Anthology Bend Over Big Boy

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008

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Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
LOGAN'S PROJECT
SPIKE
RELEASE
LESSONS IN KNEELING
NO MAN'S SERVANT
RIDERS ON THE STORM
DRIVE
IN THE HOLE
FUCK ME ... PLEASE
THE GHOST
LIKE CLOCKWORK
A GAME OF EMPIRE
CROCODILE BIRD
PERSONAL TIME
OPEN UP
UNMASKED
ABOUT THE AUTHORS

* * * *

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

INTRODUCTION

Butch subs. Tough guys in peril. Topping the man who

thinks he's the ultimate top.

The big dog who can bottom may be an underrepresented

breed, but there's not much that's hotter. Whether he begs
for it, needs a little coaxing, or puts up a fight, there's
something irresistible when a macho guy proves he can take
it like a man.

Here are sixteen stories that explore the butch bottom

from every erotic angle. The smoking hot "Logan's Project"
opens the anthology as a quintessential example of the
theme, followed by a gang of sexy tough guys who don't give
it up without a struggle: the flex-and-shove between Carl and
Ben in "Spike," fangs and claws bared in "Release," the
resistance and then understanding of "Lessons in Kneeling"
and "No Man's Servant." The tenuous balance of want and
pride carries on in "Riders on the Storm" and "Drive." Things
get rough, hot and heavy in "In the Hole," and then venture
into the raw yet sentimental "Fuck Me ... Please." The next
few stories indulge in tricks and deception to get what they
want: the cat-and-mouse game of "The Ghost," whimsical
verbal sparring of "Like Clockwork," and the more sinister
machinations in "A Game of Empire." The collection wraps up
with four stories that delight in their subject matter.
"Crocodile Bird" and "Personal Time" are sweet and playful,
"Open Up" is full of wicked charm, while "Unmasked," which

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

ends the anthology, flips the subject back on its head with
glee.

No matter what kind of big boy you like on the bottom,

you'll find a wide variety of shapes and sizes to surprise and
delight you in the following pages.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

LOGAN'S PROJECT

Chris Owen
The warehouse didn't look any different from the outside,

but it wasn't really supposed to. All the work being done was
internal, the rustic look of the warehouse being a prime draw
in eventually attracting tenants. Logan's goal was to fill the
newly refitted space with an interesting mix of people not
unlike himself. He was hoping to turn the neighborhood into a
trendy spot for the up and coming to live by reclaiming and
refurbishing the buildings. With luck, the area would get an
injection of desirable people, and the hookers and drug
dealers would move a few more blocks west.

Mostly, though, Logan was hoping he'd actually turn a

profit. That was part of the reason why he was at the building
after hours, keeping an eye on the renovations, making sure
the work was getting done on time and mostly within budget.

That, and to keep an eye on the demolition man.
Though he was no contractor—he had people for that—he

could see things were going on schedule. He knew that the
upper floor was almost ready for roughing in. But because the
lower floor still needed some demolition done, things were
mostly on pause until that was complete and the dust could
be kept to a minimum.

Logan liked his building. He got hard just walking in and

seeing the interior change. It was his dream and it was
coming true. He didn't care that it was happening through
someone else's sweat and labor; he was doing his part. He'd

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

never really been one for physical work, but he could plan, he
could pay bills and he could claim it as his own. Hell, his
name was going to be on the sign and that made it his.

The sign wasn't up yet, and the parking lot was almost

empty, the deep shadows of the city block weighing down
where the street lamps didn't reach. He'd have to get after
the city council for better lighting before he started renting
space. Logan picked his way to the big doors, pleased to see
that whoever was still working had obeyed orders to keep the
site locked up and the drive clear for emergency vehicles.

Logan let himself into the warehouse and closed the heavy

door behind him, then listened for the scattering of rats. He
didn't hear it this time and he smiled. Maybe they'd finally
gotten that under control. He sure as hell hoped so.

"Toby?" Logan called, walking down a makeshift corridor

toward the back of the first level. He could hear heavy,
rhythmic thumping from down there and could see the flood
lights shining, a halo of dust making the whole back end look
like a shining cloud. The entire interior was still one massive
loft space, support beams all over the place and open duct
work to the upper floor. He could see enough not to trip, but
not who was working. "Toby?" he called for the contractor
again, louder.

The thumping stopped and Logan could hear dirt and

cinder dust settling on the floor, chunks of the wall clattering
down. "Mr. Logan?" a voice called back. "Don't come down
here without a mask, sir."

"Right." Logan veered, heading to the left and toward the

table where he knew the masks were kept. It wasn't his

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

contractor down there, it was the demolition man. Or, as
Logan had taken to thinking about him, Mr. Big.

Very big. All over and just as tight and toned as any wet

dream. Mr. Big had been a marine if his tattoos were telling
the truth, and he had the biggest arms Logan had ever seen.
He was all brawn, all sweaty and dirty and utterly, perfectly
glorious. He was also polite and cool and wouldn't give Logan
the time of day unless he was answering a direct question
and couldn't escape before Logan had asked it.

Mask on, Logan grabbed two bottles of water from the tub

and went down to the dust cloud to see what Mr. Big was
working on. "Thirsty?" he said by way of greeting, passing a
bottle into one big hand.

"Thanks." The demolition man didn't say anything else for

a long moment and he didn't open the bottle. He stood for
almost a minute, water in one hand and a heavy mallet in the
other, his overalls completely covered in concrete dust. "Uh,
everyone else is gone for the day, sir. You might want to
come back tomorrow." His voice was slightly indistinct
through the mask. He had thick canvas gloves on, his hat and
boots and everything else made gray by the fine powder.

"No, this is fine, thanks." Logan smiled at him and moved

into the area Mr. Big was opening up. "There weren't any
surprises in here?"

"No, sir. The plans were good ones, and the walls are

coming down pretty easy." Mr. Big moved around behind
Logan, his boots scraping on the cement floor, dragging
through the rubble. "The building is sound. I'll be tearing
down here for another day or so."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Logan nodded to himself and took another long look

around at the crumbled walls, hazy through the dust. "Take a
minute," he said, turning to face the demolition man. "Give
your mask a break and breathe a bit." Sweat was trickling
down the side of Mr. Big's face, leaving streaks that Logan
wanted to lick away. He wanted to taste the salty grit, wanted
to have the flavor of his building.

Mr. Big looked around uncertainly. "Not good to breathe in

here."

Logan nodded and wondered if he could maybe get Mr. Big

to slip more than just the mask off. "Come with me," he
invited. "Have you done much work upstairs?"

Mr. Big followed after pausing for a moment to set his

mallet down. "Not work, no, but I've been up there. Helping
out, moving equipment."

Logan nodded and started walking, resisting the urge to

wave a hand through the air to clear a path. "Come see. I'll
tell you my plan. Maybe there's less crap in the air up there
on the other end."

"You're going to ruin your suit, sir."
"I'll buy another one." Logan led the way to the far end

and into the cargo elevator. "I'm going to have three iron
staircases built," he said, pointing. "Here, the far end, and
there, over to the left. Big and wide, when that side is cut into
for the windows."

Mr. Big looked thoughtful. "Western exposure?"
"Northwest. Be nice in the late day and won't get too hot

in the summer. Anti-glare glass." He watched Mr. Big pull the
grate closed and hit the button to take the elevator up,

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

almost drooling when the man's arms flexed. "The units will
be staggered, front and back, the hallways running like a
snake all the way down the building. Big units, the two on the
end being huge and taking both floors." God, it was going to
be gorgeous. Prime real estate and all he'd been dreaming of
for months and months.

"Nice." Mr. Big finally took off his mask, his hand tugging it

up and off and taking his ball cap off with it. "Shit, sorry," he
said as the cap landed on Logan's shoes, the gray dust that
came off ruining what was left of the shine. He bent down to
retrieve it and paused.

"It's all right, I don't mind." Logan looked down at him. He

knew he was caught and he knew his cock, ever the most
adventurous part of him, had just given a leap. In for a dime,
in for a dollar, Logan smiled. "I don't mind at all."

"Yeah, I can tell." Mr. Big was looking right at Logan's

crotch. "Dust does it for you?" He looked up at Logan, his face
dirty, his eyes questioning.

Logan took a moment to be relieved that the big man

wasn't pissed and angry. "Not really. Well, maybe. The
building does, the way you're covered in it, the thought of
you pulling down walls and getting all ... yeah." Logan
shrugged.

The elevator lurched to a halt and Logan grabbed the grate

to keep from falling into Mr. Big. It would really suck to wind
up rubbing his cock on the guy's face and then get pounded
for it. Best to wait until he knew which way Mr. Big was going
to go.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Mr. Big didn't say anything at all, just waited until Logan

got his balance again and then pulled himself up by the grate,
opening it up in the same motion. He didn't say anything as
he followed Logan out onto the loft and then to the safety rail
to look down onto the main floor.

"There's your dust," Logan said, pointing to the cloud still

glowing in the flood lights.

"It's your dust," Mr. Big said, holding onto the railing.

"Your building, your dust. I just wear it."

Logan felt his mouth twist into a crooked smile. "You wear

it well."

"Know why I wear coveralls with long sleeves when I'm

knocking down walls?"

"So you don't slice your arms to shit when the cement

blocks fall apart? I mean, I saw that movie, Ghost. I know
how hot it looked when they were breaking that wall down,
but come on. They would have been totally fucked up if
they'd really done it like that, all uncovered and unprotected."

Mr. Big stared at him and then started to laugh. It was a

big, full belly laugh that echoed through the entire space.
"That's ... God."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
"You stand in front of me, almost poking my eye out with

your prick, and then you don't even let me make with the bad
pick up lines about being covered in dust and the places it
creeps into?" Mr. Big was grinning at him, suddenly looking
even hotter than he had when he was being all deferential
and calling Logan "Sir."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"I..." Logan looked at him and then looked around the

empty warehouse. "Want to fuck?"

Mr. Big grinned at him. "No."
Oh, ouch. "You confuse me," Logan said, tilting his head

and looking up at him.

"I wasn't kidding about where the dust gets. I'm not doing

any fucking until I've had a shower. But you can blow me."

Logan's eyebrows shot up. "How about the other way

around?" As soon as the words were out he wanted to kick
himself. Did it really matter?

Mr. Big looked amused. "You think?" He stepped back and

spread his arms wide, then turned in a circle. "Do I look like
the kind of guy who'd get on his knees to suck off the boss?"

"Do you seriously expect me to answer that?" But Logan

was smiling, his whole body going tight and tense.

Backing up another step, Mr. Big motioned with his hands.

"Come away from the rail, sir. Not even sex with a suit is
worth the medical bills if we fall."

Logan snorted and moved slowly, taking long strides

deeper into the building, into the shadows. "You have a thing
for suits?"

"Hell, yes." Mr. Big was pretty emphatic about it, looking

him up and down. "Be better if you weren't dusty, but you'll
do."

"I'll do?" Logan stopped walking and carefully put his water

bottle down. His fingers itched to curl around his cock, ready
to tug it out and feed it to the demolition man.

Mr. Big's smile was feral as they started circling each

other. "You'll do. You want it. You want it all—me, the

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

building, the dirt and grime." He opened his coveralls as he
moved and tugged his arms free. Underneath the heavy
cotton, he was wearing a white wife-beater, now streaked and
stained from a day's worth of sweat and dust.

Logan watched him and made no move at all to even

loosen his tie. "And you think it would be better if it's me on
my knees. We seem to be at a stalemate." The tense and
tight feeling was starting burn all along Logan's spine. His
balls ached and he could feel his cock start to drool against
the silk of his boxers.

"No stalemate." Mr. Big's teeth flashed white as he

stepped through a shaft of light. "We know there's gonna be
fucking. We're just negotiating for position now."

"Well, at least we're on the same page." Logan turned,

watching the large body shine as the wife-beater was peeled
off. The dirt had compacted into trails wherever sweat had
run, making muscle definition that much sharper. "I'll allow
that my suit is likely going to be ruined. But I want you down
for me."

"What's in it for me?"
Logan undid his trousers and pointed. "Check it out."
"You've got to be kidding me." Mr. Big rolled his eyes. "I'm

profoundly disappointed in you. You think you've got
something I haven't been offered before?"

"Check it out," Logan repeated patiently. "Maybe you have,

maybe you haven't." He decided to help out a bit, maybe put
his money where he wanted Mr. Big's mouth. Shifting his
weight, Logan got his cock out and turned slightly. He saw

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Mr. Big's eyes widen when the metal caught the light. "Come
see."

Mr. Big looked almost mesmerized as he came closer.

"How many?"

Logan waited, smiling to himself. He wished he had a

handy table to lean back on; his legs weren't going to hold
him for long once Mr. Big started sucking him off. "Six," he
said as Mr. Big crouched down in front of him. "And five rings
through my perineum."

"God." Mr. Big touched him, his fingers gently tracing each

barbell of the ladder up Logan's cock. "Hurt?"

"Not anymore." Logan laughed then moaned as Mr. Big

touched him again, going back down. "Feels fucking amazing,
really. Think about it, imagine the way it'll feel inside you."

"Oh, I am." Mr. Big was murmuring, almost whispering

against him. "Okay. Yeah. For this, I'll play. As long as you're
a Boy Scout, anyway. I'm at work, you know? I didn't plan on
getting laid."

"I didn't either, but I had dreams." Logan reached into the

inner pocket of his suit jacket, pleased that his hands weren't
shaking, and produced a strip of condoms. He hadn't been a
Boy Scout and he certainly hadn't planned on getting his
rocks off, but he'd take it. Or give it. Something. It was hard
to think, what with Mr. Big on his knees, his hot breath
dancing over Logan's cock.

Mr. Big looked up at him. "You want me to suck it?" His

tongue darted out to wet his lower lip and Logan was pretty
sure it had been unintentional. Mr. Big's knees were splayed
out, his coveralls hanging off his hips, and Logan suddenly

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

realized it was hot up on the loft. Mr. Big was sweating, beads
trickling down the side of his face, and Logan's shirt was
stuck to his back.

"Yeah," Logan said with a nod. "Suck it. Don't make me

come, though. I want to come in your ass."

"That's entirely up to you." Mr. Big licked over the head of

Logan's cock and tongued his Prince Albert. "Whether you
come or not, I mean."

"Oh, God." Logan braced himself as every muscle in his

body jumped. His ass clenched and he thrust forward
instinctively before he could lock his knees. "Stop talking." He
dropped a hand to Mr. Big's shoulder and held on, squeezing
the thick muscle and feeling sweat under his palm, slippery
and hot.

Mr. Big, former Marine and current demolition man, could

take orders. He stopped talking and got to work, licking
around each and every barbell before going down on Logan's
cock with enough enthusiasm that Logan had to dig in and
get stubborn. He would not blow his load down a throat when
he could have this man's ass.

In the warehouse.
Covered in dust.
On all fours, coveralls around his knees, grunting and

pushing back when Logan fucked him.

Logan gasped and pulled away, his cock dragging out of

Mr. Big's mouth with an obscene sucking noise. "Jesus fucking
Christ." He knew his eyes had to be huge, and the shake that
had started in his knees had finally made its way up to his
hands.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"Aw, come on, sir." Mr. Big looked up at him and grinned,

then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Let me suck
your cock. Won't get anything on your suit, I swear. I'll take it
all down."

Logan nodded and reached down to tug at his balls. His

shirt was in the way and he had to lift it, one hand flat on his
belly to keep it up. "Lick me," he ordered. "Nice and slow.
Want to feel it, but I'm going to come in your ass."

Mr. Big made a noise that Logan was pretty sure he wasn't

supposed to hear. When he started licking, though, Mr. Big
moaned and panted and gave Logan's balls a tongue bath
that redoubled the shaking in Logan's legs. Then fingers
started playing with the rings between Logan's balls and his
hole.

"Fuck, yes," Logan said, grabbing onto Mr. Big again. "Do

it." There was fire in the pit of his belly and he could see pre-
come leaking out and sliding down the side of his cock. When
Mr. Big took him in again, fingers tugging at metal and mouth
wide open, Logan started to thrust.

He would have come like that, despite his best intentions,

except Mr. Big moved. His weight shifted, just enough to
make the blow job slightly less perfect, and Logan realized he
was shoving his coveralls down.

Logan snarled and pulled away again. "Over," he barked,

getting another thrill when his voice echoed through the
space. The echo came back, bringing with it the highlights of
sound and underlining them: the sounds of cloth and latex
and panting and wet, sucking kisses and the sounds of dirt

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

and sand under their shoes, the mad scramble for balance
and position.

His trousers were totally wrecked, he knew it. But he was

behind the mountain, fingering Mr. Big open and licking
around his hole in a poor excuse for lube, so he didn't care.
He couldn't bring himself to give a flying fuck about his suit,
not when he was going to make the demolition man beg for
it.

It was what he wanted. What they both wanted.
His building.
His suit.
His demolition man.
"Fuck me. Please."
His fucking life.
With a laugh of triumph and delight, Logan surged forward

and thrust in, deep and hard. Mr. Big's ass was tight, so
fucking tight it was like plunging into a wet dream. They both
yelled, both of them grunting and swearing and their voices
came back to them like the building felt it, too.

"Hang on," Logan told him, pulling out and letting him feel

every bit of jewelry he had.

"I can't!" Mr. Big sounded pained, and his ass was pushing

back, moving with him. "Fuck me. God, just do it. Again.
Please!"

Never one to deny—well, possibly merely beyond being

able to deny—Logan followed his body and drove into Mr. Big
again and again. He could feel the grating debris on the floor
under his knees and he could hear their sex in a cacophony of
sound around him. He sure as hell could feel it. Smell it,

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

rising up from the sweat-covered body he was riding. "I'll be
back tomorrow," he promised. Then he leaned over the broad
back and licked away the dirt and sweat along Mr. Big's spine.
"We can do it against a wall."

"Fuck!" Mr. Big arched and came, the sound of his juice

splattering.

Logan couldn't even swear. He couldn't breathe; all he

could do was stab into Mr. Big another couple of times and
follow him, his cock being milked and massaged and
squeezed until it was either come or die.

Given the choice, Logan knew what he'd rather do.
He didn't pull out until he'd gotten fairly soft, and then it

was with a certain amount of care. He knew what it felt like
after. "You okay?"

"Shh." Mr. Big was still on his hands and knees, panting.

"Now you stand up. Zip up. And you go."

Logan grinned. "Nice. I like it." He got to his feet, a little

unsteadily. "And tomorrow?"

Mr. Big stayed where he was, but Logan could see him

smile at the floor. "Tomorrow you better bring a change of
clothes, 'cause I'm going to rip yours."

"We'll see." Logan smiled too and zipped his fly as he

walked away, leaving his demolition man to clean up. "Thanks
for the fuck. See you tomorrow." Playing the game, he didn't
wait for a reply as he left. He did whistle, though, completely
pleased with progress on his community restoration project.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

SPIKE

Matt Stedmann
Ben Edwards and I leapt upwards for the ball at the exact

same moment, our bare chests almost touching through the
volleyball net. Sweat flew as we each reached for the ball. He
tried to spike it over me after the setup his teammate had
given him; I did my damnedest to stop him.

I almost managed to block it, but at the last moment, he

slipped it past me. The ball slammed down over my shoulder
right toward Shawn, who tried to get under it but as usual
wasn't fast enough to keep it from hitting the floor of the
gym. The East End Enforcers cheered as they scored the
point, and Ben sneered across the net at me, hands
arrogantly planted on hips, his chest still heaving from the
exertion of his leap.

"Don't worry about it, Carl," our team captain Kevin called

out to me from the back row. His voice was firm and
confident as always. "Don't let them spook us, guys—we can
still win it."

Most teams in the citywide Tuesday night men's intramural

volleyball league had no idea who they were facing when they
went up against the Judy Garland Memorial Volleyball Team.
As if you could miss it—We're Here, We're Queer, We're in
Your Face and We're Gonna Kick Your Ass. But denial is a
powerful force. I guess most guys still think that you can't be
an athlete and be gay too. But the East End Enforcers knew
exactly who we were and they really hated to lose to us. And

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

none of the Enforcers hated to lose to us more than Ben
Edwards did.

C.J., the Enforcer's captain, called out "10-9, our service,"

and Shawn rolled the ball beneath the net to their team. As
the Enforcers' players rotated, Ben moved one position away
to my right across the net. That didn't keep him from glaring
challengingly at me, his big arms loose and ready at his sides.
I glared right back.

Ben and I were the only ones shirtless in the sweltering

heat of the upstairs gym at the downtown Y where the league
played its games. Sweat rolled off both of us. His glistened in
the stubble of his buzz cut, and flowed across his muscular
neck to mat down the dark blond curls of hair that covered
his upper chest and trailed down in a line across his belly,
vanishing into the waistband of his gym shorts. It had
darkened the gray fabric of the shorts and molded them tight
against the sinewy muscles of his upper thighs. I'm six feet,
but Ben is about an inch taller than me. Where his hair
sprouts across his chest like moss on a great tree, mine is
confined to a small dark patch in the center of my chest and
spreads instead all over my forearms and legs. Where his
eyes are hazel, mine are a deep brown, almost as black as
my hair.

I hate Ben Edwards. I hate him because he's an arrogant

S.O.B. and a damn homophobe. I hate him because he struts
around in a cloud of straight-man privilege and doesn't even
notice it. And I really hate him because he's so fucking hot. I
hate every inch of his powerful, masculine, hairy body. I hate
the way he moves and the way he sweats and the way I can

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

feel the heat roaring off him whenever I get too close. I hate
the way we've nearly touched so many times yet I've never
felt his skin against mine. And I hate the way that I want him
so badly at the same time that I hate him so much, which is
so fucking twisted that it completely turns me on, which is
even hotter and just makes me hate him even more.

But most of all, I hate him for that jacket. The jacket. The

one I've only glimpsed him wearing a few times, on his way
into our games or leaving the gym. There's nothing special
about it, just an ordinary black leather jacket that most of the
Garlands wouldn't look twice at, worn and creased. But on
Ben, it becomes something else. He wears it like it's a part of
him, like a second skin that moves with the same power and
grace that he does, and he doesn't even realize it. I want that
jacket, covet it with an unreasoning desperation that I
haven't felt since I was a little boy. Somehow, everything
about him—everything I both despise and yet am so
irresistibly drawn to—is distilled right down to that jacket. It's
everything I hate about him and can't have; everything I've
hated and couldn't have about every straight man I've ever
wanted. I've had fantasies about bumping him off and taking
that jacket for myself; believe me, I'd do it if I thought I
could get away with it.

Ben hates me too, which is why we're always in each

other's faces. It's bad enough that the Garlands are a bunch
of queers, but even worse that we consistently beat them
game after game. The one exception to that attitude seems to
be Diego, a slim Latino Enforcer with the tightest ass you've
ever seen, who looks back across the net at us with an utter

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

lack of hostility and more than a little interest. Most of the
guys, Shawn especially, are sure that he'd willingly come over
to the Dark Side if given half a chance.

But Ben's really got some kind of a chip on his shoulder

about us, or maybe there's just something special about me
that sets him off. Since we're each the best spiker on our
teams, the end result is that our teams rotate players so that
we're always faced off against each other. Everything about
him says that he's challenging me, from the way he stares at
me to the way he constantly leans toward me from his side of
the net as if he's getting ready to charge at me. Every time
he gets a spike over the net, or blocks one of mine, he leers
at me with a triumphant grin like he's just personally fucked
me over. And I don't take that shit from anybody, especially a
straight boy who thinks he's better than me. When he smiles
that arrogant grin of his, I just want to shove it right back
down his throat.

Maybe it was the heat, but tonight, the antagonism

between Ben and me seemed to infect both of our teams.
While there's usually at least a pretense of friendly
sportsmanship in most of our games against each other,
tonight everyone was playing in deadly earnest. The Enforcers
in particular were focusing their efforts on Shawn, making a
point to hit the ball to him as often as possible. Shawn's a
good sport, but he's the weakest player on our team, and the
Enforcers' efforts to humiliate him were getting the rest of the
Garlands seriously pissed off.

By the time Ben and I were back in the front row and

facing each other across the net again, the score was 15-14,

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

game point for us, and Darnell was serving for our team.
Darnell is one of the best servers in the league, but he's also
one of the most flamboyant queens anywhere. He's relatively
subdued most of the time when we're playing ball, but when
he gets riled up, the diva just comes right out of him. Darnell
sashayed his hips as he strolled into place, bouncing the ball
against the floor before him. Then he turned and flicked one
wrist at the Enforcers. "Are you boys ready for me?" he called
out in a high, girlish voice.

His only answer was a low growl from the Enforcers, which

was answered in kind by the other Garlands. Kevin was facing
me and I saw him roll his eyes at Darnell's deliberate
instigation. "Come on, guys," he said, "let's keep it cool. Let's
win this and go home."

Darnell smiled sweetly. "Okay, boys," he purred, "Here it

comes!" Then he reached overhead and hammered the
service toward the net.

Darnell's serve came in low and furious, skimming over the

top of the net by the merest fraction of an inch. One of the
Enforcers in the back row dived underneath it, barely
stopping it in the last instant before it hit the floor. Then
another slid under it, and set up the spike for Ben.

As the ball fell earthwards toward the net, both Ben and I

leapt straight up for it without hesitation, our bodies jammed
against each other across the net. We were pressed together
from chest to belly, the sweat sliding between us as we each
strained to reach the ball first. Ben's breath was hot on my
face as we both stretched out as far as we could, our bodies

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

almost merging as we hung suspended in space together,
each of us struggling toward our goal.

But Ben's extra inch on me gave him the advantage. His

fingers could reach just a little bit further than mine, and it
was enough to give him the critical purchase on the ball. With
a roar he slammed it down over my head and I heard a
muffled "whump!" as it hit something behind me. As we both
fell back to earth, the moment broken, Ben's eyes locked with
mine in a combination of arrogance and triumph.

I came down hard, twisting my right ankle beneath me and

hitting the floor roughly as I sprawled onto my right side. I
lay there stunned for just a moment, trying to catch my
breath, then levered myself up onto one knee to test my
ankle. It seemed okay, and I was still cautiously flexing it
from side to side when I heard a commotion behind me.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Shawn was lying flat on
his back, apparently out cold. The ball was still rolling to the
far corner of the gym from where it had struck him dead
center in the forehead. Kevin had leapt to his side and was
lightly patting his cheeks, trying to get some response.

I heard whoops and cheers from the Enforcers, and turned

back toward the net. Ben was standing with his hands on his
hips, looking triumphantly over at Shawn. Then he pumped
one fist in the air. "Got 'im! Nailed that faggot!" he shouted.

The fucking bastard. And he'd just used the "F" word, too.

Kevin's shout, "No, Carl!", came a moment too late. My vision
went red with fury, and as Ben turned to exchange high-fives
with the other Enforcers, I screamed and leapt.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

My dive took me just beneath the lower edge of the net,

and I tackled Ben around the knees. He went down hard, and
before he could react, I swarmed up his body, trying to get a
grip on his sweat-slickened skin. He got his hands up in time
to prevent my punch to his face and tried to grab my wrists
instead. We rolled over and over on the floor, grappling with
each other as each of us tried to get a firm grip. He was more
muscular than I was, but my rage gave me the strength I
needed. I finally managed to get on top of him, pinning him
beneath me as I straddled him. Then I slammed his shoulders
hard against the floor, knocking the breath out of him. Before
he could recover, I grabbed him by the throat with both
hands and lifted up his head to bash it against the floor.

In the instant that I touched his throat, he went rock hard

beneath me.

Time stopped. We both froze for what was probably only a

moment to those watching, but felt like an eternity for the
two of us. I could feel his hard cock beneath my ass where it
lay trapped along his left thigh. It seemed to pulse in time
with the pulse of blood in his throat. My forearms were
resting along the sweat-dampened curls of hair on his chest,
and we both shook with the force of our rapid breathing. The
heat of our bodies surrounded us with a nimbus like that of a
blast furnace. His arms had come around my shoulders,
meaning to push me off him, but in their sudden stillness, it
felt as if they were embracing me instead. And as our eyes
met over my clenched hands, I saw the anger in his eyes
replaced with shock and an almost desperate desire.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

The moment stretched out between us, and then broke as

our teammates swarmed around us to break up the fight, our
momentary pause having given them the opportunity to catch
up with us. A pair of strong hands grabbed my shoulders,
trying to pull me away from Ben, as C.J. tried to do the same
to him. "Easy, easy," Kevin was muttering in my ear. As the
captains struggled to pull us apart, members of both teams
clustered around us, half of them shouting us on and the
other half shouting for us to stop. As Kevin finally managed to
pry my hands off Ben's throat and wrench us apart, I clearly
heard Darnell screeching over the rest of the crowd, "Kick him
to the curb, girlfriend!"

The chaos slowly subsided over the next few minutes.

Although tempers were still running high, the fight between
Ben and I seemed to have convinced everyone that things
had gotten way out of hand. My teammates helped me to my
feet and dusted me off, pointedly keeping me a good distance
away from Ben and his teammates, who were doing the
same. "You did the right thing, honey," Darnell told me as he
handed me a towel. "I would have bitch-slapped that queen
so hard she'd be looking out the back of her head for a
week."

Shawn was now sitting up and was being attended to by

the Enforcers' Diego, who had crossed over to the other side
of the net. Diego had an arm around Shawn, who was
stubbornly insisting to the guys clustered around him that he
was fine and had just been stunned for a minute. He looked a
little flushed, whether from his injury or from Diego's sudden
attention, I couldn't tell.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

The two team captains were standing by the side of the

net, speaking in low tones and gesticulating, obviously
discussing the outcome of the game and what to do next. At
one point, they both raised their voices and looked like they
were about to get into a shouting match, then stopped when
they realized that we were all staring at them. At last they
nodded in agreement, and came over to the rest of us.

"We're going to call this game a draw. We all need to go

home and cool down," Kevin announced.

"And you owe Ben an apology," C.J. said, glaring at me.
"You and Ben both owe each other an apology," Kevin

added, glaring right back at him.

C.J. looked like he wanted to say something to that, but

instead he just nodded and waved Ben over. Most of the
Enforcers came with him, as the Garlands moved in close
beside me. Ben avoided my eyes as he strolled over. He was
trying to act casual, but all of his earlier cockiness was gone.

"Okay, shake and make up, guys," Kevin said, and as Ben

reached out to take my hand his eyes finally met mine again.

He grasped my hand and I squeezed back hard, thinking of

my hands around his throat. His eyes widened slightly and he
gulped, then quickly dropped my hand as if he'd been burned.
As everyone murmured their approval, C.J. herded the
Enforcers toward the locker room stairs as Kevin motioned for
us to hang back for a few minutes. At the last moment, Ben
looked back over his shoulder toward us. His eyes bored into
mine before he vanished down the stairs.

Like a lot of straight guys, the Enforcers never take

showers at the gym, and certainly never when they are

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

sharing the locker room with us. They don't know what
they're missing. Not that there's any funny business going
on—we all know each other too well by now for any of that—
but we can't treat the whole thing with the kind of sober
solemnity that straight men seem to think that it requires.
You'd think they were in church or something.

Tonight, all the Garlands were more than a little

boisterous, still hyped up from the night's excitement. I was
the Man of the Hour—I could tell that even Kevin was proud
of me, for all of his official disapproval of the fight. But as I
showered and toweled off, all I could really think of was Ben.
Ben's throat, thick and muscular under my hands, Ben's chest
sweaty against me as we both went up to the net, Ben's eyes
boring into mine, desperate with need, and Ben's cock steel
hard beneath me. I imagined him now, flesh burning with
both desire and humiliation, picking up the jacket from where
it had been waiting for him all evening like some loyal dog.

Kevin and I were the last ones out of the gym, everyone

congratulating me before they left. Darnell bussed me full on
the mouth, declaring, "It's about time someone took that
queen down a notch." Shawn shook my hand solemnly, then
leaned over to whisper in my ear that he and Diego had made
a coffee date for later that week.

Kevin looked at me suspiciously when I told him that I was

going to hang out by my car in the parking lot for a while
before going home. I told him I just wanted to have a few
quiet moments alone, and had to promise that I wasn't going
to go looking for trouble. Once Kevin's taillights faded out, the
parking lot was quiet. The cars that remained cast long

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

shadows in the dim illumination of the streetlights. I knew
what I was waiting for, and I wasn't wrong. In a few minutes
there was a scuffling sound from the alley beside the building.
Then Ben emerged from the shadows at the alley's mouth.

As I walked toward him, I saw that he was wearing the

jacket. He had hastily thrown it on over his shorts without a
shirt, leaving it unzipped. His chest within lay partly exposed,
the hair plastered tightly against his skin where the sweat had
dried. The dark leather of the jacket rose and fell quickly in
time with his nervous breathing, like a living thing. As I
entered the alley, he retreated until his back was against the
building wall. He leaned against it, chest puffed out, his pose
almost indolent as if trying to recapture his accustomed
arrogance. But the way he shifted from foot to foot, making
the bunched muscles of his bare legs jump and twitch,
betrayed his uneasiness.

Ignoring his challenging pose, I walked right up to him and

looked him in the face. He wouldn't meet my eyes; his gaze
darted from side to side like that of a trapped animal.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said suddenly,

pushing off the wall and trying to brush past me.

I reached out one hand and gently clasped it around his

throat. He froze in place.

"How long?" I asked quietly.
He gulped, and I felt his Adam's apple bob beneath my

palm. His eyes slid downward, still not meeting mine. "A few
years," he finally forced out. "But no one's ever ... done it.
Until tonight. I've wanted it ... a long time. No one knows."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"Of course not," I said, sarcasm beginning to creep into my

tone, "A big strong guy like you, always having to be Top
Dog, how could you admit you wanted something like this?"
One of my hands caressed his throat. The other involuntarily
reached up and began to stroke the slick leather of the
jacket.

"So how far are you willing to go for it?" I asked him.
"What?" His eyes flickered toward me in surprise, then slid

away again. Their whites gleamed in the streetlight.

I tightened my grip on his throat and pulled him to face

me. Then I grabbed him by the collar of the jacket, twisting
both hands in the leather as I pivoted and slammed him back
against the wall. I didn't let go, just kept shoving his
shoulders back against the wall as he began to struggle. I
leaned in close until he was forced to look directly into my
eyes.

"I mean that I'm not some faggot you can use for your

pleasure and just throw away. You think you're so hot, don't
you? What were you thinking? That I'm just something for
you to shove your dick into? That I'd put my hands on your
throat and let you fuck me just so you could get off?" His
guilty start told me he'd been thinking exactly that. "Sorry,
pal, you may think you're hot, but guys like you are a dime a
dozen in the bars. I don't need this." I reached up and lightly
drummed my fingers against his throat. "But you do."

I was bluffing, of course. At that moment, I was more

horny for Ben than I'd ever been for anyone in my life. I was
willing to play along with his bent little fetish if it would get
me what I wanted. I wanted to feel his hot dick, and to run

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

my hands through the fur on his chest. I wanted to see his
eyes beg me for release as he writhed in ecstasy. And I
wanted something else too. My own dick had gone hard as
steel just thinking about it. But I'd be damned if I'd go for it
any way but on my own terms.

Slowly, deliberately, I grabbed his throat again with one

hand, and with my other hand I reached into the crotch of his
still-damp gym shorts and grabbed his cock. It was already
hard, pulsing in my grip. Ben moaned and slid down the wall
a bit, his knees going wobbly. He began to lean into me and I
stepped back suddenly, breaking the contact between us. He
staggered and nearly fell, catching himself against the rough
bricks of the alley wall.

I stood with my hands on my hips, legs spread, purposely

aping his challenging stance of earlier in the evening. "Give it
to me," I commanded.

He looked up at me, confusion and desire warring in his

eyes. "Wh-what?"

"The jacket. Take it off and give it to me."
For a moment, I thought he was going to refuse. I could

see him struggling with himself, literally beginning to tremble
as his body fought with itself over whether to run or to submit
to my command. He didn't understand what was happening,
not really, at least with his head. And he didn't know how
passionately I wanted the jacket. But on some level, he could
feel what it meant, could sense some of what I was
demanding that he give to me.

At last, he bent his head, and slowly shrugged the jacket

from his shoulders. He held it out to me like an offering, and I

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

lifted it from his hands. He seemed smaller without it,
diminished somehow, his bare shoulders gleaming in the light
from the streetlamps that bled into the alley. My hands
tightened around the jacket for a moment, and I felt it flex in
my hands. Then I put it on.

It was heavy on my shoulders, its weight grasping me and

bearing down on me. It felt hot, still warm with the heat it
had stolen from Ben's body. It smelled like him, too, with the
scent of his sweat familiar from a hundred gym encounters
but with a deeper, more rank animal scent, something I'd
never smelled before yet knew was inescapably of his body. I
was surrounded by it, this deep intimacy between his flesh
and the jacket that had become mine now. I almost could
have left right then. I'd already won, and we both knew it.
But it wasn't quite enough. He'd given me the jacket, but he
hadn't given me everything.

"Don't stop," I told him. He looked up at me in alarm from

where he was half-propped against the wall. I stepped back
up to him, my chest now armored by the jacket while his
naked chest was exposed to the night air. I grabbed him by
the shoulder and pushed roughly downward. He fell to his
bare knees against the stones of the alleyway, his head level
with the front of my crotch.

I had thrown on sweatpants after my shower and my stiff

erection poked straight outward at his face. Ben made a small
noise of protest and got one leg beneath him, ready to leap
away. I bent over and wrapped one hand firmly around his
throat again, and once again he froze in place.

"It's your choice," I told him.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

He stayed there a long moment, weighing the unspeakable

act of sucking my dick against his own desperate need. At
last, he dropped down again onto both knees and pulled down
the front of my sweatpants.

He wasn't very good at first. He slid his lips hesitantly over

the head of my cock and sucked down the shaft as if he were
swallowing some foul-tasting cough medicine. But when I
tightened my grip, and then placed both hands around his
throat, everything changed.

I don't know how long he had been nursing his fantasy,

but with its final fulfillment he turned into a wild man. I
wasn't even squeezing that hard, barely choking him at all.
But at once he shoved his mouth down hard onto me,
swallowing my cock like a drowning man desperate for air.
Hot saliva slid from his throat, slicking my cock as he
relentlessly impaled himself on it over and over. I was leaning
forward to grasp his throat, and the bottom edges of the
jacket hung open around his head, surrounding him, almost
as if they were another pair of hands grasping him and
holding him against my crotch.

A sense of triumph rushed through me at the sight of

arrogant Ben Edwards willingly—no, eagerly—on his knees
sucking me off. I was mesmerized as I watched the shaft of
my cock plunge between his lips again and again. And as I
felt the hot wetness of his mouth engulfing me while his
tongue slid over and around my cock, I began to wonder if
Ben hadn't been fantasizing about more than just a hand
around his throat all this time.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Just the thought made my cock swell, and under his

insistent, ferocious pressure, I felt myself building all too
quickly toward an explosion. I let go of his throat with one
hand and tried to shove him off me, hoping to gain a respite,
to savor the moment. But he was beyond control. He lunged
at me, reaching around to grab the cheeks of my ass as he
swallowed me to the root. I was barely able to hang onto him
as he pulled me deeper and deeper into him.

Thrown off balance, my free hand came down hard on the

back of his head, and then, all too soon, I came. Pleasure
gushed through me and I doubled over with the force of it,
involuntarily squeezing Ben's throat tighter as with my other
hand I shoved him hard onto me. I gripped the back of his
stubbled head as, in a burst of release, hot come blasted out
of me and into his throat. He gagged on it, spewing back a
mouthful that gushed from between his lips and around the
shaft of my cock to spatter onto his chest.

Ben let my cock slip from his mouth, and it rested against

his cheek as he sat back from me, fluid still pulsing down over
his lips. Then he slipped back onto his haunches and lost his
balance, sprawling onto his back as my hands slipped from
his throat. I fell forward with him, landing on my knees
between his outstretched legs. Ben lay stunned in the
aftermath of his frenzy, gazing up at the night sky between
the alley buildings and absently running his tongue along his
lips.

My body was still shaking with the aftershocks of my

orgasm, but as I looked down at Ben, spreadeagled on the
dirty bricks with a mouth full of my come, I knew I hadn't

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

taken quite everything from him yet. Before he could recover,
I quickly pressed my advantage, reaching out and stripping
his gym shorts down around his ankles. His cock sprang free,
thick and hard and already slick with pre-come. I reached
forward and shoved a hand into his unresisting mouth before
he could react, wetting it with saliva and my own come, and
then wrapped it around his cock. He jerked forward, the
rippled muscles of his abdomen knotting as he almost came
off the ground at the touch of my hand. With my other hand,
I reached out and grabbed him by the throat again, roughly
shoving him down onto his back. He began to writhe beneath
me, muscles bunching and releasing beneath his furry torso
as he danced in time to my stroking fingers, his chest wet and
glistening with sweat and come.

Ben's hands came up and wrapped around my own hand,

urging it to press tighter against his throat. I shoved them
away. I wasn't about to let him use me to asphyxiate himself.
Instead, I shifted positions before he could react, sitting
above his head so that I faced his legs, and trapped his upper
arms firmly beneath my knees. The ends of the jacket caught
between us, the edges of the metal zippers biting into his
skin.

I grabbed him again, one hand wrapped tightly around his

throat and the other wrapped tightly around his cock, and
began to stroke once more. Ben's eyes, upside down to me
now, lost their focus and he began to moan, louder and
louder with each stroke. His back arched once, and then
again, raising him all the way up off the ground as he strained
to push himself deeper into my stroking fist.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

I lightened my touch on his cock for a moment, teasing

him as I looked down at his beautiful body, glistening wetly in
the dim light, and savored my triumph. The jacket was mine
now, and he was mine too. Then I roughly squeezed his cock
a final time, and as he erupted in my hand, spurting a shower
of come into the cool night air, I bent close to his ear and
whispered, "I win."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

RELEASE

Mychael Black
The sound of Jared's fist hitting bone made a satisfying

crunch and he smirked as his opponent sank to the ground,
bruised and battered. The crowd roared, the steel cage a
flimsy barrier to the ravenous patrons. Jared flexed, muscles
rolling, cock filling, as he drank in the bloodthirsty praise of
his fans. Yet again, his title as the prize combatant of the
city's premiere fight club remained intact. Wolf or human, he
had no equal here. He was king.

The cage door rattled when it opened. Jared walked out

amid slaps on the back and more than his share of gropes. He
shrugged it all off, heading straight for the makeshift bar.
Blake, the bartender, who had more holes in his skinny body
than nature intended, set an ice-cold bottle of some off-brand
beer on the bar just as Jared sat on a rickety stool.

"Good show, ol' man," Blake shouted over the din of heavy

music and calls for more blood as two more fighters—one
huge human and one burly wolf—took the cage.

Jared nodded, lifted the beer in salute, then tossed half the

contents back in one gulp. "Thanks." He finished off the beer
and slammed the bottle down. Thirst sated, he swept the
crowd with a hungry gaze. When he found what he wanted,
he licked his lips. Fucking perfect. The wolf inside him was
just as hungry as the man for a hot, tight hole.

With Blake's chuckle in the background, the music

pounding in his ears, and the need to fuck pumping through

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

his veins, Jared stalked across the room to a table in the
corner. His prey for the evening stared up at him with pale
gray eyes, rimmed in black. Equally black hair draped over
slender shoulders, straight and shiny, even in the dim light. If
it weren't for the angular shape of the jaw, Jared would've
sworn this was a chick. Wouldn't have mattered, really—an
ass, a pussy, he wasn't picky.

"Interesting occupation you have." There was the slightest

hint of a Southern drawl buried in those words and long,
slender fingers cupped a dark bottle.

Jared snorted. "Wanna fuck?"
One manicured eyebrow rose and the tempting morsel

gave Jared a once-over that made his prick twitch. "Here? No.
Somewhere more ... private? Absolutely."

Well, that was easy. Jared jerked a thumb over his

shoulder. "Alley's that way."

"I don't fuck in alleys." Long legs swung out and the man

stood up, comically short compared to Jared's own six-foot-
five. Jared wondered for a moment if the man's asshole would
even stretch around his prick. "Name is Geoff."

"J—"
"Jared," Geoff interrupted. "I know."
Jared bristled. "After you," he growled. Skinny little fuckers

and their pretentious games. It annoyed the piss out of him,
but this one, he'd teach not to fuck with a wolf. Stupid goth
kids.

Geoff gave him a cryptic smile and turned, presenting

Jared with a mouthwatering view of a tight ass in black
leather pants. At least the vamp-wannabe knew how to dress.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Geoff walked out of the bar and into the dingy alley. The
second the door closed, Jared made his move, slamming the
man against the brick wall and taking a hard kiss. Geoff's
bottom lip split under the pressure and blood sweetened the
assault. Jared lapped at it, the animal roaring deep inside.
Vampiric blood. The shit was sweeter than a mortal's, and far
more addictive.

"Fucking vampire," he snarled, catching Geoff's wrists and

pinning them above the vampire's head. "What the fuck is
your kind doing here? Not afraid of the big bad wolf?"

"Not at all."
Without warning, a foot swept under Jared's feet and he

went down hard. He snapped and jumped up, wolf and human
in him both ready to fight. Most vampires didn't have the
balls to step foot near this place. "Are all vampires that
stupid?"

Geoff faded a split second before Jared lunged for him.

Reappearing behind him, the vampire wrenched Jared's
muscular arms back with surprising strength. "I make the
rules, pup. Got it?"

"Fuck you!"
"On the contrary..." Dangerously long teeth scraped the

side of Jared's neck, making the wolf snarl. "It is I who will be
doing the fucking, and you begging for my cock up your ass."

"Like hell," Jared snapped. He jerked away and spun

around, ready to strike, but the goddamn bloodsucker wasn't
there. What the fuck? Laughter, soft but teasing, came from
above. Jared glared up to where the vampire sat perched on
a rusty fire escape ladder.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"This is proving to be more fun than I thought," Geoff

mused.

"Get your skinny ass down here or I'm comin' up for you."

Jared hated fucking games and he was growing rather tired of
this one.

Geoff jumped, landing without incident in front of him.

How the fuck could something so small, so insanely ... puny,
best him?

"Down."
Jared blinked. "Excuse me?"
Fingers snapped in front of Jared's face and one slender

finger pointed to the ground. "On your knees."

"Fuck no," Jared snorted. Who did this son of a bitch think

he was? Vampire or no, sexy as sin or no, Jared wasn't about
to drop and beg like a desperate pup for this man.

When he didn't obey, Geoff reached up, grabbed Jared's

shoulders, and shoved him to his knees, joints connecting so
hard with the concrete that Jared grunted in pain. What the
fuck was this guy's deal?

"Suck it," Geoff ordered, pulling open his pants.
Despite the urge to rip this bloodsucking idiot to shreds,

Jared couldn't tear his gaze from the hard cock in front of
him. Uncut, long, slender, it was the sweetest-looking thing
Jared had ever seen, and that was saying something. Clear
drops of pre-come beaded at the tip and he watched,
transfixed, as Geoff stroked himself, spreading the liquid
along skin so smooth, it looked like velvet. Jared licked his
lips, his own cock throbbing in time to his heartbeat.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Geoff's other hand came up to cup the back of Jared's

head and pulled him in closer. Jared inhaled, shuddering at
the musky scent of blood and male, arousal thick in the air.
He stared, gaze following the motion of Geoff's hand as it
slowly pumped up and down the shaft, thumb grazing the tip
with every pass, spreading more wetness over the crown.
With a growl, Jared tore Geoff's hand away and sucked the
man down, snarling around the cock sliding over his tongue.

Jesus fucking Christ. Heat, blood, spunk ... Jared drowned

in it all, head bobbing as he sucked. He didn't care if anyone
saw him out here, on his knees, deepthroating vamp cock.
Geoff moaned and his fingers speared through Jared's shaggy
brown hair, tugging.

"Yes," the vampire hissed, hips rocking, pushing in and

out. "Teeth, pup. Give me your teeth."

Growling at the diminutive name, Jared let his teeth

lengthen and scrape the hard flesh in his mouth. Geoff
shouted and bucked, fingers fisting as he thrust his prick
balls-deep. Oh, someone liked that. Smirking triumphantly,
Jared inhaled deep and bit down. A hard slap connected to
the side of his face, followed a split-second later by rich, thick
heat pouring down his throat. Still reeling from the blow to his
pride, Jared swallowed convulsively and scowled up at Geoff.

"Bad pup. Never bite the hand that feeds you." The

vampire withdrew and tucked himself back into his pants.
"Get up."

Oh, fuck no.
Jared seized Geoff's wrist and snarled. "You are not gonna

leave me high and dry!" With his other hand, he pulled out

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his own cock, giving it a rough tug while staring defiantly at
Geoff, daring him to say something. The vampire stepped
closer and Jared had no idea what to expect.

He sure as hell wasn't expecting the kiss.
Geoff's blood-sweetened tongue stroked across Jared's

lips, then delved between them. The stark contrast between
Geoff's earlier brutality and his gentleness now left Jared
stunned. When Geoff pulled away, Jared felt himself leaning
forward, almost whimpering for more. It was no ordinary kiss.
Ordinary kisses were tongues and dueling and fighting for
control. Geoff's kiss was something entirely different. Jared
wanted to resist the lure and temptation this man presented,
but with a single kiss, the damned vampire ensured reluctant
compliance on Jared's part. Whatever spell the vampire wove
with his lips and tongue, it tempered the beast, placating it
until all that remained was the human side of Jared craving
contact.

"Up. A shower, then more." Geoff turned and started

walking, not giving another glance in Jared's direction.

Jared swore to himself. What the hell? A few minutes ago,

he was ready to split this man in two on his cock. Now, he
was too intrigued to do anything but follow. Tucking himself
back into his pants and shaking his head at his own
scrambled priorities, he got up and hurried after Geoff.

"Do you always do this?" he asked after a few moments of

silence.

"What?" Geoff smiled over, fangs bright in the moonlight.

"Take strange wolves home?"

"Yeah."

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Geoff shrugged. "No. I could ask you a question as well.

Why do you do what you do? Why the fighting?"

"Because it's in my nature. A damn good way to release

pent-up energy." Jared glared at Geoff. "Why? If you don't
like it, then why were you there?"

"I was there to see you."
Jared blinked. "What? Me?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes? No? Fuck, I don't know. I just fight."
"Yes, to release energy." Geoff stopped at a nondescript

warehouse and pushed open a door, waving Jared inside.
"There are other ways to handle it, pup."

Jared growled, but stepped through the door anyway.

"Like?"

A slender hand took Jared's and Geoff led him down a

narrow hallway and out into a loft-style apartment. "I bought
this place several years ago. Painted the windows black,
warded the entrances. No one disturbs me here." He turned
to Jared with a cryptic smile. "No one will hear you when you
beg."

"I do not beg," Jared shot back.
"You will." Geoff stepped closer, the scent of his arousal

thick in the air between them. "When I am done with you,
you will beg for release—release only I can give you."

"You really are deluded."
Geoff snapped his fingers. When Jared didn't move, he

wasn't entirely surprised to find himself shoved to his knees.
"When I snap, you will kneel." The vampire circled around
behind Jared and long fingers wrapped in Jared's hair, tugging

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his head back, exposing his throat. "When I command, you
obey. Obedience is rewarded with pleasure; insolence is
rewarded with punishment."

"And what makes you think you can force a wolf to obey

you?"

Jared barely suppressed the groan when fingertips stroked

the thick vein in his neck.

"Because you want to."
Jared opened his mouth to argue, but the hand in his hair

tightened, the slight pain a teasing promise. Pain, he
understood. Pleasure at his own leisure, he understood.
Pleasure for the sake of someone else? It wasn't something
he'd ever cared about. He took what he wanted, and more
often than not, the recipient came like a rocket. But he'd
already been denied orgasm by this freak with pointy teeth.
And yet, he still followed.

"I can feel you thinking about it," Geoff whispered, fingers

stroking Jared's skin. "No one would ever know..."

"My obedience."
"Your obedience. It is all I ask."
Normally, Jared would've laughed at the whole notion. He

obeyed no one. His cock, however, apparently had its own
agenda, as the slightest thought of debasing himself for this
man—this vampire—in the name of pleasure, was enough to
make him painfully hard. If anyone ever found out, his
standing would be lost. He would be shunned for it. But
equally strong was the promise of those fingers, the same
ones that left his cheek stinging earlier now caressed his skin
with surprising gentleness. Jared licked his lips.

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"I am waiting, pup."
"Yes."
"Yes ... what?"
His nipple was tweaked, then rolled between Geoff's

fingers. Jared grunted, hips jerking. "Yes ... sir."

"Mmm ... much better. Now, show me how much you want

to please me. On the floor, on your back."

Jared turned and lay down. He stared up at Geoff, a slight

shudder running through him. There was knowledge in those
eyes he hadn't seen before. It didn't take a rocket scientist to
realize that Geoff was far older, and had far more experience
in this, than Jared did. Geoff undressed and Jared's heart
beat sped up as he took in the sleek, lithe form. Pale, smooth
skin everywhere, his to touch. He started to lift his hand, but
a single look from Geoff had it falling to his side again.

"You will pleasure me—tongue only."
Before Jared could ask, Geoff was over him—more

specifically, over his face. Jared inhaled deeply, cock
throbbing at the strong scent of pure male just above his
nose. Geoff reached back and spread himself open, giving
Jared a tantalizing view of a smooth, tight hole. Forcing his
arms down when he wanted to grab on, Jared slipped his
tongue out, grazing that sweet, puckered skin. Geoff moaned
softly and then came down, driving Jared's tongue into tight,
velvet heat.

"Yes," Geoff hissed, grinding his ass on Jared's face. "You

belong to me—your mouth, your tongue. Every inch of you."
He moaned and rocked, movements quickening. "My wolf..."

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The muscles around Jared's tongue tightened and spunk
splashed onto his stomach, Geoff chanting his name softly.

The musky flavor filled Jared's senses, every contraction of

Geoff's ass making his own cock throb painfully. His hips lifted
and his claws scraped the dirty concrete floor as he struggled
not to grab the vampire and take what he wanted.

Then slick heat surrounded him. Jared cried out, hips

bucking, pushing his cock down Geoff's throat. He felt, more
than heard, the word 'come.' Pleasure rushed through him,
taking his breath away, and he couldn't stop, the sensations
going on and on.

Geoff licked him clean, then pulled back. He turned and

leaned over, giving Jared a soft, sated kiss. "Better than any
fight, yes?"

"Can we do it again?"

[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

LESSONS IN KNEELING

Anah Crow
"I'm fully aware of the irony of the situation." Tiras stood

at the window that gave him a stunning view of the port of
Nyhitin and the fireworks going off against the black sky. His
palms were wet, his stomach was in knots, and the armor
that he'd lived in for five years suddenly felt ill-fitted and
awkward.

"I thought your Highness might feel better knowing that he

was taking part in a long-honored family tradition." Lian's
voice was too cool, too smooth.

Tiras was across the room before he knew what he was

doing. Pens and papers went in all directions, Lian's chair
crashed to the floor, and then Tiras was looking up into Lian's
pale gray eyes and startled face. His hand was clenched
around the man's throat, almost wrapping all the way around,
and Lian's feet dangled around Tiras' knees. The scholar had
the presence of mind to put one foot on Tiras' bare thigh and
push himself up and back against the pillar where Tiras had
him pinned, relieving some of the pressure on his throat.

"That tradition always included my family as the victors,"

Tiras snarled. Lian, his inhalations thin and reedy, looked
down at him with something that might have been pity. Tiras
wasn't used to seeing such things. "I am unaccustomed to
failure."

"Then your education was sorely neglected." Lian's voice

was still smooth, so smooth. This close, Tiras could see more

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than one white scar marring his lip where someone had split
it, another scar near one eye, yet another on his forehead,
and his slender nose had been broken more than once. Tiras'
uncle had not been a kind master, nor Tiras' father before
him, and Tiras was succeeding them in kind.

"For good reason." Tiras dropped Lian and turned away.

That wasn't helping him and guilt got him in the gut when he
watched Lian's face slowly changing color. He had only known
the advisor for the week since his uncle fell on his own sword
in the field, and already, he hated and needed the man. Lian
had negotiated them a tolerable peace.

He turned away and paced the room instead, trying to

ignore his heart pounding in his ears. The royal family of
Rhyenth had housed him in the finest rooms here in the
secondary palace by the Sea of Seray. The capitol of Rhyenth
was still a tent-city a decade after Tiras' father had sacked it.

The thought brought Tiras little joy now. He swiped at a

curtain of amber beads that shrouded the bathing pool, just
to hear them rattle, sneered at the luminous globes held in
brass sconces worked to look like lilies. The mosaics on the
walls were a blur of color, the carved pillars merely obstacles,
the vases that overflowed with flowers belonged in a woman's
room, the soft couches and pillows were for weak-backed
libertines.

Would he be on his knees tomorrow? Bent over in stocks?

Would they strip him bare? Beat him? Would they parade him
through the streets first? Would they spit on him? Worse?
What about after? Would they hang him up for all to see?

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"You're hyperventilating." Lian's cool voice cut into Tiras'

tumbling thoughts. "Perhaps some wine?"

When Tiras looked over, his advisor was back in his seat,

the papers rearranged, reading over the terms of the new
agreements between Stratymos and Rhyenth. Lian looked up,
his expression calm; calm like water that closed over
anything that happened to it.

"I will fetch it for you," Lian said. He put his pen down and

rose gracefully, with dignity, for all that he wore a scholar's
robe—two pieces of undyed linen hanging free from the gold
collar that marked his rank and belted at the waist with
knotted cord—instead of armor. "What troubles you, your
Highness?"

"They left me my sword," Tiras spat, smacking the weapon

in question where it hung by his side. The sound rang through
the room. It was better than addressing any fears he had.
"There are no bars anywhere."

"You would have preferred shackles?" Lian brought a steel

and gold goblet of green wine and held it out with both
hands. He was a willowy, contemptible thing, fine-skinned,
pale, with silken hair the color of oak. "A dungeon, perhaps."

"One chains what one fears." Tiras avoided smacking the

wine out of Lian's hands but only because he was thirsty, his
mouth painfully dry from over-breathing. He took it and drank
instead. The wine was sweet, with a peppery aftertaste that
was pleasing.

"Or one respects it, treats it with dignity according to its

station," Lian pointed out. He waited and Tiras realized that
he was holding still, should Tiras disagree with him. When

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Tiras didn't move, he turned away. "You could always fall on
your sword, should it please you to do so."

Tiras felt a rush of shame that it hadn't immediately

occurred to him to die, and that he had rejected the thought
every time it had occurred to him after. "Would you advise
your lord to his own murder?" He drained the wine and threw
the cup down on a couch.

"No, and not only because I have no taste for treason,"

Lian said easily. He sat down again and went back to his
reading, shaking his head so that his hair fell back over his
bare shoulders.

"Why not then? It might be a noble end."
"Death is rarely noble," Lian said, not looking up. "Neither

is abandoning one's duty. Your Highness would be doing his
country a disservice to leave it in this wounded time."

The man had a point. Lian might be infuriating but his

advice, when Tiras could hear it, was good. Tiras picked up
his wine glass again and went to fill it himself this time. "They
might prefer my demise after tomorrow," he said.

"It all depends on how you conduct yourself." Lian put

down his pen now and looked at Tiras, steepling his fingers
under his chin. "It is not such a terrible thing. You simply
have to bear it with grace and show your people that to be
defeated is not the same as to be degraded."

Tiras stared at Lian in disbelief as the advisor rose and

stepped away from the desk. A moment later, Tiras'
wineglass crashed into the pillar behind Lian, the wine
drenching his hair and his shoulder and his robes, but not
touching the papers. "Tomorrow, Teygtin of Rhyenth is going

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to take me, have me, like a bitch in front of his court, in front
of his people, in front of my people, to seal the surrender of
Stratymos, and you tell me that this is not degrading?"

Lian stood there, drenched but unperturbed. "A man is

degraded by his own actions, your Highness, by his own
mind, by his own shame, but never by the actions of
another." His expression never shifted. "Which of us is
undone, sire?"

Tiras could strike the man's head off, but it would change

nothing, would not make him kneel, would not make him
wrong, and that was infuriating. His hand clenched around
the hilt of his sword, then he turned away to undo the belt.
"And if I were do to this to you, you would feel nothing?" he
spat. He threw the belt down on a chair and fumbled at the
clasps of his breastplate. "You would still stand there with
your face like water and your eyes like stone?"

"Who says it has not been done to me?" Lian's voice was

gentle and his fingers slid past Tiras' to undo the clasps.
"Which of us would be ashamed if you did?" He smelled of
wine now; drops of it were beaded on his fair shoulder. Tiras
already knew the answer to the second question.

"Has it?"
"A long time ago," Lian said, as though it were nothing. His

face was as calm as ever, even with locks of his hair stuck to
his cheek with wine.

"Who...?" Tiras let the question die; it was none of his

concern. He just shifted to let Lian lift the breastplate and
backplate away. For one so willowy, Lian was surprisingly
strong.

Bend Over Big Boy

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"Shall I make you a list?" Lian carried the armor over to

the stand and hefted it up. "It is not terribly long, but I would
not embarrass any of them, not even the dead. You are
tired," he said once he had turned back to Tiras. "I will call
attendants to bathe you."

The idea of strange hands, enemy hands, on him made

Tiras ill. There would be enough of that tomorrow. "You do it,"
he said flatly. It was far below Lian's station, but Tiras didn't
care.

"As you wish."
Lian said nothing more as he undressed Tiras. The calm

that had been so infuriating just moments before was
soothing now. He knelt before Tiras to undo the greaves that
covered Tiras' sandal-straps and then removed Tiras' sandals,
and Tiras felt a surge of desire at the sight.

Lian's pale hands were dirty now, the fingers creased with

Tiras' sweat and the dirt of the road, the groomed nails
chipped and dark beneath. Sullied. The linen robe was
smudged where Lian had put Tiras' feet in his lap one at a
time, still wet and sweet and green with wine where Tiras had
thrown it.

"What if..." Tiras found his voice slightly unsteady. "What if

you desired for me to do such a thing to you? Would you be
ashamed?"

"Not in the slightest." Lian turned his smooth face up to

look at Tiras. "What of you? Would you be ashamed of
wanting me thus? It is my understanding that it is the way of
soldiers at times."

Bend Over Big Boy

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"That's different." Tiras pushed himself to his feet and let

Lian undo his brass and leather skirt. "That is a thing between
equals."

"And I am not your equal," Lian said without rancor.
"Do you think you are?" Tiras put his hands on his hips and

looked down at Lian. He was nearly twice the man's weight
and only a little taller, broader by more than half, scarred
from battle, and of noble blood.

"I think all men are equal. All people." Lian took the skirt

away and laid it aside. "A small illusion that gives me comfort.
That I do as you wish does not make me less. And I would
not fear what awaits on the morrow." He gathered up the
hem of Tiras' tunic and waited for Tiras to shrug out of it so
that it would fall into his hands.

Tiras unfastened the material at his shoulders and let the

tunic drop, baring him, exposing his half-hard cock. Lian
pulled the tunic down so that Tiras could step out of it and
now he was naked save for the bands of gold at his wrists and
arms and throat. "What if I told you to attend to my need,"
Tiras asked. "Would you feel equal then?"

"I would." Lian shook out the tunic and laid it with the

skirt. He looked up at Tiras with those beautiful eyes and
asked, without regard for the consequences, "Why do you not
order me to do so?"

Tiras was silenced by the question and he covered his

confusion by turning away. "Because I wish to bathe now," he
said, feeling angry about it. He swatted the beaded curtain
aside and stalked into the room where a hot spring swirled in
a natural pool. The air was warm and heavy with the mineral

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by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

scent. Lian passing through behind him stilled the beads to
silence.

"What if I wished it?" Lian's voice had no hint of mockery

and Tiras looked over his shoulder to see his advisor, bearing
wine and a fresh goblet, standing just inside the door. "You
would not be ordering me then."

"Do you?" The idea made Tiras hot through that he might

move his cool advisor to desire.

"After you bathe." Lian nodded toward the pool. "Go on, I

will attend you."

Tiras had no choice but to step down into the hot water,

his mind was in such a tangle. The fear of tomorrow had been
supplanted by the puzzle that was Lian. He was struggling
with the pieces when Lian waded into the water, still dressed,
to bring Tiras more wine. "Why do you not undress?"

"I am your advisor," Lian said. "And so I am dressed

appropriately, since you have not requested otherwise." The
robe swirled around him as the water danced, making
beautiful patterns. "I can advise you as easily here as I can
elsewhere."

"On what subject do I need advising?" Tiras took a drink of

wine and hoped it would soon dull his head. "The treaty is
defined. You have perused it for errors." He found a ledge
that would let him sit with the water up around his chest and
settled there.

Lian filled his hand with soap and came to stand in front of

Tiras. He coaxed Tiras' feet up and began by washing them.
"On the subject of tomorrow and all the days beyond it. And
on the days that brought you here."

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"Speak." Tiras resolved not to throw anything, or do

anymore harm tonight. Even in the low light of the globes on
the wall, he could make out the lingering remains of his
handprint under Lian's chin. It shamed him, yes, if only
because he had lost control.

"This is not your defeat," Lian began, as he washed Tiras

clean. "You did not start this war, nor did you continue it.
Tomorrow is a new start for our people. An end to the hunger
and scarcity, an end to farmers going to war, an end to the
slow death of our country. The gods have truly schooled us to
humility, and so you should not be ashamed of any of it."

His voice was like balm on a burn, and his words were

even sweeter. He looked so serious and wise, even with his
skin and hair sticky with wine. Tiras was hit with another
wave of shame.

"Tomorrow marks the end of terrible things and the

beginning of peace." Lian looked up at Tiras, his eyes intense.
"The victories of war have been bought by the lives of
thousands. The victory of our peace can be brought by the
grace with which you bend your knees."

The whole idea left Tiras sick but he could see it, perhaps a

little, through Lian's eyes. It bothered him that Lian's hair
clung in the wine on his face and neck, it bothered him
beyond concentrating on Lian's words and so he pulled away
from Lian's strong, soothing hands.

"Wash yourself," he ordered.
Lian tilted his head, regarding Tiras a moment, and then

he slipped away under the water, his hair fanning out on the
surface. When he rose, his robe clung to the supple lines of

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his body and his hair was sleek with water, falling away to
leave his serene face bare.

"Better?" he asked.
"You say that this thing tomorrow, it will be no more than I

make of it?" Tiras didn't comment on the fact that it was
better, or that his hands itched to pull away the wet robe so
that he could look at Lian bare.

"You can teach your people that their dignity is not lost in

this defeat." Lian took up more soap and came back to wash
Tiras clean. Tiras would have moaned with the touches save
for the specter of tomorrow looming over him.

"You're a madman," he accused, feeling anger flood him to

drown the fear.

"These scars, did they degrade you?" Lian's hands trailed

over ridges of keloid that marred Tiras' chest, cool, sweet
hands like the wine.

"Why should they?" Tiras could name each scar and its

source, with pride.

"They are far more than the wound you will receive

tomorrow," Lian said simply. "The defeat for which you suffer
tomorrow is not even yours. More than that, you suffer for
the good of all your people." He looked Tiras in the eyes and
his own had some heat behind them. "These..." Lian's hands
found every scar with such ease that he had to have studied
each one some time when Tiras wasn't looking. "...each is a
failure. Your defeat in a moment. A defeat that bought
nothing for anyone. Tomorrow is only another moment."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"I survived." Tiras' voice was thick with desire and knotted

with emotion. He could almost believe it would all be well
when Lian said it, but that made him no less afraid.

"You will survive tomorrow, also." Lian raised the soaking

hem of his robe and leaned in to wash Tiras' face. "Your body
and your soul."

Tiras' unsteady hands found Lian's slender hips and he

wanted, how he wanted, and he could think of no way of
making Lian's willow body bend for him that would not leave
him feeling less of a man. How could he ask for something his
predecessors had stolen by force?

He leaned in and let his head rest in the curve of Lian's

throat. Surely, there was no shame in that. Lian's hands on
his neck were so strong and comforting and then Lian's lips
pressed to his hair.

"It will be only a moment of pain," Lian said again. "And

over. I promise you this. You can be no stranger to the idea."

Tiras' mind wouldn't listen to reason and his heart was a

knot in his chest. Ideas were not reality. "Show me," he said.
If he knew, it would not be so terrible.

"As you wish." Lian washed Tiras' shoulders clean with his

robe. "After you are clean." He took more soap. "Now, your
hair."

Tiras leaned back, obediently, slipping under the water to

get wet. Lian finished washing him efficiently, and then saw
him rinsed. With that done, Lian offered Tiras his hands to
help him out of the tub. Tiras took Lian's hands and
pretended he wasn't clinging to them. Lian led him out of the
tub and through the beaded curtain.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

* * * *

The bedroom was hung with red tapestries and lit with

candles instead of the orbs in the outer rooms. It was warm
from a coal fire in a low brazier set to combat the breeze from
the windows that were open to show the ongoing fireworks
display. In the distance, Tiras could hear singing.

Lian stepped away and shed his wet robes so that he

would not drip on the rugs, leaving the gold collar of leaves
around his neck. He picked up a towel and came to dry Tiras
off, his expression never shifting. After a moment of
passivity, Tiras took the towel away from him to do the same
in return, feeling clumsy and stupid, watching his big, scarred
hands against Lian's lithe, flawless body.

"Turn," he grumbled, and Lian did, pulling his hair out of

the way. Tiras ran the towel over Lian's back once before he
really saw the scars there. Lashes. Tiras ran his fingers over
them one at a time and felt Lian's back go rigid with the
touches.

Lian bore it a moment longer before turning to take back

the towel. "I should be attending you," he said. His face was
still so calm.

"As you wish," Tiras said, echoing him. That made Lian

smile a little as he knelt to dry Tiras' legs and feet. The
pressure at the back of Tiras' throat was something new, an
even deeper ache for this wise, beautiful puzzle he had
inherited.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"How was it that you wanted me?" Lian asked, once he

had finished and risen again. He turned away to hang up the
towel, waiting for an answer.

Tiras had no idea how to say what it was that he wanted,

how to make the words come from his mouth. He wanted to
break something, to reconsider the idea of falling on his own
sword, to lash out at Lian who was turning to look at him.
Lian went to the vanity and searched there among the
alabaster and the marble and the glass until he found what he
was looking for, three small containers that he cradled in his
hands.

"How was it, then?" Lian asked. He put the delicate little

containers down on a carved shelf by the bed and stood there
waiting. "On my knees," he prompted, "on my back?"

"Neither." Tiras made the word come out by pure force of

will. "I want for you to be as Teygtin."

Lian's expression shifted then, from impassive to what

might have been tender. He crawled up onto the huge bed,
making even that look graceful, and knelt among the red and
gold covers. "Come here and I will advise you on the matter."

Lian held his hands out to Tiras and Tiras found himself

across the room without knowing it, watching his battered
hands sliding into Lian's flawless ones. "Breathe," Lian said,
his own breath soft on Tiras' mouth.

"Just tell me what do," Tiras said, feeling tension claw at

his muscles.

"Only this." Lian's kiss was assertive and cool; his fingers

slid through Tiras' wet, tangled curls without catching.

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One kiss and then another and this time, Tiras had to

remind himself to breathe. He slid his hands over Lian's hips
and up his back, over faded scars and lean muscle. Lian's
body felt good pulled against his own; the kisses made the
tension fade so that when Lian drew Tiras down into the
pillows, he followed to feel Lian more instead of pulling away.

Lian was supple under him, his body making a cradle for

Tiras', his hands stroking Tiras' face and hair as they kissed.
Tiras found himself achingly hard, bracing himself on hands
and knees to slide his cock against Lian's flat belly, moaning.
Lian found his nipples and the little shock of pain from Lian's
fingers closing on them only made Tiras shudder and moan
again.

What came next? This was all familiar, all right, though it

was strange to be with a man. Tiras had never wanted for
women; they came to him almost on the heels of his
thoughts. He knew what other soldiers did, but had always
pushed it aside as a symptom of long campaigns and parched
need.

Now, he thought he might have been wrong. Tiras wanted

nothing more than to say he'd changed his mind, to push
Lian's thighs apart and take him, to watch that slender body
arch, to watch Lian's cool expression break with pleasure. It
was this body of the man who made him so angry that made
him want deep in his belly. Only fighting had set a fire like
this in him before.

Instead, Lian moved under him, urging him to turn over

and Tiras pushed down uncertainty to roll onto his back. Lian
straddled his hips, looking down at him. Tiras ran his hands

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

down Lian's chest and belly, then looked up at Lian's face as
he ran his rough fingertips over the shaft of Lian's erection.
The calm wavered and Lian smiled at him, bringing a rush of
heat through Tiras' belly and up into his cheeks.

Tiras' chest was tight as he looked down to what his hand

was doing, drifting up and down. Lian's cock was beautiful,
darker than the rest of him, thicker than Tiras expected, the
head darker still and swollen with need. As Tiras stroked, a
clear droplet gathered at the slit and, curious, he wiped it
away with one finger and brought it to his tongue. It tasted
slightly salty and it was slick; there was something about it
that excited him unreasonably and he wanted to taste more.

He did it again and this time he heard Lian's breath catch.

That made heat come to his cheeks again and he looked up to
see Lian looking down at him with darker eyes now. Lian
tossed his hair back and leaned down to catch Tiras' mouth
with his, kissing him hard, sliding his tongue in to taste the
ghost of himself on Tiras' tongue.

"You want me," Tiras said when Lian pulled away from the

kiss. He tried to ignore the way his voice cracked on the
words, on the surprise and on the heat of saying them.

"Yes." Lian sounded amused, but he kissed Tiras again and

there was no time to be angry with him. This time, when Lian
pulled away, he reached out and picked up one of the little
containers from the table. It was a brown alabaster pot with a
gold rim and a lid carved like leaves.

"What are you doing?" Tiras felt the knot of anger started

to twist, the way it always did when he didn't know enough.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"Advising you." Lian smiled, a genuine smile, and it was so

beautiful that Tiras laughed, surprising himself with it. "Trust
me. I know my business."

"I do." Tiras' father and uncle had only listened to soldiers,

had kept men like Lian around to translate treaties and to
record their words and deeds. There were few soldiers left to
listen to now, and Tiras had little choice. Lian kissed him one
more time, soft and slow, making Tiras reach for him to keep
him, but Lian pulled away in the end.

Lian kissed down Tiras' chest, licking at scars and biting at

his nipples until Tiras whined with it, arching and shocking
himself with how much he wanted Lian, wanted Lian to do
anything more. When Lian moved to kneel between Tiras'
thighs, pushing them apart and opening him up, all he felt
was more need. Lian's tongue slicked down the dark hair that
led from Tiras' belly to his groin; a slow tease that made
Tiras' heart beat harder.

Lian sucking Tiras' cock down made Tiras moan and grab

at the bedcovers. He fisted his hands in the embroidered silk
so that he wouldn't tangle them in Lian's hair and force Lian's
mouth down on him. He opened his eyes to watch Lian
sucking him off, trying to muster up the words to explain that
this wasn't what he expected. How could he complain with all
that slick heat and pressure and the head of his cock sliding
so far down Lian's throat that he couldn't stop making
desperate little noises?

Just as Tiras felt himself being drawn up tight with

pleasure, his mind losing grip on anything and everything, the
pressure eased and Lian's slender, slick finger invaded him.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Tiras gasped and forced himself to stay still, to let it happen,
and as he lay there taut as a drum, it began to feel good. He
remembered to breathe and Lian's mouth was still sliding
over him, so hot and wet, and the thrust of Lian's fingers as
another slid in just blended with the pleasure he was feeling.

The tipping point between accepting, almost enjoying, the

invasion and wanting more came when Lian touched
something inside him that made Tiras arch and cry out
wordlessly. Suddenly, everything shifted and he was rocking
his hips, trying to get more of Lian's fingers into him.

"Please." Tiras didn't even know what he was asking for.

"Oh, Gods, Lian ... please."

Lian must have known, though. Seconds later, Tiras was

wailing his name and drowning in an orgasm that came up
out of him like a flood. Lian made him writhe and shake and it
was so much more, just so much more everything, than ever
before. When it was over, Tiras wasn't sure he could ever be
angry about anything again.

A soft kiss on his forehead made Tiras realize that his eyes

were closed. All the light and colors he was seeing were on
the inside of his eyelids. He opened his eyes to see Lian
leaning over him with a little smile curving the corners of his
lips.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Lian whispered.
Tiras laughed at him breathlessly. "Shut up," he said,

trying to remember breathing and moving his arms and legs
and such. As he came back to himself, he could feel Lian's
body pressed against his, Lian's erection hard against his hip,
and that sent a jolt of need through him. "What did you do to

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

me?" He pushed Lian over on his back, clumsily, and Lian
moved easily.

Lian lay there, spread out and relaxed, looking up at Tiras.

"What I knew would feel good." He reached up and smoothed
Tiras' curls back from his forehead.

"I want to do that to you." Tiras looked around for the

alabaster pot Lian had been holding and found it halfway
across the bed. He went crawling after it to bring it back,
wondering what was inside and if that were part of what felt
so good.

"Another night." Lian beckoned to Tiras and, without

thinking, Tiras came crawling back to his side once he'd
retrieved the little pot. Smiling, Lian drew Tiras down to him
and kissed him again. "Tonight is for other things."

"But..." Tiras felt petulant, and then felt ridiculous because

of it. He was sulking because he wasn't being allowed to suck
his advisor off, hardly noble thinking. Still, he stroked one
finger up the underside of Lian's cock, wanting it anyway and
not able to understand why except that it belonged to Lian
and would make Lian feel good. He was considering putting
his mouth on it anyway when Lian tapped his hip.

"Come," Lian said, and Tiras found himself moving to lean

over Lian, straddling his hips this time. Lian sat up a little to
kiss Tiras on the mouth. "What do you want?"

Lian was so small under him. Tiras took a moment to look

down at Lian's long limbs and fair proportions and fine skin—
fine skin marred at the throat with bruises. Tiras dipped his
head to kiss them, all his sullenness washed away by regret.
When he pulled away, he looked down at Lian.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"I just want to make you feel like that," Tiras admitted,

trying to ignore the way heat filled his cheeks. How Lian
looked graceful and composed almost all the time was a
mystery to him. Tiras felt like a bull or a bear, thick and
clumsy and made for fighting and surviving, not grace.

"You have lessons to learn," Lian said, his tone gentle.

"But I might be able to oblige us both." He held out his hand
and Tiras relinquished the alabaster pot.

When Lian opened it and held it out to him, Tiras put his

finger in and found it full of salve, thick and smooth, and
smelling a little of beeswax. It didn't take long to understand
what Lian meant. Tiras balked, internally, but it must have
shown on his face because the corners of Lian's mouth
twitched.

Tiras' pride raged at that for a moment, and then he

remembered how good it had felt when Lian touched him.
Lian didn't have to do this thing, to offer himself up. Tiras was
the one who had asked for this and Lian had brought him
pleasure. The more he thought about it, drawing the salve
down the length of Lian's cock with the tip of one finger, the
more he wanted it. Wanting it was the only thing holding him
back.

Lian made a soft noise of need at Tiras' touch and his

lashes fluttered. That little break in the cool façade brought
Tiras a surge of desire. He stroked Lian's cock tentatively at
first, then with more confidence as Lian's eyes widened. How
he wanted to be the cause of that, by any means.

The thickness and heat of Lian's cock in his hand made

him want in the way that he had while Lian touched him

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

before, that intense drive to be filled up somehow. Tiras
moved before Lian said anything, feeling awkward and
ashamed and slightly desperate, not certain how they fit
together but wanting it terribly. Lian moved with him, though,
his cool hands on Tiras' hips drawing him into place.

"Breathe," Lian reminded him again.
Tiras looked into Lian's eyes and tried to remember to

breathe. It was less painful than it was difficult and once he
turned his focus onto his own body, he was able to slide
Lian's cock into him, settling down across Lian's hips. Lian
was biting his lip and he was looking at Tiras in way that
could only be called hungry, and that made Tiras shiver.

Lian reached for him, so Tiras bent down to kiss Lian's

bitten lip.Moving felt good and got a soft noise from Lian, so
he did it again, feeling Lian shift under him as they kissed.
Even like this, Lian knew how to make it feel even better, hot
and thick inside him, filling him up and making him hard
again.

When Lian touched him, slid his hand over Tiras' cock, he

shuddered and sat back to get Lian deeper into him. It felt so
good that he forgot to move for a moment, but Lian's hips
kept rocking under him, pushing up into him, and making him
moan over and over again. Then Tiras opened his eyes and
saw Lian under him, saw the cracks in his calm showing in the
way his lips parted and his breath came fast.

That was all his. Surrendering had won him a prize he

never could have taken by force. It felt like heaven, too.
Bracing his hands by Lian's shoulders and rocking back to
take Lian into him hard and fast. Tiras' breath was ragged

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

and he could feel his composure slipping again, so soon. He
was hardly ready for it but the way Lian moved in him
brought back echoes of the way Lian had touched with his
fingers and Tiras couldn't help himself.

Tiras looked down to watch Lian's hand sliding over his

cock, the pale fingers glistening with salve and with the clear
fluid leaking from the head. Those slim, refined fingers that
had been inside him and brought him such pleasure were
pushing him now, stroking and teasing. Tiras' breath caught
and he cried out, softly, riding Lian harder until pleasure
inside and out overwhelmed him. Shaking and writhing, he
watched his come spatter Lian's flat belly, sullying his skin.

"Tiras." His name, whispered, brought Tiras' attention back

to Lian's face. Lian's eyes were dark, his cheeks hot, and his
breath came harshly as he trembled under Tiras.

"Please, Lian," Tiras said, the words welling up unbidden.
Then Lian arched under him, closing his eyes and baring

his bruised throat. His hips came up hard, making Tiras gasp.
Soft sounds came from him and Tiras could feel everything
get slicker as Lian found release. It was everything Tiras had
wanted, to see Lian like this, so human and alive. Finally, it
ended and they were both shivering a little with pleasure,
Lian slowly relaxing under Tiras and opening his eyes again.

"Now, which of us is undone?" Tiras whispered, smiling. He

felt so good; he didn't want tonight to end, ever.

Lian laughed at him, shaking his head. "I see it was not all

so bad as you feared," he said.

"No." Tiras moved away, wondering if his weight bothered

Lian, but his advisor just held out a hand, beckoning him

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

back. Tiras lay down at Lian's side and put his head on Lian's
shoulder, feeling slightly sore and very contented. "It was not
so bad at all." Tiras kissed the bruises on Lian's throat again.
"What did you mean, that my education had been neglected?
Not this."

"No, but perhaps I should have. All great men must take

lessons in kneeling," Lian said, stroking Tiras' hair. "Not in
being beaten down, but kneeling. All men should learn how to
give way, for their own good and for the good of all, when the
time comes. It is a graceful gesture. We all have to kneel to
something, even death."

"To win is everything. To be a king is to never kneel." Tiras

had once been as sure of that as the sun rising. Now he lay
here in Lian's arms and questioned everything.

"What is victory? A field so soaked in blood it grows no

food? A nation of beggars?" Lian rolled Tiras over in the
sheets and looked down at him. "And what is a king? The one
at whose feet the starving cringe in fear, or the one that they
call milypan, beloved ruler, and bless his name over a heavy
table?"

"My father began this war for his people," Tiras said,

feeling the dearth of his years and the thinness of his
learning. He had grown to be a man in the face of this war,
earned his title and his honor in it once he came of age.

"Your father was angry at a shepherd-king who would not

give him a daughter to wife," Lian said, shaking his head. "His
war was terrible and angry and sprawling, but wise. Your
uncle could not bear that history think less of him than his
brother. His war was proud and stupid and fatal."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"And I have no war." Tiras had no idea what to do about

that.

"History will speak of you with more love than either." Lian

kissed Tiras on the forehead. He sounded so sure that Tiras
had to believe him.

"How do you know?" Tiras slid his arms around Lian's waist

and held him close, then tilted his head back to look up at
Lian's face.

"Because you are here with me, listening." Lian kissed

Tiras on the mouth then, hot and fierce, making Tiras moan
with need and surprise. Lian wound his fingers in Tiras' hair
and tilted his head back to kiss him even deeper. Tiras
whimpered, his back arching and his thighs parting. "Listening
and learning to kneel."

There was no speaking for a time, just Lian's mouth hot on

Tiras' and Lian's hands touching him in ways that made him
ache with want. Tiras could hardly breathe for all the kisses
and he wondered how he could ever have thought Lian cool
and impassive. Lian was all heat, all pleasure behind his calm,
and Tiras wanted him all over again. If it were not for
tomorrow lurking, he would never have known all this
pleasure.

The thought of tomorrow sent a shot of fear through Tiras

and he pulled his mouth from Lian's with a gasp. "I want you
to have me first, have me on my knees." The thought that
anyone but Lian should have that was unbearable. "Please."
Tiras wanted it, he only wanted it from Lian.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Lian kissed him again and then looked down on him,

holding Tiras cradled in the curve of his arm. "As you wish,"
he said gently.

"Please." Tiras had never said the word so many times to

one person before in his life, but saying it to Lian brought a
rush of heat that helped wash the fear away. "Please, Lian."
He knew his cheeks were hot, he knew he was begging, but it
felt so good. "Please have me."

Lian kissed Tiras before he moved away. Tiras wanted to

reach for him, but then remembered what it was he was
begging for. When he rolled over on hands and knees, he
could see the night sky beyond their room and the fountains
of light that burst against it.

"Lian..." He wanted Lian to touch him, to take everything

else away. Knees apart, head down, he felt a rush of shame
and anger, and then Lian kissed his shoulder, his neck, and
his cheek. "Please."

"As you wish." Lian's breath was hot against Tiras' ear. His

fingers slid into Tiras and made him whimper, only this time it
was more fear than need. "As you wish, milypan," he said
again, his voice tender.

Lian's touches were as soft as his voice, as knowing and as

wise. His fingers stroked inside Tiras and touched him deep
within so that pleasure ran through him to chase away
uncertainty. Soon, Tiras was moving to get more, his breath
coming faster, little moans welling up from deep in his chest.
He was hard again and wanted Lian desperately.

"Lian, Lian, please." Knowing what he was begging for now

made the begging itself arousing. Tiras writhed a little,

Bend Over Big Boy

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looking over his shoulder, wanting to know that Lian wanted
him.

Lian was there with a kiss so fierce it bruised Tiras' mouth

and made him moan. Lian's free hand clenched in Tiras' hair;
then Lian's fingers were out of him, Lian's mouth left his own.
Tiras whined with the sensation of emptiness, but Lian filled
him a moment later, making him arch with pleasure.

"Yes, yes," Tiras was hardly aware that he was muttering.

"Lian, yes." It was even better like this, down on his knees.
Panting, he lowered his head and shoulders to the rumpled
covers, fisting his hands in the silk, pushing his hips up and
back to take Lian in. As he rocked and moaned with Lian's
thrusts, he had a flashing image of how they must look, and
that shocked him with a rush of wanton heat.

Lian's hands were cool on his hips, moving to stroke Tiras'

back now and again. Tiras closed his eyes and begged with
his body for more, forgetting that he knew how to speak. He
felt so good, so undone and so full and so open, all he could
do was make little noises of pleasure and shudder every time
Lian pushed into him.

Lian knew, knew everything, and gave Tiras more until the

little noises were full, rough cries. When Lian finally touched
Tiras, closed his gentle hand around Tiras' cock, it didn't take
more than a few strokes to make Tiras lose control. He shook
and came, at Lian's mercy and loving every second of it.
Before it had faded, he was begging again, wanting to feel
Lian's pleasure.

"Please, Lian. Please." Tiras didn't know if he knew any

other words anymore. It didn't matter; he didn't need them.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

He writhed and tensed, and he was rewarded by Lian's

nails digging into his hips as Lian pulled him back. Lian
shuddered and Tiras heard his breath catch and that made
Tiras moan. A moment later, he was gasping and whimpering
as Lian came inside him with one hard stroke after another.

When it was all over, Tiras closed his eyes and tried to

cling to the moment, so he would remember how good it was.
When Lian tugged him over on his side and curled up against
him, Tiras grabbed Lian's hand in his own and clung to that as
well. Lian said nothing, just kissed his shoulder and let Tiras
breathe.

Late in the night, Lian rose and brought warm water,

which he used to wash Tiras clean. He rearranged the bed so
that Tiras could lie among the pillows under the soft layers of
blankets. Tiras watched him moving around the bedroom and
felt a pang in his chest that Lian might leave him, Lian who
had put on his cool demeanor that was as much his uniform
as the robes he wore.

"Lian?"
"Yes, your Highness?" Lian stopped, his hands full of damp

towels, and turned to look at Tiras.

"Stay with me." Tiras felt like he should reach out and grab

Lian by the wrist in case he refused; it would feel unbearable
for Lian to leave him right now. "Please," Tiras added. He
didn't want to look at a ring of bruises on Lian's wrist; a
bracelet to match the necklace of red and violet Tiras had
given him already.

"I will not leave you," Lian promised. "I have some few

things to do, then I will return."

Bend Over Big Boy

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Tiras relaxed into the pillows, nodding. "Thank you." He

closed his eyes, listening to Lian go about his business, and
tried to sleep. Still, he was awake when Lian returned after
what seemed an eternity.

Lian lay down in the bed and Tiras turned over to find him

bare and cool under the covers. Tiras burrowed into the circle
of Lian's arms, his head on Lian's chest. Then, with Lian
stroking his hair, he finally drifted off. When he woke in the
night, restless and afraid, Lian was there to soothe him back
to sleep again, over and over.

* * * *

The morning began with a knocking at the outer doors to

Tiras' rooms. Tiras sat bolt upright in bed, his heart clawing at
his ribs. It was still black outside; a few stars lingered in the
sky. Lian put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Remain here," he said. "I will attend to your affairs. You

need not bother with anything today but remembering what
you've learned." Tiras did as he was told and watched Lian
move gracefully, pulling a loose red sheet about him, to go
out and answer the door.

Lian returned with Tiras' ceremonial armor in his arms, still

dressed in the sheet as though it were the latest fashion. "The
ceremony will occur at dawn, in the courtyard." Tiras felt sick,
but he pulled himself together, drawing on Lian's obvious
calm. "Would you like some wine?"

"Just help me get ready." Tiras got to his feet and squared

his shoulders. He could do this. It would be but a moment in
the whole of his life.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

The sky was gray turning to rose when the guards banged

on the doors again. Lian had dressed in a clean robe, this one
pure white, and his hair was caught back in a gold clasp. Tiras
had been distracting himself by watching the advisor dress
but now he was hit with another wash of shame.

"I will be by your side," Lian said calmly. He gathered their

copy of the treaty that would be signed as well at the
ceremony, a mingling of the civil with the barbaric. When he
turned to look at Tiras, he let the façade slide enough to give
Tiras a smile. Tiras remembered to breathe.

"It will only be a moment," Tiras said, feeling more sure of

it now.

"Only a moment," Lian promised. "A moment, and then the

future." He held out his hand and Tiras took it.

"You will want me then, after that moment?" The words

were not as steady as Tiras would have liked but he needed
to know before he could make his feet move.

"More and more." Lian's voice was calm, his expression as

smooth as a still lake, his eyes as cool as stone under water,
and looking at him made Tiras feel stronger. "And I will be
proud to serve you."

"Hold my pride for me as well, then," Tiras said. The doors

rattled once more and opened; his personal honor guard
stood there waiting now. "It is yours for the safekeeping." He
let Lian lead him to the threshold.

As they passed through the doors, Tiras let go of Lian's

hand and stepped ahead. Shoulders back, head up, he was
ready to surrender, and to surrender well. It would not have
been so simple if he had not had his advisor to spend the

Bend Over Big Boy

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night giving him lessons in kneeling; he would never forget
that, not for all the years he had left to rule. The sound of
soldiers moving with him masked the fall of Lian's feet one
pace behind him and to his left, but with him, nonetheless.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

NO MAN'S SERVANT

by K. C. Warwick
It was late afternoon when Nick finished shoeing the

plough horse and watched as it was led off down the lane
toward the village. It was a big black horse, powerfully built,
but it had stood tranquilly enough for him, as most of them
did, responding to the quiet strength of the smith with
calmness of their own. It never paid to lose your temper with
something that was stronger than you were.

Nick reached up and stretched his tired muscles in the

warm August sunlight. He was thirty-two years old, tall,
strong and healthy. He had removed his shirt earlier on and
the sunlight touched tanned skin, corded muscle sliding
beneath, glistening with sweat above the leather apron he
wore to work in. His hair, short and dark, was damp and fell
into his eyes so that he pushed it away impatiently, leaving a
grimy mark across his cheek as he did so. He'd been working
since dawn—one thing that could be said of the English Civil
War was that it brought plenty of work for blacksmiths and
farriers, assuming that you got paid for it, of course. Now he
could do with a rest before he started on the bent
ploughshare that waited at the back of the forge.

The horse was almost out of sight, but as he watched, he

saw it suddenly throw up its head and prick its ears, and a
moment later, three horseman rode round the corner of the
lane and into view. Royalists, by the look of their shabby
finery, and that might or might not mean trouble. To be

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by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

truthful, anyone from either army could be trouble nowadays,
what with their inconvenient habit of living off the land and
helping themselves to the property of those unfortunate
enough to be in their path. There wasn't much to choose
between the two sides in that respect, for all that Cromwell's
new Model Army was supposed to follow the ten
commandments and King Charles' men were said to be
gentlemen.

He straightened up, hands on hips, and tried to look

unwelcoming. He knew he was big enough to discourage most
people from taking liberties, but three to one might be too
much for him. Maybe the riders would not stop—but of
course, they did.

It was the foremost horseman who drew his eye, because

of the arrogant way in which he sat his animal, as if the whole
world belonged to him. He was of Nick's age, with long fair
hair spilling onto his shoulders in the typical Royalist fashion,
and eyes that were light blue and slightly narrowed against
the sunshine. Nick heard him say, "Ah, the farrier," and then
those blue eyes raked over him, examining him from head to
foot, lingering slightly on his bare torso. Nick had been the
recipient of such looks before, and was fairly sure of what it
meant. What he was not sure about was whether he had any
interest in encouraging it.

But by now one of the other men was addressing him.

"We've a mount here with a loose shoe," he said, indicating
the horse the fair-haired man was riding. "Can you see to it?"

Naturally he could, it was his job, but instead of saying

that, he walked over to the creature and leaned his shoulder

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

against the beast's, causing it to shift its weight so that he
could pick up its off-foreleg. He had already noted that the
clenches were rising from the hoof wall and had guessed that
this was the problem shoe. "Bring him in," he told the rider,
without looking up. Then he dropped the hoof and went back
into the forge to stir up the fire.

As he worked the bellows, he could hear the conversation

outside. "You two ride on to Worcester without me,"
suggested the fair-haired man. "There's no call for all of us to
be held up and I can find my way safely enough from here. I
doubt there are enemy troops around."

One of the others responded, laughing, "Who is she? Not

that red-haired wench we saw in the village? Hardly worth
riding back for, I'd say." Nick knew of the woman in question
and was inclined to agree with the speaker. However, he was
willing to bet that she was not what the fair-haired soldier
was interested in.

"Mind your own business," was the brisk response. "Tell

Richards I'll be there later and not to start the battle without
me."

"Battle!" was the scornful reply. "They won't be fighting

over Worcester yet a while—not unless His Majesty pays us a
visit, and if he knows what's good for him, he'll stay well
away!"

He heard someone dismount and farewells being

exchanged, then the doorway darkened as the fair-haired
man led his horse in. Nick took the reins from him, and tied
the animal up to a ring in the wall. As he turned, he found
himself walking straight into the rider, who put out a hand to

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by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

fend him off. The man was about his equal in height, but Nick
reckoned he had an advantage in weight over the other,
though it was difficult to tell beneath the loose coat and fancy
shirt. The hand that was presently resting on his chest was
large and warm, and the stranger made no move to take it
away. Instead, he said softly, "Steady," and smiled, a
charming, calculating smile which Nick did not return. He was
fairly sure by now that a familiar game was being played, but
he wanted to know considerably more before he decided to
take part in it.

Instead, he pushed past the man, and ignored the strong

fingers that slid over his nipple as he did so. Despite this, the
touch lit a little ember of heat within him, ready to burst into
flame in the same way as the glowing coals in the furnace
had done. He reached for his tools and returned to the horse
to begin removing the shoe, conscious of the man leaning
against the wall beside him. As he bent to pick up the foot,
the other spoke again. "So, what name do you go by, Master
Farrier?"

"Is it any of your business?" Nick asked, cutting off the

clenches with his pliers.

"None at all," the soldier admitted cheerfully. "But I like to

know what name to address a man by, especially when he is
doing me a favor."

"This isn't a favor," Nick told him shortly. "I expect to be

paid. It's how I make my living."

"For which you will certainly be paid in full. Well then, I've

no objection at all to you knowing my name. I'm called John
Wyatt."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Nick grunted. John Wyatt seemed to be an impulsive and

hasty individual, but then, what harm would it do to tell?
"Nicholas Makepeace," he said, prizing the shoe loose and
straightening up.

He pushed a bar through one of the shoe holes and thrust

the whole thing into the heat of the fire. Behind him, Wyatt
remarked, "That's a good Puritan name—Makepeace. Is that
your inclination?"

He didn't seem hostile, only curious, but Nick was still

careful. "I call no man my master," he replied, going back to
the horse, "neither King Charles nor Oliver Cromwell. I am no
man's servant but my own."

"A good enough philosophy," Wyatt admitted, "if you are

allowed to pursue it. Now I," he continued, "am a King's man,
as you might have guessed."

Nick bent to trim the ragged edges of the hoof and said

nothing. Let the man talk if he wanted to. It seemed that he
did. "I've always found the Puritan viewpoint needlessly
constricting," Wyatt continued. "All that talk of hellfire and
repentance. I'd rather sin and be damned, if that is what is to
happen to me. Don't you agree?"

"Depends on the sin," Nick said, going back to the forge to

look at the shoe.

It was not quite hot enough, so he stood there waiting,

and Wyatt asked in a tone that might have been serious or
not, "What sort of sins do you prefer?"

"Those that I don't get caught committing," Nick told him

promptly and Wyatt laughed.

Bend Over Big Boy

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He had a pleasant laugh and it lit up his face, so that Nick

found himself looking up with a smile, almost against his will.

Wyatt gave him an approving nod. "Well said." He paused,

then went on easily, "I must admit that, when it comes to
sinning, I favor lust above the others."

By now, Nick was trying the hot shoe against the horse's

foot, the pungent smoke rising up into his face as he did so.
He blew it away and remarked, "I wouldn't imagine there's
much chance of that in the King's army." The shoe needed
altering; he took it over to the anvil and picked up his
hammer.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," was the reply. "There are all

sorts of opportunities if you look for them, and I was never
one to let a chance slip through my fingers..."

Nick let the hammer fall in three heavy blows and then

took the shoe back and tried it again. He was undecided
about this man; it was difficult to know whom to trust in
these turbulent times, when the Puritans were always on the
lookout for malefactors. But whatever else Wyatt was, he was
certainly not a Puritan, that was for sure. Nick's judgment
was clouded by the fact that it had been longer than he cared
to remember since he had slept with anyone. The last
occupant of his bed had been a gypsy lad who had needed an
axle mending on his cart. It had been pleasurable, but brief—
these encounters always were—and he was certainly ready
for another. Wyatt was comely enough, and willing, but still
he hesitated.

He knocked in the last nail, and reached for the file to

smooth the clenches into place. Wyatt was still leaning

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

against the wall, whistling softly to himself, apparently
content to let Nick take his time making his mind up. But
when the job was finished and Nick straightened up, patting
the horse on the neck, he pushed off the wall and stood
before the farrier, his lips curved in a faint smile. "My thanks.
You work quickly."

Their eyes were almost exactly level; Nick made to step

back, but a strong hand closed around his arm. "Further to
what we were talking about earlier—"

"You were talking," Nick corrected.
"And you listened, and understood exactly what I meant."

Wyatt's fingers moved in gentle circles against Nick's skin.
"From the fact that you did so, I gather that you are not
entirely averse to the suggestion. I would guess that there
are less opportunities here to indulge in lust than there are in
the Royalist army." The fingers transferred from his arm to
his chest, kneading the hard muscles there. The feeling was
pleasurable; he found himself pushing back against the touch
and was not surprised when the caress moved to his nipple
and strong fingers brushed over the rough skin. "Why not
take advantage of our meeting?"

"I know nothing about you," Nick pointed out, keeping his

breathing steady with an effort.

"You know that I desire you. Isn't that enough?" Wyatt

took a step nearer and his free hand came up to cup Nick's
head, drawing him close so that their lips met. At the same
time, his fingers closed round the nub of the nipple and
twisted, causing Nick to gasp long enough for the other man's
tongue to slide into his mouth. Wyatt's hands and tongue

Bend Over Big Boy

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were skilled, and Nick's body made a decision which his mind
was not altogether convinced was right, meeting the other's
tongue with his own and pulling Wyatt against him so that he
could feel the hardness in both their groins.

"I take it that means yes?" Wyatt muttered, breaking the

kiss for a moment.

Nick nodded, aware that he was acting purely at the

behest of his body, but willing to accept that. "Let me shut
the forge," he said.

Once the heavy doors were closed, he led Wyatt through

into the cottage adjoining. "Cottage" was perhaps an
overstatement, since there were two interlinked rooms under
a thatched roof, with an attic above. He took Wyatt into the
one that he used for sleeping, and which contained a bed he'd
made himself and a couple of chests for clothes. It was
pleasantly warm from the late afternoon sun and Wyatt
glanced around and nodded. "This is your cottage?" he
questioned, stripping off his coat and the scarlet sash which
he wore knotted underneath.

"It was my father's and my grandfather's before me," Nick

said. "Further back than that too. We've always been smiths."
He had left the heavy apron in the forge; now he pulled off
his breeches and bent to rummage in one of the chests.

Wyatt had been undressing too, but Nick was conscious of

a sudden stillness as he retrieved a small pottery jar from its
resting place. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was
the matter and found Wyatt grinning at him, running the sash
between his fingers. "I'm just admiring the prospect," the
soldier told him.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Nick looked down at the jar in his hand then back up to the

by now almost naked Wyatt. Stripped, it became apparent
that the man was nearly as well-muscled as Nick was himself,
though slimmer with it. It would be good to have something
solid underneath him, he reflected. The gypsy lad and his kind
were too fragile; he was always afraid of hurting them if he
held them too tightly. Might as well sleep with a woman. This
man was tough; he didn't look as if he would damage easily.

Just how tough he was became apparent as they embraced

one another, naked beside the bed. Wyatt felt like steel in his
arms, but it was a good feeling and his cock began to harden,
rubbing companionably against the other man's. Wyatt liked
kissing, but Nick was not averse to that when he was left in
so little doubt as to the gender of his partner. He returned the
kiss, and felt the soldier's hands slide down his back to grip
his arse. "I've wanted this," Wyatt murmured in his ear,
"since I saw you standing at the forge door, Nicholas
Makepeace," and his fingers slid into the cleft of Nick's
buttocks and brushed over his entrance.

So it was going to come to a fight, was it? "And if you

think I'm letting you take me," Nick murmured back, "then
you are greatly mistaken, John Wyatt."

He felt and heard the low laugh in response to this. "Do

you think so? You think I'll tamely let you have me, without
so much as a protest?" His tongue licked down Nick's throat,
warm and wet.

"I don't doubt there'll be protest," Nick replied. The tongue

was distracting him, making him shiver. "I wasn't going to
take any notice."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"Then, neither will I."
Wyatt bent suddenly, hooked his hand under Nick's right

thigh and pulled it upward, at the same time sweeping Nick's
left leg from under him so that he fell onto the bed with a
resounding thud which knocked all the breath out of him. By
the time he had managed to wheeze in a lungful of air, his
hands were neatly bound with the scarlet sash, which in its
turn was secured round the wooden bedpost. How in the
devil's name had the man done that so quickly? He stared up
at Wyatt, who was straddling his thighs, and tugged
ineffectually at his bonds. The bedpost was part of the
structure of the house; it was about as likely to move as his
anvil in the forge. He struggled and bucked, but Wyatt was
too heavy to dislodge. This was the first time he could
remember being pinned down by someone stronger than he
was, and now he didn't know what to do, except fly into a
rage. He remembered the plough horse: it never paid to lose
your temper with something that was stronger than you were.

Firm hands stroked his ribs, easing his breathing. "I'm

sorry, I didn't intend you to fall so hard." He could almost
have sworn that was genuine.

"I suppose you didn't intend to tie my hands either," he

remarked angrily.

"Ah, no. I did that on purpose. It will be much easier that

way."

"Easier for whom?"
"Both of us. Otherwise, we'll spend all our time fighting—

and I might lose. I'd rather fuck than fight, any day."

"So I gather."

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

The hands on his ribs moved up to his chest. "Your heart is

beating very fast. Calm yourself."

"Fine advice, from the man who is on top! You never

discussed this with me!"

"Of course not—you wouldn't have agreed. Just put your

trust in me; you won't regret it."

"If you're going to put that weapon up me," Nick replied,

lowering his gaze to the other man's cock, "then I think I'm
going to regret it very much." His own member was no longer
showing any interest in the proceedings.

"Nonsense." Wyatt glanced down at him with amusement.

"You're just as well-endowed as I am. Have you ever hurt
anyone?"

"Not knowingly, but I'm patient and careful."
"And so will I be. Believe me, I've had plenty of practice."

His fingers reached Nick's nipples, working them gently, and
then he leaned forward and Nick felt warmth and wetness
close around the hard nub. He became incensed again,
writhing in his bonds but totally unable to get away from that
persistent mouth and tongue. This man was treating him like
a woman, which was a liberty he allowed no one, particularly
when it came to sucking on his nipples as though—he paused
in his anger, suddenly becoming aware that his body was
responding to this. Long hair tickled his chest and, despite
himself, it sent a tremor through him.

Wyatt bit gently, pulling at the nipple and circling it with

his mobile tongue. Then he shifted to the other side while his
fingers twisted and tugged at the damp nub he had
abandoned. Nick could feel the other man's cock pressing

Bend Over Big Boy

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against his own thigh and wondered how patient Wyatt was
prepared to be. At present, it seemed as if he was ready to
suck on Nick's nipples until night fell, and the smith could
already feel his cock hardening again as his breathing sped
up. He didn't want this, so why was it arousing him with such
intensity?

Wyatt shifted sides again, this time bracing an arm under

Nick's back so that the smith arched up involuntarily into the
hungry mouth. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable,
especially with his arms stretched above his head still, but
Wyatt told him softly, "That's good. Give the control to me.
Let me do this."

With an effort, he made himself think of resistance. His

legs were free; he could try to kick his way out of this, but
then Wyatt shifted sideways, his other hand sliding down to
cup the smith's cock, and Nick found his thoughts easily
distracted away from conflict. The mouth on his nipple was
holding most of his attention, but now strong fingers closed
round the base of his shaft, stroking expertly. He made a
small breathy sound, between a gasp and a whimper, a sound
which he had not even known he could make.

Wyatt raised his head for a moment and asked softly,

"Shall I stop?"

Nick ordered himself to say yes, and ended up giving an

indeterminate grunt which could have meant anything. Wyatt
smiled and leaned over him again. This encounter was not
going at all how Nick had intended. Wyatt was controlling his
body in ways he had not expected, using pleasure rather than
force. He felt confused and helpless, and full of desire. Not

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

that that meant he was going to accept being fucked without
protest...

As if he could read the other man's mind, Wyatt sighed

and reached for the pottery jar, which had fallen onto the
pillow. Nick felt himself tense; he stared up hotly into the
soldier's light blue eyes. Wyatt pulled out the cork with his
teeth, and settled back down beside Nick. "You're making this
very difficult for yourself," he said mildly.

"Change places and see how you like it," Nick snapped.
"I only want to give you pleasure. I assure you, I don't

enjoy causing pain."

Nick was more nervous than he would admit, so it was

something of an anti-climax when Wyatt merely resumed his
ministrations, tonguing the smith's nipples whilst his now-
slick fingers caressed Nick's cock into life again. After a while,
he began to relax a little, and Wyatt shifted up the bed, his
lips leaving the smith's chest and fastening on Nick's mouth
instead. It was as pleasurable as the kiss in the forge had
been, but longer and more passionate, and during the course
of it, Nick was only partially aware of the soldier's fingers
stroking the firm flesh of his balls and then moving to circle
his entrance. He tried to make a protest, but anything he
might have said was muffled by the kiss, and by the time he
was in a position to use his lips for speech, one long finger
was securely within him.

It was not that he was a virgin in this respect. He'd been

fucked as a young man, but being stronger than his partners,
he quickly established that his was the dominant role. His
memories were of something uncomfortable and

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unsatisfactory, and he had no wish to relive them. But what
Wyatt was doing was not, strictly speaking, uncomfortable.
Strange, unwelcome, but it didn't hurt—except his pride. And
the soldier was soon demonstrating his skill at kissing again,
making Nick arch up against him as his cock hardened and
called for attention, and incidentally making it easier to
manipulate the finger which remained moving gently inside
him. During the next kiss, the finger was withdrawn, only to
be reinserted a moment later, slick with added liquid, and
accompanied by its nearest fellow.

The two fingers made Nick draw in a sharp breath, but

Wyatt murmured, "Come on, you can take this," and then
thrust his tongue into Nick's ear. The gesture was so
unexpected that he gasped again, and when Wyatt took the
smith's earlobe between his teeth and bit gently down on it,
he felt his hard length pressing up against the soldier's body
in good earnest. Now Wyatt was sucking where he had bitten,
and the two fingers within him were stretching him expertly,
twisting within him whilst one knee nudged his thighs further
apart. Then a bolt of pleasure went through him like a bow-
shot, so intense that the gasp he gave was almost a cry. He
blinked up at Wyatt, his senses humming with the residue of
pleasure, and the soldier grinned at him.

"Good? It can be better than that."
Nick was still struggling to understand how it had been

done. The gypsy, he recollected, had tried to explain about
this phenomenon, but Nick had not understood what he had
been saying, and to be truthful, had not really tried. If both
parties achieved fulfillment, then that was surely all that

Bend Over Big Boy

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mattered? But Wyatt was obviously a more skilled and
considerate lover, putting Nick to shame. He found himself
thinking, If I had been inside him, I could not have done that.

Then all such self-doubts were driven from his mind by the

movement of Wyatt's fingers, producing the same
excitement, which, this time, left him trembling beneath the
other man. "I think you're ready," Wyatt told him softly.

Whether he was ready or not, he could not have said, but

he knew that the withdrawal of the fingers from within him
left him with a palpable sense of loss and the intense desire
for their return. Wyatt, sliding on top of him, took hold of one
of Nick's thighs and hitched it up to rest against his hip,
easing himself between the other man's legs and then letting
his full weight rest on Nick for a moment. The smith wanted
to thrust up against him, to demand that something replace
the intimate caress that he was desperate for, but he found
himself pinioned securely beneath the soldier's body. Held
there, unable to move, his only thought was how good it felt.

Wyatt reached out over Nick's head, and—not without

some difficulty—undid the sash. Impatiently, Nick flexed his
arms, then pulled the other man down on him in a fierce grip.
They kissed again, and Nick reached for his own cock, bent on
obtaining some release, but Wyatt's hand was there first. "Let
me," the soldier ordered.

His hand closed round Nick's hardness and, at the same

time, his own slicked length nudged at the smith's entrance.
If this was what it took to regain that pleasure, then Nick was
happy to comply. He pushed hard onto the questing head,
and Wyatt told him, "Gently now," before pressing slowly into

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

him. It hurt, though not as much as he had feared it would,
then the pain eased and pleasure began to take over, partly
from the motion of Wyatt's hand around his cock and partly
from the friction within him as the soldier made his way in.
Then there was that sudden excess of pleasure, sweeping all
before it, and his whole world became comprised of what
Wyatt was doing within him, and how long he could last
without coming.

Now, for the first time, the soldier was showing signs of

arousal, sinking into Nick, carefully at first and then with
greater passion and less control. Nick could feel the hard
muscles of Wyatt's back under his hands; he anchored
himself to the other man's body and gave himself up to the
invasion. He no longer cared that Wyatt was taking him, or
that his pride was injured by his own submission. He wanted
that hard cock within him, ruthlessly seeking out satisfaction
and giving it in equal measure. He was panting now and so
was Wyatt, his breath hot on Nick's chest and shoulders as he
drove in. The soldier's free arm was under Nick's back,
supporting them both, and one jerk of his hips completed the
penetration. Deep within him, Wyatt moved with practiced
skill, until every part of the smith's body was on fire with
longing and desire. He clamped his thighs around Wyatt's
muscular waist and bucked up, and ecstasy exploded within
him like cannon-fire. He groaned aloud and spilled into
Wyatt's hand, his cock twitching with the effort to deliver its
load.

As he fell back limply, the soldier gathered him up and

drove into him again and again, while he shuddered and

Bend Over Big Boy

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panted. Then with a cry of his own, Wyatt filled Nick with
warm wetness until the smith felt it running out down his arse
and thighs. Panting still, Wyatt lowered himself onto the body
beneath him, pinioning Nick once more. The smith, still
quivering with the residue of his climax, rubbed against him
until the last vestiges of sensation had left them both.

Then Wyatt withdrew from him and rolled over with a

satisfied sigh. "You took that like a man," he said
breathlessly.

"I didn't have much choice." By rights, he should be

exacting retribution for the indignities he had suffered, but
somehow, it was easier to lie there and let his body recover.

Wyatt stretched an arm across the smith's chest and

stroked the hard muscles of his arm appreciatively.
"Sometimes having someone else take the mastery is a good
thing. You have a fine body, Nicholas Makepeace. There's
nothing that can compete with the feel of a real man under
you..."

Nick grunted, not dignifying this with an answer.
"Ah, a man of few words. I like that."
"You seem well able to make up for my deficit." He

yawned, allowing Wyatt to caress him, feeling both the sun
and the other man's touch on his skin.

After a while, the soldier said reluctantly, "I have to travel

on to Worcester."

"To get yourself killed in a lost cause?" Then, before Wyatt

could answer, "Share my supper, if you like. It's only bread
and cheese but there's plenty of it. It's probably better than
army rations."

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He felt rather than saw the blue eyes on him. "You're

prepared to break bread with me?"

Nick shrugged. He was going to ignore the comment,

touching as it did on issues that he was not yet ready to deal
with, but honesty compelled him to say, "Why not?" He ought
to have added: you are a skilled lover and I'd let you take me
again, but he suspected that Wyatt knew that anyway.

They ate at the rough table in the other room, sharing

wine from a flask Wyatt produced from his saddlebags. The
sun was on its downward course toward the horizon when the
soldier at length led out his horse from the forge and
tightened his girth. "Will there be fighting at Worcester?" Nick
asked, bending to examine the shoe he had put on, and
feeling a twinge of soreness as he did so.

"Probably. Charles has not made himself popular by

bringing the Scots in. Cromwell wants a confrontation, and
Worcester is as good a place as any." He turned to Nick. "I
wish you a prosperous summer. May that proud neck never
bend to anyone—except possibly myself, if I should ever
chance this way again."

"Be sure you'll not find things quite so easy if you ever

do," Nick warned, but he found himself thinking that a
repetition of what had passed between them would not be
unwelcome. He closed his hand around Wyatt's forearm for a
moment, then stepped back and watched him mount his
steed. For a long moment their eyes met, then Wyatt raised a
hand in farewell and touched his heels to the horse's sides.
When he was out of sight on the road to Worcester, Nick
turned and went back inside the forge.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

* * * *

In early September, the leaves began to change color and

Nick watched fugitives from the battle of Worcester making
their way along the dusty roads. He looked for John Wyatt but
did not find him, and tried to persuade himself that he was
neither disappointed nor worried. Ten days after the battle,
he looked up from the forge where he was mending a scythe
blade, and saw a familiar figure leaning against the door
frame.

Wyatt looked travel-stained and weary, his coat hanging

loosely around his shoulders, and a recently-healed scar
across one cheek. His eyes looked bruised, as though he had
spent a great deal of time looking at things he would rather
not have seen.

Nick straightened and said, "I wondered if you'd come

back this way."

"One road is as good as another from the field of defeat,"

Wyatt replied. He looked almost too tired to stand without the
help of the door frame.

Nick put down the scythe and hung up his hammer. "Come

in," he told the other man, and led the way through into the
cottage. Once there, he pulled out a stool for his guest and
reached for the pot of soup that was hanging over the fire,
waiting for his supper. He poured some of this into a bowl and
set it before Wyatt, together with a hunk of bread and a cup
of ale. The soldier nodded his thanks wearily and began to
eat.

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"Are you off to France after King Charles?" Nick asked,

wondering when Wyatt had last tasted food.

The soldier shook his head. "No money. And no inclination,

I'm sorry to say."

"You were captured?"
"Parliament relieved me of everything I own but was

gracious enough to leave me my life. I was luckier than
some." He sounded bitter and disillusioned, a far cry from the
confident officer who had ridden in a month ago.

Nick waited quietly until Wyatt had finished the soup and

bread, and drunk half the ale. He washed the bowl and spoon,
then sat down again. "So where were you going?"

Wyatt looked at the floor. "I was told to go and earn

myself an honest living. For some reason, I thought of
blacksmithing."

Nick was surprised, but not as surprised as he should have

been. It was true that he had considered taking an
apprentice, but had thought more in terms of some compliant
young man with more muscle than brain, who'd do as he was
told without arguing. He had a feeling Wyatt would be a very
different proposition. "It takes seven years to learn to shoe a
horse," he pointed out mildly.

"That's why I'll leave the farriery to you, but even a dolt

like me can surely hammer hot metal into shape. There must
be plenty of swords at the moment that need to be beaten
into ploughshares."

In his mind's eye, Nick saw Wyatt stripped to the waist,

bending over the anvil and wielding a hammer. He tried not
to let this affect his judgment. He could feel Wyatt's eyes on

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him, and after a moment the other man went on, "Maybe I'm
presuming too much on our brief acquaintance? I'm well
aware that I've no right to ask."

He sounded hopeful but diffident, unsure of himself for the

first time since Nick had met him. The smith allowed himself a
faint smile. "You won't last a week," he stated.

Wyatt smiled back. "Maybe not. Try me."
"In the forge, I am the master."
The smile widened. "And in bed?"
"You won't catch me by surprise again."
"No." Wyatt's expression changed to rueful. "I'm resigned

to spending some time on my back. But not necessarily all
the time."

Well, that sounded fair enough. This might work, and it

might not; time would tell. He stood up and said, "You need
some rest. You know where the bed is."

As he turned to go back to his work, Wyatt caught his arm.

"Thank you," he said simply, and Nick nodded acceptance. As
he blew up the fire again, he could hear Wyatt whistling in the
bedroom, and after a while, Nick found that he was whistling
too.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

RIDERS ON THE STORM

Eider Grey
It's February in Kentucky, and the watery gray roads smell

of mud (if you're lucky) and skunk (if you ain't).

If you're fast enough, though, the puddles don't matter,

and the stink won't stick to your leathers. If you're fast
enough, the dead trees on either side of the road turn into a
colorless blur, so that you could almost pretend the winter
was spent and gone at last.

Coyote rides plenty fast enough. His Triumph sounds like

Calamity itself, visited on these winding back roads, her
engine strained to the limit as he throttles out.

Half the gang thinks Coyote hails from warmer places, and

that's why he gets so edgy when the winter drags on too
long. Copperhead says he reeks of Arizona, maybe even
SoCal. Some place made of sun-baked deserts, wide flat
roads where you can see miles to every side. Copperhead's
never been there himself, of course, but who hasn't seen it on
TV?

Naturally Coyote's West Coast, says Donner. Can't you see

it in his fancy ponytail, in the cut of his leather jacket? No
Kentucky boy would flout those fine leather boots, not in this
mud. He's gotta be a California twenty-something; you know
the type. Wild-eyed, living too fast. You see them on TV, too.

The rest say Coyote wishes he were slick as all that; he's

just naturally twitchy. They're much more inclined to think he
rides because he's running. From the law, says Tuesday Blue.

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Jailbreak south of the state line, someplace in Tennessee.
Scout disagrees with a scoff, says Coyote's just on the run
from his girlfriend's daddy's shotgun.

Donner says: More like his boyfriend's. That gets a chuckle

all around.

Nobody'd tell Coyote to his face that he's pretty, but they

all know it's true. Not just the nice copper color to his sleek
ponytail, or the striking pale eyes set in that tan face. True
enough they're easy on the eyes! And has he got prettier lips
than Crystal Sue back home, Scout asks, to watch Tuesday
Blue's face get red. Comparative merits of the local girls
aside, they all agree that Coyote is hotter than he has any
damn right to be.

Of the whole club, Poet's the only one to keep his own

counsel on their newest member. He's not the type to waste
his voice on speculation. What Poet thinks of Coyote is his
own business, and nobody knows his mind. Much as they
might want to.

Nobody rightly knows just where Poet hails from, either, or

where he's headed. Scout says he lost that eye in Korea.
Tuesday Blue says it was a bad wreck when he returned. But
they don't talk about Poet much, truth be told. Doesn't seem
right. He's got a hell of a nickname for a biker, especially one
as tall and broad-shouldered as he is. You wouldn't blink if he
introduced himself as Crusher, or something like. But he's
just been Poet, for as long as anyone can remember.

It's easier to talk about Coyote, and the way that he takes

his corners, the way he leans into the curves of the road like
he's making love to the dirty pavement. Poet takes the lead,

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of course; he's been around the longest, earned his colors.
But Coyote rides second even though he's new, pushing his
speed against Poet's tail.

He's doing that now.
They're not lost, though rightfully only Poet knows the

names of these roads. The troupe is riding together, holding
tight formation like they're one long vehicle. Laying back the
miles, they're each of them craving sunshine and clean
pavement, mornings that don't herald more sleet, afternoons
that promise long sweet miles to go. But try as they might,
it's still February, and spring is long in coming this year.

Around sunset, they pull into the Stuckey's, the one at the

southern end of the hollow. It's a place where the back roads
follow old rivers and lead nowhere, where the trees are tall
and the roads are sunken with use, and the locals might be
friendly if they know you, but if you're a stranger then they
ain't.

Poet's Harley is a well-recognized sight in these parts, the

man's dark leathers and his silvered head. The place is near
empty; their six bikes rumbling up to the curb dominate the
parking lot. Their rides need gas, and Donner's grumbling
about motoring so long without supper. He'd have a hell of a
gut if he didn't work out; all the man thinks of is food.

"Hungry?" Tuesday Blue's parked next to Coyote, nodding

at the younger man. He knows the answer already, of course;
they all do. Coyote won't go inside if he can help it. But
Tuesday Blue's a good guy, and he asks every time.

Coyote's chaps are splashed with road mud and he cusses

at the mess he's made of his boots. He shakes his head.

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So they leave him standing in the parking lot, one hip

leaning against his still-warm bike. He lights a Marlboro with
more flame than necessary, holding down the switch on his
lighter to feel the fire react. It's pretty cold with night
descending, but Coyote doesn't notice.

He's thinking of Poet.
What switch to push to release the heat he wants, the

jumping blue flame that responds to his touch? Most things
just take a light pressure in the right place, but he hasn't
found it yet. Not for lack of trying. A year he's spent riding
behind, watching Poet's shoulders and his gauntlets flex as he
steers. Watching his backside in those jeans, framed so fine
in leather chaps. His thighs tightening on his mount with
every tight turn.

A year rebuffed from every angle, every frustration

doubling the burn. But he refuses to think that it's impossible.

The edge of the cig goes a little black with the fire, and his

tongue tastes the burning. He breathes it hungrily, eating the
smoke and holding its heat inside as long as he can stand it,
and then another beat more.

Not till it's smoked and done does he realize it's his last

cigarette. He swears again.

The door to the Stuckey's jangles with bells as he steps

inside. After standing out in the February chill, it's
uncomfortably warm in here, the air close and smothering.
Smells of hamburgers—Donner'll be happy.

"Coyote."
The sound of his name slides down his spine and it's hard

to breathe, hard to turn around and look Poet in the eye. But

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he has to; there's authority in that voice, and even if he
rankles at it, Coyote still knows his place.

"Didn't think to see you in here." Poet's in the aisle with

the cigarettes, too, looking but not touching. A box of Luckies
has his eye.

Coyote can't help the grin. "Thought you quit." Only he

would dare press that button; three aisles over, Copperhead
makes an incredulous sound under his breath.

But their road captain won't rise to the bait. "I did." There

might be a smile in his one good eye, but his mouth doesn't
twitch. "No harm to window shopping."

Coyote, who has never quit a vice and never claimed to,

shrugs. He looks at Poet through his eyelashes. "Sure, if
looking's good enough for you."

Maybe Poet knows that Coyote is trying to get to him;

maybe he doesn't care. Coyote palms a soft pack of
Marlboros, the old kind, unfiltered. His favorite. Even though
they're still in the plastic, he lifts the pack to his face,
breathing slow. He feels Poet watching him. Somewhere
beneath the convenience store staleness, there's the scent of
tobacco: sweet, smoky sin. Coyote licks his lips.

Poet swallows hard.
The temperature skyrockets, and Coyote thinks the ceiling

just got maybe two feet shorter. It's more than enough to get
him hard. Hell, he was already halfway there, just standing
outside thinking about the man's pants.

Poet's still looking at the shelf, though, like he's thinking of

buying a pack of smokes after all. Or like he's trying not to

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meet Coyote's eyes. His gloves are off, Coyote realizes; the
fingers trailing patterns in the dust are bare.

At that moment, a door opens behind Poet's back. It's

Scout, walking out of the little one-room bathroom.

Coyote weighs his options in the time it takes him to draw

two breaths. Not a lot of room in there; not a lot of light,
either. But on the other hand? He thinks of the dim and
cramped space, thinks of Poet's hands against the graffitied
wall. Thinks of his own hands shucking down that tight denim.
Thinks of Poet's knuckles scraping the plaster walls—thinks of
someone rattling the door handle right as Poet loses some of
that self-control.

It sets his teeth on edge, and makes his own jeans

uncomfortably tight. Coyote's mind is made up; he kicks
himself into gear like releasing the brake and adding full
throttle. If it gets him kicked out of the club, then he'll turn in
his colors. At least he'll have tried.

Nobody's looking, but honestly Coyote's beyond caring. He

shoves the Marlboros into his back pocket, and in the moment
that Poet opens his mouth to ask a question, Coyote
maneuvers both of them back into the little bathroom.

He's got Poet by the elbows, digging his fingers into the

leather jacket. Surprise is unfolding on the older man's face,
and it makes Coyote hungry. Something you didn't expect,
old man? I've got more up my sleeve, 'f you wanna see. He
moans deep in his throat; he can't help it. He's never been so
close to Poet, not alone, not enough to tell he smells of
gasoline and February rain, or to see the edge of the scar
peeking out from underneath his eyepatch.

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Surprise almost shifts to annoyance. Poet turns his face,

gives Coyote the unnerving sightless glare of his blind side.
He says, "What are you doing, k—"

Coyote hears it coming a mile away, Poet ready to call him

"kid." Maybe to pin his hands to his sides and give him a
talking-to, all tough. But he's got Poet's back to the wall, and
all he has to do is slide a thigh between Poet's legs, to get
him good and off balance.

Instead of "kid," Poet's breath stutters out as, "Coyote."
The word hitches against the back of his tongue, just so,

and his chin tips back so his head bumps the wall. It's like the
note his Harley makes when the engine kicks in, breathing
warm exhaust into the chilly day. Nobody else's bike sounds
quite like Poet's; nobody's voice sounds quite like Poet's. A
couple of decades of smoking unfiltered cigs of his own gives
his voice that raspy edge, no matter that he's quit them now.

Coyote leans closer, and it's not his imagination that Poet's

got a boner of his own, whether or not he meant to. It's just
like the moment when the bike heats up between Coyote's
thighs, that growl of the engine that sounds deep and low
from his boots to his belt buckle. He's so keyed up he can feel
his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He's got Poet against the door, their legs pressed hard

against each other, his hands up under his leathers and the
T-shirt beneath.

And Poet wants it.
Poet makes a low noise, not admitting surrender with his

voice, but with the angle of his back and the spread of his

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boots, the splay of his fingers against the wall. The long, slow
sound of a zipper baring its tiny hot teeth.

It's invitation enough. Coyote's fingers fumble at his own

fly, and skin against skin is even hotter when there's no fabric
in the way. Poet's cock juts from a nest of salt and pepper
curls, ruddy, more than ready. But it's not his dick that
Coyote wants.

Coyote punches the battered old dispenser twice; gets

three foil wrappers for his trouble. Two of them he crams in
his pocket, but the last one he opens with his teeth,
impatient.

It's crap, and he might've suspected as much from a

machine older than he is. But even though it's cheap, the
condom slides down over his dick nice and slick and snug.
Hell, yeah. Feels so damn good he forgets to be particular.

He nudges his cock against the southern end of Poet's

hollow, and finds a welcome far, far better than any pit-stop
Stuckey's.

Coyote drives himself in, and Poet takes it.
It's like riding so fast that the rain won't hit you. It's like

losing track of the miles, curve after curve, craving the
distance and the speed for their own sake. It's coming so fast
and hard that February doesn't matter, winter doesn't matter
anymore—

Poet has his own cock in his hands, working himself in time

with Coyote's desperate rhythm. His good eye is closed, and
he's saying Coyote's name through his teeth, again and
again.

Fuck if it doesn't sound like poetry.

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Coyote loses it, spilling himself hot and hard into that

welcoming heat.

* * * *

When Poet clicks open the restroom door, it can't have

been more than a few minutes. Donner's on his third
cheeseburger, and Scout and Tuesday Blue are arguing over
the price of gas. Poet straightens the strap on his eyepatch,
and only Coyote is close enough to hear that he's winded.
Coyote can't wipe the fool grin from his face.

Poet puts his hand in Coyote's back pocket, warm fingers

sliding against denim—and pulling out the packet of
Marlboros. "Don't forget to pay for these."

Coyote's air leaves him in a rush, and he scowls. After all

that, Poet's thinking of the goddamn cigarettes? But the look
that he fixes Coyote with isn't stern, it's ... something else.
Coyote wonders just who has gotten the better of whom,
here. "'Course," he lies. "Was just going to."

Back outside, he straddles his Triumph like he's mounting

a lover, a lover of steel and horsepower and chrome. He feels
like a million bucks.

When Poet's Harley stutters to life, the sound is so like his

own orgasm that Coyote laughs out loud. The other bikers
look at him like he's lost his marbles, but then again that's
nothing out of the ordinary. Tuesday Blue looks like he might
say something, but thinks better of it at the last minute. He
shakes his head, smiles.

It's time for speed. They rev out of the dilapidated parking

lot with a roar of departing engines.

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[Back to Table of Contents]

Bend Over Big Boy

by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

107

DRIVE

Jamie Booth
I.
I know him from the gym. Or, rather, from the bar next to

the gym. We've just come up with the plan when I think of
him; we're identifying the gaps and filling them in, when I
think of him and think he's perfect.

* * * *

I've never seen him with a woman, although really I've

never seen him drinking with anyone at all. Today he's sitting
at the bar undoing his daily dose of free weights with a pint of
wifebeater. He's hunched over his mobile phone, his hand
dwarfs it, his thumb working away on those tiny keys,
clickclickclick; it looks faintly ridiculous. I edge in next to him,
order the same as he's got. It's a while before he looks up
and seems to notice me.

"All right?"
I nod.
His eyes flick up to mine for the briefest second and he

nods in answer like he's barely even registered me. I can't tell
if there's any recognition there, like if he's noticed me
noticing him bench-pressing eighty, so I'm wondering if this is
really a good idea. But he's as good as anyone, I suppose.

I say, "I've seen you 'round, yeah?" I'm moving my pint

glass in circles on the bar top, can just hear the circle noise it
makes over the tinny sound of bad chart R&B coming from

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the speakers. I keep my eyes on it, round and round. Keep it
casual. He flips his phone shut then and looks at me properly.
Big, dumb metalhead with that straggling hair the color of
mice and a neck as thick as my thigh. Not my type, not at all;
he's got that air of casual violence about him like he could
snap you in half with his mind. His eyes, though, they're soft
and brown and amused and I can feel him looking me up and
down, and I can tell. Him staring like that, it makes the back
of my neck prickle, starts up this burn along my cheekbones.
I try and ignore it, push it down. I say, "I might have a
proposition for you, mate."

One corner of his mouth actually quirks up in an almost-

smile at that, his eyes crinkle at the corners before I realize
how bad I worded it; and me, the Brains as well. Never send
the Brains to do the Talk's job.

I say, "How'd you feel about making some cash? On the

quiet?" Digging myself in deeper, I realize; that mocking
smile widens just slightly, a hint of white teeth. He swivels
round on his stool to face me, legs apart, one elbow propped
on the bar, radiating the irritating confidence of the beautiful
not-too-bright. You don't have to be a rocket-scientist to put
a car in gear, though, right? Big, steady, obedient; that's
what we need, just like the Gun. I say, "You drive?" and his
eyes glitter, his grin wobbles, and I want to walk out, rewind
the afternoon and start over again. I look him levelly in the
eye, look, serious face, and to be fair he takes it in his stride
and cuts me some slack and says,

"Yeah. Got my Heavy Goods License an' all. What you

proposing, then?"

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This is when it suddenly strikes me that he's hot.
II.
I guess you think it's a bad idea, recruiting some guy I

hardly know for something like this? He could be anyone, why
should I trust him? It's better though, best not to have too
many ties or too much loyalty at stake, in case things take a
turn for the worse. I've smelled pot on him before now a few
times, drawn conclusions from the way he looks; enough to
know he's not going to be trouble even if he doesn't take the
job, not like he'll be running to turn us in. But he takes the
job. Sticking out his hand, palm flat, he says,

"I'm Sam."
We shake. "Jase." I say. This is before we've decided to

stop using our real names; now, we're the Brains, the Talk,
the Gun. Now he's the Driver.

He only comes to one planning meeting.
When he turns up, I can see it on the Talk's face; who the

fuck is this moron? But the Driver sits quiet, takes it all in,
looks like he's listening but doesn't say a word and you can
tell the Talk's pleased with this. For some reason, the fact
he's pleased makes me pleased in turn. Proud, like. Pleased
with myself for finding our fourth wheel, pleased with the
Driver for acting the part. I'm feeling quite ... what's the right
word? Proprietorial over my new recruit, like he's my protégé
or something. The Talk's referring to him as Brains' Boy with
this stupid smile on his face like he knows the score and even
though I can't stand the rat-faced dickhead half the time, that
still gives me a little glow. My boy, right? The Gun couldn't
give a shit either way—he'll go along with it, do what he's

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told, in and out and get some cash. He's the one who's
getting hold of the car but I don't even know the Gun's
surname.

III.
We're in suits. I've had a shave. The car arrives for us one

at a time and I'm last. The Talk's face is pinched, peering
through the side window, hands clenched on his briefcase
handle. The Driver leans over to fling open the passenger
door for me; he's got his hair tied back with an elastic band
and engineer boots on, heavy on the pedals. He's wearing
this black T-shirt for some fucking awful metal group, the
logo so bristling with spikes that it's unintelligible.

When we pull up outside, the Driver says,
"Three minutes." And opens the glove-box, pulls

something out. I can't believe it.

The Talk says,
"No. No fucking magazine." He snatches this heavy metal

mag from the Driver's hands. He's on edge, his eyes darting
everywhere. He says, "Concentrate, for Christ's sake."

It's too late in the day for this. We're off kilter as we go in.
...And as we come out. Early. Spill into the street with a

wailing of alarms. We forget who's sitting where, pile in and
I'm in the back, staring at the back of the Gun's ginger head.

"Go! Move!"
The Driver floors the clutch. His docile eyes are wide with

panic; his hands shake with adrenaline as he fumbles the
gears and the car stalls.

"Fucking move!"

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I guess a HGV license doesn't prepare you for this. We

leave twin stripes of black rubber as we wheel-spin out of the
avenue.

* * * *

They're not helping matters. There's pretty much a

constant stream of bad temper back and forth between the
Gun and the Talk, most of it aimed at the Driver. They're
blaming him for the mess, for being behind schedule, for
stalling the car. They carry on, elaborating on this fantasy of
everything falling down—we'll get caught and it's the Driver's
fault, prison, and it's the Driver's fault; they're not helping at
all. I can see his hands on the wheel and they're still shaking.
Being big, bravado, the strong silent type—it's no indication
of whether you'll go to pieces in a crisis. I know that now,
right? I should say something to calm it down, shut them all
up, defuse things, like. But I'm damned if I'm going to
redirect their bitching at me instead.

Sudden, he slams his foot down on the brake, emergency

stops right there in the street, sending me and the Talk nose-
diving into the back of the front seats. The Talk erupts this
immediate torrent of abuse, blood spouting from his nose
down his white shirt front. The Gun just turns and punches
the Driver, hard, in the side of the head. The Driver's eyes roll
back for a second and he reels, shakes his head like a cartoon
character, gathering himself to retaliate. The Gun rabbit-
punches him, twice, three times. Cracks him square in the
temple—I cringe, that soft spot—and he slumps forward over
the wheel, out of it.

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"Roll him out. Quick."
"No, wait," the Talk says, "If we leave him, they'll pick him

up and he'll talk."

I say, "So what? He doesn't know anything. He doesn't

even know your names, only knows my first name. Leave
him," Leave him out of it, "he'll slow us down."

"He'll give descriptions. Put him in the back." the Talk

says, "Move it!"

All of this in about thirty seconds. He's heavy as we heft

him onto the back seat. I slam the driver door closed and
think I should've driven to start.

IV.
"What the fuck was that?" the Talk says, pacing. The

Driver still looks dazed, slipping sideways on a plastic chair.
"What are you, undercover police?"

"No, nothing like that." His voice rasps, sounds dry,

whispers around the bare walls. Everything echoes in here;
an office that's between occupants, anonymous and out-of-
the-way. The Talk arranged it. Low rent, no questions asked.
Or answered. There's one corporate-issue desk covered in
chipped wood-look Formica. No carpet. The plastic chairs look
artificially orange under the fluorescent strip-lighting.
Everyone looks pale, and hunted. The Driver looks the palest.

"So what the hell—" The Talk punctuates it with a smack

around the back of the Driver's head and the big guy flinches,
more out of irritation than actual pain. "—was that back
there, then?"

I'm leaning against the wall, chewing on my lip, praying

the Driver doesn't get chippy, that he doesn't try and get up

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or fight back no matter how pathetic the Talk's' girly little
slaps are. But he's not stupid, he knows the Gun's sitting
there behind him, out of his line of vision. I'm trying to avoid
his eyes because I really don't want to get involved in this, I
don't even want to be here any more, but then of course I
have to look up. And he's staring at me, questioning. I lift one
shoulder, just shrug, barely. I don't know.

"I don't know," he says quietly.
"You don't know?" The Talk's voice is going high and silly.

If this was a gangster film I'd be ripping the piss out of it by
now. The Talk smacks him again and he frowns and ducks
away from the blow. It's like watching a mosquito annoy a
lion or something; I have this hysterical urge to laugh.

The Driver says, "I don't—I mean, I just ... panicked,

yeah? I'm sorry. I didn't realize..." He doesn't look scared,
like. He doesn't even look that bothered. I watch him through
my eyelashes and think, he doesn't know what he's dealing
with; he really is that naïve. He looks like some kid who's
been called to the headmaster's office: unrepentant, bored
and eager to give the insincerely correct answers that will
give him the quickest access to freedom.

The Talk turns his back. He struts away across the office

and kicks a leg of the desk, hard. He keeps kicking and
kicking and laying into this tin waste-paper bin too,
hammering it around the bare concrete of the floor so the
hollow metal echoes build and multiply, until it lands with a
clang in a corner, its gray enamel paint all over silver-edged
dents. The Driver watches him with detached interest; I can't
tell what he's thinking. He could be planning some genius way

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out of the situation or deciding what he'll have for his dinner,
for all it shows on his face. I stop slouching against the wall,
stand up straight, avoid their eyes. I'm getting a really bad
feeling about this.

* * * *

"Steve."
The Gun jumps, visibly, when he hears his name

mentioned. It's been so long since we used names. The Talk
says, "Get here." And the Gun hoists himself up and walks
behind the orange plastic chair. His hair in the sickly light is
orange too, bristling. He runs a hand through it. The Talk
says, "He needs sorting out."

"Hey, come on now..." It's my own voice. When they all

turn to look at me, even the Driver, I wish I'd shut up.
"There's no need. I mean." I'm keeping the shake out of my
tone. I'm doing it well. "Nobody knows where we are. Nobody
knows who we are. We switched the cars fine—so what if they
pull some DNA or whatever from the first one if there's even
anything left of it, we've got no previous, we're not on
record." I stop, take a breath. "We had our faces covered
inside. None of us are so interesting that they'll get us just off
witness descriptions."

The Gun snorts a little laugh at that, but I can see the Talk

glaring evils at the Driver, thinking except him, the liability.
And who brought him into the camp, eh? I say, "So no need
for any heavy stuff." The Gun looks a bit disappointed. But
the Driver is looking at me like I'm his knight in shining armor

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or something, so much I can feel my face start to burn again
and I have to look away.

"Is there fuck no need."
I know it, the Talk wants to see some blood, as in some

blood that's not his own. He's a vengeful little prick and no
mistake. He twists his fingers into the Driver's hair, yanks his
head back roughly and you can tell that does hurt him, his
teeth bared in annoyance—I can almost feel it, a staccato of
hairs ripping free from his scalp. The Talk nods at the Gun.
"Sort him out."

He lets go of the Driver's hair and takes a step back, and

next second the Driver's head snaps smartly back, quick as a
whip. His chin lolls against his chest as he gasps for breath.
The Gun smacks him again, so fast I barely register it, just
stare in horror, paralyzed, thinking say something, say
something. A cut's opened along the Driver's eye socket,
glistening red like a split pomegranate. His t-shirt's ridden up
and I notice, in sharp focus, a vein standing out just under
the soft, furred skin of his taut belly. There's panic in his
eyes. I'm starting to, really inappropriately, feel turned-on.

Then he says,
"Wait. Stop. I'll play."
V.
He's looking at me when he says that, like he expects me

to save him from something. And no mistake, he's a big lad,
he could take a beating and get back up smiling, but this is
nails-in-baseball-bat territory. This is might-not-wake-up-
again territory. The Gun makes to hit him again, but the Talk
is interested and halts him with a raised hand. Watch.

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* * * *

Shakily, the Driver slides off his chair and onto his knees,

keeping his head bent down low. It's an unmistakably
submissive gesture and it looks so weird on a man of his size.
The Talk can't take his eyes off him; he's fascinated. It's me
the Driver's looking at the whole time. He licks his lips,
maybe nervous, maybe something else, maybe a little of
both, and my cock twitches. Perhaps he was planning some
genius way out of this situation, after all. I say,

"Ah, come on..." I try a little laugh, but my throat's closed

up and it won't even come out.

When I look at the Talk, he's wearing this evil little smile

like he's just had a brilliant idea what he's really into. He
says,

"Go on, Jase. Your call. You'll enjoy it."
I hate him. I hate that he's right. I hate that he's finding

this so funny, thinking he's punishing both of us at the same
time and getting his kicks to boot. Part of me knows I should
say, fuck you. Fuck you all, I don't owe you this. Walk out of
the door and not look back and leave them to take it out on
the incompetent prick any way they like—the second he
stuffed up, he's no longer my responsibility. Part of me, the
blood's starting to pound. The Driver's trying to keep his head
down and look scared but I catch his eye and it's pure lust. It
really is just some adventure to him. Just go with it? I want
him, I can't help it. Kneeling down like that, his face is level
with my crotch. I hold him by the hair too, but a handful at
the back where it won't hurt too much. Not too much. I haul

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him to his feet; I'm not a small guy by any means but he's
almost a head taller than me and standing this close, it makes
me feel stupid. How dare he not be scared, the stupid
bastard. A little fuse of anger flares inside me and I push him,
stumbling, toward the desk.

VI.
He shakes like a racehorse, all that pent-up energy. Any

other circumstance and I guess he'd have me by the throat,
flipped and pinned easily. But right now with two guys
standing by looking for revenge, ready to kick the shit out of
him if he makes a break for it; well, he's in a bind. The
thought of it has me hard as hell.

One hand on the back on his neck, I press his head down,

face mashed sideways against the fake wooden desktop. His
hands splay palms flat, either side of his head, bracing
himself.

I hear the Gun say,
"This is bullshit."
And I hear the door slam as he leaves, but I can't take my

eyes off the Driver's arse. It's enough to make me able to
forget the Talk's even still in the room. I bend down over
him—the height thing isn't noticeable now, is it, big guy? No,
not so tough now. I'm getting into this. I move up against
him, make sure he can feel how hard I am, pressed up
against his tight backside. From here I see the side of his face
in disgusting, thrilling close-up: stubble and open pores and
the regimental stripe of one sideburn. My voice buzzes
moistly against his ear as I whisper it,

"Spread your legs."

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I feel him shudder down the whole length of my body. He

shuffles his feet apart, moving with difficulty because I'm
weighing down on him, like. Reaching around, I tug open his
belt buckle and wriggle his combats down, bunched up with
his shorts. My hand brushes his hard-on, thick and wet
against my palm, and he jerks back against me involuntarily.

When I sink two fingers inside him, he bleats a tiny noise

that sounds like surrender. My useless recruit; how well do
you perform away from a car? I add another finger, twist. I
scissor them brutally wide. He's tight, really tight. It crosses
my mind he might not have taken it before—yeah, all right,
it's unlikely. It's just my fantasy. Look at him; I can't see his
face, just the notches of his spine where his shirt's pushed up
and he's bending right forward, how the material of his shirt's
pulled taut across his big shoulders and I still can't read
whatever that ridiculous band name is. He's so used to
fucking, so unaccustomed to being fucked. I work my fingers
right in, right out, slowly. He works his cock against the
smooth veneer of the desktop, and I choose to let him.

I'm rubbing myself up and down the furred crack of his

arse, getting him wet, making sure he knows what he's in for
and how big. I line up the head of my cock and ease it
relentlessly in, as he exhales a keening whine and clenches
around me. And I take it slow; I want to enjoy this. His
shoulders are stiff with the effort of trying to relax. I bend
right over him, just working my hips, moving just slightly
inside him. From here I can hear him gritting his teeth.
Beneath my fingertips I can feel the sweat breaking out on
his skin, can smell it, can hear his ragged breathing. I stand

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up, lean back, moving just slightly, just slightly. As he gets a
little more accustomed, he begins, clumsily to push back
against me. I lean over him again, then, grip his hips and
start to pound, the sound of skin on skin punctuating the
empty-building silence.

* * * *

I come, in stutters, my mouth full of his dry hair. Across

the room, the Talk stands up, abruptly, with a rude scrape of
chair legs across the floor. He nods, that's that, then, and
walks out of the room. When I hear the door bang I feel like I
can exhale for the first time in like, an hour. The tension's
suddenly replaced by this weird wave of almost ... euphoria.
Leaning close over the Driver, I say, "You got off lightly." I'm
still catching my breath.

From his position, still bent over the desk, I hear his

whispered reply,

"Next time."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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IN THE HOLE

CB Potts
"Do you ever think about it?" Mark asked, voice dropped

low enough so he could only be heard by every living soul in a
five mile radius. "All that tail, in there, behind bars, can't get
away?"

Grant rolled his eyes. "No. Don't be stupid. I'm not gonna

look at a fuckin' inmate like that."

"I thought that was the fantasy, man." Mark was way deep

into his beer at this point, a sloppy reminder of why Grant
seldom, unlike his fellow Correction Officers, stopped at the
Ninth Ward after work for a cold one. "Cages full of men who
ain't never gonna get laid the regular way, all willing to do
anything for a blow job."

"Man, you're sick." Grant dropped a couple bucks on the

bar and stood up. "'Sides which, I'm not all that homely. I
don't need no date that lives in a cage."

"But that's where Mark finds all his dates," Patty, the

bartender, scooped up the bills with a smile. "Down at the
kennels at the SPCA."

"Very funny." Mark took another pull on his beer. "Why

would I go way the hell down there for a bitch when you're
already here?"

Grant laughed, and made a point of getting out of the bar

before Patty hurled her reply.

* * * *

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"You're home late," Rusty said, looking up from the

morning paper. "Any bullshit?"

"Nah." Grant grinned. It still tickled him to come home and

find Rusty there, even though the wiry guard had long since
recovered from a nasty go-round with an out-of-control
inmate. "At least, nothing unusual."

Rusty raised an eyebrow, so Grant continued. "Mark

wanted me to stop by the Ninth with him, have a beer." Grant
shrugged. "Sometimes you gotta, you know?"

Maintaining a good relationship with one's colleagues—the

men who might, at a moment's notice, literally have to save
your ass—is a critical part of a CO's life. Hurt feelings,
suspicions—any little emotional rift—can slow response times,
just enough, when you need it the most.

"I know," Rusty said. "He is an ass, though."
"Agreed." Blueberry muffins generally aren't considered

ideal for after-beer consumption, but Grant managed to
devour one just the same. "He was on about it again, too."

"'Bout what?"
"Me being gay." While it hadn't been a secret, Grant never

made an issue out of being out at work. It wasn't the type of
thing you wanted inmates to know—and frankly, Grant could
have lived without Mark knowing, as well.

Rusty's eyes narrowed. "What did he say?"
"Nothing much. Did I like the idea of having all the guys in

cages, that kind of shit."

Rusty snorted. "Typical."
"Yeah."
"You didn't tell him the truth, did you?"

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Grant looked up to find Rusty's bright eyes staring directly

at him. "What do you mean?"

"That you got no business checking out convict cock,"

Rusty said, folding his arms over his chest. "Considering you'd
rather be in the cage than guarding it."

Even now, after everything, Grant could still blush. "I don't

know what you mean."

"I don't know what you mean, Sir." Rusty's voice dropped

a notch, into a more authoritative register.

Grant's cock twitched in response, untouched.
Untouched. Not unnoticed.
"Isn't that what you meant to say?" Rusty asked.
"Yes, Sir." Grant replied, a little convict attitude coming

quickly to his tongue. "I'm sure that was what I meant to say
... Sir."

"Enough bullshit." Rusty stood up, the stride and bearing

all CO, despite the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing. "Turn
out."

"Man," Grant whined, although his fingers dropped to his

uniform buttons fast enough. "You pigs always making us
turn out. Gets you off, I bet, having us strip down all the
time."

"Enough lip." Grant's uniform was on the floor already,

white T-shirt stark and bright against the Empire blue. "I
don't have all day here."

"Pushy motherfucker." Pants shed, Grant stood before

Rusty clad only in white socks and underwear. "This do for
you, Sir?"

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"Not hardly." Rusty's gaze fell on Grant's briefs. "Who

knows what you're hiding in there? Take 'em off."

"I want my lawyer." Grant slouched, shoulders hunched

forward, doing his best to look the part of an inmate. "You
can't make me do that."

"You want the hole?" Rusty stepped closer, until he was

almost nose to nose with Grant. "Do you know how much it'll
bother me to throw your ass in Ad Seg, boy?"

Sweat broke out on Grant's forehead, a fine sheen of need.
"Not a bit, Sir."
It was not a question, but Rusty answered anyway.
"That's right. So get out of them damn drawers, and do it

now."

Grant was hard already. There was no denying it—not

when he had to stretch the elastic waistband way the hell out
to maneuver around his swollen cock. His briefs fell around
his ankles, kicked, almost as an afterthought, to join the rest
of his discarded uniform.

"I'm gonna assume," Rusty said, "that you weren't dumb

enough to hide anything in your socks. So you can keep them
on." He grinned, just for a second, before adding, "'Sides, the
floors are cold."

"Thank you, Sir."
"Still," Randy replied, "I've got to check you over. Feet

apart, hands together."

Grant assumed the position.
Rusty's fingertips were featherlight at his temples. "I really

should have gloves. Who the hell knows what you've gotten
hidden in here?" His fingers slid, authoritatively, firmly,

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through Grant's hair. This was clearly not a caress. It was a
search, pushing through brushy locks for the concealed bit of
wire or sharpened melted plastic, as hard as and deadly as
steel.

That knowledge didn't stop Grant from moaning a little and

leaning into Rusty's hands.

"You little whore," Rusty whispered. "You wouldn't last a

day inside, would you? First guard who touched you would
know how easy you are."

Grant grinned. "Only if he was you."
"Hmmph." Rusty let his fingers traced round Grant's ears,

tugging once at the lobes. "Only if he was you, Sir." His hands
slid down the length of Grant's neck and over bulging
shoulders. "Don't think you can sweet talk me out of this
search, boy. I know you're holding." Cruel fingers closed
round Grant's nipples. "I've just got to find it."

"I don't got nothing." Surly.
Rusty laughed. "Like I'm gonna believe that." He pulled on

Grant's nipples, strong and steady, stretching the tender flesh
until Grant was forced to take a half step forward.

A shoulder in the sternum was his reward, putting him

down on the kitchen floor hard. His legs sprawled out in front
of him, one foot nearly touching the front of the refrigerator.
The tile was cold against his ass, but not nearly as cold as the
look in Rusty's eyes.

"Did I tell you you could move, boy?"
"No, Sir, you didn't." Grant's cock was so hard it was

wrecking his hearing. His head was full of pounding need,
need, need, clouding his vision.

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"Roll over," Rusty barked.
"Here?" Grant looked around the kitchen. There was barely

enough space to flatten out—his shoulders were nearly as
broad as the distance separating the refrigerator door from
the breakfast island. "You gotta be kidding."

He never saw the slap coming, lightning quick pain

flattening itself against his cheek with a loud crack.

"I said get down!"
Cheek flaming, Grant stared at Rusty. He had a hundred

pounds on his lover, easy. All he'd have to do is stand up, and
this little game of pretend could be over.

More than over. He could chuck the cocky little bastard

under his arm and throw him out in the yard. It wouldn't take
nothing. Rusty had skills, to be sure, but Grant had
experience to spare.

Still, it would mean the end of the scene. Not only the

scene, but his relationship with Rusty. While Rusty might not
be everything he wanted, Grant thought, it was the closest he
was ever going to get.

"Yes, Sir."
Gods, the tile was cold. Frigid against his bare stomach,

torture on his nipples. And his cock? His achingly hard cock?
Trapped between an unyielding icy floor and the weight of too
many cheeseburgers, it had no where to go and nothing to
do.

It was awesome.
Rusty apparently thought so too, striding over to peer

down at Grant. "When the hell are you going to learn to
listen?" he asked, kicking Grant's legs apart, none too gently.

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"I don't know, Sir."
Rusty sighed. "We'll keep working on it till you do, boy."

He bent over and picked up Grant's discarded uniform pants.
They jingled in his hands, half a dozen keys and carabineers
hanging from the thick leather belt still trapped within the
navy polyester loops.

Rusty took no notice of any of that, opting instead for a

thin white plastic strip tucked innocuously around the largest
key ring.

"You're lucky Sarge didn't see this," he commented, tone

almost neutral. "One of the boys snatched this off of you, it
could be an issue."

Grant said nothing.
"Hands behind the back," Rusty snapped, falling back into

guard mode. "Now, boy!"

Grant near to dislocated his shoulders, bringing his beefy

fists together in the small of his back.

Rusty looped the small plastic strip round Grant's fists,

pulling the zip tie tight. There was no way Grant was getting
out of them until Rusty cut it off. He was trapped.

Simple and effective, inmates had been trying for years to

work their way out of the zip tie handcuffs. You couldn't break
them, you couldn't chew them, you couldn't even, with the
help of a friendly cellie, melt them off.

All of that was doubly true when your hands were secured

behind your back, difficult to see, much less work on.

Not difficult to feel, though. Grant could already feel the

dull ache in his arms, biceps stretching out to accommodate
the unusual pose.

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"Tight enough, Sir?" he spat out. "Or are you trying to cut

off my circulation, give me gangrene or some shit?"

"We still got attitude, eh?" Rusty bent over, grabbed

Grant's cuffed fists, and pulled upward. "Why don't you get on
your feet and we'll see if we can't do something about that?"

Rising from a prone position is difficult. Rising without

using your hands, in response to tremendous force jerking
you up and backward, isn't any easier.

And when Rusty planted a foot in the back of one

awkwardly bent knee and pushed just enough, Grant went
sprawling flat on his face.

"I thought I said get up, boy!"
"Motherfucker!" Grant pulled his knees under his stomach,

gaining a moment's worth of balance before trying to rise
again. "You pigs're all dirty motherfuckers!"

"Really?" Rusty dropped one hand to Grant's exposed ass,

pushing the cheeks apart. "I wouldn't say I'm the dirty one
here, boy."

Grant froze, feeling the cool air invading space normally

kept body-heat warm. A blush rose in his cheeks, the scarlet
heat of humiliation warming him.

Warming him, and sending a fresh jolt of blood right to his

cock.

"You think I like that?" Rusty asked. "Looking at your

skanky convict ass?"

Grant said nothing.
Rusty responding with a stinging swat to Grant's rump.

"That was not a rhetorical question, boy."

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Grant struggled to his feet. "Yes, Sir. I do think you like

looking at my skanky convict ass." He turned his head to
stare over his shoulder at Rusty, who still had a firm hold of
the zip tie cuffs. "I think you like it a lot."

Rusty laughed. "Think pretty well of yourself, don't ya?" A

twist of the arm, and Grant suddenly felt the need to walk
forward through the kitchen. "Let's see how you do after
some time in the hole, boy."

Grant's bedroom wasn't particularly ornate. Hardwood

floors, a double bed, a dresser with a mirror on it. Sparse.
The type of room a bachelor kept, if he tended toward the
obsessive-compulsive, and couldn't stand clutter.

Which is why the sight of a pile of clothes, still all on

hangers, surprised him so much. Slumped in front of the
room's lone window, it looked as if all of the contents of his
closet had tried to make a break for it, escaping to the great
backyard of freedom—the whole jail break failing when
confronted with the glass pane of reality blocking their
progress.

"What the hell?" he asked, the words flying out of his

mouth faster than thought.

"Shut up," Rusty snapped. "You're in a mess of trouble as

it is, boy. Don't make it worse for yourself."

"I don't see how that could happen," Grant snapped back.

"I know the way you pigs think. This is the worst you got for
me."

"Really?" A vicious shove, and Grant found himself

sprawled across the bed. "You have no idea, boy."

Grant shivered. Rusty clearly had plans.

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Of course, he took his time sharing what those plans might

be, taking his sweet ass time running both hands over the
back of Grant's splayed legs, cupping Grant's bum before
sliding up over his back.

"You're asking for time in the hole, and time in the hole is

what you're going to get," Rusty said. "Maybe an hour. Maybe
more. Whatever you need to get that smart mouth of yours
under control."

"An hour? What's an hour?"
Rusty laughed. "It might just be the longest hour of your

life, boy." His voice shifted somewhat, then, from guard mode
to the more familiar lover's tone. "Your safe word is Red
Light. It gets to be too much, you tell me Red Light.
Understood?"

"Yeah," Grant said, mind racing. What exactly was Rusty

up to that he needed a safe word? They'd never played with
one before. "Red Light." His cock was pounding, curiosity as
much an aphrodisiac as contact. "Sir."

"Good boy." Rusty walked to the dresser, opened a

drawer. "I did some shopping the other day, you know." His
footsteps echoed in the room as he returned to the bed, the
only sound save Grant's breathing. "So you wouldn't be bored
while you're in the hole."

A finger, slick with lube, slid between Grant's cheeks,

brushing the wrinkled surface of his pucker.

"Shopping for what, Sir?" Grant asked, softly.
"None of your business, boy." The finger started pushing

in, slowly, an inch at a time. "Convicts don't get to ask no
questions."

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"You can't do this!" Grant protested, starting to rock his

hips from side to side. "It's against the law."

Rusty laughed. "Who's going to stop me?" Another finger

slid in beside the first, none too gently. "You're just some
mouthy inmate with an attitude problem. Nobody cares what
happens to you."

Grant moaned.
"That's better, boy." Rusty started moving his fingers a

little faster. "That's the type of sound I want to hear out of
you. That's what that mouth is for."

"Oh, really?" Grant lifted his head to look back at Rusty.

"Is that what it's for?"

Rusty smiled. "You just couldn't keep quiet, could you?

God knows you don't have the sense He gave a goose." He
pulled his fingers out, with a slick, sodden pop. "That's why
you're going to the hole, boy. Straighten your ass out."

"I don't think that's possible." Grant smiled. He liked this,

the comfortable give and take with Rusty.

"We'll see." Rusty held up a butt plug, thick and flared and

obscenely pink. "If I can't do it, it's not gonna be from lack of
trying."

Grant's eyes went wide. That plug was huge! "That's never

gonna fit," he said, fighting off the urge to scramble off the
bed and run. "Sir."

"We'll see." Rusty cocked his head. "What's your safe

word?"

"Red Light," Grant responded. "Sir."
"That's what I want to hear," Rusty said, "if this turns out

to be more than you can bear." He raised a finger. "Not if it

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hurts, not if it's uncomfortable. You are being punished, you
realize. I want you to feel it. I want you to think about the
consequences of your attitude."

Grant swallowed. "Yes, Sir." He let his head fall flat on the

bed, burying his face in the blanket.

He'd clearly told Rusty too much about his fantasies, about

his need to be punished, to be held accountable for all the
things he'd thought but could never say.

Told too much, and this was the result. It was terrifying

and exhilarating—so much so that Grant didn't know whether
to moan or cry when he felt the plug starting to slide in.

Rusty was going slow. It was clear he didn't want to hurt

Grant, not in that pain-for-no-reason sense of hurt.

But the plug was big—way thicker than Rusty's fingers.

Even thicker than Rusty's cock. It widened as it went deeper,
forcing Grant's bowels to take more and more and more
inside.

Rusty leaned over the bed to whisper in Grant's ear. "You

should see how hot you are right now. Filled up and helpless."
He bit Grant's ear, just a little. "Are you scared, boy?"

"Yes, Sir." Grant turned his head so he was facing Rusty.

"Please let me go, Sir. I'll do anything."

Rusty reached down and grabbed the base of the plug.

"You silly boy." He pushed the plug the last few inches
necessary to disappear within Grant's ass. "You're going to do
that anyway."

Grant groaned, biting his lip. "Oh God, Sir! I can't take any

more."

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Rusty smiled. "That's too bad, boy. There's lots more

coming." He bounced off the bed, the reverberations in the
mattress causing the rubber plug to jostle, ever so gently,
within Grant.

"Oh my God," he said, hunching his hips against the

mattress. "I'm gonna, Rusty."

Rusty grabbed hold of Grant's cuffed hands and hauled

him to your feet. "No, you're not."

Grant blinked at him. "I'm not?"
A small leather strap snapped round the base of his

throbbing cock, put in place by an insanely grinning Rusty.
"No, you're not. There's no rewards for bad attitude, boy."

He shouldered Grant around until he was facing the closet.

"You're headed for the hole, remember?"

It was clear where all the clothes had come from. The

closet was completely bare: no shoes on the floor, no boxes
of old papers stowed up on the shelf.

Rusty had even unscrewed the light bulb from the ceiling.
There was, however, a shiny silver hook stuck into the

back wall. It was roughly two and a half feet from the ground,
a strange height.

Grant didn't have much time to ponder the logistics of the

situation. Rusty had him on his knees in the closet in two
seconds flat—the zip tie handcuffs neatly fitting onto the
silver hook, securing him to the wall.

"Welcome to the hole," Rusty said. "You're going to spend

an hour in there, thinking about your attitude." He let his
fingers trace over Grant's cheek. "Thinking about me, and
how you need to treat the guards if you want to get by in this

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outfit." He let his voice drop. "You want respect, boy, you got
to give respect. When I open up this door next, that's what I
want. Some respect. Do you understand?"

Grant looked up at Rusty, at the set line of his jaw, the

strange light glinting in his eyes. Letting his eyes drop lower,
he took in the raging hard on his lover clearly had, barely
confined in a pair of tight blue jeans. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Rusty smiled and reached around to his back

pocket. "Just to make sure you don't get distracted, I've got a
little something you can wear."

Grant shifted his hips, feeling the weight of the plug tilting

within him in response. "I think I'm wearing enough, Sir." The
strap round his cock was damnably tight. "Really."

"I'm sure you do." Rusty shook the stocking hat in front of

Grant's face. "But you're not the one in charge here." He slid
the cap over Grant's close-cropped hair, unrolling it until it
completely covered both eyes. "I am."

Grant couldn't see a thing. "Oh, Sir." He leaned forward as

much as he could, bowing his head. "Please. Don't do this."

"You know your safe word." Rusty's voice broke a little.

"Otherwise, boy, it's time to think about that attitude of
yours. About respect."

His hand rested on Grant's shoulder, and pushed him

slightly backward. Then he closed the closet door. "See you in
an hour."

* * * *

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It didn't seem possible, but closing the closet door made it

even darker. Grant knew it was all black around him, a void
of nothingness holding him within.

Holding him within, as he was tethered to a wall, hands

bound, on his knees. On his knees, with his cock pinned by a
tight leather strap and his ass full of the biggest plug he'd
ever taken.

All this, with no one to see it, no one to care.
Beyond the door, he knew Rusty was there, listening for

any sound of distress, keeping track of every minute as it
passed.

Grant knew this, and still he wondered. Would Rusty open

the door in an hour? What type of respect was he looking for?

The plug in his ass was impossible to ignore. Every breath,

every motion, every idea that crossed Grant's mind made it
move, just a little. Just enough to keep him on the edge of
orgasm—yet not enough to make him fly.

That was something within his control, though. If he

rocked his hips forward a fraction, the plug would slide so—
and if he went back the other way, it would shift with him,
pressing hard against all of the most sensitive points.

Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Grant worked out

how far he could move in either direction—and what that
range of motion would do to him. If he let his weight collapse,
rocking back on his heels, he could even drive the plug a little
deeper.

Fucking himself, bound, in the darkness.

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It was a delicious idea, a hot idea, the type of idea that

would wake Grant up in the middle of the night panting,
soiled sheets snarled round him.

But now it was happening for real.
And the reality was that the closet was smaller than he'd

ever realized, smaller and darker and tight round him. His
knees were starting to ache, the distraction of the plug not
quite enough to cut out the pain.

Worse than that, his balls were starting to throb with the

need to come.

He could end it: call out to Rusty with his safe word. The

door would fly open and he'd be freed. Comforted. Perhaps
even a penitential blow job from his partner, atonement for a
scene too intense.

Yet, this is what he wanted. What he'd asked for, perhaps

not directly, but realized more completely than he'd ever
imagined possible.

And that plug did feel good in there.
Another shift to the left, a glorious slide to the right, the

most self indulgent taps of the base of the plug against his
heels.

Grant was enjoying himself.
That's when he started to feel it.
The plug, large and round and flared, was warming up. It

wasn't noticeable, at first—you can't have something that size
inside you and not feel a bit of a burn—but now it was clear
that there was something happening. Heat was radiating from
the plug, a steadily intensifying rise in temperature.

Grant moaned.

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Loudly.
"I guess you've discovered my surprise," Rusty said. His

words were muffled by the door, but Grant could still make
out most of them by listening carefully. "That lube I used is
friction activated. The more you move, the more it's going to
burn." His laugh was dark, malevolent. "That should help you
stay still. Stay still and think about me."

"Son of a bitch," Grant muttered. "You evil motherfucker."
His cock, however, was not complaining.
The minutes went slowly, their passage dropping to a

glacial pace as Grant tried to freeze in place. The burn in his
behind was constant, but steady, intensifying only if he
moved.

If he moved every now and then just because, well, who

was to know?

That was his theory, anyway, until he moved often enough

and rapidly enough that a big, loud, shuddering moan
escaped his lips and pushed through the door. The type of
moan that should have been accompanied by the panting
groans of an earth shattering orgasm—the orgasm he would
have had, were it not for the incredibly tight, devil-sent,
strangling piece of leather Rusty had put in place to prevent.

That explained his frustrated sobbing.
The door flew open. Rusty pulled off the stocking cap,

leaving Grant blinking into the startling bright light.

"You okay, boy?" He looked concerned. "I heard you

crying."

"I'm fine." Grant dropped his head. "I just want to..."
"To what?"

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Grant looked up at his lover. "To give respect, Sir."
Rusty smiled. "I thought you might." His hand went to his

zipper. For the first time, Grant noticed that Rusty had
changed into uniform during his sojourn in the closet. Dark
navy blue pants and a heavy black belt were directly in his
line of vision. "You want me to let you loose before or after?"

Grant's arms were aching. His knees were telling him all

about every one of the long years they'd spent on this earth.
His ass was on fire and his cock was a pillar of need unmet.

"After, Sir." His eyes were locked with Rusty's. "Please."

* * * *

Rusty's cock was just like the rest of him: long and thin

and sprinkled with freckles. It stood out starkly against his
uniform pants, contrasted even more vividly with the black
leather gloves Rusty was wearing.

"You like this cock, boy?" He ran his fingers over the

length of his shaft, inches from Grant's mouth. "You want
some of this?"

"Yes, Sir." Grant could barely speak, but Rusty didn't seem

to mind. "Please, Sir."

"That's the attitude I want from my boy." A leather-clad

finger brushed over Grant's lips. "Open."

Grant let his jaw fall.
"Now, if I feel your teeth, boy, you're not coming out of

this hole for a good long time." Rusty placed both hands on
the sides of Grant's head, gripping lightly. "If ever."

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He slid his cock in, pushing all the way to the back of

Grant's throat in one stroke. "You just hold still, Boy. You let
me do the driving."

Grant did. There was no option—his hands, bound behind

and tethered to the wall—could neither stroke nor caress.
Rusty held his head firmly in place, meaning all he could do
was concentrate on the prick driving into his mouth, filling
him, using him.

"Feels so good," Rusty said, ratcheting the speed up a

notch. "I could get used to this. Keep your ass in the hole all
the time. Come by and see you whenever I get a hard. You
want a meal tray? Here's your freaking meal tray."

Grant shuddered. His cock was aching. He wanted to come

so bad, so bad—but the strap wouldn't allow it.

Nor would Rusty, he imagined.
It didn't matter, not then. Not when Rusty was abandoning

all semblance of control, sliding further and further down his
throat with every stroke. He had to time his breathing right,
stealing gasps of air between each thrust.

"Yeah, you little whore," he grunted. "Take it, take it all

now."

Then, with a ragged break catching the edge of his words.

"Here it comes, baby. Get ready. Get ready now."

Grant, unable to show his readiness any other way, leaned

forward. Opened his mouth just a little further.

"Yeah," Rusty said, emptying himself into Grant's mouth.

"That's it. That's it now." His hands stayed locked on Grant's
head, holding him in place throughout the exchange, not
allowing any movement until he started to soften.

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"What a good boy you are." He pulled back a fraction,

letting his cock slip out of Grant's mouth. "You can lick me
clean, now."

Arms aching, Grant bent his head, letting his tongue slide

over the tip of Rusty's softening cock. His own cock,
neglected, was screaming for attention, but he tried to ignore
it. Rusty's pleasure was what mattered now.

"That's enough." Rusty cuffed the side of Grant's head,

gently. "You'll get me all hard again, and you can't stay in the
hole all day." He smiled down at Grant. "No matter how sexy
you look there." He tucked himself back into his uniform
pants, and leaned forward. "It's time to get back to
population."

The zip tie slid off the hook. Grant was still bound, but

free.

"Let me help you up," Rusty said, hooking his arms under

Grant's. "You're going to be sore."

"You think?" Pins and needles raced through Grant's flesh,

sending shivers of pain through sore muscles.

"Where's this attitude coming from?" Rusty snapped,

sliding back into guard mode. "This session ain't over till I say
it's over, boy."

Grant bowed his head instantly, contrition more

overpowering than pain. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"That's better. Since you seem to have gotten at least part

of the lesson, I'll allow you partial release." Rusty smiled.
"Pick one torment, and I'll take it away. The cuffs? The plug?"
He reached down and tapped Grant's throbbing cock. "This
little strap here?"

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"That," Grant begged. "Please." He swallowed, mouth

suddenly dry. "Please, Sir."

Rusty flicked the strap off of Grant's cock. "I thought you'd

pick that one." His fingers wrapped round Grant's cock. "Now,
I suppose you'd like to come."

"If I may," Grant said. "Sir, please."
Rusty stepped forward, pushing Grant up against the wall

beside the closet. "How does that feel?" he asked, slowly
pumping his hand over Grant's cock. "That big plug in your
ass? Me touching you?"

"Awesome, Sir," Grant groaned. "I want to come, Sir.

Please."

"All that time in the hole, you were hard. Waiting for this,

weren't you?"

"Yes, Sir."
"You're not looking at no convict cock, are you?" Rusty's

hand moved a little faster. "You're a convict. My convict. In
my hole."

"Sir, Sir..." There were no more words as orgasm long

denied was released, flying from Grant's cock to splatter over
the floor. "Sir!"

With that, all of Grant's strength left his body, sending him

tumbling to the floor. He fell hard, in a heap, the plug still
lodged in his ass. "Holy shit!"

"Are you okay?" All elements of Rusty-the-guard were

gone, replaced instead by Rusty-the-lover, sweet and
contrite. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Grant replied, struggling to stand up. "I don't know

what happened."

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Rusty helped him up, guiding him to the bed. "Lay down."

The butt plug that took an eternity to slide into Grant was
removed in an instant, thudding to the floor. "We took it too
far, that's what happened." The thwick-click of a jackknife
opening filled the room. "Hold still, I'm going to slice."

Grant froze as the zip ties parted.
"Rub them. Get your circulation back." Rusty commanded.

He pulled a blanket over Grant.

"Babe, I'm fine," Grant protested. "Better than fine."
"You're shaking," Rusty replied. "Shaking is not fine."
Grant pulled Rusty down to face him. "If I wasn't shaking

after that, you'd better be worried. Not the other way round."

"You're really okay?" Rusty asked.
"Really, really." Grant kissed Rusty, just to prove it. "Trust

me."

"Good thing," Rusty said. "'Cause I have no idea how I'd

be able to keep from doing that again."

"I should have known," Grant said. "You pigs are all the

same."

Rusty laughed. "Lucky you."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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FUCK ME ... PLEASE

Martin Delacroix
I'm going to tell you something I never told anyone before.

It's private, and if you share this information with another
soul—I don't care who—I will kick your ass into next week
and that's a promise. Understand?

OK, then. Buy me another beer. And a shot too, please.
Thanks. Thanks very much.
Now, listen:
I'd just finished a four-year hitch in the Marines: boot

camp at Parris Island, infantry training at Camp Lejeune, two
years in Afghanistan (a real shit hole), and eighteen months
in Okinawa (another shit hole). Like most jarheads, I came
out of service with a shaved head, an attitude and an empty
wallet.

I've got no folks; I was raised in foster care, so when I got

discharged I had no place to go. I arrived at San Francisco
airport with twenty dollars and some change in my pocket. I
didn't own any street clothes, so I wore a Marine T-shirt and
camouflage pants tucked into a pair of grunt boots. I carried
my duffle bag on my shoulder. I took a bus to downtown (five
dollars) and it dumped me at Transbay Terminal. I had no
idea what to do. I stood on a noisy street corner and I
watched traffic pass. I felt the sun on my arms, I smelled
diesel fumes from buses that came and went.

It felt strange, being a civilian again. I'd enlisted at age

eighteen, right out of high school. The Marines were all I'd

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known in my adult life, and now I felt like a fish scooped from
a tank and dropped into the ocean. Free at last, free at last.
But free to do what?

I walked down Mission Street with my duffle and I checked

things out. I'm from Lakeland, Florida, a citrus and cattle
town, and everybody there is pretty much the same. Not so in
San Francisco. In the space of three blocks I passed all kinds
of freaks: a man wearing a dress and high heels, a barefoot
bum talking to a Dumpster, a guy with no legs rolling down
the sidewalk on a wheeled platform. Asians were everywhere,
little men and women, Chinese people, I guess. I'm six-foot-
three and I weigh one-ninety and I felt like a giant moving
among these folks.

I found a temporary employment office where they hired

day workers and I went inside to inquire, but the girl behind
the desk pointed to a wall clock. She said if I wanted work I'd
need to be present at eight in the morning. I should return
the next day, she said, and maybe they'd have a job for me.
Until then...

I'd developed a thirst, as the day was warm and I'd had

nothing to drink since leaving the plane, so I ducked into a
tavern and grabbed a stool at the bar and I rested my duffel
against the foot rail. The place was dark, lit only by those
plastic signs provided by breweries. The bartender seemed
nice enough, a guy in a tank top with tattooed forearms and
earrings in both ears. I ordered a beer and turned around on
my stool and I studied the place. Of the dozen tables, only
half were occupied, each by groups of guys, two or three per
table, speaking in low voices, sipping from glasses of beer. A

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juke box played Garth Brooks. A pool table, lit by a
fluorescent fixture, wasn't in use. Framed photos of ball
players, members of the Giants and the Forty-Niners, hung on
the walls.

The bartender brought my beer and I took a gulp and

smacked my lips. I held the glass to my cheek and savored its
coldness. I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in
Okinawa, seated in my favorite bar, the Green Dragon, a
dump patronized by enlisted men. I'd gotten drunk there
many times, I'd kicked Navy ass when some swab at the
Dragon got me irritated. I don't like sailors and their stupid
uniforms with the flap on the back and those gay-looking
caps. And now, wouldn't you know it? Just when I opened my
eyes this seaman came cruising into the tavern in his swab
outfit, complete with patent leather shoes and an eagle on his
sleeve. He took the stool next to mine. He placed his cap
upon the bar.

I checked him out while he ordered a beer. He was my

age, probably five-ten, a hundred and fifty pounds. He had
what I call "pretty boy" features: a turned-up nose, dick-
sucking lips, and high cheekbones. His eyelashes were long,
like a girl's, and when he blinked it was hard not to notice.
His hair was dark, cut short on the sides, a bit of length on
top. He turned his face toward mine, before I could swing my
gaze, and our eyes met. He nodded. He said, "Hey."

I said, "How's it going?"
We made small talk, and for a swab, he wasn't such a bad

guy. He told me his name was Tyler and I said mine was
Forrest and when we shook his grip was firm. He was

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stationed on a nuclear submarine, he said, one presently in
port. He'd been granted one week's shore leave. He was from
a small town in southern Illinois and this was his second visit
to San Francisco. He'd taken a room not far from the tavern.

I asked what his hotel cost him and he said forty-eight per

night, which included donuts and coffee in the morning.

He asked where I was staying and I said, "I'm screwed. I

blew my last paycheck before I left Okinawa. Guess I'm on
the street till I find temp work."

He nodded and didn't say anything. We ordered another

round of beers and he turned toward me on his stool and he
rested his feet on the stringers. He placed one forearm on the
bar. He talked about serving on a submarine, how for months
at a time he lived underwater with one hundred-ten other
sailors. Everybody lived real close, he said, and they had to
get along.

You know how some guys have an air of confidence about

them? Tyler was like that. I mean, even though we were the
same age and I was bigger than him, with a lot more muscle
and broader shoulders, I felt like he was stronger and wiser
than me. His voice was deep and he spoke good English, like
a school teacher would, and he seemed to know a lot about
important things: geography, current events, and so forth.

I bought beers till my money ran out, then Tyler bought

me a few more. He seemed to have plenty of cash. (I guess
you don't spend much money when you're submerged.) By
the time we left the tavern, the shadows outside had grown
long. Afternoon traffic had picked up and I felt woozy. I'd
drunk maybe eight beers on an empty stomach and the

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alcohol had garbled my thinking. I got bold. I asked Tyler,
"Could I stay in your room? Just for tonight?"

He rested his hands on his hips and he looked at

something over my shoulder, then he returned his gaze to
me. He said, "Forrest, you need to know something."

I said, "What?"
He said, "I'm gay. I've been stuck on that submarine five

months—no privacy and no sex. While I'm in San Francisco, I
plan to get laid every night, so having you in my room would
not work."

I was surprised as hell, 'cause Tyler seemed pretty normal

to me. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, toward the tavern.
I said, "Is that place...?"

He nodded, and it occurred to me we'd spent over two

hours drinking beer and talking and not a single woman had
entered the bar.

I studied the sidewalk. I shifted my weight from one leg to

the other.

I'm not innocent, I know what sorts of things go on

between guys in private. Once I spent a weekend by myself in
Wilmington, a city near Camp Lejeune. I was seated on a
bench in a public park on a Saturday night and a guy came up
and sat beside me, a decent-looking guy, maybe twenty-five.
He wore eyeglasses and nice clothes, but he wasn't a sissy or
anything. We got to talking and I told him my story, that I
was a Marine, that I had a room in town for the weekend, and
after a while he said, "I want to tell you something personal."

I said, "What?"

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He said, "I think you're good looking. I'd like to suck your

cock."

I was surprised, of course, by his proposal. I'd never, you

know ... done such a thing. But I was alone in Wilmington and
nobody knew me there and I said to myself, Hell, why not?

I told him, "All right, okay. You can do that." And we

walked to my motel (it wasn't far) and once inside he asked
me to strip to my skivvies and I did and he took off his
eyeglasses and his shirt (he was pretty well built) and he got
on his knees before me, on the carpet, and he started
mouthing my cock through the skivvies. He stuck his fingers
inside the leg holes, he tickled my nuts and I got stiff pretty
fast. My shorts turned into a circus tent, and finally the guy
yanked them down to my feet and I kicked them off. I stood
before him, butt naked.

The guy gushed over the size of my cock (it's nine inches

when hard) and the way my balls look (he called them "low
hangers"). His tongue and lips were all over my pecker,
licking and sucking while his fingers stroked my nuts, while
they combed through my pubic hair. I mean, I got excited. I
dug my toes into the carpet, I flexed my fingers. This guy
knew what he was doing and after ten minutes I blasted a
load down his throat and he swallowed every drop like it was
some kind of liquid treat.

I'd already had my Wilmington experience when I met

Tyler, so the fact he liked men did not shock or repulse me. I
still respected him, plus I needed a place to stay—badly.
Looking up from the concrete, I made eye contact with Tyler.

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I said, "If it's sex you're after, you can suck my dick. It's not
a problem."

He kept his gaze locked onto mine, then his eyes

narrowed. He said, "What would you do for me? How would I
get satisfied?"

I shrugged and looked away. I didn't have an answer for

him.

He said, "I'm a top man, Forrest. Do you know what that

means?"

I shook my head, still not looking at him.
He said, "It means I fuck ass."
I nodded. Now I knew what he was saying, but having no

experience, I couldn't imagine some guy letting himself get
used like a girl. There'd be no pleasure in it for him, right?

I studied my boots. I weighed my options while

pedestrians streamed past us on the sidewalk, while traffic
growled and wheezed beyond the curb. The sun had
descended behind nearby buildings, the air had cooled and we
stood in a shadow, me and Tyler. I transferred my duffel from
one shoulder to the other. I chewed my lower lip. I looked at
Tyler again. He gazed at something across the street and I
viewed him in profile and he looked very handsome. His face
was dusted with stubble at the chin and jaw line.

I asked myself: Could I?
I did not want to spend the night outdoors, sleeping on top

of a cardboard box in an alley like bums did in Okinawa. I
said to Tyler, "Let me stay at your place. I'll do what you
want."

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He swung his gaze back to me. He squinted, he said,

"There are homeless shelters, you know."

I shook my head. I said, "I'd rather go home with you."
On the way to Tyler's, we stopped at a cafeteria and he

bought us dinner and we sat across from each other at a
Formica-top table, eating shepherd's pie and green beans and
drinking iced tea. Tyler spoke of his life in Illinois, of his
working class, Catholic family. They were proud of his service
in the Navy, he said, but they'd be disappointed if they knew
about his private life. The first time he'd had sex was
following his high school graduation, just after his eighteenth
birthday. He'd taken a summer job on a farm, one where he
tasseled corn, and he shared a room with a college guy who
also worked on the farm. This guy taught Tyler everything
about sex between men. One night they fucked on a blanket
in a corn field, between the rows, under the stars, and Tyler
said it was the best experience of his life, that night.
Afterward, he said, he knew he was gay, no question about it.

I said, "I've got very little experience with sex of any

kind." I spoke of a Japanese girl I'd fucked in Okinawa, of
how she cried when I entered her, due to the size of my cock.
I told him about the blow job in Wilmington and he asked me
if I'd enjoyed it and I said, "Sure, I guess so. But it ended
awfully fast."

When I told Tyler about my lack of family, a sad look

crossed his face. He could not imagine, he said, growing up
without parents and brothers and sisters. It must have been
hard, he said, getting moved from one foster home to
another.

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I shrugged. I told him, "It was all I knew."
Tyler's room was located at the rear of his hotel. A double-

hung window offered a view of an air shaft and a fire escape,
providing stingy light that gave things a washed-out
appearance. The bed was a queen with a chenille spread and
two pillows. Tyler's hair brush and shaving kit sat atop a
chest of drawers, next to a bottle of cologne and a paperback
book. (Who was Kurt Vonnegut? Why would he write a book
called God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater?) A naval uniform and
several items of civilian clothing hung in the closet. The
bathroom had a wall-mounted sink, a tub and shower with a
plastic drape, a john and a medicine cabinet. Another window,
this one above the toilet, also looked into the air shaft. Its
pane was hardly bigger than a cookie sheet. The whole place
smelled like ammonia and carpet freshener.

Tyler pointed to a corner. He said, "Put your duffle there."
He switched on a floor lamp, one with a shade yellowed by

age. The bulb's glow lit up the room; it reflected in Tyler's
blue eyes, in the crystal of his wristwatch. He looked at me
and said, "Let's take a bath."

Getting naked before another guy was normally no

problem for me; I'd gang-showered with hundreds of Marines.
But now I felt uncomfortable, knowing Tyler's persuasion. I
knew he wanted my ass and I felt blood rush to my cheeks
when I took off my shirt, when I lowered my pants. My hands
trembled when I peeled off my skivvies.

Tyler was slender but his chest and biceps were defined.

He had a flat stomach, a circumcised dick and a shaved ball

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sac. His butt cheeks were rounded and a stripe of hair grew in
the cleft between them.

I followed him into the bathroom. A fluorescent fixture

hung above the medicine cabinet, but Tyler didn't switch it
on. We stood in semi-darkness, watching the tub fill with
warm water. The air steamed and Tyler shifted his weight. His
hip met mine and he left it there, his skin pressed against my
skin, warm and smooth. Reaching behind me, he cupped my
butt cheek. He squeezed and my dick began to swell, ticking
upward till it pointed at the ceiling, stiff as a peg, jerking in
time with my pulse.

When the tub was half-full, Tyler turned off the flow of

water and we climbed in. We sat facing each other, knees
raised, legs crossed at the ankles. The tip of my cock poked
out of the water, but Tyler's cock wasn't stiff yet. It floated
beneath the surface, amidst his patch of dark pubic hair. The
tub was cramped and our shins pressed together. Our leg
hairs co-mingled.

Tyler dipped a washcloth into the tub water, using the

cloth to sluice my shoulders. Then he got on his knees and he
wet my chest and back, reaching here and there, taking his
time. The room was silent, save for the sound of dripping
water. The steamy air relaxed me, but every time Tyler's skin
rubbed against mine my stomach fluttered. I found his
nipples especially appealing. They were dime-size and dark as
chocolate. I reached for one and teased it with my fingernail
and Tyler halted his work. He raised his chin and looked at
the ceiling. I pinched the nipple between my thumb and index
finger and he made a little groan in his throat.

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Unwrapping a bar of soap, Tyler worked up a lather in the

washcloth. He commenced washing my arms, he dragged the
cloth over my skin and the soap's fresh odor hit my nostrils.
He did my chest and shoulders, worked up more lather in the
cloth, then he had me pivot and he scrubbed my back. The
nubbly surface of the cloth felt delicious as Tyler made circles
on my skin.

He told me, "Stand up," and I did, still facing away from

him. Water streamed off my ass, off my legs and my rigid
cock; it made dripping sounds in the otherwise silent room.
Tyler soaped the backsides of my thighs and calves, he
scrubbed my buttocks, then worked the cloth into my crack. I
felt his fingers press against my hole and I flinched, I reached
behind me and grabbed Tyler's wrist, pulling his hand away. I
whispered, "Don't."

Tyler froze. He drew a breath, then let it out slowly. He

said, "Forrest, I've got to clean you in there. It's important."

I looked over my shoulder. I said, "Give me the cloth. I'll

do it."

He did as I asked and I washed myself quick as I could,

then handed the cloth back to Tyler.

He said, "Turn around."
I did so and my dick bobbed before Tyler's face. I could tell

by his expression he was unhappy. His mouth was a thin line
and a vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows. He
worked up a fresh lather with the soap and washcloth, then
he scrubbed the fronts of my thighs and calves without
looking at me or saying anything.

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When I asked him, "What's wrong?" he looked up at me.

He said, "You've got to let me touch you back there. We
agreed, remember?"

I glanced away from Tyler, studying the ceramic tiles.
"Forrest," he said, "look at me."
I looked down at him.
He said, "It'll be okay. I'll be gentle and we'll take it slow."
Words spilled out of my mouth. "This is hard for me. I

never did this sort of thing. Nobody's ever..." I looked away
again.

Tyler reached for my cock and squeezed the head. He

lowered it a few inches, then let it go and my dick bobbed like
a diving board when a diver goes airborne. Suddenly the
whole scene—the two of us naked in the tub with my boner
pointing at Tyler's face—seemed funny. I laughed and the
tension I'd felt moments before melted away.

Okay, I told myself, your asshole will get poked tonight.

Accept it.

Tyler grinned. He got on his knees, soaped his hand, then

wrapped it around my dick and squeezed. He slid his hand
back and forth, making a squishy sound, and it felt really
good. He soaped my nuts with his other hand and my spine
tingled. I whispered, "That's nice, what you're doing right
now." (I'd jacked off with soap in the shower dozens of times.
How come it felt better when Tyler did the job?)

He told me, "Don't shoot, Forrest; hold your load for later."
I nodded. I chewed my lower lip. I studied the tiles.
Tyler rose and turned on the shower. We stood together

under the spray, chests touching, my cock mashed up against

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Tyler's belly. Lather slid down my legs, it washed over my
feet and into the drain with a gurgling sound. Tyler wrapped a
hand around the back of my neck, pulled my face to his and
kissed my cheek. The shower hammered our shoulders and
his cock swelled till it pressed against my groin, firm as a
green banana.

Tyler moved his lips from my cheek to my mouth, trying to

kiss me, but I turned my head. I told him, "I don't kiss men.
It's a gay thing and I won't do it."

The hiss of the shower was the only sound in the

bathroom. Tyler let go of my neck. He stepped back from me.
His cock bobbed before him, not as big as mine, but plenty
large. I looked him in the face and, again, I could tell he
wasn't happy. He said, "Kissing me is not a 'gay thing.' It's
just sex."

I said, "I'm not comfortable with it. Sorry."
He lowered his chin and shook his head. Seizing the

washcloth, he soaped it up and handed it to me. He said, "Will
you wash my back? Or is that a gay thing, too?" He turned
away from me and I could tell he was pissed.

I placed a hand on his shoulder and I made circles on his

shoulder blades with the cloth and lather streamed down his
back. I moved the cloth over his shoulders, then down his
spine to the small of his back. I washed his hips, then his ass
cheeks—they were firm and smooth. Kneeling on the tub
floor, I re-soaped the cloth, then I washed the backs of
Tyler's thighs and his furry calves, his ankles and feet. The
shower spray pounded my back. It fogged the air.

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I soaped the cloth again and patted Tyler's butt. I told him

to turn around and when he did his erect cock brushed my
cheek, bobbing before my nose. I started with his shins, then
worked my way up to his waist, scrubbing. I rose and did his
arms and armpits, his belly and his chest, giving extra
attention to his nipples.

I washed his genitals last, using my hands as Tyler had

done: taking my time, applying much soap, sliding my fist
back and forth on the shaft of his cock, kneading his ball sac.

I would say the head of my cock looks like a plum, but

Tyler's is more bullet-shaped. The shaft of his dick, just
behind the head, thickens for an inch or so, and this part
caused my grip to spread each time my fingers passed over
it. It kind of spooked me, the girth of that portion of his
penis. It made me wonder just how I would handle getting
fucked when the time came.

I thought, Maybe I can talk him out of it.
I stepped aside and Tyler got under the spray, rinsing

himself off. We both shampooed our hair, then we took turns
drying ourselves, standing on the bath mat in the steamy air.
Tyler left the bathroom, taking time to comb his hair before
the dresser mirror, his towel wrapped about his waist, while I
sat on the corner of the bed, wearing my towel. I cracked my
knuckles and glanced about the room. I chewed a hangnail.

Tyler opened a dresser drawer, producing a bottle of

lubricant and a foil-packaged condom. He placed these on the
night stand, along with a hand towel, then he switched on the
night stand lamp. He lowered the window shade to the sill. He

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flicked off the floor lamp and light in the room shrank. Things
became more ... intimate, you might say.

Tyler looked at me. He held out his hand and said, "Give

me your towel and I'll hang it in the bathroom."

A moment later he was back, naked like me. His dick was

soft and it swayed when he walked to the bed. He sat next to
me and the bedsprings squeaked. He raised a hand, stroking
my temple with a finger. He said, "You look nervous."

I looked at him briefly, but I couldn't hold his gaze. I

stared at the carpet and again, words poured from my lips. I
said, "I don't know about this buttfucking business. I know I
agreed and I want to be fair, but—"

Tyler moved his hand to my shoulder. He said, "It's scary,

the first time. I know."

I looked at him. I said, "You've...?"
He nodded. He said, "It hurts in the beginning, but once

you relax you'll be fine. It'll feel good if you don't fight it."

I knew Tyler wouldn't lie. I figured things would be okay. I

told him, "All right, let's do it."

Tyler reached between my thighs, stroking my cock,

squeezing the head, and soon I was stiff. All it took was him
touching me that way.

Okay, I'll admit I'd been attracted to certain guys before,

I'd jacked off thinking about them, but I had never acted on
my feelings. I'd never considered having sex with another
man 'cause in the Marines that sort of thing is forbidden. But
I wasn't a Marine anymore; I could do what I wanted. And
now, sitting on that hotel bed with Tyler, I got very excited. I

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mean, I actually trembled, thinking of what we would do
together.

Tyler put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close,

and I smelled the soap I'd bathed him with. He nuzzled my
ear with the tip of his nose, kissing my neck, rubbing the
edge of his jaw against mine and our stubble made scratchy
noises. All the while he stroked my cock and my pulse
galloped.

I turned my face toward Tyler's and pressed my lips to his

cheek. I reached for his cock and wrapped my fingers around
it. When I teased the head with my thumb, his dick came
alive, twitching and swelling, getting stiff as a broom handle.

Tyler put the tip of his tongue in my ear, twirling it around.

It tickled, but in a good way. Nibbling my earlobe, he
whispered, "I'm going to suck your cock."

I said, "Okay, sure."
Tyler put a hand on my chest, and pushed me backward

till my shoulders met the mattress, till I stared at the ceiling.
He gripped my cock with his thumb and index finger, raising it
straight up. His tongue glided over every inch of my dick;
then he took me into his mouth. Forming a seal with his lips,
he commenced sucking, his head bobbing up and down. His
mouth made a slurping sound which was nice in the silent
room. He teased my nuts, then lifted my scrotum and
kneaded it with his fingers. He tickled the tender area
between my sac and my hole.

I placed a hand on the back of his neck, running my

fingers through his hair.

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Tyler followed a steady rhythm while he worked on my

cock—he didn't rush things. I knew I shouldn't get carried
away, I shouldn't come in his mouth like I'd done with the
guy in Wilmington. I figured things would go easier if I carried
a full load when Tyler fucked me, if I was horny when it
happened, but it took some effort to not shoot, as he was
very good with his mouth. (The guy in Wilmington had
nothing on Tyler in that department.) Twice I asked him to
stop sucking 'cause I was close to blowing my wad, and when
I asked a third time he stopped altogether. He lay upon the
mattress beside me. He propped himself on an elbow and we
stared at each other and his lips parted into smile. Again, his
teeth glistened.

He whispered, "How do you feel?"
I said, "Really good."
He said, "Why don't you try sucking my cock?"
I looked away from Tyler and my cheeks burned. This

wasn't something I'd anticipated. I said, "I don't know. I
never..."

He said, "I'll teach you."
And I figured, Oh, what the hell.
He had me get on my knees before him while he sat at the

foot of the bed with his thighs spread apart, his boner
pointing skyward. He placed a hand on the back of my neck,
he guided my lips to the head of his dick. I smooched it here
and there, then I stuck out my tongue and licked up and
down the shaft and it felt pretty hot, doing these things. I
mean, Tyler's a good-looking guy and the skin of his cock is
very smooth, like cream cheese. When it came time to suck,

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he told me about covering the edges of my teeth with my
lips. He gripped my jaw and lowered my chin and this caused
my mouth to gape. He slipped his cock inside me and it slid
across the surface of my tongue, jabbing the back of my
throat, and I nearly gagged at first.

He kept one hand on my neck, using it to work my head

back and forth. His cock slid in and out of my mouth while I
clenched it between my lips, while I worked him with my
tongue. We did this for several minutes, until Tyler's chest
heaved, till the noise of his heavy breathing filled the room.
He pulled out, lifting his cock and holding it against his belly.
He said, "Lick my nuts, Forrest."

Like I said earlier, Tyler shaves his scrotum, so his skin

there is silky. I took my time, tasting every portion of his sac,
even lifting it to get at the underside. I took his balls into my
mouth, one at a time. I rolled each testicle around the surface
of my tongue and he seemed to like this. I know I did; my
cock was throbbing.

Tyler finally pushed my face from his groin. He said, "OK,

enough." I looked up at him and he patted the mattress, he
said, "Come up here now." I rose, I sat beside Tyler and the
bed sagged. He reached for my cock, stroking it while he
looked at me. He said, "I'm going to fuck you now, Forrest."

My scalp prickled and dampness gathered in my armpits.
He had me lie on my back, stacking the pillows so when

my head rested upon them I looked at Tyler instead of the
ceiling. He sat beside me on the mattress, looking down. He
stroked my dick. He said, "Getting fucked can feel very good.
When another man's cock stretches you open—when it gets

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inside your most private place—it's a bit freaky at first. When
you're growing up, people tell you only girls get fucked, that a
guy who gets screwed is a sissy, a fag, but it's not true.
Having the balls to let another man pump your ass till you
come—till he comes—takes courage. Understand?"

I nodded, but I wasn't sure if I believed what he'd said.

How could something painful feel good?

As if he'd read my thoughts, he said, "I told you before,

relaxation is the key. And I'm going to help you with that."

I said, "How?"
He let go of my cock and took hold of my ankle, he lifted

it. He said, "Raise your legs till your feet are over your head."

I did what he said, bending my knees, bringing them to

my shoulders. I gazed at our reflections in the dresser mirror
and I nearly laughed 'cause I looked so silly in that position.
Tyler got on his knees before me. Seizing my other ankle, he
spread my feet far apart. I know it doesn't sound
comfortable, having your legs up like that, but you'd be
surprised; it feels quite natural. No strain on the back at all.

Tyler lowered his face till his nose touched my scrotum. He

nibbled the skin there, licking and sucking till my balls came
alive. They actually moved inside the sac, excited by Tyler's
attentions. He lifted the sac, he tasted the tender area
behind, working the tip of his tongue southward till it pressed
against my hole. He nudged my anus with his tongue, licking,
nudging a bit harder, then licking some more.

I reached for the back of Tyler's head. Sifting my fingers

through his dark hair, I said, "Are you sure it's okay, what
you're doing? Is it safe for you?"

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He looked up, lips shiny with spit, and grinned. He said,

"It's why you had to clean yourself back here."

He lowered his face and his tongue worked on my hole

again—jabbing, then licking, then jabbing harder, and it felt
pretty sexy. I enjoyed the warmth and wetness, the
eagerness of Tyler's attentions. Each time he nudged my hole
it contracted, fighting the intrusion; a natural reaction, I
guess. This went on for three or four minutes, till Tyler looked
up with a frown on his face. He slapped my butt cheek. He
said, "Forrest, stop resisting. Open up."

I whispered, "I can't help it; I keep flinching."
He said, "Let me help you." His thumbs went into my

crack, spreading my hole, exposing untouched flesh. He
lowered his face and his tongue went to work, probing new
depths, jabbing, getting up inside me. It's hard to describe
how it felt, this "rimming," as Tyler called it. Like he'd said
earlier, a guy's anus is his most private spot. Once he's out of
diapers, nobody touches him there but himself, right? To have
this rule violated—especially by another guy's tongue—is a
shocking experience. I felt both shame and excitement. At
first I wanted to say, "Quit it, don't do that." Then, minutes
later, I fought an urge to say, "Stick it in deeper."

The more I relaxed, the better his tongue felt and the

farther he got it inside me, the more he tasted virgin flesh.
Tyler's slurping was the only sound in the room.

Ten minutes passed, maybe. I don't know 'cause I lost

track of time, holding the back of Tyler's head, feeling his
tongue penetrate me, over and over, and I thought to myself,

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This must be what the words "making love" are meant to
describe. Tyler is giving himself to me in a very intimate way.

He raised his face from my groin and a little smile played

on his lips. Rising up, he kissed my forehead. He asked, "Are
you okay?" and when I said, "Yeah, I'm great, that was ...
amazing," he waggled his eyebrows. He said, "Let's do
something else now." He reached for the bottle of lubricant
and the hand towel. My legs remained hiked as they'd been
before, only I held them up myself now. My hole was
exposed, and though I couldn't see it, I knew my crack was
shiny with Tyler's spit.

Kneeling before me, he flipped open the cap on the lube

bottle. He poured some ooze onto his middle finger, coating it
with a thick film. He looked at me and asked, "Have you ever
stuck a finger up your butt while you jacked off?"

I shook my head. I'd never dreamed of such a thing.
He said, "I'm going to finger you, real slow and real

careful. Like the rimming, it'll help you relax, but even more
so."

I glanced away from Tyler, at our reflections in the mirror.

Then I looked back. I said, "Will this hurt?"

He nodded. He said, "Not badly, though. After a few

minutes you'll be fine."

I looked at his finger. It wasn't flexible like his tongue. It

would feel like a piece of school chalk, invading me. I looked
back at Tyler and he raised his eyebrows. He said, "Ready?"

I looked away and nodded.
The lube felt cold when his fingertip touched my anus. It

made me flinch. I shivered and goose bumps popped up on

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my arms and legs. Tyler applied pressure and I felt the rim of
my hole begin to stretch as it had when Tyler's tongue came
calling, only now it sensed that something more rigid than a
tongue was knocking on its door. My hole pushed outward,
resisting Tyler's entry.

"You're fighting me," he whispered. "Don't."
Beads of sweat gathered on my forehead and I chewed my

lower lip. Tyler applied greater pressure and my hole
stretched wider and I felt a sharp pain, one like a thorn
inflicts when it punctures your foot.

I hissed. My chest heaved and I threw a forearm across

the bridge of my nose. I said, "It hurts. Pull out a second,
please."

Tyler did so. He re-greased his finger while I caught my

breath, while my hole flexed. It seemed relieved by the
withdrawal.

Tyler invaded a second time. His finger still hurt, but not

as much as the initial assault had. I felt a throbbing pain
rather than a sharp one and I thought, Okay, this isn't too
bad. Then his knuckle met my sphincter and fresh pain
erupted. My hole went into spasms. I yelped, my hips bucked
and my shoulders dug into the pillows. I broke into a sweat
and my chest heaved. My cock went soft.

Tyler whispered, "Stay with me, don't make me pull out."
I swung my gaze to his. I said, "This isn't fun. It hurts."
He said, "Give it a minute, Forrest. Okay?
I nodded, swinging my gaze to the ceiling. I returned my

forearm to the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes,
thinking: Sixty seconds. It's not a long time.

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Tyler kept his knuckle inside me. My hole squeezed his

finger, continuing to produce spasms, but the frequency of
my contractions lessened as each moment passed. "Take
deep breaths," Tyler said. "It helps."

I did as he said. Shifting my ass on the mattress, I

pondered the fullness I felt down below: How amazing that a
single finger can control my body as Tyler's does. It makes
me squirm, it makes me sweat and groan—just one finger in
my hole. Who'd have known?

As soon as my hole relaxed, Tyler slid the remainder of his

finger up inside me. He plunged it back and forth, the knuckle
stretching me each time it came and went. I lay still, listening
to the slick sounds. I felt my sphincter relax as minutes
passed and I felt something else, too: each time Tyler's finger
got fully buried in my hole, an electric shock jolted my
insides. It stole my breath, it spread from my loins, becoming
a syrupy warmth which I felt in my stomach, in the cleft of
my buttocks, in the head of my cock, and even in my nipples.
I thought, What the hell?

Tyler withdrew his finger, held it aloft and conjoined it with

his index finger. He reached for the lube and greased both
fingers while I squirmed on the mattress, while I thought to
myself, Now he'll use two, won't he?

He did and I couldn't help it, I resisted again. I made Tyler

withdraw, but soon his fingers returned and I let them in. I
wasn't happy about it, but I submitted. What was the use of
fighting Tyler's penetrations when we'd already gone this far?
My body clenched against Tyler's fingers as he pried me open,
while his knuckles made their presence known. Sweat trickled

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from my armpits and lamplight reflected off my skin. I tried to
focus on my breath huffing and the squishy sound of the
fingering.

Again, my body relaxed with the passage of time. The pain

subsided and that warm feeling returned. It crept through my
body, making my spine tingle, and I sensed that if I should
touch my cock I would blow my load.

Tyler continued working his fingers in and out and a

combination of sweat and sex scented the room. I thought to
myself, I get it now; this whole routine, this stretching-by-
degrees, is aimed at getting me ready for Tyler's cock. An
hour from now I'll be just another guy who's been buttfucked,
and who will I be then? Forrest? Or someone else? I mean, I
felt conflicted. I was a jarhead, a soldier for Christ's sake, but
this knuckle-fucking had me cooing like a songbird on a
Sunday morning.

Tyler withdrew his fingers, telling me to lower my legs for

a moment, to take a rest. He went to the bathroom and
washed his hands, then returned, rigid cock wagging before
him.

Standing by the nightstand, Tyler opened the condom

package with his teeth. He placed the condom at the head of
his cock, then unrolled it till his dick was encased in latex. The
condom was pre-lubricated. It reflected the lamplight. Tyler
glanced down at me. He winked and made a little smile and I
tried to smile myself, but could not. I was simply too nervous.
My cock had gone soft and my hands were clenched at my
hips. My toes flexed and I continued to sweat, the smell of it
heavy in the room.

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Tyler returned to the bed, kneeling before me, cock

bobbing. He seized my ankles and raised them over my head.
He said I should hold them aloft, like before, and I did so,
exposing my anus. Grabbing the lube bottle, Tyler poured
more goop onto his cock head. He seemed in no rush, and I
wondered if he was prolonging my suffering on purpose, if he
found my dread of deflowerment amusing.

Returning the lube to the night stand, he wiped his fingers

on the towel. He moved between my upturned thighs. He
looked at me and patted my ass. He flickered his eyebrows
and said, "It's time to fuck, Forrest."

I couldn't hold his gaze. He seemed to find the whole

situation humorous and fun-filled, but not me. I felt
miserable, thinking of what lay in store. I told myself, You're
a dumbass, letting this guy violate you, just for a place to
stay.

Tyler drew closer and his cock bumped the inside of my

thigh. He seized his pecker; he guided the tip to my tender
hole which already burned from his previous attentions.
Pressing his cock head against my anus, he applied pressure
and I felt my sphincter stretch.

Like I said, Tyler's cock head is bullet-shaped and his initial

entry wasn't too bad, but trouble surfaced when the thick part
of Tyler's cock sought admission to my hole. Sure, I'd handled
his middle and index finger, knuckles and all, but they'd hurt
nothing like this. I felt a searing pain, as though someone
held a flame to my hole, like my flesh down there was ripping
apart. I cried out and drew back my hips, pulling away from
Tyler's cock. I released my ankles. I seized Tyler's shoulders

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and pushed him from me. He tumbled off the bed and onto
the carpet, hitting the floor with a thud. I rose to my knees
on the mattress. I looked at Tyler and shouted, "Are you
trying to kill me?"

It took him a moment to answer. (I think he was dazed

from his fall.) He rose to a sitting position, scowling. He said,
"I'm only trying to fuck you, Forrest."

I said, "I can't do this, I can't handle your cock. I'm sorry."
He hissed and shook his head. Rising to his feet, he placed

his hands on his hips. His dick remained stiff, wagging before
him. He said, "This is bullshit. I've taken several cocks up my
ass. A few were bigger than mine, but I never whined about
it; I handled the pain."

I said, "Well, you're—"
He said, "What? A fag? Sure I am, but at least I'm tough."

He looked about the room, then he returned his gaze to me.
"What is it you jarheads call us Navy guys? 'Swabs'? You
think we're punks, right?"

I didn't answer him.
He said, "Aren't Marines are supposed to be macho? Aren't

they called 'devil dogs'?" He snorted and shook his head
again. He said, "You're not so tough; you're too pussy to
handle my dick."

I felt blood rush to my cheeks. I nearly slugged Tyler at

that point, because of his taunting. I didn't like him
questioning my masculinity, swab that he was, but he had a
point. We both knew I didn't object to an ass-fucking;
instead, I feared the pain. I couldn't take it like Tyler could.
He was tougher than me.

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Tyler said, "Why don't you get dressed and clear out? I'm

tired of this whole business."

I thought to myself: Make your choice, Forrest. Either let

him fuck you or hit the street. Dodge the pain or face it.

"All right," I said, "Get back in the bed. Do what you

want."

He narrowed his eyes. He said, "That's not enough, what

you just said."

I said, "Huh?"
He said, "Ask me for it. And say 'please' when you do."
My heart hammered my rib cage. The fucker wanted me to

beg. Anger boiled in my chest and I felt an urge to get myself
dressed and hit the street, but I didn't. I gave in to Tyler's will
instead. I told myself, Go ahead, punk. You've already
humiliated yourself before this guy. Do what he wants, just
say it.

I moistened my lips. I looked at Tyler and said, "Fuck me."
He said, "Fuck me ... what?"
I swallowed hard. I held Tyler's gaze. I said, "Fuck me ...

please."

A smile crossed Tyler's face. He returned to the bed and I

assumed the required position, lifting my ankles. Tyler re-
greased his cock and pressed it to my anus. Looking into my
face, he said, "Ask again."

I glanced away. I drew a breath, then let it out. I looked

back at Tyler and his eyes locked onto mine. My voice cracked
like a teenager's when I said, "Fuck me ... please."

He drove his cock into me, then, and I cried out. The pain

was no less than before. My hole burned like someone had

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shoved a hot poker inside me. I cried out, but did not pull
back; I let Tyler have his way. I submitted.

Then, like when he'd used his fingers, Tyler's cock nudged

something inside me and again I felt the electric jolt. Warmth
spilled into my sensitive spots. He fucked me hard, making
me grunt with each thrust. I sweated buckets, soaking the
sheet.

Tyler brought his lips to mine. I tried turning my head, but

he seized my chin and held it in place. He pried my mouth
open, his tongue entered me, exploring, rubbing against my
tongue. My dick swelled. It dripped pre-come upon my belly
while Tyler pumped my ass, while his cock stretched me, over
and over, till I stopped fighting, till I relaxed and accepted my
role in our lovemaking. I told myself, Admit it, Forrest. This
feels awfully good...

I was Tyler's fuckboy now. I sucked his tongue like a slut

on prom night. I sighed when he pinched my nipples. I
shuddered when he whispered into my ear, "You're a hot lay,
Forrest. I love drilling your ass."

He increased the frequency and power of his thrusts. The

headboard drummed the wall in time with our movements
and my whole body felt electric. Tyler'd gotten sweaty as me
and we shone like two seals in the lamplight.

Minutes passed. My hole felt raw and sore now, but I didn't

care. Tyler brought his lips to my ear, whispering, "I'm
ready." He returned his mouth to mine and our tongues
entwined. Tyler moaned and his dick throbbed inside me. He
ran his hands over my scalp, groaning with satisfaction. I
reached for my cock and squeezed it only once, then come

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spurted all over my belly and chest. Some hit my cheek, and
some struck Tyler's too. I cried out, my lungs pumped and
my spine tingled. My mind went blank.

It took a few minutes before my breathing slowed. I felt

exhausted, but in a good way, as if I'd hiked up a mountain
and reached the summit and now I could sit and enjoy the
view. Only, instead of peaks and valleys, instead of rivers and
meadows, I had Tyler to look at. His blue eyes and his
smooth skin, his muscles and his dark hair. The lips I had
once refused to kiss.

He stayed inside me a while. We said nothing to each

other, only breathing in the silent room. Then Tyler withdrew
and I lowered my legs and he lay beside me on the bed. He
stroked my cheek with a finger. He said, "Are you okay?"

I nodded, making a little smile.
He said, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
I said, "Some, but it's all right."
He said, "Be truthful, Forrest. Tell me how you feel right

now."

I thought a moment, then I said. "It's like I've been in jail

a long time, and now you've released me." (Which was
exactly how I felt.)

He smiled at me, then. He moved closer. Draping an arm

across my torso, he lay his head upon my chest and I stroked
his hair. I closed my eyes and seconds later fell asleep.

* * * *

I stayed with Tyler till his submarine went to sea—five

happy days. We did the sights together: the Golden Gate,

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Muir Woods, Fisherman's Wharf. There's something magical
about doing such things with an intimate companion. I'd sit
across from Tyler in a crowded restaurant and my knee would
touch his and I'd look at him, recalling last night's steamy
fuck. I'd grin and even blush a little, remembering the smells
and sounds, the grit of the sex we had shared.

That's how it was for me, anyways.
Do I ever hear from Tyler? Of course. He writes once a

month, at least. His sub will surface, then rendezvous with a
supply ship and mail bags get exchanged.

I go to college part-time now, plus I work as a janitor for

the public school system. I clean rooms at an elementary
school at night, after the kids are gone, and sometimes I'll
take a break. I'll sit alone in a quiet place and read Tyler's
letters, over and over, sometimes out loud. I'll think of that
day I first met him, hearing his voice inside my head and
recalling his touch on my skin.

I long for the day when Tyler returns to San Francisco,

when he'll take me to a room and close the door. When he'll
make me say it again, more than once.

Fuck me, Tyler. Fuck me ... please.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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THE GHOST

Noel Blue
The pale powder fell from Detective Neil Margrave's fingers

in a shimmering trickle, landing softly back in the red velvet
box from which it had come. He wasn't supposed to have
touched it, not before the lab boys had a go, but he didn't
care. The gems were gone, and in their place was this pretty
pile of sand. If the thief's previous crimes were any indication,
the powder was nothing more than his usual little bit of
"gotcha," a gentle teasing reminder of what had once been
therein. It would be studied and analyzed and pondered over
for months to come, but would ultimately reveal nothing.
Nothing but more police frustration.

As the last bit fell, Neil was reminded of sand in an

hourglass. Running out, like the time left in his once radiant
police career.

Who was this master thief? How was he so good?
With a deep breath to shake off the rush of adrenaline and

excitement beneath the anger, the raw admiration for the
man's audacious flair, he closed the lid of the case gently and
turned on his team. He spoke with great deliberation. "How.
Did. This. Happen? How did he get past us?" His dark eyes
swept his underlings, lips tight, broad cheekbones catching
the light of the expensive fixtures mounted on the wall of the
display room. "How did he know these were fakes, and the
real ones were in the safe? How?"

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Everything had been planned to perfection. Publicize the

display of a priceless collection of jewels in a prominent
luxury goods store as an irresistible lure for the City's Most
Wanted. Spend money on perfect fakes. Place a small, crack
police team in the building to watch them carefully, just
enough manpower to be safe but not enough to be
conspicuous. This method had worked quite well before. Neil
himself had employed it several times to great success.

But not this time, not against the Ghost. This had truly

been the perfect crime.

Somehow, the thief had known exactly the three minutes

when there would be no one else in the room, even though
the detectives themselves hadn't planned it. He had moved
quickly, knowing exactly where the real jewels were.

Now the priceless gems were gone.
Neil whirled on his team, drawing on his rising anger and

turning it on his subordinates. The whole of his broad, six foot
three frame was tense and taut. The three detectives and
Sloane, the contract field tech, all looked scared and
intimidated.

Neil was in no mood to shield anyone from his emotions.

He was angry, enraged, unhappy. But there was more going
on in his mind, more complicated emotions. Emotions like
admiration. Desire.

In his head, he replayed the scene from the Saturday

before. It was perhaps the millionth time he had done so. A
necklace had been stolen from a small, private museum, but
the police were unable to figure out how. Needing some fresh
air, Neil was outside the building, around back. He had

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already faced the press and been put through the ringer on
the front steps. He saw a young man on the sidewalk, on the
other side of the wrought iron fence, sitting, leaning on his
handlebars casually. A small smile on his lips, chewing on the
arm of his sunglasses. Sexy. Neil hated the fact he always
remembered how very sexy the thief was. And then the man
lifted one gloved hand, opening, showing the necklace in his
palm. Neil stared at the necklace, and then at the man,
realizing who he was with a jolt.

With a wink and a wolfish grin, the Ghost had driven off,

engine roaring, Neil yelling and attempting futilely to chase
after him. He had attempted to report the incident to his
superiors, but they had treated him like he was crazy, and
had imagined the necklace in the hand of some crackpot fame
seeker. It was not reported to the press, and Neil had
accepted that general opinion was he had either lied or
hallucinated that necklace in the man's hand out of
exhaustion or frustration.

Neil knew he had not.
Pulling himself back into the present reluctantly, he

gathered the team to discuss what could have happened and
how they could have failed so colossally, but nothing that was
offered as an explanation bore scrutiny. Had the Ghost gone
through the ducts? Had they all stepped away from their
posts at the same time? It was unlikely. But how else could
the Ghost have pulled it off?

Because he was the Ghost. Neil sighed inwardly. Because

he can.

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"Sweep the place," he said to the others. "See if you can

find anything, anything at all. I..." He turned toward the door.
"Have a very goddamn painful phone call I need to make."

Two hours later, Neil was ready to turn in. During an

uncomfortable phone call, Sergeant Tristani, a man with
whom he had several years of fantastic relations, had
screamed at him for the loss of the jewels and he had barely
said anything in return. This was Neil's first major failure in
his career, but it was going to cost him dearly.

The most frightening part? He wasn't sure he cared.
Yeah, but who am I without my job? He pinched his nose

and tried not to groan, running his hands down his face and
wincing at his several-days' stubble. The brass was upset
because the media was already having a field day, and this
was really going to take it to the next level.

Whoever it was perpetrating these crimes was confident,

bold, fearless, brilliant. Everything Neil was supposed to be;
obviously the thief was more so. And the fact that it was such
a scruffy, handsome man, one who looked like a half-
homeless biker who modeled on the side pulling off these
slick crimes was even more irritating. And erection-inducing.

"Hey, boss, want some coffee?"
Neil just shook his head and grunted. One of the

detectives, Nick, sidled up to him. A week ago, he would have
given anything to fuck that fine, round young ass. Now, he
couldn't care less. It wasn't like him to lose interest so fast.
Nick slinked off, obviously disappointed he'd lost Neil's favor.

To save his career, his all-consuming passion, Neil had to

solve this case. It was as simple as that. So how was it that

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he found himself not caring? Why did his motivation for
wanting the case solved feel wholly personal?

"Paris, Rio, London ... now here." A female detective came

up to Neil and made a noise of frustration. "But why has he
been here so long? This isn't his MO, to do more than one
heist in a city."

They'd been over this. Neil had no answer for her, but he

tried anyways. "Maybe he's changing his pattern," he
answered grimly. "Maybe he's changing up his game."

"Maybe it's not the same guy."
"It's the same guy," Neil snapped, and she started, eyes

wide. He ramped down his anger, knowing she wasn't the one
to take it out on. "But we'll get him." He didn't believe it. "We
just need to figure out how he's doing all this.

As the detective moved away, he stood up, planning to

step outside for some fresh air. Someone cleared their throat
behind him, and he turned to see Sloane, the contract lab
tech, standing there meekly. Sloane was a lean man with
floppy black hair and huge glasses. Neil often didn't notice
him; he was efficient and intelligent, and didn't get in the way
of the other aspects of the investigation. Neil appreciated
that.

"What have you got, Sloane?"
Sloane shuffled his feet and looked down at something he

was holding in his gloved hands. "Um, well, I found this piece
of paper over there, underneath the stand where the decoys
were. There was just a little corner sticking out, and, um, I
grabbed it."

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"Huh. Well, it's probably just something from the building

staff that got stuck in there, but good work. Take that to the
lab and get me a report by tomorrow morning. I don't expect
we'll be finding anything else, so—" He was turning away
when Sloane interrupted him.

"Uh, actually sir, it, um, has your name on it."
"What?" He whirled, eyes wide. Heads snapped up at his

sudden movement. He lowered his voice. "What are you
talking about?"

"It, well, seems to be a letter to you." Sloane's big, Keds-

shod feet shuffled.

Blood rushed to Neil's head, and he could feel his pulse

quicken, clouding his senses. That cocky, handsome grin, that
wink ... that brilliant, insane mind. The Ghost was an enigma,
and an irresistible one. "Give it to me."

"Okay." Sloane handed the note over with an

uncomfortable smile. Neil, who had never had interpersonal
confidence issues, pitied the man. "Sorry, uh, I opened it. I
didn't read it."

"Don't worry about it, Sloane." It was a tacit dismissal.
Neil knew he shouldn't touch it, not without gloves. But he

didn't care what he should or shouldn't do. He had to read the
letter.

Using all his will to keep his hands from shaking, he

opened it swiftly.

The note was handwritten. How foolish, he thought with an

amusement that broke through his tension. If we ever catch
him this will make some very convenient evidence.

Tidy, slanted writing. Confident.

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Detective Neil Margrave—
You're good, but I'm better.
This is only because I know something you don't, however.
Seeing you once made me need to see you again.
The tempo of his pulse raced, and he bit back a string of

swear words; the last sentence was blatant, teasing
phraseology, not something a man would say to another man
in a non-sexual context. Was the Ghost playing with him? Did
he know Neil was gay? How could he?

Tonight. The Victorian hotel, the Bronx, ask for Ryan's

room. Whenever you're ready. I'll tell you how I pulled this
heist. How I pulled all my heists. I'm giving myself to you.

"Does he think I'm stupid?" Neil muttered. He tried to

ignore the rush of blood throughout his body.

I understand it's a risk. You can bring one—but only one—

member of your team. I'll know if you tell anyone else.

The Ghost
Sloane was watching him quizzically from the case in the

center of the room as Neil re-entered the room. The detective
affected a sneer. "Cocky asshole." He carefully put the note in
his pocket. "I'll take this to the chief tomorrow. I need some
fresh air." He spoke loud enough so everyone could hear him.
His team nodded in response.

He almost ran over Nick, who was coming out of the

elevator and clutching his coffee cup with a wide-eyed, "Holy
Sh—Detective! What are—"

Whatever the younger man saw in his superior's face

frightened him, and he shut up instantly. Neil barely
registered his presence.

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The elevator ride was unbearably long.
He threw open the heavy front doors of the building and

looked around, eyes sweeping the street.

And there he was. Sitting on that beautiful motorcycle

again, long denim clad legs balanced on each side. The
streetlight glanced off his blond hair, and there was that same
cocky grin. Their eyes met, and the thief lifted an eyebrow.

Neither of them blinked.
In an instant, Neil's body betrayed him, and he felt his

erection forming, straining against his boxer briefs. He
wondered if his face reflected how aroused his body was. The
moment was sexy, and undeniable, and he wanted to rush
across the street and pull the young man into a savage, angry
kiss.

What confused him even more was that, normally, he

wouldn't even find the guy that attractive. Oh, he was hot,
but he was too muscled, scruffy, looked like he lived in cheap
motels and nasty diners. Not Neil's type.

But the complicated mind that lurked underneath, the one

that would write that both tender and mocking letter ... that
was the sexiest thing he had ever encountered, and he
wanted desperately, painfully to understand how it worked,
how the wheels turned.

Despite himself he took a step down the stairs, gratified by

the widening of his prey's eyes. What he was going to do
wasn't clear, maybe beat him up, maybe actually kiss him,
but he was going to do something—

"Detective Margrave!" The voice came from up the street,

and he stopped his advance in surprise. "Oh, fuck, yeah,

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looks like we're the first ones here! Ernie, come on, get a
move on. Detective! We hear that the Ghost has pulled off
another heist, and when you were in the building, even! Do
you have a statement? Detective!"

Turning his head Neil saw Ted Beards, the leading

television reporter in town, running toward him with a
cameraman trying desperately to keep up. The detective
couldn't keep a snarl from his face. No, no, he thought
angrily, So damn close!

He heard the rumble of the motorcycle's engine, and then

it zoomed past them and into the darkness.

"Friend of yours, Detective Margrave?" Ted asked, his

voice thick with curiosity.

With a withering glare, Neil went back inside the building,

telling the plainclothes police officer by the doors to make
sure they were good and locked. He didn't know who had
called the media, but he was pissed.

It was embarrassing to admit to himself it wasn't for the

usual reasons.

* * * *

No more clues were found, so he dismissed all his

detectives. Once again, it was a flawless crime.

Neil stood alone in the room and took a deep breath. It

was unlikely, in his mind, that he would still be the team
leader tomorrow. Perhaps it was unlikely that he'd even be
alive. Am I really to that point? he asked himself sadly.

A figure stepped out of the shadows as he entered the

echoing marble hallway.

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He peered at it. The disheveled, lanky shape was

unmistakable, even when the features were murky.

"Sloane? Why are you still here?"
There was a pause. "Are you, uh, going to meet the

Ghost? Alone?"

Neil narrowed his eyes. "I thought you didn't read the

letter."

"I lied."
"Are you going to try to stop me?" Neil stood up to his full

height, throwing his shoulders back and placing an expression
of contempt on his face, lip faintly curled in a snarl. He knew
when to be intimidating, and what he knew of Sloane, the
man was easily intimidated.

Or so he thought.
"No. But I, uh, think I—I want to go with you."
"What?" Contempt changed to incredulity. "Are you crazy?"
"No. But I still want to go."
"Go home, Sloane. Go home to whoever is waiting for you,

and leave me alone."

"If you don't let me go with you, Detective Margrave,"

Sloane's voice was steady, "I will tell the captain that you
tampered with and withheld valuable evidence that I called to
your attention."

"Are you blackmailing me?"
Sloane had the good grace to look embarrassed. He did

not, however, look particularly scared. "Uh, yeah. I guess I
am."

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"Huh." Neil was more impressed than anything else; he

never would have ever guessed the mousy, skinny guy had
the balls.

"I guess I don't have a choice, do I?" He saw Sloane start

to smile, and cut it off with a firm finger to the chest. "But
you will leave the second anything happens, you understand?
If you don't, I will break every bone in your body, and I won't
give a shit if it costs me my job." He briefly noted that the
man felt a lot more muscular underneath his baggy clothes
than suspected. Full of surprises, the lab tech.

Sloane nodded vigorously.
"Come on." He started walking down the hallway and

didn't look back, even when he heard the younger man
scrambling after him.

The ride to the hotel was silent, each lost in their own

thoughts. Neil wondered what he was doing, letting a lab tech
convince him he should come along. It wasn't the blackmail;
that had been a stupid ploy, and Sloane would have a lot of
trouble following through with that against a celebrated
detective like Neil. No, the tech was there because Neil was
afraid. Afraid of himself.

He parked the car a block away and approached the

building casually, hissing at Sloane to do the same.

It was a seedy hotel, one that looked like it was decorated

in and had its glory days in the forties. The same could be
said for the guy behind the desk.

"Hey. Here to meet Ryan." What a stupid name, he

thought, funneling his tension into anger. He wondered why
the Ghost had chosen it.

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"Room 522." The old man didn't even look up from his

magazine. "He's expecting you."

Neil slipped him a five and went toward the elevators,

aware of every sound his feet made on the scuffed and dirty
floor, and the echo made him wince.

Sloane spoke again on the elevator. "Detective Margrave

... You really sure you want to do this?" He was clearly
nervous, running a hand through his chestnut hair. Neil had
to admit he had beautiful eyes.

Neil made a quick decision. "Go home, Sloane." His mind

was already one step ahead, and he knew he had to get rid of
this stammering distraction. "I told you, this is my choice to
make."

He was getting hard. His body was betraying to his enemy

him once again.

"Detective..." The elevator came to an unsteady halt

before them.

"Go. Home. I never should have agreed to let you come."

He got on, standing close to the doors and making it clear
Sloane shouldn't try to join him.

"Damn it!" Sloane swore, but he just stood there, looking

like a lost, scruffy little puppy, head bowed and shoulders
slouched. The doors closed.

Neil forgot him as the doors opened on the fifth floor. He

walked around the corner, approached room number 522 and
knocked loudly.

The door swung open.
Neil fought his erection with as much willpower as he could

muster.

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And there he was. The Ghost, the man on the motorcycle.
The Ghost stepped back with a wry smile, and Neil was

surprised to see the other man looked even more nervous
than he felt. Who was he to be nervous?

"Come in."
The thief had a smoker's voice, graveled beyond his years.

Up close, he was still attractive, maybe about thirty or so, his
skin tan and already leathered. His blond hair was cut close,
his wide, attractive face could have been anyone's. His blue
eyes shot all around the room, as if he felt trapped. He looked
like Nick, although with less skill in the personal hygiene
department.

Neil tried to fight his disappointment. This confused,

scruffy young man was the criminal genius who had written
him that teasing, intelligent letter, who had led him on a
merry chase, who had filled his dreams with erotic images
that were more about intellectual sex than physical? That had
distracted him from his crumbling life?

"I thought you'd be taller," he laughed bitterly, aiming the

comment at himself.

"Huh?" The criminal looked confused, clearly not

understanding. Neil was dissatisfied, finding the ultimate
criminal sorely lacking in ... what? He wasn't sure what it
was. but this man didn't have it, whatever it was. There was
a disconnect between Neil's fantasy and the person who stood
before him.

The Ghost shifted his face back into the cocky, reflective

gaze Neil had seen both outside the museum and the
skyscraper, obviously with effort. "Anyways, you're here,

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Detective, uh, Margrave. So, you want to know how I did it?"
His smile became conniving, and he took off his jacket.

Neil stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Sure."
"Well, first you're going to have to take a seat." The

nervous eyes shifted to the door. "First you're going to have
to submit to me." With jerky motions, he took off his T-shirt,
showing a lean, muscled chest. "You're going to become my
slave." The words were not flowing from him naturally; he
sounded like he was reading from a script.

"What?" Neil was confused, and moved back a step. "What

the fuck? Are you coming on to me?"

"Uh, yes?" the guy answered, nervously.
A very strange answer, and Neil was confused. It wasn't a

very heartfelt agreement. It didn't sound like something he
wanted to do.

Like a lightening bolt, the truth hit him.
His eyes widened. With a burst of speed he rushed forward

and punched the guy in the stomach, hard.

"Fuck!" the man swore, and went down, curled in on

himself. "Fuck! What was that for, man?"

Eyes full of contempt, Neil stared down at him. "You're not

the Ghost. There's no way a dumb asshole like you could pull
off the theft of a pack of gum. Where is he?"

"I don't know!" the young man wailed. He tried to get up,

and Neil kicked him, hard. The man wailed in pain.

"I really recommend telling me." He lifted his booted foot

again.

"But I don't!" He was sullen now. "He just emails me! He

just told me to come to this room, and meet you, to try and

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get you naked!" Suddenly his legs kicked out and caught Neil
in the ankle.

Neil stumbled briefly, giving the other man the opportunity

to get up off the floor and make a break for the door.

Neil reached for his gun in order to make him stop ... and

it wasn't there. "Fuck!" He went to follow, fighting a limp,
when the door flew open. It was Sloane.

"Grab him!" Neil bellowed, and Sloane exchanged a look

with the imposter, who blew past him. "Damn it, Sloane!"

Sloane tilted his head, looking puzzled. "Should I go after

him?"

"No. We'll never catch him now, and you're no cop,

anyways. Fuck!" Neil pounded his fist angrily against one
mold-stained wall, leaving an imprint and obvious damage in
the drywall underneath. He didn't care. "How the hell could I
let myself be played so easily? That bastard!" The bed
groaned under his weight as he dropped down to sit, running
his hands through his hair. Sloane perched next to him
carefully and without comment.

Neil brooded unhappily, lost in his own head. What an

idiot. He was a stupid son of a bitch who let his crotch do the
leading, and now all he had was the burning knowledge he
was a fool. That letter he had received was probably useless,
but it was still evidence, and he had wasted a possible
opportunity and used it for his own means, to satisfy his own
desires.

But that wasn't the real reason he was so down.
You're disappointed, something told him, you're deeply,

completely disappointed.

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He tried to ignore that voice, but it was too damn loud.
"Detective Margrave..." Sloane said quietly. "Can I ask you

something?"

"Sure." How could he possibly be more humiliated than he

already was? "Go for it." Point out that I'm even dumber than
I think I am.

"Why did you want to meet the Ghost alone so badly?"
He let out a humorless laugh. "I'm not really sure, Sloane."
"Really?"
Neil shrugged. "I don't know. Chasing him has been

exciting. I haven't felt excitement in years. He makes me
angry, he frustrates me, he's gotten me this close to being
fired. And it's great. I feel alive, I feel imperfect. I like it."

"So now that you're out and gay, you feel like a misfit?"
Neil whipped his head up to stare at Sloane in shock. "How

do you know that?"

Sloane chuckled, and Neil's breath caught as he felt the

man's hands touching his arms, lightly, almost tenderly ... felt
a light touch around his wrists. "I know everything about you,
Neil." There was then a sudden metallic snap, and the
detective felt the distinct and unforgettable sensation of
handcuffs around his wrists. His hands were now firmly
trapped behind his back.

"What the...?" He stood up, and struggled briefly. He felt a

rush of excitement that he attempted to conceal with rage.
He snarled at Sloane. "What is this shit, Sloane? What are
you doing?"

This time, Sloane laughed, and with one hand pushed Neil

down on the bed again. "Keeping you contained, officer." He

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took off his glasses, and with one hand swept his dark hair
back from his face, showing gleaming green eyes and a
sharp-featured, grinning features. He was standing up
straight now, and for the first time Neil saw how very good
looking he was. How hadn't I noticed?

But that was neither here nor there. He'd been handcuffed,

and that wasn't good. Standing up again, he put his authority
in his mien and his voice. "Don't fuck with me, Sloane; even
without my hands, I can beat the living daylights out of you.
Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I want this shit."

Before he could blink, Sloane's face was right in front of

him, and Sloane's hands on the sides of his head. Green orbs
locked onto his own. "But isn't this exactly what you wanted?"
Sloane breathed.

And then kissed him, violently. By the time Neil figured out

what was happening, he was in the middle of it, giving as
good as he got.

He jerked backwards as he felt his cock stir. Things were

getting weirder and weirder. "What the fuck was that? Why
the fuck would I want you to kiss me, you prick?" He writhed
in the handcuffs. "Let me out of these. I'm getting really
fucking pissed off. This has been a really shitty day, Sloane,
and you don't want to get me angry."

"But don't you feel alive, turned on when I anger you?

When I give you the slip yet again?"

Neil stopped. "What?"
Sloane grinned, and ran a finger down the detective's

chest, and then bunched the fabric up in his hand. "Welcome

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to my room, Detective Margrave. Sorry you had to wait so
long to meet me."

His whole body was on fire with rage and shock. And ...

excitement. His breathing was shallow. "You ... you're the
Ghost?"

Sloane shrugged and smiled modestly. "I didn't create the

name, but, I suppose so, yes."

"So you ... How did you get a job with the police?" It can't

be. Sloane can't be the Ghost.

"I'm a contractor, Neil." The name came out like a caress.

"Trust me, they have much less impressive background
standards than for the actual police. And in terms of what
they needed, an experienced lab tech ... my resume was
impeccable."

"You fucker. The last three heists were inside jobs." It was

impossible for him to keep the awe out of his voice. "You just
waltzed into that room and took the gems."

Sloane grinned. "In my pocket."
This time, Neil sat on the bed on his own, his legs no

longer holding him up. His thoughts rushed. He'd largely
ignored Sloane for so long, barely noticing him except in
admiration of his technical skills.

But Sloane had always been there, over his shoulder

watching. Waiting. The bastard was brilliant. "Genius," he
whispered.

"Funny how you can say that and not even look at me."

Sloane grabbed his chin, his eyes intense.

Neil's searched his face, memorizing it. "Why the ruse, the

idiot biker pretending to be you?"

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"To keep you occupied. It was convenient for you to think

someone else was to blame. Also, as a test. A distraction."

Neil closed his eyes. "Fuck. Of course. You'd found the

perfect setup, the perfect situation, and you had to keep me
out of your way." He sneered, but it was directed at himself.
"I'm such a moron. The perfect patsy, letting you play me as
long as you could. You were seeing how long you could keep
it up, weren't you?"

"No." Suddenly Sloane was on his knees, staring up at

him. "You misunderstand me. Or, no." He shook his head.
"You don't. I did want to play you as long as could. But not
for the loot." His hands squeezed Neil's thighs and continued
to move upwards. Neil knew he should move.

And yet, he couldn't. The touch burned his skin.
Here, before him, with gleaming eyes and wicked smile,

was a worthy opponent. Everything he could have hoped the
Ghost was.

It turned him on so much it hurt.
"So what did you do it for?" he managed to get out.
"Isn't it obvious?" It wasn't to Neil, but before he could

speak, Sloane leaned forward, running his tongue up the
length of Neil's clothed cock, causing the detective to squirm
and swear. "I want you. And I wanted you to completely
accept how much you wanted me, your enemy." His hands
took the top of Neil's pants and underwear, pulling them
down slowly. Neil's penis sprang to attention, reaching
forward, and despite himself he lifted his hips, wanting,
needing that touch.

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"Fucking beautiful," Sloane said dreamily, almost as if to

himself, before looking up at Neil again. "But I wanted to put
myself in a physical package I knew you'd want, the pretty
young biker. He was irresistible, wasn't he?"

"You dumb fuck." Neil growled, and the younger man

blinked in surprise. "The way he looked had almost nothing to
do with it. It was the mind I thought he had ... Your mind.
That was what made me so fucking—" He stopped himself,
embarrassed, suddenly vulnerable in front of the one man he
should be anything but vulnerable to.

But that was exactly what was so damn hot, and he

couldn't deny it anymore.

"So fucking...?" Down on his knees between Neil's legs,

Sloane looked up with bright eyes; it was shocking now to the
detective that he hadn't noticed them before. "So it's my
mind you want?" He leaned forward and ran his nose up the
length of Neil's cock. "Hope you don't mind if what you get is
my body." And then, without warning, he slipped the
detective's cock into his mouth, all the way down to the base.

"FUCK!" Neil shouted, overwhelmed by the sensation.
He arched against his handcuffs, frustrated and turned on

by the fact he couldn't actually touch the other man.

His body was straining toward coming. "Stop. Stop," he

insisted through gritted teeth, and Sloane's head popped up.

"You aren't enjoying it?"
"That's not it..." He shook his head, but couldn't say it. It

was degrading.

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"You want to do more?" That quirked smile again, and a

tongue against his balls before Sloane lifted his head up
completely.

Neil glared at him defiantly. He knew what he wanted, and

it was impossible to say it. He'd never said it to anyone
before, not in his thirty-four years.

"Come on, Detective," Sloane purred, and undid his shirt,

opening it to bare Neil's hairy, muscled chest. He pinched one
dark nipple and Neil twitched with a strangled oath. "What is
it?"

"Fuck me."
Sloane's eyes widened. "What?"
"Fuck me, you thieving asshole. I ... want you ... to top

me. To fuck me hard." His eyes blazed, daring the man to
laugh at him, or to show incredulity.

Instead, a new expression spread over Sloane's face. It

was empty of the wry, ironic humor, and full of surprise.
"Really?

"If you don't want it, you don't, forget it." Neil turned

away. A hand pulled his face around again.

"No." Sloane's breathing was shallow, and Neil could see

his erection. At that moment, he knew he had to taste it, feel
it between his lips. "There's nothing I want more. Nothing I
want more than you. Surprised myself, really." He trailed a
finger down Neil's wide cheekbones. Neil flushed, and bit at
the digit. Sloane drew back, surprised, but his eyes gleamed
with excitement.

"Shut the fuck up and let me suck you," Neil growled.

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Sloane quickly pushed down his pants, revealing lean,

muscled legs, and came forward. Neil took him in greedily,
loving it when Sloane grabbed the back of his head to guide
and control him. "Fuck, Detective," he groaned. The grip of
his fingers tightened. "Wanted ... this ... for so long..."

Neil tasted the telltale pre-come, and pulled back, getting

a moan from the man standing over him. "Let my hands go
and fuck me, Ghost boy. If you don't, I'm going to bite you."

What Sloane did next unnerved him, and robbed him of

words. Slowly, almost tenderly, the man bent down and
kissed the top of Neil's head, running his hands through his
short hair from his ears back. "Anything you want," he
answered quietly.

He pulled a key from his pants pocket and quickly undid

the cuffs. "Now's your time to get away," Sloane said
teasingly as he threw them away, his pointed devil's grin
returning. "You could escape."

"For someone so smart, you're awfully stupid, Sloane."

Neil reached up and grabbed the man by his hair, giving it a
good tug before pulling his face almost to his. "Do you really
think handcuffs could have stopped me if I really wanted to
escape?"

"No?"
"No. So—" He jutted his hips forward, rubbing his cock and

his ass against Sloane's straining groin, loving the sensation
that mingled with his own rising anticipation."—keep your
promise, 'Ghost,' and fucking fuck me. Before I beat the shit
out of you."

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Sloane's pupils dilated, and his breathing became ragged.

"God, you're amazing." He positioned himself on his knees,
and Neil lifted his legs, running a large fist around his
erection, groaning as he felt the head of Sloane's long tool
push against his hole, pushing forward.

But, to his deep consternation, the man didn't enter at that

moment, and after a beat, Neil stared over his own body at
him incredulously. "What?"

"Well," Sloane looked worried. "We have no lube."
"Use spit, then." Neil threw back his head proudly. "I can

fucking take it."

"Yeah." Sloane was serious now, no smile. He gathered

spit and covered his hand with it before bringing it to his own
cock and coating it with the slick wetness. Then he leaned
forward, lightly kissing Neil, their tongues dancing. "I think
you can." With that he pushed forward suddenly and swiftly,
and Neil closed his eyes and bellowed as he felt the pain
explode through him.

It felt so fucking good. Neil pushed his ass into the

sensation, the raw and rough explosion of the flesh of
Sloane's cock giving him pleasure like he'd never known. He
reached again for his own cock but Sloane stopped Neil,
taking it in his hand and jacking it up and down, rubbing it
deliciously raw.

"Fuck, Sloane..." he growled, the name stretched out into

pleasure.

"Aaron," the thief said, and leaned forward to nip Neil's

knee. "My real name is Aaron." He started to thrust faster and
Neil arched into the bed.

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It could have been a lie, it probably was a lie; who knew if

it was really his name? But at that moment, Neil didn't care,
the sensation of the scratchy bedspread underneath his back
as Sloa—Aaron pounded into him faster and faster set his
body on fire. "Aaron ... Fuck, yes, Harder, Aaron!"

"Oh, god." Aaron's head had fallen to the side, eyes closed

in ecstasy. Neil could feel both the rock hard strain of the
cock inside him and of his own, the increasingly erratic
thrusts, deeper and harder and faster.

"Coming ... Oh, FUCK!" Aaron's warning was cut off as his

lips opened to an "O" and then he let out a strained, sexy
yell, his fingers and clutching around Neil's cock as he
spasmed.

Neil's own orgasm was like an explosion, light bursting

from the corner of his vision. He bucked, growling as he
pushed against Aaron to get the last of his hard, violent
movements. It was the longest he had ever come; his
pleasure just seemed to go on and on as it came out
endlessly. Aaron leaned forward and violently mashed their
lips together, holding himself inside Neil as the other man
came.

As the shudders subsided, Aaron kissed down his chest,

running his hands through the come, tasting it. Of its own
accord, one of Neil's hands lifted and touched Aaron's hair.

"Well, that was both more painful and better than I

thought it would be," he said, bemused.

Aaron lifted his head, surprised. "What? You've never

bottomed before?" A grin that could only be called delighted
spread over his face, but he quickly dropped it when he saw

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Neil's warning snarl. He chuckled quietly, and they fell briefly
into a comfortable silence. Neil stared at the ceiling, mind
working but not settling on any particular thought.

He had a decision to make, and he was going to have to

make it now. But it wasn't coming easily.

It was Aaron who broke the silence. "So ... now what?"
Neil looked down at him, face blank. He answered as best

he could, figuring the question had the same meaning as
those in his own mind. "There's two options. One: I drag your
ass in, now." He tightened his grip on Aaron's hair. "And you
spend the rest of your life in jail. But I also don't believe
you'd let that happen."

Those green eyes caught his again. "Why wouldn't I?"
Neil snorted, putting his hands behind his head to lean

back upon and looking at Aaron in amusement. "So you're
saying you'd let yourself be thrown in jail for one quick fuck?
I doubt it. I'm surprised I'm not already tied up again, or
knocked out, or something. Maybe dead."

"What's not to believe?" Aaron wasn't smiling.
"There's no profit in it. You're a thief."
"No. I am a thief, yes, but I'm not in it for the money." He

ran a finger down Neil's nose. Something wicked sparked in
his eyes." I do it for the game. I'm in it for the thrill. And
profit ... Sometimes, it's not financial. It's for the profit of
discovery. The spoils of risk."

"Uh-huh. And I'm your latest thrill, your latest game?

Mind-screwing the cop as the greatest risk, yeah? Fuck that,"
Neil growled. He began to move away, but Aaron stopped him
with surprising strength.

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"You're my favorite game. You're the only game that's

been more than an exercise, more than play. Ever since the
first time I saw you investigating the Van Gogh heist." His
eyes clouded. "You were so beautiful, striding around like
some sort of caged beast."

He took advantage of Neil's shocked stare to kiss him,

biting his lips.

"Fuck," Neil swore into his mouth, and flipped them,

pinning Aaron down, muscles bulging. "You're a twisty
bastard, you know that?" His head was light with the
knowledge that he was the reason the Ghost had stayed
around so long, fighting with an anger at how thoroughly and
easily he had been manipulated.

The thief was equally as obsessed as he was.
Aaron's smile was small, tight, and his eyes were still

intense. "Yes, I know that. What's that other option?"

"I let you go." Neil sighed. "Maybe it's good I'm not the

'perfect detective' anymore. They'll stop expecting me to pull
their asses out of the fire every time. If I get fired for not
catching you, I get fired. I'll live. But." He put his face inches
from Aaron's and growled. What he was about to say made
his heart ache, oddly, but it was the only way. "You get out.
You leave. You never pull a heist in my town again. Move on.
Push off."

"No." Aaron shook his head, expression nonchalant.

"That's not actually an option."

"What?" Neil was incredulous. "You want to end up in

prison, you dumb fuck? I might now officially be a shitty cop,
but I'm still a cop, and you're still a criminal scumbag. I'm not

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going to let you keep this up on my turf. No matter how good
it feels to have you fuck me."

Aaron stretched like a cat, and his long lean, muscles

shifted under his pale skin. "I'm obviously not that bad a
scumbag to you, if you're going to let me go. But it's nice to
hear I'm a good lay." His wicked smile played around his lips,
dancing.

Neil felt a stirring in his cock, and took a deep annoyed

breath. "You little..."

Aaron lifted a hand to his lips. "Option three. I quit

stealing. I stay in your town."

"As if I believe you'd—"
"Your career is magically saved by finding where I've

stashed everything I've stolen," Aaron continued. Neil's
mouth felt like it was frozen open. "And the Ghost goes
'poof.'" He made a dissipating motion with his two hands.
"Forever and ever."

"You..." Neil shook his head. "Crazy asshole. I thought you

were in it for the 'game.' Men like you don't just stop that
shit, you'll be bored."

"Mmmmm." Aaron ran a finger down Neil's broad chest,

snagging hairs. "You have the most amazing body ... I was
already getting bored with the thievery game; it was losing its
thrill, and I've been getting sloppy. If you're not going to put
me in jail, I'd rather quit at the top of my game." His smile
was sly. "I'll find new games to keep me busy."

"And Ryan, the idiot biker? Doesn't he know about you?"

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"His money was waiting for him at the bus station, he's

done his job. He was an easily manipulated grifter who has no
idea who I am. I wouldn't worry about that."

"You're fucking nuts." He couldn't keep the admiration out

of his voice. "But." His large hand pinned Aaron around the
neck, and his other was around his arm. He squeezed both,
making it clear he could break either very easily. Aaron's
breathing deepened, and his face became flush. "If you ever
involve me personally in any of your fucking games, I will
snap you like a twig, understood?"

Aaron reached up and wrapped his limbs around Neil, and

electricity shot through the detective as their renewed
erections met. The younger man put his lips near the Neil's
ear, and ran his tongue slowly along its edge. "I wouldn't
have it any other way, Detective Margrave." One of his
fingers started to rub gently between Neil's asscheeks, and
the policeman's body instantly pushed into the touch.

"Fucker," he swore, and cut off Aaron's laugh with a

crushing kiss. He wasn't sure if he could trust the thief to
mean everything he said—actually, he was pretty sure he
couldn't.

But that was part of the game, and Neil was now ready to

play.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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LIKE CLOCKWORK

Meredith Shrike
Captain Gideon P. Highwater was assured of three

immutable truths: one, that he was easily twice as sharp as
he was good-looking; two, that he was, in fact, excruciatingly
good-looking; and three, that he never got caught.

But while he was every bit as intelligent and handsome as

he had been a quarter of an hour previous, he was, even he
had to admit, having a teeny tiny bit of trouble with the third
one. Because he had been caught, there was no doubt about
that. Caught, and good, by the cleverest little bit of clockwork
that he'd seen in many a long day. He would have stopped to
admire the whole contraption that had done it, had he not
been, as had previously been asserted, caught. Not to
mention kitted out in a fine pair of Doctor Cedric O.
Greenfiddle's patented irrodium auto-cinching cuffs. Around
his ankles. And hanging from the ceiling. There were wrist
binders as well, of course, but they were nothing more than a
flimsy, insulting afterthought, and Gideon would have been
out of them in a trice if he hadn't been so busy being
indignant about the entire affair.

Perhaps, he thought, with a brief aside to wonder if his

rakish hair looked every bit as rakish upside-down as it did
right-side-up, perhaps—just maybe—he should say, Captain
Gideon P. Highwater never stayed caught. Because, as sure
as his eyes were blue and his ass indescribably perfect, his
means of escape was at that moment detaching from the

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underside of the Zonlicht's hull and skittering toward its
master.

The Latchkey was a small, spidery-legged contraption

made up of pins and cogs and steam-compressed bolt cutters,
and Gideon had procured it not because he felt he needed it,
but because it had been under lock and key in the Greenfiddle
labs and was supposed to be unstealable. So he had stolen it.
It had been ridiculously simple, really. The Latchkey was
designed to free things; all Gideon had had to do was suggest
it free itself. And three and a half minutes later (by Gideon's
pocket watch), it had come tottling out of the laboratory and
had been as friendly as a puppy ever since. By all reports, the
project financiers were infuriated at the loss of three years'
work, and the good Doctor Greenfiddle himself delighted that
his invention had worked so well.

Gideon had activated the device the moment he had been

snared in the clockwork trap, glad at least the wrist restraints
allowed for a certain freedom in the fingers. As a result, he
expected that the Latchkey would be arriving within the next
four minutes, and that in the next five, Gideon would have in
his possession that lovely little droplet of crystallized giltruby
that was twinkling in the case below him.

The sudden appearance of a pair of gleaming black boots

in his field of vision forced him to add another minute and a
half to his estimate, give or take ten seconds.

"I see you've been introduced to the Miriam Vise," the

owner of the boots said, and the set of his ankles was nothing
short of smug. Gideon could see little else of the man, except
for the reflection of a royal guardsman's uniform on the

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highly-polished marble floor. "She's quite the jealous lady, as
I'm sure you've noticed."

"Really?" Gideon drawled, as only a sky-pirate who is

upside down and about to escape can drawl. "I would have
called her a bit of a claptrap. All that whirring and the
whistles. Overdone really. And the ankles! I mean, you could
have the decency to snare a man upright, as is proper and
polite."

"Hm. Well, the prototype was intended to be more wrist-

oriented, but it kept ripping the arms of the test mannequins
out of their sockets." The boots became knees and a chest as
the guardsman knelt down, and then a face interposed itself
between Gideon and the giltruby. Even upside down, Gideon
felt his heart go up into his throat in a way that had nothing
to do with the inversion of his own personal gravity. "I'm sure
you can agree that such measures would be a bit ... extreme.
Even for the Giltruby Arietis of House Xersetos."

Gideon pried his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "Quite,"

he said, while his brain sped on in silence. Where were they
recruiting the royal guard these days? The Isle of Adonis? The
other guardsmen at the door had had all the physical appeal
of a three-week old cucumber sandwich, but Gideon's captor
was something else entirely. Supremely blond, with a good
jaw and a mouth that was, in spite of the stern frame of the
close-cropped beard, decadently pouty. There was more than
the due course of law and order in his pale eyes, and those
gabardine trousers, so ill-advised on the other guards, framed
a backside that was almost as fine a work of art as Gideon's
own. He had quite a nice view of it, reflected in the rosy

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marble floor (how the palace maids must slave for that
shine!), but Gideon decided, without question, that he would
have to take a better look to be sure.

With the usual sort of unplanned inspiration that had won

him infamy in five confederations, Gideon deftly pressed the
blue stone on his forefinger ring. Somewhere down the
corridors of the royal treasury, the Latchkey hummed and
clicked as it accepted new orders.

Gideon's handsome antagonist reached out to catch the

back of the sky-pirate's head and hold him steady, the better
to look him sternly in the eye without having to weave along
to Gideon's bothersome pendular swaying. Gideon had begun
to feel rather like he ought to be counterweighted and put in
a grandfather clock. "Now then," the guardsman said, and
Gideon quietly savored the way the man's fingers tightened in
the soft burr of his hair; it was so deliciously straightforward
and honest. "I may not be one to indulge in the popular
serials in the evening Tribune, but I do confess I know the
slant of your burnsides, my boy. I thought Gideon Highwater
never got caught?"

"I really should speak to someone at the papers," Gideon

said brightly, "and specify that it should be 'Captain Gideon P.
Highwater never stays caught.' Because once in a while, you
have to admit, I have to be a little bit caught. Livens up a dull
afternoon, makes sure my sketch for the wanted posters is
properly up to date and flattering, all that sort of thing."

The other man's lips (utterly indecent, they were!)

tightened in a grim smile. "You'll stay caught this time,

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Highwater. As sure as my name is Jules Alexandre X—
ugmph!"

"You must have the devil of a time getting your linens

embroidered," Gideon said, noting it was precisely five
minutes and twenty-three seconds after he first summoned
his clockwork assistant, "what with a surname like Xugmph."

Jules growled something understandably uncivil, trapped

underneath the weight of the Latchkey sprawled across his
chest. Seven of the device's eight arms were busy pinning the
taller man to the floor; the eighth was industriously nipping
through Gideon's restraints. Gideon's ankles came free and he
flipped neatly down to the ground and busied himself getting
out of the wrist binders on his own. The Latchkey might have
done it faster, but Gideon felt it was better to keep one's
hand in with regard to that sort of thing, and it gave him a
chance to study his prize.

Which was not, at that moment, the giltruby.
"I'll see you hanged!" Jules spluttered, and the righteous

fury in his eyes triggered a suffusion of warmth low in
Gideon's belly.

"Would you?" Gideon made a show of fussing over his shirt

cuffs; they'd been soiled with lubricating oil from the
contraption. "The boys at Madam Evangelina's salon are easy
providence; I'm sure for a silver sovereign they'd be delighted
to inform you just how hung I already am. Or were you
wanting to personally test the veracity of that claim?" Jules
seethed, and Gideon winked at him. "Now, if you'll pardon
me, I believe that's mine." Gideon stepped over Jules' prone
body, ignoring the guardsman's abusive protests as the

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Latchkey began to systematically install him in the Miriam
Vise—right-side-up. Gideon left them to it and got on with his
business.

The giltruby's case was made of three triangular panes of

delicate, etched glass, gleaming in a beam of moonlight in the
center of the room. The case reflected Gideon's slim hips and
arched eyebrow half a second before it shattered gorgeously
under the butt of his pistol, and then, oh, then! Gideon had
the giltruby in his hand at last. Framed in smooth coils of
copper wire, its crimson depths flickering with ancient
magicks, the ram's horn shape of the giltruby was as light as
a feather in his palm, and glowed like a young girl's cheeks.
Gideon tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket, turned around,
and promptly forgot about it.

The Latchkey was a thorough bit of clockwork. Jules was

snared in the Miriam Vise's cunning chains, legs sprawled,
arms outstretched, and tilted back at a delicious angle like the
arm of a sundial. He was unable draw himself up to his proper
height, which would have been some inches more than
Gideon's slight frame. Had he been free, he likely could have
snapped Gideon in half like the proverbial twig. As it was,
Gideon could actually bend down to look him in the eye. It
was not a comfortable rig, as Gideon had cause to know, and
Jules writhed against his bonds. His thighs tensed with strain
under their covering of dark gray wool, and the brass button
at his collar had come undone as though solely to give a
teasing glimpse of the line of his throat.

Gideon glanced at his pocket watch, and estimated that he

could spare a minute or ten.

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"What do you want with the giltruby?" Jules panted,

ceasing to struggle for the moment. "It responds only to
members of the royal house."

"I'm collecting the twelve gems of the zodiac," Gideon

said, absently patting his waistcoat pocket as he stepped up
beside the prone guard. "I've seven out of twelve, now."

"Then ... you mean to resurrect the Celestial Device?"

Jules asked, his face going ashen.

"Oh," Gideon said, running the back of his hand down the

other man's cheek, and savoring the soft brush of golden
hairs against his knuckles, "not right this very moment, no."
He leaned in and caught that fine chin between his thumb and
forefinger, forcing the man's proud face toward his own.

Jules' eyes went wide with comprehension half a second

before Gideon had crushed their mouths together, sweeter
plunder by far than any common royal treasure. For a
moment, the gilt chains of the Miriam Vise clattered with
Jules' indignation, and then the clenched jaw went lax and
welcoming under Gideon's lips. Gideon was deft with his
tongue—he would not risk so dull a trick as having it bitten
off—but there was no dissembling in the raw, hungry moan
that welled up from Jules' chest.

"Law and justice are too pious a pair of spinsters for a man

like you to be wasted on," Gideon said, wrenching Jules'
jacket open and sending a rain of brass buttons onto the floor
like a shower of cathedral bells. His hands slipped past the
crisp folds of Jules' shirt, tracing a ticklish path over the taut
muscles of his belly. "You'd make a far finer pirate."

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Jules had a streak of red across his face that had nothing

to do with rage. "And be chased across the sky like some
infernal winged fox? I think not."

"But it is the fox that has caught the hunting hound,"

Gideon said, swinging one leg over Jules' tense leg, so he was
straddling it. "Do you so enjoy your leash? I suppose we'll
see." Gideon shifted his weight, as though moving forward in
a waltz, or in a duel with epees, and his hipbone came up just
so against the crux of Jules' thighs. The other man's cock was
thick and rigid against the pressure of Gideon's body,
deliciously hot even through the confines of his trousers. The
noise Jules made was not that of a hound on the scent, but
something far sweeter.

"I see," Gideon said, and his own voice was rough, "you

fancy your chains."

"Unhand me," Jules growled, but Gideon did the opposite,

thief-fingers circumventing wool and linen to close on the
aching weight of Jules' cock. Jules' cry of need rang in the
dark, empty vaults of the royal treasury.

"I don't think that's at all what you mean," Gideon said,

and shucked Jules' trousers down as far as his spread thighs
would allow. Gideon allowed himself more time for admiration
than he had spent on the giltruby's exquisite case. Jules' cock
was ruddy to the tip, curving up from golden curls and
nuzzling almost innocently into Gideon's hand. It jumped
slightly with the rapid beats of Jules' pulse, forthright and
hungry. His bare ass, reflected in the marble beneath (Gideon
did hope those maids were paid exceptionally well) was
parted just enough to give a hint of the puckered, pink bud of

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his opening. Gideon watched in the reflection as his own
silver-ringed fingers cupped the weight of Jules' balls, leaving
them with a gentle tug before stroking one trigger-callused
fingertip over a vise much tighter than any clockwork binders.
Jules' cock begged for equal attention, and Gideon deigned to
give it some, bending down and sweeping his tongue over the
salty bead of anticipation that had gathered at the tip.

Jules arched up, letting himself hang from the chains and

moving his hips greedily into Gideon's hand. "Get on with it,
man!" he gasped, fists clenching uselessly. "I thought thieves
were supposed to be quick?"

"Do I drag out the scene? A thousand pardons, then."

Gideon whistled and the Latchkey skittered up obediently. It
produced a gleaming copper syringe from one of its many
compartments, and smacked it into Gideon's waiting hand. "I
should not want to keep the audience waiting."

Protest, if Jules wanted to give it, was not accorded the

opportunity. The black rubber nozzle of the syringe slipped
easily between Jules' buttocks; he caught his breath hard
against his teeth as Gideon depressed the plunger.

"Clockworks work best when well-oiled, wouldn't you

agree?" Gideon struggled to maintain his carefree tone. The
empty syringe clattered to the floor and the sky-pirate
fumbled with the front of his trousers. Thin tendrils of oil
trickled down Jules' thighs, catching in the pale hairs of his
legs. "After all, I wouldn't want your gears to stop."

"I'll stop your gears," Jules growled, with an emphatic

rattle of chains. "If you don't get your damn cock out and—
nnnnnngh!"

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Jules' slightly supine angle in the chains was perfectly

accommodating; so much so that one would think the Miriam
vise built for such activity. Gideon spared a glance for the
reflection beneath them long enough to watch the tip of his
own aching cock being swallowed by the welcoming
constriction of Jules' asshole. After that, he was far too
preoccupied with the sheer, unmitigated pleasure of fucking
the man to be bothered with narcissism.

That Jules would like it hard and fast was never in doubt;

these military types were all the same. In truth Gideon was
having a fair amount of trouble with his own patented brand
of disinterest. He clutched Jules' beautiful ass hard enough for
the firm flesh to go white around his fingers, and snapped his
hips forward with the same kind of greed that drove him
across a thousand skies. Jules found enough slack in his ankle
chains to hitch his legs higher up around Gideon's waist,
gripping the chains above his wrist cuffs and arching back,
letting Gideon's plundering run deep. Rogue and scoundrel
but never for a moment discourteous, Gideon wrapped his
fingers around Jules' thick shaft and pumped it in time.

"Admit it," Gideon rasped, control fraying like a silk scarf

left too long in the wind. "I—"

"No."
"Never—"
"I won't say it—"
"Get—"
"Hnng!"
"—Caught."

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"Never!" Jules vowed, and came, spilling himself all over

his shivering belly and Gideon's ringed fingers. Gideon dug in
his heels and gritted his teeth but could not stop his own
answer, coiled pleasure bursting free like a copper spring,
licking down his thighs as he flooded Jules with his release.

For a moment they both hung suspended on the weight of

the chains, gasping for air. Gideon caressed Jules' buttocks,
smoothing the red marks left by his fingers. Given the
chance, they might have stayed as they were for some time,
but the Latchkey bounced up to them and clicked its pincers
in warning. It waved a lacy handkerchief at its master like a
maid seeing her lover off to war, and Gideon made a bored
attempt to clean himself up a bit.

"Well," he said, more breathless than he cared to admit,

"I'd best be off."

"Leave me hanging here if you must," Jules said, with

resignation, "but would you at least have the decency to pull
my pants up this time? It was twenty minutes before they
found me last week, and I thought my arse would freeze off."

"Aww, poor diddums." Gideon clicked his tongue and

tugged Jules' clothing more or less back into place, but not
before wrapping the scrap of embroidered lace around Jules'
sated cock, like a souvenir. "I would not expect the Crown
Prince of the House of Xersetos to be such a sniveler."

Jules' lip curled in something like real annoyance. "I'll give

you sniveling, you nancy little box of satin petticoats—"

"Next week," Gideon said, and kissed him again, sticky

fingers tangling up in the prince's blond hair. "We've no time
now. And do try to come up with something cleverer than this

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Miriam Whatsit. I would have been out of it and gone if you'd
been any later. Back in the skies with my prize."

"I know the prize you're after," Jules said, and smiled

against Gideon's mouth. "And it's not the giltruby. Not that
you even have the giltruby."

"Another fake, I expect?" Gideon sighed. "I've got quite

the collection. Ah well. I'll find the real one, by and by."

The Latchkey whistled in warning; there were footsteps

coming up the stairs of the far corridor.

"Get out of here, pirate," Jules murmured. Gideon brought

his palm smartly against Jules' backside, snapped his fingers
for the Latchkey, and was out the window and on the roof. A
moment later, the actual members of the royal house guard
clattered into the room, urgent and overwhelmingly
ineffectual.

"Damn and blast, Your Highness!" One of them fussed

through his snowy whiskers, hurrying over to free Jules from
the cuffs. "Are you all right?"

"Not to worry," Jules said, subtly shifting his hips to make

the hidden handkerchief stroke its lace gently between his
legs, like the memory of a sky-pirate's cuffs. "He's only
gotten away with the fake."

"Yes, and it's a damn good thing you were smart enough

to move the giltruby this morning. But the fox himself has
given us the slip again! I begin to think it's true, he can't be
caught!"

"Oh, he can be caught, Humphries," Jules said, smiling at

the open window, the shattered case, and the whole wide,
unfettered sky beyond. "Believe me. He can be caught."

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[Back to Table of Contents]

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A GAME OF EMPIRE

Autumn Winterwind
2865, June, en route to Alpha Centauri
Communique/route/ImpNav/Wilhelm II/RAdm

vBielefeld/private

Fritz, I'm taking a job at Beta Ceti. Please believe me when

I say you can trust me. Should you remember that you're
human, I'll follow you anywhere in the Empire.

Your ever faithful, Hans.
Bielefeld frowned at his screen. "Of course I'm human.

What else would I be?" He marked the message and saved it,
cursing himself for the sentimentality.

2875, April, Beta Ceti
The comm unit beeped. Vice Admiral Friedrich von

Bielefeld turned from his contemplation of space and pressed
the button. "Report."

"They've caught him, sir," Lieutenant Schneider said

cheerfully. "They're putting him in the shuttle as we speak."

"Excellent news. Bring him to me and have the guest room

prepared—and remove all objects that could be used as a
weapon."

"Not the brig, sir?"
"He's too dangerous. I want him where I can keep an eye

on him."

"Yes, sir," Schneider signed off.
Bielefeld smiled. He draped the standard uniform coat over

the back of his chair, then he took his formal black uniform

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coat from its hanger and slipped it onto his shoulders. He
buttoned it from the bottom to the standing collar, arranged
the insignia and cords across his chest, and waited.

* * * *

Two armed soldiers brought Hans Schmidt to Bielefeld's

quarters. The prisoner wore gray trousers without pockets
and a tunic. His hands were cuffed behind his back, which
pulled the light fabric tight across his well-muscled chest and
biceps. Bielefeld directed the soldiers to cuff the prisoner's
right arm to a chair. "You may leave."

"But Sir, the prisoner—"
"Is restrained. Wait outside the door until I call you."

Reluctantly, the two soldiers obeyed and left Hans and
Bielefeld alone.

Hans stared at Bielefeld, whose uniform provided an

impressive display of rank. His broad shoulders filled out the
coat, and the gold braided cords accentuated his chest. Blond
hair brushed the top of the collar. "I thought it might be you,"
Hans said darkly. "I'd heard some hotshot young Admiral was
in charge of this sector, trying to catch me, since the others
all failed."

"Vice Admiral, Herr Schmidt."
Hans snorted. "Come on, Fritz. You know as soon as your

precious Emperor gets the message, you'll be promoted.
Admiral in the Galactic Fleet at thirty-five. Impressive."

"Don't be so familiar, Haensl," Bielefeld sneered.
"Yes sir, Admiral von Bielefeld, sir!" Hans smirked.

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"Don't irritate me. I hold the key to your life in my hand.

You cooperate, you live. You refuse, I let the Emperor decide
your fate." Bielefeld frowned. "And you know the penalty for
treason."

Hans laughed. "I could have died a hundred times already!

What makes you think a death sentence worries me? I would
gladly give my life for my comrades' freedom."

"As expected, your idealism lacks in finesse." Bielefeld

sighed. He stepped toward Hans' chair. "Do you truly believe
your movement would survive for long without you? The
Empire has sought to capture you because you are the
linchpin of the workers' revolt. Without you, it falls apart. You
best serve your cause if you remain alive to champion it."

"That sounds like treason, Fritz. I never thought you had it

in you."

"Perish the thought. I am merely concerned with the

current and future well-being of the Empire, and to that end,
I offer you a pardon. The station of Beta Ceti IV is in dire
need of a good representative in the Senate. If you prove to
me that you will submit to my authority, and by extension
that of the Emperor, I will plead your case to him personally."

Hans raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?"
"Then your workers' revolt dies with you. It's your choice."

Bielefeld summoned the soldiers to take Hans away. "Think
about it. I shall expect your answer at dinner tonight."

As the door closed, he muttered, "I hope you choose

wisely."

* * * *

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Two soldiers accompanied Bielefeld into the room Hans

occupied, and Bielefeld sent them outside to wait. He had
traded the dress coat for the standard uniform jacket, off-
white with gold trim, and far fewer decorations. "Let's not talk
business until after dinner," he said, raising his wineglass to
his lips. The galley had followed his orders to the letter: there
was only plastic, and no knives. Conversation was awkward;
no topic seemed far enough away from the business at hand.

"So, Fritz, what do you want from me? You tell me to

submit to your authority or be executed for treason. Do you
expect me to grovel and scrape and beg for you to spare
me?" Hans asked as he shoved his empty plate away. "Do
you think you can break my spirit?"

Bielefeld pushed his chair back and rose, stepping around

the small table. "Heaven forfend. Your spirit is far too
valuable—it's why I want you to represent Beta Ceti IV. The
last representative was entirely too susceptible to bribery."

Hans regarded him skeptically as Bielefeld shifted the cuffs

to behind his back. "Then how?"

Bielefeld avoided the question. "You need to learn who

holds the authority in this galaxy." A haughty half-smile
played across his lips. "Rather, you need to remember who
holds authority over you," he said, brushing fingers across
Hans' crotch.

"That was over long ago," Hans stated flatly. "I left you."
"You did. But I've never forgotten how you responded to

my touch." His hand gripped Hans' stiffening cock through the
prison trousers. "And twice now you've ignored my request
not to call me Fritz." He let go, provoking a gasp from Hans,

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and removed a flexible riding crop from a pocket of his jacket.
"Stand."

Hans glowered.
Bielefeld brought the crop down on Hans' muscular thigh.

"Stand." At Hans' second refusal, another stroke, and
Bielefeld said, "Don't make me call the guards. Now, stand
up."

Hans glowered, but he stood.
"Stand behind the chair and bend forward."
Hans complied, and he felt two solid blows through the

thin trousers. "You're stronger than you used to be."

"And older and more practiced," Bielefeld said, laying a

third stroke.

Hans refused to make a sound as it connected to his ass.

He wouldn't give Fritz the satisfaction.

"Stand straight," Bielefeld ordered. He tucked the crop

away. Before he summoned the guards, he ran his finger
along Hans' cock. "I see part of you still respects me. I'll be
back in a few hours to hear your answer."

When Bielefeld's back was safely on the other side of the

door, Hans sat on his chair and groaned softly. "Damn you,"
he whispered. "Damn you. This isn't a game."

* * * *

As promised, Bielefeld returned. Hans willed his body to be

insensate, his mind to steel. "You won't win this," he said.

"Win? Lose? Meaningless. Live or die, Haensl. I'd rather

you lived, for selfish, nostalgic reasons. Which do you

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choose?" He trailed fingers down Hans' tunic, following the
curve of his pectoral down to his rippling abdominals.

Hans held his breath and thought of his dead comrades.

"Death, like my fallen brothers in arms, dead at your hands."

Bielefeld's face registered distaste. "You understand that I

shall do everything within my power to convince you of your
mistake. The journey back to Sol III takes nearly two months.
I hope I won't need the whole time." He pinched a nipple.

"You think that if I let you dominate me again, I'll follow at

your heels. I'll be your good, loyal pet. Well, fuck you, Fritz,"
Hans spat.

Bielefeld's lip curved cruelly upward. "Oh no, we can't have

that. Where is the silver-tongued devil who has vexed the
Empire for the last year? Unfortunately, I have some business
I must attend to, so I cannot exact punishment tonight." He
smiled a bit sadly. "It seems your lieutenants aren't as good
at uniting the cause as you are. I think we'll only need a few
more days to quench your little revolution." He stroked Hans'
square jaw, and Hans jerked away. "I'll be back later."

After Bielefeld left, the guards shifted his cuffs to the front

of Hans' body. He dropped onto the edge of his bed, leaned
his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He'd
played right into Fritz's game, he knew it, and it didn't matter
which he'd chosen. He needed to fight Fritz for two months;
to do otherwise would be to betray his comrades' trust. He
could hold out that long.

He hoped.

* * * *

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Bielefeld did not return the next day or the day after. The

guards brought Hans' meals and uncuffed him to shower, and
he tried asking them for information, but he guessed they
were under strict orders not to speak with him. He only had
access to one incoming comm channel, and it was some
modern so-called music. So he waited.

When Bielefeld returned on the evening of the third day,

his blue eyes were ringed with dark circles. He called up a
video on the terminal. "Your revolution is over. Your
lieutenants surrendered this morning. Look!" He gestured to
the screen, where two young men and a woman were being
led, handcuffed, into the Imperial Security jail. "As I told you,
your insurrection will die without you. Yet you choose death—
foolish!" Frustration flashed across his face before he could
smooth his features to disdain.

"How do I know it isn't faked?" Hans asked, his heart

sinking to his feet.

"Have I ever lied to you, Haensl? Will you change your

decision?"

"No. I won't betray the people who trusted me."
Bielefeld sighed. "I'd hoped I wouldn't have to beat your

idiotic pride out of you." He summoned the guards. "Cuff him
around that post. Facing it. Then leave." He hung his coat
over a chair removed his belt.

Hans steeled himself; Fritz was a man of his word. He felt

the prison-issue trousers jerked down to his ankles, and the
sharp stinging of the leather across his ass.

"You'll beg like you used to, Haensl," Bielefeld whispered in

his ear.

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"Never," Hans replied, his erection giving him the lie.
Bielefeld took Hans' cock into his hand. "I've never

forgotten the sound of your voice, begging me to get you off.
I've longed to hear it again."

"I'm stronger than you now," Hans said, his raspy voice

betraying him. "If I weren't cuffed, you'd be begging me for
mercy."

Bielefeld chuckled, breath against Hans' ear. "Are you,

now? Would I be?" He closed his teeth on Hans' earlobe, and
Hans—mostly—stifled a gasp of pleasure. He stepped back
and took aim with the belt. "Beg me," he growled. "Beg for
release."

"Never."
Bielefeld brought the belt down again. "You will."
"Never!"
Hans braced himself against the post. The first stroke of

the belt stung, but he knew the next would be harder. He
grunted involuntarily as the leather hit his ass a second and
third time. He focused his attention on the heat building
across his ass, while trying to ignore the stiffening of his cock.
He heard the whoosh of the belt as it swung toward him and
muffled a groan of pain as it connected. The pain—such a
close neighbor to pleasure, isn't it? Fritz's voice echoed in his
memory—turned to desire, and he braced himself for another
hard blow, but the next lashes were almost gentle. Hans
opened his eyes—he hadn't realized they were closed—and
turned his head. Fritz's eyebrows were pulled downward, in
thought, and his arm was pulled back, the light fabric curving
around the bulge of his bicep. Just before he began to swing,

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Fritz's eyes met his, and his lips curled slightly. The next five
strokes came in rapid succession, each harder than the
previous. Hans held in a stream of curses, and it stopped.

Bielefeld traced one of the red welts across Hans' ass. "Beg

for release," he whispered.

"No," Hans rasped.
"Then watch," Bielefeld said, unzipping his fly and moving

so Hans could see him. Slowly, he ran his hand up and down
his cock. Hans started to turn away, but Bielefeld grabbed his
chin with his free hand. "Watch. Every. Moment."

Hans felt a disquieting urge to have Fritz's cock in his own

hand, to be the one giving him pleasure. He very nearly hated
himself for it.

"Oh, that's right. You always liked watching," Bielefeld

purred. Bielefeld's hand moved faster, and Hans felt
Bielefeld's eyes concentrating on his face. Hans' breath came
faster, betraying his desire. Bielefeld muffled a groan as his
come dripped over his fingers. He wiped his hand on Hans'
shirt and zipped up. "I have no compunction about leaving
you like this. Beg me to let you come."

"Never."
Bielefeld shrugged, turned his back, and walked off. Hans

sank carefully to the floor, sitting on crossed legs while his
cock ached for touch. He wept silently, forcing his thoughts to
his fallen comrades to overcome his carnal desire, and hating
himself for having to at all.

* * * *

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"We move tomorrow, back to Sol," Bielefeld reported.

"Your countdown begins at ten hundred hours tomorrow. I
hope you'll change your mind without too much persuasion on
my part, though I would rather enjoy the persuading."

Hans shook his head forcefully. "And betray my comrades'

trust in me? Their deaths would be rendered meaningless."

Bielefeld's fist struck the table. "Don't you understand? It

already is meaningless! Your revolution has collapsed. The
workers are back to work."

Hans' eyes narrowed. "I won't deal with the enemy."
"Fool. You reject the power I offer you."
"I reject the chains you would put on me."
"Once you wore them gladly."
"I threw them off when they no longer suited me."
"They suit you still, Haensl, my dear."
"They suit you better, Fritz, my dear. I've changed."
"Have you, Hans? I think you haven't." He turned to leave.

"I need to finish reports before we depart. I shan't be back
until after the ship has moved." He stood by the door. "Do
consider my most generous offer. The Empire needs more
men like you."

"Stuff it, Fritz. You've heard my answer."
His lips curled up in a parody of a smile. "And it's the

wrong one. You'll take it before the journey is through." He
stepped through the door, and it closed behind him.

Hans glared at the door. Same old Fritz, he thought. I

know his game. I can beat him at it.

* * * *

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Bielefeld returned the day after departure, bringing lunch

with him. He knew Hans was an intelligent man, beneath the
muscles built by years of dock labor, and he sought to appeal
to his logic, rather than his body. He went to Hans' room,
bearing beer and sausages, in an attempt to relax Hans and
remind him of home and their old friendship.

Bielefeld smiled. "Shall we talk about soccer? Were you

able to see the Imperial League Cup out here? It was a
remarkable season this year."

Hans shook his head. "Part of the embargo." He took a

piece of sausage and one of the beers. "Who won?"

"Bayern." Bielefeld rolled his eyes.
Hans snorted. "Of course. But you didn't come here to talk

sports."

"You're right. I'll get to the point, then." He took a bite of

sausage and washed it down with beer. "Answer me honestly,
Hans. Explain to me why the riots started. I've heard the
official version from the former Senator: rabblerousers fanned
the people's discontent and fomented rebellion. The
companies are not at fault, in the official version, but I hear
rumors. Tell me, old friend, what happened, because I don't
understand."

"Of course you don't," Hans interrupted. "You've got it so

good, as an officer and, incidentally, the Crown fucking
Prince."

Bielefeld glowered at him. "There are systems of recourse

in the colonies, and it could have been brought to peaceful
resolution." Bielefeld gestured to Hans. "Do tell."

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"The official version is a pack of lies. You want the truth?

The managers of the mining companies let ships go so long
without maintenance that 'accidents' happen far too regularly.
Dock supervisors ignore labor laws—I once worked 20 hours
with a half hour break to eat, so the shipping company could
fill more ships." Hans' voice rose slightly.

Bielefeld's eyes narrowed. "And no one complained to the

authorities? Every station has a representative to advocate
for the citizens."

Hans grunted a deprecating laugh. "What good would that

do? The authorities are bought and paid for by the company
managers. They get away with murder."

Bielefeld frowned. "I see. It is as I feared." He shook his

head. "The system in place in the colonies to redress
grievances has failed, so you took it upon yourself to change
the system, through violence if necessary. Why?"

Hans snorted. "Got your Imperial attention, didn't we? We

figured, once we had your attention, we could work
something out. Didn't quite plan for the Navy, though."

Bielefeld laughed. "You most certainly got our attention.

I've heard rumors of abuses around all the colonies, but none
so bad as what you describe. I believe you would be able to
bring an end to these abuses, on Beta Ceti and all the other
colonies, if only you would be the Senator."

"And wear your leash. Convenient for you, isn't it?" Hans

took another drink. "Don't you think it would reflect badly
upon you if your hand-picked Senator, who just happens to
be the leader of the Beta Ceti riots, went his own way?"

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"Yes, I'd need your assurance that you wouldn't start riots

in the capital, or try to assassinate my father. Or me, for that
matter. You accept my offer, and I will trust you."

"Take your collar, you mean."
"My honor, Hans. I have no desire to micromanage

politics."

"You'd stake your honor on me?" Hans' shock was visible

on his face.

"The Empire needs more men like you—brave, strong, and

willing to stand up when the Empire is dishonored. You only
need a sense of loyalty to the Empire itself." He shrugged.
"Or to my person, since it's the same thing."

"I still refuse." Hans emptied his glass. Had the revolution

truly benefited the Empire? What would his comrades say?
"Answer me this. If you were so sympathetic to our cause,
why was the Imperial Navy fighting to stop us, then?"

"The easy answer: following orders. The honest answer is

more involved. We have heard rumors that the Senator was
more loyal to money than to the Empire. After his unfortunate
accident, I personally requested this sector, with the express
purpose of capturing the leader, rumored to be one Hans
Schmidt."

Hans frowned. The way Fritz had said the word "accident"

left little doubt in his mind that it hadn't been. "I'm not a
pawn in a game of empire."

"I agree. But I would like to inherit an empire intact and at

peace, with mostly happy citizens."

Hans thought for a moment. "So, you've got some scheme

to bring bread and circuses to the colonists. What's the real

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reason the navy was fighting us, then? Or is your Imperial
Father unaware of your plans?"

"I have kept him apprised of my intentions. But you must

guess that it's not just the furthest colonies with these sorts
of troubles. If we let the rioters win, we would see riots on
the other colonies as well, and more chaos and fighting."

"An example, then."
Bielefeld nodded. "Exactly. Father and I spoke of this

matter frequently. If I hadn't requested this sector, he would
have assigned me here, as his proxy, should that have
become necessary. And it's not just bread and circuses. With
your help, we can enact real change."

"More autonomy in the colonies. A citizens' board with

authority to penalize criminals." Hans raised an open palm.
"That is the goal of our revolt. Can you offer us that?"

"If you take my offer, Hans, I can guarantee you the

Emperor's own backing."

"I won't take it, Fritz. I can't." Hans shook his head. "Not

at that cost. You and I are very different people now, and I
can't take your collar and still keep my pride."

"I'd hoped you would accept my offer for my sake, if not

for the Empire's or your own. I've looked forward to seeing
you, Hans, even after the pain you put me through." Bielefeld
rose from the table. "My duties call." He kissed Hans on the
forehead. "Until tomorrow. I'll ask again, so consider all I've
said."

Hans wished his hands were free so he could punch

something. He knew Fritz wasn't lying; his overblown sense of
honor wouldn't allow him to do that, even for the good of the

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Empire. Had his cause truly been to the Empire's benefit, and
did that make him a loyalist? He knew in his gut that Fritz
was right: Beta Ceti IV needed him in the Senate to advance
their cause, but the condition placed on it was one he couldn't
bear.

He wouldn't be betraying the revolution if he got the

bastards who ran the docks put out of business; that had
been the starting point, after all. His memories of the
Emperor as a kind, yet serious, man had never quite fit with
the image popular in the colonies, and he knew that this man
would never condone the abuses that happened far out in
space. That Fritz was able to make him that offer was proof
enough.

"Your honor, Fritz? You know damn well I couldn't betray

your honor. Why do you need to collar me to believe that?"
he murmured to the empty room. The implication of his
parting shot hit him: Fritz had missed him. Hans knew exactly
where to strike; he only had to determine when. He'd accept
the deal, but only on his terms. Surely his comrades would
forgive him.

* * * *

Lieutenant Schneider brought Hans his lunch several days

later.

"His Highness too busy for me today?" Hans asked.
Schneider set the trays on the table. "He is otherwise

engaged, yes."

Hans raised an eyebrow. "So you're allowed to talk to me,

are you? But you'll report everything to him later, I assume."

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"Naturally." Schneider bit into his sandwich. "I've been

wondering what you've done to make him so angry. If it were
just about the little insurrection, you'd be locked in the brig or
in solitary somewhere. But I've never seen him like this."

"What do you mean, 'like this'?" Hans asked.
"He said you'd ask a lot of questions, and I may answer at

my own judgment. We have strict discipline on this ship. It's
important, for cohesion and all that. So when a shipman gets
out of line, he is taken to the brig and flogged. Five or ten
lashes for most offenses. I've never seen him be as harsh as
he's being on you."

Hans almost choked. "He gets off on that. Didn't you

know? His Royal Dick gets hard when he's using that whip."

Schneider almost looked embarrassed. "I'd heard rumors,

but I never gave them much thought."

"They're true, Lieutenant. Most likely. Your Admiral is a

twisted, twisted man." Hans leered. "And he's probably only
gotten more twisted in the last ten years. Oh, he didn't
mention that? We were lovers."

Schneider shook his head. "Is that why he's so angry with

you?"

"He can be so harsh because he knows two things: first,

that I can handle it, and second, that I enjoy it. But your
assumption is faulty. He's not angry."

"No?"
"Have you ever seen him angry? Have you ever seen him

turn completely to ice and just stop? I only ever saw him truly
angry once, and I hope I never see it again." A dark look
crossed his face. "No, Schneider, he fears me."

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"Fear? Explain yourself."
"You'll have to take my word for it, or ask him yourself.

He'll deny it, of course. It wouldn't do for His Imperial
Highness to admit to being afraid of anything, now, would it?"

* * * *

Bielefeld returned for dinner that evening.
"Lieutenant Schneider tells me some interesting things,

Hans. You think I'm afraid of you."

"I know you are, Fritz. Surely you remember why I left for

Beta Ceti. Or didn't you understand it then?"

Bielefeld sipped his wine. "You didn't want to be with me

anymore. That certainly seems reasonable enough for
someone to head to the other side of the Empire, but hardly a
reason for me to fear you."

"You don't get it, do you? When you got back from your

first tour, something happened to you. You told me never to
mention it again, but you were a different person before Lord
Stefan's stunt."

Bielefeld flinched at the name. "Thank you ever so much

for reminding me of that. I had completely forgotten his
betrayal," he replied sarcastically.

"Before that incident, you trusted me. You are afraid that I

would do to you what Stefan did, if you let me close again."

"You're wrong."
"Am I?" Hans didn't let frustration creep into his voice.

"You hate the idea that anyone could wield power over you.
You stopped trusting that people you cared about wouldn't try
to use you, your name, for personal gain. When you learned

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that sex, pleasure, and pain were powerful tools, you learned
to wield them. Masterfully." Hans smiled wryly. "But you
refused to let anyone have that power over you. The caring
man I knew was replaced with a machine. You wouldn't admit
it, and you wouldn't let me inside your guard. That's why I
left."

Bielefeld glowered. "You're wrong, Hans." He left without

finishing his meal.

* * * *

Weeks passed, and Bielefeld had not gotten Hans to

change his mind. It had nearly become ritual, him asking
Hans to accept the offer, then tormenting him and asking
again, but the persistent refusals had begun to wear on him.
They were over halfway back to Sol, and he was beginning to
fear Hans would never accept. He carried a small bag into
Hans' room one evening and had the guards cuff him naked
to the post, with his arms above his head and feet spread.

Bielefeld rolled his shirtsleeves up to his biceps.
"So much nicer without that prison shirt." He walked closer

and inspected Hans. He ran a fingernail lightly down the
muscles of Hans' back. "You've got scars I don't remember,"
Bielefeld said, tracing a particularly long one across Hans' hip.

"Accident at the loading dock. Cart got loose, ran into me.

Supervisor wouldn't let me go to the infirmary until my shift
ended, but my mates found an old shirt and bandaged it as
best they could." His tone suggested a shrug, since his
shoulders couldn't.

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Bielefeld's tone suggested murder. "I want that shift

manager's name."

Hans snorted a derisive laugh. "Too late. I killed him

myself six months ago."

"Saves me the trouble, at any rate." He opened the bag

he'd brought in and removed a cat-o-nine-tails, flicked it
across Hans' back. "I'll ask you again: accept my offer."

"I can't, Fritz. You know that, and you know why."
Bielefeld's arm traced an arc that let the leather hit

squarely across Hans' back. "Count."

Leather met flesh twenty-five times before Hans' breath

came in ragged gasps, from pain and pleasure, both.

"Tell me to stop, Hans, and I will." Another crack.
"Twenty-six," he rasped. "I won't give you the

satisfaction."

"Your stubbornness will be your downfall, old friend."
"Twenty-seven." Hans panted.
"Are my terms unfair?"
"Twenty-eight. I won't submit to you."
"You will."
Hans hissed when the leather hit his back. "Twenty-nine."

Barely time to catch a breath, then "Thirty! Shit!" His pride
waged war against his sanity: his back hurt, he admitted it,
but asking Fritz to stop would be to admit that he'd won.
"Fuck! Thirty-one," he forced through clenched teeth. The
small voice urged him to say it, stop it, it wouldn't be
admitting defeat, not yet. He could still win. "Stop," he
whispered. "Stop it."

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Bielefeld's arm had been raised to strike, and he dropped

it, tossed the cat-o-nine in the bag.

"This isn't submission," Hans growled.
"I know." Bielefeld slipped his hand around Hans' half-hard

cock and stroked it. "Ask me to please you," he breathed into
Hans' ear. "Or tell me to stop."

"You manipulative bastard," he growled. "Fuck you."
"Be civil, Hans," he whispered. His tongue traced Hans'

ear, his teeth closed on the lobe. "Now, which would you
prefer?" He squeezed Hans' shaft while his other hand stroked
his balls. He pressed a finger to the perineum, and Hans
groaned. "How badly do you want pleasure, Hans? Enough to
ask me for it? Enough to beg?"

"Never badly enough," he gasped, "to beg from you."
"Oh, come, now. You know that's a lie." His finger brushed

against the pucker of Hans' ass. "'Oh, God, just fuck me,
Friedrich!' Does that sound familiar?"

Hans tried his hardest to focus on the denial. "That was

years ago, Fritz." Fritz's hands were making it difficult to
concentrate. Hans felt teeth sink into his earlobe again and
felt breath against his ear.

"I've never forgotten." He pressed his finger past the first

ring of muscle. "And your body hasn't, either. Tell me you
want it, Haensl."

Hans' mind wandered into memories of Friedrich, his body

beneath Friedrich's, hands gentle on his bruised skin. He
struggled to bring it to the present, to remember his fight,
but his traitorous mouth whispered, "Frit ... Friedrich, I want
it."

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Bielefeld's heart jumped. "What do you want, Hans? Tell

me."

"I want you," he whispered. "I want you to fuck me. I want

you to make me come." The phrases sprang unbidden from
his lips.

Bielefeld stepped back. "Oh, Hans, I will." He slid his

trousers to the floor and stepped out of them, and picked a
tube of lubricant out of his bag. He stepped behind Hans,
taking care not to touch the welts across his back, and
pressed his cock into Hans' ass.

Hans hissed softly, then moaned as Friedrich's cock hit his

prostate. "Touch me," he panted. "Please."

"In good time. You've waited five weeks; surely you can

manage five minutes more," Bielefeld replied, rocking his hips
slowly, then faster. He slipped one hand around Hans' waist,
then around his cock, moving his hand in rhythm with his
thrusts.

Hans' shoulders tensed as he tried to lower his arms. "Oh,

God," he moaned. "Fuck me harder, Friedrich." As Bielefeld
did so, Hans' come spurted over his fingers.

"My dear slut," Bielefeld breathed into Hans' ear, moments

before he came. They stood still, breathing, until Bielefeld
withdrew and wiped his softening cock with a damp cloth.

"I haven't accepted your terms," Hans said, his voice still

unsteady.

"Haven't you?" Bielefeld asked. He lowered Hans' arms and

led him to a chair.

Hans yelped as his back touched the back of the chair.

"Fuck. Did you draw blood?"

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"I may have been a little too forceful on occasion." Several

of the welts were red on the edges. "I apologize."

"I don't accept your terms."
"Stubborn man. You would prefer your comrades' deaths

to be in vain and your stand to end with a blade through your
neck."

"Better than the one through my soul that you offer."
"I would sooner kill myself than your spirit. If that is how

you see it, then I apologize. On my honor, I would never seek
to destroy you."

"You want to turn me into your puppet! You want me to be

a good, compliant pet!" Hans shouted.

The door slid open. "Is everything OK, sir?"
"Yes, it's fine, Lieutenant. Thank you." Bielefeld's voice

turned to ice. "A puppet, is it? All I want is to know that I can
trust you with my life, my honor, and the Empire itself."

"And you think the only way to prove that is to have me

begging for your mercy every night. How innovative." Hans
snorted.

"Do you have a better idea, then?"
"Release my hands. I won't escape, and I won't try to kill

you."

Bielefeld considered the request a moment and summoned

a guard. "Unlock his cuffs."

The guard looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure about

that, sir?"

"Do it."

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The guard complied. He wanted to wait inside the door,

but Bielefeld insisted that he leave. Those poor guards had
already heard and seen enough.

Hans rubbed his wrists. "That's so much better." He stood

up and walked behind Bielefeld's chair. "Now, it seems to me
that you need me. You've been giving orders for so long, you
hardly remember how to stop." He dropped his hands onto
Bielefeld's shoulders, bent forward, and kissed him.

Bielefeld froze. He held fast to his carefully-crafted veneer

of control and wouldn't let Hans crack it.

"Oh, come, now, Friedrich. You may prefer to wield the

whip rather than receive it, but don't tell me you've forgotten
how my hands made you writhe." His hands moved down
Bielefeld's torso, unbuttoning his uniform shirt. "Such
wonderful skin. I want to feel it under my fingers, Friedrich.
I've thought of you, under me, moaning and whimpering,
every night after you left." It had been torment, as his hands
had been bound.

Bielefeld raised his arms to push him away. "This is your

'better idea'? Trying to persuade me with sex that sex isn't
just about power? Brilliant plan."

Hans grimaced. "You have a point." Hans stepped in front

of him. "But if the only way to get you to trust me again is to
submit to your power games, then we are at an impasse. Let
go of your ridiculous self-control for thirty minutes, and I'll
take your stupid deal." Hans stroked Friedrich's face. "That's
the best I can offer you. I've trusted you as long as I've been
on this ship. I hate to admit that, but it's true." He knelt in
front of Friedrich. "Now I ask you to trust me. You did, once.

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Let go." His hands rested on Friedrich's bare, athletic thighs.
"Let me touch you."

Bielefeld hesitated. Hans had been his closest friend, and

most frequent lover, until that incident with Stefan.

"You want to let go. Why else would you have chased me,

on a personal request no less, across the Empire, if you didn't
know, deep down, underneath your hurt, that you can trust
me?"

"I trusted you, and I trusted Stefan. He wanted to use me.

Don't you?"

"I don't. I'd gladly step into the Senate on my own merit,

but the death sentence sort of prevents me from doing that.
And you're the one who came up with the deal, as I recall."

"Silver-tongued devil." Emotions warred across Friedrich's

face: desire, control, need, and a slight softening at the
corner of his mouth.

"Your devil. Always." He looked Friedrich directly in the

eye. He knew he'd almost gotten through.

"If you betray me, now or ever, I will personally carry out

your execution."

"I'm not a duplicitous wanker like him." Hans smirked.
Bielefeld hesitated in thought. "I'll grant your request,

then."

Hans' smirk changed into a lascivious grin. "Come with

me," he said, leading Bielefeld by the arm. He grabbed
Bielefeld's wrists and pressed him against the wall, hands
overhead, and pushed Bielefeld's thighs apart with his knee.
He pressed his lips against Friedrich's, slid his tongue into the
other man's mouth. He felt Friedrich's cock twitch against his

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leg and ran his free hand down Friedrich's tight stomach. "Tell
me you want it."

Bielefeld shivered. "I want you to suck my cock, Hans."
Hans let Friedrich's wrists go and bent down in front of

him. Hans took Friedrich's length into his mouth and ran his
tongue along the head. Friedrich moaned, and Hans grabbed
his balls, giving them a tug. Friedrich hissed, but his hips
jerked forward. Friedrich's neatly trimmed fingernails scraped
his scalp as his fingers gripped Hans' hair and pulled it
upward. Hans moaned around Friedrich's cock.

"God," Bielefeld whimpered, fingers tightening. Hans

flicked his tongue across the head of his cock. "Fuck! Do that
again," Bielefeld groaned.

Hans half-smiled as he probed with his tongue into the

opening at the tip. He dragged his fingernails along Friedrich's
inner thighs, downward and back up. He pulled his head
backward, and Friedrich made a disappointed grunt as his
cock slipped out of Hans' mouth. Hans stood up, dragging
nails up Friedrich's chest, and slid his tongue into Friedrich's
mouth. He slipped Friedrich's shirt off his shoulders and
tossed it toward his pants. Hans eyed him hungrily. His
fingers traced the few light scars across his beautifully
sculpted torso. "Surely they wouldn't have allowed you to be
hurt in training."

"I participated like everyone else. And sometimes I lost."
"This one?" Hans traced a scar that crossed his ribs.
"Knives." Bielefeld gasped as Hans' teeth bit his nipple.
"That one looks brutal." He touched an oval scar above his

hip.

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"Shrapnel. I didn't move in time."
"A shame these mar your otherwise perfect skin." He

pushed Bielefeld onto the narrow bed and knelt over him.
"How long has it been, Friedrich?" He pressed lips to
Bielefeld's throat, flicked out his tongue and licked up to
Bielefeld's earlobe. "When was the last time you let someone
touch you? Was I the last?" He bit gently on Friedrich's
earlobe and sucked it.

"No one since you, Hans." Bielefeld whimpered.
"But you've had lovers, yes?" He kissed down Friedrich's

chest and firm stomach.

"As many as I could want."
"How many shared your proclivities?" Hans made the last

word sound dirty.

"Several." He groaned when Hans' lips pressed down near

his cock.

"And none of them touched you like this?" He raked

fingernails up the inside of Bielefeld's thigh, eliciting a sharp
intake of breath.

"Not one."
"You need me. Your body is starved." Hans kissed the

reddening lines on Bielefeld's leg upward, to his balls. "You
need to trust me again." He knelt across Bielefeld's legs and
pressed his erection into Friedrich's belly as he leaned forward
to kiss him. "Let me fuck you."

Bielefeld hesitated.
"You used to enjoy it," Hans said. He leaned closer and put

his lips next to Friedrich's ear. "You liked it almost as much as
you liked making me bleed." He bit Friedrich's earlobe again

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and felt his cock jump against his abdomen. "Just ask me.
Beg me to fuck you."

Bielefeld moaned. "Damn you. Do it," he said.
"Do what?"
"Fuck my ass," he growled.
"As you wish, Your Highness." Hans grabbed the lube and

knelt over Friedrich. Hans bit the skin on Bielefeld's neck and
shoulders as he pressed his cock into Friedrich's ass. Just
below the collarbone, he bit and sucked, leaving a large red
mark, just where his collar would hide it. Beneath him,
Friedrich moaned and raked fingernails down his back. "Oh,
fuck," Hans moaned. "Welts," he whispered. Friedrich's
fingers pressed harder on the way back up. "Sadistic
bastard," Hans gasped.

Bielefeld murmured, "Was that ever in doubt?" He snaked

a hand between their bodies and pinched Hans' nipple.

"Not for a moment," Hans agreed. "But it just means I

have to do this," he said as he pulled his cock out. He looked
directly into Friedrich's eyes. "Hands and knees." Friedrich's
eyes darkened a moment in contemplation, then cleared, and
he turned over and knelt. Hans thrust in again, hard and fast.
Friedrich groaned beneath him. Hans ran his hands up
Friedrich's broad back, feeling taut muscles beneath soft skin,
and curled his fingers into the hair at Friedrich's nape.

"Isn't there something better you could be doing with your

hands?" Bielefeld murmured.

"Patience is a virtue, remember." Hans leaned his chest on

Friedrich's back and wrapped his arms around Friedrich's
chest, thrusting harder. Friedrich arched his back into Hans'

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thrusts, and Hans realized he was going to come. He grabbed
Friedrich's cock in his hand and pumped it in the rhythm of
his hips. "It's been too long," he panted. "Fuck, I missed
you." He cried out as his cock spasmed, and Friedrich's breath
came harder and faster, and Hans felt come drip on his hand.
He leaned on Friedrich for a few moments, relishing the feel
of Friedrich's body against his and the sounds of their breath
mingling, and he could almost pretend the last ten years
hadn't happened. He grabbed the top sheet, pulled out, and
wiped off.

Bielefeld rolled to his side, his back to the wall. Hans lay

down behind him and spooned into his back. "You were right,
Hans."

"About what?"
"I needed you." He rolled slightly toward Hans. "You've

changed your mind?"

"Have you decided you can trust me?"
"I have."
"Then I'll be your Senator for Beta Ceti IV." Hans curved

his lips into a smirk. "And you can still have your whipping
boy. That's how you'll know I trust you."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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CROCODILE BIRD

GS Wiley
Rahotep hadn't worn makeup for a long time. It was

common for men at home in Egypt, but here in Rome, it
wasn't, and in this part of town, the last thing you wanted to
do was draw too much attention to yourself. He missed it
sometimes, and when he heard the Sixteenth legion was
coming home, he found the malachite eyeshadow and the
kohl eyeliner in the bottom of the wooden box and set them
out on the table.

It was Gaia the washerwoman who told him. He was down

at the market getting his usual breakfast, a small loaf of
bread from the baker and a bruised peach from the fruit-
seller, when Gaia rounded the corner. "The Sixteenth is
coming home today." She sounded excited, and
understandably so. After being away from Rome for months—
sometimes years—at a stretch, the legionaries came home
eager to spend money. It was good news for everyone, from
the merchants to the taverns to the whores, when a legion
was in town.

"You're sure?" Rahotep asked.
She nodded. "They arrived in Ostia yesterday. So I shan't

worry if I don't see you around for a few days." She gave a
lewd wink and laughed, her voluminous stomach jiggling as
she made her way back to her storefront.

It was good news, but Rahotep wasn't about to get his

hopes up ... Centurion Tiberius Cordius of the Sixteenth

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Legion was literate, but he did not write letters to Rahotep.
They had not been in communication for nearly two years,
and for all he knew, the man could have met his death at the
end of a barbarian sword months ago. Still, Rahotep deviated
from his usual routine and went to the baths, just in case.

He paid a barber for a shave, then bathed in the pools. The

conversations in the tepidarium centered on the coming of the
legion, as well as the usual business dealings. Rahotep
listened carefully to one of the men, a weaselly merchant
named Tucco, who was talking about getting into the business
of importing exotic beasts for the gladiatorial games. He had
a particular interest in the hippopotami of Egypt, and Rahotep
was able to advise him on some locations to find them.
"You're throwing good money after bad with them, though.
You won't get your investment back." He'd held many jobs in
Rome, one of which had been handling beasts and prisoners
in the Coliseum. The number of beasts—not to mention
men—who died before ever setting foot on the arena sand
was staggering.

Thinking of the hippopotami made Rahotep think of Egypt,

and that, along with the prospect of seeing Cordius soon,
made him happy. He hummed cheerfully to himself on the
way home, and when he got back to his cramped apartment,
he pulled out his mirror, a disc of polished bronze he'd bought
as a gift for himself a few months earlier. He ran an
approving hand over his newly shaven cheeks and his thick
dark hair, cut short in the Roman style.

Rahotep had always been proud of his looks. He was

equally proud that, despite the hardship he had known since

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he'd come to Rome, and despite the numerous jobs he had
held, he had never resorted to whoring. It had been his
mother's profession in Alexandria, and it had taken her life at
a young age. It was a road Rahotep had sworn he would
never travel, and he hadn't. From time to time, he used his
beauty and his charm to get what he wanted, but he only had
sex when he wanted to.

It had been a while, but he hadn't lost his touch with the

makeup. Using the wooden applicator, he outlined his eyes
with thick black kohl, then used the malachite eyeshadow on
his eyelids. It was a stunning effect. He'd always had a flair
for it. For a while, Rahotep had worked as a steward in the
household of a wealthy widow who thought it fashionable to
have freemen as well as slaves in her employ. One night, he
had shared some of his makeup tricks with the Nubian
cosmetics slave, and the domina had been so impressed,
she'd given them both a day off and a handful of denarii to go
with it.

When he'd finished with his makeup, Rahotep put on his

best tunic, freshly returned from Gaia's laundry because one
was never too poor for cleanliness. Then he waited.

The first legionaries arrived in the quarter barely an hour

later. They were not allowed to carry arms in the city, but
they were still impossible to miss, with their crested helmets
and burnished armor shining in the sun. Rahotep watched
from his small square window, an uneasy excitement
mounting in his stomach. It had been two years since he'd
last seen Cordius, and while Rahotep certainly hadn't been
faithful, the legionary had never been far from his mind.

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Tiberius Cordius was not a rich man. He was a plebeian,

like Rahotep himself, although, since Rahotep was Egyptian,
many mistook him for a slave. Cordius was getting on in
years, in his mid-thirties now, and although. as an officer of
the legion, he was forbidden to marry, Rahotep knew he lived
periodically with a woman in an apartment a few streets
away. She had borne him several children over the years, and
Rahotep sometimes saw them, if he happened to be over that
way: two little boys, the image of Cordius, and an older girl
who looked of marriageable age. Rahotep hadn't been to their
street for a long time, and he wondered idly if Cordius was a
grandfather by now.

Rahotep didn't have to wonder if Cordius would go to his

family before he came here. He knew the answer already. The
legionary was a man of honor, and Rahotep could never be
his top priority. Rahotep also knew that, as soon as possible,
the man would be at his door, and he would hopefully stay for
a few days.

They had met six years ago, shortly after Rahotep arrived

in Rome. He had been young then, a beautiful eighteen-year-
old who had made the long journey from Egypt to Rome alone
in search of adventure. He was a half-breed, the son of a
Roman legionary and a freed Alexandrian prostitute, and
while he had never known his father, he had grown up
surrounded by the Roman soldiers and the Roman culture
that had infused Egypt in the years since they had been
conquered. Even as a child, Rahotep had known his future lay
in the vibrant heart of the empire, and he had vowed to travel
there as soon as he was able.

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When he at last arrived, he found Rome different than he

had expected, but it was not a disappointment. He got jobs
easily enough, although he never stayed anywhere for long,
and while there were some who looked down on foreigners,
there was enough diversity in Rome for Rahotep to be
accepted by most people of his own class, as long as he kept
his more exotic traditions—such as the makeup—to himself.

He was in a tavern one night, talking with a group of other

young plebeian men and drinking the sour wine that made
him long for the rich, delicious beer of home, when Cordius
entered with two or three other soldiers. Since they were in
uniform, they immediately drew attention from everyone,
including those customers foolish enough to think they could
take on the legion and drunk enough to think they would
succeed. Rahotep watched Cordius smash his fist into the face
of an oncoming assailant as if he were swatting a fly, and
then immediately turn and shove another drunken fool into a
fellow legionary, who threw him out the door. Rahotep
finished his wine and went over to the legionaries' table.

"That was quite an impressive display," he said, smiling.
"More where that came from." Cordius cracked his

knuckles. His friends chuckled, but Rahotep knew they were
watching him closely.

"I wouldn't dream of tangling with the legion. I was rather

hoping I could show my appreciation by buying you
gentlemen a drink." He lowered his eyelashes and looked up
at Cordius. The legionary grunted, but he moved over on the
bench.

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Rahotep used his best tactics on Cordius, flirting and

fluttering and flattering him outrageously. It wasn't a wasted
effort. When the other legionaries rolled out of the tavern and
headed back to the barracks, Cordius hung back, and when
Rahotep said, "I have an apartment not far from here,"
Cordius grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pushed
him against a nearby wall.

Rahotep's mother had died when he was young, but she

had been around long enough to teach him how to defend
himself. He carried a knife, a thin blade secreted in a hidden
pocket, and he was wondering whether he needed to reach
for it when Cordius pushed an impressively large erection into
his hip. "This what you're after, boy?"

Rahotep smiled. "That rather depends on what you're

after. Sir."

Cordius' large hands went around Rahotep's hips and lifted

his feet off the ground. A back alley fuck was not what
Rahotep was after; he had seen too many of those squalid,
pitiful couplings in Alexandria and here in Rome. He squirmed
free and walked away, hoping Cordius would follow.

He did, after a time, and they spent the night on Rahotep's

straw mattress. Cordius proved to be pleasantly surprising,
both in his abilities and in his tastes, but when he left,
Rahotep did not expect to see him again. When he turned up
at the apartment the next night, and the next, Rahotep was
suspicious, at first. What did he have to offer a legionary that
couldn't be had somewhere else just as easily? But whatever
it was, it kept Cordius coming back, night after night, for six

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months until Cordius told him the Sixteenth was being
shipped out again.

"This is for you." He tossed a leather purse onto the bed

beside Rahotep.

Immediately, Rahotep felt the anger rise in his chest as he

looked at the money. "I am not a whore." And, even after all
this time, if Cordius insisted otherwise, Rahotep had the knife
nearby and knew how to use it effectively.

"Don't be stupid," Cordius snarled back. "It's not a fee, it's

support."

"What in the name of the gods does that mean?"
"You're not working." That was true, at the moment, but

something always turned up, and Rahotep had never been
unemployed for long. "I'm going away. A Roman soldier takes
care of his..." He hesitated a moment. "Responsibilities before
he leaves."

"I am no responsibility of yours."
"Just take the fucking money. Pay your rent on time for

once." Cordius was dressed by this time, and he fastened his
cloak around his shoulders.

Rahotep stood up. At first, Cordius had been steadfastly

against kissing, claiming it was weak and unmanly, but it
hadn't taken long to change his mind. Rahotep kissed him, his
hands on Cordius' broad shoulders, and Cordius kissed back.

When he pulled away, Rahotep said, "I will miss you."
Cordius shrugged. "I'll be back." But he kissed Rahotep

again before he left, and held him in his arms for longer than
Rahotep would have expected from a hardened legionary.

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That had started a pattern. Rahotep got on with his life,

with his jobs and his various amusements, and when the
Sixteenth was in Rome, he and Cordius were together, for a
few weeks or a few months until the legion left again. Now,
after six years of it, Rahotep had no reason to expect things
would be different. Unless something had happened to
Cordius.

He checked his makeup in the mirror again, then looked

out the window. Down on the street, Gaia the washerwoman
was quarreling with a taller, thinner woman with a wizened
face. The market was bustling with late afternoon shoppers,
women getting food for supper and men heading to the
tavern for a drink before they went home. The air was heavy
with the scents of cooking and spices, and as Rahotep
breathed deeply, he saw Cordius, coming up the street and
pushing through the crowds that parted to make way for him.

Rahotep's heart began an erratic dance, but he contrived

to look calm and unconcerned as he sat on his only chair and
waited for the door to open.

The last two years had aged Cordius. His hair was gray at

the temples and appeared to be thinning in the back, but
apart from that, he looked none the worse for wear. His eyes
darkened when he saw Rahotep in his malachite and kohl,
and Rahotep was pleased he had gone to the extra effort.

Cordius groaned as their mouths met. Rahotep was a little

surprised at the urgency he felt as Cordius kissed him, and
his hands gripped the tunic on either side of the legionary's
breastplate. Cordius pushed Rahotep away long enough to
remove his cloak and unbuckle the armor. It hit the floor with

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a clatter, and Cordius' hands were on him again, lifting him
up with ease, pulling Rahotep's legs around his waist and
kissing him roughly enough to make Rahotep pant against his
mouth.

Cordius was taller than Rahotep by half a Roman foot and

outweighed him by at least forty pounds, and Rahotep knew
the soldier was being careful of this when he lowered them
gently onto the mattress. In his more poetic moments,
Rahotep thought of them as the crocodile and its caretaker,
the crocodile bird, he'd seen countless times along the Nile.
The weaker one could have been so easily crushed by the
stronger, but it performed a vital service and so the crocodile
took care not to harm it.

They lay together for a while, pushing urgently against

each other with hands and bodies, until the urgency grew too
great and Cordius said, "You know what I want."

Rahotep did. It was what he almost always wanted, and it

had given Rahotep quite a surprise their first night together.
He had brought Cordius home that night fully expecting to be
taken by a legionary, only to find that the legionary had
something different in mind.

Rahotep pulled off his tunic and threw it on the floor beside

Cordius' clothes. He ran his hands down Cordius' strong
thighs, noticing they were marked with some new scars, and
pushed his legs open. He had placed a bottle of oil beside the
bed earlier, hoping for just such an opportunity, and now he
splashed some onto the palm of his hand. Cordius grunted as
Rahotep slipped a hand between his legs, and he eagerly
rolled onto his stomach.

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Rahotep rubbed Cordius' wide back for a while, taking care

as his oiled hands slipped over old injuries and tight muscles.
Only when Cordius was relaxed and ready did he take the
next step.

Entering him at last was bliss, pure happiness Rahotep had

known in few other circumstances. Cordius was tight and hot,
and Rahotep could feel the kohl trickling down his cheeks as
he sweated his way to a climax.

Once he'd reached it, spurting his seed into Cordius and

onto the mattress between his legs, Rahotep slid down and
took Cordius' large, stiff cock into his mouth. It didn't take
long. When he'd finished, Rahotep swallowed hard. He was
out of practice, but he managed to get it all down. Then, he
reached over and wiped his tunic across his eyes. Streaks of
makeup were left behind on the cloth and, after he'd thrown it
to one side, Rahotep lay beside Cordius, resting his head on
the barrel chest.

"It's good to have you home," Rahotep said, when their

breathing had slowed.

"Indeed," Cordius replied, and when Rahotep glanced up,

he had a rare smile on his face.

They slept for a while, and when Rahotep awoke, it was

dark outside. He listened to the sounds from the street for a
while, the clattering of the carts that weren't allowed in the
city during daylight and the arguing and screaming and
laughing of the people. He sat up and ran a hand through his
hair. Cordius opened his eyes.

"Will you stay?" Rahotep asked, casually.

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Cordius shook his head, and got to his feet. "I cannot. I

need to spend at least a night with Vita and the children."

Rahotep nodded, as if he'd expected that all along. As

Cordius bent to pick up his clothes, Rahotep thought he saw
him wince, and when he walked back toward him, he
definitely noticed a limp. "Are you injured?"

"Nothing serious. But I'm not as young as I was." He

looked at Rahotep. "I've decided it's time to leave the legion."

Rahotep blinked. "What will you do instead?" He couldn't

picture Cordius as anything but a legionary. He was cut out
for it, both in body and in mind.

"I will find something," Cordius said, confidently. He

hesitated, then went on, "It means I will be in Rome much
more frequently. Can I take it there will still be a bed for me
here?" He sounded almost embarrassed to ask. Rahotep
stood and put his arms around Cordius' neck.

"Whenever you wish it."
Cordius bent his head and kissed him, ending it with a

firm—but not unenjoyable—slap to Rahotep's rear end.

The thought of having Cordius on a more regular basis was

enticing, not to mention exciting. Rahotep knew better than
to think they would live together, or even that Cordius would
spend longer periods of time with him; his woman and their
children were still his main priority, and Rahotep understood
that.

But if Cordius were to be around permanently, Rahotep

decided, looking at the kohl and the malachite on the table,
he would have to invest in more makeup. And maybe, he

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thought, smiling to himself, he would have to risk wearing it
outside his apartment.

Possibly even as he strolled past Cordius' woman's place a

few streets away.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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PERSONAL TIME

Connemara A. James
It was a matter of timing. Andrew Lin's usually well-

ordered schedule was disarranged by a series of chance
occurrences that Wednesday, throwing off his routine. First,
the representatives from Dallas had arrived early, and they
had an appointment later in the day which was making them
jumpy, as it was across town. They had insisted on starting
the morning meeting a good half hour before it was
scheduled. Taking the opportunity to make a good
impression, Andrew had graciously acquiesced. The meeting
had ended even earlier than expected, as the men from
Dallas had rushed through their presentation, and the usually
lethargic Ryder, one of his project managers, had apparently
been inspired by the possibility of leaving work early. He had
finally completed the report he had been picking at for weeks.
These swift, smooth events had set the pace for the rest of
the day, and astoundingly, everything had continued to
happen sooner rather than later.

Andrew was used to being pressed for time, but having an

abundance of it was a novelty. If all these things had
happened a half hour later than expected rather than earlier,
he would have been able to deal with the situation easily. Yet,
when the end of the day neared and most of his jobs seemed
to be more or less wrapped up—and he didn't have quite
enough time to start anything new—he felt at a loss. He stood
gazing out the broad window of his corner office, his eyes

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narrowed slightly as he examined the skyline, plagued by a
feeling of vague dissatisfaction.

At the age of forty-three, Andrew was exactly where he

had always expected he would be at this point in his life. He
was firmly ensconced in upper management, his prospects
were extremely good, and he had hopes of retiring early
when the time came. However, although the present was
ideal, the future—or rather his plans for it—left a fair amount
to be desired. His life at this point was like today: although it
was going well, the orderly, predictable part of it was
wrapping up too fast, and the loose end was approaching.

Most of his friends were looking forward to spending their

retirement with their spouses, their families. As for his own
family, his parents were still alive, and he wasn't exactly
estranged from his siblings and their offspring, but the
prospect of spending any more time with them than he
already did failed to excite him. He didn't have a boyfriend,
let alone a partner. His career prospects might have been
excellent for a man of his age, but his romantic prospects
were quite the opposite. It wasn't that he was suffering from
a dry spell. No, he had no trouble getting dates, but most
men weren't able to hold his interest for more than a few
weeks, if that.

Andrew had never seen himself as the type to settle down.

Even now, he wasn't sure if that was what he wanted. But he
was sure that he was dissatisfied with the way things were.

The skyscrapers gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

Andrew had worked hard to win this office for himself, but he
seldom had the opportunity to enjoy the view for any length

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of time. People who had offices with a view were not often
people who wanted to stand still and contemplate the skyline.
He found he didn't enjoy it. He wanted to do something.

He was supposed to meet his friend Russell Santiago—

known to his friends as Sant—after work. The traffic would
probably be bad; it tended to tie itself in knots at this time of
day. If he left now, he'd be assured of arriving on time. Not
that Sant was a stickler for punctuality, but it was an excuse
to move.

On his way out, he spied Ryder, who was also leaving, and

raised his eyebrows at the younger man. Ryder replied with
the satisfied smile of someone who had managed to earn his
early departure from work. Andrew could have pointed out
that he had taken so long initially on the report he had hastily
finished today that he was still behind, but he was willing to
let it go. He shook his head and smiled back.

On an ordinary day, Andrew would have driven to the gym

after work. He considered the possibility wistfully, but
although he did have extra time, there wasn't quite enough of
it for him to fit in a workout, no matter how brief. He'd
promised to meet Sant at his house, so he dutifully turned
down Lake Drive and drove south.

Unused to driving toward Sant's house at any time of the

day, Andrew found the traffic unexpectedly light, then found
parking on the street without any significant difficulty. Early
again.

Sant's neighborhood was residential, and his stone

rowhouse looked much like every other house in the row, but
Andrew remembered the number. He could have gone

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somewhere else to wait, but he didn't think Sant would mind
if he was early. Not that there was anything to do in this
area, other than take a walk down quiet, tree-lined streets.
He climbed the steps and was about to ring the doorbell when
suddenly the door was thrown open.

Andrew took a step back. He found himself face to face

with a tall young man with broad shoulders and a slightly
haughty expression, carrying a gym bag. He was wearing
gray track pants and a black sleeveless T-shirt that fit him—
not too tightly, but just tight enough to show off the
musculature of his torso, which he had every right to show
off. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his warm, dark skin.
His long black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. His eyes
widened in mild surprise at finding someone on their way in
as he was on his way out, but only for a moment. Then he
smiled. "Hi there." He had a deep voice, but he spoke with a
slight drawl; not an accent, more of a playful mannerism.

Simultaneously, they each stepped aside to let the other

pass. The stranger laughed. He raised his voice as he turned
over his shoulder to call out, "I think there's someone here to
see you."

"Andrew?" Sant's voice came from inside. "Is that you?"
The young man turned his head to meet Andrew's gaze

again. Still standing to one side in the doorway, he said, "You
first."

Swallowing, Andrew did as the he suggested. As Andrew

passed, his arm brushed the younger man's waist, but the
stranger didn't draw back, and his smile didn't waver.

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Sant hurried into the foyer. He had a towel around his

neck, and was wiping at his face with it. "You're so early.
Akash and I just finished up."

"So I see," said Andrew neutrally.
Akash was still lingering in the doorway, and Sant waved

at him, cheerfully. "I'll see you next time."

"Next time," Akash agreed with a nod, then left, closing

the door behind him. Only when his view of the young man
was cut off did Andrew realize he'd been staring.

Sant didn't seem to notice, but then, he wouldn't. "I knew

you were going to make a few changes in your life, but I
didn't think you'd go that far," Andrew observed wryly as he
turned toward Sant.

"What?" Sant blinked, then reddened as he caught his

friend's meaning. "Ha ha, very funny, Andrew." He shook his
head. "Akash is my personal trainer."

"Yes," Andrew said, "I got that idea somehow."
"Ha ha," said Sant again. "What's gotten into you today?

First you leave the office early, now you're actually making
jokes."

Andrew shrugged. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
"Yeah, I'll have to do that." Sant was two or three years

younger than Andrew. He was technically Andrew's colleague,
but he wasn't working at the moment. He was taking what he
called a "sabbatical"—basically, an extended vacation, which
he was using to pull himself together after a long and grueling
divorce. Apparently, Sant had decided he needed to "find
himself," a process that seemed to involve wheatgrass juice,
therapy, meditation, and other things Andrew regarded as

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dubious practices. Now, it seemed to include a personal
trainer. It was, in Andrew's opinion, the best idea he'd had so
far. Sant had always been chubby, and he'd put on more
weight since his wife had left him. Working out would do him
a lot more good than deep breathing and health food.

* * * *

Andrew had been early all day. He could deal with a bit of

waiting, so he didn't mention Akash again for another few
hours. He hadn't seen Sant in a while, so there was a fair
amount of catching up to do. Sant liked to talk. That suited
Andrew fine. He was willing to listen, even though half of
what Sant said made him roll his eyes.

They were going to dinner, but first, Sant had to show him

the improvements he'd made to the house and talk about
what he was planning to add and the furniture he was going
to buy, his wife having taken the greater part of what he'd
owned. Though Sant was straight, sometimes Andrew felt the
man was more gay than he would ever be.

Sant had found a new restaurant that he was excited

about. They were going to eat there there that evening, and it
wasn't until he was done describing the menu at length that
Andrew mentioned Akash again. "How long have you had a
personal trainer?"

"A few weeks now," said Sant.
"Do you like working with him?"
"Definitely. I feel healthier already."
"I was thinking of hiring a personal trainer myself. Would

you recommend him?"

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Sant laughed. "A personal trainer? Andrew, you go to the

gym more than anyone I know. Why would you—" He broke
off suddenly. "Oh."

Andrew smiled.
Sant returned the smile with a wry expression. "I can give

you his card," he offered. "He did mention referring friends to
him."

"I'd like that."
"I've got it in my wallet," said Sant, who was the kind of

person to keep everyone's cards in his wallet. "But I don't
know if he's—"

Andrew didn't let him finish. "He is."
Sant might have known more about interior decorating

than Andrew, but in matters like this, he referred to Andrew's
expertise without question. "Good luck," he said, as he
handed the card over.

* * * *

Andrew didn't call that day or the next. There was no need

to rush things. He wasn't worried. Nonetheless, he found
himself thinking of Sant's personal trainer throughout the two
days he waited, remembering the shape of the young man's
thigh glimpsed through the cloth of his track pants as he'd
moved, the curve of his lip, the fall of his hair, his playful
tone. He wanted to stroke that thigh, bite that lip, pull that
hair, hear that voice gasp and say his name. He couldn't deny
that he felt eager, although he had no expectations. He had
spoken to the man briefly. Anything might happen. Or
nothing.

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Two days was enough of a wait, but he didn't call from

work. He could have closed the door of his office and made a
personal call, but he didn't want to do that. He liked to take
his time. He didn't call until he was home again, seated in his
chair, gazing out the window at the hazy sky, darkening as
the sun sank.

"Yeah, hi?" Akash picked up after a couple rings, slightly

breathless. Andrew pictured him stripped to his waist, his
body gleaming with sweat. Andrew wished he could have
seen him with his shirt off. It was still a possibility.

"Hello. This is Andrew Lin. I'm a friend of Sant—Russell

Santiago. I met you briefly at his house the other day."

"Oh right," said Akash. "I remember." His tone was

neutral. Andrew found it impossible to guess what he made of
this phone call.

"Russell told me you were taking new clients, and I'm

interested."

A pause. It could have been Andrew's imagination, but

Akash's tone seemed slightly teasing when he spoke again.
"Yeah, I'm taking on clients, if you're interested." Another
pause. Andrew wondered what he was thinking. "Look, I'm a
little busy now, but we can set up an initial consultation if you
want, and talk about your fitness goals."

"That sounds like a good idea."
"How's tomorrow? I could come by your place."
"I'll be home around six-thirty. Does that work for you?"
"Yeah." He could hear the smile in Akash's voice. "It

works."

* * * *

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When tomorrow came, it was not at all like the day he'd

met Akash. Instead of an excess of time, he didn't have
enough. For the first time in years, he slept through his
alarm. Once he got in, he discovered that Ryder had
completely cocked-up the project he was working on, treating
Andrew to an escalating series of headaches. The copiers all
seemed to run out of toner at the same time, and then, in the
day's crowning moment, the office network went down. It was
truly beautiful. A three-car accident at an intersection near
his house meant that the traffic was one big painful snarl.
Stuck in the car, his hands clenching the steering wheel, he
was painfully aware of the fact that if he could have left his
car behind, he could have made it home on foot in a matter of
minutes.

The phone rang. He picked it up.
"Hey, Andrew, it's Akash. I'm at your house, but nobody's

here. You okay?"

"I'm fine, but unfortunately, I'm stuck in traffic. We may

have to reschedule."

"That's too bad." Akash's pauses, Andrew was coming to

learn, meant that he was thinking rather than distracted.
"How far away are you?"

"If they'd clear up this damn accident, I'd be home in five

minutes."

"Oh yeah? Where are you?"
Andrew told him the street name.
"What kind of car do you have?"
Again, Andrew told him. "But—"

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"Okay, talk to you soon," said Akash easily, and hung up.
Andrew felt like he'd only traveled a few feet when there

was a tap on his car window. Akash was standing there,
smiling. Andrew pressed the button to roll the window down,
raising his eyebrows. "Yes?" he asked.

"Aren't you going to let me in? I came all this way."
"All right." Andrew feigned reluctance, hiding a smile as he

unlocked the door.

Akash slid into the seat and took a deep breath, leaning

back. "Since you're trapped here anyway, I thought we could
still have our meeting. It would have been stupid for me to
leave when you're so close."

"Good thinking."
"So—" Akash threw a sideways glance in his direction.

"What is it you think need to work on, exactly?"

"I was thinking more of a general regimen."
Akash nodded. "Do you go to the gym every day?"
"Yes. But I need some additional guidance. I think I've

reached a plateau."

"A plateau," Akash repeated. "We'll have to do something

about that, then."

Andrew found it hard to keep his eyes off the other man.

Akash was wearing jeans today. They were tight, and they
succeeded in showing off his muscular legs. Andrew wished
he wasn't wearing a loose jacket, but perhaps he'd get to see
him with it off sooner rather than later. Akash must have
been aware of his close attention, but he was completely at
ease, half-sprawled over the dark upholstery of the car seat.

"All right. What kind of equipment do you have?"

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Andrew couldn't suppress a smirk, but he answered

Akash's question. There were people with more gym
equipment in their homes, but he had a few pieces. He
enjoyed working out, liked to test his control over his limbs,
pushing himself toward his limitations. He did like to go to the
gym, to watch the other men there—sometimes to meet
them, to fuck—but he liked to work out alone as well. Then it
was just him and his body. Although he wouldn't mind having
Akash's body there with him as well.

"We can start next week, if you want," Akash offered.
"I do."
Akash turned in the seat, facing him. His dark eyes were

shining. "Good. I've got kind of a full schedule, but how's
Wednesday for you?"

Andrew consulted his planner, then suggested, "Tuesday?"
Akash shook his head. "I'm busy Tuesday. I'm pretty

booked up right now."

Andrew frowned. He was going to be unusually busy

himself in the coming days, especially with people like Ryder
working under him, but he didn't want to put Akash off for too
long. He made a decision. "Wednesday's fine."

"You sure?"
"I have some personal time accrued. I might as well use it.

I'll just take the day off." He could worry about the
annoyances his absence would cause after the fact.

Akash nodded, accepting this. "I'll come over at one, then.

Since you've got the whole day now."

They talked for several minutes more, working out the rest

of the details, and the man's continuing subtle flirtatiousness

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left Andrew guessing. He knew that Akash knew what he
wanted, but whether Akash wanted the same thing—he
couldn't quite decide. As Akash left the car, Andrew got a
glimpse of his ass in those tight jeans, and he told himself
that he would enjoy finding out what it was Akash wanted.

* * * *

On Wednesday, as he sat at the kitchen table drinking his

coffee, he wondered why he didn't do this more often. Most of
his life was taken up by work and the gym. He rarely spent
any time doing nothing in particular, enjoying himself. Even
when he went on a date, most of his attention was focused on
what would happen later in the evening. It wasn't that he
wasn't thinking about Akash's arrival, but for some reason he
didn't feel tension, only a pleasant expectancy. Maybe should
use more of his personal time, instead of letting it pile up
endlessly.

He took his time in the shower, then combed his hair. He

would have spent more time getting ready, but he would have
felt foolish making the effort when they were going to be
working out. After all, he looked good enough as it was. He
still had all his hair, and it was as black as it had ever been.
Most people thought he was still in his thirties. He glanced at
himself in the mirror and was more than satisfied with what
he saw. His chances with Akash were good.

Like everything else that day, Akash was exactly on time.

He rang the bell and Andrew answered. Although the day was
cold, Akash wasn't wearing a jacket this time. His track pants
were loose, but his T-shirt was fitted and sleeveless. Andrew's

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gaze lingered over the smooth, firm lines of his shoulders and
biceps.

Akash passed very close to him as he entered. "I hope

you're ready to work out," he said.

"I'm ready." It was difficult not to smile.
Akash smiled back, narrowing his eyes as he did so. "Then

show me your equipment."

Andrew lead the way to his weight room.

* * * *

He had just broken a sweat on the weight bench when

Akash suddenly said, "I like working with you. You're easy."

"Am I?" Andrew sat up slowly, dabbing at his face with the

towel around his neck.

"Yeah, you already know just what to do." Akash took a

step toward him. "It almost makes me wonder why you need
a personal trainer."

"I don't have your expertise, of course."
"I'm certified, but I bet you know as much as I do."
"Maybe. But I thought I'd see what it was like to have

some guidance."

Akash took another step. He was standing above the

weight bench, looking down at Andrew. "That's what I'm here
for."

Andrew felt his heartbeat quicken, and not because of the

weights. He reached out and placed a hand on Akash's thigh,
feeling the heat of his body through the thin cloth of his track
pants.

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Akash was smiling, and he continued to smile. "I don't

sleep with clients."

"Why not?" Andrew asked, tightening his grip. He could

feel the hard muscle of the other man's thigh. Akash didn't
pull away.

"It's bad for business. And it's unprofessional."
"I wouldn't want to make you behave unprofessionally,"

said Andrew. He slid his hand up and over until he could feel
Akash's cock, already half-hard. The track pants did little to
obscure its shape when he pressed lightly, his fingers cupping
Akash's balls. Akash drew in a sharp, small breath. "What if I
fire you?"

Akash regarded him calmly, but Andrew could see the

want in his eyes. "We're only partway through the first
session. Maybe you'll hurt my feelings."

"Will I hurt your feelings?"
Akash laughed. "Why don't you try and see what

happens?"

"All right. You're fired."
Akash leaned down and kissed Andrew's mouth, then

spoke against his lips. "I guess I don't feel too bad."

Andrew grabbed him by the waist and made to pull him

down into his lap. He had been waiting for this. He was
hungry. But Akash backed away. "Our session's not over yet.
You wanted guidance, remember?"

"But I fired you."
"You're paying for this session anyway. You might as well

make use of it, right?"

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"That makes sense," Andrew admitted in a low voice. His

face was warm.

"Then let me tell you what to do." Akash's eyes were half-

lidded but bright.

Andrew swallowed. He hesitated. This wasn't exactly what

he had expected. Nonetheless, it was a tempting proposition.
"All right."

"Good." Akash pushed him down onto the long, padded

body of the weight bench, and Andrew allowed himself to be
pushed. Akash straddled him at the waist, leaning forward to
press his mouth to Andrew's, kissing him hard. He ran his
hands over Andrew's chest, his torso, making a low noise that
Andrew could feel as Akash's tongue pushed its way between
his lips.

Akash broke the kiss to take a breath. "You're so sexy," he

murmured, stripping Andrew of his T-shirt and sliding his
hands down the newly exposed skin. Andrew drew in a sharp
breath as Akash's fingers focused on his nipples, giving them
a sharp pinch. By the time Andrew had breathed out again,
Akash's tongue was where his fingers had just been. He licked
the sweat off Andrew's chest. "Fuck, you've got great
definition." He bit at Andrew's pecs as his hand slid down to
find Andrew's cock, wrapping his hand around it through the
fabric of Andrew's sweatpants. Andrew sighed with pleasure.
"I want to fuck you," Akash hissed.

Andrew didn't usually take it from other men, but Akash

was so hot as he kissed his way down Andrew's stomach
toward the waistband of his sweatpants. It would have been

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difficult to refuse him anything right now, so Andrew didn't.
"Yes. Please."

"I've got a condom." Akash's gym bag was nearby, and he

darted away. He rummaged through the bag until he came
away with one of the familiar square packets.

Andrew's eyebrows rose. "Do you do this often?"
"I had a feeling I might need it," said Akash as he came

back. Andrew laughed. Then Akash stripped him of
everything, until he was lying naked on the weight bench with
his legs spread and Akash kneeling between them. Akash
reached out to press his fingers to Andrew's lips. "Suck
them," he said, and Andrew sucked did so, running his tongue
from knuckle to fingertip.

"You look good doing that," Akash breathed.
Andrew couldn't smile with the other man's fingers filling

his mouth, so he gazed up into Akash's eyes and sucked
harder. Akash made a soft noise of appreciation as he slowly
pulled his fingers out. They were very wet. Leaning back,
Akash reached down between Andrew's legs and found
Andrew's asshole with his fingertips. Andrew raised his legs
higher, drawing them farther apart as he kept his eyes on
Akash. It was an incredibly hot, watching the younger man
fingering him. Akash was still wearing all his clothes, but his
track pants couldn't hide his hard-on. Andrew's own cock
ached as Akash's fingers moved inside him.

"Please. More." Akash pushed in farther and Andrew gave

a start, his cock twitching. "Yes."

Three of Akash's fingers were deep inside Andrew. He

curled them slightly. "You feel so good. Are you ready?"

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"God, yes."
Akash pulled his fingers out, then pulled down his pants,

freeing his erection. His cock was thick and slightly curved.
He'd set the condom packet down on the end of the weight
bench. He picked it up and tore it open, and in a moment, he
was ready, too, lifting Andrew's legs up over his shoulders,
then pressing the head of his cock to Andrew's asshole,
guiding it in with one hand. He narrowed his eyes, and
Andrew took a deep breath, making himself relax as Akash
pushed his hips forward.

"Fuck me," said Andrew, although Akash was already

fucking him, pushing his dick in slowly until his hips met
Andrew's ass. Andrew was breathing hard. He'd never wanted
this so much—a hard dick inside him, taking him. He arched
his back, the upholstery on the seat of the weight bench
sticking slightly to his skin. "Harder," he asked.

"Ah—yes. I'll fuck you." Akash reached down and grasped

Andrew's cock. He made little circles with his thumb on the
head, spreading the beaded pre-come. Andrew moaned,
rolling his hips to take in more of Akash's dick.

"Harder," begged Andrew again, and Akash fucked him

harder, stroking his cock as he did so. He reached back to
brace himself on the bars of the bench behind him as
Andrew's dick filled his ass. "God, that's good."

Akash's dark skin gleamed with sweat. His hair had fallen

free of its tie and was hanging in his face. His teeth were
gritted. Andrew watched his face. Gorgeous. He could get
used to this view.

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Akash met his gaze. "I'm gonna come." His hand on

Andrew's cock grew more urgent, stroking him firmly,
expertly. "Come for me, Andrew." He didn't blink, continuing
to slam his hips against Andrew's ass, making the weight
bench shake. "I wanna feel you come."

The command was so sexy, Andrew couldn't have helped it

if he'd wanted to. He let out a groan, his head rolling back,
his grip tightening on the bars behind him as he came all over
Akash's hand. His ass tightened, and it made Akash's cock
feel even bigger, so he groaned again, clenching his jaw as
Akash gasped and came just a moment later.

"Fuck, so good." Akash looked down at Andrew, gaze

moving slowly over his naked body. "You look good like that."
Once his gaze had reached Andrew's face, he brought his
hand to his lips and licked it clean. His dick had softened, and
he pulled out slowly, then collapsed on top of Andrew. He
reached down to pull the condom off, and after a brief,
reflective pause, tossed it to the floor. Andrew didn't object.

They lay together on the weight bench. After a few

moments, Andrew, without thinking, brought up a hand and
rested it on Akash's head, then, once a few more moments
had passed, began to stroke his hair. Akash made a soft,
pleased noise.

"You're very good," said Andrew.
"I know." Akash chuckled softly, then added, "You're good,

too."

There was only one thing Andrew could say to that. "I

know." He ran his hand down Akash's back, and Akash licked
at his throat. It was a pleasure to feel the smooth, taut flesh.

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So warm. He didn't stop until his fingers reached the firm
curve of Akash's ass. Akash made another pleased noise and
moved up a little. Sensing what was wanted, Andrew slid his
hand between Akash's buttocks, then smiled.

Akash paused in licking at Andrew's neck just long enough

to ask, "You like that?"

Akash's asshole was already wet. He'd prepped himself,

maybe before coming over, or maybe during a brief bathroom
visit he'd made earlier. All the time he'd been fucking Andrew,
Akash's ass had been primed with lube, ready for him. It was
enough to make Andrew's dick stiffen again. "Yes, I do." He
slipped a finger into Akash's slick asshole and began to slide it
in and out, fucking him—but not too deep, just enough to
make him want more.

"You can have it, if you want it." They had gone far beyond

flirtation, but Akash's tone was still flirtatious.

"Give it to me," said Andrew, his voice rough with desire.
"Let me get another condom."
Andrew sat up. When Akash returned to him, condom in

hand, Andrew took it from him. "I want you to get on the
bench with your ass in the air."

"So you're the trainer now?"
"That's right."
Akash laughed softly but did as he was told immediately,

resting his forearms on the long seat of the weight bench but
keeping his feet on the floor, his ass raised. Andrew couldn't
resist. He leaned in to bite at one of those smooth, dark
cheeks—and then the other. He wanted to fuck him, but the
man's ass looked so good, he couldn't resist tasting it first. He

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licked at the skin between Akash's buttocks—making Akash
shiver—then ran his tongue down until he reached Akash's
asshole. The lube had a sharp, synthetic taste, but he didn't
mind it, encouraged by the noise Akash made, the way he
shuddered, the heat of his skin and the tightness of his ass. It
made him so hard. He reached down to stroke his cock.

He lapped at Akash's asshole, giving it a few more lashes

of his tongue, then pressed his finger there again. It slid in
easily. Akash moved back, wanting more, but Andrew didn't
give it to him—not yet. He pushed his finger in up to the
second knuckle, then drew it out again.

"God, just fuck me, please," Akash moaned.
"You want me to fuck you?"
"Fuck—Andrew, yes!"
"Shit." He tore the condom wrapping open. He didn't think

he'd ever managed to put a condom on so quickly or so
easily. Everything was going so smoothly, and Akash's ass
was ready for him, a perfect fit, hugging his dick just the right
amount as he grasped Akash's thighs and thrust his hips
forward.

Then Akash was begging for it, moaning, telling him how

big his dick was, asking for more. Andrew reached around to
grasp the other man's cock, thick and slick in his hand.
Andrew didn't hold back. Akash was very good, the best fuck
he'd had in a while—he knew how to take it.

When he came, he came hard, and Akash moaned his

name.

Soon enough, it was Akash's come all over Andrew's

fingers, and he was licking it off—but Akash sat up quickly

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and helped him. Their tongues met, and then Andrew was
kissing him, the taste of Akash's come in his mouth along
with Akash's tongue.

Afterward, they sat leaning against each other on the

weight bench, both of them naked. Akash's fingers played
lightly over Andrew's chest, and he was smiling. Andrew
looked down at the two used condoms on the floor. He wasn't
in any hurry to clean that up. "Can I take you out for dinner?"
he asked.

"No, I've got a client later." Akash didn't seem entirely

pleased by that fact.

"Do you have to go?"
Akash sighed. "I should. My other client fired me today."
"Ah, that's too bad."
"I know. Some people are so inconsiderate."
Andrew realized he was stroking Akash's hair again. But he

didn't stop, and Akash didn't pull away. "How about
tomorrow?"

"What about tomorrow?"
"Come over tomorrow. Whenever you're free."
"I thought you were such a busy man," said Akash, kissing

at his jaw.

Andrew shrugged. "Like I said, I've got some personal time

that I should use."

"Okay, tomorrow. But you still have to buy me dinner,

since you fired me."

"That's only fair."
"And say you're sorry," Akash demanded.

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"I'm not sorry," Andrew replied promptly, and Akash

laughed.

"Good," he said. "Me neither."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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OPEN UP

Clare London
He hadn't been here before—I'd have remembered. I

mean, I knew most of the names of the regular patients, but
even if he wasn't one of the regulars, I'd have still
remembered him. I recognized him even though he was
sitting in the waiting room in the middle of wailing children
and white-faced youngsters and falsely-cheerful adults. He
barely looked up, flicking listlessly through a Town and
Country magazine. It looked incongruous in such large hands
that were probably more used to manual labor. He grunted a
couple of times—with impatience, I assumed, because we
were running late. Now and then, his eyes flickered over a
young man sat opposite him and his shoulders tightened. I
reckon I was the only one saw it.

Because I recognized what he was.
It was the last hour of the day and I was kept busy

through the remaining appointments. Gradually, the noise
from the waiting room outside died away—the nervous
coughing, the shifting around on seats that were never meant
to be the height of comfort, the occasional involuntary moan.

My boss had gone for the day, but I offered to clear up the

room for him. The equipment just needed a wipe down with
the sterilising wipes, some patient records to be re-filed, a
swift brush over the floor—then I was free to lock up and go
home.

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I was washing around the sides of the sink when I felt the

prickle at the back of my neck. When I turned around, I knew
who I'd see.

He filled the doorway. He leaned casually with one hand

against the frame, the muscles bunching on his upper arm. It
was a hot day and many people had left off their jackets, but
I didn't remember him wearing one in the first place, just a
white cotton vest. In the waiting room, his bare, tanned
shoulders had been a visual oasis in the middle of striped
dress shirts and pale pink dresses—his skin, glinting with
sweat under the fluorescent lights. I could see now the vest
was creased around his waist but tight where it counted—
right across his pecs. They were muscled, and hard; they
strained the fabric across his chest. His nipples were tight
button buds under the white jersey. I imagined that my fists
could hammer on those muscles all day and never get an
answer.

Except the one he wanted to give.
I cleared my throat. I resisted the urge to ogle up at him,

but he was a good six inches taller. "If you need to make
another appointment, the girls can book you in tomorrow
morning. We're closed now."

He didn't even seem to be listening. His eyes were dark,

set in a wide face and around a nose that had probably seen a
fair share of action outside any boxing ring. His mouth was
wide and looked greedy and it was...

Grinning.
"You wear that thing for a joke or something?" His voice

was slightly hoarse, maybe from too much smoking, maybe

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from the dry air in the surgery. Certainly not from
nervousness. His eyes raked up and back down my chest.
Maybe they rested for a second longer than necessary at my
crotch. I was glad the hem of my overall reached down to my
hips, as I was suddenly, instantly hard. I felt my hands clench
into a fist, then open out wide as if surrendering.

I bit back the whimper that begged to be released.
"It's my uniform," I said. It was a white polyester tunic,

short sleeved, zipped down the front. Okay, so it was never
going to be on the cover of GQ as this season's must have,
but it served its purpose. "It's what I wear at work." My voice
sounded barely more than a whisper. The white, sterile walls
of the room took its echo and swallowed it dead.

He shrugged, his whole upper body tensing then relaxing

with the movement. The vest rode up on his body, exposing a
small band of a belly that looked just as tanned and just as
taut as the rest of him. His free hand came around to hug at
the front of his jeans. He wore them fairly loose around the
hips, though maybe that was less to do with fashion than to
give enough comfort for thighs that looked strong enough to
crush my hand if I dared to slide it in between them. I
imagined sliding on warm sweat up toward his crotch, my
fingers tangling in the hairs of his groin, the skin of my palm
stretching wide to consider the impossibility of reaching
around the thick cock I knew was swelling up there...

"You can keep it on," he said, his voice breaking into a

dream that was making me sweat—very, very sweetly.

"Huh?"

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He took a step inside the room. His eyes flickered over the

couch in the middle of the floor, currently set upright in its
usual seating position. "Keep the dress thing on when I fuck
you. If that turns you on. Gets you hard."

My eyes widened with shock. "What the fuck? I told you,

the surgery's closed for the day. You shouldn't even be here,
I'm locking up. There's no way..."

"There's every way," he said. It was amazing how he could

do that with his voice—speak normally, with normal words,
yet pitch the pure authority straight into my veins like a shot.
I felt the pulse in my cock throb like a tangible squeeze. "You
want it, and I give it. Head, dick up the ass. whatever. I've no
time for games."

I flushed from head to toe, I could feel it. I took one step

to the side, to keep the length of the chair between us. "Get
out. I'll call someone—"

He shook his head. He was still grinning and now his eyes

were fully on my groin. One hand toyed with the button of his
jeans—the buttonhole looked relaxed and loose, like it'd often
been wrenched open. In a rush. "All gone. They've all gone.
Just you and me left."

"I have to clean up," I said, gasping the first thing that

came into my head.

"Have to get you dirty first, then," he hissed. "Drop your

pants. Get on the chair. Unless you want me to fuck you over
the sink." He looked mildly interested for a second. His hand
cupped his groin speculatively. "Or up against the wall. Those
tiles slippery?"

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I was still gaping at him but the heat through my body

wasn't just from indignation. No, my limbs were full of hot,
spiking excitement and my heart hammered in my chest with
rightful vindication. It had been too long since desire like this
crawled through my veins, since it swamped me, drying my
throat and filling my cock. Too miserably long! Too long spent
in a quiet, single apartment; too long spent in busy,
respectful days at work; too long spent with mild young men
who bought me the occasional small glass of beer and wanted
to talk about my opinion of current affairs, the role of gay
men in the media, and whether I truly believed in an
equitable relationship.

Too long pretending not to recognize myself.
"You looked at me," the man said.
I couldn't even nod. I realized I didn't even want to know

his name.

"In that room." He jerked his head back toward the waiting

room. "Couldn't take your eyes off me. So you're gagging for
it. Don't make me hang around any longer." He moved his
hand—large, bold, strong with hair on the knuckles—and
flipped open the button on his jeans. The zip eased down
swiftly, also used to his demands. There was something
swarthy behind his hand, nudging at his wrist, not cloth, not
underwear at all. Hair. Skin. The hot, sweaty shadows of his
cock, coming out to play.

"Fuck," I said. I hadn't meant to say anything.
He laughed, sharply. I didn't think it was at me, but then I

didn't think he'd be interested in discussing the subtleties of
humor with me, not right now anyway. "Yeah. Get the chair

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flat and we'll fuck. Like I said. You want it hard? It's going to
be fast and I don't take requests once I'm started."

The last guy I fucked said I was too nice, said I was too

submissive. To be honest, we both were, though I'd always
thought there was something provocative in me that stopped
me seeking that role on a full time basis. The Last Guy and I
ended up sharing a joint and watching re-runs of Friends and
never doing it more than twice. Couldn't make our minds up
how to do it, then the moment passed.

I looked up at the guy in the doorway and knew that'd

never happen with him. I doubted he had a TV in the
bedroom. Hell, I doubted he used a bedroom that often.

"Hard," I whispered. Please was implied.
He grinned again and stepped forward, pulling out his

cock. I was fascinated by it; the purple meat damp and thick,
just as I'd imagined, the dark color a stark contrast to the icy
white of the room. He smelled of musk; it jarred with the
antiseptic tang in the air.

I stumbled around to get the controls of the chair,

winching down the back so that it could lie as a bed. I
fumbled with one hand, trying to unzip my tunic, panicking
whether I'd worn a clean vest myself today. My dick strained
at the front of my pants, trying to burst out. I knew they'd be
stained damp before I finally got them open as well.

I knew without doubt this was a one-off, limited-time offer.
The guy had moved forward, his jeans open but still

hovering at his hips. He obviously wasn't going to get fully
undressed, though he plucked the edge of his vest and
started to peel it up over his head. I'd get the top half naked

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at least, although I might never get to see those thighs, or
the muscles in his solid buttocks curving inwards as he
clenched and thrust on top of me ... My asshole flexed tight at
the thought then relaxed, like a small, pouting mouth,
opening its pink lips to give its own version of an anal blow
job.

Then my foot knocked against the column under the chair

and something whirred into life. I pulled away and it stopped,
but not before I'd seen him jump back and his eyes widen.

"Hey." I lifted a hand, weakly. "Sorry. Just hit the foot

pedal."

He'd gone pale—there was no mistaking it. He was starting

to shake his head. He actually took a step backwards. I stared
between his dilating pupils and the thick, glistening cock in
his fist and I gulped in air.

"It was just the power. For the drills." I didn't know what

to say. My tunic was open, the seams flapping on my chest.
My pants were, indeed, damp at the front and clammy
against my erection. But I'd seen that look in men's eyes
before and it wasn't from sexual lust for my ass.

"Fuck it," he said, frowning. "Turn it off."
I watched the flare of panic in his eyes, and things seemed

to shift between us just a little bit. My ambitions ... changed.

"Can't." I shrugged, gently. "Something's been left on.

Maybe one of the switches isn't working." I ran a finger along
the edge of the unit beside the chair, topped with a gleaming
stainless steel tray, laid with a single bright, white towel.
"Probably just the polisher. I've put all the loose instruments
away." I glanced up at him and then back down to the tray. I

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had an irresistible urge to laugh. "It's only a noise." I tapped
at the foot pedal with one foot and—apparently carelessly—
folded my fingers around one of the hand pieces. It whirred
for another second.

He moaned. I kid you not.
We dealt with it a lot in the surgery. Dental phobia.

Definitely more often than we dealt with me being fucked raw
on the chair.

I took a step nearer to him. "Are you scared? A lot of

people are at the dentist..."

"Fuck no!" His eyes were livid with a hideous mixture of

lust, mortification, and fear. Irrational fear—yet very obvious.
"I just had a check-up, didn't I? Fine with that—no problems
there. You're talking crap."

"Okay." I shrugged. "Of course I am." I couldn't resist it—I

tapped the pump again and the whine hissed through the
room. The guy nearly went into spasm. He was struggling not
to take flight—struggling to hang on to his pride and sexual
credibility.

"You look pale," I said, softly. "Why don't you lie down on

the chair first." You remember that provocation I mentioned
before? The one that kept me just this side of submissive? "I
really want you to fuck me. I really want it. Now." I shucked
off my tunic and peeled my own vest over my head. I made
sure I kept hold of his gaze all the time. So, okay, I'm no
macho man like him, but his eyes flickered to my nipple ring
and they glazed over. I had the piercing done after the Last
Guy incident, not sure what I was trying to prove but it
certainly had the right effect now. His cock bounced in his fist

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and the color came back to his cheeks. "Lie down," I said,
quickly. "I'll suck you."

It rested uncomfortably with him—me giving the

instructions—but he sidled over to the chair and threw himself
down. The plastic wheezed quietly under his weight; the
muscles on his belly tensed up around his navel. I stood close
to the side of the chair, my heart beat quickening again at the
sight of him, unfastening my pants at last. I tucked my hands
in the waistband and dropped both pants and briefs together,
letting them crumple around my ankles. My cock sprang out
with its own version of halleluia, desperation gleaming wetly
and stickily at its tip. His eyes flickered shakily between my
modest offering to the prick party and the central column of
the unit—which wasn't the world's most flattering comparison
for me—but I knew he wasn't viewing them from the same
point of view. When I pushed the unit and tray to one side, he
relaxed a little. Returning to the matter in hand, he prodded
my thigh with the chubby wet head of his cock, gesturing it
toward me. "Suck it. Let me fuck that mouth of yours."

His hand was tight in my hair as he pushed me down on

him, though I went willingly enough. I got a hand around the
base of his cock before I gagged and then I sucked as if I
might never get another chance this side of the millennium.
The shaft was so thick and greedy in my mouth that it needed
all my attention. His hips thrust up against my chin, sweat
springing up on those fabulous pecs, my other hand clinging
bravely to his hip to anchor myself. But when I crouched
further down over the side of the chair to get a better angle
on him, my boot knocked against the unit again. The chair

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creaked and the metal tray rattled. I felt his answering
shudder all through his groin.

I lifted a hand across and put it flat on his belly, holding

him down on the chair. He grunted with irritation and tried to
shake it off. So I pressed the edge of my foot properly down
on the pedal and let the whine seep out. Again. His cock
jerked fiercely in my mouth and his torso went rigid. He
stopped trying to push me off. I grinned around his dick, my
tongue licking fast.

"Turn over," I hissed.
"Fuck off," he grunted. His conversation wasn't proving the

most exciting I'd ever had during sex, but the circumstances
rather limited us. "Your ass is the one taking it."

"Rimming," I said, slowly. "It's good. You want my tongue

on your ass? Let me show you."

His cock was throbbing on my tongue and he slid it out

reluctantly. He huffed a bit and turned over, eyeing the unit
beside us suspiciously. I kicked off my own pants, knelt up on
the chair so I was straddling his hips, and then I tugged his
jeans down his thighs. They were, indeed, magnificent
thighs—I ran my hand up them, feeling the line of the
muscle, catching up the thicker hairs near the crease of his
buttocks. I peeled his cheeks open, finding the dark, hairy
pucker. I dropped a blob of spit down on to it, my saliva
glands at full throttle at the sight of what was on the menu.

I guess I was just clumsy in my excitement. Right? My foot

slipped off the side of the chair and caught the edge of the
unit, rattling the steel tray again.

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The guy's body tensed from top to toe and so I got my

view of the muscles of his ass after all, clenching in from the
base of his spine down to the tops of his thighs. I sighed,
happily. He wriggled, too, though I was half on top of him by
now, my tongue at his crack. Maybe he was trying to get
away—to restore his control of the situation. He liked it,
though, I could tell—his hole was flexing in and out happily
beneath my tongue's unpractised but enthusiastic work, the
creases glinting with my saliva, the inside of his legs tight
with anticipation. I poked experimentally with my tongue at
him, licking the rim as if looking for entrance. He grumbled
from underneath me again—I rattled the tray again. He went
quiet.

I slid a hand in between his legs and poked a fingertip at

his hole instead. He growled and I had visions of being slung
back off him, tumbling across the room, having to explain to
my boss tomorrow morning why there were blood stains on
the tiling. But just as he was phrasing his by now familiar
response, my foot slid back down over the side of the chair
and caught the pedal full on this time—there was another
burst of whining from the unit. The air tube hissed as well,
like it had come out in sympathy.

He went still. My hand was sticky with the sweat that

sprang up on his skin. I went back to work.

I slid my finger in and out of his ass—it wasn't a hard

passage, though every muscle spasm along his spine
announced that he hadn't expected this when he visited the
surgery today.

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"Just a check up," I murmured, smirking. "Tell me if

anything hurts."

"No," he growled. "Get the fuck out of there."
I smiled, ignoring him, and slid in another daring finger.

Like I said, looked like he'd been here before. His voice was
angry but his legs gripped at the bed of the chair and his
hands clenched at its edges. He leaned over on to one side
and I could see the size of his bulging cock, trapped
underneath his groin and begging for release. He was getting
off on this, same as me.

There was the glimmer of foil peeking out of the top

pocket of his jeans. With my free hand, I peeled out a
condom packet. To fit all sizes. How thoughtful to offer
precautions for us both.

"Some of them have diamond coating," I said, cheerily.

"The drills. Makes them really hard wearing. And different
speeds. Higher torque—smoother operation." I twisted my
fingers, loosening him up, then fumbled under the tray,
knowing what I'd find. "Lube for the hand pieces," I
announced, my fingers suddenly very proficient with the one-
handed opening of sealed containers. Amazing what proper
motivation can do for you. "The drills can go up to 350,000
rpm. Adjustable forward and reverse." My fingers, newly
slicked, thrust in and out. When his back arched and his
growls became fiercer, I knew I'd hit the right spot.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he panted. He sounded

genuinely interested.

"Different kind of drilling," I hissed. I slid on the condom

and slicked up my cock, my hand swift and steady, the flesh

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swollen and demanding. Then I prised open his buttocks
again, tugging his hips up to meet mine. He came up on to
his hands and knees, hobbled by the jeans still tangled
around his thighs. His balls hung down in the valley between
his legs, heavy and crinkled; his cock bobbed up from under
his belly and he reached a hand around to grip it. I nudged
my cock against his hole and poked at the entrance.

He tensed again and his head swung around to glare at

me.

I dropped a foot to the pedal again and it whirred

obediently. His pupils dilated, fast.

"Ask me nicely," I whispered. My cock throbbed in my

hand, impatient to be deep inside. I nudged again at him, his
opening starting to peel apart around the head of my dick.
When he hesitated—well, what do you think I did?

My foot tapped on the pedal. The whine settled into a

much longer rhythm, an ululating wave of wailing. The tray
rattled; the air tube sucked.

He keened, no other word for it. His yell echoed off the

tiling and the white, clinical fittings like that of a trapped
beast in heat. He clutched the side of the chair and strained
his ass up toward me, pushing back on to my cock. "Fuck
me," he hissed. "Get me out of here—but fuck me first!"

I guessed that was as nice as he was going to get. And

one thing I know about phobias is that, allowed to run
unchecked, they can interfere with normal functions—normal
bodily functions. I gripped at his thighs and I sucked in my
own air, hoping for more stamina than my excitement led me
to believe was mine to command. I pressed slowly but firmly

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in, thrilled at the heavy, muscled body I had splayed out
underneath me, taking whatever I gave him.

"Open up!" I quipped. "This is hardly going to hurt at all!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

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289

UNMASKED

Syd McGinley
"Alan, you're full of it!"
"I hate Halloween. I hate the masks. I don't like not

knowing who people are."

I pinch him hard. We've only been seeing each for a few

months, but I already know that's bullshit. "You faked last
week when I had my Zorro mask on?"

He leers at the memory, but says, "That was different. I

knew it was you and it was hot imagining who might be there,
but I don't like really not knowing."

I'm astride him, but I sit back on my heels. "You're

scared?"

He nods. It's funny to see him freaked. He's six feet four

inches of tanned muscle, with a Marine haircut. Jarhead, I
whisper when I fuck him, and he can't resist or retaliate.

"And clowns, but worse, those George Bush masks." He

shivers.

He's so disconcerted. Hand on heart, I promise not to

subject him to any masks.

"And I hate costumes."
"Are you sure you're gay? How can you not want to dress

up? Or go to the haunted house? There's an AIDS benefit
there after the parade. I heard there's Phelps in Hell! And the
Santorum and Satan Show! Frist-Fuckers of America!"

"Hunter, get it through your fucking head: I hate

Halloween."

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"Has Wicca Jane hexed you?"
Wicca Jane and her girlfriend live downstairs. The

entryway they share with Alan is strewn with amulets and
herb bundles. He usually pokes fun at them.

"I know it's not real, but it's freaky."
"At least come to Ray's masked ball? He's dying to meet

you. You haven't met any of my friends yet."

He's adamant. He'll keep the front lights off and hole up in

his kitchen until the trick-or-treaters are gone. He knows he's
being silly, and he teases me by saying he knows he'll be safe
because Jane will charm their entry before she goes to her
Samhain ceremonies. He's cute when he flirts. So, although I
know he's distracting me on purpose, I give up. Just on the
argument, not on us. Besides, I'm hard again. Arguing—even
bickering—gets us hot. I'm still astride his waist. I clamp my
heels on his hips and bend forward until I'm doing a push-up
over his face.

If he won't say what I want to hear, then he doesn't need

to be talking. It always surprises him that I'm smaller than he
is, but I often get to top him. He's not pleased, but hasn't
objected yet. I suspect revenge will come, but until then I'll
use his good nature as much as I can.

My dick's already grazing his throat, and he's swallowing

while trying to protest.

I laugh. "I know you don't deep-throat, Alan, but if you

won't come out to play, then I'll need to get my fun here."

He says something choked that I interpret as "not fair,"

but I'm pushing harder and deeper. Alan's hands are cupping
my balls and probing my hole in an attempt to make me

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shoot sooner. Poor Alan, I came earlier, and I'm deliberately
being a slow shot. He doesn't like this, but he's fucking
awesome at eating meat. He could swallow a foot-long frank
and not blink. He takes pride in his cocksucking even when
the tears are in his eyes from a ramming. I repeatedly hit his
gag reflex and pause to feel his soft palate quiver on my
cockhead.

Fuck! He's got his finger in my ass, and has hit the sweet

spot. I spurt in his throat, and stay deep for the last spasm to
pay him for triggering me sooner than I wanted.

He may hate deep-throating, but he's a slut for sperm, and

nurses at my shrinking dick to get it all.

"Fuck, Alan, don't, man. You know that feels too—ah fuck."
He's flipped me, and is tormenting my cock and balls.

They're too sensitive, and I'm squirming and pleading in no
time.

"Back off about Halloween, Hunter. I'm warning you."
I nod. At that moment I'd agree to anything, but later I

realize he took a Halloween deal instead of fucking me while I
was helpless. He hasn't had my ass yet. I don't give that up
easily. I'll bottom for the right sort of guy, which is just as
well as I invariably fall for other tops. I'm not sure yet if
Alan's one under that sweet-natured exterior. He may really
be just a big old jarhead looking for a daddy.

* * * *

Now Halloween is here, and I'm making one last try. I'm

not breaking my promise, but it's fair enough to try one more
time to get him to just Ray's party. After all, I've skipped the

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parades and the benefits, but surely a party with friends is
different? Alan's good-natured about it, but still says no. He
distracts me with the new canapés he learned to make in
class this week—he's gone back to school as a culinary
student—then coaxes me into bed. I know he's trying to
please because he rolls right over without our usual wrangling
about who's the real top. I don't care why he's presenting his
hole—I fuck him hard. Afterward, I still want to go out.

"Go, don't stay in because I'm hung up."
I give up, but still squeeze him before I get out of bed.

"Okay, babe, I'll come by tomorrow. I'll leave directions to
Ray's on the coffee table—in case you change your mind."

* * * *

Just minutes into the masked ball and I miss Alan. Ball is a

grandiose term: it's a seething mass of smeared makeup and
parade-battered costumes crammed into Ray's loft.
Everyone's talking about the haunted house. It sounds even
better than I imagined. Ray's a six-foot-tall skinny black drag
queen, so he's both scary and convincing as Condi Rice in her
Matrix storm trooper outfit. It's fun, but I've seen enough. I
turn to Alan to say, "Let's go," but of course, he's not with
me. Shit, I must be falling for him if I'd rather be home with
him than out on my favorite night.

I slide out of the party and head to his place. I know he'll

ignore the doorbell even though all the ankle-biters are home
with sugar highs by now. The porch light's off to keep trick-
or-treaters away and I search for the door handle. Something
scratches my face. I yelp and freeze. It hits my scalp. I inch

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my hand to my cell—it has a penlight—and point it. Fuck. An
herb bundle to protect the entry. I'll kill Wicca Jane. I let go
of speed dial, and use the penlight to go up Alan's stairs. He'd
shyly given me a key a few days ago. He's awful sweet for
such a big lug.

I'm not surprised his lounge is dark—he'll still be in the

kitchen absorbed with new recipes. I've taken off my mask; I
keep promises although he's spoiled my Halloween. Most
years, I spend all October creating something grotesque and
fantastic. This year, I couldn't summon the interest. I knew
all along Alan wouldn't come, and without him it seemed
pointless. Dispirited, I'd defaulted to a generic Zorroesque
costume—plastic sword, tight pants, boots, and open shirt. It
was okay, but my heart wasn't in it. Shit! Now my heart's in
my mouth! A dark shape looms backlit in the doorway. I
scream: there's a monster in Alan's kitchen!

The kitchen light snaps off and a hand on my nape draws

me in. My knees are Jell-O. The creature is huge—I'm five-
eight and it's a foot taller. It pushes me down to my knees.
The kitchen is stark black-and-white in moonlight. All I see is
silhouette: a square head and lumpy neck. From my knees
my perspective is distorted, and then my view's blocked by
crotch.

Whoa! Monsters are in proportion all over! I admit it, I'm a

slut; I perk up when I realize why I'm on my knees. My eyes
adapt. The hands on my shoulders are green-tinged, but the
cock before me is honey colored. And tastes familiar—I grab
Alan's ass and slurp at his hard-on. Before I lose myself, I
remind myself to lie later and say I knew it was Alan before I

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started the blow job. I apple-bob for his balls, but he tugs my
hair and returns my mouth to his rigid Franken-pole. His bent
knees let his prick slide into my throat and he thrusts. I gag,
but keep my hands on his butt. I knead his glutes and tickle
his hole. He roars and shoots.

I sputter, then murmur, "Ah! Sweet mystery of life...."
He cracks up. "Are you ever serious, Hunter?"
"How can I be? I'm in breeches blowing Franken-cock."
He flips on the lights. Platform shoes give him those crucial

four extra inches.

"Why are you dressed up?" A doubt assails me. What if he

had a date and I hate Halloween was a ruse?

"Thought I'd try Ray's—for you—you looked so puppy dog

earlier."

I'm abashed, aware I suspected him unjustly, and that I

dove for his prick before I knew who he was. He must have
been thinking ahead if he had even a basic Frankenstein
costume ready. I've been sulking all month while he's been
battling his demons.

Still. "Puppy dog!" I say indignantly. I squeal as he swats

my ass.

"Breeches suit you, but better off." He hauls my breeches

down. My knee-high riding boots stop them. He catches my
prick in his green palm and caresses me until it strains toward
him. He pulls my shirt over my head, but my hands stick at
the buttoned wrists. He makes no move to undo them. I'm
bound knee and wrist by my own costume, with my face
hidden in shirt.

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I'm helpless as Alan drags me to the sofa and onto his lap.

He spanks my ass, flips me over, strokes my prick, turns me
back again and slaps harder and harder until I writhe. He
torments my asscheeks until they tingle and pulls on my cock
until I beg him to finish me. He's mean and succumbs to the
inevitable trick-or-treat jokes as he slaps and strokes.

"Which is which, Hunter? Do you even know?"
I've slid half off his knees and he can access my prick with

just a reach around.

He tickles my cockhead: "Trick." Slaps my ass: "Treat." He

pulls the shirt from my face. He stares into my eyes and
works my shaft.

"Just a trick, Hunter?"
"No," I groan.
"Then what?"
I wriggle. Why the hell do all my relationships end up with

men discovering I'm a bottom at heart?

Alan slaps me hard again. "What, boy?"
"Treat?" I venture hoping he just wants the other half of

the joke. Fuck! He's slapped my balls. He stops spanking me
or stroking me and watches me fight with my pain and
dignity. Alan wipes my tears with my shirt.

"Come on boy, I've unmasked you. You're not the tough

guy you say you are. I heard you squeal when Jane's sage
bundle hit you, and you screamed like a girl when you saw
me. You were on your knees for a big cock in a second, and
you're crying from a little spanking and a tiny ball slap."

I'm not the world's smartest guy. I say, "At least I'm not

afraid of a children's holiday."

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Alan's affectionate good humor evaporates in a second. He

throws me off his lap and I'm on the floor on my hands and
knees. He grabs my Zorro sword and slashes it against my
ass.

I howl. It may only be a toy, but, shit, it stings.
"I know who I am, boy, and I'm man enough to admit my

fears. Are you?"

He hits me again, and I crawl away as fast as my clothing-

bonds allow. He strides after me, switching at me. Damn, if
only Wicca Jane were home. Surely he wouldn't do this to me
then? The calm part of my brain says: Of course he would. If
he's already doing this, nothing would stop him from gagging
me. I finally get enough of a grip to stop crawling. I know I
have to stay still and let him finish venting his anger on my
ass. My attempts to escape are only fueling his anger and
provoking his desire.

I hear him laugh when I lean my forehead against the cool

glass of the coffee table and stay obediently still as he takes a
few more swipes at my tender ass.

"Do you know who you are now, Hunter?"
"Yes," I whisper. I turn around and rest my face on his

monster shoes. "Your boy."

"I could get to like Halloween," he says. "So long as you

remember from now on who's who, and drop your act.
Hunter: you've been caught."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Mychael Black (Release)
Mychael has been writing gay erotica and gay fiction for

several years. When not writing, he can usually be found
researching or brainstorming. His favorite subjects of
research are: Medieval history, Welsh history, Welsh culture,
Welsh language, Swords, Castles, Archaeology, Celtic history,
Celtic mythology, Vampires and vampire mythologies, Magick,
Christian mysteries, Angels, and other such topics. Mychael
welcomes feedback and will gladly answer all messages. He
can be reached at: mychael

black@yahoo.com.

Websites:
www.mychaelblack.com
mychael-black2.livejournal.com
groups.yahoo.com/group/theprincesangel
Noel Blue (The Ghost)
Noel Blue has been writing for about two years, submitting

serial stories to nifty.org and slowly building a small but
friendly fan base. Her stories can be found on
www.noelblue.com, or at
groups.yahoo.com/group/NBstories/.

Jamie Booth (Drive)
Jamie Booth hails from the UK and is Northern through and

through. "My interests include dancing, bubblegum and
exploring abandoned buildings," says Jamie "and, of course,
writing. My chief passion has always been horror, but I write
for a wide range of genres including urban fantasy, science

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fiction and erotica. I have a handful of short stories published
in anthologies, a couple of competitions under my belt and
I'm currently working on my second novel—a horror-tinged
steampunk adventure yarn."

Jamie dreams of the time when it'll be possible to give up

the day job and become a full time writer—or a rock star,
whichever happens first.

Anah Crow (Lessons in Kneeling)
Anah Crow is a queer Canadian writer and poet whose first

loves are words, stones, wind, and water. Since none of those
things are particularly cuddly, nor do they make tea and tell
her that her writing isn't terrible, she is also blessed with as
many partners and friends as she can possibly manage. Anah
has been writing queer fiction since her salad days when she
first wondered about such things as why Arthur and Lancelot
didn't simply get a nice cottage together by the Lake where
the Lady and Guinevere could come over for tea on Sundays
and they'd all live happily ever after.

Martin Delacroix (Fuck Me ... Please)
Martin Delacroix is a former journalist and trial lawyer. He

writes novels, novellas and short fiction. He resides on
Florida's Gulf Coast, at Pass-a-Grille Beach.

Eider Grey (Riders on the Storm)
Eider Grey has been writing fiction since she was old

enough to spell. These days she's lucky enough to live and
write with her partner-in-crime, Meredith Shrike. In her free
time, she enjoys playing word games, drinking hot tea with
honey, and wearing fuzzy socks. Sometimes all three at once.

CA James (Personal Time)

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C.A. James is a freelance writer and illustrator who resides

in southern New Jersey, where submarine sandwiches are
called "hoagies," and that's how C.A. likes it.

Clare London (Open Up)
Clare took the pen name London from the city where she

lives, loves and writes. She juggles fiction with a frantic
family life and waits for the far distant day when she can
afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She's written
in many genres and across many settings, with short stories
published both online and in print anthologies. Most of her
work features male/male romance and drama, with a healthy
serving of erotica, as she enjoys both reading and writing
about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters. Clare
currently has a fantasy novel in the process of publication,
two more nearing the submission stage and plenty of other
projects in mind ... she just has to find out where she left
them amongst the frantic family life.

Clare's website: www.darkpearldiva.com
Clare's blog: claredivatoo.livejournal.com
Syd McGinley (Unmasked)
Syd McGinley is English, but has lived in the USA since

1989. Syd teaches college in a red state, stays sane writing
dirty stories, and under-appreciates beloved Joe far too often.
Current projects include a regency novel and a contemporary
D/s novel as well the Dr. Fell series and the Another Fine
Mess anthology. Visit Syd at www.sydmcginley.com.

Chris Owen (Logan's Project)
Chris Owen lives and writes in the wilds of Eastern Canada.

A fan of Macintosh computers, knitting, cowboys, firemen and

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cheese, Chris spends hours each day trying to figure out how
to write and knit at the same time. Recently Chris has started
learning yoga in a misguided attempt to see if it's possible to
knit with one's feet so the hands can keep on typing. Chris'
latest releases are all at Torquere. There is very little yarn in
the stories, but the content of firemen and cowboys is high.

Chris' website: www.chrisowen.net
CB Potts (In the Hole)
CB Potts lives surrounded by prison guards—sadly, none of

them are quite as sexy as Grant and Rusty, but that's why we
have fiction, isn't it? She's also the author of the Rockhound
series, Dance with Me, and a few other titles Torquere fans
might find familiar. You can always find CB online at
cbpotts.livejournal.com.

Meredith Shrike (Like Clockwork)
Meredith Shrike would like you to infer from this bio that

the author is witty, charming, and thinking about having a
nice cup of tea; and really, there's no better way to do that
than to just say so outright. Currently engaged in multiple
original writing projects as well as collecting the erotic
memoirs of Uncle Gideon, Meredith resides on the east coast
of a fairly large continent in the delightful company of
partner-in-crime, Eider Grey.

Matt Stedmann (Spike)
Matt Stedmann's erotic fiction appears in the anthologies

Homosex: Sixty Years of Gay Erotica, Out of Control, Blood
Lust, Men for All Seasons, and Quickies 3, which was
nominated for the Lambda Literary Award. His erotic non-
fiction appears in the anthologies Best of Both Worlds and

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ReCreations, which was also nominated for the Lambda
Literary Award. He really, really enjoys watching volleyball.

KC Warwick (No Man's Servant)
I live in the heart of the English countryside surrounded by

animals, and have been writing male/male romance for as
long as I can remember. I was brought up on Tolkien and
C.S. Lewis, long before the days of Harry Potter, so there is
often a strong fantasy element in my writing.

Other stories of mine published by Torquere are "Cold

Iron" in the Animal Attraction anthology, Thieves In the Night,
Taming The Mountain Mist and Rules. I'm currently working
on a historical novel set in Elizabethan England, which is my
other interest.

GS Wiley (Crocodile Bird)
I love researching and writing historical fiction, especially

historical romances. I live in western Canada with my
husband and our dog, both of whom are very supportive of
my writing compulsion!

Autumn Winterwind (A Game of Empire)
Autumn Winterwind never expected to use her German

major for evil, but her partiality for anachronism and the
Victorian age combined with her fondness for German history
to create this story. She has written a variety of short fiction,
but none for publication.

ABOUT THE EDITOR
Kit Zheng
Kit Zheng is usually found masquerading as a writer. Kit

enjoys basking in the warm light of the computer screen and
affecting a look which suggests the planning of artistic

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302

masterpieces, great literature, or at the very least, a world
takeover. Sadly, regardless of whatever deadlines might be
looming, the real truth is that Kit is merely contemplating
what to have for dinner. More uninformative tidbits about Kit
can be found at kitzheng.thatdamncat.com.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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303

Crocodile Bird Copyright 2008 by GS Wiley, Drive Copyright
2008 by Jamie Booth, Fuck Me ... Please Copyright 2008 by
Martin Delacroix, The Ghost Copyright 2008 by Noel Blue, In
the Hole Copyright 2008 by CB Potts, Lessons in Kneeling
Copyright 2008 by Anah Crow, Like Clockwork Copyright 2008
by Meredith Shrike, Logan's Project Copyright 2008 by Chris
Owen, No Man's Servant Copyright 2008 by KC Warwick,
Open Up Copyright 2008 by Clare London, Personal Time
Copyright 2008 by CA James, Release Copyright 2008 by
Mychael Black, Riders on the Storm Copyright 2008 by Eider
Grey, Spike Copyright 2008 by Matt Stedmann, Unmasked
Copyright 2008 by Syd McGinley

If you are connected to the Internet, take a

moment to rate this eBook by going back to

your bookshelf at www.fictionwise.com.

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