeans leg for a few seconds, but nothing else other than that except for telling me about some of his high tech projects where he worked in Palo Alto. I guess he was about thirty-five and some sort of genius engineer. A nerdy type. His body and face were nice enough, but he wore those horn-rimmed style of eyeglasses, seemed quite serious—and maybe a little keyed up-intense.

All I had going for me was majoring in soccer and lacrosse at San Francisco State, as a sophomore, and being vanilla fucked by my soccer coach, so I didn't do much of the talking. That I'd put modeling on my activities list on my hookup site profile seemed to have gotten his interest, though.

"It's just for the Christmas season," I said. "I did it last Christmas and have been hired to do it again this Christmas. At Macy's. We model clothes in the department store window, standing real still and then changing pose on a signal. It draws in a lot of people coming down to see the window displays and then going in to buy something."

"So you play like you're mannequins?" I could swear he was licking his chops, and the grip on my knee was almost painful. But it was also short lived. His hand was traveling up my inner thigh.

"What's a mannequin?"

"It's sort of a dressing dummy. It's a fake person, like what you are simulating you are when you stand in the department store window. It's what people think they are seeing until they see you move, and that's why they're surprised and amused. So you act like a mannequin?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what I do in that job." It came out as sort of a squeak, because he was gripping my junk through the crotch of my jeans. This was more action than I'd gotten in the darkened theater.

"If you're finished with that hamburger, maybe we can go back to my place. It isn't far." He was breathing heavy and maintaining the grip on my dick and balls.

"Yeah, sure, that would be fine."

"And are you going to suck my cock and let me fuck you?"

"That's what this date is about, I thought."

Dwight lived in a high-rise apartment building with three levels of garages under it. He said the building was only two-thirds sold out, so there were plenty of parking spaces in the garage. I followed his Chevy Camaro in my old Mustang, and we parked in a secluded, badly lit part of the garage.

His living room had a sofa facing a gigantic flat-screen TV. He told me to get comfortable on the sofa and he put on a gay action vid, featuring Dirk Caber fucking the shit out of Johnny Rapid. I wedged myself in the corner of the sofa and kicked off my sandals and, without preliminaries, Dwight was sitting close to me on the sofa, pulling my T-shirt over my head, had his hands on my belt buckle, and was kissing me all over my face, lips, throat, and nipples.

As I gripped the hem of his polo shirt and pulled it over his head, he went up on his knees in the sofa, grabbed my hips, turned my back to the arm of the sofa, and brought my legs up onto the sofa. He had unbuckled and unzipped me and had flared the sides of the jeans open and pulled them down low on my hips. One of his hands cupped the red silk pouch of my jock strap and the other wrapped itself around the back of my neck and brought my face in for a deep kiss.

This was moving along nicely.

He was stretched out on top of me and dry humping me, and I reached down, unbuckled and unzipped his trousers, and pushed both trousers and briefs down low on his hips, freeing his cock, so that nothing, really separated us from real fucking, which could be managed even with my jock strap in place. I badly wanted him inside me—a man who wasn't my soccer coach. I wanted to see how another man would be.

"Fuck me, fuck me now," I murmured, trying to move this along even more nicely.

Meanwhile, he had pushed my jeans farther down onto my thighs. His cock pressed in under my balls, still covered by the pouch, and I tightened my thighs around the cock, with us still in a deep kiss and him dry fucking me between the thighs and under the pouch.

I tried rolling my pelvis up to him. Just a little adjustment and he'd be inside me. But he put a palm on my belly and pushed me flat on the sofa cushions again.

I was breathing hard and ready to have a good time, counting down to him having his dick inside me.

Still wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, Dwight started kissing down my body, as he pulled his cock out from between my thighs and moved his body down the line of the sofa. It didn't take him long to be sucking on my cock through the red silk of the jock pouch. I groaned as he pulled the waistband of the jock down under my balls and opened his mouth over my cock, managing to deep-throat it. Yeah, this is nice, I thought. OK, let's do this before the main event.

He grabbed my hands in his fists, holding me captive there, and I turned my eyes to the vid of Dick Caber pounding Johnny Rapid's ass in a standing fuck against a wall, moaned the attention given my cock, and moved my pelvis, languidly face fucking Dwight's mouth cavity.

When I had come, Dwight came off the sofa and walked around to the arm behind me. He grabbed me under the pits and pulled my shoulders up onto the sofa arm. My head was flopping over the side of sofa at just the right angle for him to shove his cock in it, and, raising my arms and holding his hips in my hands, I held him steady and started returning the favor of the blow job.

When he was throbbing and hard as he was likely to get, he pulled out of my mouth.

Here it comes, I thought. I turned over on the sofa, my shoulders still on the arm, and went up on my knees, presenting my ass for a doggy fuck. My eyes went to the TV screen, where Jack King and Sebastian Young were now double fucking Johnny Rapid. But I felt no hands grip my hips, no body come in behind me, no hard cock penetrate my ass. Dwight wasn't back there—or still in front of me. A wave of frustration and confusion surged through my body. I'd come here to be fucked. This was the moment I expected to be covered and fucked.

"I thought we'd take a break and have a beer." Dwight was padding over from the breakfast counter between the kitchen and the living area. He had two beers in his hands. He handed me one, and stood behind me where I now sat on the sofa. I was drinking mine slowly, engaging in a bit of a pout that I wanted him to notice but not like I was doing it for him to notice. His beer went quickly, the bottle disappearing somewhere, and he had his hands on my shoulders—and then traveling down to where his fingers were tweaking and squeezing my nipples. His chin rested on my shoulder and his lips were close to my ear.

"Johnny Rapid's really getting pounded by both of those guys, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he is," I said, splitting my attention between the vid on the TV and the playing of my nipples by Dwight's fingers. I want to be pounded too, I screamed in my mind.

"You ever been doubled like that?" Dwight whispered into my ear.

"No, never. I don't see how he manages it," I answered with a croak. Dwight was driving me wild with the nipple play. I was hard again.

"Maybe you'll try it one of these days," he whispered. I only half heard him, because his hands were in my pits again, pulling my body up on onto the low back of the sofa. I was balanced on the sofa back, the bottoms of my shoulder blades hitting below the rim at the back of the sofa, and my legs bent and my feet in the seat cushions of the sofa.

Dwight was hard too, and maneuvered his dick in my mouth again and then leaned over my chest with his, captured my hands in his again, and swallowed my cock. We both sucked cock until we both came—Dwight for a first time, me for a second—but me first this time.

As he pulled his cock out of my mouth and creamed my face, I realized that I was feeling woozy.

And then I blacked out, becoming conscious next in a room lined with mannequins with holes in their asses, some sort of medical examination table, and a large-bulbed vibrator making love to my nipples, with my whole body tingly with sensation but not responding to my commands to move.

* * * *

Manipulating me like a rag doll, Dwight had moved me up to the examination table. I couldn't imagine what exam would have involved the position he put me in. I was lying belly down, my weight being taken on my chest. My wrists were bound to the side of the table, my legs were bent and spread behind me and at a higher level than my chest.

Once more I was screaming inside, because Dwight was behind me and between my spread legs and was using the vibrator on my nuts and dick and asshole rim.

The torture there stopped, although I was getting to where I almost missed it. This wasn't my soccer coach's vanilla fuck. This also wasn't quite what I had in mind when I clicked the "fucks on first date," "fetish," and "rough" boxes on my hookup site profile—but it certainly was an experience. Dwight was dragging one of his mannequins over to under my hanging head. He pushed it down, belly down, on the floor and then turned, stuck his thumbs in the sides of my mouth, stretched my mouth open, and inserted his half-hard cock. I was powerless to do anything other than let him use my mouth to pump up his cock.

When he was at the desired hardness, he went down on the floor, hugging the torso of the mannequin to him, and fucked the mannequin's ass to an ejaculation. Strangely enough I watched him fuck the mannequin with interest rather than disgust and it was arousing in its own way when I reasoned that he had gotten me off first and might do so again. Why should I care if he finished with a dummy rather than me, if he finished me. And he'd finished me repeatedly. I'd leave this date with my balls drained and with something more sensual to think about than being slam-bang-thank you, son, gotta get home to the missus vanilla quick fucked in the backseat of a Honda Accord.

Dwight disappeared for a while after that. I have no idea where he was and what he was doing. My body was paralyzed. I could feel everything, but I couldn't move anything.

* * * *

Dwight had unbound me and dumped me to the side of the examination table. He made some adjustments and then dragged over a mannequin that he had fashioned a knobby plastic dildo on as a penis. That probably, I thought, was what he had been doing while he was out of my line of sight. I knew he had stayed nearby because he had been humming happily.

The mannequin went on its back on the surface of the examination table. Then I babbled internally as Dwight got me positioned, facing up on the examination table. The mannequin's penis—the dildo—went into my ass, not all that easily, and not without me huffing and puffing inwardly and moaning outwardly. My wrists were bound at the sides of the table and my legs were put in stirrups that spread, bent, and raised them—like I was going to get an OB/GYN exam.

Dwight, humming, purposely came into my line of sight so that I could see him strap on the knobbly surfaced extender sheath that enlarged his cock both in width and length.

I screamed bloody murder internally as Dwight came between my legs and worked his enhanced cock in over the mannequin's buried dildo. To add to the excitement, the mannequin's dildo penis was a vibrator. It was really rough going for a while, but eventually I got into it, was accommodating it, was actually enjoying it, and was looking forward to doing it again sometime. It was good enough that I fired off another salvo of cum.

I would have liked to have had the use of my muscles, though. I knew how to ripple my passage wall muscles over a man's cock and I could have helped maintain the rhythm of Dwight's stroking.

Exhausted, I drifted off after I had ejaculated once more—more times in one session than I ever had before. I don't know if Dwight finished off inside me or in one of the mannequins. I also didn't care much one way or other. He had finished me, repeatedly. And that was good enough to me to be the name of the game.

When I came out of the paralysis and was able to regain full control, I was dressed again and lying across the backseat of my Mustang in the dark recesses of the parking garage. Dwight's Camaro no longer was parked beside my car.

* * * *

Dwight was visibly startled when he answered his door a week later, late in the evening.

I raised a six pack of beer. "Whatever you put in the beer before, it's fine if you lace the beer I drink before you fuck me again—if you want to fuck me again," I said. "And as long as you finish me repeatedly I don't care what you need to do to finish yourself. You can be rougher on a second date, too, if that turns you on—and if it finishes me off."