Anthology Toy Box Tattoos

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies

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Table of Contents

Definition and Etymology

Luck Rune by Willa Okati

Dancing Queens by Rob Knight

The Tail of the Tiger by Sean Michael

Contributors’ Bios

Definition and Etymology

Definition: A tattoo, or dermal pigmentation, is a mark made by inserting pigment into the skin for

decorative or other reasons. Tattoos on humans are a type of decorative body modification, while tattoos

on animals are most commonly used for identification or branding.

Source: Wikipedia en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tattoo

Etymology: It is commonly believed that the original root word of “tattoo” comes from the Tongan or

the Tahitian word tatau , meaning to mark or strike twice (the latter referring to traditional methods of

applying the designs). The first syllable “ta", meaning “hand", is repeated twice as an onomatopoeic

reference to the repetitive nature of the action, and the final syllable “U” translates to “color". The

instrument used to pierce the skin in Polynesian tattooing is called a hahau , the syllable “ha” meaning to

“strike or pierce".

The OED gives the etymology of tattoo as “In 18th c. tattaow, tattow. From Polynesian (Tahitian,

Samoan, Tongan, etc.) tatau. In Marquesan, tatu.” The first closest known usage of the word in English
was recorded in the diary of Captain James Cook in 1769 during his voyage to the Marquesas Islands.

The text reads, “...they print signs on people's body and call this tattaw,” referring to the Polynesian

customs. Sailors on the voyage later introduced both the word and reintroduced the concept of tattooing

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to Europe.

In Japanese the most common word used for traditional designs or those that are applied using

traditional methods is irezumi ("insertion of ink"), while “tattoo” is used for non-Japanese designs.

Tattoo enthusiasts may refer to tattoos as “tats,” “ink,” “art,” or “work,” and to tattooists as “artists.”

The latter usage is gaining greater support, with mainstream art galleries holding exhibitions of both

traditional and custom tattoo designs. Copyrighted tattoo designs that are mass-produced and sold to

tattoo artists are known as flash, a notable instance of industrial design. Flash sheets are prominently

displayed in many tattoo parlors for the purpose of providing both inspiration and ready-made tattoo

images to customers.

Source: Wikipedia en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tattoo

Luck Rune

A Short Story set in the Faire Grounds world

By Willa Okati

"It's an out and out shame, it is, leaving so late in the season,” Gildfire lamented, shading his eyes with his

hand and peering mournfully out at the long and winding and currently deserted Road. To he and his

traveling companion had been handed the duties of tidying up a springtime camp. He didn't mind so

much, certainly not enough to bewail his fate, but he had a reason for gamboling and teasing Blackthorn

just then. “Come winter-tide we'll have to hole up alone until the snows blow themselves out and we'll

tear one another to ribbons, see if we don't."

Unable to keep up the pretense of sorrow, he turned to grin impishly at Blackthorn, his favorite

companion. He was disappointed by what he saw, having hoped he'd lightened Blackthorn's mood a

degree or two and perhaps even coaxed a smile from the big Road-man at the thought of tiny Gildfire

damaging his heavy hide in the slightest.

Judging by the unhappy downturn of the dark Gypsy's lips and the dimmed brightness of his

springtime-green eyes, Gildfire hadn't succeeded, not a whit. He doubted Blackthorn had even noticed

his theatrics.

Lords, lords, what was he to do with Blackthorn?

Gildfire sighed, an unusual sound to him as it emerged from his lungs. He had, as he'd ever and always

sworn, been shaped and born for laughing and singing, not weeping nor cursing his fate. And hadn't he

overcome his own share of hard travels and heavy burdens? Born to a drunken slattern, the shame of her

Clan, his father even worse for refusing to name himself. A poor start to a Gypsy's life and no mistake.

Yet look what he'd made of himself! A fine ear for music and two lively, dancing feet were the tools of

his trade; he sang and he played, his fingers knowing by instinct the best way to coax music from even an

old gittern otherwise bound for a trash heap. Jig? Why, he could skip nimbly on his toes all the night long,

wild or slow, around a bonfire or in a tavern.

Blackthorn, in one of his darker moods, would often and oft tell Gildfire he was too silly to live, but that

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was Blackthorn for you. Gildfire despaired of him, believing the man to have sprung from his cradle

without a single drop of humor.

Most Road-kin found it odd that Gildfire and Blackthorn traveled together; Gildfire couldn't say as he

blamed them. Ah, but they didn't know everything, now did they? Brightness needed a darker shadow to

balance it, and darkness needed a light to illuminate the way. Besides the poet's talk, they suited one

another well in many respects—they liked the same food, simple, spicy, and served in lavish

portions—they liked the same music, albeit Blackthorn far more often coaxed mournful dirges from his

pipes and whistles—and they savored the company of their own sex in bed and as companions on the

Road.

A good life, aye, a good life. And up until now, Gildfire had never failed to coax at least a little smile

from Blackthorn no matter how dour his mood. Today, he stood at the verge of failure and he'd not have

it, not at all.

So how might he address the mucky tangle Blackthorn had gotten mired in, and what solution could he

work out? Planning, that had never been Gildfire's way. He flew by the seat of his trews, true enough,

and most often the results of his carefree abandon satisfied him well.

"We'll be late, aye,” Blackthorn grunted, surprising Gildfire, who for true hadn't expected to coax a

single word from his friend—just yet—let alone an observation. “Picking through the scraps and crumbs

the other greedy-guts leave behind as if they do us a great favor."

Gildfire made a face. “Go on, then, tell me what's the worst could happen. Don't spare my delicate

sensibilities, mind; let me hear what you truly think'll be our lot on the Road this summer season."

Blackthorn grumbled under his breath. Gildfire rolled his eyes. His own good nature and need to see
grins instead of scowls aside, he'd never last out a traveling season with such a surly companion, dear

friend or no. Aye, something had to be done, and that quick.

Stalling for time wasn't hard, as Blackthorn stubbornly paid him no mind, so Gildfire turned to occupying

his hands with needful yet mindless tasks which allowed his imagination to run free. He curried his horse,

a fine old sorrel gelding who'd not let him down in seven seasons so far; Blackthorn's temperamental,

ancient silver mare had already been groomed and her hooves picked free of rocks, so he risked the

safety of his fingers by offering her an early spring carrot to chew. He'd half a mind to plait red and

yellow ribbons in her hair; he would have savored the prank were it not for wishing to improve

Blackthorn's temper, not sour it further.

Not a glimmer of an idea had come to Gildfire by the time he'd finished. He opened his mouth,

something he'd often cause to regret when the words spoken needed a cautious touch. “There's no need

to keep a-grieving over fair Greenleaf, you know. He's a silly, fickle Road-man, so he is, and not worthy

of a man like Blackthorn, now is he?"

Blackthorn shot Gildfire a dark glare full of temper and warning.

Gildfire hastily abandoned his attempt to deride the pretty Gypsy lad who'd gone and shattered

Blackthorn's stony heart, miracle of miracles that he'd wormed his way in in the first place. Lords of the

Road, Gildfire still had no idea how Greenleaf had accomplished the feat. He himself had only slipped

‘round the stony walls because no man ever said him nay when he truly wanted something.

And why had he bothered, as some had asked? Welladay, he was no fool. Blackthorn possessed many

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fine qualities. Aside from their shared tastes in bread and salt and music and men, he'd a brave heart and

a fierce loyalty worth ten others who might wander off as the fancy took them. Gildfire knew some saw

him as a brightly colored bird who darted from place to place and never stayed still; Blackthorn had

accepted his pledge of companionship and never questioned him once.

Besides all that, wasn't Blackthorn a handsome devil? Gildfire had seen many a-plenty tasty Gypsies and

even more than a few Grounders who caught his eye with their winning smiles and their skills in loving.

Blackthorn beat them all, in his opinion anyway. Tall as a young oak tree and just as solid, his arms and

legs bulky as barrels, curling dark hair prettier than any maiden's and twice as glossy, and his strange

green eyes, so rare in the dark-skinned Road kin. Gildfire had wished often and oft for such a pretty

green, though he'd no complaint with his own warm and laughing brown orbs. Blackthorn's handsome

face caused him no complaint, more like many a night of dreaming about the Gypsy whilst he stroked his

cock easy and slow, drawing out the pleasure.

Not that Blackthorn would look at him twice, more was the pity. He'd set down rules early on, stating

with admittable wisdom how bad an idea ‘twould be for two who rode and worked together to get

tangled up in romance. Should it end badly, they'd have to part ways or set the world ablaze with their

fighting.

Or so was Blackthorn's opinion; after several seasons traveling together, Gildfire hadn't yet changed his

mind nor his heart, which both yet wanted more of Blackthorn than Blackthorn claimed himself willing to

give. He'd cursed his lack of courage and his ill luck when foolish Greenleaf had taken to lingering by

their campfire and making eyes at Blackthorn. He'd suspected Greenleaf's fidelity, yet held his tongue.

On the nights when Blackthorn drew the caravan's canvas flaps shut and hung a scarlet ribbon from the

back wheel to signal the need for privacy, well, then Gildfire had crawled beneath and been quiet as a

mouse, listening to Blackthorn's grunts and Greenleaf's dramatic moans, thinking of what might have

been.

He'd the chance to make his offer, now, and he'd more than half a mind to. Not yet, though. Blackthorn

needed time to heal after Greenleaf's high-handed departure with a younger rogue of a grounder who'd

promised him bags of wealth as well as vowing Greenleaf would ne'er need to work again a day in his

life.

A sorry Gypsy Greenleaf made, he did. Blackthorn was far better off without him. Gildfire suspected

Blackthorn did know as much; still, Gildfire also knew Blackthorn had truly lost his flinty heart to

Greenleaf and such wounds went deep, needing time to heal.

Healing, aye, that was the thing. A notion crept into Gildfire's mind. No sooner inspired than in action;

such was Gildfire's way. He clambered up over the box behind the horses, light on his feet as when he

danced, and wriggled into the caravan proper.

Blackthorn, busy checking their provisions as he loaded them, cursed his name. “What are you on

about?” he demanded, surly as a wounded bear. “You'll make me lose my count, you will, and when

we've got more beans than meat for your taste this winter, I'll know who to blame."

Gildfire poked his head out the canvas flap at the rear of the caravan and pulled an impish face at

Blackthorn, who scowled at him in return. Undeterred, Gildfire flicked the tip of Blackthorn's noble nose.

Lords of the Road, he'd not a feature about him that could be called “plain", now did he? When he

smiled, he wholly stole Gildfire's heart away.

"I'm checking some supplies of my own,” he informed Blackthorn, careful to keep both desire for the

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man's kisses and his furtive plans to cheer him up hidden from face and voice. “Some goods I plan to sell,

which I know full well no other Gypsy has, and I've a service to trade along with them."

"You're an impudent pup who ought to have been drowned at birth, you are,” Blackthorn grumbled, but

for all his grouchiness, Gildfire did think he espied a glimmer of amusement in a slight crinkling at the

corners of Blackthorn's eyes. A-ha, a-ha, he did!

"Mannerless as a mule, that's me,” Gildfire chirped back, well-heartened. “Tell you what. I'll take care

not to jostle the caravan about too much. I'll behave as well as a pretty young maid on her nuptial day,

stars in her eyes and demure shyness tying her tongue.” He batted his eyelashes at Blackthorn. “Will that

suit?"

Blackthorn snorted. “Well enough, I suppose."

Oh, now, was that a twitch of the lips as Blackthorn struggled to tamp down a smile? It was, it was!

Gildfire could have leapt for joy. This might well be easier than he'd hoped, if under his temper

Blackthorn was ready to make peace and move on. ‘Twould make sense, after all; a man like Blackthorn

had his pride—lords, did he ever have an abundance of pride—and he'd not easily laugh off a slight such

as what Greenleaf had dealt to him.

He needed a boost and an excuse to smile, and Gildfire was just the Gypsy to provide him with both.

Gildfire began singing to himself as he rummaged through his personal pouches and parcels, deliberately

choosing a giddy child's tune full of impossible wonders and wise beggars who upset the plans of kings.

He'd reached the second of the choruses before he chanced a look up; to his immense satisfaction, he

saw Blackthorn nodding in time with the melody, his finely-shaped lips mouthing the words.

Lords of the Road, he'd not last another season swallowing down what he wanted from Blackthorn.

Well and well, he'd deal with that particular knotty dilemma later. At the moment he'd content himself

with searching out the small patchworked bundle he'd gotten from the strange, small man who called

himself Meilin. Meilin, aye, there was an odd sort for you and no mistake. Tiny, slight, forever wearing a

simple dark robe with his hands tucked in the sleeves, and never speaking in aught but riddles. He drove

almost everyone he met quite mad; Gildfire, on the other had, had been fascinated.

It might have been in thanks for his company that Meilin had given Gildfire this gift; it might have merely

been another of Meilin's strange quirks. Either way, the contents of the pouch thrilled Gildfire down to his

toe-tips.

Ha! There; he'd found it under a sack of acorns for pounding into flour. Gildfire pulled it carefully free

and weighed the pouch in his hand. Such a small size for such a marvel. Gildfire had to laugh, then, for

wasn't he a slender man himself? Good things in little packages, aye, the adage held true as ever.

Opening the pouch, Gildfire breathed in the strange smell of Meilin's gift. He could only describe the

fragrance as “green” underneath the strong aroma of oil decocted from lavender. It made for a powerful

bouquet, it did, pervasive enough that at the back of the caravan, Blackthorn stopped what he was doing

and raised his nose to sniff.

"What have you done? Knocked over a bag of spices?"

"Not in the slightest.” Gildfire carefully poked his finger in through the drawstrings, prodding one of the

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little cones rolled from oiled parchment. Parchment! Not quite the king's ransom as it once had been, but

still costly enough. He drew out one of the cones and pinched the tiniest tip off the end between fingernail

and thumbnail. Still more of the powerful smell rolled out, pleasant to Gildfire's nose.

He held the cone as Meilin had taught him and squeezed, forcing the smooth paste within out the tip. A

thin line drizzled over the back of his hand, easily manipulated into the shape of a lucky rune. It would

take an hour or so to dry, if he'd a mind to leave it lie, and then he'd have the rune stained into his skin for

a full three-month, luck coming to everything he laid hands on.

And if the henna brought him luck, then drawing patterns for healing and happiness on Blackthorn's skin

should work considerable marvels.

Now, how to finagle Blackthorn into cooperating...?

Gildfire clicked his fingers. “Perfect!"

"What did you say?"

"I said,” Gildfire returned, tucking the pouch in his belt, clambering out the back of the wagon, “that what

I'd found was perfect, exactly what I'd been looking for. See?” He landed lightly on his feet, nimble as a

cat, and held up the cone he'd opened. “That's what you were smelling, you cantankerous hound."

Blackthorn swatted at him, Gildfire suspecting he aimed to miss, which he did. “Call me a dog again and

you'll feel my teeth. And what have you got on your hand?” He seized Gildfire by the wrist and drew said

hand up to eye level. “Hmm!” To Gildfire's pleasure, Blackthorn looked intrigued. “Smells the same, and

there's a fair luck rune. That's your new scheme, is it, to draw luck on our skins?"

"Even so, and better still. Once the paste dries and crumbles off, it leaves a stain behind that lasts near

forever. You'll have the blessing of the runes for so long as your skin holds the dye.” Gildfire beamed,

well proud of his cleverness and Meilin's gift. “And I've a mind to paint some charms on you, so off with

your shirt, if you please?"

Blackthorn dropped Gildfire's wrist as if he were like to catch fire. “You're daft."

Gildfire wasn't about to take the no for a final answer. “Now where would be the harm?” he wheedled.

“No man's fortunate enough that he can't use a bit of a charm, and it's warming up to be a fair hot day.

Your tunic will come off sooner or later regardless. Why not start now? Not a bit of harm in showing

some skin nor in letting me play my games."

"Games, aye,” Blackthorn grumbled. “What's in this paste that the Lords of the Road should listen to its

call?"

"Might be they do, might be they don't. I can't see any damage in trying. For me, Blackthorn, him who's

stuck with you through thick and thin. Off with the tunic."

"Gildfire...” Lords, was Blackthorn turning red under the swarthy dark maple color of his cheeks?

“You're my friend, aye, and there's no one I trust more, but I'm not of a mind to let you see me

half-naked, not now."

Oh-ho. Gildfire, never anyone's fool, had a good idea why. He laid aside his joking manner for a

moment's span and laid his hand on Blackthorn's mighty arm. “If you've healing love-bites and scratches

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on your chest or your back, I'll not laugh at you nor call you a fool. I'll even do my best not to scoff at

Greenleaf."

Blackthorn eyed him thoughtfully. “You wouldn't make a peep, would you? Not after you've given your

word, though if I know you, you're likely to burst something keeping it tamped down."

"I'm a Gypsy through and through, and I'm true to my promises.” Gildfire let himself ever so lightly

squeeze Blackthorn's bicep, yearning for the feel of Blackthorn's arms wrapped around him. One day,

mayhaps, one day. “Do we have a deal?"

"Aye. We do.” Blackthorn stepped away and skinned off his tunic, revealing his strong-hewed chest

with its mat of dark curls, another oddity for a Gypsy. Gildfire itched to run his fingers through their

springiness and see if they tickled his tongue when he kissed. “How is this done?"

Gildfire found, for once in his life, that he'd quite lost his words. He cleared his throat while he thought.

Ah-ha! “Lie down just there,” he said, pointing to a nicely grassy patch near to their wagon. “On your

stomach. I don't expect this'll work though the pelt you're sporting."

Blackthorn huffed, though not crankily. He did as he'd been told, sprawling full-length with his head

pillowed on his hands, a beautiful blank expanse of strong male back exposed as a canvas for Gildfire to

work with.

Gildfire swallowed hard and knelt by Blackthorn. “This might feel cold,” he warned, leaning over his

road companion.

When he applied the first sweeping line of henna, Blackthorn flinched. “Cold? Blast it, Gildfire. It feels

like slime.” He wriggled his shoulders. “Tingles, too. What's in there?"

"A bit of this, a bit of that.” Gildfire sat back on his heels and frowned. He had a good angle, aye, but

the sun was such in the heavens that his wretched shadow obscured the light and he could hardly see

what he was doing. “Hold a moment, and for pity's sake don't buck me off."

"Buck you—what? Gildfire!” Blackthorn froze. “ Lords,lad."

Gildfire had straddled him, knees braced to either side of Blackthorn's hips. Oh, oh. He'd not realized

until he arranged himself that he'd grown hard, though to be fair it shouldn't have come as a surprise. His

groin had tingled with need since Blackthorn had discarded his tunic, skin gleaming in the sunlight.

"Gildfire,” Blackthorn repeated hoarsely.

"Pay me no mind,” Gildfire said steadily, for he'd not cause Blackthorn any further discomfort, not even

for his own ends, and the damage had already been done when Blackthorn recognized the hard weight

prodding his ass. So bedamned if he'd climb back off before he'd finished his work. “Lie you as still as

you can, and I'll work quickly."

He'd no sooner applied half the rune he'd started, a nicely twisty and twining combination of runes for

love, luck, happiness and fine journeys than Blackthorn did precisely what he'd been warned against and

bucked Gildfire right off.

Indignant, his cone of henna flown off who knew where, Gildfire rose up from the grass and scowled.

“What game are you playing? You'll have smudged my good work and I'll have to start all over ag—

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yipe!” The world went topsy-turvy, tumbling round as if he'd been tossed high in the air like a child and

then come hurtling down.

Which, as it turned out, was the exact case.

Blackthorn caught him as he fell and flipped him over yet again, pinning Gildfire beneath his mighty

weight. Gildfire peeped quietly, finding that he was now staring up into Blackthorn's strange, wonderful

green eyes, which were fixed intently on his own.

"I know what your real plan is, laddybuck,” Blackthorn said, his tone low and serious. “I'd have to be a

bigger fool than I already am to have not noticed your loathing for Greenleaf, and believe this, he was far

more jealous of you than you were of him."

"Blackthorn?"

"Shush until I've said my piece. Here, I'll stop your mouth.” Startling Gildfire more than anything yet was

the hot, hard pressure of Blackthorn's lips on his, pressing a kiss on him that he'd ached for and never

thought to take.

Unable to speak—and wasn't that happening a lot today?—Gildfire licked his puffing lips and stroked

Blackthorn's cheeks, etching the questions he burned to ask in his quizzical expression.

"If I'd known a kiss would silence your busy tongue, I'd have done this long since, and now I find I'm

wondering why I never did."

"You said—companions—you said we shouldn't—"

"Aye, I did, and do you know how many seasons it's been since I changed my mind?” Blackthorn

tapped his forefinger on Gildfire's lips to silence him. “Fuss at me later, lad, and I'll not deny you the

chance to rant at me, for I should have said something long since. This you need to know: I didn't think

you cared for me as I did you, and there's the truth."

Gildfire spoke around the pressure of Blackthorn's finger. “Then you're a greater fool than you look."

Blackthorn laughed. Laughed! “And the same to you. Will you grant me the favor of your lips and your

prick, Gildfire? It'll cheer me far more than henna and it'll wipe out the taste of Greenleaf, who at his best

was a poor, poor substitute for the one I really wanted."

"But you sorrowed so at his leaving."

"Sorrow? Lords, no; I was glad to see the back of the lazy, vain peacock."

"Then why...?"

"I gloomed so because I knew we'd a season of traveling ahead and had no idea how I'd quiet my need

for you much longer."

Gildfire stared. Slowly, slowly, his lips quirked up in a grin. “You are an oaf, and I'll box your ears.

After you've plowed me and marked me from throat to knees with the marks of your mouth. And, you
must let me draw as much henna on you as I care to without a complaint. Now. Is that a good Gypsy's

bargain between us?"

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"It is,” Blackthorn agreed, lowering his mouth to Gildfire's neck. He pressed his hips to Gildfire's, giving

Gildfire to know his Blackthorn was as equally aroused, if not more.

While they stripped off their tunics and breeches and rolled naked on the soft summer grass, fingers

grasping, strong brown limbs tangling, swollen cocks plunging and both Gypsies crying out their climaxes

into one another's mouths, neither noticed the luck rune tattooed on Gildfire's hand, clinging to his skin

when it should, by rights, have smeared off before they'd finished their kissing.

Luck had been invoked, and that which was love's own luck had answered Gildfire's call; it would, after

that, never leave him.

Dancing Queens

by Rob Knight

"I'm bored, J.” Six finished another picture and started bouncing again, the jolt of speed buzzing under

his skin. “Wanna go dancing. We haven't taken the kid dancing. I like dancing. Sorta like fucking but ...

dancing.” Six grinned over at his lovers on the sofa, wiggling his labret stud distractedly. Yeah. Dancing.

Dancing was fucking cool. Well ... it wasn't fucking, was it? But it was cool. Yeah. Cool.

"Dancing? I've kind of got two left feet. I bet you guys look great together on the floor though,” Paul

said. That was their baby, always ready to watch him and J.

"Oh. Dancing is good.” Jules winked at him. “You'll like dancing with Six, sweet."

"I pretty much like everything with Six.” Baby blushed up hard at that, giving him a soft smile.

Six pushed up off the floor to take a nice, long, hard kiss. “Mmm ... sweet. Leather or jeans, baby?"

"The leather is sexier,” whispered Paul, blush getting darker.

"Oooh. Leather, love. And we'll play dress up with the wee one, too.” Jules bounced.

"Oooh ... dress up! Can I paint you, J?” Six's hands were already reaching for the markers.

"Sure, love.” Jules started pulling off clothes. “And I can tell Paul what to wear while you do."

Baby giggled, brown eyes dancing.

"Yeah, J.” A phoenix on J's shoulders tonight and flames on that flat belly.

"I think maybe it's Paul who ought to wear the leather, love.” Jules stretched out for him, giving him all

that skin to play with.

"Mmm ... yeah ... That sweet ass in black? I like.” He straddled J's ass and started working, happy as

fuck.

"I don't have leather pants,” Paul murmured, moving closer to watch.

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"Six's ought to fit you. Just need a bit of talc.” Jules took a deep breath and stilled beneath him, letting

him go.

He started with the wings, outlining them quickly, using J's pretty shoulder blades to his advantage.

“They'll do good, baby. You'll be fucking slinky. Can't wait to rub your cock through them."

Paul squeaked. “But what'll you wear?"

"S'not like we don't have options, sweet,” Jules said. “He could wear the vinyl, or the rubber kilt."

"Rubber kilt?” Oh, Baby liked the sound of that.

Six nodded, starting to rock against J's ass. “Whatever you want, baby."

His J hummed, sounding happy and horny as fuck. “Oh, my two favorite men, all tarted up. Yum."

"Oh, God, I want to watch you and Jules dance. I can just imagine you in that rubber kilt thingy and

Jules all painted. God.” Baby sounded horny.

"Love dancing. Love playing with my boys.” Six was murmuring, focused completely on the lovely skin

birthing a firebird for him.

"It sounds like fun.” Paul's voice was breathy, close. “That's beautiful, Six. You should have your own

shop."

"Mmm. He's got a fine hand, he does.” Jules pushed back when Six paused to change colors, cradling

him in the small of that fine back.

He shrugged, leaning to steal another quick kiss from Paul before getting back to work. It was what he

did, what he had to do.

"Get the pants, Paul?” Jules vibrated beneath him. “Want to see them on you."

"Okay.” Paul grabbed another kiss and then bounded up the stairs.

He chuckled. “Sweet baby. You look fucking fine , J. Gonna make them want so bad. Gonna make me

need."

"Oh yeah, lover. And you. You know I love that fucking easy access kilt."

"Oh, yeah. Gonna have fun, Pretty.” He started working on the flames along J's lower back, making the

fine skin burn.

Paul came back down the stairs with the leather pants and the rubber kilt over his arm. “I wanted to see

Six, too."

"Wanted to see me what, baby?” He blew at the ink on J's back, adding highlights.

Jules shivered. Then chuckled. “See you all decked out. Fashion show for Jules!"

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"Oh, right.” He grinned over at Paul and winked. “Don't mind me. I'm drawing, yeah?"

"And sweet should be wiggling. Into the pants.” Jules was in a superb mood from the sound of it. Was

gonna be a good night.

Paul giggled and blushed and dropped his pants. And started to step into the leather pants without taking

off his briefs.

"Nope. Stop. Get naked, baby."

Paul blinked at him. “What?"

"No way to wear them but buck naked, sweet,” Jules agreed.

"Oh.” Paul squeaked and blinked again, looking for a moment like he was going to balk.

"Come on, baby. It'll look fucking hot, nice and smooth and no one will know but us.” He smiled over at

Paul. “And it'll feel frigging amazing."

Blushing, Paul bit his lip and then stepped out of the leather pants again, pulling his briefs off before

stepping back in.

"Oh, sweet. Now do them up and turn about for us."

Paul did up the buttons and then slowly turned. “Well? Do I look good enough to be seen with the two

best looking guys ever?"

Six purred, eyes hot. “Oh, you do leather good, baby. God, that ass ..."

Paul blushed brightly.

"Oh, God.” Jules purred under him, ass moving up again.

His cock responded eagerly, desperately, and he groaned, reaching into his loose pants to stroke it.

“Need to turn over, J. Gotta do your belly."

Jules turned beneath him, grinning up at him. “Well, hello there lover."

He leaned down and took a hard kiss. “Mm ... J ... Fucking lovely, my men."

J kissed back just as hard. “Okay, love. Finish up, yeah? Want you in that kilt.” Hands on his skin, nails

scraping his back, Jules made that belly nice and tight for him.

He nodded, tracing that circle of black ink around Jules’ navel before building more flames—reds and

yellows and oranges. Paul came close, watching. The kid had taken off his shirt, skin warm, the

jewel-toned ink above his heart really pretty: two circle and arrow symbols intertwined.

"Mmm. C'mere, sweet.” Jules reached out and stroked Paul's hip through the leather.

Baby stepped closer, so they both could touch him. “We're not going to make it to dancing, are we?"

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The scents of leather and need and ink were fucking sweet all mixed together. “Sure we are. Gotta let J

feel me up in my kilt, baby."

"Yeah, we are. Six's almost done.” Jules smacked Paul's ass.

Paul squeaked and laughed, moving out of Jules’ range. “So what should I wear on top then?"

"Mesh shirt?” Jules looked at him questioningly.

Six nodded. “Mesh shirt.” Too bad the kid wouldn't let him pierce those pretty little nipples.

"Mesh?” Paul was shaking his head. “I don't know about that."

"It's a shirt. Little holes. Cool. Sexy. Black. It even matches.” Six shook his head; kid got all odd about

the weirdest shit.

"All right. But only if I can wear your leather jacket with it."

"Then you'll have to get J to figure out what I'm wearing up top, baby.” He drew the final flames over J's

hip, grinning as they played.

"There's that leather strappy porno-y thing you were wearing at Vinny's that day you guys ... you know."

Baby was blushing again.

"Does leather go with rubber, J?"

"Leather goes with anything, yeah?” Jules moved just the right way, and that long cock rubbed against

him. “But you could wear the armor look vest, huh?” Jules grinned over at Paul. “It zips on and off."

Paul giggled. “More easy access for Jules."

"You know it sweet. Your tiny tight arse in leather, and easy opening Six."

Oh fuck, laughing felt good. “Don't forget our own born-again firebird, yeah?"

Bucking him off, Jules got up and twirled. “What do you think, sweet? Suppose I ought to put clothes

on?"

Paul giggled some more. “Just a tight pair of pants."

Six nodded and admired the long body. “Yeah, J-Pretty. Something slinky and yummy to touch."

"Mmm. Got the dark blue vinyl, yeah?” Jules wandered upstairs, firebird moving on his back.

Paul watched him go, whimpering softly.

"He's fucking beautiful, our J.” Six watched until J's ass disappeared, then stood to slide on the kilt.

“Baby, go get me the baby powder. This son of a bitch'll chafe otherwise."

"'K.” Paul smiled at him and headed off to the bathroom, fine ass encased in leather.

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Jules trailed back down the stairs, legs seemingly up to his neck, encased in midnight blue shine, mesh

shirt and plated vest in his hands. “Mmm. Love. So pretty."

"You like?” He walked over for a kiss, hand on one of J's hips.

"You know I do, Six-love.” Jules gave him a kiss, hard and biting, reaching to twist one of his nipples.

He growled, arching into the touch, cock leaping.

One of Paul's soft giggles sounded. “You want me to go back and get the lube, too?"

"Ooh. We'd better bring some, yeah?"

Jules whirled away, as quicksilver as the bird painted on him. “Feel like dancing, then fucking."

"Then why would we need to bring it ... Oh.” Paul squeaked and blushed and shook his head. “We

should wait until we come home before doing anything that needs lube."

"Now where's the fun in that, baby?” Six waggled his tongue at the kid and watching those sweet cheeks

turn three shades of red.

"Oh. Do that again.” Jules pounced and grinned, waggling his own tongue. His J was such a slut.

His slut. He wrapped his lips around that tongue, pulling hard. Wanting.

Jules gave as good as he got, kissing and sucking and grinning against his lips. “We're doing it again."

"Yeah? We're bad that way, J-Pretty.” He smiled wide. “Utterly in-fucking-corrigable."

"Which is why we need the lube.” Jules grinned over at Paul. “See?"

Baby shook his head at them, smile teasing the corner of his lips. They watched Paul together until it

spilled, baby's blue-green laugh, and then things were good. Better. Fucking fun. Whatever. “So are we

going? Or are we staying home and fucking each other's brains out?"

"We're going, sweet. Want to show you off."

"Oh.” That sweet blush looked permanent.

Six nodded and stretched. “We need money. I have money. Baby ... where'd I put the money?"

Paul giggled. “In the kitchen—top cupboard—behind the cookies."

Oh ... cookies...

He grabbed the cookies and a roll of Sweet Tarts and the money and a peanut butter cup from last

Halloween. “Jackpot."

"You ready love? We've got lube.” Jules was ready, he could tell by the way those vinyl pants fit.

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"Yep. Want a cookie?” He got himself settled and packed away, Sweet Tarts, cash and sexy lovers.

Perfect.

Paul giggled and nodded. “Let's dance."

* * * *

The lights were flashing purple and green, the music was screaming reds and yellows, and J and Paul

were pure blue as they danced.

Fucking hot.

Six lounged in a booth, nursing a beer, admiring his lovers, snarling at the people who tried to stop and

talk. No talking. Watching. Dancing.

J grabbed Paul's ass and pulled him in close. Six swore he could hear the kid's squeak over the music.

Who could blame J, though? That tight little ass looked so good in leather. Paul looked small against J's

long frame. Made J look like a predator. Mmm ... now there was a nice dream to save for a party ... J as

a real hard ass looking for rough trade. Wouldn't work with him, ever. He scared Hell's Angels straight.

Baby though? He'd make a fine bottom.

Oh, yeah.

Truly fuck with people's brains.

The dance floor got more and more crowded, room becoming a premium. J didn't mind being rubbed up

against by strangers, but baby was starting to look uncomfortable. Jules shot a grin his way and motioned

that he was going to the loo, as he called it, patting Paul's butt and pushing him back in Six's direction.

Six watched Paul walk forward, then frowned as some grabby handsy motherfucker grabbed his baby.

Oh, he didn't fucking think so. He snatched the fucker by the collar and spun the lousy shithead around,

growling low. “This one? Mine."

"But..."

"No. Mine.” Then he wrapped an arm around Paul's waist and moved him back to the table. “Want a

beer, baby?"

"Thanks,” Paul murmured, moving closer to him. A soft shiver went though his baby.

He held Paul close, growls just right under the surface. “No worries. Nobody'll fuck with me, baby.

Fuck, your ass looks fine."

"It does, doesn't it?” Jules was back with fresh drinks for all of them, grinning like madman. The he took

in the possessive clutch and the growly thing. “Everything all right?"

"Grabby motherfucker's all. ‘s all good now, J.” He smiled up at J. J always knew. Always.

"Mmm. Well, who wouldn't want to grab that?” Jules slid in beside them and gave kisses to both of

them.

Paul took a big gulp of his beer. “We could go home ... use that lube."

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"Relax, baby. We don't have to go home to use that lube.” Six grinned, snuggled Paul against J.

"Nope.” Jules nibbled at Paul's skin. “We can use it right here."

Oh, that time he did hear that sweet squeak. “There's so many people. We can't."

"There's so many people, no one'll notice, baby."

His baby squeaked again, eyes wide. “You mean like right here?"

"Like right here and now.” Oh, yeah. That squeak meant J must have grabbed something.

"I mean, why waste the easy access, yeah?” He parted his thighs and wiggled, drawing another squeak.

Poor baby, looked like he was thinking again. Well, that was never a good thing. He tilted Paul's head

back and took a good, long kiss, intent on stealing enough breath to stop that thinking shit.

"Mmm.” Jules hummed, hand sliding between his thighs to match the one between Paul's.

When the kiss ended, baby was breathless, eyes glazed. Oh, yeah. Much better. He scooted down,

opening for J's touch. Fucking sweet. His J wrapped long fingers around him, playing him like a favorite

guitar. Those sweet lips were still on Paul's neck, teeth scraping and biting.

He spread, hips starting to move in time with the music. “Oh, yeah. Fucking sweet, J."

"Oh, God,” murmured Paul, his baby's voice quiet under the driving beat of the music.

"Yeah, it's so fucking good.” He met Paul's eyes. “Wanna touch too, baby?"

Paul nodded, eyes darting around, looking out into the crowd.

"Yeah, sweet. You need to feel this. Six's skin, the rubber all warm from being next to it. So good."

Baby whimpered, hand soft and tentative on his knee.

Six nodded, rocking under the touches. “Please, baby. Love your touch, you know I do."

Those brown eyes were huge, the flashing lights reflecting in them as that soft touch slowly moved up his

leg.

"Yeah, baby. That's it.” He closed his eyes until all he could see was the flashing lights.

Paul's hand met J's, and they stroked together, making little explosions go off in his head. He thought he

could hear their heartbeats in the blue and purple lights.

"Fucking sweet.” The rings in his balls vibrated with the bass blaring through the room, making things

even hotter, more desperate.

"Mmmhmm. So good.” Jules was just all over them, him and Paul, kissing and nipping and feeling.

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"Oh, God.” Paul's hand slipped down to play with the rings, knuckles nudging his balls.

"Baby...” He shifted, knees spreading even more, chasing J's wicked fucking mouth. “More.” His mouth

was caught, J's tongue going deep, one hand coming up to slide over his skull.

Oh, sweet fucking God, yes. He shot hard, J's touch bright blue on his skull, Paul's a softer, sweeter

violet. Paul whimpered, that sweet sound tugging another shudder out of him. Jules did one better,

rubbing his come into the skin of his thighs, using Paul's hand to do it.

That made him purr, nuzzling close to his lovers. “'s hot, J. Good."

"Yeah, love. So good. What do you want next, hmm? Want me to do you? Or sweet? Want my mouth?

Want me to suck him off under the table? Tell me what you want, love."

Paul squeaked and grabbed his drink, taking a long swig.

"Think Paul should fuck you, Pretty, then I'll give you my mouth, if you don't come.” He licked those

sweet, parted lips. Loved playing. Loved fucking.

"Oh. A challenge.” Jules gave him that glint, that wicked grin. “You're on."

Paul was shaking his head. “We're going to the men's room, right?"

"No, sweet.” The wicked look got worse, J's eyebrow starting to gyrate. “Here."

Paul squeaked, face going red. “How?"

"First, you gotta pull it out and slick it up, baby.” He leaned back, enjoying the show.

He got another squeak for that, oh they hadn't heard that sound this much in a long time. It was cute.

"People will see."

"Nobody's looking, sweet. Six scared them all off.” J was enjoying it, too, bless him.

Paul's cock was obviously hard as hell, but those brown eyes were worried. Baby was thinking again.

He leaned in, licking Paul's earlobe. “Oh, no. Trust in us, baby. We do you good, yeah? He'll be fucking

tight around you."

Whimpering, Paul turned kissing him desperately. J pushed into the kiss, licking at their lips, hands hard
and needy as they moved from him to Paul and back. Six managed to get Paul's—well, his really, yeah?

but who was counting?—pants undone and pull that nice, hard, absolutely not his cock out and start

stroking. Soft gasps filled his and J's mouths, baby starting to hump up into his hand.

"Mmm.” Pulling away, J separated them gently. “Uh-uh, sweetness. That's mine."

Paul whimpered, eyes full of want and need, the worry completely overridden by pleasure.

"Oh, my J.” Six leaned in, licking Paul's throat. “Greedy, greedy."

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His J gave him a growl, short nails scraping along his neck, just enough to sting. “Yeah. Want fucked,

Six."

Oh ... Oh, yeah. That made him fucking purr. “Fuck, yeah. Yeah, J. Don't come, and I'll suck that sweet

fucking cock down to the root."

"I'm counting on it, love. Now, sweet, if you scoot back to the back of the booth, we can do this up

right and proper."

Another whimper and Paul was doing what J asked, eyes on Jules’ ass.

Jules grinned at him. “Want me on his lap? Or us both on our knees?"

"On his lap, that way, he panics, you've got him trapped.” And Paul said he wasn't logical.

"Your wish is our command, Six-love.” Jules started working his pants open. “Where's that lube,

sweetness?"

Paul gasped and fished in his pocket.

"Yeah, sweet. Get that pretty cock all ready for me, yeah?” Jules shimmied, those tight pants falling

around his thighs.

Baby's hands were shaking as he slicked his cock up, sweet noises competing with the music. Six

groaned as he watched, licking his lips at the sight of his men. Yeah. More. So pretty.

"Now me, sweet. Hurry, yeah?” Jules turned and bent and his ass was in the air, waiting for Paul.

Hands shaking, Paul slicked up his fingers.

"Mm ... so fucking sexy, my boys.” He reached out, tracing J with one finger, following the tail of the

phoenix. He'd tattoo that there, but Jules needed to be a clean slate when he wanted to paint. “Beautiful."

"Oh, God.” Paul pushed two fingers into J.

Moaning, J pushed back, then forward, horny and sexy as fuck.

"Hurry, J. Want to see you ride that pretty cock."

"God. Yeah. Paul. Now.” J was just begging for it, pulling off those fingers and settling back against

Paul. “In me."

Paul's fingers slid around J's waist and tugged him back. Six moved so he could see, could touch. The
lights were blinking, shining on the phoenix, making it fly, making it burn. Jules moaned as he slid down

on Paul's cock, his face showing the strain of it, twisted in pleasure. Baby's eyes were getting glazed, Paul

not seeing anything but their J.

He reached out, touched J's ass, Paul's balls. So fucking pretty ... His J just hummed, that low music that

told him it was too good, too right. Short, sharp motions pushed J back onto Paul, taking him all in.

Paul's hand came around, circling J's cock.

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"Fuck! Yeah.” J's eyes closed, teeth biting down on kiss swollen lips.

Six grinned, stroking the fine ass, those soft balls, purring low. Baby was whimpering, pushing up into

Jules over and over again.

"Sweet. Oh.” The fight not to come was a tough one, if J's expression was any sign. Then he felt the

muscles under his hand tense, and he knew J was bearing down on Paul, squeezing their baby so tight.

Paul's mouth opened and he shoved his hand in between Paul's lips, muffling the loud keening as baby

came. Those blue eyes of J's opened again, staring at him triumphantly as J managed to take it all without

firing off.

He laughed, purring as he pulled J in for a hard kiss, tongue pushing deep. Whimpering, his baby, lay in

the corner, looking boneless and melted. He could smell Paul all over J, all over, inside and out. Jules

kissed him back just as hard, moving against him like he was starving.

"You want my mouth, Pretty? Want to fuck my mouth, come down my throat?” He nipped those

swollen lips, biting hard.

Paul moaned softly.

"Yeah, love. Six. Waited for you.” Jules hands scraped and grabbed at him.

"Such a good boy.” Six slid under the table, moaning at the smells that hit him, mouth pulling Jules in

deep.

A deep hum met him, starting somewhere in J's belly, and those thin hips snapped, pushing J's long cock

in. He swallowed hard, world awash in bright blues, hands tugging J deep and deeper. The music hit a

hard, throbbing crescendo just about the time Jules did, those sweet hands clenching against his skin as J

fed him everything the man had in him.

Fuck yeah. Yeah. He swallowed J down and then sucked him clean before nuzzling the flames burning at

the thin belly. “My J."

"Mmm. Yours.” Clumsy caresses landed on his shoulders and arms.

He finally slid back into the seat, taking another long, heady kiss before grinning over at Paul. “Having

fun, baby? Like dancing?"

"Huh?” Paul blinked at him. “Oh. Yeah..."

"Well, that's good, innit?” J's word's slurred a bit, probably from brain overload. Kept them both from

thinking.

"Yeah, J. ‘s good.” He took another kiss, then another, purring low. Yeah, fucking loved dancing.

"Mmmhmm. So glad we decided to show Paul how dancing should be done, love.” Jules glanced over

at Paul, eyes glinting.

"We could have ‘danced’ at home,” Paul pointed out, looking half asleep despite the lights and music.

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"Oh, that's fucking, baby. At home it's fucking.” He grinned over and winked, finishing Paul's beer.

"Yeah.” Jules settled in between them, watching the dance floor. “This is dancing."

The Tail of the Tiger

By Sean Michael

Saturday night was pretty much the same as any other night at the Diamondback.

The whiskey shooters and beer flowed pretty freely. Fortunes were won and lost at the pool table, and

the beer nuts sucked donkey balls. Igor banged his mug on the bar and grunted to let Paulie know he

wanted another, and contemplated that last thought. What the hell did donkey balls taste like anyway?

And who the fuck had tested out the theory that sucking them was pretty fucking awful?

Shit, he was bored. It was getting so a guy had to start a fight for entertainment around here.

Then the door opened and entertainment sauntered right on in.

Jesus, look at that. Long, long legs in denim, black cowboy hat, boots. Fuck him, that was a duck out of

water.

Every head in the place turned to watch that cowboy walk on in. Conversation stopped. For a whole ten

seconds. And then someone made a catcall and Pit stepped up in front of the man, hands on his hips. Pit

was a little man, almost round, and about as stubborn as they came.

"You lost?"

"Nope. Broke down and my cell's getting shit reception. Y'all have a pay phone?” Loud,

stubborn-chinned—the cowboy wasn't backing down.

Of course neither was Pit. Little asshole.

"Maybe we do and maybe we don't. How much is it worth to you?"

A few of Pit's gang had gathered around, and pretty much everyone else was drinking the scene in. They

hadn't had entertainment like this in the Diamondback since Lucky T broke every last tooth in Bart's

mouth for sleeping with his lady.

"Look, man, I ain't hunting trouble. All I need's a fucking pay phone. Now do y'all have one or don't

you?” Oh, look at those eyes flash, muscles tensing and shifting.

It was fucking sexy.

"Something wrong with your ears? I asked how much it was worth to you."

Igor rolled his eyes. Pit was obviously more bored than he was and was going to get his ass kicked by

that long tall drink of cowboy, Igor could tell.

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The sound of Paulie putting his bat down on the bar top was loud. “Evelyn Ronald Beaumont.” And

didn't Pit just cringe at the sound of his name. “I am going to kick you out with prejudice if you start

hassling up my customers."

"Look. I just want to use the phone. I'm happy to buy a beer, so as to not waste your time, but my

water pump's blown and my truck's not moving."

Pit got that stubborn look on his face and Paulie's hand tightened on the bat.

"I've got this one,” Igor told Paulie, giving the man a wink as he stood up. At six four, and over three

hundred pounds, he knew damn well that he was intimidating, even to a bunch of bikers.

He put his hand on the back of Pit's neck and shook him a little. “Why don't you go pick on someone

your own size, Pit?"

"This ain't none of your business, Igor."

"Nor yours, so just lose the motherfucking attitude."

Oh, Pit could glare with the best of them, but very little worried Igor.

That skinny cowboy didn't back up a bit, those blue eyes staring Pit down. Jesus, that was hot.

Pit finally realized he was outclassed on all sides and with a sneer that encompassed Igor and the

cowboy both, the little leatherman finally gave it up and went back to holding court at the far pool table.

Pit out of the way, Igor let himself take a nice slow look at the cowboy, from boots to hat and everything

in between. “It was a phone you were wanting?” he finally asked.

"You know it. I gotta call someone to come pick my ass up so I can get repairs made."

"Well now, if it's your ass that needs picking up..."

One eyebrow lifted, those eyes twinkling. “Man, I don't want to fight with you. You'll kick my ass."

"No? That's a shame—me, I like a little foreplay.” He winked and turned, heading back to the bar.

“Paulie, let this cowboy use the damn phone."

"Thanks, man.” The guy dialed quickly, speaking low and fast, the back of his neck getting a little red.

“...the morning? Jesus, Jack, you're gonna make me sleep in the truck. Yeah, I know we're not together

anymore, but ... Okay. Fine. I'll see you in the morning. Asshole."

Igor slapped the bar. “Paulie. Another. And set the cowboy up, too."

"Thanks, man.” He got a half-grin, a nod. “Nice ink."

"Thank you.” He had Celtic knots over most of his body in black and a dark, emerald green. “It goes all

over."

"No shit? You must be damn popular during St. Paddy's day."

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Igor shrugged. He was more intimidating than popular most days.

Paulie slapped them down each a shot of whiskey and a beer. And Igor grabbed his shot, raised it

toward the cowboy and slammed it back. The cowboy took the shot without a shudder, then threw back

the beer, throat working away.

Nice. If you liked that sort of thing. Igor did. It made him want to nip, bite. “You have any ink yourself?"

"I got a little, yeah. Nothing visible."

"Yeah? On your ass? Your cock?” His went around his prick, hit his balls. Had hurt like a son of a bitch

to get it done, but it was worth it.

"My lower belly and onto my cock a little."

Igor's eyes slid down, imagining what it might look like. “Hurts so good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just blows your fucking mind.” Oh. Fucking score.

Grinning, letting his interest show, he held out his hand. “Igor."

"Trace. Pleased.” Good, strong handshake, thumb rubbing his hand, just a little. Oh, yeah, all signals

were a go.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation, Trace. You could crash at mine if you need a place to

go."

"You'd let a strange cowboy bunk with you? That's pretty fucking brave."

"There's not many could take me on and come out on top.” No, he wasn't planning on letting that

cowboy be on top. “'Sides. I want to see your ink, man."

"Yeah. I reckon I'd like to see what all you got hid."

"I'm about five minutes up the road. You ever ridden a bike?” He was looking forward to feeling those

long legs snugged up against the back of his, arms around him, holding on.

"Nothing as big as a Harley, but I've drove four wheelers and all."

"Oh, my hog is nothing like a four wheeler. But then I imagine I'm not your typical ride either.” He

finished up his beer.

Trace choked on his own beer a little, then grinned, cheeks heating.

Igor chuckled and growled a little for show. “You almost done there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, man. I'm done. How the hell'd you get a name like Igor?"

"My father was Russian.” He threw a couple twenties down for Paulie, enough to settle his bill for the

night.

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"Mine was a cowboy.” The cowboy added a ten to the mix, easy as pie.

"You need to check on your truck or anything before we go?” He slipped on his leather jacket, did up

the zipper as they stepped outside.

"There's nothing to steal in it and it sure as fuck ain't running.” Trace had a denim jacket on, had a pack

of smokes in one pocket.

"Well all right, then. Here's my baby.” He ran his gloved hand over his Road King Classic, and then

tossed Trace the extra helmet.

"Damn, I got my hat..."

"You want to leave it in the truck?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd better. Be back in a few.” He watched the cowboy head out of the parking lot and

down the road where he could just make out the outline of a pickup.

He leaned his ass on his bike, anticipation sitting in his balls like a really good buzz. The cowboy was out

of sight, the only way he knew the man was still there was the way the interior light went on, glowing in

the dark. He wondered what sort of ink a man like that would have. He was eager to see it. Eager to see

if everything on the man was long and lean.

The man walked back up, a ballcap on his head.

Igor laughed. “You're not bald are you?” He ran his own hand over his head, the short hairs scratching

on his palm.

"Huh?"

"Cowboy hat first, now the ball cap—you got horns or something you don't want people seeing?"

"No, man. I ain't been out of doors without cover since I was a baby. It just ain't right."

"For real?” Maybe it was like him always wearing his shades, only he didn't do it at night.

"Yup. It just don't work right.” He got a grin, a wink. “This'll roll up in my pocket, though."

Grinning, Igor handed over the second helmet and pulled his own onto his head before straddling the

bike. He patted the back. “Come on. You have to sit nice and close."

Oh. Oh, hell yeah. Pretty little Trace just snuggled into him, heavy cock rubbing and sliding against his

ass. A ten minute ride on a Harley with a hot man snuggled up against him made for awesome foreplay.

By the time they reached his little cabin, he was hotter than a firecracker.

"Man, you're out in the middle of nowhere.” Yep. Out in the middle of nowhere with a hard, sexy

hard-body right there.

"We are.” He put down the kickstand and took off his helmet, but didn't get up, rubbing back against

Trace's cock instead.

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"That's gotta be damn handy, when you want to just let loose.” Trace had taken off his helmet, too, but

now the man's hands were around his waist, holding on.

He put one hand on top of Trace's and encouraged them downward. “Uh-huh. You feeling like letting

loose, Trace?"

"I'm feeling like it, yeah. It's been a while.” Those fingers found his package, started working it, straight

away.

Igor leaned back, enjoying the touch. “Let me help you with the buttons.” He popped the first two,

eager as could be.

"Hungry man.” Trace knew what he was fucking doing, thumb working the tip of his cock, over and

over, sweet as could be.

"I am.” He wasn't ashamed.

He got all the buttons undone, and took Trace's hand, pushing it down into his pants to get that touch

flesh on flesh. “I'll take care of you after, I promise."

"Yeah? Fuck, you're big. You attack people with that thing?” Trace's hand moved up and down his

cock, thumb working the big vein.

Half laughing, half groaning, he pushed into Trace's hand. Trace pushed back, rubbing against his ass,

humping him. “Fuck. Don't stop, man.” He needed this, could feel it in his balls.

"What made you think I'd stop, honey?” That thumb just made him fucking crazy, nudging and rubbing

away.

He bit his lip and grunted, hips pushing hard, moving faster as Trace's hand sent him flying. The bike's

shocks held up, pushing him back up into that touch, over and over. He jerked hard as he came, spunk

spilling up over Trace's hand.

"Mmm. Not bad. Not bad at all.” Oh, now. Was that smugness?

"Come on inside, cowboy and I'll show you what I can really do.” He wouldn't leave the man with all hot

and bothered. Shit, he was barely going soft.

"Is that so? Well, I'm all over that...” Trace stood, rubbing up against him all the way.

Fuck, he wanted to see that hot rod in the man's jeans, see if it looked as good as it felt. He got them in

the door, and didn't bother to turn on the light, just dragged Trace down the hall to the last room on the

right—his bedroom. Now he wanted light, and he wanted all these clothes gone.

"Mmm.” They sort of slapped together as he stopped and Trace slammed into him.

It made him growl—Trace was so fucking male, not like the little twinks that always seemed to swarm

around him when he went looking.

He turned and pushed Trace up against the wall, following it up with a nice, hard kiss. Trace slammed

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right back up against him, hands landing on his ass. Goddamn. Yeah. The man knew how to kiss, too.

Their teeth clacked, and their lips mashed together, tongues fighting a war they were both going to win.

He got his hands tangled up in Trace's curls, tugged them close together so he could take that mouth.

Their hips ground together and he was hard again like he hadn't come just two minutes ago all over

Trace's hand. Of course, someone else hadn't come just two minutes ago and was demanding, pushing.

Humping against him.

He knew just how to take care of that. Dropping to his knees, he dragged himself along Trace as he

went, hands following his torso and finding the button and zipper of Trace's jeans.

"Oh. Oh, fuck.” Those long, skinny legs spread, the fly letting go so a long, skinny cock sprang right out.

Oh yeah, just as long and lean as the rest of the man, Trace's cock drew him. He petted it a minute, and

then he took the heat of it in, tongue working the slit as he sucked.

Trace shuddered, but stayed still, let him explore and taste and touch. Fuck. Hot. He liked a man that

could control himself.

That big vein underneath was sweet under his tongue, and Trace's balls felt amazing in his hand. He

cupped and rolled them, tugged a little on them as his mouth kept right on working the long prick.

"Yeah. Yeah, man. Fuck, that's fine.” That little drawl was fucking cute—sexy and hungry and different

enough to drive him nuts.

He hummed around Trace's prick, knowing the vibrations were enough to drive a man crazy. And he

wanted to make Trace crazy; he wanted to blow the man's fucking mind.

"More. More. Fuck. That's ... yeah. More.” Trace started jerking, humping toward his mouth, balls

drawing up tight.

He couldn't get a good look at that ink, but it didn't matter, not at the moment. There'd be plenty of time

for proper exploring later. Right now he wanted to taste, the small drops of precome not enough. He

pulled harder, head bobbing up and down now, going down to meet each push into his mouth.

"Gonna. Gonna, man.” Trace went up on tiptoe, entire body shuddering.

Yeah, yeah, gimme, cowboy, gimme all you got.

He hummed and sucked, fingers sliding behind Trace's balls. Trace grunted and shot, salty, bitter spunk

filling his lips. He drank it down like it was a shot of whiskey, swallowing it all up—making sure he didn't

miss a drop.

"Fuck me.” The long legs buckled a little, a soft groan on the air.

Chuckling around the long prick, he cleaned it a little, and pulled off. “Yeah, man, that's the plan."

He wrapped his hand around Trace's heat, jacking lazily. “Or if you keep it up, you can do me.” He was

pretty fucking sure he knew which way Trace was going to go.

"Mmm. I'm not opposed to either. Also with me, you'll have to take your fucking time. It's been a couple

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years."

"A couple years? You'll be fucking tight, man.” His cock throbbed at the thought. “Sweet."

He stood up slowly, holding Trace's eyes. “Now there's the matter of some private tattoos. I'll show you

mine if you show me yours."

"That's a deal.” He got this wild, wicked little grin and Trace stripped off, showing a white tiger that

looked like it was hunting through the bush of Trace's pubes.

"Oh, that fucking rocks, man.” He reached out and traced the tail where it wrapped around the base of

Trace's prick. “This because you're a tiger?” He started tugging off his leathers—fair play and all.

"No, my younger brother—Tony—was killed in the Gulf a few years ago. It's for him."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry.” It was a hell of a place for a tat in remembrance of a brother.

He touched the tail again, and then finished stripping off. His ink was all Celtic knot work. It covered

pretty much his whole body in black and a deep emerald green, included his entire prick. His right nipple

had a ring with a little emerald in it.

"Damn. That's a lot of work.” Trace stepped forward, fingers wrapping around his cock.

He groaned, pushing into the warm hand. “I like the high."

"Who does it for you?” That hand still knew its job.

"There's a guy just up the road aways.” His voice had gone husky, the pleasure making his balls ache.

"He's into you, huh? You can tell, with all the detail...” One finger traced a pattern on his balls.

"Let's just say he doesn't mind if I get off while he's working on me.” He pushed into that touch. “Bed,

huh?” Before his knees fucking gave out from that confident touch.

"Works for me, man.” Trace kept holding him, fingers sliding up and down his shaft, over and over,

stroking him.

He backed toward the bed, moving slow so he didn't lose contact with that talented hand. If the rest of

Trace was as good at this as the man's hand ... Groaning, he grabbed Trace by the back of the neck, and

took a kiss, sinking down onto the bed.

"Damn, you've got a mouth on you.” Trace stretched out alongside him, rubbing with a nice, steady

rhythm.

"And you've got amazing hands."

"Mmmhmm.” One hand worked his cock, the other traced his tattoos—circles and swirls and long, lazy

caresses that didn't match the strong tugs on his cock. It was the contrast that was getting to him. Those

hard tugs versus the soft touches. He shuddered, his own hands clumsy on Trace's skin.

"You going to fuck me, man? Make it good for me?"

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"You'd better stop if that's what you want. You keep that up and I'll fucking come all over you."

The pulls on his cock slowed, gentled. “That would be hot, but you've got a great cock. I want to feel

it."

"And I want to feel that tight body around me. Go where no man has gone in a long while.” He rolled

Trace onto his back, fingers running over that white tiger. That was fucking clever, the ink under pubes

like he was behind grass. “This is great work.” He kept stroking it, touching as he reached under the bed,

feeling around for the lube and condoms.

"It was fucking amazing, getting it done. I was flying."

"I'll bet. I'm going to send you flying now."

He spread Trace's legs, moving to kneel between them. “Face to face good for you?"

"Yeah. Take your time, man.” Yeah, there was a hint of nerves there, underneath all the need.

"I don't have anywhere to be, do you?” He stroked the strong thighs.

"I've got nothing but time.” Trace spread like a practiced whore, just like that. Oh, fucking pretty.

He bent and his tongue tickled the tip of that tiger's tail, making Trace's cock jerk. Then he moved down

to the man's legs, mouth open to suck on the inside of Trace's left thigh.

"Oh.” Trace spread wider, that little surprised sound making him groan.

He grinned, taking a bit of skin between his teeth.

"Fuck. Fuck, yeah.” Trace jerked away, then went still.

He worried that bit of flesh, and then let it go, licking and soothing before he moved a little higher and

wrapped his lips around it, sucking strongly. He loved how Trace's smells got stronger the higher along

that thigh he went. He could see Trace's balls, wrinkling and drawing up, Goddamn.

He wanted a taste, but first ... he grabbed the skin in the crease between torso and thigh between his

teeth, nipping, and then licking, humming at the flavor. Trace's fingers trailed over his head, tugging him

closer, begging for more.

"Hungry man.” Of course he was the one with his mouth working, now wasn't he?

Chuckling, he took one ball into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. The long body stilled, the sound of

the soft panting just filling the air. He sucked and rolled the sensitive ball, and then let it slide out of his

mouth. Nosing past those sacs, he licked at the smooth, hot skin beyond them.

Oh, that sound was shocked, surprised, damn near desperate. He licked again, and then grabbed hold

of those thighs, pushing them back and rolling Trace's hips up a little so he could get to the man's tight

little hole.

"Oh, fuck. I. That ... Jesus...” Trace shook good and hard, trembling for him.

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"It has been a long time. You just lie back and let Igor take care of you.” He licked the wrinkled skin

again, and then blew on it.

Trace gasped, hands opening and closing on the sheet. He pointed his tongue, flicking the tip back and

forth across that small hole.

"I'm gonna ... Igor.” Those hands opened again. “Fuck, I want your cock. I want you to fuck me."

He raised his head, looking up that long body to Trace's face. “You want me to stop doing this?"

"No. No. I want it all."

"Then you're going to have to wait to have my cock.” He winked, letting his fingers slide along Trace's

crack. “You should get some ink on your back that stops here.” He tapped directly on that little opening.

"Oh. Oh, that'd be something else.” That little hole squeezed, tightening under his touch.

"I'd love to be there when you got it done. I'd let you drill my ass after—you'd be so hot for it. So

fucking hot.” He stroked it over and over.

"Yeah? You think I could stand it?” Somebody was right there with him. Right there, jonesing on his

voice, his touch.

"Oh yeah, you took this didn't you?” He stroked that tiger's tail with the fingers of his other hand.

"Uh. Uh-huh. Almost got hard. Embarrassed the hell out of me."

"You should have gone with it, let the pain make you shoot.” He grinned at Trace and then lowered his

head again, got back down to business, his tongue sliding on that hot little hole.

"C ... couldn't. Oh, damn, that's hot.” Trace moved with him, now, sliding against his tongue.

"Why not?” After asking the question, he pointed his tongue and pushed it into Trace's body.

A sharp, little cry rang out, Trace bearing down to take him in, riding hard. He pushed his face right up

tight against Trace and pushed his tongue in as far as he could, started tongue-fucking the man.

One of Trace's hands slid down, started jacking that long prick in rhythm. He reached up and slapped

that hand away. He'd get there. Eventually.

Trace's groan made him grin, made him push harder into that hole. He pushed into Trace's heat until he

couldn't take it any longer, his cock leaking all over the place.

"You feeling about ready?"

"I hope so. If not, I'll let you know.” Trace's cock was leaking but good, dripping on that flat belly.

Just to make sure, Igor slicked up two fingers and jabbed them in. Fuck, the man was hot inside.

"Fuck.” Trace grabbed those bony knees, tugging those long legs up and open.

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He spread his fingers wide, watching Trace shudder, feeling that heat grow impossibly tight around his

fingers. Tight. So fucking tight that it blew his mind. He couldn't wait to be buried in that tightness.

Groaning, he pulled his fingers away. “Cock now, Trace. Gonna fuck you right through the mattress."

"Yeah. Yeah, man. Please.” That long cock was throbbing, looked like it was aching.

Igor gloved up and then guided his prick to that needy little hole, pushing against the resistance.

Trace groaned and bore down a little, body rocking nice and easy, trying to take him in.

Fingers sliding over the edges of that white tiger, Igor pushed in, a little at a time and letting Trace's own

movements do most of the work. They could take it as slow as Trace needed to. Even if that was going
to kill him, because just the sensation of that tight heat around the head of his cock nearly blew his head

off.

He'd never felt anything that tight, that ring of muscles almost scraping at him, tugging at his skin. Shit, the

man had said it had been awhile, tight as Trace was, he wondered if it was ever.

He shook his head—it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the fucking way Trace's body was holding

him, making him feel like his cock was where it was wanted, needed, and those little sounds Trace was

making. A man could live a month of Sundays on fantasies set around those noises. Groaning, he worked

his way in a little more.

"Fuck, you fill me up.” Trace pushed up on his elbows, rocking a little, getting that face close enough to

kiss.

"Mmm...” He pushed his tongue in between Trace's lips, tasting that sweet mouth as he sank the rest of

the way in, his cock going so deep.

Fuck. Fuck. He could feel Trace's muscles fluttering and rippling all around him, just like he was getting

a fucking massage. He grabbed hold of Trace's cock, fingers squeezing tight around it as he moved just a

little, giving sweet little pushes.

"Oh. Oh, fuck. Yeah. Full of you..."

"Yeah. You ready for more? Ready for harder?” He slid his thumb across the top of Trace's cock.

"H ... harder. Fuck, yeah. Please.” Oh, he liked hearing Trace beg.

He pulled almost all the way out, and then pushed right back in again, adding a little jerk as he pushed

back in, going a little bit deeper. Then he did it again, looking down, watching his black and emerald flesh

sliding between Trace's pale cheeks.

He fucking loved how that tiny hole spread and stretched around him, how he could see it, feel it that

pressure around his prick. He kept it slow, but hard, his hand jacking Trace at a different rhythm.

"Good for you, man?"

"Fuck. Fuck, yeah. Good. Don't you fucking stop."

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He laughed. Stop. Right. Like the thought had ever even crossed his mind. “No stopping.” He pushed in

harder, jabbing the head of his prick against Trace's gland.

"Jesus! Do that again!"

Trace stared at him, eyes just lit up. He grinned wildly. Yeah, he knew where the buttons were. He hit it

again, his own hips snapping, slapping against Trace's ass. He could see it, that little hole marked with

ink, taking his cock in. Fuck, that would be hot.

He pressed his finger into Trace's slit and kept slamming into the man's body, going deep and bumping

that gland each time. Trace was leaking like mad, his hand starting to glide on that hot, wet flesh as he

jacked it.

The long, lean cowboy was right there with him, jerking and rocking, riding his prick, meeting each and

every thrust. He bent to the pale skin on Trace's shoulder, and wrapped his mouth around it. He was

going to leave a mark, give Trace his very own Igor-tat. Yeah.

The rhythm wasn't smooth or sweet, it was hard and jagged and so fucking good, his cock and hand and

mouth working, working hard for their pleasure. Trace's skin was fucking salty and smooth, each suck

making the sheath around him pulse and squeeze.

His free hand dug into the mattress, keeping him from falling onto Trace as he fucked harder, faster,

pulling and sucking and fucking doing it all until there was nothing but the rutting, the sharp, fucking

pleasure of it.

"Soon. Soon, gonna fucking shoot. Gonna come on your cock."

"Good.” That was the whole fucking point, after all, wasn't it? He put a little extra into the next thrust,

hitting that little button hard.

Heat sprayed over his hand, Trace's body milking his cock, just demanding his orgasm. Igor gave it,

roaring as he filled the condom in long pulses.

"Mmm. Oh. Oh, babe. I mean, Igor. I mean ... Fuck, you scrambled me."

Laughing, he bent to rub his head across Trace's belly, teeth nipping at the tiger. “Scrambled's good."

"Mmmhmm. Real good.” Those pretty eyes blinked at him, just a little dazed. “You pick up cowboys a

lot?"

"Nah. You're my first cowboy.” He didn't usually bring them home, either. He slid out of Trace and got

rid of the condom.

"Yeah? You're my first Igor, so we're even.” Trace stretched, long and lazy, looking fine as hell.

"I'm pretty much everyone's first Igor.” He stroked that fine belly, then dropped his hand down behind

Trace's balls, tapping the little hole. “Was I your first here?"

"My first cock, yeah. Guy I dated wasn't interested in fucking me. Had dildos, though."

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Igor snorted. “Waste of a pretty little ass like yours.” He stroked the wrinkled skin.

Trace moaned, lips opening. Oh, yeah. That was a good sensitive. Mmm ... this cowboy looked fucking

good in his bed.

"You got somewhere to be, Igor? Because I'm thinking you and me could occupy us some time."

"I was just thinking the same thing. I mean it could be days before they get your truck fixed. Longer if

they need to order parts.” He could talk Trace into more ink, he was sure of it. And he wanted to be

there when that hole was done. He wanted the fallout.

"What on earth will we do?” Oh, flirt. That was fucking cute.

"I imagine we'll think of a thing or two.” Or twenty.

He brought their mouths together, tongue slipping in to taste, the flavor already becoming familiar. There

was just something hot and good and right about Trace.

Something just about fine.

Contributor's Bios

Rob Knight

Rob Knight, animal lover and avid reader of erotic fiction, was thrilled to be able to gather the stories in

the Shifting anthology together in one book. Rob enjoys travel, pets, and bad B movies, and hopes to

edit more anthologies for Torquere Press in the future. www.theknightwords.com/

Sean Michael

Often referred to as “Space Cowboy” and “Gangsta of Love” while still striving for the moniker of

“Maurice,” Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his immense gourd collection and

fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. While

collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between

dropping the f-bomb and persuing the kama sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and

singing along with the soundtrack to “Chicago.” Check out Sean's webpage at

www.seanmichaelwrites.com/

Willa Okati

Willa Okati lives by the quotation: “When I have a little money, I buy books. If there's any left over, I
buy food and clothes". An avid reader since she was able to pick up a book, she spends just as much

time writing stories about men, women, and the fun they get up to together. Physically, she lives in North

Carolina, but mentally thrives in a world where each adventure is bigger and brighter than the next. She is

also owned by far too many cats, but she insists that they serve as emissaries from the Muse and can't

spare a one of them.

Please feel free to visit her web page at www.willsheornillshe.com/

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M. Rode

M. Rode loves winter, being a canuck and watching boys of all sorts rub together. M. has edited various

anthologies for Torquere Press.

Visit www.torquerepress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

This eBook is published by

Fictionwise Publications

www.fictionwise.com

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Horror, Mystery, and other genres.

This eBook copyrighted. See the first page of this book for full copyright information.

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