To the hideout

Part of me very desperately wanted to unzip his fly, pull his cock out and suck him off. I could almost taste his warm, sticky cum on my tongue. Instead I sat quietly in my seat occasionally casting glances at his crotch, wondering if I had been a closeted homosexual my entire life or if my niece was just a slut. I couldn't deny that since putting on her body I had been hornier than at any other point in my life.

Instead of giving him road head, we talked. My kidnapper's name was Brian, and although he was a lifelong trouble maker who had plenty of misdemeanor run ins with the law, he really wasn't a criminal. At least not until today.

He owned a motorcycle shop on the outskirts of town, or he had until a few months ago. He had mailed in a loan payment, which had apparently gotten lost in the mail, and the bank he had just robbed had foreclosed on his loan, taking his shop and the attached apartment. The check arrived at the bank a few days later after having been mistakenly shipped across the country, but the bank refused to reverse it's foreclosure decision.

Now he was homeless and broke, or had been until today.

Such a sad story, I thought, he deserves a blowjob. What the fuck is wrong with me? If I ever get back to my own life, I am so having a serious conversation with Leighjaye.

A few minutes later we pulled into a shitty roadside hotel, the kind where people often pay by the hour. Brian parked and went into the office. I considered making a run for it, I really did, but by the time I made up my mind, he was back with a key.

We parked about halfway down the parking lot. He grabbed the duffel bag and let us into our room. Brian tossed the money on the bed, then turned to look at me.

In one quick move, he grabbed my hands, raised them over my head and penned me against the door. Then much more slowly, he leaned in and started kissing me. It was just as electric as before and I found myself kissing him back. Again I could feel the bulge in his pants as he pressed his body against me.