Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
2
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Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
3
CONTENTS
Introduction
It's Magic
Let The Chips Fall
Binding Tenancy
Maid Service
Straight
Keeping a Good Finger Man Employed
Peepshow
Temporary Gifts
The End of the Earth
Firsts: On the Kink Cruise
Stranger on the Shore
Things He Leaves Behind
San Gabriel Mardi Gras
Zombies on the Down-Low
About the Authors
* * * *
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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Beach Boys:
An Anthology of Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of
Summer
A Ravenous Romance™ M/M Original Publication
Edited by Sèphera Girón
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
5
A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication
www.ravenousromance.com
Copyright © 2009 by Ravenous Romance
Ravenous Romance™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in whole or in part without written permission
from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief
excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-300-7
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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Introduction
This collection of stories embraces all kinds of scenarios
involving hot, horny guys on vacation. You will find everyday
men living out their most erotic fantasies. You will also find
fantastical creatures such as a genie, a zombie, angels and
demons, and ghosts.
When I sent out the call for stories, I asked for hot and
horny summer flings. Since most of these authors know that I
enjoy BDSM and dark fantasy, many of the stories have those
qualities. Every one of these stories got me hot and I hope
they do the same for you!
I think you'll have a wonderful time lying on your deck
chair, reading about these gorgeous men and their erotic
encounters.
Happy Reading!
Sèphera Girón
July 2009
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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It's Magic
by Lisa Mannetti
Everything's a trick, you know?
I mean the first time I saw Ferradini the renowned
mentalist perform, I was still technically a cabin boy on
Duchess Cruise Lines.
I stood toward the back of the packed auditorium and felt
actual thrills racing from my heart to my head and down to
my groin. He was just so elegant, so suave—so fucking smart.
Up until the moment I saw him enter from stage right
wearing a custom-made tuxedo and looking like he'd just
stepped out of the Oak Room at the Plaza, I'd been secretly
gloating over my own good fortune.
It was only my second five-month contract with the line,
but I'd managed to land the part of understudy for both
Harold Hill in The Music Man and Emile De Becque in South
Pacific, the plays we were staging during the ten-day cruise to
Cozumel and the Panama Canal.
Look, I'm not going to lie to you. I mean, Nina, the artistic
director (a five-foot, two-inch two-hundred-pound blond bitch
with eyebrow piercings, whose voice was so shrill and edged
with nastiness that her real calling should have been serving
papers on Operation Repo) made it very clear that if the guy
playing the lead felt up to it, he'd do both shows both nights
we were bringing Broadway to the Caribbean Sea. And yeah,
the theatricals were abbreviated versions of the original
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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shows and strictly amateur—about what you'd see in some
crummy summer stock production in Akron or St.
Petersburg—but there was a certain frisson in the behind-the-
scenes action.
First, I had that little confidence boost. Christ, most cabin
boys, when they're done swabbing the "stateroom" toilets and
making up the beds and counting how many cans and bottles
are missing from the mini bar, were either standing on a line
to use the "crew" computer to e-mail Mama or borrowing the
gift shop calculator to tote up the exchange rate on a ten-
dollar tip—which usually converts to around 1200 hundred Sri
Lankan rupees, give or take. They save their entire salaries to
marry whatever girl their parents "purchased" for them before
they—or even the girl—was born. And the tips paid their
family's rent and buy some decent food back home, plus
extras like school books for their eight younger siblings.
But, in my off time I was rehearsing, and if even if I never
got into costume or onstage, hell, I was having a lot of fun
fucking some of the hotter chorus members while we
grappled behind the heavy velvet drapery, picnicked ashore in
secluded parks or on nude beaches, and committed travesties
and sacrilege inside temples at ancient ruins. It was all in
good fun and nobody was looking to get attached or put the
strings on anybody else. But there were plenty of us boys
who had wild sex standing chest deep in the warm gorgeous
turquoise surf at Tulum and, except for the ants, literal steam
bath trysts on the jungle trails in Costa Rica while the
shipboard straights shopped for bargain jewelry.
But, like I said, all that changed when I watched Ferradini.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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We actually met later that night after his show.
* * * *
Passengers liked to party down on cruises. There's an
afternoon drink fest almost every day and, if you weren't one
of the hired help, you could probably get into hearing
Margaritaville six out of the ten days at sea while a band
played poolside and you jumped in the hot tub, or watched
one of the chefs carve an ice swan, or entered a raffle to win
a "makeover" in the spa. It didn't matter. The ships were
seriously into providing anything that made the paying
customers feel more alive than they did working their asses
off all day long in corporation-land, then fighting traffic just to
stop at Costco to pick up toilet paper, three gallons of milk,
green leaf salad and frozen pizza in order to go home, scarf a
lousy dinner and supervise the kids' homework.
Most evenings after the swell-elegant meals, the art
auctions, hit movies and live shows, the "entertainment" crew
went into the dance bars around midnight to get people—
those who weren't losing their shirts in the casino or
snuggling in the cozy-couples lounges—up on the floor to
shimmy and jive. Choosing which "club" is one of the few
perks we were allowed. They even threw us a couple of bucks
to buy a drink or two for "likely types" that would keep
swilling, then signed off for a lot more high-end booze on
their own cruise cards—but we had to circulate and keep it
casual because "fraternizing" with the guests was off-limits.
I usually picked Neptune because they played rock and the
patrons were allowed to smoke. So, instead of having to haul
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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around some grandma wearing a powder blue sequined gown
left over from the last wedding she crashed, I had a little
more fun with the younger crowd.
Just being in party clothes beat the hell out of wearing the
ugly tan polyester cabin-boy uniform.
The cruise line didn't give a shit that we were gay—hell,
three-quarters of the entertainers were twinks—but we had to
act straight in public.
And it wasn't too bad twirling some of the better-looking
chicks because there were plenty of opportunities for
surreptitious flirting with the brushed and bronzed male
hotties. You'd be bumping some fashionista's bony hips and
flash your eyes at Tomas or Phillipo or Giorgio and without
even checking your watch you'd know that within an hour
you'd be wrapped around each other watching the sea-green
wake in the stern, exchanging kisses that passed just fine for
romance. Then your cocks would be doing the willy-wag
against one another till you both felt like lobsters screaming
plunged into a boiling pot and dropped trou. Thirty minutes
after round one, you'd be in his cot plunging your cock up his
tight, tanned ass.
Anyhow, this particular night, the second of the cruise, I
was in the Neptune dancing "with" two girls whom I guessed
probably came from Kentucky—they weren't exactly light on
their feet, if you know what I mean—when I saw Ferradini
standing at the bar.
You couldn't really miss him. He had to be at least six-
foot-four and he was still wearing his drop-dead tuxedo while
he sipped smoky cognac from a snifter. He had what I
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considered the perfect body: lean, but athletic. There was
plenty of muscle tone evident in his chest, shoulders, and
thighs, but without the ugly pumped look that comes from
steroids or obsessive gym training. He was built, but like the
mind-blowing persona he displayed on stage, he conveyed
that what he was, what he achieved, was both incredible and
effortless.
I caught him giving me the once-over, then quickly looking
away; his casual studied glance turned me on even more.
I thought he was still watching me. I hoped he was
watching. I shimmied harder, aware that my armpits were
beading sweat, my cock swelling to epic girth. Shit, I could
have been out there doing the Bristol Stomp with my Aunt
Gertrude's corpse, but for Ferradini's sake I made sure my
tight little rump with its mysterious hint of crevasse was
going to have the appeal of coming home in time for
Christmas after doing two fucking years in Baghdad. In the
brig.
The band, thank God, segued to a slow song: one of the
standards, Stairway to Heaven, I think. I took out a white
cotton handkerchief and, eyes cast downward, wiped my
forehead. Then I headed for the end of the long curved
mahogany bar.
He was gone.
I looked around for him in a fevered agony. Under
flickering blue lights, the straights clung to one another like
shipwreck victims cast into an icy sea. Phillipo and Giorgio
and Tomas had hooked up with the better-looking crew
members and were already fleeing the Neptune.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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What the fuck?
I knew I could screw Cosmin, who hailed from Bucharest—
after ten months at sea, I knew he'd be in his bunk swigging
a sweet white grasa wine and either grazing Playguy or
salivating while he checked out some site like GloryHole on
his laptop—even if his tube-like uncircumcised prick kind of
turned me off. When he sucked me, I didn't think about it.
When it was my turn, even before I mouthed him, and my
right hand was pumping fast (so I could get to the part I
enjoyed when he shoved his latex-swathed joint up my ass), I
couldn't really look at his whanger. I thought it was ugly.
Maybe I was more American than I realized. Maybe my
community college education really was crapola.
But I adore the mushroom god, the delicate carved lines
and jutting texture of the ridge, the way my hands and
tongue can climb and slip over a great cock's terrain—Christ,
I hate smegma, I thought. Let somebody else sniff and slurp
or spit out his dick cheese.
Fuck it.
I decided I'd drink a tribute to the ultra-elegant Ferradini. I
waved a twenty and ordered a pricey cognac.
No sooner had the barkeep slammed it in front of me—not
caring if half the drink I was paying for splashed over the
sides of the glass—when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
"Let me get that."
I didn't even have to turn my head to know it was him. I'd
swear on my mother's grave, I'd memorized every detail of
his touch during previous lifetimes. I knew the dulled sheen of
the short pinkish fingernails and clean white cuticles
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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intimately. Soul-deep, I craved the heat of his palms, the
wetness of his tongue. I wanted to feel his hands and fingers
soldered to my naked skin, the hot smear of his lips accented
and ovalled with his trim goatee and the thin arch of
mustache sliding down my chest. I wanted to watch that
amazing sensuous mouth open up into a hollow womb, a
pulsing red nest that cradled my balls.
* * * *
We were in his suite—a world away from the dreary
Seabee bunks and dormitory atmosphere I was used to. I felt
his lips brush my hair. "You're good, Marc," he said.
"Ditto and then some."
I was lying in his arms, the top of my head tucked under
his chin. I felt the upward tug of a grin on his face and he
chuckled. "Yes, but I don't just mean you're good in bed—you
have flair." His hands smoothed my chest. "You're better than
any of those other guys they have on stage."
"Huh."
"Seriously," he said, sitting up and shifting me so he could
hold my face between his hands and make me look into his
deep green eyes. "I know. I can tell."
"You've never seen me dance or heard me sing—"
"I know because it's my job to know ... I can tell because
I'm a mentalist. If I couldn't read people instantly, my act
would be about as exciting as cold oatmeal."
I didn't know where he was going with this, but I was
listening.
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"I work out of Vegas ... occasionally I take gigs in New
York or L.A. and about six months of the year, I cruise.
Different lines, different ships," he said. "You get to my level
and wherever you work, the pay is good and the perks are
better." He tapped his finger playfully against my lower lip,
then went on. "I'm working alone now, but I could use an
assistant."
I waited. He probably had fifteen years on me, I guessed
he was in his early forties, and I was drawn to the
combination of maturity and youth he projected, but I
couldn't see myself as some kind of half-assed valet or prop
master—
"You don't get it," he said. "You think I want some glorified
secretary, but I'm talking about training you and getting you
onstage every night and under the spotlights."
Vague memories of Tony Curtis playing Houdini rose up
inside my head.
"Isn't it time for your star to shine?" he asked. "And
personally, I think you'll look a thousand times better than
Janet Leigh in the costume."
* * * *
I was learning a lot. Maybe more than I'd ever learned in a
book or a classroom or even the first time I had sex with a
guy and, after years of fantasizing about tons of boys and
men, I finally felt my cow town college roommate's hands on
my cock, his lips twitching against mine. I'm trying to say
that even if I'm only twentysomething, I realize there is
learning out there, knowledge that only comes from
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experience, and some of that experience is beyond what you
can imagine, no matter how savvy you think you are. It's not
like I never wore drag before and I'd be the first one to say I
liked the silver sequin gown and I looked good—no, fucking
great—in that clinging mermaid's sheath, but what happened
with Ferradini took me to a new place.
And like I said before, everything is a trick.
* * * *
"Ladies and gentlemen, SevenSeas Cruise Line is proud to
present the amazing" ... the emcee's voice drops to a
whisper, then a hush, even on the mic: "...Fer-rr-r-ra—din-
iiiiii..."
Smoke billows onto the stage and, when the clouds
disperse, they see him in that elegant custom-tailored
tuxedo, his tall body tigered in stripes of blue lights and
floating three feet off the stage.
I walk out in the blinding silver dress, my blond wig tipping
the curves of my bare shoulders, my left arm held out to the
audience, long maroon fingernails glinting. Before I'm a
quarter of the way on stage, more lights flare and bulbs
scream and a sign as big as a Broadway marquee that says
Ferradini and Minerva seems to explode, rising from the stage
apron, then hanging mid-air in front of the magician to flash
madly for two seconds.
The audience applauds.
Ferradini gently descends and walks upstage towards the
audience.
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The lights glow the color of hot magma. He turns and
points to me.
Now I am standing where he was, three feet off the stage
floor.
Applause.
It was pledge, turn, and prestige all in one smooth
opening: our hook. From this point on, we'd already bought
the audience.
Next Ferradini would do a bit of minor mentalism that
called for no more than asking the audience to write down the
Q and A type slough while I promenaded and he used what
we call a swami trick or nail writer.
Doesn't matter if Jesus Christ comes down to participate—
here's the kind of astonishing stuff Ferradini throws out:
"Think of a number, the name of a country, pick a color, the
last four digits of the topmost dollar bill in your wallet."
I was a distraction, but he didn't need me for this part of
the act: the answers are written on the card or envelope or
whatever he uses that appears sealed up, cast in stone or
flies down from the ceiling. He's using a bee-stinger-sized
lead pencil or felt tip glued under his thumbnail which is
undetectable and even without me, he could write the answer
in his pocket or from under his tuxedo lapel or in mid-air. No
shit. And any halfway decent mentalist can do this in an
instant. Ferradini just liked having the cachet of a bombshell
assistant, as if he were fucking Houdini.
Ditto when you come on stage and he asks you to scribble
a doodle, any image you want onto a large white poster-
board type card you hold up to your chest to work on while he
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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stands thirty feet away. I don't even have to signal Mr. Magic;
he watches your hand move and he guesses and he's right.
You'd be surprised how many people—given a thick black
magic marker—draw a dog, a cat, a house, a tree, or a
flower.
We move on, I can feel delicious sweat collecting just
above my top lip and between my thighs where it won't show.
But it's not the lights and it's not the crowd, it's the thought
of fucking him when the act is over that has me licking my
mauve lipsticked lips in anticipation.
Blindfold time.
There are a couple of ways to handle this and we vary
them, as much to entertain ourselves as to keep the audience
and any smartasses who might be in the crowd guessing. One
method is the reverse blindfold: you look through it, you see
nothing. I crease it and fold it and give it a spin with my tits
shaking, and when it's reversed, voila. He can see through
the pinprick holes you could not see before it was creased and
reversed.
Another variation of this is when I stand on stage, banter
passing between me and Ferradini, my ass swaying, and I
invite you and you and you with your arms raised high and
waving to come up and blindfold him.
Up you stride and whether you realize or not I'm in drag—
and let me tell you, even the straights want to cop a feel—
what I'm really about is making you think you're some hot
shit like Bruce Willis suddenly up here in the limelight.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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So now, to prove just what a bunch of he-men the three of
you really are, you conference and do an extra special kiss-
my-ass Ferradini job of tying on the blindfold.
Tight as slinged tits, corralled like cock in a jock.
And this one is a real blindfold.
We don't use "plants." We don't know any of you from
Adam. And it's always better if one of you turns out to be a
cop or a doctor. Cops can nose out bullshit, and doctors are
skeptics. Former Eagle Scouts and Marines are an even bigger
bonus.
We might give you guys five yards of black silk or a bag of
sterile cotton balls or a page from The Wall Street Journal
folded and compressed to the size of a quarter so you can
pad his eyes before you bury the whole deal under layers of
mummy gauze and a roll of duct tape. You win. Right?
Wrong.
The tighter you tie the blindfold, the easier it is for Signor
Ferradini. While you're trying to devise knots that would
baffle Confucius, he's squinching up his eyebrows so there's
just enough slack.
Then we segue into the part of the act when you macho
guys (and if you collect the stuff, the audience is one hundred
percent more stunned than if I passed the hat) go collect shit
from the rest of the audience: wallets, rings, keys, foil-
packeted condoms, handkerchiefs with the initials BJB. You
place the tray on his lap while I stand there looking like an
all-expense-paid trip to Oahu, and sometimes he and I
banter, sometimes he hesitates, but dimmed stagelights or
not, in the end he guesses every item down to the last detail,
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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including those initials from your aunt Bobbie Joe Burke's
monogrammed hankie. Ferradini may look like the top of his
head has been transformed into a twenty-first century
hornet's nest, but behind the knots, and bandages, he can
see every goddamned thing on the goddamn gold tray. Of
course, he gets it all right.
* * * *
What's that old song? Damn I hear it enough in the bars
on shipboard—oh yeah, The Pilots: It's magic, you know ...
never believe it's not so...
Oh man, you're thinking, and I hear you), I don't want to
know this is all tricks and mice. Just bullshit. Smoke and
mirrors. Double goddamn motherfucker. Shit...
I didn't want to know it either.
But like all consummate magic acts, Ferradini saved his
best for last ... but then, I suppose, so did I.
* * * *
We're in bed.
Ferradini said, "Things are changing now."
"Yeah-h-h-h." And it's just so fucking great between us. I
feel like I climb inside his skin when we're all over each other.
I always know exactly what he wants and I give it, but I
clarify and say, "Yeah, I like change."
"Oh yes and it suits you ... like magic," he says and his
right hand is loving, smoothing back the shock of blond hair
that always takes a dip and hangs over my forehead.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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There's a mirror directly across from the bed, behind the
double glitter of flickering candelabrum flames I see us
entwined. Ferradini's eyes track my stare. "You've seen it,
too, haven't you?"
"Seen what?"
"I know you have."
Then I caught it, or thought I did. I tried to tell myself,
maybe it's the cognac or the candlelight. My eyes seemed
greener, there's a faint hint of mustache—like the first
tentative line in a charcoal sketch—above my upper lip. And
yes, stretched out, I appeared nearly as tall as he did.
"I loved you too much." He looked at me carefully, then
sighed. "It's always like this, but never so profound." He
sounded sad. "Even the dresses don't seem to help. I wish
they did. But they don't help at all."
* * * *
I clearly recall the last moments of the act on the last
night. Anyone would. Our pacing was magnificent, a graceful
run that dazzled the audience, just like watching dolphins arc
through sapphire water and race alongside a cruise ship.
We used the elaborate memorized codes that pass for
mental telepathy.
I might say, "Please tell me what the gentleman is
holding." Ferradini would instantly know that meant a
fountain pen. If I said, for example, "I'd like you to tell me
the next object," he knew it and would respond, "It's a key."
The patter is so benign, so innocent-sounding, the audience
never tumbles to the fact that we're conveying codes. You
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can look all this up if you don't believe me. After enough
practice, I could go through the routine on autopilot.
I already knew that when the ship docked, there would be
no Las Vegas or New York for me. A little judicious snooping
in his luggage and among his journals let me know that he'd
hoped it would be different, but each time he'd brought an
assistant to his act and his bed, over time Ferradini's
telepathy ... changed that man. But never, I thought, as
much as I had changed. Cabin boys—had he tossed them into
the sea or, since so many crew members jumped ship at port,
had no one bothered to really look for them?
"Glasses."
"Correct. And now, see if you know what this object is..."
"A jewel ... a ring, I believe...."
"And this?"
He kept telling himself if he dressed me as a woman it
wouldn't happen this time. And what scared him more was
knowing, that as I began to look more like him, I was
usurping his genuine psychic ability, pulling his talents into
my own being.
"A book ... but it's not mine, dammit." The audience
laughs.
* * * *
Acts have full circles and at the end of ours we switch
places—but more dramatically than during the opening—yet
again.
Smoke poured over the stage.
My heart pounded. My head roared.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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I don't think the audience knew it, but when the lights
flashed and we took our final bows, it was no illusion.
I was taking his bows, doffing the tall magician's top hat,
the mustache tickling my upper lip. Looking at the audience
through heavy-lidded green eyes as bright as jewels.
Ferradini looked small and frail wearing the silver sequins,
his narrow heels pressed together while he spread a thin
shapely white arm that quivered. He was frightened as a bird.
It was a trick that was no trick, but this time there was no
way to turn it back.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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Let The Chips Fall
by Brandi Woodlawn
When my best friend, Kyle, told me we'd be able to earn
enough money to cover our grad school expenses in eight
weeks, I didn't believe him.
"We're in our prime," Kyle said. "The men who come here
have money. They'll pay top dollar for two studs like us."
"Is that where the motto came from?" I pointed to the
poolside sign. It said, Welcome to Atlantis. Take care of the
staff and they'll take care of you.
"Probably," Kyle said. He looked at his watch. "The poker
tournament is almost over. Our guests should be arriving
soon."
My hands were sweaty. Kyle was making me nervous.
"What else do I need to do?"
"Just stand there and look delicious," he said. "Ready?
Here they come."
He opened the door that led from the hotel to the pool.
"Welcome to Atlantis, sir."
I grabbed a stack of towels and proceeded to hand one to
each of the four men who entered.
"I'm Kyle, and this is Ben. If there's anything we can do to
make your stay more enjoyable, don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you, son," the first man said.
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
by Sephera Giron
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He had salt-and-pepper hair, a spare tire, and was
definitely old enough to be my father. I hoped he wouldn't be
requiring anything more than ice-cold drinks.
"Well, aren't you two just the cutest things?"
Kyle smiled.
"Yes, we are," I said.
"Look, Johnny," the second man said to the third. "He's
cute and he knows it."
"Well, why shouldn't he?" Johnny said. "If I had a body like
that..."
"You did have a body like that. Too bad my cooking spoiled
it."
Johnny laughed. "It was worth it, Larry. I have no regrets."
It was obvious that these two were committed. Flirting
might guarantee a good tip, but I doubted either of them
would wind up being our sugar daddies.
The fourth man, however, was a different story. He was
tall, dark, and mysterious. He took the towel out of my hand
without so much as a "thank you" and made his way to a
chair in the corner between the sauna and the hot tub.
"You know him, Kyle?" I asked.
"Yes," Kyle said. "That's Carlos Vega. He's on the tour. A
self-made millionaire, most of it from playing poker."
"What are my chances?"
"I honestly don't know. I saw him a few times last year.
But he was usually with a woman. Not that that means
anything these days."
"I'm going to give a shot," I said.
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"Don't worry if it goes nowhere," Kyle said. "There are
plenty of others who are interested. The old guy, for
starters."
"No, thanks," I said. "I know you said it gets easier, but I
don't think I can do someone that I'm not attracted to."
"Suit yourself," Kyle said. "But if you want to make the big
bucks, you can't be so picky."
* * * *
I waited twenty minutes before I decided to check in on
Carlos.
"Can I get you anything, sir? Another drink perhaps?"
He'd stripped down to a Speedo and was sunning himself.
"No, thanks."
"You might want to turn over soon," I said. "You're starting
to get a little pink."
He nodded, but didn't move.
"I can get you some sunscreen if you're worried about
getting burned."
"I'm fine for now."
"I'll be back to check on you in a bit, then."
"Okay," he said.
I didn't really want to take no for an answer. So I lingered
there for an extra moment. He glistened with sweat but didn't
smell musky.
"That will be all," he said.
"Of course, sir," I said.
I have to admit being disheartened when he didn't offer
me a tip.
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* * * *
"What do you think I should do now, Kyle?"
"I'd move on," Kyle said. "Maybe he's not ... you know."
"I'm getting a vibe," I said.
"You wish you were getting a vibe."
"No, there's something there. He's just ... reserved."
"Maybe he wants to be the one to make the first move."
Duh. Now why didn't I think of that? Maybe I needed to
step up my game and play hard to get.
I spent the afternoon virtually ignoring Carlos. I flirted with
Johnny and Larry, who claimed they were going to kidnap me
and take me back to Chicago. I even cozied up to the old
man. The old man wanted to take me out for drinks after my
shift was over. I left that request on the table. If I couldn't
get Carlos's attention by then, I might have to consider other
opportunities. Maybe Kyle was right: being picky could really
impact the bottom line. The cabana boy gig was nice, but I
didn't want it to become my career.
After a couple of hours, Carlos flagged me down.
"Ben?"
"Yes, Mr. Vega?"
He handed me the old glass, which was hot from sitting in
the sun.
"I could use a fresh drink."
"Jack and Coke, coming up."
I met Kyle at the bar.
"Any luck?" he said.
"He remembered my name."
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"I guess that's progress," he said.
"Okay, boys. What can I do you for?" Tom wiped off the
counter, then threw the bar towel over his shoulder.
"I need two Miami Vices," Kyle said.
Tom laughed, "Is the fuck-me drink for the lovebirds?"
We watched as Larry exited the pool. Johnny waited, towel
in hand and gave him a quick rub down to dry off.
"Yeah," said Kyle. "Can you believe those two have been
together for twenty years?"
Tom set up the blenders. Frozen daiquiri mix in one, frozen
colada mix in the other. "Let's make sure it's a happy
anniversary." He poured an extra shot of rum in each and
turned the blenders on.
"I don't think you'll have to worry about that," Kyle said.
Larry rolled his head forward and arched his back as
Johnny smeared a fresh coat of sunscreen from his shoulders
down to his waist. He rubbed it in gentle circles, stopping
every few seconds to plant a kiss. He seemed to be on a
mission of rediscovery.
It was turning me on.
"How about you, Ben?"
"Jack and Coke," I said.
Tom nodded. He filled a fresh glass with ice, gave a
generous pour and a spritz of Coke. "Maybe that will help
your cause."
"Thanks," I said.
I delivered the drink. The ice cubes clinked against the side
of the glass as I set it on the low table next to Carlos's deck
chair.
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Carlos didn't acknowledge me.
"Will there be anything else?"
He lowered his sunglasses. His eyes were as dark as his
hair, but were flecked with gold. "I think I'd better take you
up on the sunscreen or else I'm going to have to get out of
the sun."
The sunscreen wasn't going to do him much good at this
point. His shoulders were already burnt. I felt a slight twinge
of guilt for not checking back on him sooner.
"Maybe getting out of the sun would be best," I said.
"You're a little crispy around the edges."
Carlos frowned. "I'd hate to go back to my room alone."
I waited for a beat. Was this an invitation or just a
statement of fact?
"You know what's good for a sunburn?" I said.
"No, what?"
"Aloe."
"I don't have any."
"We have some in the supply room. I'd suggest taking a
shower before putting it on, though. If you want to head back
to your room, I could bring some up."
"When are you supposed to be off work?"
"In a hour," I said.
"Bring it up then," Carlos said.
I smiled. This was progress.
"Try not to look like the cat who ate the canary. No one
needs to know my business. Discretion is key." He got up and
handed me his towel.
"Understood, Mr. Vega."
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29
"See you in an hour."
* * * *
My shift was almost over when the old man sidled up to
me at the bar. I was closing out his tab.
"So what do you say? Drinks at Bellagio?"
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Anderson. I'm going to have to take
a rain check."
"That's too bad, son. Would've liked to get to know you
better."
"My friend, Kyle, might be free," I said.
"You think so?"
"Only one way to find out."
I waved Kyle over.
Kyle must've smelled the dollar signs.
The next thing I knew Mr. Anderson was stuffing a fifty-
dollar bill in my pocket and thanking me for the "tip."
While Mr. Anderson gathered up his belongings, Kyle said,
"Are you sure you don't want him? I feel bad about stealing a
client."
"He's not my type."
"Too bad about Vega. I noticed he left earlier."
"It's okay."
"What are you going to do tonight?"
"I'm not sure yet," I lied. "Don't worry about me. If I can't
find a way to entertain myself in Vegas, it's my own fault."
"True. So true."
Mr. Anderson said, "You ready, son?"
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30
Kyle said, "You bet." Then, to me, "Okay, Ben. I've got to
go. See you tomorrow."
I nodded.
I went back to my section of the deck, straightened up the
chairs, collected the stray towels and threw them in the
hamper. When I was satisfied that my station looked as good
as it did when I came in, I checked out with Tom.
"Is it all right if I steal a tube of aloe from the supply
cabinet on my way out?"
"It's coming out of your check," Tom said.
"No problem," I said. "It'll save me a trip to the store."
"See you tomorrow, kid."
* * * *
I arrived at the penthouse suite fifteen minutes later than
I'd planned. I stopped in the locker room to take a shower
and change out of that ridiculous uniform. The shirt and
shorts were so tight that sometimes I felt like a HOOTERS
girl. But I guess being eye candy is part of the whole cabana
boy appeal. I had the aloe in hand and hoped Carlos wouldn't
mind the delay.
He answered the door with a towel wrapped around his
waist.
"Come on in."
He stepped aside to allow my entry.
"I took the shower, like you told me." His grin spread from
ear to ear. "I like doing what I'm told."
"Really, Mr. Vega? That's surprising."
"Why?"
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31
"Powerful men usually have a hard time giving up control."
"When it comes to business, that's true. But when I play, I
want to have a little fun."
"What should I tell you to do next?"
"Whatever you want."
I felt slightly out of sorts. He wanted me to take the reins,
but I wasn't completely comfortable steering. I worried I
might be too forward. Perhaps it would be best to test the
waters with an easy request.
"How about a kiss?"
I set the tube of aloe on the end table near the couch.
Carlos put his hands on my face and guided my lips to his.
The kiss was short and gentle, an icebreaker.
"That was nice," I said. "But I think you can do better."
This time, our lips parted as they met. Carlos thrust his
tongue inside my mouth. Our teeth clicked. It wasn't painful,
but it was forceful. The man did not lack passion.
"Wow," I said. I was a little dizzy and breathless. "Wasn't
wrong about that."
Carlos sighed.
"To be honest," I said. "I wasn't sure if you were
interested."
"Look," he said. "I know about the extra services the staff
at Atlantis offers. And I know the boys talk. I'm a private
person. If you decide to stay, whatever happens here stays
here. I'll make sure you're generously compensated for your
time. But if you can't promise to be discreet, then you might
as well go now."
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"Whatever happens is our business," I said. "No one else
needs to know."
"I'm glad I wasn't wrong about you."
Carlos hugged me, then winced when I touched his
shoulders.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I almost forgot about the aloe."
Carlos sat down on the couch.
I picked up the tube, unscrewed the cap and squirted a
small amount into my hand. I stood behind him, rubbed my
hands together and began to apply the gel to Carlos's
shoulders.
"It's cold," he said as he shivered. "But it feels good."
I ran my fingers gently across his shoulders. I felt the heat
of the sunburn as the gel worked its way into his skin. His
shoulders were broad and his biceps and pecs were well
defined. I got hard just thinking about it.
"There," I said. "Is that better?"
"Much," he said. "You mind if I ditch the towel?"
"No."
He stood and tugged on the corner of the towel that had
been tucked in. It unfurled, revealing everything. I'd gotten a
good look at him in the Speedo earlier, but somehow his
being completely naked before me was still mesmerizing.
"Mr. Vega," I smirked. "You are heavenly."
"I'd say the same, but it's hard to tell since you've still got
your clothes on."
"You could take them off."
"That sounds like a request, not a command."
"Strip me now," I said.
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Carlos complied. He started with my T-shirt, lifting it up
and over my head. He cast it aside. I don't know where it
landed. Carlos pushed me backwards, stopping at the edge of
the bed. He unzipped my shorts and let them fall to the floor.
My boxers were next. He slid his fingers under the waistband
and pulled them down. I kicked them both the rest of the way
off.
"Let me look at you," he said. He took a deep breath and
sighed. "Did you sell your soul for those abs?"
"I'm in some kind of hell when I work out at 5 a.m. every
day."
He laughed, but then got quiet and serious.
"What's wrong?"
"I want to show you something."
"Okay."
"I'm a little bit nervous," Carlos said as he bit his lower lip.
"If I wasn't open minded, I wouldn't be here," I said.
"Sorry," he said. "This part always gets to me."
"It's important to ask for what you want," I said. "The
worst that can happen is I'll say no."
"I hope you don't," he said.
Carlos went to the wardrobe and opened it. Inside were a
myriad of toys. Nipple clamps, handcuffs, floggers.
"Will you be my master?" he said. He dropped to his
knees. "I've been a naughty slave. Punish me."
S&M wasn't exactly my thing. Dishing out pain was one
thing. I could do that. Taking it was another. But so long as
he was allowing me to be the Dom, I saw no reason to deny
his request.
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"Yes, you have been naughty," I said. I selected the short
black riding crop and tapped it against my palm. "I've been
here for twenty minutes and all you've given me so far is a
kiss."
I brought the crop down hard on his chest.
Carlos shivered in response to the jolt. Then he let out a
small moan.
I hit him again.
"Perhaps you'd like the chance to redeem yourself?" I
tapped the crop gently on his nipples. "Or are you beyond
redemption?"
"What would please you, Master?"
I grabbed my cock and presented it to him.
"Suck it," I said.
Carlos licked his lips. He pushed my hand aside and let his
fingers trace the underside of my shaft before reaching back
and jiggling my balls. He took me into his mouth, sucking
gently at first, but slowly applying more pressure.
My knees got weak as he alternated between flicking his
tongue on the tip, using his hands on my shaft and taking me
deeper with every stroke.
I came as he finger-fucked my asshole.
I needed to rest. I sat down on the edge of the bed.
He'd redeemed himself for sure.
"I've got to lie down for a minute," I said.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Master?"
"I'm good."
"I'm going to go wash up. Be right back."
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I flopped back, just wanting to lie there and enjoy the
momentary bliss. I started to daydream for a moment about
how nice it would be to live in a penthouse with a hot guy like
Carlos. But then reality sunk in.
I started having second thoughts about the job, about
what I would do when Carlos tried to pay me. I needed the
money for school, but was this really the way that I wanted to
earn it? The more I thought about Carlos, the more I realized
I actually liked him. I didn't want to hook up with just any
guy who flashed a wad of cash. Maybe that worked for Kyle,
but it wasn't me.
Carlos returned.
"What's on your mind?"
His breath smelled minty fresh. He must have liked me a
little or he wouldn't have bothered to brush his teeth.
"Work. Sorry. I know I shouldn't be thinking about that
right now."
"Do you have to go?"
"No. I mean, not unless you want me to."
"I'd like you to stay," Carlos said. "How much will cost me
to keep you overnight?"
I swallowed hard.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether you want me here because you want me. Or
whether you want me here because you just want someone."
"Does it really matter?"
"I'd better go," I said.
I got dressed in a hurry.
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"Wait," Carlos said. "How much do I owe you?"
"Forget it," I said. "I don't want your money."
I left without giving him the chance to say another word.
* * * *
I flew home that night, hoping I could erase the whole
experience from my mind. I'd been lured out to Vegas by the
promise of big bucks and the assurance that these kinds of
relationships were no big deal. The men have money to
spend; why shouldn't I take it? I was providing a service.
There was no reason why I shouldn't be compensated for it. I
didn't expect it to wreak havoc on my heart.
My cell phone rang early the next morning. I flipped it
open to take the call.
"Where the hell are you?" Kyle asked. "You're late."
"I'm back home," I said.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"No. The job ... it's just not right for me."
"Well, you must've done something right."
"What makes you say that?"
"Someone left you a big tip. The big man came down and
told the rest of us that we'd better ask you what you did to
deserve it."
"I don't want it," I said. "Tell him to give it back."
"You're high, aren't you?"
"No. I just can't take money for sex."
"Is that what this is about? Worried about someone
thinking you're a whore?"
"Yes. I mean, no. Forget it. You wouldn't understand."
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37
"I can't believe this."
"Goodbye, Kyle."
I flipped my cell shut. It rang again and I sent the call to
voice mail.
Whore. That wasn't what I wanted to be.
* * * *
Kyle came back at the end of the summer. He stopped by
to drop off the contents of my locker.
"I can't believe you didn't stay," he said. "I made enough
to get me through until the middle of next year. I could
almost take next summer off if I wanted to."
He handed me the box. My extra cabana boy uniform was
folded neatly and placed on top.
"The first thing I'm going to do is burn this," I said as I
lifted it up.
"You looked good in those shorts," Kyle said.
"We both looked ridiculous and you know it."
"Whatever. It was still fun."
"Thanks for bringing this stuff by," I said.
"No problem," Kyle said. He checked his watch. "Gotta fly."
"See you on campus," I said.
Kyle left.
I dumped the contents of the box out on my bed. There
wasn't much in there aside from the uniform and some
toiletries. When I turned the box right side up, I noticed that
there was an envelope stuck in the bottom. I pulled it out and
opened it.
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38
There was a check for fifty thousand dollars and a note
from Carlos.
Ben—
I'm sorry if I said something that offended you. I didn't
know how to answer your question. I don't meet too many
people interested in me for me. If having money has a
downside, that's surely a big one. Your friend, Kyle, told me
why you came to Atlantis in the first place and why you left. I
want you to take this money and use it for school. No strings.
I'll be playing in a tournament in Atlantic City next week. I
hope you'll drop by. I know the answer now. I don't just want
someone anymore.
Carlos
* * * *
I sent the check back.
But I went to Atlantic City to find out where the chips
would fall.
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39
Binding Tenancy
by Elizabeth Coldwell
I honestly thought PJ would be just another tenant. Every
year, when the tourists start flocking to the coast and the
theatre on the end of the pier opens for its summer season, I
rent out my guest room to one of the performers. Usually, it's
one of the dancers in the chorus, as my rate is cheaper than
most of the boarding houses on the seafront and they tend
not to earn a great deal. It's an arrangement which works
well for both parties: they get a room with a beautiful sea
view and no chance of being spied on in the shower by a
seedy landlord, and I get some company in a house which has
been empty and echoing over the winter.
So when the letting agency sent PJ over to view the room,
I was a little surprised. I opened the door to find him standing
with a bag slung over his shoulder. He couldn't have been
more my physical type if I'd ordered him from a catalog:
close to six feet, lean build, dark hair that fell away from his
face in two floppy wings, neatly trimmed bead, soft brown
eyes. I felt my mouth go dry and wiped a suddenly clammy
hand on my jeans before reaching out to shake his.
"PJ Steadman? Come through, please," I said. He followed
me in and I gave him a tour of the house, showing him the
kitchen, the living room, the wet room I'd had installed a few
months previously, and the room on the first floor which
would be his. We even popped our heads briefly round the
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40
door of my studio, but I had a number of half-finished
sketches on the drawing board and I've always been shy
about showing my work until it's completed.
"That's why I recognize your name," he said as I shut the
door behind us. "Neil Harrison. You do those books about the
naughty monkeys, don't you? My niece loves those."
"Thank you," I told him sincerely. Niece, I thought. Not
daughter. That's a good sign. Then I hurried out to show him
the garden.
"This is just what I was looking for," he told me, as we
stood in the warmth of the afternoon sun. "Quiet, close to the
beach—and they said you have a cellar."
"That's right," I said, trying not to look at his hands, which
he used expressively as he talked. He had big, capable-
looking hands, hands I could imagine pinning me securely in
place as his cock plundered the depths of my arse.
Where had a thought like that come from, I wondered,
doing my best to concentrate on what PJ was saying.
"If I could have access to the cellar, that would be great.
I've got a couple of new tricks I want to work on, but the
equipment takes up a bit of room." Sensing that I was looking
at him blankly, he said, "They didn't tell you, did they? I'm a
magician."
Now that was certainly something different. It looked like I
could be in for an interesting summer. I didn't realize as I told
PJ the room—and the cellar—was his, quite how interesting
the summer was about to become.
Within a couple of days, PJ had settled into a regular
routine. He was one of those men who seems to need very
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by Sephera Giron
41
little sleep; it would be going on midnight by the time he
returned to the house following the second of his daily
performances, yet he would be up at six the following
morning to go jogging along the beach. I had never been an
early riser, but now I found myself awakened by the sound of
him leaving the house. Unable to nod off again, I would take
a shower. Sometimes I would spend a long time lathering
myself, my hand straying down to my cock and stroking as I
imagined it was PJ who was pleasuring me. Other mornings I
would stand in the window, watching his distant figure as he
ran along the sand. At that time of the morning he was
almost completely alone, apart from an occasional dog-
walker, long limbs covering the distance almost effortlessly.
By the time he was back in the house, sweat making his
tee-shirt cling to his muscled torso, I would be in the middle
of making breakfast for both of us. Over coffee, orange juice,
cereal, and toast, we would sit and talk about what we had
planned for the day. Then he would go down to the cellar and
polish his routine, and I would shut myself in my studio,
producing sexually explicit illustrations which were among the
best work I had ever done, but which I had no intention of
ever showing to anyone.
And I still didn't know whether PJ was even vaguely
interested in me. For all I knew, he could have been steadily
working his way through all the girls in the chorus line. I was
certain he had caught me looking at him a couple of times,
my desire for him barely disguised, but he had never said
anything.
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42
This wasn't like me; I didn't fall in lust the first time I saw
someone. I was cautious, steady. I liked to take my time. And
time was the one thing I didn't have with PJ. In a couple of
weeks' time, his engagement at the pier theatre would be
over, and he would be out of my life, his room available for
rent once more. So, rather than throw myself headlong into a
fling, which was what a small, rebellious part of me really
longed to do, I just kept stewing in my own little obsession
and masturbating to fantasies of what it would be like to be
fucked by PJ. Which is what I would have done until the day
he left.
Until one afternoon when there was a knock at my studio
door.
I went to answer it, annoyed I had actually been
interrupted in the middle of work I had been commissioned to
produce. Despite the heat of the day, PJ was dressed all in
black: a T-shirt that fitted snugly to his impressive pecs, and
a slightly faded pair of jeans. It was an outfit that made him
look domineering and slightly sinister, which I suspected was
all part of his stage persona. It also added more fuel to the
fantasies I had been weaving about him; fantasies in which I
was obliged to do whatever he wanted.
"Sorry to bother you, mate," he said, "but I wondered if
you could pop down and help me with something? I wouldn't
ask, but I really need a live body to help me sort out this
trick."
"Sure," I said, setting my pen to one side. "Anything to
help."
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43
I followed him down to the cellar. The stone-walled room
was cool and dimly lit. If PJ had asked, I would have supplied
him with a higher-wattage lightbulb, but it obviously suited
him the way it was. In the middle of the floor stood an X-
shaped wooden cross, painted black. It looked as though it
would be more at home in the dungeon room of a fetish club,
and I wondered exactly what kind of magic act PJ was
performing.
"Right, Neil," he said. "What I want you to do is stand with
your back to the cross." I positioned myself as he asked, and
he went to fetch a couple of lengths of rope from a box on the
workbench.
"Now what?" I asked.
"I'm going to try out a couple of knots on you." As he
spoke, I felt him looping the ropes around one of my wrists,
then the other, fastening me to the cross. "I need to know
which one is best when I have a volunteer on this thing. You
see, some look very secure, but they're really easy to escape
from. Just give that a little tug for me, will you?"
I did as he asked, and realized that with almost no effort
at all, I had managed to loose myself from my bindings. PJ
pressed my wrists back to the cross and started tying them in
place once more.
"Now," he said, a smile spreading slowly across his face,
"only an extra hitch makes so much difference. Try it again
for me."
Again I tugged at the ropes, quickly realizing that
whatever he'd done this time was holding firm. If anything,
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44
the knots were being pulled tighter by my attempts to get
free.
"Don't try to struggle," he told me. "You're not going
anywhere until I decide. Not that I think you'll want to. Just
relax. Close your eyes..."
His voice was soft, hypnotic, and I did as he asked. When I
opened them again, something was different. I looked down
and realized my clothes had vanished. I had no idea how he'd
managed to strip me so completely while I was tied to the
cross, and I told myself it was some kind of illusion, the
product of a skillful magician. But it certainly felt real enough,
and my body was reacting powerfully to the knowledge that I
was naked and helpless. My cock was beginning to rise, and
PJ couldn't fail to see how excited I was becoming.
"Is this all part of the act?" I asked.
PJ shook his head. "Oh, someone will get tied up, all right.
But the rest..." He came so close to me that I could smell the
musk of his sweat, mixed in with the woody aftershave he
always wore, and he traced a finger over the tip of my rapidly
swelling cock. "Let's just say this is just a special variation I
use on cute men who can't admit how badly they want to be
fucked."
"So how does the trick end?" My voice was in danger of
breaking, I was so turned on at the merest touch of PJ's
fingers.
"It depends. Sometimes in my hand..." He increased his
grip on my cock, wanking it slowly and sensually as his other
hand cupped my balls and rolled them gently. I bit my lip,
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45
sweat breaking out across my naked body. "And sometimes in
my mouth..."
He dropped to his knees, and for the merest moment his
lips engulfed the tip of my cock. I registered the warmth, the
wetness of his mouth, then he pulled away. I almost
whimpered, and thrust my pelvis towards his face, desperate
for more. After a long, frustrating moment, he took me in
again, a little deeper this time. His tongue swirled over my
cockhead, lapping up the salty droplets beginning to drip from
it; then, just as I was fully relaxing into the sensation of being
sucked, he spat me out once more.
"But I can come up with a better ending than that," PJ
murmured, rising to his feet. "How does my cock in your ass
sound?"
All I could do was moan. PJ reached for the knots which
held me so securely in place, untying them without effort, or
so it seemed. He guided me over to the workbench, and I
leaned against it as he peeled out of his clothes. He wore no
underwear, and when he pulled his jeans down, I saw that
he, too, was more than a little turned on by the game we had
been playing. His cock sprung free, thick and enticing. I
wanted to taste it, as he had tasted mine, but he'd already
made his intentions clear.
Why had I waited so long for this? I asked myself as he
reached into his box of tricks and took out a tube of hand
cream. Why had I denied myself this pleasure, simply
because I was afraid of having a short-lived summer fling?
Bending me over the bench, he slathered the cream along his
shaft, then rubbed a generous amount into my asshole, using
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46
a couple of fingers to gradually open me up. I was unable to
resist stroking my cock as he played with me, until PJ, as
dominant as he had been in my fantasies, whispered, "Any
more of that and I'll tie your hands again."
Obediently, I stopped what I was doing. I felt the head of
PJ's cock pushing at my entrance and then he was inside me.
I clung on to the edge of the bench as he began to fuck me,
easing in and out with long, slow strokes. Gradually, he
speeded up the pace until our bodies were slapping together,
the cellar beginning to smell powerfully of sweat and our joint
arousal. As his own pleasure reached his peak, PJ grasped
hold of my dick and began to pump it in his fist. Then his
body was jerking, filling me with his seed as my own come
shot out over his busily wanking fingers.
We slumped together on the workbench, slowly coming
down from our mutual high.
"So how did you like that?" PJ asked, hugging my body to
his.
"It was magic," I sighed. "But I think you might have to
work on those knots again. Just to make sure there really is
no getting out of them."
And that's exactly what he did.
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Maid Service
by Manlius Latham
Maria had steeled herself for the moment when she'd
accidentally walk in on her employer having sex with one of
his young beach studs, but she hadn't expected this.
She nestled herself into a darkened corner of his art
studio, back between one of the huge plaster statues—the
one of a young Greek athlete, stark naked, preparing to hurl
a discus—and a large ceramic vase filled with peacock
feathers, and observed as Stefan went through the motions of
seducing the young man who had been posing nude for one
of his paintings. She'd seen the young man before, down on
the beach with his friends, soaking up the summer sunshine
amidst the volleyball games and swimming in the cold blue
Atlantic. Right now the young man was kneeling, his legs
folded neatly underneath him on a spray of crimson velvet
carpeting. She could see his bare chest exposed, perfectly
tanned and arched out forward, with his hands on the floor
behind him to prop him upright. Stefan stepped around the
canvas and approached the model. He had a clean brush in
his right hand, and with his left hand he was gesturing, as if
his hand was doing the talking for him.
It may as well have been, for she couldn't hear a thing the
two men were talking about.
Seeing the two men together, Maria got a sense of just
how much older Stefan was. He could have been the model's
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48
father, although you wouldn't have known it without such a
sharp contrast. Stefan's features were smooth, elegant,
refined. He had a thin layer of beard stubble across his face
and chin, neatly trimmed to a tapered point just above his
Adam's apple. He wore a beret that tilted to one side,
allowing his long, curly hair to tumble down the sides of his
face, and a long smock that draped around his tall, slender
frame.
The young man was rugged, muscular. She could see the
definition in his chest and the abs on his stomach, neatly
chiseled (just like the statue she was hiding behind), and
smooth all the way down past his belly to where his treasure
trail began above his pubic mound. Seeing him sitting there
like that, so bare and vulnerable, was intoxicating.
Maria thought of her first interview with Stefan, back when
she applied for the maid position at his summer home. Stefan
was an artist and a local celebrity. He owned a condo
somewhere in Manhattan, a piece of property in Aspen (where
he wintered), and this beach cabana up here in Ogunquit
(where he summered). She thought of the way he stared at
her from behind the teakwood desk in his office.
"You do understand who I am, Ms. LaCombe? My lifestyle,
I mean."
Very direct, with no trace of snobbish condescension, no
trace of queer-flamboyance like the other gay men in the
area. Rather, he came across with the air of British nobility.
Concise pronunciation. No lisp. And he really was attractive.
She sat across the desk from him, shocked that in her mind
she was convincing herself that she could turn him straight.
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49
One night with her tight, wet pussy and he'd forget about
sucking cocks forever, and...
"Yes, Mr. Lynch," she said, noticing how her panties were
beginning to go damp.
He smiled, folded his hands behind his head, and leaned
back in his chair. When he did, a lock of his long auburn hair
fluttered in front of his eyes. He ignored it.
"Call me Stefan," he said. "What I need for you to
understand is that there may be times when you accidentally
walk in on me while I'm having sex. I won't pretend to be
discreet. This is my home and I'll do as I please in it. I trust
this won't be a problem for you."
"Not at all," she replied, thinking silently how her boyfriend
Alex had hated the idea of her working for "that rich fucking
homo" out in his beach home. She thought of how their
friends—his friends—would shun both of them if they were to
find out how she was changing come-stained sheets there in
his Palace of Phallus. Petty and homophobic. What would he
have said to learn how she was secretly fantasizing already
about how to seduce him?
"I can't stop you from watching," Stefan continued. "I'm
sure you'll be curious if and when it happens. What I ask is
for you to respect my privacy. I ask you not to run out and
tell the whole world how you watched your employer taking a
cock in his ass."
Again with that cutting frankness. It was no wonder he
was as successful as he was. He owned several art galleries
between Maine and San Francisco. He was a renowned
painter and sculptor in the art world, selling his pieces to
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50
celebrities and collectors worldwide. All of this, with the
additional subsidized income from the teaching gig he held at
the university down in New York City, meant this guy was
rolling in dough. Which, for Maria, made him all the more
desirable.
Stefan's free hand stretched out and stroked the model's
copper-tanned chest. The model quivered to his touch at first,
then Maria noticed how his penis jerked and began to grow
erect. It was like watching a balloon begin to fill with air until
it stood out, erect and throbbing.
Stefan smiled and said something. She couldn't hear what,
but as he did she watched the way his Adam's apple began to
quiver, and was surprised to discover just how strangely
arousing that was. Her pussy was definitely wet now, and she
slipped her hand beneath her apron-clad skirt until her fingers
dipped beneath her panties. She sighed, rolling her clit
around with her fingers and hoping the two men hadn't heard
her.
They hadn't.
Stefan had taken his unused paint brush and began
running the bristles up and down the model's chest, causing a
wave of goose pimples to rise over the model's bare skin.
Stefan glided the brush downward slowly, allowing the
bristles to tickle over his nipples. The model smiled, but was
trying very hard to maintain his pose. Stefan moved his hand
down again so the bristles brushed down the model's torso
and treasure trail. The motion was smooth and graceful, and
didn't reach its conclusion until the bristles traced over the
model's shaft. The man began to giggle, lost his balance, and
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51
tumbled backward to the floor. Stefan laughed as well. He
reached out a hand and helped the model back up to his
knees, and then they were kissing. Slow, passionate kisses,
as if they were cautiously exploring each other.
Maria thrust her fingers deep inside her sopping-wet pussy
and began to tremble. She placed her free hand over her
mouth to keep from groaning out loud.
She'd seen a gay porn video once at her friend Tricia's
place. The guys in it weren't taking their time like this. They
were hot and heavy all over each other, two writhing animals
of testosterone and lust. Tricia was definitely a fag hag, and
had all kinds of gay porn in her possession. It was her fetish
of choice. When she watched the video, Maria had been a
little turned off by it. She had watched it more out of curiosity
rather than a need to open her sexual horizons. But now, up
close, she couldn't believe just how horny it was making her.
It made her wish Alex was there, just so she could pounce
on him and grind her wet pussy into his thick, meaty cock.
Alex's cock was incredible. Long and thick, and curved ever so
slightly to the right. It looked funny to see the way his wiener
curled when he stood there naked, but when he fucked her
from behind, it brushed her g-spot so perfectly that she came
every time. His cock always gave her big, convulsive climaxes
that made her scream and gasp for breath. She tried to curve
her fingers deep inside her pussy to find the exact spot, and
was disappointed to discover she couldn't.
Maybe she could sneak out and grab one of Stefan's sex
toys.
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They weren't just sex toys, actually. Early on in his career,
Stefan had discovered the joys of plaster casting. He'd have
his young studs dip their engorged penises into a bucket of
quick-dry plaster and make a mold of their wangs. When the
mold dried and hardened, he would warm some kind of
gelatinous rubber substance until it turned to liquid, and fill in
the mold. When the substance cooled, he had a perfect
replica of their cocks, to be used whenever and however he
pleased. Maria thought of escaping to his bedroom and
grabbing one, use it just long enough to bring herself to
climax, then clean it and put it back. Only she wasn't ready
quite yet. Stefan was moving on to the main course.
The artist allowed his hand to fall between his model's legs
and began pumping furiously. The model sighed and leaned
backward again, and began thrusting his hips back and forth
as if he was fucking Stefan's hand. Stefan shuddered, and
with his free hand began to pull off the smock. Then the
model was lying on his back, and Stefan was ripping off his
clothes. Maria gasped when she saw just how enormous
Stefan's cock was. Alex's penis was big, but Stefan's was
huge. It made her moan again, and she thrust her knuckle
between her teeth and bit down. Her other hand was
masturbating her pussy into a hot, frothy mess that began to
ooze down her thighs. It made her skin feel cold in the hot
summer air.
Stefan leaned down and took the model's cock into his
mouth. Slowly at first, letting his tongue explore the
underside of the model's head and shaft. The model closed
his eyes and moaned out loud, and began thrusting his shaft
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53
back and forth again, fucking Stefan's mouth. Maria watched,
captivated, the way Stefan's Adam's apple bobbed up and
down with each thrust of the model's cock. It reminded her of
a small boat bobbing on the gentle waves of a calm sea. It
made her wish she had an Adam's apple, just so she could
share that same experience.
The model used his legs to arch his back, and Stefan let
his mouth shift down to his testicles, taking both of them into
his mouth and using his tongue to roll them around. Stefan
was using one of his hands to jerk the model's shaft back and
forth, and his other hand to masturbate his own cock. Maria
let her fingers glide in and out of her wet snatch, allowing her
fingers to work their magic. She could feel that the cheeks of
her ass were now wet with her pussy juice as well. She
allowed her index finger to brush against her tight little
asshole, and was surprised at just how easily her finger slid
in, and how good it felt. She imagined Stefan penetrating her
ass the way he would to this model in just a few moments.
The model reached up, pushed Stefan's hand off his cock,
and took over pumping Stefan's penis. This had been nothing
at all like the gay porno video Tricia had shown her. This was
a seduction. No two ways about it. Stefan had lured this guy
in off the beach with the guise of painting a portrait, but she
was certain that was only a subsequent intention. Hell, she
could have modeled for him, but he would never have asked
for that. To him, she was a hired employee, nothing more.
During the interview, after Stefan had informed her that
the job was hers, he asked if she had any questions. She had
one.
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"Why hire a female employeeI, if you're this big into your
sex life? Why not just hire a gay man, one who can satisfy
you whenever you please?"
"A gigolo, you mean."
"A sure thing," she retorted. "You'd be paying him to
clean, but then you could have intimacy whenever you felt
like it."
Stefan smiled. "I hate drama," he said. "You hire someone
for that capacity, and he's sure to develop emotional
attachments ... get jealous. I'm not looking for a boyfriend.
I've had plenty of those in my life. I'm more interested in
experiences. New ones with new people. By hiring a woman, I
don't have to worry about such tedious inconveniences.
You've already mentioned you have a boyfriend, and by the
way you've avoided going into detail about him, I surmise
he's not happy about you working here. But you have nothing
in terms of parts that interest me. Don't get me wrong, you
are a beautiful young lady, but not my type at all."
Don't be too sure about that, she;d thought. I'd suck your
cock so good you'd never go back to your gay days.
The model was now rolling over onto his hands and knees.
Stefan stood and ran over to a cabinet, pulled the drawer out,
and produced a tube of body lubricant. He unscrewed the cap,
slathered some on his cock, then onto the model's waiting
ass, and guided the head of his cock into the model's ass
cheeks. There was a moment when the man groaned out in
pain, contorting his face into a tight grimace; then Stefan was
pulling out again. He waited a few seconds, allowing the
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55
model to guide his ass back into his cock, and then he was
butt-fucking him.
Stefan wrapped his hands around the model's hips and
thrust in and out slowly, in long strokes that made Maria
think of the paintbrush, and then Stefan's right hand was
reaching around the model's body to stroke his cock.
Maria hadn't realized it, but at some point her free hand
had also found its way into her panties. One hand was in front
of her now, working at her wet, aching pussy. The other was
fingering her ass from behind. She was diddling herself into a
frenzy, preparing for the most explosive climax she'd ever
had, when she made a noise.
A wet plop, spattering on the marble tile floor beneath her.
Her pussy had secreted so much juice that it leaked through
the bottom of her panties and fallen gloriously onto the floor.
There was a moment when the two men stopped fucking
and looked up. Stefan's face peered around the room, and
Maria had to push back behind the peacock feathers to avoid
his glare.
He knew she was in the room.
Stefan smiled, pushed his cock deep into the model's ass,
and let out a moan. His Adam's apple vibrated like the string
on a violin. The model groaned and bucked against Stefan's
pelvis, his face a contorted beam of pain and pleasure.
Maria rushed out of the studio and into Stefan's bedroom.
She opened the closet door and stared at multiple shelves of
gelled rubber sex toys.
The ones that Stefan had created out of plaster casts, the
way some uncelebrated god of hedonism might have done.
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56
She took a moment and stared at each of the rubber
cocks.
So many of them. Some erect and rigid. Some semi-hard
and keenly shaped and detailed. Some not hard at all, limp
and beautiful and unassuming.
Maria let her eyes move over the rows of shelves,
examining each and every one of them, one of her hands still
stuffed deep down in her panties. She picked one up and
examined it, and noticed there was a name carved into the
rubber on the bottom of the phallus. Robert. She set the dildo
down and picked up a second. Stuart. She picked up a third.
William. If these hadn't been personalized enough before just
by the shape of its original owner, the name completed the
trophy. So many cocks, more than she could count at a
glance, more than she would probably ever fuck in her
lifetime. She glanced until she found the one that looked just
right. It looked so perfect and so familiar at the same time.
It curved just a bit to the right.
She picked it up and looked at the bottom, and started to
cry.
The name on it was Alex.
Maria began to sob as she lowered her panties and stuffed
the toy inside her, all the while listening to the sounds of
Stefan and his new experience, fucking in the next room.
Soon, Stefan would be introducing his new stud to the joys of
plaster casting. Soon he would be creating another rubber
cock for his collection, another trophy of his boys of summer.
She climaxed easily, secretly wishing she were man
enough to fuck him.
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Straight
by Maximilan Lagos
The door jangled as I pushed through, getting me out of
the oppressive heat of the street as quickly as I could before
someone saw me go into air-conditioned comfort of my
favorite adult movie store. After all, everyone knew why
people went into these places, and that was exactly why I
was there. I had been sporting a painful hard-on all day and I
was going to have to get off soon or go out of my mind.
But with only fifteen dollars until the next day, going to my
usual rub-and-tug was out of the question. Hell, the forty I
would have to pay just to get naked wouldn't even have
bought me a happy ending. I would have to tip at least
twenty for that and that twenty might as well have been a
million for all my chance of getting it.
This porno theatre would fit the bill nicely, though. Ten
bucks would get me a nice dark and more importantly, cool
room all to myself, with a video of my choosing. I had been a
semi-frequent customer for some time to watch some movies
and blow my load into a paper towel. They had some dark
and dingy private viewing rooms with comfy if not especially
clean or well-cared-for armchairs for me to add my ass sweat
to the hundreds of others before me. I kind of liked the idea
though and it kept me coming back.
I wandered through the racks of cocks and cunts
graphically displayed on the video boxes before I made my
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59
selection, a pregnant lesbian flick with really low production
values and even lower artistic merit. I grabbed the empty box
and brought it up to the counter. I had been here a million
times but the guy who took the box never once showed any
signs of recognizing me.
"Got a two-for-one deal today. Ten gets you into both
theatres. You can go back and forth as much as you want,"
he said into an open drawer of videos as he tried to find my
tape. I had never gone into the theatres before. There were
two, a straight and a gay. They occupied the back half of the
second floor and were located directly across from each other.
I knew where they were and had seen people going in and
out because the closet without a door that passed for a
bathroom here was down that end and I always washed my
cock after jerking off, especially in this place.
I had thought about it in the past but never gone in.
Jerking alone was one thing, but doing it in front of other men
was something totally different. I was only partially surprised
to find my already throbbing cock was trying to get even
harder in my jeans at the thought. Going with the same inner
voice which always seems to get me in trouble, I said, "Okay,
I'll take a ticket for the theatres. Are there many people in
them?"
"Dunno. People come and go pretty regularly. There will
probably be a few. Ten, please."
I passed the bill I had fished out earlier and took the little
piece of cash register tape which served as my theatre ticket.
The stairs were right beside the counter so before I knew it,
my aching cock had lead me up to the second floor and to the
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60
closed doors of the two theatres, gay on the left, straight on
the right. The choice stopped me in my tracks.
I identify myself as bisexual to anyone who will listen, but
the straight side of bi, always wanting a nice wet pussy on my
face, if given the choice, than a nice hard dick in my mouth.
But I did get cravings for cock. Oh yes, there were cravings. I
loved having a dick in my ass and roughly being pumped into.
I always came really fast when having someone or something
inside me, which almost made it not worthwhile to put out all
the effort. I loved fucking ass too, but not as much as being
fucked myself.
Which do I want? I thought to myself. Being my first time
and really looking forward to seeing some tits, I decided on
the straight theatre. At least there, I thought, I can sit and
jerk off with all the other pervs in peace.
Opening the door caused a flurry of activity by the men
already in the room, adding noise to the soundtrack of a
moaning porn starlet and the low whine of the overworked air
conditioner in the back corner.
It only took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim
light of the big-screen TV at the front of the room. The TV
was the only source of light in the theatre, apart from a little
nightlight at the very back of the room. In the shadows, the
theatre looked about the size of two average-sized living
rooms, elegantly appointed with about fifty green plastic lawn
chairs and not much else. I also noticed the five other men in
the room, sitting perfectly still, waiting for me to make the
first move, to either join in or arrest them all for lewd
conduct. I chose to sit beside two guys already sitting, but a
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61
couple of seats away, not wanting to seem like a total lech,
which I totally was.
Once I had settled myself, I started watching the video
and slowly and quietly unzipped my fly and pulled out my
hard cock. My actions did not go unnoticed because the
others in the room relaxed and went back to what they were
doing before I so rudely opened the door. The guy sitting
closest to me lifted his shirt to reveal his very long and very
solid dick, still glistening with spit from the guy sitting next to
him. Taking the hint, his buddy with the short blond crew cut
leaned over and took the swollen member between his lips
and from what I could tell, halfway down his throat as well.
I stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the scene being
played out on the plastic chairs beside me. I didn't expect
when I opened the door that I would be watching a live sex
show, especially this close. The guy getting his cock sucked
played with his lover's hair absentmindedly as shocks of
pleasure took his body. He opened his eyes after one
particularly powerful suck and looked over at me stroking my
rod and stared into my eyes for a brief second before he
closed his again and went back into his little fantasy world
while the blond stud continued to take long strokes off the
cock in his mouth.
A faint touch brushed my shoulder, trying to gently push
me back into my seat. I looked behind me and saw a tall
older man sitting on the edge of his seat, peering into our
row, shifting his focus between the cock in my hand and the
cock in blondie's mouth. He had his dick in his hand and was
stroking in time to the action we were both watching.
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I love putting on a show and I was getting harder and
closer to shooting my load over anything and everything in
front of me, but the watcher had a head start and fired his
come all over the back of my chair and the already-sticky
floor. Seeing him unload almost pushed me over the edge,
but I was distracted by the guy getting head thrashing and
bucking as he filled up blondie's mouth with his hot juice.
Blondie was doing his best to swallow the entire load but
streams of milky come were trickling out of his mouth and
dripping off his chin.
My hand was furiously pounding my own cock as I watched
blondie lick the cock clean. I felt my own orgasm building
deep in my balls and knew I would never be able to stop it.
As I started to twitch and shoot, the watcher behind me
reached down and started to catch my come in his hand.
Seeing this guy's hand filling up with my juice made my
orgasm even more intense than I thought was possible and
by the time I had stopped, I was aching and he had quite a
handful of semen.
I watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked
some of my come off his fingers, keeping most of the load in
his palm. "Mmm, sweet," he whispered, then lowered his
hand to his own crotch and rubbed my warm jizz onto his
cock and balls.
The guy sitting beside me looked up at watcher through
orgasm-fogged eyes, motioning him closer with a nod of his
head. The watcher leaned forward and hung his sticky cock
over the back of the chair and his balls against a waiting
tongue. Blondie finished cleaning his lover's now-softening
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63
dick and looked up to watch him lick my come off the
watcher's sack. The watcher's long but soft cock was rubbing
its own juice over this guy's forehead and into his hair but he
just kept licking and sucking the watcher's balls into his
mouth.
Normally, it takes me a while to get horny again, but my
cock was hard almost immediately. I don't think it ever really
got soft again after I came, not with all this hot sucking going
on. Blondie noticed and pointed down at my dripping rod,
licking his lips. I shook my head and he looked surprised. I
smiled and nodded at the rock in his lap which hadn't been
satisfied yet, as far as I could tell. He looked down and when
he figured out what I wanted to do, he gave me a smile and
got out of his chair.
He stood in front of me and wiped his cock against my
cheek and across my lips, but instead of allowing me to take
it into my waiting mouth, kept walking past my chair and took
me by the hand.
I stood and followed him, not knowing what was going to
happen but not really caring. I found myself kneeling on the
floor in front of him by the little nightlight, his back to the
wall and his pants around his ankles.
His cock was magnificent. Dark with no tan lines, uncut,
and rock hard. He even smelled good, which is always
appreciated. I took one last fond look before opening my
eager lips and sucking his head into my mouth. I was
rewarded by my lover gasping for air and his cock throbbing
against my tongue. I smiled around his shaft. I love making
men jump and moan.
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I flattened my tongue against the underside of his shaft,
tickling the base with the tip. Suddenly, I sucked hard and
pulled my head back until just the tip was between my lips,
then just as suddenly pushed forward again, taking his full
member into my mouth as I felt it nudge the back of my
throat.
He let out an inadvertent yelp which I assumed meant he
liked it. I knew for sure when Blondie grabbed my head,
burying his fingers deep into my hair and started forcefully
fucking my face. Far from being surprised, I was hoping he
would take me nice and rough: I was just surprised he took
so long to start.
My mouth formed a tight vacuum around his shaft and my
tongue flicked the underside of his cock head on every stroke.
He started pumping my mouth faster and faster and I knew
he was getting close. I grabbed his tight ass and pulled him
hard towards me, taking all of his meat into my throat. I held
him there tightly as he shot stream after stream of his hot
semen into my belly.
When the throbbing stopped, I relaxed my grip and gave
his beautiful butt one last appreciative squeeze as his
softening cock slithered from my mouth.
By the time I was off my knees, I was alone in the room.
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65
Keeping a Good Finger Man Employed
by Jarrah Dale
Chaun was awakened from his nap on the beach by a slap
on the ass from Dylan.
"Hey!" he complained, half rolling over.
Wearing a wicked grin, Dylan slapped him again.
"Dylan! You just got sand in my crack!" He sat the rest of
the way up and gave Dylan a shove in the chest. "Thanks a
lot!"
Dylan laughed and stood up on the beach blanket, then
reached down and grabbed Chaun by the wrists and hauled
him up to standing. The other man squirmed in his grasp.
"Let's go wash off, then." With a shove, he propelled
Chaun towards the water.
"You wash off!" He shoved back.
They laughed and pushed each other as they stumbled and
ran all the way to the water's edge. The water glowed a warm
bluish-green today in this tropical paradise, and the sun
shone down in a sensuous barrage of warmth enveloping their
naked bodies.
After they'd run a few feet in, they both fought for control
in an attempt to be the first to dunk the other one, but in the
end no one won. Both splashed into the water together,
rolling and twisting as they went down. Chaun landed on top
of Dylan, the full length of his body pressed against his, and
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their legs entwined. He covered Dylan's lips with his as they
sank. When they bobbed back up, both sets of lips were salty.
"Yuck," Chaun spit into the calm sea.
In response, Dylan slapped some water at his head. After
a few more splashes between them, Dylan settled onto his
back and floated.
Chaun tread water lazily nearby, watching him float away
from him, both physically and mentally. He wished it could be
another way.
This trip to a private gay clothing-optional beach in Hawaii
was the first vacation Chaun had ever been on, period. And
he'd come only at Dylan's insistence. Dylan on the other
hand, was always going on vacation, and he never went
alone. Chaun squinted his eyes against the reflection of the
sunlight on the water and stifled the urge to paddle over to
Dylan and touch him. More than anything he wanted to keep
Dylan to himself, but he feared he was just another
distraction. Just another vacation boy. And that vacation
would be over tomorrow.
As the afternoon wore on, the two ventured inland once
more. This time they were careful to make sure the sand only
filled the spaces between their toes. About a foot from the
blanket, Dylan pushed Chaun in the back and he stumbled,
landing face down on the blanket—hard.
"Ow!" Chaun cupped his balls and rolled onto his side in a
fetal position with his face turning red and contorted in
agony. "Shit, Dylan!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to nail ya." He rubbed Chaun's
arm and back, trying to soothe him.
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Chaun rocked back and forth on the blanket groaning for
several minutes. When he could finally breathe right again, he
settled down and stretched his legs out on the blanket. "Ah,
God. That fucking hurt."
Dylan snuggled closer and planted tender kisses in the
hairs along side Chaun's shriveled cock.
Chaun's head jerked up at the contact, his body stiff as a
rail. "Hey, watch it, I'm still in pain."
"I know." His kisses strayed down the side of Chaun's hairy
mound and onto his upper thigh crease. "I'm gonna make you
feel better." He kept kissing until Chaun laid his head back
onto the blanket. Then he planted the softest of kisses on
Chaun's still ruby-colored injured balls. The sack hardened
and pulled tighter, causing Chaun to cry out in surprise, but
he didn't stop Dylan's movements.
Soft kiss after soft kiss, Chaun edged closer to relaxation.
His legs loosened up, rolling outward as Dylan's kisses, and
then his tongue, slid along his balls. He groaned when that
tongue dipped lower, wetting the space between his legs.
Dylan's hands pushed his legs open some more. "Feeling
better? Hmmm?"
"Yes." He reached his fingers down into Dylan's curly dark
brown hair. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His tongue circled once again around
Chaun's balls.
Chaun shivered at Dylan's expert touch. The man knew
how to excite him, how to harden him. His cock was already
rising to the occasion. Still, he couldn't shake the notion that
Dylan only wanted him for today, for this vacation, and by
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this time next week, he'd be on a beach God knows where
doing this to someone else. He wanted desperately to matter
to Dylan, but couldn't figure out how, and time was running
out.
"Lift your knees for me." Dylan's hands caressed along the
back sides of Chaun's thighs as he lifted them back.
Chaun grasped under his knees and held, exposing his
most private parts to Dylan's perusal and fondling. When the
other man's lips brushed against his balls again, the sensation
was heightened by the fact his body was unprotected, totally
in the other man's control. Then Dylan slid his tongue lower,
pressing and licking his now rigid tongue underneath his balls.
To Chaun, it felt as if someone strummed him like a guitar
as his sack tightened even further. He moaned as some liquid
dripped out of his cock in reply. He wanted what was coming
next, and pulled his legs against him a little tighter as an
invitation.
Dylan wasted no time in satisfying Chaun's request. His
tongue slipped down to Chaun's hole and bathed it, running
circles around it before he drove his mouth onto it and
nibbled.
"Mmmm, salty," he quipped.
Chaun's laugh was lost to a gasp as his ass opened for
Dylan's tongue. It slid inside him with practiced ease, making
Chaun hot and wet and horny all over. He held his knees
higher, urging Dylan to pleasure him more, and nearly came
as he looked down to watch the other man's mouth work him
over.
"Dylan, Dylan," he panted. "Please. Fuck me. Fuck me."
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The tongue lashing went on for another minute or two, and
in the meantime Chaun's ass got wetter and wetter. The rim
pulsated with need, opening and closing around Dylan's
tongue as it mercilessly stroked in and out of him. Then it
ended. He heard the cap pop on the lube tube seconds before
Dylan rammed a finger in him. Then he heard the hiss of a
beer bottle cap and looked down.
Dylan sat between his legs, sucking on a beer with one
hand and fingering him with the other. He belched.
What a romantic, Chaun thought, and let go of his legs.
They remained parted, but drifted back towards the blanket.
Chaun opened his eyes and, looking up at the cloudless sky,
wondered again what it would take to get Dylan interested in
him on a permanent basis. The thought of him rimming
another man was driving him to jealous distraction.
Then Dylan laid his body alongside his, leaving the finger
inside him. He nuzzled at Chaun's neck, pushing his body
closer. "Chaun," he whispered. "Are you ready for me now?"
Chaun's answer startled even himself. "Dylan, I want to
know something. Are you going on vacation with me again?
Or is this it?"
The features on Dylan's face pulled taut. "Why do you
want to know that now?"
"Because I want to know." Chaun turned a hopeful face
towards his lover of only a couple of weeks and prayed for the
best. Inside, he cringed in preparation for the answer. He had
a feeling he wouldn't like the answer at all.
"Why, because you're the kind of guy who only dates one
man at a time?"
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"And you're the kind of guy that dates five or six at a
time? Yeah, actually." His heart heated a couple of degrees
warmer than the tropical air already surrounding it. He
clenched the hot blanket in his fists. He didn't want to push
Dylan away, but he wasn't going to volunteer to be tossed
away by him next week either.
Dylan's finger retreated and he wiped it off on a towel after
he sat up. He scowled. "Why does it matter so much to you
all of a sudden?"
It had always mattered to Chaun; he just hadn't said
anything before. Chaun had been aware of Dylan long before
he got the chance to lie in his arms. He'd waited patiently
while Dylan had worked his way through ten—no, maybe
fifteen or twenty—guys to get his attention. Now that he had
it, he didn't want to let it go.
"It's always mattered to me."
"Shit." Dylan picked up the beer again and drank it in
silence. Then he opened another and lay on his side facing
Chaun, his head propped up in his hand. e HHe drank his beer
and watched Chaun's face, his fingers pushing stray locks of
hair off his forehead.
Chaun gazed back into Dylan's brown eyes and fought to
counter the melting sensation the sight always produced in
his heart. Neither man said anything for a few minutes. But
then the urge to touch him got the better of Chaun. He
shifted onto his side and kissed Dylan's neck and chest,
wrapping his arm around his shoulders to draw him closer. As
their bodies came into contact, he suddenly had an idea. A
crazy idea, but an idea.
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"Dylan?"
"Yeah."
"Why don't you let me fuck you?" His hand strayed from
Dylan's back down to his cock and gave it a squeeze. Then he
caressed Dylan's hip before his hand cupped his ass.
Dylan laughed. "Uh, I don't think so. I don't switch hit."
"Why not?" Chaun murmured against his chest.
"Because I haven't found anybody who's not too rough on
me, I guess."
Chaun lifted his head. "I'd be gentle, Dylan. Like you are
with me. I promise. Just try it."
He laughed again. "Don't flatter me. I'm not that gentle.
Anyway, it's not gonna happen, so forget it."
Chaun felt a sting like a rubber band snapping in his chest
at Dylan's dismissal. He stood, forcing himself to act
nonchalant. "It's hot. I'm gonna go take a shower at the
hotel."
Dylan sat on the blanket and watched him go, shaking his
head both at Chaun and at his own reaction. Truth be told,
Dylan wanted to get fucked in the ass. He just couldn't decide
whether he wanted it rough or soft. After his first few
explorations in that territory, he'd been so sore afterwards
that he'd shunned the practice ever since. He didn't want it
bad enough to let some jerk rip him up. He took more care
than that with his lovers as a result, but never let anyone
fuck him back. Never. No matter how bad he might want it.
He sighed and stood up, brushing away the sand that
seemed to always collect on a body at the beach no matter
how careful one was. Then he folded the blanket and shoved
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it in the basket with the lube, beer, and clothes. He started
back along the narrow trail to the hotel, his feet dragging a
bit.
The conversation with Chaun had brought him down. Too
bad. Such a nice day, too.
He reached the end of the trail where the sand ended and
the hotel's massive deck began and stopped in his tracks.
Across the pool, Chaun stood with his head bowed next to
another man's, the two of them talking intimately. When his
heart lurched at the sight, he clutched at his chest to allay the
blow.
Dylan stood frozen to the end of the pathway and watched
until his lover and the other man shook hands and parted
before making his own way towards the hotel. By the time he
got to their room, he could hear the shower running. He could
also hear the beat of his own heart thumping strong in his
ear. Frowning, he set the basket down and sat on the edge of
the bed, leaning forward onto his elbows.
A few moments later, Chaun emerged from the shower
wearing a towel. He padded towards the room's mini-bar,
tossing a smile at Dylan as he passed. "You want a beer?" he
asked. "Water?"
Dylan eyed his bent-over frame and longed to slap his ass
again. This time, not in a nice way. "Beer's fine. Thanks." He
took the beer from Chaun and cracked it open. "So, you
sleeping with that guy tonight, or what?"
Chaun spun around. "What guy?"
"The one you were talking to by the pool. I mean, it's all
right if you are. I'm just asking."
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"No, silly." Chaun cupped his cheek and kissed him.
He was dying to ask him what they were talking about but
let it slide as Chaun's lips dragged down onto his neck. Then
lower and lower, until he took the head of his cock in his
mouth and swirled his tongue around it. He leaned back on
the bed, giving Chaun access to do as he wanted.
Chaun knelt on the floor and cupped Dylan's ass with his
hands, letting his mouth suckle the flaccid sex back to life.
That was one thing Chaun was skilled at: giving head. He
knew how to do it, how to tease, and how to give the best
release. And besides, he liked it. He moaned with pleasure as
Dylan's cock hardened inside his mouth.
Dylan moaned back, turned on by Chaun's obvious
appreciation for the male organ. He expected a long, drawn-
out tease, but as night fell outside, Chaun's mouth worked
him over quickly, and he came, pumping deep inside his
lover's throat in no time at all. What Chaun gave him was so
good, it always made him feel a little guilty afterwards. He
reached down and stroked Chaun's cheek.
"Chaun. Thank you. Now ... let me do something for you."
"No." Chaun stood up shaking his head. "What you can do
for me is come down to the pool and watch me win the limbo
contest." He smiled a rakish grin, and disappeared down the
hall. When he came back, he held black silk shorts up to
Dylan. "You can wear these, and no underwear."
Dylan's puzzled over the request. "Why those ugly things?
And no underwear in public?"
"Dylaaaaan," Chaun whined, "we are at a clothing-optional
resort. Who the hell wears underwear in public at a clothing-
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optional resort?" He knelt before Dylan again, pressing the
silk against his thigh. "Besides, I want to think of your cock
loose inside these shorts as I limbo. It will turn me on and I'll
do better." He licked his lips.
Dylan licked his own lips and thought of Chaun's balls
hanging out as he bent under the limbo bar. Besides, his cock
was still warm from Chaun's mouth. He owed him something.
"All right," he acquiesced.
"Good. Now let's get going. I don't want to be late."
"Okay, but I'm not going to limbo. I do not limbo."
Chaun smiled. "I know."
* * * *
The two of them arrived at the Tiki torch-lit limbo party
and split up. Chaun steered Dylan towards a small alcove
area at the side of the pool with instructions to "watch
closely" and "root for me."
Dylan took up his spot and waited. Sure enough, the limbo
bar came out and drunken fools started shuffling under it.
Some were naked, which made Dylan wonder what happened
if they didn't happen to quite clear the bar ... ouch.
He jumped at a noise behind him, but before he could turn
around, a hand clasped at the base of his neck. A heavy
hand. A strong one, too. It squeezed.
A man's voice, gruff, demanded, "Don't turn around."
The man squeezed his neck harder, and the ache got
Dylan's attention. "Who are you?"
"Never mind. Just keep watching your little friend over
there."
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Chaun? How did he know about Chaun? Dylan was about
to ask but found himself silenced by the feeling of the man's
stiff fingers rubbing against his ass. He tried to jerk away but
couldn't.
"Stay still," the voice hissed.
Dylan looked towards the limbo session, trying to find
Chaun. He saw Chaun, standing in line behind the bar, but he
wasn't looking his way. Damn.
The mystery man's thick finger slid into Dylan's butt crack
and probed it roughly, seeking his tender entrance.
Dylan's body jerked, but the man's grip on his neck held
him still. The soft silk fabric slid luxuriously against his
entrance as the man's finger assaulted it. Dylan gulped hot
tropical air as he was tormented by both panic and arousal.
Would this man just take him? Who the hell was this guy?
He struggled to get free but the brute was too strong for
him. Plus, he had the advantage of weight. Whoever the man
behind him was, he was big.
"Put your hands on the tree."
Dylan did as he was told.
"Spread your legs more."
He bit the inside of his check and spread them. The air
that settled around him seemed to be thick with his own
sweat. Visions of a big cock tearing him open heightened his
anxiety. "Please. Don't do this," he begged.
In reply, a warm liquid dribbled onto his hole just before
the man's finger rubbed harder against his entrance, digging
into it with abandon. Then it finally forced its way in.
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His asshole shuddered at the violation of the man's finger
as it probed deeper into his hole. Then he moaned as the
strong finger dipped in and out of him, giving him just the
forceful fucking he'd been too afraid to ask Chaun for. He
loved the way the man's hand rubbed against the fabric
covering his ass too, caressing it with every stroke. At last
Dylan gave in, arching his back and riding the finger, urging
the man to give him more.
"Please. Fuck me. Whoever you are, fuck me."
He gripped the tree and prayed for the best, all the while
fearing that the man behind him would rip him a new one.
"Move. Over here."
The man grabbed his waist and walked him over to a low
metal bar. "Hold onto this."
Dylan leaned over and grabbed the bar. Like everything
else in this jungle, it exuded heat into his palms. Dylan's
heart flip-flopped at the sound of footsteps coming their way.
Would he be assaulted by another man too? He let go of the
bar and tried to sneak under it.
The other man's hands snagged him by the head and
dragged him back. "I said, hang onto the bar!" he snarled.
For emphasis, he covered Dylan's hands with his and clamped
them down on the bar securely. "Do not let go. Do not turn
around."
Dylan struggled for air as the reality of his failed escape
attempt sunk in. He knew now he was going to get fucked,
and nothing would stop it. The fear ate at him. But he grit his
teeth and spread his legs.
"Good boy."
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This time the shorts were yanked down and that same
warm lube drizzled liberally onto his ass. Then the finger
entered him again, working in the lube.
Dylan squeezed his eyes shut, his hands squeezing the bar
in front of him in a iron grip. A breeze cooled the sweat on his
back. Here it comes, he thought.
All the sudden another set of hands landed on Dylan's
back, stroking it. Caressing it. These were different hands.
Not the monster's heavy hands. Wait. He knew those hands.
It was Chaun.
Dylan nearly shed tears of relief. He'd never been so happy
to feel a lover's touch, and that was saying a lot.
"Chaun? Is that you?"
"Shhh ... stay still. Let me..."
The voice trailed off as the tip of Chaun's cock pressed
against his opening, begging for entry.
His fears allayed by the knowledge that it was Chaun's
cock, the thought of it inside him send quivers of happiness
from his heart to his gut. He already knew the size and length
of Chaun's cock well, and because of that, was able to let his
unfounded fears drop away. In fact, he spread his legs a little
further apart and leaned over. "Yes, Chaun. Do it. Do it.
Please."
With a cry, Chaun impaled him, then stopped.
Dylan drew air in ragged gulps as he waited for his body to
accommodate the sudden pressure.
"It's okay, Dylan. Shhh..."
Chaun's fingers caressed his back, his ass, and his thighs
before coming around front and fondling his cock. The extra
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stimulation made it easier for Dylan's ass to relax. His
breathing slowed down to long groans.
Then Chaun's body bent over his, allowing him to lick and
kiss Dylan's back as he mumbled sweet words to him. Words
that told him how much he wanted to be with him, not just
today, but for years to come. If Dylan's heart could have
sweated out both delight and gratitude, it would have. As it
was, words failed him as he sighed in time with Chaun's hand
strokes.
As Chaun jerked him off, he began to rock back and forth
inside him, his movements short and constrained. Still, Dylan
could hear him pant out his pleasure against his back.
"Uhn. Dylan. Dylan. Uhn."
Each stroke wrenched a new cry from Chaun's lips, tuning
Dylan on even more. His cock strained to hold back the
torrent this orgasm promised to be as Chaun's hand expertly
kneaded it to the point of bliss. Now he knew why Chaun had
blown him off earlier. He'd have already come by now. The
sensation of Chaun's cock inside his ass was too much for him
to ignore.
"Please. Please, Chaun. Fuck me harder. Fuck me harder."
Chaun cried out and peeled his body off Dylan's back. He
gripped Dylan's hip with one hand and thrust harder, faster,
as though possessed by the need to come inside Dylan at any
cost. At the same time, he continued to scoop his hand up
and down Dylan's shaft, matching the pace of attack in the
back.
Dylan came first, his rapture too much to hold back any
longer. His ass melted in a wet hot bliss as it quivered around
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Chaun's shaft, the rim closing fast around the base of it. At
the same time, burst after burst of hot liquid sprayed out the
end of his cock and onto Chaun's fingers as his body rippled
with pleasure. He'd never felt such bliss before. Never been
so satisfied before, by any of his lovers, as he was right now
by Chaun.
Chaun's release started as Dylan's subsided, his roar
echoing into the jungle as eerie as a wild animal's ferocious
call. He released Dylan's cock and wrapped a clawlike grasp
onto his hips as he bore into his ass with insistent fury. Again
and again, Dylan's name tore from his lips, until at last he
bent forward again and laid his heaving chest on his lover's
back. He stayed there for some time as he caught his breath.
To Dylan, nothing was so beautiful as Chaun's hot breath
scorching his already sweaty back while his cock still nestled
inside him. When Chaun wrapped his arms around Dylan's
chest and kissed the back of his neck, the gentleness of his
kisses flooded his heart with devotion.
"Dylan, I love you," Chaun told him. "I'll never hurt you.
Just please, let me stay with you."
Was he fucking kidding? Dylan was more than ready to
buy a one-way ticket to Chaun-ville for the foreseeable
future. And when Chaun hugged his back to his chest and
pulled him up, the skin-on-skin full-body contact hardened
Dylan again.
Chaun reached around and caressed Dylan's nipple with
one hand, letting his fingertips brush their buds until they
peaked. With his other hand, he cupped Dylan's balls. At the
same time, he bit and licked Dylan's neck, murmuring his
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affections to him non-stop making Dylan's head spin as he
reached back and tugged Chaun's ass closer.
"Take me back to the hotel," he whispered.
At his request, Chaun pulled out and slid the condom off
into the sand. Then he stepped to Dylan's side, wrapping one
arm around his waist and cradling Dylan's head on his
shoulder with the other. Now his lips brushed against Dylan's
cheek as he walked him back towards the hotel, cutting
through the jungle until they had to step out of the shadows
and enter the hotel's sliding glass doors.
Once up in their room, the fondling resumed, withy Dylan
petting Chaun just as heavy in return as he got it. They made
love again in the moonlight, this time Dylan entering Chaun
with renewed reverence for the act of making love. Then they
kissed until they fell asleep in each other's arms.
* * * *
The next morning, Chaun brought steaming cups of coffee
back to bed and crawled back under the sheet. He watched
Dylan with sleepy but contented eyes. Still, he had to hear
from Dylan's mouth the words that confirmed what he'd
suspected last night.
"Dylan?"
"Hmmm?"
Dylan's smile was so damn sexy this morning, he reached
down and kissed him before continuing.
"Are you going on vacation anywhere next weekend?"
"No. In fact, I have to stay in town."
"Why?" Chaun prodded.
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"I have a date already."
Chaun rolled his eyes back in his head and groaned. "A
date? You've got to be kidding me. With who?"
Dylan reached over and curled his fingers around Chaun's
chin. "With the most beautiful man I've ever met."
Chaun's smile was lost to Dylan's kiss almost as soon as it
formed, but he didn't mind. He sighed into his mouth as he
savored his lover's kiss.
"But tell me one thing," Dylan asked, as he pulled away.
"Who the hell was that guy who fingered me in the jungle?
Did you even know him?"
Chaun shrugged. "Just a finger fucker I hired to loosen you
up, that's all." He smirked at Dylan's pout. "It's good to keep
finger fuckers employed." He let his fingers splay over Dylan's
chest. "They need money too, you know."
* * * *
On their way to check out, the couple passed a bulletin
board in the hallway. On it hung two pairs of black silk shorts.
A note was pinned above them:
"Found in jungle: two pairs of black silk shorts. Heavily
used. Please claim at office."
Both men snickered at the sight, then walked on past with
their hands on each other's asses.
"Maybe they'll bring good luck to somebody else," Chaun
observed.
"I sure hope so, because you are coming home with me."
He pressed his lips against Chaun's ear. "Forever," he
whispered.
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Peepshow
by Eric Del Carlo
Nervous wasn't the word. Henry and Lance had finally
caught me. I'd had a sweet thing going for almost two
months of this post-high school summer vacation, my own
private live peepshow.
My parents were renting a house in a sleepy—hell, nearly
comatose—little burg in the California wine country. Acres
and acres of vines growing in regimented rows, wineries
everywhere you turn, and no adult who could talk for long
about anything but the local industry. It was all useless to
me: too young to drink, not mature enough yet to feign
interest in all things oenological. It had started as a sullen,
unwelcome sojourn, my very last days of post-adolescent
irresponsibility. At least, that was how my parents—high-
flown intellectuals both, and not too adept with friendly
sarcasm—had put it to me more than once. They were
researching another joint academic tome, something about
bird migrations or Robert Louis Stevenson or some other
subject I was consciously apathetic toward.
It was a hotter summer than the more northerly latitudes
of home had prepared me for. The local young adult
population apparently saw summertime as their cue to
evacuate the town, leaving me among skateboarding kids I
was too old to hang out with.
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I was slated for college in the autumn, uncertain whether I
or my parents had decided which hallowed hall of learning I
would be committing myself to for the next several years. I
didn't have good cause for the bitterness softly gnawing at
me, and I think I even knew that at the time, but that didn't
keep it off. I was resentful and showed I was with long dull
pauses before responding to parental questions. Yeah, real
rebellious stuff, but I hardly knew what else to do.
One other thing I did do was to slip quietly out my
bedroom window at night, onto the gravel roof of the house's
long garage, and duck-walk out to the far end. Hunkering
here and poking my head over the rain gutter, I was
rewarded with a perfect view down into our nearest
neighbors' bedroom. From this steep angle, a gap opened
above the room's drape that let me see their king-sized bed—
and everything that went on there at least four nights a week.
This routine had started as more useless rebellion, since I
would smoke forbidden cigarettes out on that roof. I was old
enough for that empty gesture, anyway. But the third or
fourth time, I had discovered that intimate view, and the act
of creeping out onto the roof became something else entirely.
There they were. Henry and Lance, both in their thirties.
They had paid a neighborly call at our rented house the week
we arrived. They were mystery novelists writing under a
shared pseudonym. I'd heard they were fairly successful. But
I wasn't thinking of their literary abilities that first night I
spotted them, as my eyes widened and my jaw dropped.
Henry and Lance were naked, unknowingly showing off
bodies hardened by dutiful morning jogs and healthy diets.
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Lance, the taller blond one, was lying back into the pillows of
the bed, legs spread. Henry, more darkly complexioned, a
tattoo marking his thick biceps, was kneeling between Lance's
thighs. He was sucking intently on Lance's big cock, kneading
his balls with one hand.
Henry, sporting a large hard-on of his own, was obviously
relishing the procedure. Lance's head was whipping faster and
faster across the pillows. I watched, stunned and enthralled
at this first sight of live naked males.
I'd had a feverish and closeted adolescence, and had often
tried to imagine the practical physical mechanics of man/man
lovemaking. I would comb through books, reading and
rereading oblique references to gay male sex. I would've
given anything in those years for a queer sex magazine to
stroke off over. In school I'd festered through pointless
crushes on other males, but had never received even the
vaguest coded hint from any that they might be interested.
I'd never had any luck with or interest in females. My parents
said I was just shy and would meet the right one someday. I
didn't have the nerve to tell them the truth about myself, and
didn't really want to. I couldn't see what business it was of
theirs.
Henry turned Lance over onto his stomach. Mesmerized, I
figured now I would get to see some actual anal sex. Upon
first sight of those two beautiful bare male bodies, I'd
immediately grown a wicked hard-on of my own, sitting there
on the garage's gravely roof, with the warm black caress of
the night on me. Now, helplessly, I slipped my mahogany-
hard cock out of my jeans, into my slowly pumping fist.
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Instead of thrusting his cock into Lance, Henry put his wet
mouth to Lance's ass. Incredible! I'd heard the vaguely
defined term "rim job" before and was uncertain about it, but
both men were plainly enjoying the act. I bit through the filter
of my forgotten cigarette as I stifled an excited moan.
After several long minutes of ass-eating, they got down to
business. Henry mounted Lance, sliding his cock into the
moistened hole, and proceeded to fuck him. I watched their
bodies moving in muscled tandem. It was a beautiful
procedure. They were like glistening mechanisms. The
sublime grace of male/male fucking. I was amazed at how
natural it looked, how structurally uncomplicated, as if nature
had designed the cock specifically to fit the male ass. A
thousand fantasies and wonderings were justified by that
gorgeous display for me that night.
I jerked off frantically and came when Henry did. Then I
watched from my spying perch in the sensual afterglow as
Henry finished blowing Lance, taking his load in his mouth
and swallowing.
The following weeks were quite an education for me. I
witnessed every sexual combo possible between two men. On
several occasions—and these were my favorites—a third man
was thrown into the mix, and I would watch the carnal frenzy
with great excitement and envy, imagining myself as the third
lover, taking cock into my mouth and ass at once. Didn't I
wish!
It was, however, one of these friends/lovers that spotted
me in my secret rooftop nest, looking up at just the same
second when I was straining too far out over the edge of the
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garage roof, eyes goggling, my jeans in a denim pool around
my ankles, jerking my cock to the fabulous rhythms of that
three-way. I pulled back and went scrambling back through
my window, heart hammering. I dived into bed, yanked up
the covers, and waited for the police to arrive. They never
did.
Henry and Lance didn't even fink me out to my parents,
for which I was hugely grateful. Instead, they paid me a call
at my house one afternoon while my parents were out on a
research excursion, and told me about their guest catching
me in the act. Sitting around our kitchen table, I was one big
white knuckle of fear. Caught! I was shivering and almost in
tears. I started blubbering apologies, trying to explain that I
hadn't been able to help myself, I wouldn't do it again, I was
so sorry sorry sorry—
"Look," Lance said gently. "You're—what? Nineteen,
eighteen? That's an age to be curious."
"I used to spy on guys screwing in bus station toilets when
I was your age," Henry reassured. "No matter what anyone
might tell you, it's natural. Don't feel bad."
I couldn't believe how nice they were being to some
Peeping Tom neighbor kid and said so, still sniveling.
Lance patted my shoulder with a strong warm hand,
smiling. "Well, we don't like having our privacy violated
without our knowing, but as for being watched..."
"We like being watched," Henry finished. "We even like
participation, which if you've been watching as long as you've
admitted, you must know."
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And there in the midst of my trembling fear and
repentance, I felt a surge of heat from my crotch.
"We don't want you watching us anymore from on top of
your garage," Lance said.
Henry fixed me with a steady smile. "If you want to see,
come over tonight, 'round nine. See it live and up close. If
not, then this is our little secret."
They left, and I gaped at their empty chairs. This couldn't
be happening.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in a trance,
barely eating the dinner my mother cooked. My head was
brimming with sweaty fantasies. I thought of everything I'd
seen, at a distance, in Henry and Lance's bedroom. But to be
there in the same room while they made love.? How could I
resist?
I didn't. A few minutes before nine I excused myself,
telling my parents I was going down to the town's single-
screen movie theater. Instead, of course, I crept around to
our neighbors' back door and quietly knocked. I was
trembling again. The blend of excitement, anticipation and
fear was powerful.
Lance answered, wearing a terrycloth bathrobe. My eyes
flickered anxiously away from the bulge below the knotted
belt. I felt my mouth go dry.
"Well, the audience is here," Henry said, coming up behind
and pausing to kiss the side of Lance's neck. "Let the games
commence."
I followed the two men through their tastefully decorated
home and upstairs.
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Then I was in the bedroom I'd been spying on for two
months. Henry closed the door behind me. With a smile in my
direction, he shed the bathrobe he was wearing. Lance
shucked his too. My heart was beating so hard, I thought it
would punch its way out of my chest. They were naked. They
looked beautiful. My eyes swept over the fine details of their
muscles. I didn't glance nervously away from their hard-ons
this time. Now I stared, riveted.
"We've got a captive audience," Lance said. "Enjoy the
show."
They slid onto the wide sumptuous bed, embracing. They
kissed, softly at first, then their tongues emerged and
entangled. I stayed standing back near the door, paralyzed,
sensations of hot and cold running wildly over my body. I
watched their big hard cocks rubbing together. By now I was
of course fiercely erect, my cock trapped in my jeans, aching
to be released. But I was afraid to make any move, afraid
anything I did might make this utterly magical scene vanish
before my gawking eyes.
They took their cocks in hand. Lance was now sucking and
nipping at Henry's nipples, which were ringed with fine dark
hairs. Henry moaned. His cock twitched and throbbed in
Lance's hand. Henry started licking his way down Lance's
solidly molded chest, through the dusting of blond hair. His
head moved lower and lower till his tongue was flashing over
Lance's navel.
When his tongue tip flickered out snakelike to give Lance's
cockhead a swirl, I realized my hand had broken the paralysis
that gripped the rest of my body. I was rubbing at the painful
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bulge in my jeans, which only made matters worse. Would
they mind if I jerked off while they made love? How could I
stop myself?
Without deliberate thought I allowed my fingers to undo
my fly and free my yearning cock. A silent powerful moan of
pleasure went through me as I slowly worked myself.
No more than six feet from where I stood rooted, Henry
was now wrapping his lips around Lance's staff. I hadn't
realized before just how thick his meat was. I watched
Henry's mouth distend itself as he sucked in inch after inch
between his lips. What did it taste like? I asked myself
feverishly. How did it feel throbbing in one's mouth like that?
Henry's head bobbed up and down now, leaving Lance's
heavy cock glistening with spit. Lance thrust his hips toward
Henry. Henry paused to suck delicately on Lance's dangling
balls.
I didn't realize I was stripping away my clothes until I
discovered myself stooping to untie my sneakers. A moment
later I found myself standing naked, my breaths coming in
short hard pants, my hand still pumping my cock. The sweat
of a hot California night dribbled into my eyes, and I blinked it
furiously away, not wanting to miss an instant of the action.
They reversed, and Lance was now going down on Henry,
sucking with gusto, taking every inch of Henry's generously
sized cock. He started fingering Henry's hole with two stiff
fingers, which caused Henry to buck wildly on the kitschy
leopard-print sheets.
The foot of the bed suddenly knocked against my bare
knees, and I realized dumbly that I'd finally stepped forward.
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I was suddenly terrified my intrusion might bring everything
to a stop.
"Oooooh, look, somebody's been watching us," Henry
cooed laughingly.
Lance looked up from his diligent cocksucking. "It's that
neighbor kid. Maybe we should teach him a lesson."
Yes, I thought deliriously. Teach me. Teach me.
I put a knee up onto the mattress and reached out a
shaking hand. I wanted it so bad.
They drew me up between them, and suddenly I was
surrounded by that beautiful male flesh. Hard cocks pressed
me on either side, and their strong arms folded themselves
over me.
Lance licked a bead of sweat off my forehead. Henry's
tongue probed at my earlobe. Tentatively I laid a quick peck
of a kiss on top of Henry's tattoo. It was not a mermaid, as
I'd thought at first glance, but a merman.
"He's so young," Lance murmured.
"I'll bet he's tasty too." Henry started kissing his way
downward, mouth traveling leisurely over my chest and
stomach. I turned toward Lance and abruptly found my
mouth filled with his tongue. It was like an electric eel,
wriggling and sending bolts of wild energy through my flesh.
My first man/man kiss.
Then Henry's mouth swallowed my cock, and I was
receiving something even more exciting. Lance rubbed, then
lightly pinched my aroused nipples. I moaned into his mouth.
Henry's lips had wrapped my burning cock tightly, and his
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tongue danced recklessly over my sensitive cockhead and
along my straining staff.
My cock was being sucked. By a man. The thought doubled
the excitement of the already overwrought scene.
As he had with Lance, Henry detoured to devour my balls.
It felt wonderfully vulnerable to have my tender sacks slurped
into his mouth and rolled on his tongue. I continued to
tongue-fence with Lance. My hand groped, again seemingly of
its own will, toward his cock. Finding it, I gave him a firm
squeeze, which brought a gratifying groan from him.
Lance shifted, breaking our prolonged kiss and coming up
onto his knees, facing me. My eyes widened as his gorgeous
cock came into view, twitching. When he straddled my chest,
I felt a hysterical thrill of anticipation. Yes. Yes! Let me suck
it...
Lance helpfully wedged a pillow under my neck as I
opened my mouth. My tongue came out, and my body
trembled even more violently. I licked the swollen purplish
cockhead, tasting the salty dewdrop of pre-come that seeped
from the slit. With Henry sucking away at my cock, I almost
came right there, nearly overwhelmed by my first taste of
man-meat.
I managed to hold on, not wanting this to end
prematurely—or ever. Under better control now, I put my lips
around Lance's impressive staff. He was quite a mouthful. The
texture of his cock-skin on my tongue was silken. As I sucked
him rapturously into my mouth, I quickly encountered my gag
reflex, with several inches of him still left to swallow.
Determined, I swallowed further, learning in the space of a
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few seconds how to control the reflex. Soon Lance's delicious
cockhead was sliding into my throat.
Henry started fingering my asshole with a spit-wet finger. I
wriggled pleasurably, and he added another finger, widening
my grasping virgin hole.
Lance's weight felt good across my chest as I sucked him
furiously, relishing every inch, fiercely proud that I could now
take him right down to the base of his staff. He obligingly
fucked at my face, his balls slapping my chin.
Then we were shifting positions again, and I thought back
on all the variations I'd so keenly watched during my spying
days whenever Henry and Lance were entertaining a third
party. I knew what I wanted to do.
Henry came up onto his knees, and I dived toward his
rampant cock, thrusting my well-fingered ass toward Lance.
They got the idea quickly.
Lance treated me first to a luscious rimming. I moaned
around Henry's cock, which I found no trouble swallowing, as
Lance's tongue worked around my tingling hole, then
slithered inside. I now wholly understood the pleasures of a
rim job. I was already humping my ass back toward him
when he rose up on his knees.
His muscular thighs pressed against the backs of mine. He
guided his cockhead against my hole, rolling it around the
entryway, then gently let it sink inside. My puckered hole
resisted at first, but once I'd accommodated that fat head,
sharp thunderbolts of pleasure ignited in me.
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Henry's cock tasted as delectable as Lance's had. I sucked
at him eagerly. His fingers wound themselves through my
hair, and his hips thrust toward my willing mouth.
Lance slid slowly into me. Whenever my muscles clenched
too tightly, he paused to allow me to adjust. It got easier to
acclimate myself as more of him filled me. My channel burned
wonderfully around his intruding pulsing meat. I realized I'd
taken every inch of that big cock into me when I felt his pelvis
settle against my ass. Then his fingers gripped my hips firmly,
and away he went.
He fucked me gently at first, but when I started back-
thrusting violently against him, he got the message and went
at me full-tilt. The sounds of his flesh smacking hard and loud
into mine were awesome. Every impalement brought a new
blast of pleasure.
I continued to suck Henry, feeling him shivering with an
impending come. I was gratified by the pleasure I was
bringing him. I wanted to do all this right. I wanted my first
time to be flawless.
And it was. Lance fucked away at my eager hole,
slamming me now, grunting wildly, strong fingers digging into
my hips. Henry's cock was quivering in my mouth. His grip on
my hair tightened.
They emptied their come into me at the same time, which
was almost too perfect. Henry's cock erupted at the same
instant Lance's thick liquid heat gushed deep inside my ass. I
didn't flinch from the spunk that filled my mouth, swallowing
the strange and glorious juice hungrily.
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They stayed attached to me until the last drops had oozed
out. Then they gently disengaged. I flopped back onto the
disarrayed sheets, dizzy, gazing dumbly down at my still-
rampant cock. Warm come dribbled out of my hole, and the
taste of Henry's juice still tingled on my tongue.
They hunkered together between my thighs, spreading my
legs wide. I watched, no longer a distant secret voyeur, as
they both went down on me. Their able tongues raced and
lapped and slurped up and down my staff. It was a beautiful
sight, but I absolutely couldn't hold back anymore.
My come boiled out of my balls, onto their tongues. They
licked my juice off my throbbing cock, then kissed long and
deep.
When they came up to snuggle against either side of me,
wrapping me again in a cocoon of masculine flesh, Henry
murmured, "I think it's okay, after all, if you still want to
watch from next door."
"Or maybe you'll want to come over again from time to
time," said Lance.
I grinned along with them, aglow.
"I think I like the view from here," I said.
And so it went for the remainder of that summer, which I
remember as a great gleaming gateway through which I
stepped, finding my true carnal self on the other side.
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Temporary Gifts
by Randall Ivey
"And you are good-looking yourself, I take it?" the man
asked Merriman and laughed sheepishly.
Merriman flinched on the phone, confused. After all, it was
he seeking this man's services, and he didn't quite see why
his own physical credentials should be at issue. "Why do you
ask?"
The man laughed again nervously before answering.
"Forgive me. It's just ... your voice ... sounds handsome. I
mean ... suave, authoritative. I was just trying to fit face to
voice. Well, I am a people person, you know, and just
naturally interested in these things. Sorry if I offended you."
Although his experiences with male escorts had been
limited over the years, Merriman had never known one to
inquire about the client's looks. It unnerved him for some
reason, and he came close to terminating the meeting then
and there. But the man's ad! What a description he had
offered in the "social pages" of the glossy city guide. Just
what Merriman needed at the moment, the promise of
youthful good looks, "chiseled chest," and "generous
endowment." There had been no accompanying photograph,
but the verbal portrait, if accurate, was suggestive enough
and almost too tempting to pass up. And he really had no
interest in or energy to devote that night to barhopping, to
the desperate search, to the animal crawl from face to face,
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physique to physique, looking for that one perfect man, that
one possibility for fulfillment, however brief. This was so
much easier!
"You haven't offended me," Merriman replied. After his
initial surprise at being asked, in fact, he felt a certain pride in
being able to say, "Yes, I'm good-looking. Good-looking
enough to do what you do, probably." He laughed to cover up
his embarrassment at being so immodest. But the truth was
the truth. No reason to deny it.
The other man did not laugh. He responded anxiously,
"Oh, that's good to hear. I mean, well, there are so many ...
undesirables I must put up with in my line of work. I think
you know what I mean. The potbellies. The wrinkles. The
white hair. Even the young ones aren't always very ...
comely. So this is a treat, a bonus." Then he allowed himself
a laugh.
For the second time Merriman came close to ending the
whole thing, out of a vague sense of unease, but Cole, as the
man advertised himself, was already asking for a meeting
time and for directions, and Merriman felt such elation at the
possibility of sex that evening with a beautiful stranger that
he went ahead and gave Cole the address of his midtown
Atlanta apartment. They agreed to meet in an hour's time.
After the conversation, Merriman sat back on his couch,
feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension at the
impending meeting. It was not his habit to use the services of
escorts. He did it rarely. He was indeed, as he'd confessed to
Cole, a good-looking man with a solid build and respectable
equipment. Although he was in his late thirties, he could still
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attract the attention, even the ardent admiration, of younger
men, men in their twenties and early thirties, seeking an
experience with a "daddy" or an "older brother."
So why resort to escort services now?
The convenience of it mainly, as he'd rationalized to
himself earlier. The ease of it. The fact that each man, client
and escort, knew what he wanted; there would be no mixed
signals, no confusion, no emotional entanglement to sort out
afterwards. It would be a smooth, clean transaction. More and
more, as he grew older he grew tired of the games men
seemed to play with each other in the act of mating, those
various dances of lust—the grand quadrilles of bait and
switch, the intricate tarantellas of tease and withdrawal. He
no longer had the time or patience for men who found more
pleasure in the hunt than they did in the kill. And
furthermore, he relished the mystery of the exchange: the
appearance of a stranger at his door, ready to marshal all his
physical bounties for Merriman's pleasure.
He took further assurance and pleasure from the fact that
buying the time of an escort no longer had the old stigmas
attached to it. When he was younger, it seemed the only men
who solicited such company were the old, the shy, the ugly.
"Trolls." That was the word for such sexual unfortunates.
Now, according to an article he'd read in a national monthly,
handsome young professional men were using them as well,
since their crowded work schedules and social calendars did
not allow them opportunity for normal mating rituals. It made
Merriman happy to be part of a trend. He felt in control of
things and "up to date."
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He got so absorbed in his reflections, and his self-
satisfaction, that he almost didn't hear the door buzzer
sound.
He checked the peephole first and saw, with some
distortion, the hair and general features of a young man.
Then he opened the door onto a smiling face.
"Cole?" he asked. The man nodded, and great relief
flooded Merriman, the relief that Cole had lived up to the
description in his ad. He had Italian features: black hair, great
dark eyes, profligate red lips. He stood just under six feet; he
was silk-skinned and smooth, broad-shouldered and small-
waisted, and best of all, his pectorals stood square and
majestic beneath his tight-fitting white T-shirt. He was a feast
for the eyes; he would be a greater feast for the hand and
tongue. But the initial pleasure provoked by such beauty
vanished after a moment, like sunspots from the eyes.
Merriman felt another, stronger sensation. He stared again,
and more deeply, at the boy and said, "I know you, don't I?"
Cole betrayed discomfort only in the sudden shift of his
eyes; otherwise he stood smiling at Merriman before easing
past him into the apartment.
"Don't I?" Merriman asked, following behind.
Cole turned. "Oh no. I'm new to Atlanta. I've been in town
a couple of months. And I don't know you. You've mistaken
me for somebody else."
True, Atlanta had become enough of a metropolis, enough
of a Mecca to raise its own army of clones—in this case, the
hairless, tanned, muscular young men who thronged bars and
jogged city streets shirtless and lounged and played in city
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parks alone or with their equally handsome, equally
pneumatic counterparts. It could be an honest mistake. But
for some reason Merriman wasn't satisfied with the
explanation.
Cole was looking him up and down with genuine
admiration. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you,
however. You didn't lie, Robert. You really are good-looking.
Really nice body. This is going to be a treat for me, as much
as I hope it will be for you."
Merriman thanked him.
"You joked on the phone, but have you ever seriously
thought about escorting yourself?"
Merriman reddened and laughed. "I was only joking. No,
no. I'm much too old for that."
Cole shrugged, still studying Merriman's build, his eyes
nearly glazing. "You're what? Thirty-five, forty? You might be
surprised at the number of men who would pay to sleep with
someone your age. Yeah. The Internet's just full of sites
advertising 'mature men.' And they do well too. Even among
old guys. Old guys usually like boys, twinks, but sometimes
they're looking for someone who can hold a conversation with
them after the Great Event. And young guys like your type
because sometimes they're looking for a tutor, a teacher,
somebody to show them the ins and outs of love, and you
may take that as a pun if you wish. But no, Robert, I'm
serious. Men like you have the best of both worlds. You're
young enough to retain energy and enthusiasm but old
enough to have experienced life."
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"Ronnie," Merriman said, still unable, even in the face of
Cole's enormously generous compliment, to shake off the
feeling of déjà vu.
"Excuse me?" Cole asked with a slight turn of his head.
"Ronnie Antonelli. That's who you remind me of."
"And who is Ronnie Antonelli?"
"A kid I met early on when I moved to Atlanta a couple of
years ago. He used to tend bar in a place on Ainsley Square,
and we got to be acquainted. But he just disappeared a few
months ago. Poof. Like that. Without even a goodbye to
anybody."
"Well, I'm not Ronnie Antonelli. I'm Cole, here to please
you. And the meter's running, Robert, and unless you want to
waste the hour talking, I suggest we get started."
* * * *
They came together with the easy and immediate intimacy
common to like-minded men, as though they had indeed
known each other previously and knew exactly how and
where to touch each other to provoke the greatest response.
Naked, of course, Cole was even more splendid: sinewy,
vascular, pliant. His young flesh absorbed all of Merriman's
assaults upon it—the rough grasp of a pectoral or glute, the
nearly incessant mouthing and sucking of prick, and returned
right away to former firmness once freed. And even better,
Cole seemed eager to return the ministrations, as though he
were truly attracted to something else besides Merriman's
one hundred and seventy-five dollars. He trailed his tongue
down Merriman's firm chest, past his rigid stomach, and into
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his crotch. He cooed at the sight of Merriman's equipment and
chirped cryptically, "It will do, it will do, it will do!" before
devouring the cock whole. Merriman groaned at Cole's
expertise and hunger. He had never quite had a blow job of
that intensity, and when Cole released him to jerk him to
climax, he let forth a spray of semen that flew into the air and
covered the both of them. Still Merriman's pleasure could not
be complete, due mainly to the nagging insistence that he
had known this boy before, that this boy was indeed Ronnie
Antonelli.
Cole looked at him and said, "Don't get soft yet, my
daddy-stud. You still have work to do." He reinserted
Merriman's dick into his mouth and inflated it once more with
his relentless sucking. When it was sufficiently hard, Cole
instructed Merriman to stand, which he did. And Cole offered
his ass to the client: a remarkably smooth, unblemished ass
of the kind of musculature that made Merriman's already-stiff
dick strain for even greater dimensions.
Merriman took the condom and lube on the bed stand and
prepared himself; then with great desire and anticipation, he
entered Cole's splendid butt and fucked him with increasing
speed and pleasure. Cole grasped him from behind, urging
him on even further, as though there were no limits to the
speed of sex. Merriman heard his balls slap against Cole's ass
crack, and for some reason that gave him great drive in his
fucking. Soon he announced he was going to come, yanked
his dick from the hole, whipped off the rubber, and splattered
Cole's vast, tanned, smooth back with his semen. Cole
turned, jacking himself, lay on his back, and brought himself
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to his first orgasm, all the while staring into Merriman's eyes
with a fervor nearly inhuman.
During their post-coital recess, stretched out beside each
other, shining in the lamp-light from their own sweat,
Merriman thought of Ronnie. A fine kid who'd come south
from New Jersey to go to art school and to escape the brutal
northeastern winters. He worked at the bar to pay rent and
tuition. He was very popular, but according to a rumor which
Ronnie neither confirmed nor denied, he liked women and had
been hired because he would not fraternize with the
customers. Merriman didn't know about that nor did he care.
He just found himself charmed by the boy: his openness, his
sweet nature, his good looks. They struck up a conversation,
became acquaintances. Merriman often went to the bar right
after work when things were slow and he would have Ronnie
all to himself, and they could talk an hour or more almost
without interruption. He had wanted to see Ronnie outside the
bar and asked him to dinner, but the boy had demurred.
Then he was simply gone, without notice or explanation.
The memories brought him regret and some sadness, and
to dispel them, he sat up on his elbow and stared down at
Cole, who was awake and appeared to be contemplating
something himself. "So, when you're not doing this, Cole," he
asked, "what do you do?"
Cole smiled up at him in a most disarming way and
reached out to stroke Merriman's hirsute forearm. "Well, I'm
like any kid who moves to the big city in pursuit of his
dreams. I'm an artist."
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Merriman's breathed stopped momentarily. Cole noticed
his alarm. He reached up to touch Merriman's face, to hold it,
as though to give him comfort.
"You look sad. Didn't I please you? You seemed to enjoy
yourself. Oh, but I know what it is. You look at me and you
think of your friend, don't you? The one who disappeared. I
do remind you of him, and that hurts you, doesn't it, because
you loved him? Don't be sad. Just enjoy the moment. If you
want to think I'm him, think it and enjoy. No? Well, then, I'm
going to make you forget him, or at least ease your pain."
Cole raised up and pressed Merriman back to the bed,
holding him there with one hand on his chest as he kissed
Merriman's face, running his tongue over Merriman's eyelids,
the bridge of his nose, the ridge of his chin, setting off
streams of chills throughout Merriman's whole body. Their
mouths met, and it was as though something had clicked shut
for Merriman at last, something which had hung open too
long; it was complete. Cole had brought him the promised
balm. His lips, his tongue seemed to draw from Merriman any
lingering doubts, regrets, grief. Merriman opened his eyes
and looked up into Cole's face, which seemed different
somehow, altered. He had the same features, the same dark
eyes, red lips, arrowhead nose ... but they were ...
illuminated, maybe, and not just by the lamp. For a moment
Cole looked otherworldly, like some sunstruck seraph on a
lavish church window, an angel with or without divine
intention. Cole smiled.
"You feel better now, Robert?"
"God, you're beautiful, Cole!" was all Merriman could say.
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Cole's smile deepened. "So are you. And I want to be as
close to you as I possibly can. Do you understand? As close
as two people can be ... as though we shared the very same
skin."
Merriman didn't quite understand Cole, but he agreed
about being closer. He wanted that too, almost needed it
now, as though his instincts were not his own but driven by
something outside himself. A warmth, a light emanated from
Cole, as though he were a human taper.
With alarm, but with awe too and a great desire which
overpowered any fear, he watched as Cole's whole face and
body became luminescent—lit not from without by the paltry
offering of the lamp but from within by a force greater than
mere electricity. Something told him he should scream,
scream, move away, struggle, but he did not heed it. It was
too beautiful seeing Cole becoming something more than a
man; he was a pure sphere of light now, losing skin, hair,
features, gaining fluorescence in their place, and when Cole,
thus transformed, leaned down to kiss him again, Merriman
accepted him with gratitude, and he felt himself being
transported somehow, as though on the MARTA, moving
rapidly from station to station, passing corridors of light, one
after another, until thrown on their blinding walls were
tableaus of earlier moments in Merriman's life, scenes of him
as a handsome youth and his erotic encounters with other
handsome youths, nameless faces, interchangeable bodies,
like madly whirling slides in a runaway magic lantern. They
passed into another tunnel with undiminished speed and
came back out to yet another station. And on the platforms
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fleeting past he thought he could see himself standing, Robert
Merriman, thirty-eight, relatively young and handsome, until
the succeeding platform showed him older and grayer, given
to paunch and stooping shoulders and then older still and
older until he was no longer recognizable, until everything
went black.
* * * *
He must have slept because he dreamed. He was in a
room of stainless steel floor and ceiling and bright-reflecting
glass, but he wasn't alone. Others surrounded him, on all
sides of this crystalline auditorium, pinned as he was to the
mirrored walls. All around the room. Dozens of them. At first
the brightness of the room permitted no comprehension; he
could not read or discern the features of his fellow captives:
their faces, their entire heads, were only blobs of intense
light.
Soon enough, though, he grew used to the light and saw
that each of them resembled the other. They were practically
the same: old men; white hair grown shaggy and shoulder
length; naked, pectorals flabby and distended like old
women's breasts; stomachs full and pendulous enough to
cover their genitals; legs withered down to brown, crusty,
vein-scarred feet. Trolls. That's what they were. The old and
the undesirable. Instead of dreaming of buff young hunks
with bronzed muscles and extraordinary profiles, men like
Cole and Ronnie and the endless others right there in Atlanta,
he had dreamed of trolls. He laughed. The others watched
him, confused, even upset by his laughter; they all turned
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their hoary faces his way. Some grunted, others cried out in
weak attempts at speech.
The old man to his left, however, had a steady, strong
voice not yet atrophied by his advanced years.
"Don't laugh," he said with contempt and warning. "You
are one of us too. Look." And he pointed Merriman's attention
to the opposing mirrored wall, where other trolls stood
chained, helpless, and afraid. In the glass Merriman saw
himself—surely it must have been him—it was his forlorn,
shocked, unbelieving face staring back. It was the same nose
and mouth and eyes, but withered now and frosted with gray
hair.
He had always heard that as soon as you realized you
were dreaming, you would come awake.
"I'm dreaming," he shouted, rousing the others to moans
and gibberish. But he did not wake, and the horrid phantasms
around him did not disappear; he was still an old man staring
back at himself. He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed
hard against the glass panels behind him, hoping to force
himself to consciousness. And when he opened his eyes
again, he thought for a moment that he had succeeded: for
there, standing in front of him, was his normal reflection, his
as of yet unlined face and dark moustache, his full head of
dark hair with only flecks of gray at the temples. He was
relieved until he realized this was no reflection at all but an
actual face, his face, staring at him, smiling. The face spoke.
"It's Cole, Robert. Yes. I know you must be wondering how
this happened, how I became you, and if I had the time to
explain it to you, I would. But that time will come later. Now I
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just want to thank you for this gift and assure you that I will
use it well. Through you, through your beautiful face and
body, I will give many men more pleasure than they've ever
experienced before. And more. I will make the old men feel
like they are still players in the games of love and sex. I will
give them back some part of their youth, or at least the
illusion of it. And they will give me the money I need to
sustain my temporal disguise, my 'human' needs. And the
young men and the men on the very cusp of middle age? The
ones like you, Robert? I give to them also—the kind of
sensations I gave you tonight. But I take more from them
than I give, as you can see now. I take their youth, their
vitality, their energy in sex and everything else. Through
them, through you, I will live on and on, Robert, never aging,
never losing the love of live."
He laughed and it startled Merriman to see his own mouth
part and his teeth show in vivid contrast to his tanned cheeks.
"And when I've gotten all I can get from Atlanta, I'll move on
to some other place thronging with beautiful young men. Until
then, I will be Robert Merriman for awhile, until I have taken
all I can from you. Thank you again, Robert. You can rest
assured of what you have done for me, this bit of contribution
you have made to eternity, and you can die with it as well."
Robert—for it was Robert now, not Ronnie, not Cole—
leaned over to kiss Merriman. Then something occurred to
him. "Oh yes. Ronnie. You were curious about Ronnie
Antonelli. And you were right, of course. There. That's him."
He pointed to a troll standing some four or five men to
Merriman's left. Gone was the handsome face, the lithe
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physique, all replaced by wrinkles and white hair, warts and
varicose veins. Merriman's doppelganger turned back to him,
smiled deeply, and whispered, "Good night, Robert. Good
night, sweet prince," and turned away a last time, moving
slowly past the line of moaning, beseeching old men—if men
they still were—and when he got past that troll that had once
been the young and handsome Ronnie Antonelli, the decayed,
decrepit, erstwhile youth reached out with a withered arm
and cried, "Robert, it's me. Ronnie! Ronnie Antonelli. You
remember me, don't you? I don't know what's happened. I
don't know what's going on. Please don't go. Please. I need
you, Robert. I need you!"
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The End of the Earth
by Jen Bluekissed
"I can't just leave you here," I said to Rodolfo as I
caressed his muscled abs while he bent over. His straight
black hair draped the side of his face as he positioned himself.
"If you're not feeling well enough to sail, then I'll nurse you
back to health," I said. He lay on his back on our hostel's bed,
his hand knotted in a fist over his stomach.
"No. You're going. I know you want to help me, Carlos, but
we paid a lot of money for our spots on the sailboat. Enjoy it.
Staying here won't help my stomachache." Rodolfo turned
away from me. As he moved his eyes to his new wedding
ring, he fidgeted with it, slowly spinning it on the ring finger
of his right hand. "I know you want to be a good husband,
but I insist you have some fun. Listening to me retch isn't
how you should have to spend the first full day of our
honeymoon."
I cuddled up beside him. With one hand on his chest, I
kissed his tanned shoulder. The white tank top revealed the
perfect place for a tender kiss. "And you shouldn't spend the
first full day of our honeymoon alone, either." Rodolfo's body
wasn't as warm as I had expected. Any time he normally fell
ill, my long time partner-now-husband ran a fever. "It was
the pulpo gallego, wasn't it?" I said as I repeated the kiss
over his shoulder blade.
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"Sí, mi marido," he said while adjusting his body into the
fetal position. "Leave me alone. Really, you won't be able to
help."
Rodolfo's parents were originally from Santiago de
Compostela, Spain, but they immigrated to the U.S. before he
was born. Because I was a Spanish citizen, we were allowed
to marry with full rights under Spanish law. The civil
ceremony was performed in the autonomous region of Galicia
in the coastal city of A Coruña the day before, and during our
reception, we all partook in the regional dish of octopus
cooked in the traditional Galician manner: with skin and
suckers intact. All my family, gallegos by birth, and most of
Rodolfo's family ate the pulpo without thinking twice. Rodolfo
pretended to enjoy it, but the rubbery texture of the octopus
didn't sit well with his digestive system. After the festivities all
our family left the city for us to enjoy A Coruña's summer
beaches alone as newlyweds. I left the hostel alone, still
second-guessing my decision to heed my husband's insistence
on suffering the stomach ailment alone while I sunbathed in
the hot July sun.
* * * *
As a gay man, I paid little attention to the topless women
soaking up solar rays on the beach. I smiled as I spread out a
large towel over the sand. Whenever it wasn't raining, the
people flocked to A Coruña's beaches before the next rain
would ruin the otherwise nice day. I watched the Atlantic
Ocean as I remembered Carlos's brother, now my brother-in-
law, gawk at the women the first time he visited the
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autonomous region of Spain while they rubbed suntan lotion
over their bare breasts. My interest at the beach was always
the tanned, muscular men.
As soon as I oiled up my chest and legs with coconut-
scented tanning lotion, I lay on the towel and closed my eyes.
My mind drifted as I wondered if Rodolfo was okay back at
the hostel. I almost returned to check on him, but when the
time for the scheduled sailing trip approached, I packed my
belongings back into the beach bag and walked toward the
boat dock. The crisp ocean air called me as I boarded the
sailboat with seven other passengers. All of them were
straight couples except a lone dark-haired, dark-skinned man
in his mid-twenties. He seemed out of place, just as I was out
of place. A romantic sailing expedition was a couples' activity.
We quickly introduced ourselves, and I learned that the other
solo boat passenger's name was Jorge. Before he introduced
himself, Jorge regarded me with the sly smile and interested
eyes of a single man.
I held my right hand with my wedding ring in front of my
chest; the midday son glinted off it just as the sailboat's
capitán untied the rope holding the boat to the dock. Jorge
shrugged but his face reddened with embarrassment. "Lo
siento. No sabía que Ud. está casado." His words said he was
sorry, but his tone expressed confusion. I knew he wondered
about the location of my husband.
"That's okay," I said. "Rodolfo wasn't able to join me
today." I watched the stranger shrug. Jorge's healthy, dark
shoulders finally relaxed when he edged away from me to the
other side of the sailboat. After he distanced himself from me,
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I kept to myself and enjoyed the misty sound and spray of
the ocean over the other couples' chatter.
* * * *
I failed to pay attention to the fast-cruising, motorized
vessel quickly approaching the sailboat. Images of my recent
wedding and the joy Rodolfo and I shared with our family
preoccupied me up until the moment the first pirate held his
machete up to Jorge's throat.
The pirate was dressed with a bandanna draped over his
eyes, nose, and hair. Two eye holes were cut out of the cloth.
Only his mouth and ill-shaven beard were visible. My first
instinct when I heard him declare his desire for two hostages
was that he must be joking. The seriousness of his threat only
occurred to me when I beheld the other pirates on the ship.
Each man was shirtless. A tall, fuzzy bear of a man pushed
through the small crowd of outlaws on the pirate ship and
pointed toward me with his machete. "Lo quiero al mariposa.
Uds. tienen cinco horas para obtener cinco millones de euros
para nosotros," he said with an especially thick Castillian
accent. His lisp was more pronounced than the typical
Spaniard's, and the first C in cinco was spoken with a TH
rather than the Latin S sound.
I shivered as the pirates bound my hands with itchy twine
and manhandled Jorge and me onto the pirate ship. My mind
raced as I pondered our predicament. How would the
remaining passengers on the sailboat obtain five thousand
euros in under five hours for our ransom? How would they
know where to find the pirate vessel? Already we were
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zipping away at a pace of three or four times that of the
sailboat. Most importantly, what did the pirates intend for us?
They were obviously also gay men to have picked Jorge and
me out of the group and to identify me by the Spanish slang
term of mariposa. I was a butterfly, and I was damn proud of
it, but why had they singled us out of the group?
Jorge's dark eyes flashed as they caught the light
reflecting off the bear's machete. "Oso, que quieres?" he said
through a broad smile.
"So you recognize I'm a bear," said as he approached
Jorge. The large, hairy pirate flexed his biceps as he stroked
Jorge's bald chest with his open palm. I watched Bear pinch
Jorge's nipple between his ragged seaman's fingernails. "I'm
here to punish you."
Jorge's eyes watered as Bear pinched his other nipple. The
overly outward grin on Jorge's face caused me to smile as
well. Either Jorge knew beforehand he would be taken
hostage as part of a role play, or he was a pure masochist.
The stupid grin didn't falter as Bear ordered the other pirates
to strip Jorge's bathing suit from his body. As soon as Jorge
was naked, I couldn't help but stare at his erect cock. Bear
fondled Jorge's erection as he announced a message loudly to
the rest of the pirates. "This hostage is already too aroused.
Who wants to help me punish him?"
The pirate nearest me wore a thin strip of bandanna over
his eyes with cutouts for him to see. His beard was the red of
the Galician Celts who played the gaita, a smaller version of
bagpipe, along the streets of Santiago. In my mind, I named
him Alto because he was especially tall and muscular. Alto's
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eyes met mine as he led me to a large set of Inquisition-style
wooden stocks. He opened the stocks and pushed my head
into the hole, then untied my wrists and assured their
immobility by closing and locking the stocks. I felt like I was
suddenly transposed into the middle ages. My body was half
bent over in an awkward position, but I could still see that
Alto was the volunteer to help Bear punish Jorge. I think he
wanted freedom from guarding me. The wooden stocks
seemed unusually convenient. My opinion shifted; Jorge
wasn't necessarily a masochist. He was consenting to role
play.
I wanted to stroke my penis as I watched the BDSM scene
unfold, but I wasn't allowed that luxury. Instead, I stood
hunched over and frustrated as Alto and Bear, the two sadists
in the group, squeezed Jorge's engorged cock beneath its
head until it was limp enough to wear the cock-and-ball
torture device. I found myself moaning as the pirates turned
Jorge's body so I could see him better. His cock grew slightly
but shrunk within the cage they forced onto his genitals.
I had only tried that type of CBT once. The little metal
pricks on the inside were enough for me to remember how
badly I had wanted an erection when I wore the device. Jorge
continued grinning as Bear tickled the flesh of his balls
through the CBT contraption.
Alto licked Jorge's left nipple while pinching Jorge's right
nipple with sadistic force. That was when I heard the familiar
voice behind me while yet another pirate signaled for me to
open my mouth for an O gag. Rodolfo smacked my ass
through my bathing suit. "You ought to be punished also.
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Don't ever leave me alone when I'm sick again, even if I tell
you I'm fine." His voice held a twinge of pain as he admitted I
had failed him.
Before I allowed the other pirate to subject me to the
open-mouthed gag, I wiggled my ass. "Punish me then. I
deserve it," I said. Rodolfo stroked my cock through my
bathing suit as his assistant inserted the O-shaped gag
behind my teeth, ensuring my mouth would stay open. I
immediately began drooling uncontrollably from the object in
my mouth. I wished I could have seen Rodolfo, but he
remained behind me.
Rodolfo whispered into my ear as I watched Bear and Alto
take turns pinching Jorge's taut body and asking that he open
his mouth to suck on their cocks. Jorge knelt at the pirate's
feet and sucked vigorously on Bear's thick dick. My husband
continued whispering into my ear as he stroked my cock
through my swimming trunks. "You like watching them, don't
you?"
I answered in an unintelligible grunt through the gag.
Trying to say, "Remove my trunks," I moaned as Rodolfo
whispered continuously. His breath puffed against my neck.
"You like watching the pirates as they take advantage of
him, don't you?" He began pinching my nipples until I wanted
to cry out, but I remained silent. "And I know how badly you
want me to smack your ass as you're bound by this heavy,
wooden set of stocks that we rented from the Inquisition
Store. You're entirely predictable."
My cock pressed against the netting of my swim trunks as
Rodolfo hooked his fingers inside the waistband and exposed
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my needy ass. He left the front of the bathing suit hanging
onto my cock as if it were a peg used solely for hanging a
garment to the front of my body. Gravity hastened my
excessive drooling from the gag as he lightly tickled my butt
with his fingertips. "Watch what the pirates are asking of
Jorge. You're going to pleasure me that way before the day is
over."
Rodolfo spanked my nude ass with his open hand over and
over again as I watched Jorge suck Bear's thick cock. The
longer Jorge sucked, the slicker Bear's cock was each time he
removed it from Jorge's mouth. Each time Bear pushed into
Jorge's throat, the bound man gagged. Bear pressed his
pelvis so that his belly hair was surrounding Jorge's nose. He
held his cock all the way into my fellow hostage's throat for
what seemed like a long time. When he withdrew, Jorge's
breaths were quick and frantic as he caught his breath.
Rodolfo stopped spanking me to announce to the entire
ship full of pirates a message that was for my benefit. "How
many of you think that both these hostages should take not
only a full cock, but also both balls into their mouths?"
A unison of baritone voices spoke in agreement as they
answered the question. A short, freckled pirate knelt behind
Jorge. After removing the CBT device, he rubbed some
lubricant onto Jorge's cock until it grew hard and straight
again. My husband began spanking me harder as I watched
the freckled pirate continue to slowly tease Jorge by slowly
massaging his genitals while Bear motioned for Jorge to open
his mouth again. Just as my husband had suggested, Bear
lifted his balls to Jorge's lips after pressing his entire cock into
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Jorge's mouth. As soon as Jorge stopped gagging, he took
Bear's balls inside his mouth also.
Rodolfo finally curled his fingers around the waistband of
my swim trunks and lowered them to my ankles. He gave my
cock a hard squeeze as he said, "You're not leaving this ship
until you learn how to take both my cock and my balls into
your mouth like Jorge is doing for his husband. That's the
least you can do to make it up to me that you left me at the
hostel when you thought I was ill." Then he walked around to
my front so I could see he was already naked.
I wanted to tell him there was no way I could take his balls
into my mouth with the open-mouthed gag behind my teeth.
"Lick my balls," Rodolfo said as he pressed his cool testicles
into my face. He tasted like sunscreen and sweat, but I
obeyed, hoping my ass wouldn't wind up sunburned in the
end. Rodolfo blocked my view of Jorge's sucking skills as
Rodolfo reached behind my head and loosened the straps
holding the gag in place.
I clenched my jaw and repositioned it a few times,
relieving the ache that set in from the gag. Then I repented of
my transgression and said, "I'm sorry. Of course I'll try
pleasuring you in the way you're suggesting."
Rodolfo tenderly stroked my black, sweat-soaked hair. My
scalp tingled when he said, "I forgive you."
Alto, the pirate who until recently continued pinching
Jorge's nipples, approached Rodolfo and me. He helped
Rodolfo release the lock that held the wooden stocks around
my neck and wrists. "If this is your first time, there's no need
to have an accident," he said. "Relax and enjoy yourselves."
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Alto winked at me, his blue eyes glittering with a smile he hid
from the rest of his face.
I knelt at Rodolfo's feet and kissed his cock. "I'm sorry," I
said again. "I should have taken care of you back in the
hostel. I want to take care of you now." Opening my mouth
as wide as I could, I swallowed my husband's cock as far as
my mouth and throat could take him. He lifted his balls from
where they hung below my chin and raised them to my lips. I
tried opening my mouth wider to include them in my sucking,
but I couldn't make them fit. Every time I lowered my bottom
lip to try, my gag reflex reminded me that Rodolfo's long cock
was already pushing the boundaries of what I could handle.
He withdrew all the way for me to breathe. My eyes were
watering partly from the hot Spanish sun and partly from my
frustration. "I want to do this," I said while Rodolfo pressed
the head of his penis into the back of my mouth.
"I know you do. I'm glad you're trying," he said while
caressing my scalp.
His touch calmed me enough that I regained my erection. I
remembered that some of the other pirates were probably
watching us. When I reached for Rodolfo's sack with my
fingertips to raise it in another attempt, he moaned softly. He
paused and said, "Don't worry about that right now. The
effort is what counts. I'm almost there."
In my concentration at taking all of him into my mouth, I
had missed Rodolfo's heavy breathing and the subtle rocking
of his hips. My body swayed against his in rhythm while my
lips tightened around his penis. As soon as I tasted his
orgasm, I realized this was the first time I had pleasured him
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with my mouth as husband and husband. When I swallowed,
I felt Rodolfo pat me on the shoulder.
"I forgive you," he said.
* * * *
When the pirate boat anchored, we were facing Fisterra,
also known in Latin as Finisterre. Growing up, I had been on
the rocky beach many times to visit the place the Romans
considered to be the end of the Earth. The sea crashed with
violence against the rocks every time in the past I visited and
watched the pilgrims throw their boots into the ocean. I
explained the ritual to Rodolfo as one of the pirates threw the
anchor off the side of the deck for us to stare at the end of
the Earth.
"Why do they cast their boots into the ocean?" my
husband said.
"Because the pilgrims have walked for many days, usually
months. They begin in various places, but mostly they begin
in continental Europe. One of the more traditional places to
begin the journey is in France, but a pilgrim can begin the
pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela from anywhere. The
goal is to visit the tomb of St. James the Apostle held in the
crypt in the Cathedral. Many pilgrims have been walking
nonstop for several months, but aren't quite ready to end the
trip when they reach Santiago. Their feet full of blisters, their
skin scorched, and a lot of weight lost, a large number of
them continue walking until they reach the ocean. It's more
of a fitting place to end a journey and begin a new life after
the pilgrimage."
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Rodolfo kissed me tenderly on the mouth, then squeezed
me in a warm hug. "Here's to the end of the Earth, and here's
to the beginning of our marriage," he said.
I kissed him back and said, "To the end of the Earth."
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Firsts: On the Kink Cruise
by Kaysee Renee Robichaud
Masks were mandatory after dark. Leave your cabin and
you had to wear one. Scotty studied the leather hood, the
brilliant chrome snaps for blindfold and gag. Neither of these
was present, yet. Should a top see meat he liked, then he
would make the approach. The master would bring his own
accoutrements, of course, since different masters, Mel
assured him, had different tastes.
What was Scotty doing here? He was BDSM curious—bi-
curious, for that matter—but taking part of a six-day kink
cruise? Instead of wading into this strange, seemingly
wonderful world, this was tantamount to leaping in headfirst
and hoping the water was deep enough that he would not
crack his skull open.
The rest of the outfit, studded leather harness, g-string,
black boots—those he could handle. It was like going out for
Halloween in P-Town. The red beads, color code for "seeking
male top," were a little weird juxtaposed to the leather outfit.
A taste of Mardi Gras meets the Marquis de Sade. This
seemed a little, well, off. But it was all part of the costuming,
right? This mask, however. It was a little scary,
claustrophobic. What would it feel like on?
Leather and chrome, thick bindings in the back to make it
second skin snug. Zippered slots for his nostrils, snaps for
gag and blindfold.
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Outside, he heard the sounds of the deck party starting
up. Fifty kink connoisseurs looking for some sweetmeat
pastimes.
That, he thought with a shy grin, could be me.
A pastime. A spot of fun. Such an idea simultaneously
filled his face with an embarrassed flush and bobbed his cock
in its leather cup.
He pulled the mask on. It proved tighter than he thought it
was going to be. A choking darkness. He struggled to pull it
down, sweaty fingers slipping from the material. Then, light
and air greeted his success. The mask hugged close, like
multiple pairs of hands firm around him. He reached back and
pulled the cords tight, cinching the mask even closer. Not
uncomfortable at all. In fact, he had to admit it was kind of
reassuring. Like some beefcake hunk holding his head with
both arms, cradling him against bared, muscle-bound chest.
Or maybe being sandwiched between two hunks.
Kind of yummy, all told.
In the mirror, he could not recognize himself. The mask
made him ... someone else. The eyes were his, though the
pinched corners of the mask gave them a quality of the
otherworldly. The full lips were his, though the ring of black
around them emphasized their redness, their shape when
open. The body was his, toned through regular visits to the
free weights, but the costume practically made it someone
else.
The power of masks. Of costumes. They could free a
person, remove him from his inhibitions.
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Outside, a crack and luscious whimper. He turned around,
eyed the reflected halves of his ass, separated by the slender
strip of black. He reached back and ran a hand along the
slope of one cheek, pondering the lines of red to come.
"Spank me," he whispered, "Please spank me."
His blush did not show through the mask. He did not show.
He could do anything, be anything, beg anything. He—
Should he?
Would he?
Could he?
"Yes," the mask said with his voice.
* * * *
The party was ramping up when Scotty joined it. Masked
faces, all around. Masquerade animals and bondage hoods
and fixed domino masks. Their bodies were nude or adorned
with leather straps and shiny D-clips, or fully hidden beneath
shiny latex. The beads they wore were obvious—blue for tops,
red for bottoms—even more so than the tools of punishment
in tops' hands.
Where, he wondered nervously, does a body even begin?
"Are you new?" someone asked. Red beads. A lovely-
bodied sub, with broad shoulders and arms that looked strong
enough to crush granite should he choose to embrace it. The
stranger wore a white leather cowl, harness and cup. The
color made his flesh, nearly as black as fertile earth, seem
somehow even darker. A faint sheen of sweat gleamed
beneath the indirect lighting as did the crossed barbells
through his nipples.
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"Yeah," Scotty said.
"You know the rules?"
Scotty had received a printout along with his beads, at
trip's beginning. Simple enough rules about safe words and
decorum. They all seemed to be pretty much common sense,
though Scotty had never actually thought about fetishism in
such a reasoned manner. "Yes."
"What are your preferences?"
Scotty drew his lower lip between his teeth, and the
stranger reached up to flick his own left nipple. "I want to
explore my limits."
"Don't we all," the stranger said. "How new are you?"
"I've played a little. Once or twice."
"What do they call you?" the stranger asked.
Uhm. Not his real name, that was for sure.
The stranger noticed his hesitation. "They call me Rice."
"Call me ... Shy." Was this too close to Scotty? It began
and ended the same letters.
Rice's lips turned up in a smile. "Okay, Shy."
In the moment the name emerged from Rice's lips, the
masked Scotty became someone else. It was kind of freeing,
really. Strange to think of it: freedom found in a tight mask
and a leather bondage harness? But there it was.
"I can show you around, if you want," Rice said. "Maybe
make some introductions?"
"I would appreciate that."
Rice led him around the room, past neighing pony boys in
their hoofed gloves and boots, past a pair of svelte boys
kissing while kneeling upon thorny rose stems, past
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approving tops and conspiring bottoms, to a section dedicated
to human furniture, where tops' asses rested upon the
sculpted bodies of carefully positioned bottoms. Rice offered
the names of potential tops, and a few details. "But these are
men you'll want to work up to," the dark skinned man said, "I
think I have the perfect starting Master for you."
Rice led the way to a slender man in a mask adorned with
colorful peacock feathers. He wore a suit straight out of the
1920s. Finery that would not be out of place in a period piece,
some F. Scott Fitzgerald story perhaps. The top's goatee was
white as Maui sand.
"Master Pi," Rice bowed before gesturing to Shy. "May I
present Shy for your entertainment?"
"A new guest, eh?" Master Pi said. A European accent.
French, perhaps? Master Pi's eyes twinkled with unspeakable
promises. "Answer me now."
"I am new here," Shy said.
"Bold little thing, aren't you?" The top's eyes roamed down
his body. "You should really be kneeling, Shy. And bowing
your head." Master Pi turned a finger down, pointing the way
to the floor for emphasis.
Shy dropped to one knee, resting his arm across the bent
other leg like some medieval messenger newly come to the
court of a king. He bowed his head. "Apologies, Master Pi."
Chills like electricity ran through his body.
Like diving headfirst—It was too late to stop now. The
water had risen to cover his head, and in time he would see
whether it was deep enough for him or whether he would
rebound off the bottom.
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"A little catamount, eh?" Master Pi chuckled. The throaty
sound suggested realms of mystery and wonderment. "I think
you may well do. I like to bind my toys," he said. "Would you
like that? My ropes around you. Clasping you to Rice here.
Would you perform for me?"
Scotty considered the sensation of Rice's hardened
muscles against his own body. Wondered how the man's
tongue might feel rolling round and round his own. Pondered
the contents of that full, white cup. The images filled his head
and heart with such delicious desire. "I would," Shy said,
"Master."
At his command, one of the two pieces of Master Pi's chair
held up several spools of colorful rope. The top took the
offering and rose, unspooling the ropes as he walked closer to
his prizes.
Dreadful vulnerability crystallized within Scotty's spine.
With so many eyes around—sure, they were uninterested in
him for the moment, but what about later? If they all looked
at him, wouldn't he curl up into an embarrassed heap? Maybe
even die?
Shy, however, remained where he was. Dropping now to
both knees.
Master Pi drew Rice's hands behind his back, turning
purple, black, and gray rope around wrist and arms, then
around the man's gorgeous body. The act was slow and
sensual to watch, the colorful ropes sliding across sweat-
shining skin like languorous serpents crushing close. As
Master Pi cinched them tight, Rice gasped. Nearby tops and
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bottoms watched, interests aroused by the way Pi moved, the
way Rice responded.
"Your turn, Shy. Come here."
Scotty felt a sudden urge to rise and flee. To find
somewhere to hide with his embarrassment.
A strong part of him wanted to remain, to partake of this
moment, this scene, yet, a larger part wondered: How could
he endure all this scrutiny?
Scotty might have fled, but Shy did not. On both knees,
Shy inched toward the Master, following the command, but
slowly. Petulance peeked through the subservience,
demanding to be broken. Master Pi's grin promised delicious
reprisals.
Eventually, Shy arrived in the desired position, his chest
only inches from the second slave's. "Your impertinence will
not go unpunished," Master Pi said.
New ropes filled the top's hands. Copperhead colorations.
The top drew them across Shy's shoulders. Silken sensation
slithered across his skin, then round his mask, across his lips.
A tease, this.
Without a word, Master Pi pulled Shy's hands behind his
back. Shy's muscles tensed, defiant; ultimately, however, he
yielded. Silken loops wound round his wrists, curled up
around arms and elbows. Master Pi was nearly breathless as
he whispered, "You impertinent whelp. I'll show you how I
defang a catamount." Loose loops tightened with a tug,
drawing a surprised hiss of from Shy's lips and rendering his
arms immobile.
More ropes.
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Around Shy's chest, flicking his stiffening nipples, gliding
round his sides and back. Every caress of that rope sent
charges through his body, drawing twitches. Shy writhed as
Master Pi drew the lengths around him, loose until his
practiced tugs cinched them tight. Shy moaned softly as he
tugged at the unyielding ropes.
"My little pet," Master Pi said.
Another rope, this time wrapping round Rice's waist and
around Shy's and back again. When these tightened, they
drew the two slaves together like panels of a corset. Contact
evoked a fresh shiver.
"Now, dance for me," Master Pi ordered.
Rice began. His hard body was a furnace, pouring heat into
Shy's. He swayed against Shy, body grinding in a slow side-
to-side motion. A cobra enchanted by the seductive tune of a
charmer's pipe. Soon, the air was rich with the black man's
musk and flavored with sweat salt. Shy matched the motions
as well as he could, then countered them. Soon they were
rubbing back and forth, around and about.
The rubbing was hot in more ways than temperature. The
air around them soon grew charged, ready to launch lusty
lightning to the surrounding crowd or possibly attracting
errant heat-born sparks. As their bound forms ground
through their sluttish dance, more and more eyes found their
ways over.
Eager gazes energized Shy. Hungry minds and spirits
fueled their dance.
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Soon, Shy's leather bound erection brushed against Rice's.
This was a wholly different sensation. Tingles of anticipation
tensed and relaxed his muscles in orgiastic orchestrations.
"Enough," Master Pi ordered. Rice stopped in an instant.
Shy continued only a beat longer. "Such defiance! How poorly
your name fits you, Shy." Master Pi lashed a hand across
Shy's ass. Contact and then only the lingering ghost of a slap.
Slowly fading.
My God, Scotty thought. But Shy smiled, wordlessly
begging for more.
Master Pi chuckled. "You must earn it, Shy. Will you serve
me, tonight?"
"Yes." Oh God, yes!
Master Pi held out a hand, and one of his furniture
servants put an oddly thick, off-balance boomerang into it.
No, Scotty realized, it was a gag. Arching dildo on one side,
smaller, fatter dildo on the other. One for insertion into a
mouth, the other for inserting—elsewhere.
Shy was salivating at sight of the thing.
"Oh," Master Pi said, "this is not for you. Or, I suppose it
is."
Now it was Rice's turn to preen.
"Yes, Rice," Master Pi said. "You may sodomize this
impertinent catamount. With this." He shook the gag
tantalizingly, then clipped it to Rice's mask. After a couple of
gagging moments, Rice knelt at the ready. His breaths came
moist around the plug in his mouth.
Master Pi undid the ropes. What had seemed so taut, so
unyielding, fell away with only a few gestures. Master Pi put a
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boot sole on Shy's sternum and shoved Shy onto his back,
rendering him helpless as a turtle. How strong for such a
slender man! Another throaty chuckle followed as the top
gazed down upon the prostrate bottom. "Position this
catamount."
Two brawny slaves emerged from the growing throng of
onlookers. They took hold of Shy and turned him over.
Arranged him. He was on his knees. Bent forward, ass raised
and ready.
Someone, perhaps Master Pi, perhaps one of the brawny
lads, yanked the g-string aside, baring the puckered asshole.
"Look at him twitch," Master Pi observed. "Lubricate him."
Scotty recoiled at the touch of strangers, but Shy was once
more energized. Every moment the sharp smelling, lubricated
fingers rubbed in and out of his asshole, slicking the skin,
readying it for the coming dildo, flowers of lust spread their
petals inside Shy's body and mind and soul. My God, Scotty
thought, what am I becoming? Then, a sudden dawning
revelation: Have I ever really known myself before this
moment?
"He is ready," an effeminate man's voice said, "Master Pi."
"Position Rice."
Sounds of movement, of exertion. Grunts and unsteady
steps, and then the clink of D-Rings. Sensation: a thick, room
temperature object nudged Shy's ass. Scotty recoiled, once
more, and Shy shoved back as though he might impale
himself upon it.
It remained ever out of reach. Rice moved in time with
him, teasing but offering no payoff.
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"Please," Shy whimpered. "Please fill me."
A hand cuffed him across the buttocks, and Shy yelped.
"Easy now, my little catamount. Easy."
Rice growled, animal-like and eager. What were they doing
to him? Were they slicking Rice's ass, too? Would it be a chain
of buggery?
The idea brought such fascinating images.
From further back, Master Pi's voice came again. "Now,
Rice." The dildo's tip slipped into Shy's ass, spreading the
winking hole wide, wider. A strange sensation, that. So much
more than anything he had attempted. Tiny plugs, no wider
than his ring finger had been all Scotty could work up the
courage for. Even his few bouts with pegging had been with
narrow implements. And the occasional tongue. Nothing like—
this.
The dildo was fat, and his ass yawned wider than ever
before. The stretching sensation was at once terrifying and
indescribably amazing. At first, he instinctively squeezed
shut. All these people watching made Scotty nervous.
However, squeezing shut around the dildo tip only sent pain
shooting through him. I have to relax, Scotty thought, but
how? Shy relaxed instinctively.
Even before it had entered completely, Rice's dildo gag slid
back out again. Shy's asshole felt enormous, as though
anyone might be able to glance inside and see straight to his
core.
Rice grunted through his gag, whimpering as Shy had been
whimpering. Scotty realized, Rice's being fucked, too. A daisy
chain of sodomy, how dirty-beautiful.
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Then, the dildo was back inside him again, surging
forward, eager to spread his ass ever wider. Shy screamed for
it to fill him. Howled for more, more, more. He begged while
the crowd watched, grinning at him, touching each other.
Slaves fellated their masters, while tops relished the
entertainment.
Watch me.
Fuck me.
Out again. Had the dildo yet reached its halfway point?
Rice panted for cock. Then the dildo was in Shy once more.
My God, Scotty thought, yes.
Yes, yes, yes-yes-yesyesyes!
On the fourth entry, Rice's face reached Shy's cheeks. The
dildo was completely in, stretching his ass beyond imagining.
The rubber shaft moved side to side, sending new currents
through Shy's body. He strained at the ropes. He screamed in
pleasure. It was too much.
His limbs felt extraneous. Out of control. How could so
much sensation fill one body? Surely, he must burst! He—
Out again.
In.
Out.
In. Yes.
Shy's cock had never been harder, its head strained
against the leather.
Out.
In.
Then faster. Impossible to tell just where that dildo was.
So much sensation poured through Shy's body, his
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consciousness blanked on the moment. The crowd smeared
amidst tears of pleasure. His knees were raw against the
floor. His back strained, his muscles burned, his entire body
begged for release—
Finally, the eagerly awaited order arrived: "Release, my
pet." Master Pi! "Sing to me of your release!"
In that moment, dildo buried to the hilt, Shy did sing. His
cock spat into the black leather cup, and his voice went
through all the octaves of desire, of pleasure, of freedom.
When his voice broke, he lay in shivering shock.
These waters, he had discovered, were more than deep
enough for him to dive into.
* * * *
The next morning, a set of knocks roused Scotty from
dream recollections of the last night's explorations. It was
Mel, the friend who talked him into trying this little cruise in
the first place. Breakfast was ready, and Mel had brought a
selection to Scotty's cabin.
"Just a minute," Scotty said, "Let me find my robe."
His ass was still pleasantly big this morning. All through
the night when he had been trying to get to sleep, he had felt
the need to go to the bathroom. Number two. Of course, he
really did not have to go. It was only a mental association
side effect of the ass stretching.
The sensation lingered even now.
After finding his robe, Scotty let Mel in. They shared eggs
and waffles while exchanging good morning pleasantries.
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Finally, Mel got to the real question on his mind. "Are you
having a good time?"
Scotty glanced toward the hat box where the mask and
harness waited. Black leather, chrome snaps. Would he be in
the gag, tonight?
"Yes," said Shy Scotty without a moment's hesitation. "I
am." The two voices were almost indistinguishable now. After
tonight, would there be a difference at all.
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Stranger on the Shore
by Clarissa Duquesne
I noticed Janice's car in the parking lot when I arrived, a
powder-blue Ford Escort with a Save the Whales sticker in the
back window. Phil would no doubt have traveled with her, and
that was really something I didn't understand at all, why
somebody so obviously heterosexual would act in gay porn
movies, and how his girlfriend could be so blasé about him
fucking men, but it wasn't my business. As long as Phil turned
in a decent performance and Janice captured it on film,
whatever compromises they made with their sexuality in their
private lives was up to them. Certainly they appeared
perfectly happy, and that was something I envied. I wished I
had a guy who would look at me the way Phil looked at
Janice.
The beach was virtually deserted, just as our location scout
had reported, though it would fill up later in the day. The only
people I could see were a middle-aged couple ensconced
within a circle of matching windbreaks and baking in the early
morning sun, their bodies basted with suntan lotion and
naked except for strategically placed strips of brightly colored
material. They looked like they were settled in for the day,
and I was glad about that as the last thing we needed was a
stream of passing foot traffic. Not wanting to draw attention,
I detoured down to the waterline to give them a wide berth.
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As I walked, something caught my eye, an object nestling
in the sand that captured the sunlight coming off the water
and threw it back with a dazzling radiance. Curious, I stopped
to see what it was. The neck of a bottle protruded from the
sand, waves washing in and out around it. I waited a moment
until the tide retreated, then dashed forward to seize it from
the ocean's grip. The bottle resisted at first, as if the sand
wanted to keep hold of it, then gave so suddenly, I almost fell
over. It was a rather plain-looking piece, green glass so thick
you couldn't see through it, a cork in the neck, the only
distinguishing feature strange marks in a vertical line down
one side. I thought they might be Arabic, but it was only a
guess. The bottle had no doubt been thrown overboard from
a passing ship and washed up here. My friend Callie collected
ornamental glass and this might be of interest to her, so I
slipped it into my duffel bag.
As I did so I thought I heard a voice speak, but when I
looked all around me there was nobody near, only gulls
circling overhead and the susurration of the waves on the
sand, which suddenly seemed slightly more intimidating than
before, a sense of relentlessness about it. It was as if the sea
was sending out feelers, threatening to wash over my
sandaled feet with each fresh inroad it made on the beach.
Feeling slightly foolish, I stepped back out of the waves'
reach..
A hundred yards or so down the beach, I could see the
others: Phil and Gerry had already stripped down to their
Speedos and Janice was studying them through the lens of
the camera, looking to get their best sides, taking into
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account stuff like sun reflecting off the water. I stepped up
the pace, and within a couple of minutes I was alongside,
dropping my duffel bag down on the sand.
"And here's Martin, late as usual," said Janice, but there
was no criticism in her voice.
"It's my trademark," I said and shook hands with
everybody. "You guys know what's required?"
"Sucking and fucking," said Gerry. "Just like in the last
hundred films we've made."
"There's a bit more to it than that," I said, hurt by the
dismissive nature of the comment. This wasn't high art, as I'd
be the first to admit, but I did make some effort to inject a
little variety into my scripts.
"I've got a screen test over at Boyz R'Us early this
afternoon," said Phil, "so could we please get a move on?"
"Fine with me," I said, not for the first time confirming to
myself the truth of Hitchcock's observation that actors were
cattle, but he'd never had to direct gay porn stars. If so, I'm
sure he'd have come up with an even more derogatory
metaphor.
They'd set up in close to the cliff, so nobody walking on the
path up above could easily look down on us, and in a natural
cleft in the rock face so that we had at least a little shelter,
from both the breeze and prying eyes. A couple of windbreaks
provided yet more protection, and Phil was stretched out on a
tartan beach blanket between them, naked except for black
Speedos that set off perfectly the copper color of his finely
toned physique. Gerry wandered off down to the waterline
clutching the multi-colored beach ball that was his only prop.
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"Okay, action," I called, and then for the next half hour
tried to keep out of shot, while offering minimal direction and
keeping an eye out for intruders. This was probably the most
important part of my job, as none of us wanted to get
arrested for public indecency, and public indecency was most
definitely on the menu for Big Boyz Beach Balls-Up.
Gerry's beach ball rolled alongside of where Phil was
laying, and Phil raised his head and regarded the intrusive
object through tinted glasses. Gerry bounded up the beach,
doing his best Mitch Buchanan impression, only he was a lot
more ripped than the Hoff had ever been.
"Sorry," he said to Phil, then, "Man, you're starting to
burn."
"Why don't you put some lotion on me?" asked Phil.
Gerry didn't need to be asked twice. He picked up the tube
of suntan lotion and squeezed a generous dollop onto the
palm of his other hand, the phallic subtext of the action not
lost on the camera.
He smoothed the white cream onto Phil's bronzed torso,
taking care to circle the nipples and run his fingers over Phil's
washboard-hard stomach, the gesture intimate, almost a
caress. The camera panned down Phil's body, revealing a
suggestive bulge in his trunks. Gerry hesitated for a moment,
teasing the camera, making it seem as if he was going to
grab Phil's cock, but then his hand moved further down,
working the lotion into Phil's muscular thighs, making the skin
shine.
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"That feels good," said Phil. His arms were raised and his
head rested on his hands. Seeing the camera on his face, he
flared his nostrils and licked his lips suggestively.
Gerry leaned over, tongue protruding slightly. He flicked
Phil's left nipple with the tip, then his right one, took it into
his mouth and sucked. His hand lay flat on Phil's stomach,
just above the waistband of Phil's Speedos.
Phil sighed. "Touch me."
Gerry grinned broadly and rubbed the palm of his hand
against the lump in Phil's Speedos, moving his head up to kiss
Phil on the lips. As their tongues entwined, Gerry eased his
fingers under the waistband of the Speedos, then slid his
whole hand inside the trunks. For a moment the camera
focused on Gerry's hand wriggling beneath the black material,
and then he pried back the Speedos to expose Phil's
substantial cock to the eye of the lens.
Phil was semi-erect and Gerry took a firm grip of him,
working the cock from its root to the tip, easing back the
foreskin and caressing the whole length of him. With every
stroke, Phil seemed to grow bigger and harder: it was like
watching a flower blossom with time-lapse photography.
When Phil was fully erect, Gerry bent down and went to
work with his mouth, at first licking up and down his length,
then using the tip of his tongue to tease the purple bulb of
Phil's glans, which was already gleaming with pre-come, and
finally taking him into his mouth, lips peeled back to cushion
the teeth, the muscles in his neck working as he sucked on
Phil's cock. He went at it for a good five minutes, every so
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often slipping the cock free to give the camera a shot of its
saliva-covered head, gripping Phil firmly by the root.
When he sensed Phil was about to pop, Gerry released
him. Phil sat up and wrestled his companion to the ground,
tearing Gerry's Speedos off and letting the camera see his
cock for the first time, flopping free from his body and every
bit as large and gorged with blood as Phil's organ. Phil had
Gerry crouching on all fours. He peeled apart the younger
man's buttocks and rimmed his asshole, teasing Gerry with
his fat, pink tongue, gently nipping the meat of his buttocks
with his teeth. One of his hands slipped between Gerry's
thighs and affectionately squeezed his scrotum, feeling how
the sack was close to bursting with come, and then he circled
Gerry's cock and began to stroke it, gently at first but
gathering speed, going harder and faster.
"Fuck me!" hissed Gerry through clenched teeth, his
breath coming in short bursts. "Fuck me!"
Phil reached for a tube of Astro-Glide I'd placed on the
blanket while the camera was pointed elsewhere, and shot
some over Gerry's asshole, and his fingers went to work,
making the pink knot of flesh gleam, smoothing the opaque
lube inside Gerry's rectum, reaming him while the younger
man sighed with pleasure. Satisfied that Gerry was
sufficiently lubricated, Phil took his own cock in his hand,
lathered its length with lube and maneuvered the head into
the waiting orifice, using his fingers for positioning and
support until the tip was gripped tight by Gerry's anus, then
holding him firmly by the hips and pushing forward, gently
easing his cock inside until it was fully engulfed, the camera
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capturing every second of the penetration, after which he
began to fuck Gerry with abandon.
For five minutes or more the only sounds were the animal
grunts of the two men and the meaty slap of Phil's belly as it
smacked against Gerry's buttocks. Phil's hands caressed
Gerry as he fucked him, running over the younger man's
broad back and digging into his hips so hard the fingers left
red marks, curling round to grasp Gerry's rock hard cock and
give it a reassuring stroke or two, tugging at his mat of thick
bleached blond pubic hair and squeezing his ball sack.
"I'm going to come," snarled Phil. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna
come!"
He pulled free before the moment of crisis arrived, the
camera zooming in on his bloated cock, the purple head slick
with lube and pre-come. Gerry flipped over onto his back and
got his face in position for when Phil shot his load, mouth
open to take as much of the thick, creamy spunk as he could
manage. Phil furiously pummeled his cock with his fist, his
face and chest both bright red. He threw back his head and
screamed as he came, the white ejaculate spraying over
Gerry's face, and the younger man eagerly gulped it down,
laughing and smiling at the camera as his features were
coated.
Gerry's own orgasm was close. Phil leaned over and
tongued Gerry's cock. He bent his head at an angle and
kissed the underside, paused for a moment to suck the
scrotum, and then ran his tongue up the length and round the
glans. He opened his mouth wide and slipped it over the
engorged cock, sucking hard and rolling his eyes. His head
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bobbed up and down, and Gerry tried to seize hold of him but
his hands fluttered uselessly, unable to get a grip. Phil waited
until the last second, then pulled away. He grabbed hold of
Gerry's ball sack and squeezed, rolled it around between his
fingers like he was manipulating a vacuum pump, and Gerry
came hard, discharging his come in white streamers over
Phil's chest and smiling face, spurting over and over again
until I thought he'd never stop.
"Fuck, that tastes good," said Phil, his long tongue
stretching out and licking come off his wet, gleaming chops.
He reached up and jerked Gerry's cock some more, milking
him of every single last drop, catching the gouts of come in
his open mouth.
"And that's a wrap," I said.
Grinning, the two men got to their feet and cleaned
themselves off with some wet wipes Janice handed them.
They pulled up their Speedos and put on more clothes,
matching tees and denim shorts, flip-flops, and shades.
"You want me to drop the film off at the office, or will you
do it?" asked Janice.
"You can," I said. "I thought I'd stay here for a while."
"Nice day for it," said Phil. "You could do with a tan. You're
looking really pasty."
"Thanks," I said, trying not to sound offended, because I
knew the comment was on target and Phil had intended
nothing mean by it.
The three of them gathered up their things and took off,
nobody bothering to look back, which was pretty much par for
the course.
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While Hollywood might pay lip service to the cult of the
director as auteur, there was no denying that in the world of
gay porn we were little more than glorified go-fers at the
mercy of the stars' every whim. I'd had dreams of being a
leading man in my younger days, but an average cock and
inability to get wood on demand had dashed those hopes, and
so I had drifted into writing and directing instead, a way to
stay part of the industry I loved and meet lots of hot guys. In
the years since, I had put on weight and lost hair, as well as
becoming thoroughly disillusioned with the life, and nowadays
the only chance of action I had with guys like Phil and Gerry
was if I jerked off while watching my own films.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, commanded some inner
voice, but although I tried my best, it wasn't easy. Nothing
had worked out as I'd planned.
I laid out my own beach blanket and, after looking round
to check nobody was about, I stripped off and slipped into my
swimwear of choice, a pair of baggy khaki shorts-style trunks
that did nothing to flatter my slightly obese figure. I'd got
turned on watching Phil and Gerry do their stuff and was still
semi-stiff, but even so my cock didn't measure up to Phil's
spectacular organ, which was over four inches flaccid, and
twice that when fully erect.
Don't be so negative, came that inner voice again, only
this time it seemed to have an exterior source. I looked all
around me, but there was nobody close by, and even if there
had been, how could they know what I was thinking?
I can read your mind, idiot.
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I shook my head. Something strange was going on. Had
things got me down so much that I was finally losing my
senses? Or perhaps one of the others was playing a stupid
trick on me: it was just the sort of shitty thing Gerry would
do.
Feeling slightly dizzy, I sat down on the blanket and looked
all around again, but there was still nobody nearby. The voice
was gone, leaving only the squawking of the seagulls perched
in niches on the cliff face overhead to disturb the silence, and
the soporific sound made by the inrushing sea as it stirred the
pebbles on the shoreline. Off to the right, the sands were
starting to fill up, brightly colored beach umbrellas
blossoming in profusion as the newcomers staked out their
places in the sun. The weathermen had forecast the hottest
day of the year so far, and the sun seemed to be doing its
level best to live up to those expectations. As yet, nobody had
wandered down this end of the beach, but that wouldn't last.
I burned easily, much to my chagrin. I would dearly have
liked to be as mahogany brown as Phil and Gerry, but the
better part of wisdom dictated that I slather myself with
Factor 40 suntan lotion, and so I reached inside my duffel bag
for the tube of cream I had brought with me, but when my
hand emerged it was holding the bottle I had picked up down
on the shoreline.
"What the fuck?" I said, certain that it was a tube of
suntan lotion my fingers had gripped and not this piece of
junk.
Why don't you let me out?
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This time I was sure that I heard a voice, and that it came
from the bottle, impossible as that seemed.
"Who are you?" I asked, feeling foolish. This had to be a
gag of some kind: the others had set me up for one of those
hidden-camera-style programs popular with the general
public. That was the only thing that made sense, and if so,
then I could be a good sport and play along.
I'm a genie said the voice and I've been stuck in this bottle
for more than forty years.
"Wow," I said, "you must need to visit the loo really bad."
Don't be ridiculous, said the voice. I'm a genie. I don't
have to pee. But there are other things I really do need, such
as a bloody good fuck and a porterhouse steak.
I laughed, suddenly realizing where this was all coming
from. It was part of the script of The Genie With the Lump, a
feature I'd directed about three years ago starring Phil. He'd
found an old lamp in an antique shop and released the genie
who'd granted him three wishes, and, of course, as this was
targeted at the gay market, all of those wishes had involved
Phil fucking hot men. I still considered the climactic scene in
the sauna to be one of my best moments in gay porn, the
sort of thing that would have scooped up awards by the
truckload if I'd worked in a more respectable field of
endeavor.
"And if I let you out, do I get three wishes?" I asked, still
playing along.
Typical mortal. Just thinking about yourself. No
consideration for me. Forty years I've been in here, and so
bloody cramped there's not even room to jerk myself off.
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"You have my sympathy," I said, trying hard not to laugh
as I repeated the barely remembered lines from my script.
"But if you want to get out..."
All right, all right, have it your own way. Three wishes it is.
You'll only muck them up. Your kind always do.
The end of the cork stood up from the neck of the bottle.
Smiling for the camera I felt sure was hidden nearby, I
gripped it between my forefinger and thumb. It resisted at
first and then gave with a loud plop of escaping air. Startled, I
let go of the bottle and scooted backwards. Suddenly there
were gulls swooping down and giving voice to minatory
screams; the waves sounded much louder and for a second I
felt certain that I'd made a terrible mistake, done something I
shouldn't. The bottle lay on its side, thick black smoke
billowing out of the neck.
It was the gotcha moment, the moment when the others
should have rushed out from wherever they were hiding and
mocked my gullibility, but something else entirely happened.
The smoke drifted skyward and then back down,
coalescing in the shape of a man...
...and it was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen.
Like Johnny Depp when he'd starred in What's Eating
Gilbert Grape?, only with straight teeth and beefed up. The
same finely sculpted features though, and piercing blue eyes,
and shoulder-length hair that shone black as the midnight
sun, and his manly chest and his stomach rippling with
muscle, the dimple of his navel like a jewel in that ornate
setting, and skin that gleamed like alabaster, and those arms
and those hands, and—and he was naked. I let my eyes stray
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down his body, my mouth so dry it felt like it was stuffed with
cotton wool. Nestled there amid jet-black pubic hair was the
most beautiful cock I had ever seen; not as big as Phil's,
perhaps, but more finely proportioned and with an ivory
complexion against which the thick veins stood out like cords
of rope, the foreskin just slightly tugged back from the head
to expose the red bulb of his glans.
I wanted to take that cock and make it hard, and then
dash myself against it until one or other of us were destroyed
completely, utterly.
"Well, I think I know what your first wish is going to be,"
he said, staring at my crotch as his lips, those kissable lips of
his, formed a moue of amusement.
"Yes," I said, as there was no point denying it, not while
the sign of my lust was so evident between my thighs.
"I guess I could suck it a little," he said, "though I'm more
into pussy. Would you like to make your other wishes now,
before you get distracted?"
I didn't have to give the question any thought. I knew
exactly what I wanted, had always known.
"I want to be a famous film director," I said, deviating
slightly from the script of The Genie With the Lump, in which
Phil had wanted to be a famous writer, but improvisation is
good. "And I want to be so good looking that no man will be
able to resist me."
"The latter might be a little difficult." said the genie, his
voice as clear-cut as that of an announcer on the BBC's World
Service. "But I like a challenge. Now if we're going to fuck,
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then you had better get out of those awful trunks. I thought
gay men were supposed to have fashion sense."
I laughed. The genie was ad libbing too, and it was just the
sort of deprecatory remark that Gerry might have made. The
reasoning part of my brain told me that, however fantastic,
this had to be a trick of some kind, an attempt to make a fool
of me. And yet there was another part of my brain that
simply couldn't explain how black smoke poured out of a
bottle and took the shape of a man. In The Genie With the
Lump, we'd had the smoke clear to reveal the actor who
played the genie in all his glory, which was all the special
effects budget would stretch to.
While I knew that what was happening was impossible, like
the delicious David Duchovny in full Fox Mulder mode, I
sooooo wanted to believe, and even more so I wanted to go
down deep and dirty with that beautiful piece of man meat
hanging between my genie's legs. I might be about to make
myself a laughingstock, but the gain was worth the pain, and
so I quickly pulled off my trunks, acutely conscious that I did
not measure up in any way to the Adonis who stood before
me.
"Lie back and relax," he said. "Close your eyes and pretend
I'm your dream lover."
'I did as he told me, and it was him that I thought about,
his gorgeous body in all its masculine splendor. I could hear
the waves and I could feel the sun on my skin, branding me
with its rays, and the cool breeze from off the sea playing
round my balls and upstanding cock, and the moment
stretched and stretched, pregnant with anticipation. Then,
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when I had almost abandoned hope, when I was ready to
dismiss it all as just a dream and open my eyes and go on
with my life, I felt his hand laid flat in the centre of my chest,
and my heart started to race.
"Keep your eyes closed," he commanded. "Don't move a
muscle."
His hands massaged me, starting in concert just below my
navel and sweeping up over my torso, a tender friction where
the palms pressed to my flesh, curving outwards across my
chest, over my shoulders and down my sides in broad,
flowing strokes, the action repeated over and over again, like
the dominant phrase in a piece of music, the central riff that
sets the agenda and round which all the rest revolves.
I sighed and a hand moved to my face. I felt his fingertips
move lightly over my features, as if a blind man was seeing
me for the first time. He plucked at my lips and caressed my
cheek with the back of his hand, the flesh warm and textured,
a faint scent of vanilla wafting in my nostrils.
Suddenly the heat of the day was gone and I sensed he
was leaning in close, his shadow blotting out the sun. His
fingers tangled in my hair, and I felt his warm breath on my
skin as he gently kissed my eyelids, ran his lips over my nose
and pressed them to my own.
I opened myself to him, let him kiss me. Our lips and teeth
mashed against each other, our tongues played and our saliva
mingled, and he breathed into me, filled my mouth and throat
with the essence of his life force, and I drank it down,
wanting this moment of such perfect intimacy to never end.
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He broke the contact, and I made to protest but he
pressed a fingertip to my lips as a sign that I should remain
silent.
"Trust me," he said.
His hands ran down my body, then lay flat against my
thighs, one either side of my penis, which I knew stood at full
mast. I wanted him to touch me. I willed him to touch me.
And he did.
His hand was slick with something, perhaps the lube Phil
had left behind, as he wrapped it around the shaft of my cock
and began to stroke me, gently at first and holding me lightly.
His fingers and thumb formed a flange, a tunnel of sorts, and
within its confines, he vibrated my manhood, the sensation of
contact like an ever-mounting buzz, as if my whole being was
drawn down into my crotch. I sighed as his hand gripped
harder and began to move faster. I could feel the spunk
gathering in my balls, an explosion waiting to happen, a need
that had to be fulfilled, and would be. His breath was
suddenly hot on my crotch, stirring my pubic hair, then he
gripped my cock tightly round the root while his open mouth
slipped over the crown and the warm wetness of him
enveloped me.
The genie's tongue circled my glans in ever swifter
motions, churning me towards a climax, while one hand held
my cock firm and the fingers of the other played with my
balls, rolling them about and feeling their fullness. Then he
began sucking me with complete abandon, as if he wanted
my innards to deliquesce and be drawn up through the shaft
of my cock like a milkshake dragged through a straw, his
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head riding up and down on the length of me. I wanted to
open my eyes and watch him fellate me, but I didn't dare as a
part of me thought this was all a dream and if so, then
waking up was the last thing I wanted to do.
"I'm coming!" I shouted, breaking his embargo on speech,
but unable to stop myself, just as I would be unable to stop
the gathering climax.
I'd watched so many porn movies that I expected him to
withdraw and allow me to ejaculate over his face, but this
was life and not a movie: we were making love, not fucking
for the camera. He kept his mouth wrapped around my cock,
the lips an airtight seal as I pumped my seed into the
welcoming orifice, spurting over and over again, my whole
body trembling and my balls sore with the exertion. I kept my
eyes closed, but in my mind I imagined him swallowing down
my come, his Adam's apple rising and falling in regular,
rhythmic pulses that matched my discharges, and he was
smiling, greedily sucking down all I had to give and ravenous
for more.
Then the sensation was gone. My whole lower body felt
numb and I ached all over, in every joint and tendon. I could
feel the heat of the sun, but also a thin sheen of cooling
sweat that covered my skin. My mouth felt parched, and so I
moved my tongue from side to side, working it to create
saliva. I wanted to say something, to thank him for what he
had done, but words were lost to me and all I could manage
were a few incoherent grunts.
Finally I opened my eyes and, in the movie, this was the
moment when Phil discovered he really was in a sauna, and
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surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful young men who wanted
to fuck and be fucked by him.
Unfortunately for me, it was the moment when the world
of the film and my personal reality chose to diverge.
And life is emphatically not like in the movies.
Standing there in a circle and looking down at me,
studying my drooping cock, from which pale fluid still seeped
with an almost clinical abstraction, were a group of elderly
men and woman, half a dozen or more of them.
"We've called the police," said one of them.
"You disgusting pervert!" said another, his face bright red
with moral indignation.
"You're the one who's watching," I said, which on reflection
may have been an error of judgment on my part. I have a
smart mouth, and on occasion it has been known to get me
into trouble.
On this occasion, trouble turned out to be arrest as soon
as two beefy policemen arrived to drag me off, followed by an
appearance at magistrates' court on a charge of public
indecency.
I pled guilty, as there didn't seem much option otherwise,
given the number of witnesses to my act of public
masturbation, some of whom had actually caught my moment
of ejaculation on their mobile phones. Certainly nobody was
going to believe my story of a horny genie administering blow
jobs to die for, or that I was asleep and didn't know what I
was doing, and it wouldn't have made a whit of difference if
they had. The judge was in the mood to make an example,
and so I got sent down for six months, a sentence my lawyer
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insisted was as totally unexpected as it was wholly out of
proportion to the offense.
The genie's blow job was worth it though and ironically,
my two other wishes have come true, though not quite how I
imagined them. My career as a maker of gay porn movies
came out during the court case, and for a brief while I was
very much a hot item of news in a local paper trying to claim
back the high moral ground from the Daily Mail. As for being
irresistible to men, well, since I've been in jail, the Rude Boyz
Mob who run this prison have singled me out as their
Number-One bitch. It's a position that has certain
advantages, but is not for everyone.
I've already made a pitch to a producer, and the day after
I get out of here shooting starts on Big Boyz Behind Bars. I'd
wanted to call it The Prisoner of Priapus, but the producer had
thought that a bit highbrow, and sometimes we artists have
to make compromises.
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Things He Leaves Behind
by Derek Clendening
Dave slumped before the microfilm machine, his hand
supporting his chin, and, chilled by the air conditioning, he
fought his tears. Convinced this wasn't bad news, he chose to
search for something positive in this mess.
The middle-aged man behind the information desk would
glare at him soon, he knew, and he snapped the microfilm
back and tucked the reel back in the box. The machine's buzz
silenced when he switched it off, but he hardly noticed. That
he even knew where he was seemed like a small miracle.
What he knew for sure was that he'd found something
amazing, lost it, and that he would give his life to have it
back. Except that some things were never meant to be found.
These things uncover themselves, by free will or by accident,
when the time is right. No one would believe his story, he
knew, but he insisted that someone hear it.
And it goes something like this.
* * * *
Vacation spots like New York, Vegas and Fort Lauderdale
were an easy hop on Jet Blue, but David decided to drive over
the Peace Bridge, and take advantage of his aunt and uncle's
Crystal Beach cottage which sat empty most of the year.
Relaxation was key, but quiet and privacy was paramount.
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Old things caught Dave's fancy. Past artifacts tell their own
story, he decided. Searching the remnants of what once was,
or examining what was left behind, and filling in the blanks,
fascinated him just the same.
When he stood in the sand prints at Crystal Beach, waves
from Lake Erie rolled in, and he imagined the feet of
amusement park goers standing in those pits. Buildings with
chipped paint and wooden signs still stood, but Dave thought
they'd lost the dignity they would've had. More than anything,
the beach promised to be quiet, so he could be alone, and be
free.
His towel stretched out in the sand, Dave sat, hugged his
knees, and felt the sun on his shoulders. He lowered his
shades, stretched back on the towel, and parted his legs.
Squeezing a dollop of oil onto his palm, he spread it across
his chest, his abs, then down to his waist.
His fingers crawled beneath his shorts, and he peeled them
down to let the sun glisten on his bare cock and balls. Eyes
shut, he felt the sun warm his pubic hair. No one was around
to see him, but he imagined a full beach with crowds strolling
by that could see all his nakedness. As he dreamed, he heard
The Comet roar, and its passengers screaming during each
twist and loop. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy filled
his nostrils.
Cock in hand, the oil greased his shaft, and let him glide
up and down until he was hard. His head rolled back and
forth, as his knob tingled, and he groaned.
"You keep doing that and you're gonna get thrown in jail
for indecent exposure, Mister."
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Dave's eyes snapped open and he checked his
surroundings, but he saw no one. Purely imagination, he
supposed, and closed his eyes.
"Suppose the children see you with your willy flopped out
like that." The voice sounded closer and stronger than before.
Dave threw his hand out and grabbed hold of a hairy leg.
Before him was a man of about twenty-five, but he didn't
look like anyone he'd gone to school with. His brown hair was
parted to the left, with a curl on the right, and his chestnut
eyes permeated him. He was shirtless, Dave admired his cut
pecs and abs, but he knew he wouldn't have sculpted that by
doing Tae Bo or living in the gym. His burgundy bathing suit
was his only detraction. No hot young guy should wear
anything that ass ugly, Dave thought.
Still, this man had his charms. That he didn't have the city
boy metrosexual look didn't have to be a distraction, he
decided. Small-town country boys had a unique sexiness in
their eyes. Wholesome faces and manners, solid bodies and
dirty come-spank-me minds drove him wild.
Had the man grown a lean chinstrap, or styled his hair into
a faux-hawk, he couldn't have made himself sexier. Dave
realized how nicely this look worked for him. The shorts were
an eyesore, but he doubted the man would be wearing them
much longer.
Friends told him Dave he was a flirt by nature, but he'd
decided no guy was off limits. Gay, bi, or straight meant little
to him, as long as he wasn't hurt. First there was Randy, who
had seemed wonderful, but decided that time was too short
for love. Evan, who promised to start a life with him and then
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split, had done nothing to boost his confidence. Since then,
indulgence had been his path to happiness.
He jerked his bathing suit up, and tucked his dick away,
but he was stopped by those impenetrable brown eyes.
Never one to back away from a challenge, Dave found
himself on the prowl.
"I'm sorry." Dave struggled not to sound embarrassed. "I
won't say that I'm trying to get an all-over tan. Straight up, I
have this thing about being naked, and being looked at if the
right guy comes along. How 'bout you? Ever like to just feel
naked and free?"
"I've thought about stuff like that, but I've never done it ...
and I've never talked about it to a stranger before."
"Who do you think I'm gonna tell?"
The man looked both ways. "My mom and dad, for one.
Then there's everyone else around here who'll think I'm a
pervert for dropping my shorts in public."
Dave fought his astonishment at the man's fear. "I'm
sorry, but how old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"And you're still ... what's your name?"
The man stuck his hand out. "Name's Shane. You?"
"Dave." Shane's strong, meaty hand compelled Dave to
make his move. "I take it you live around these parts?"
Shane smiled. "For the summer. I know what you're
thinking, but I like coming up with my mom and dad. There's
plenty to do 'round here."
"Seems pretty dead to me."
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"Depends on what you call dead, Mister ... mean, Dave.
You're an American, aren't you?"
"How could you tell?"
"Think it was the accent, but you guys always say you
don't have accents."
When Shane sat next to him on the towel, Dave hoped he
could get him to ease his shorts down and join him in a nudist
session, but he worried Shane was too prudish for that. He
inched closer until their hips brushed together.
Canadian boys had marked a special place in Dave's heart.
Ontario accents aside, they always embodied a wholesome
and rugged sexiness that he adored.
Oftentimes, Dave would press full steam ahead with the
right guy, unfazed by potential consequences. Still reserved,
he chose to take the risk.
"Think we can take a walk?" Dave asked.
Able to judge by Shane's expression, Dave hopped to his
feet. He stayed at close reach, hoping to bump into him now
and again, or anything that would create contact. As they
strolled, Dave slipped his fingers between Shane's, and Shane
no longer seemed tentative.
"You seemed so nervous before," Dave said. "Glad to know
you've chilled out a little."
"I'm afraid to be seen like this." Shane's head drooped.
"But you seem like such a nice guy that I don't mind throwing
the rules away."
"Take it you haven't come out to your family yet?"
Shane paused and lifted his right eyebrow.
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"You don't plan on ever telling them you're gay?" Dave
asked.
Again, Shane seemed unable to answer, and Dave
wondered if the subject was too great to handle.
"If my family ever knew..." Shane's head drooped lower.
Dave wondered if Shane was only with him to rebel against
his family. If that was the case, Dave meant to distance
himself, so he wouldn't be hurt again.
"I've got to head back," Shane said. "Dinner's soon and I
can't be late."
If their stroll was the most that would happen, Dave
decided he'd still had a pleasant afternoon to reflect on. Still,
the summer was young, and he knew that he'd have plenty of
time to know Shane more intimately.
"Think we can ever see each other again?"
"Tomorrow night I'm free," he said. "No one else will be
around, I promise. Sorry if I'm so secretive ... got to be, least
for now. But come meet me out here on the beach, so we can
be alone, and not have to worry."
"I'll be there."
Dave leaned in to kiss Shane goodbye. Their lips brushed
each other, but Shane didn't pour himself into it, which made
Dave wonder if it was his first kiss. Impossible for such a
stud, he thought. If it was, he considered it to be even more
romantic.
Tomorrow night, my love, Dave thought. One more night
and you'll be all mine.
* * * *
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Just as Dave had promised, he arrived at the beach the
next night, ready. He checked his watch; no Shane, but he
felt confident. The last twenty-four hours had been filled with
fierce resistance and indulgence. Imagination had carried him
through the toughest moments, those seconds in which he
thought he might scream. He would shut his eyes, feel
himself, and pretend Shane's hand was cupped over his
crotch. The fingertips of their free hands touched one
another. Shane's lips were pressed against his. Only now, he
needn't pretend anymore.
Enveloped by the night air, he waited. Another five
minutes had passed. He turned, and found Shane waiting
behind him, but Shane had done nothing to announce
himself. Quiet and subtle seemed to be the name of his
game, which piqued his interest more.
They kissed, and Shane took a firm grasp of Dave's hands.
Deep down, Dave wanted to lunge at him, to devour him, but
he knew he would be more satisfied if he waited. Experience
in that game had taught him how patient he could be.
"You're back," Shane said. "I knew you would be."
"I wouldn't miss you for the world." Dave pulled out the
towel that he'd kept under his arm. "I thought about bringing
food, you know for a late-night picnic? But I figured just
sitting out underneath the stars would be nice."
"Anything with you is perfect."
Dave rolled the towel out in the sand, sat, and patted the
space beside him. Shane crumpled next to him and Dave
helped to pull his shirt off and rubbed his shoulders. Shane's
eyes closed, and his neck tilted at the feeling. Dave enjoyed
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the touch of Shane's smooth flesh and firm muscles. Dave's
dick poked against his shorts, but that was fine for now. He
knew he would be satisfied soon.
His lips brushed Shane's neck, but he didn't try and seduce
him right away. He let Shane quiver at his touch and then
melt a little.
Shane said, "I want to give it all up for you. I know that
talking about what I really am is impossible, but I'm willing to
give it all up for your love. This feels like my last chance, my
only chance. Anywhere you go, I'm willing to follow."
Frozen, Dave wanted to believe him. This would need to be
much greater than his average fling, even though he wanted
to enjoy the physical intimacy. Most of all, he wanted a
relationship that would endure.
Dave took Shane's hands. "Whatever you want, I'm willing
to do for you for eternity."
His fingers at Shane's waist, he ran his hands up and down
his chest and abs. He leaned in and nibbled on Shane's
nipple, and his head fell back.
He squeezed the ridge in Shane's shorts. Shane caressed
Dave's hand and kissed his cheek. Dave tucked his thumb
under the band of Shane's shorts, peeled them down, and let
his cock spring free. Bushy pubic hair shrouded Shane's cock
and balls, unlike the smoothness of Dave's other partners,
but he liked the difference. Dave found virtue in almost
anything, it seemed.
With Shane's cock deep in his mouth, Dave twisted with
screwdriver motions, and worked his shaft with flits of his
wrist.
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Shane's hand pushed Dave's head deeper into his crotch.
His groan sounded like a lung-full of pent-up air evacuated at
once. He said, "My God, where did you learn to suck like
that?"
Dave didn't answer, and instead lunged deeper into
Shane's crotch, but not so much that he would come too
soon. No, he meant to make Shane last, and explode only
when Dave did, so they could create a magic far greater than
anything he'd experienced with his other flings.
After, Dave stroked Shane's cock to keep him hard. "You
want more than this, don't you? You want all of me, right?"
Shane's eyes widened, but he still looked taken back.
"No worries if it's your first time," Dave said. "Just take 'er
in your mouth and go slowly if you need to."
Dave tugged his shorts down, let his own cock spring free,
and lay back on the towel. Shane took him in his mouth and,
like most guys sucking dick for the first time, he held the
knob between his lips before he devoured the whole cock.
Still, Shane's mouth was warm, wet and soothing.
While Shane sucked, Dave shut his eyes again, and
imagined the beach as it was. The smell of popcorn and
cotton candy filled his nostrils again and the sounds of
parents and children echoed in his ears. As he caressed
Shane's shoulders, he thought he would climax right then, but
Shane stopped.
With his cock loose, Dave felt Shane explore his body with
his tongue. His hand rested on Shane's back first, then he
trailed lower to cup his ass.
Dave said, "Hold on, let me take over."
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Shane smiled. "I've never done anything like this before.
Go easy."
"You'll love it, I promise."
Dave fumbled his shorts, then fished into the pocket for a
condom and bottle of lube. The foil torn, he squeezed a dollop
of grease into the rubber and rolled it to the root of his dick.
Shane looked hesitant, so Dave helped him to grease his ass,
positioned him on all fours, and slid into him an inch at a
time.
Gentle thrusts into Shane, when he'd worked his way in,
seemed best, as he wanted Shane to enjoy and remember
the sex as much as he would. Dave knew how skilled he was
but he knew he would need to slow down for Shane's sake. To
him, the best sex should be savored, and he wished all of his
encounters could mirror this one.
When he turned Shane over and burrowed between his
legs, he shut his eyes and heard footsteps, but he didn't open
his eyes to find out whose. Music from brass instruments
played almost on key, and fireworks erupted. Whistle, pop,
and fizzle noises were separated by short pauses.
As Dave's lips met Shane's, he realized it was the Fourth of
July. Only it couldn't be the Fourth of July on that beach. It
must have been Canada Day and everyone seemed eager to
celebrate. Dave held his breath and pumped deeper into
Shane. Oftentimes, he gauged his own readiness by the
sounds of his lover, except that measurement was impossible
now. Shane made no sounds, and Dave climaxed sooner than
normal, and emptied into the condom.
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Eyes opened, he found Shane still in the throes of ecstasy.
He rubbed Shane's stomach, then leaned in to kiss him.
Shane said, "That was absolutely amazing."
"Magic," Dave said, "and we can recreate it any time we
want."
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow we create our own magic on the
beach. Our beach."
* * * *
Sleep meant he would close his eyes and drift off to
another place, if only a separate state of consciousness, but
Dave couldn't do anything so simple. He closed his eyes,
drifted somewhere, but didn't fall asleep. Rest, but not sleep
the way he understood it.
Whenever he tried, he dreamed of Shane and the magic
they shared. He never thought he'd find someone to call a
soul mate, but last night's experience changed his mind.
Instant transformation had never seemed possible.
Back on the beach, he awaited Shane. They hadn't
exchanged cell numbers or instant messaging addresses the
way Dave had with other guys which for some reason made
this relationship feel more special. Shane offered a sense of
trust that always went missing with other guys. Dave knew
he could wander to the beach any time to find Shane.
After twenty minutes, he checked his watch and kicked a
mound of sand. No firm time had been set, but he felt so in
sync with Shane that he could intuit when he wanted to meet.
Words seemed so petty to him.
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Crumpled, wet cloth washed up at Dave's feet and he
reached for it. He stretched it out into a burgundy bathing
suit, which made him worry even more about Shane. He only
hoped he'd taken the shorts off himself first.
He rushed into the water until he was waist deep, but saw
nothing save for a flock of seagulls and the horizon. He
shouted Shane's name but was answered by his own echo.
Dave never considered abandonment for a moment. Not his
Shane. Unsure of what had happened to him, he was
determined to know the truth, despite the cost.
* * * *
In the library, Dave gathered his printouts from the
microfilm machine, as if information printed on paper will
convince him. He'd looked up articles on the amusement park
that once stood on the beach and, by accident, found
something unbelievable. Impossible, he decided.
The article that he'd found was surreal. Yellow-paged
articles seemed irrelevant to his life, but one article grabbed
his attention. When he read closer, he realized what'd
happened to Shane.
According to the paper, a man had taken his life in Lake
Erie during the summer of 1937, with no note, nor any signs
of depression or suicidal behavior. Dave checked the obituary
section and found that the Shane pictured in the paper and
the Shane whom he loved was a spot-on match. Dave
wondered if he'd witnessed a tragic event repeat itself, as a
spiritual cycle, throughout eternity.
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At first, Dave fought tears, until he decided he shouldn't be
sad. He realized Shane had lived in a different time, when his
true desires would never have been accepted. Everything
became clear to Dave. He understood hane wouldn't have
met his true love in his natural life because the opportunity
didn't exist.
On the beach where they'd met, made love, created
magic, Dave skipped stones into the water, and his heart
rejoiced. Shane's cycle would continue, he knew, whether or
not he saw him again. He was glad to know that Shane used
his one chance to appear, his chance to love, on him. To find
Shane, and recreate the magic, he would lie on the beach,
close his eyes, smell the cotton candy, and listen as the
happy families strolled past.
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San Gabriel Mardi Gras
by Rupert B Yorke
Benedict stared at his empty glass, twirling its slender
stem between his thumb and fingers; round and round, back
and forth. He wanted to fling it against the wall for the
satisfaction of seeing it shatter, hearing the high-pitched
tinkling of its fragments falling to the floor, only that wasn't
the sort of thing you did in Cesar's if you ever wanted to be
allowed inside again, any more than you expressed your
frustration in the bitter, blasted obscenities that crowded
behind his smile like a flock of vultures. Peter was a bitch.
There was no other way of putting it. Tonight was their last
night in Gabriel's Haven before they had to return to the
"real" world, and Peter had promised they would spend it
together. Of course he was late. He always was late, only now
he was so late that nobody could believe he was going to
show; even poor, faithful Benedict.
He didn't know which was the more culpable: Peter making
a promise he knew he would forget in the giddy rush of
whatever novelty had taken his fancy—and Gabriel's Haven
could provide novelty all day, every day, including Sundays
(especially Sundays, if the truth were told, which it rarely was
in the Haven)—or him, for convincing himself he would not
forget this time.
Enough was enough. Peter had had his chance. If he did
arrive, way beyond fashionably late, he would discover that
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his ever faithful, adoring lover had gone out into the lurid
night of Gabriel's Haven with the drunken intention of getting
fucked. Benedict knew he was drunk, and not just because
the bar seemed to sway when he stood up, but because there
were six glasses on the table, the table he all but knocked
over as he got to his feet but managed to steady before
anything was broken, except his pride. Three drinks made
him merry—the dancing fool, the life and soul of any party.
Six drinks made him drunk, monosyllabic with two left feet
and fluent only in some language nobody else understood. He
left a one-hundred-dollar note on the table and swept out into
the cool darkness before any boy could swoop on the money
and hide it away in the back pocket of his tight leather pants,
trying to persuade him to stay. He didn't want a perfectly
formed boy in black leather pants that fitted across his thighs
just so, not tonight. He wanted Peter, and it didn't matter
how strongly he wished it: that wasn't going to happen.
There were signs on both sides of the doors, warning
visitors not to venture outside the town boundaries tonight, of
all nights. It might be Mardi Gras in Gabriel's Haven, but
beyond the lights tonight was the night the old ones of San
Gabriel held their fiesta. Not that anyone really believed in
the old ones these days, certainly none of the beautiful people
who had come to visit the island. Benedict paid the notices no
more attention tonight than he had the previous six nights of
their holiday, less even, because he was in what his sainted
old granny, rot her miserable soul, would have called a strop,
and he didn't care about anything or anyone any more.
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Music and laughter and dancing lights billowed out of every
bar and club on San Gabriel harbor, each doorway an
invitation to pleasures most men wouldn't dare dream and,
once they left, wouldn't believe they really remembered.
Every pleasure known to man was to be had on that street. It
was even whispered that there were women to be had by the
most recklessly perverse. As he strolled past, looking in,
Benedict found the evening breeze quickly dissipating his
drunkenness, leaving him feeling just wretched and alone. His
pace increased without his being aware of it and eventually
he found himself at the entrance to the marina. Behind the
red and white gate that rose into the sky to allow vehicles in
and out were two immaculately uniformed guards, their
midnight-blue trousers and shirts set off by the white
neckerchiefs at their throats and the augmented shades they
wore even this close to midnight. Benedict could see the guns
they carried on their belts and did not imagine they were
pleased to see him.
He turned away and sat down on the promenade, dangling
his feet over the edge. Here and there on the dark beach
were fires, with people dancing around them, having the fun
he was being denied. When tears welled up in his eyes, he
scrambled to his feet and set off back in the direction he had
come, striding purposefully even though he didn't feel he had
any other purpose than to get away. The resolution he had
made in Cesar's to pay Peter back by having the quickest,
nastiest sex he could imagine was forgotten.
When he reached the other end of the harbor, he went on
walking, along the narrow, ill-lit streets that were the homes
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of the people who worked in Gabriel's Haven. All the windows
were dark because everyone who lived there was working,
and the discomfort made him keep his feet moving until the
last of the town was behind him and he found himself in a
heavily scented olive grove. Olive and rosemary filled his
nostrils, made him dizzy, and sent him collapsing to the
ground, where he lay on his back and stared up into the black
sky filled with tiny lights, as though some Titan had taken a
monstrous diamond, crushed it in its hands and flung the
powder across the vault of heaven. After a while of lying like
this, he did not know how long, he heard the sound of
someone weeping bitterly nearby. A little later still he realized
it was him. A little later still he decided it didn't matter.
Nobody could hear him, and if they could, they didn't care.
He must have fallen asleep because he was woken by the
nearby sound of pipes and drums and laughter. From the
beach nearby came the light and crackle of flames. He rolled
over and got to his feet, walking slowly to the crumbling edge
of the small cliff that seemed to be held together only by the
tabled roots of the ancient trees surrounding him. What he
saw below made him forget to breathe. There was a fire
there, a huge fire, taller than a man and broad enough for
that man to be able to jump over only after a good long run
up. But it was not the fire that most impressed. Rather it was
the tribe that danced and leaped and sang around it.
He had stumbled upon gods. All were young. All were so
good looking that the only word for them was beautiful, jaw-
droppingly, achingly, cock-hardening beautiful. There were
about twenty, maybe thirty or more, circling the fire and each
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other, golden and night by turns, joyous and naked, each and
every one.
Benedict had stared at this amazing sight for so long that
all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears when he
first noticed the wings, although the last remnants of his
rationality knew he must have seen them before consciously
recognizing them. Wings. The realization caused such a
reaction in him that he suddenly found his feet scrabbling to
hold him upright as the soil beneath him crumbled. He slid
down the ten feet of the cliff and stumbled forward, landing
on his back, the impact driving all the breath out of him.
When he opened his eyes he found them all around him,
some literally fluttering above their brothers. And brothers
they obviously were, or close cousins. None was identical, but
the same blood obviously flowed through them. Their eyes
were widely spaced and blue, their noses straight, their
cheekbones high and wide, and they all had lips most women
Benedict knew would have sold their souls to have, if they
had souls. Their hair was mostly dark, so far as he could tell
in the firelight, and cut after the style of Julius Caesar, save
for one of two rebels who had it flowing over their shoulders.
Benedict preferred long hair on a man. Peter's was a mane he
had trouble controlling and so rarely bothered to try. He
thought he might suit it dressed like this.
Innumerable hands lifted him to his feet and held him
there while he recovered his equilibrium, and promptly lost it
again when the same hands, or perhaps other hands—he was
still too dazed to be sure—began to unbutton his shirt, tug at
his belt, pull down his underwear and reveal him to the night,
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which became at one and the same time bitterly cold and
very uncomfortably hot. Looking from face to face, daring
them to make a cruel comment, he kicked away his trousers
and shoes and stood there, hands on hips, displaying himself.
Inside his head, Benedict was as insecure as could be, but he
knew he need have no shame in his body. He worked hard to
keep it in the best shape he could for Peter, and nobody had
ever remarked unfavorably about it. The smiles surrounding
him broadened, but the circle was broken and another angel
stepped forward, accepting the deference of the others as his
due. He was taller than the others, more strongly built, older
and hung like Bucephalous. Wordless, he looked Benedict up
and down appraisingly, the way he would a horse in a ring.
Benedict stared back, finding resolution from somewhere; he
knew not where. The creature's right hand went down
between them and Benedict felt his balls taken in its soft yet
firm grip. Without any impulse from him, his already erect
cock stiffened further and enlarged, his glans just kissing the
creature's inner forearm.
The night was split open by laughter that was more
spontaneous, joyous, and wholehearted than anything
Benedict had ever heard before.
"He can play with us!" the chief angel crowed, releasing
him and rising into the air with a single, awesomely powerful
beat of his double wings, only to turn a somersault and hover
upside down before Benedict, eye to eye. "I shall be back for
you," he whispered, kissed him on his lips as lightly as a
butterfly and then rose into the air again, flying backwards.
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"I'm dreaming," Benedict muttered to himself. "I must be
dreaming."
Two creatures, angels, whatever they were, caught hold of
his wrists. "No, you aren't," they said and laughed, "but you
will dream of this night for the rest of your life." Then they
carried him into the reformed circle of dancers, lifting him so
his toes only just brushed the sand. The music had begun
again, drums and guitars, flutes and voices, all of their voices,
even Benedict's. Although he had no idea of the tune it was
but he sang as though he had known it from birth. As the
circle rotated and accelerated, the tune followed suit, the
rhythm that of the blood coursing through them, faster and
with more syncopated each turn around, rising and rising until
Benedict could look down, seeing the sand and fire so far
beneath his feet that all he could do was laugh and cry at the
same time. He felt as though it was light in his veins rather
than blood, and that in a very short time he must burst
through the veil of mundane life and experience insights that
would change him forever. These angels with their wings and
golden skins, their perfect bodies and perfect minds had
chosen him to share their transcendence.
Fingers traced the length of his cock and made him fling
his head back with his eyes closed and mouth open wide,
wide enough to be filled to the back of his throat, filled as his
mouth had never been filled before. Then the fingers were
replaced by lips and a tongue and teeth, for the briefest
moment, then they were gone, as was the cock in his mouth,
no matter how he tried to hold it with his own lips and
tongue. He was consumed by a sense of loss and desolation
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that might have torn him apart, but for the coming of more
fingers and lips and cocks, stroking and clinging, just for the
shortest time, as though every angel there wanted to share
him and share themselves with him. This was impossible. This
could not be happening.
Yet it was. He opened his eyes and found himself part of
as circle turning in the air, a mandala of angels spinning and
spinning, each one of them with a cock in their mouth and
theirs in someone else's, supported by their own languidly
beating wings and the extended left hands of their brothers,
who hovered outside the circle. Their right hands clasped
around the cock of the angel next to them, moving up and
down to the slow, oceanic rhythm of the angels and the single
men sucking on each other.
Benedict believed his heart was about to explode. Never
had he imagined anything like this. How could he? Nobody he
knew had ever believed in angels. He and Peter had
dismissed the tales about San Gabriel as quaint myths,
invented to encourage the tourists to part with even more of
their dollars. To discover the tales were true was almost more
than he could comprehend. Had he not been a part of it, had
he just been an observer, he would not have believed it,
assumed someone had spiked his drink and he was enmeshed
in some absurd fever dream.
Then the circle was gone and he was tumbling down
through the dark sky, watching the leaping flames rushing
towards him, and the savage, tearing fear of death began to
rip at his sanity.
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"You didn't believe I would let you fall." The chief angel
chuckled, taking Benedict into his arms with all the ease of a
child plucking thistledown floating past them on a zephyr. He
lowered him to the ground with infinite care, leaning forward
and placing a kiss on his lips that was as tender as a
mother's, until his arms tightened around him and his lips
parted as no mother's ever did who was not named Jocasta.
Emboldened, Benedict kissed back and ran his own hands up
and down his new lover's back, exploring the firmly muscled
flesh that was so familiar and the stems of the wings flowing
from his shoulders and upper back that were so fascinating,
so wonderful and so alien at the same time. When a hand
caught hold of his cock, again, he followed suit, marveling at
the size and gravity of the angel, of the steady pulse of hot
blood through the vein on the underside.
He sank to his knees, desperate and determined to
worship that angelic member, only to find his arms taken and
held out straight from his shoulders painfully, his face pressed
into the sand so he could not breathe, the fine, hot powder
filling his mouth and nostrils. Managing to turn his head
sideways, he saw the chief angel stride past him, only now he
was transformed into something out of an imagining of hell
rather than heaven, cloven hooves making the beach resound
like a drum with each hoof beat. The others were gathered
around them, stamping the rhythm of his walk. Their hooves
were cloven too, their wings transformed from feathered gold
to leather, from azure and purple to rusty scarlet and dusty
brown. He gasped, and found a strap of leather inserted into
his open mouth.
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"Bite down on this," a hoarse voice whispered. "His
lordship does not appreciate whimpers."
Then there was silence, a universal breath indrawn, a
pause pregnant with lurid anticipation. Some distant part of
Benedict knew what was about to happen, remembered the
glimpse of the monstrosity swinging before the leader's strut.
Another part of him crowed that he had been raped before. It
had hurt like fuck at the time, but he had got over it. He had
survived, hadn't he?
A blow from a hot, horny hand across his ass made him
jump, or he would have jumped had he not been held down
by the acolytes and the master's other hand not pressed
down on the small of his back. There was heat, then more
heat as the master knelt behind him, caressing the flesh of
his thighs and where they joined almost tenderly,
worshipfully. He was kneeling before him, kneeling.
Something akin to joy mingled with pride washed through
Benedict, irrational but rescuing, wrapping his sensibility in
cotton wool and bearing it away somewhere it would be safe
until all this madness was over.
The scorching bar of what he knew was flesh but which felt
like metal penetrating his anus transformed the universe into
the immediate here and now of agony, of the rhythm of the
Master's long, slow strokes that could not be escaped, the
knowledge that his own impotence and inability to protect
himself only added to the monster's delight and that of his
companions as they clamped and stamped and cheered along
in time.
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Benedict knew he was being torn, even though he could
not at first feel the sensations of flesh and muscle and skin
tearing, of his own blood lubricating the passage of the
monster into those parts of him where no man was meant to
go were he not a surgeon. What he did feel was blackness
wrapping itself around his face, his eyes, his nose, blackness
like thick, heavy cloth that deadened all sensation. He
recognized it as his oncoming death, even though he had
never experienced it before, and he welcomed it as he felt the
throbbing, slamming, uncontrollable onrush of the monster's
climax. In the instant that one final thrust lifted him off the
sand and filled him with acid flame eating him from the
inside, the last vestiges of light and sound disappeared, as did
the spirit that had been called Benedict MacFarlane. In that
final instant, he was faintly disappointed that no great insight
was revealed to him, that all there was within that good night
was darkness.
The creatures, whatever they were, dispersed quickly once
their master had had his way with their plaything. If any were
disappointed, they had not been allowed to play the game
they did not voice it as the faded into the trees, flitting this
way and that, up towards the mountains, down towards the
caves beneath the headland that overlooked Gabriel's Haven.
None remained when the clouds above the bay were finally
ripped open and lightning shattered an old, proud palm tree
on the very top of the headland. Heavy drops of rain created
tiny craters in the sand of the beach and quickly extinguished
the last remnants of the fire. In a short while, even the rain
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ceased falling, and all that remained was the thickest of
tropical nights.
* * * *
Lt. Ulysses Gayle stared down at the slashed and torn
corpse face down on the still smoldering fire. He held a
handkerchief to his nose to prevent inhaling the worst of the
stomach turning odors. The waste, the futility, the brazen
abuse of it all numbed him. No matter how many times he
witnessed a scene like this, and this was by no means the
first time he had been roused from sleeping of Mardi Gras
excess to go out to investigate a ghastly killing, he did not
find it any easier to keep himself from walking off the beach
into the sea and drinking the ocean. What kept him standing
there was the knowledge there was no one else on the island
better equipped to deal with this than him. He wanted to
weep, but didn't.
A uniformed officer, Chanderpaul handed him an open
wallet inside a clear plastic evidence bag. The face of a
youngish man stared back at him, dark, curly hair, large nose
and dark eyes. Benedict MacFarlane of Miami. These
Americans never learned. They had turned his island into
their pleasure garden, and Ulysses did not mind, because the
money they spent had transformed the prosperity, any more
than he disapproved of their preferences. To each his own.
What irked him, though, was their attitude towards the
facts of the island, that on two nights of the year nobody
stepped outside the light while the old ones had their
carnival. They considered such warnings were only for
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superstitious native peasants. Yet it was a long, long time
since the old ones had taken a San Gabrieli.
"Find out where he was staying, Officer Chanderpaul," he
ordered the uniform, handing back the wallet. "Somebody
must be wondering where Mr. MacFarlane has gone."
The constable saluted and set off up the beach, the white
sand almost enveloping his shoe with every pace he took,
towards the wooden staircase that would take him up the
small cliff to where three of the five police cars on San Gabriel
waited.
Gayle turned back to the corpse, shaking his head. Surely
somebody had to have missed the wretched fellow by now.
* * * *
In the suite at the Hotel Paradis he shared with Benedict,
Peter Lascelles lay back on the crisp linen sheets and
luxuriated in the sensations of relaxation. What a night. What
a night. There wasn't a part of him that did not ache
wonderfully. The only way the experience could have been
improved was Benedict being there. Then it would have been
perfect. But he wasn't in the bar when Peter went to find him,
and he wasn't back yet, so he had obviously found his own
entertainment, the dirty dog. It was going to be such fun
when he got back and they could tell each other all about it.
In the meantime, though, a guy needed his beauty sleep.
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Zombies on the Down-Low
by Ziggy Raht
There are tribes. There are some tribes in Africa where
men fuck one another. Women are brought into the picture
only to multiply while the tribesmen are being, well, fruitful.
Tribes, like the Nkundo, the Bala, and the Thonga. Fertile
ground for study by your frightfully queer anthropologist.
That would be me. But my adventures these many, many
years have been in the New World—the Caribbean World.
It all started, as they say, some fourteen years ago. I was
at home, pretending to work on a manuscript at my
computer, but really just endlessly formatting and re-
formatting the pagination while enjoying a joint. I had just
decided to switch to viewing some porn when the telephone
rang. I swiveled on my office chair and rolled across the floor
to answer. It was a telemarketer of some sort. As I was
understandably a bit slow on the uptake, he read through
much of his script before I could get a word in edgewise. That
word should've been "no," but I blurted, "Okay." Yes to
accepting my winning an eight-day stay in a Jamaican resort,
all expenses paid. It was likely the effect of the weed that
made me so docile, I suppose. All I had to do was sign up for
something or another—the details were pretty fuzzy—which I
did, in twelve easy payments. The next day, I could've kicked
myself for such stupidity, but I was trying to nurture a belief
in there being a reason for everything and that one should go
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with the proverbial flow—something my therapist had been
trying to convince me of for years. So I did.
Before my flowing, however, my friends warned me to be
careful, as Caribbean countries could be very homophobic. I
knew this to be true, but wasn't planning to be any more
reckless than baking in the sun and knocking back several
coconut rum cocktails.
Of course, "all expenses paid" was somewhat a misnomer,
as I had to pay the travel taxes and an outrageous booking
fee. The five-hour flight was relatively stress free, and the
winking attendance of a sweet redheaded air steward made
me forget all about taxes and fees. My being in the aisle seat
made it easy for him to flirt.
It always surprised me that people considered me a catch.
I was dishy enough, I suppose: mid-thirties, high
cheekbones, blue eyes, shaggy blond hair, and a body—if not
to die for, then at least to bruise a bit. My eyeglasses added
that soupçon of braininess that some find especially alluring.
Still, the attention was not something I expected or sought
out from the get-go.
The steward literally fawned over me, the dear, making
goo-goo eyes whenever he passed. His tailored trousers left
nothing to the imagination, fore and aft—well, to my
imagination, anyway. So much so, I felt the need to somehow
blow off some steaminess. While the rest of the passengers
were riveted to their video screens, I went off to relieve
myself in the john with a feverish wank. As I made my way
down the aisle, I noticed the steward kneeling to check the
stock of beverages in the galley. As I neared the washrooms,
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his keen radar sense seemed to activate, and he swiveled in
my direction. A Mona Lisa smile crept across his face—that is,
if La Gioconda had been a gay air steward on the make.
As I opened the bathroom door and entered, I felt a
sudden nudge. It was my little red-head. He quickly backed
me into the cubicle, shut the door behind him, and slid the
occupied latch in place. How he was able to so deftly
maneuver in that confined space was beyond me, but perhaps
he had had lots of practice. No perhaps about it. He smashed
his lips against mine. Our tongues darted back and forth in
each other's mouths. We paused for a moment to catch our
breath—and beheld each other's beauty, I'd like to think. I
glanced down at his nameplate: Jeremy.
"Hello, Jeremy. I'm Roger."
In response, Li'l Red dropped to his knees. He skillfully
unzipped me and flipped my cock out from my Calvins. A bold
move. He kissed the helmet head of my dick, then deeped it
in one ravenous gulp. One bold move deserved another. I
scooped him up, turned him around and pushed him against
the miniature sink. I hugged him from behind, as he stared at
himself in the mirror. I could see him smiling in the reflection,
and he let out a low moan. I undid his perfectly tailored pants
and slid them down part way—not easily, given how tight
they were. He wore no underwear. A respectable cock sprang
up.
But it was his ass that drew my attention. A proverbial
bubble that had my name on it; I imagined him craving to be
"rogered." However, Ol' Red now seemed a bit nervous and
checked his watch. Tempus fugit, I reckon, especially when in
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actual flight. So penetrating him was out of the question.
Besides, I had left my meager supply of condoms back in my
carry-on. Instead, I glided my even more respectable cock
along his hairless crack. Up and down his furrow, with my
pre-come and his saliva lubing the way, as his dick slapped
against the cold water faucet. I reached about and wrapped
my fist around his curved shaft. All this was so naughty but
incredibly hot, and within another thirty seconds I splatted
my load against his ass cheeks, while he decorated the mirror
with his.
I momentarily slumped against his back, as he flicked out
a paper towel from the dispenser and cleaned his come from
the mirror and sink. Another flick, and he sopped up my juice
as best he could from his spermy bum. I used some toilet
paper to wipe my dick and pulled up my pants. He did the
same, but was horrified to discover that much of my come
had dripped down onto his pants.
Jeremy desperately dabbed and rubbed at the stains,
mumbling, "I'll never fucking learn." He threw me a split-
second scowl and shifted his focus back to his task. He
allowed a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and I slid out of the
cubicle. A couple stewardesses stood in the galley, whispering
to each other. One looked at me and rolled her eyes. I gave
her a sheepish grin and ducked back to my seat.
For the rest of the flight, Jeremy wore a service apron
around his middle. As he was collecting leftover paper cups
and packaging, I pulled out one of my cards and fingered it
over towards the end of my tray. He picked it up with a tight
smile and dropped it into a receptacle with the rest of the
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trash. This seemed to alleviate any guilt I was feeling. I might
be a catch, but I was merely Jeremy's catch of the day. I
chuckled to myself and relaxed for the final hour of the flight.
* * * *
The resort, Casa San Monique, was near Nail Bay in
Spanish Town in the parish of St. Catherine. "Near" was
hardly beachfront, but a good mile inland. The hotel did have
a large pool, which was fine, except that its cement had just
recently been poured and was not yet fully dry. In fact, the
entire hotel was in a state of partial construction. Plastic tarps
blocked some of the corridors and flapped as one walked
past. Footprints could be seen everywhere—not in sand, but
in plaster dust on the carpeting. As well, the hotel was
woefully understaffed, and getting any kind of service was an
exercise—if not in futility, then in trying one's patience. Not
fun.
After two days of this, I was trying to psych myself up to
check out and find somewhere better to stay, but the sky was
so clear, so incredibly blue. I decided to leave it another day.
I slipped on my Speedo and flip-flops and went to sun myself
by the not-dry-yet swimming pool. It was surrounded by
bright yellow tape, as if it were the scene of a horrendous
crime. I seemed to be the only one around. Perhaps others
were put off by the tape and all the construction, or perhaps I
was the only guest left in the place. In any event, I intended
to make the most of the rays before seeking out alternative
accommodation.
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I tilted my sun hat over my eyes and lay back on a deck
chair. The sound of sandals dragging on pavement and then
stopping caught my attention. I slowly lifted the brim of my
hat. A very tall black man stood inside the taped area. He
wore a long baggy swimsuit. Fluorescent orange and blinding
in the sunlight. And nothing else, besides from the
aforementioned sandals. He was looking down into the empty
pool as if transfixed by the blotchy cement. I felt compelled to
say something.
"We're both shit out of luck, I'm afraid."
He slowly turned to face me. "Wha?"
"Out of luck. To swim."
He seemed to study me for a moment. "I don't swim here,
mon. I'm the pool-mon." It almost sounded like reggae,
although he wasn't singing.
"Oh. Not much you can do then, until it's finished. I hope
they'll still pay you."
This was met with a silent nod, and he went about his
business. He would walk for a few feet and stop to further
contemplate the pool's lack of contents. He continued to do
so, this walking/stopping around its entire perimeter. Every
now and then, he glanced in my direction. I realized I hadn't
stopped staring at him. Who was studying whom? I felt
suddenly very awkward under his occasional gaze and
clumsily reached for my bottle of sun lotion. I twisted the cap
off and the bottle slipped from my greasy hands. With a
thunk, it hit the ground, glooping its milky contents across
the stone tiles. I swore under my breath, watching the lotion
spread. I caught sight of a pair of sandaled feet and dark
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muscular calves; I lifted my eyes. The pool-man was at my
side. He was somewhere in his twenties and wore his hair in
long, tight dreads. They had a slight reddish tinge to them
and were tied back with a strip of fabric the same color as his
swimsuit. His skin was a dark caramel, and his eyes, his eyes
were a greenish-gold. I wondered what convoluted mix of
African tribe and colonial romp sprung forth the lineage of this
impressive example of manhood. He seemed to sternly look
down at me.
A moment of fear crept through me. "I-I ... I'm so sorry. A
total doofus."
His eyes softened, and he laughed. "Na problem, mon.
Give mi something a do."
His basso lilt set me at ease. He crossed to a storage
cabinet and pulled out a mop and pail. The lotion was now
pooling about the lounge-chair leg. I stood up and pushed the
chair out of the way. As it scraped across the tiles, it dragged
along a snaky squiggle of lotion. Weirdly, it made me think of
the drippings of come on the little air steward's ass. What a
perv I was becoming in the Caribbean sun! I was chuckling in
spite of myself when the pool-man dropped the pail down
beside me. My heart jumped and I backed away. But my right
foot came out of my flip-flop; the other slid in the goo, and I
fell ungraciously to the ground with an unmanly squeal. A
pulled hamstring seared through me, then settled down to a
somewhat dullish throb. The pool-man knelt beside me and
asked if I was all right.
My voice went up half an octave. "I'll be fine," I strained to
answer. "I just need to get to my room and stretch out."
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"Can you walk, or do you need me to carry you?" His back-
and-forth between English and Jamaican patois was
interesting.
I wasn't sure if he was making fun of me or not. Instead of
answering, I decided on a stoic approach. I slowly stood and
limped a few steps on my own before buckling.
"Here, mon, lean against me," he offered.
Who was I to refuse? I hobbled back to my room, resting
against him for support. Some of his dreads had come loose
and kept brushing against my face. He had used some kind of
aftershave, and its scent was rather heady. I felt a bit dizzy—
either from the pain, his scent, or his mere presence. Wishful
thinking made me vote for number three. My thigh wasn't the
only part of my anatomy that had started to throb; I was
getting turned on in a major way, despite my injury. I hoped
the pool-man wouldn't notice.
No, I hoped he would.
Progress was at a snail's pace, but we eventually made it
to my room. I passed him my key, and he unlocked the door.
He helped me to the bed, and I plunked myself down heavily
with a moan. He seemed to focus for a moment on my
swimsuit. Although his swimming shorts were baggy, I
noticed a slight swelling there as well. Not so slight.
"You need someone for dat, Mister," he said.
I couldn't form any words in reply.
"It still hurt?" he continued.
"Oh, right. Yeah, big time. Any house doctors or a masseur
in the hotel?"
"Na yet, na yet."
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"Right. They're under construction like the rest of the
place, I suppose."
He laughed. I laughed. Then there was that awkward bit,
after the laughter died down, and neither of us was sure what
should be said or done next. A thank you and goodbye? A
huge tip? Speaking of which, both our dicks refused to die
down like our laughter.
He cleared his throat. "I can massage, mon, if yuh still in
pain."
"Oh. I ... yeah, if you don't mind. I mean, I can pay you
something."
A stern expression returned. "Na, mon, dat not why I
offer."
I flushed and felt ashamed. My erection shriveled. I
expected him to leave. But he didn't. I ventured, "My name is
Roger."
There was an uneasy pause, then, "I am Laz."
"Laz. What an interesting name. Is it short for—"
"Yah, mon. Lazarus. Mi mama gave birth, and I wouldn't
breathe. Took the doctors a while a get mi goin'."
"Well, Laz, I'd be grateful if you could help me get going
again. It's my hamstring."
"Cool. Yuh have to flip onto yuh belly, mon."
I blinked a few times, then slowly turned over.
"And spread dem legs a bit."
There was a long pause. I could hear him breathing.
Shallow and labored breaths. Or was that me? I nearly leapt
to the ceiling upon feeling his long fingers press against my
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inner thigh. He began to gently rub. I let out a low moan. He
stopped.
"Is it di pain?"
"No. Yes. I mean ... keep going. You have a great touch."
Laz pressed and prodded, dug deep. The soothing of the
pain was in direct proportion to the re-growth of my erection.
I pushed it against the mattress. Laz eased off and began to
massage the entire area in small circular motions, moving
slowly upwards. I moaned again—a sensual, rumbling thing
from deep in my throat.
He suddenly withdrew his hand. "No, don't stop!" I said
way too loudly.
A large hand cupped the left cheek of my ass. I stopped
breathing. "You like dis, Roger?"
I could barely get the words out. "I ... do."
"Good."
"Do you?"
His response was using both his hands to stroke my butt.
He allowed me to turn over. My Speedo was stretched almost
to bursting. The most amazing smile spread across his
handsome face. I looked into his eyes.
"I asked you a question," I said.
He took my hand and placed it against his crotch. I
became afraid; I wasn't sure why. Exploring further, I knew
why. Laz pulled down his bathing suit, and it dropped to the
floor. As did my jaw. All sorts of clichés ran through my
head—mostly comparisons to endowed animals of some kind
or another. I forced my eyes away from the obvious and
scanned the rest of his body. Unlike most men down there,
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his chest, arms and legs had a matting of hair. This just
emphasized his otherness—and my attraction.
But after the moment's appraisal, my attention was driven
back to his cock. How could it not? I was entranced by the
slow-motion dance of his hardening dick. The dark hood of his
long foreskin very slowly rolled back as the great plum head
crept out. Its slit seeped pre-come. A droplet fell onto my
foot. I found myself licking my lips—it does happen!
Laz chuckled, a low purr from the back of his throat. "Yuh
thirst, Roj?"
I nodded.
He slipped further into his native patois. "Come yah, 'n kiss
di head, mon."
I leaned forward, protruded my lips. My eyes crossed, so
focused was I on the dark head, slick with his pre-come. He
tapped it against my mouth, wetting me with his ooze. My lips
parted and I—
There was a rapping at the door.
Nooo! Had I said that out loud?
Laz tugged up his bathing suit and dove, of course, into
the closet. Another rapping. I called out. "Coming!" If only. I
limped into the bathroom and threw on a bathrobe to open
the door. It was the bellman.
"Excuse me, sir. I just wanted to extend the hotel's
apologies for the state of things here." He strained his neck
about. His eyes shifted this way and that beyond me.
Go away, I thought, but just said, "Well, it's not what I had
expected, or paid for."
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"Of course. The pool should be open in a couple of days. In
the meantime, perhaps one of our staff could escort you to
the beach. The pool-boy might be willing." Again, this way
and that. Were there any telltale bits about the room?
"Thank you," I replied, "I'll keep that in mind."
He left, and I locked the door. Way to kill the mood. Laz
emerged from the closet with a heavy sigh. I nodded. "I
know." Wasn't going to happen. I peered out the peephole
into the hallway. All clear. He edged towards the door.
"Like 'im say, I could show yuh di way to di beach, sir."
I couldn't let the opportunity slip by. "When?"
He looked deep into my eyes. "Ten."
"At night?"
His turn to nod. "In di dark."
* * * *
We met that night, a block from the hotel. A knapsack
hung off of one of his brawny shoulders. We walked in silence
as he escorted me to the beach. I yearned to take his hand,
but that would've been a definite no-no, even in the dark.
This was his territory, his rules.
The man-in-the-moon smirked as we made our way in the
sand along the shore. One thin long leg of a rocky hillside
extended towards the water. In its shadow, we set up camp.
Laz pulled out a blanket from his knapsack and spread it by a
large rock formation. We sat, propped up against the rocks
and smoked some ganja.
Waiting for who would make the first move was getting to
me. Perhaps some conversation was in order. "How long have
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you been doing this?" He gave me a puzzled look. "I mean,
being a pool-boy. Sorry—pool-man."
"It's not a career, mon. I'm financing mi correspondence
courses."
I was impressed that he was trying to better himself,
although anything I could have said just then would likely
have come off as patronizing. So I shut up and made my
move. I pounced onto him and locked my lips on his. He
seemed freaked for an instant, but then he reached around
and held me tight. We rolled, and he was now on top of me.
The white man's burden, I was definitely willing to bear. He
nibbled my ears, licked my neck, and returned to my lips,
trading tongues. After several minutes of this, he pulled away
and slowly removed his clothing. My moonlight man seemed a
god in silhouette to me. Breaking out of my reverie, it was my
turn. I unbuttoned my top and Laz sprung into action,
stripping me bare in seconds. He flipped me onto my belly,
then paused. Not sure what I should do, I simply waited.
"Your beautiful ass glow in di moon, Roj."
That was reggae to my ears! In response, I tilted my lower
half slightly upward. The touch of his lips on the flesh of my
ass fired my lust even more. He spread the cheeks apart and
kissed my hole. His tongue lapped against my bud, sending
an electric thrill through my entire body. My cock was like
iron and dripped like a faucet. Lubricated by his saliva, he
worked a finger into me. Then another. I couldn't stop
moaning, and it drove him to go further. He withdrew, and
after a couple of minutes of encasing his enormous cock in
latex and lubing my hole, I felt that unmistakable nudge and
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press against its lips. I did my best to part them further,
despite my being nervous. With gentle but persistent
progress, the head finally popped inside of me. He stopped to
ask if I was okay. I was so horny at that point, I seethed, "Je-
susss! Slide to the root, man." And he obliged.
* * * *
We repeated this intimate play on the beach over the
following few nights. I couldn't rightly say I was in love, but I
surely acted like it. There seemed to be a permanent smile
splashed across my mug. On the other hand, sitting
comfortably became problematic, but it was worth it.
Thoughts of dead-end long-distance relationships
notwithstanding, whenever Laz was around, I seemed—what
is the word? Oh yes—happy.
On the fourth go-around that week in our special place,
Laz had just pleasured my special place when we could hear
in the near distance a coughing and laughter. Out of a clump
of moving silhouettes, a male voice called out in patois, "Hey!
Wha'ppun, mon?"
Laz whispered to me. "Roj, you must..."
I couldn't make out the rest, as another voice boomed,
"Wha gwaan, red mon?"
Laz laughed uneasily and threw a greeting back. "Gwaan,
bredren?" and he gave me a poke, but not of the loving kind.
I quickly gathered my things and walked off in the dark.
There was swearing and words in patois that pierced the
night. "Raas" and "bloodclaat." I wasn't sure what they
meant, but I could tell it wasn't nice. Then, "Come yah,
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battybwoy. Maama man!" Those I could figure out—
derogatory terms for a gay guy, as anyone following rap
music knows. I started to run.
Had Laz played me for a fool, gaining my trust, only to
have his buddies gang up to mug me—or worse? No, he
wouldn't. But who knows? Poverty drives people to all sorts.
Maybe it was all about getting his rocks off—against the
rocks, after all.
I didn't stop running until I was safely inside my hotel
room. I slid down against the door and sat on the floor,
awash in conflicted emotions.
* * * *
Two days later, the swimming pool was finally dry. It had
been painted, and I looked down at its blue shimmer from my
window. Laz did not appear. A middle-aged man had taken
over his duties, but I felt no urge to take the sun. Cooped up
in the room, I was still angry and confused about things. Had
I escaped a beating and theft? Was the pool-man just using
me? All sorts of thoughts and possibilities chewed at me. I
decided to go down the hotel café for dinner.
While waiting for the elevator, I overheard two maids
chatting with one another. "Oh, 'im, yah. Dem say eet
murder."
"Cha! Murder? Lor' such badness in Spain Town. Wi Laz
from di pool, Laz?"
This got my attention.
"Yah, mon, a true—wi golden Laz."
"Eet bullbuckas or di baldheads from di Babylon?"
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"Jah know. Oh, the fuckery. A ratchet to di gut, mi hear.
Bled out like a pig inna sand."
The two sighed and tsk-tsked. The elevator doors opened.
I stood still. They slid shut. The two maids turned and stared
at me. One of them asked, "Yuh be all right, sa?"
"Yes, thank you," I gasped. I had to get this straight.
Wading through the patois was difficult for a white Northerner
like me. "Were you talking about the pool-man just now?"
They looked at one another and played dumb. I reached into
my pocket and gave them each an American ten. They fell
over themselves to spill the gossip. Yes, it was him! He was
killed by bullies the other night on the beach. That night.
Queer-bashers, no doubt. I was devastated.
Here I was, suspecting him of all sorts of "badness." I
pumped them for further information—if a funeral was being
held and when. They said the next day, but the hotel
manager wouldn't let them go. I offered to go in their place to
pass along their condolences. They gave me an odd look and
eyed me up and down. They remained mum about the
location, until I gave them twenty dollars more. I returned to
my room, shook like a leaf and cried until I fell asleep.
* * * *
The funeral was held in a rickety church on the edge of
Spanish Town. I got there as they were lowering the plywood
casket into the ground behind the church. I held back behind
a tree and watched from afar. Some of the older women
weaved and wailed in grief.
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After the small crowd dispersed, the grave was filled in.
Then there was no one. But me. I came forward and stared at
the earth which covered my golden pool-man. Someone
giggled just behind me. My body twitched in fright. I quickly
turned to find an old man leaning on a gnarled walking stick.
Black and grizzled, he stood there, shaking his head.
"Ah, bwoy, wha yuh doin' 'ere, all pale in Jam-down,
bwoy?"
I stumbled to put some words together. "I ... I'm here to
pass condolences on from some co-workers of his."
"I see, I see," he said, pointing to one cloudy eye of his.
Around his neck hung some trinkets. Some looked to be made
of small animal bones. "Young Lazarus, 'im mi nephew."
"I'm very sorry. You missed the funeral too, then?"
"Mi black sheep of fambly. Yah, mon. Ba-a-a, b-a-a-a!"
Then he giggled once more. Unnerving. He pulled a small
pouch from a pocket and dangled it before me. "Yuh brave
soul, Mister?"
"I'm Roj—I mean, Roger."
"I see, I see."
He twirled the pouch. I couldn't take my eyes off it. "But
brave? Not always, to be honest. I'd like to think I am,
though."
"Den take dis, yah?" He handed me the pouch. "Yuh
sprinkle now on di grave. And dis yuh bury." He took out a
tiny bone with a feather twined to it.
It dawned on me that he was an Obeah man. Had I been
wearing my anthropologist's hat, I would've pressed for an
interview. But today I was a simple mourner. I didn't want to
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disrespect the old guy and took the trinket from him, despite
the thing giving me the heebie-jeebies.
"And den yuh add a ting of yer own, Ro-ger, mon."
Self-consciously, I opened the pouch. It was filled with a
dark powder. I sniffed at it. There was a sharp odor to it, and
I made a face. The geezer giggled yet again. And so I obeyed
and sprinkled the powder over the hallowed plot.
While the old man watched carefully, I dug a bit with my
finger and placed the trinket in the shallow hole. I looked
back, and he was nodding with approval.
"Now put a l'il ting fram yuh, Ro-ger."
Something of mine, but what? I didn't bring much of
anything with me. Money didn't seem appropriate. I fished
through my pockets. My fingers touched something ... a
wrapped condom. It somehow seemed appropriate. With my
back to the Obeah man, I pushed the condom into the hole
and covered it up, lickety-split. When I turned around, the old
man was already walking away, the sound of his giggles
trailing in his wake. I laughed too. Too loudly. There I was, on
my knees in a Jamaican cemetery, having just performed
some ritual witchcraft.
* * * *
That night in bed, I tossed every which way. I was so
drowsy, but sleep refused to come. I thought I heard a
thudding footfall outside my door. Then another. The handle
jiggled, and the door swung open. I tried to call for help, but
couldn't. A tall dark shape shut the door and advanced
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towards me. Trembling, I reached for the nightstand and
switched the lamp on.
It was Laz!
But it couldn't be. He was naked, and I could see a clotted
gash in his middle. I was searching for that word—not to
speak it, but ... zombie! The powder, the trinket, that stinking
ritual. What had that old man done? I done.
The zombie looked down on me, unblinking and silent.
Except for the wound, he seemed as I had known him. Was I
so nurtured on Hollywood that I expected the stench of
rotting flesh and a voracious appetite for living bodies? He
then focused on me; this was no empty shell of a man.
And yet he wasn't quite the same. For one thing, his cock
seemed permanently erect. In spite of myself, I was so
turned on. I was mesmerized by his massive organ. It was
darker than in life and, amazingly, larger still. It pointed
straight out at me. Its slit was gaping, perhaps wide enough
to slip in the tip of one's pinkie finger. Gouts of fluid
constantly oozed out. I slowly leaned forward and lapped it up
like a hungry calf.
Then as if in a trance, I lay back and raised my legs.
Spread them in invitation. He fell against me, his face so
close to mine. There was a smell—not of decay, but a mix of
his flowery aftershave and that strange powder. His dick,
almost a separate being, wriggled and searched for entry. I
was terrified, but horned beyond belief. The fluid from his
cock lubed its way to some extent, but in one heaving lunge,
he deeped me to the core. I screamed.
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Laz lay on top of me with my legs wrapped around his
torso. Beyond my dead lover's back I thought for an instant I
could make out further human shapes. I grew panicky. Then
they were gone. Laz was definitely still there. He didn't move,
yet his cock thickened of its own accord, continued to
lengthen and twist inside me. The walls of my ass gave way,
spasming around his bloated girth. It was horrific. It was
glorious.
I started to come. So did he. I could feel the volcanic gush
deep inside my bowels. It started to burn. Then again. I don't
know how long it lasted: minutes, hours? He stayed hard the
whole time. My eyes, which had rolled up in my head,
lowered and regained focus. The shapes and shadows had
returned. There were others! I scanned the room, gauging
the chances for escape, but felt paralyzed.
His posse of lifeless studs lumbered towards the bed. Laz
finally withdrew and stood up. He nodded to his mates. And
one by one they mounted me. Their equally monstrous dicks
writhed inside my guts. I became a vessel for their zombie
jizz. With each of their lengthy orgasms, the burning
sensation grew. I seemed on fire! This would be my end, I
feared. Roasted on a spit, or several spits—had I been
dragged down to hell? Yet amidst the feeling my flesh was
being eaten from inside, the expression, "what a way to go"
popped into my fevered brain. I laughed hysterically.
I lost count of how many times they came in me, or the
times I came. And all the while, I could somehow sense the
histories of my zombie masters—the hardship and the hushed
desires. As well, I saw that each of them had been slain,
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victims of homophobia. Like my beautiful Laz. I saw in
glimmers that they had wreaked a terrible revenge on their
murderers while Laz had bred me with his zombie-cock.
Scenes in flashes of torn limbs and spurting blood. The
screams.
I gave in to it all while in the throes of a kind of ecstasy:
the pictures running through my head, the zombies' lives,
their deaths, revenge, and the sex, the sex. I was being
consumed and I welcomed it all. All.
Then they were no longer there.
My last memory of that night was of this exotic being
called Laz. I thought he had paused on the way out to smile
down on me. I managed to smile back.
When the sun finally came up, I was alone. Had I dreamt it
all? Or was it a hallucination, sparked by sniffing the Obeah
man's powder? But any doubt fell away after I finally stood
up, wavering, and load after sizzling load trickled down the
back of my thighs. I reached around and felt my ass; the hole
was still gaping and twitched at my touch.
Jah know, it was not the end of me.
* * * *
So began my mission, some fourteen years ago. Each
summer I return to Jamaica. I don't know where the zombies
hide in my absence. Perhaps the Obeah man gives them
shelter, or maybe they rest in their graves. But whenever and
wherever I stay, they show up in the dead of night. Their
numbers grow, their numbers wane. They wreak their
dreadful revenge on those that have slain.
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202
Laz is the constant in their universe—and mine. Coupling
with him is always special. I lie beneath him and his minion;
they take me one by one. I am fulfilled, or should I say, filled
full? Both.
And in return, I haven't aged since that first time. I burn in
wondrous pain, and like the phoenix, rise anew. I remain in
all aspects a man in his mid-thirties. No Dorian Gray, I. I am
on a moral mission—at least, that's what I tell myself. And it's
fun at times to think of myself as a sort of superhero. Forever
young-ish, I do my part to rid the nation of badness done
against the men who desire other men. Us men.
There are tribes. And there are tribes.
Perhaps next year I'll make it to Africa to research and,
frankly, cosy up to the Nkundo, the Bala, and the Thonga.
Expiating the sins of the white man's shameful past while
drowning in my tribesmen's jizz!
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About the Authors
Lisa Mannetti's debut novel, The Gentling Box (DarkHart
Press), won the 2008 Stoker Award for best first novel, and
has a story in Ravenous Romance SEXTROLOGY Anthology.
She recently served as guest editor for the Terrible Beauty,
Fearful Symmetry anthology. Two stories will appear shortly
in TRAPS! (DarkHart Press) and the Pretty Scary Anthology; a
third, Everybody Wins, is being translated into a short indie
film by director Paul Leyden. Lisa lives with her white cat,
Huckleberry Finn, and twin black kittens, Harry and Theodora
Houdini, in the house she grew up in—which her mother
haunts daily in benign fashion. Huck's deceased twin, Tom
Sawyer, also deigns to visit from time to time—that is, when
he's not too busy psychically terrorizing birds who
inadvertently light on his slate marker in the back yard. Miss
Theo has a crush on Huck.
Brandi Woodlawn was born and raised in an exclave of
the Bible Belt. Her sexually repressed upbringing is partly to
blame to for her overzealous imagination and her dominant
desires. When Brandi's not dreaming up ways to take her
characters to climax, she might be conducting "research" of
her own. Let no one say she was unwilling to make sacrifices
for her craft. Brandi hopes you'll think the end result was
worth it. Brandi is the author of several Ravenous
Rendezvous, including The Definition of "Is".
Manlius Latham is the proprietor and host of The Flesh
Fantastique, New England's second largest hedonism/fetish
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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204
club. With a clientele ranging from celebrities to politicians to
clergymen to bored and lonely housewives, The Flesh
Fantastique caters to every form of perversion in a safe,
nonjudgmental erogenous zone of pleasure. Mr. Latham
resides in Lisbon Falls, Maine, with his life-partner and their
many varied playthings. He also writes horror fiction under a
pseudonym.
A reformed journalist, Maximilian Lagos only truly felt at
home when he merged his writing talents with another of his
passions: sex and sexuality. Relatively new to writing
professionally, many of his stories have been published on
Literotica, MySpace and the Erotica Readers & Writers
Association to critical approval. Max is a polyamorous,
bisexual married man, the doting father of two children and
lives in Toronto, Canada.
Jarrah Dale loves to write M/M and F/F romance stories
full of love, sex, struggles, and victories—in short, all the
many different things that make a relationship a relationship.
Her interest in the genre was awakened when she discovered
a new take on an old love: Star Trek het/slash stories. Since
she realizes not everyone can be Trekkie, she writes erotic
romance geared more towards the masses. Her favorite ST
universe hotties are Garak and Shran. She lives in
Washington state and can often be found in front of her
computer screen, typing away at another rambunctious tale.
Randal Ivey writes gay love stories in the heart of the
Bible Belt.
Eric Del Carlo's short fiction has appeared in numerous
publications over the years. He is the coauthor, with fantasy
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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205
and science fiction stalwart Robert Asprin, of the Wartorn
novels. A further novel with Asprin and Teresa Patterson, a
murder mystery set in New Orleans' French Quarter, is
available through DarkStar Books. Eric's solo novellas and
novels can be found for download at Loose Id. Come and say
hello at ericdelcarlo.com or find him on Facebook.
Elizabeth Coldwell is the editor of the UK edition of
Forum magazine. Her stories have appeared in anthologies
including Best SM Erotica 1 and 2; Yes, Sir; and Naughty
Spanking Stories 2. She believes bad boys need to learn to
play nicely.
Jen Bluekissed lives in Tennessee with her husband. She
is a recent transplant to the Volunteer State from Iowa. When
she is not writing or blogging, Jen works contract positions.
Most recently, she has worked in the insurance industry. Her
favorite hobby, when she isn't getting lost in a good story, is
playing word and strategy games.
Kaysee Renee Robichaud wonders why the sky feels so
much bigger in southern Texas than in central Massachusetts,
but she certainly likes it! Her fiction can also be found in
anthologies including Like a Wisp of Steam and Like a Queen
(from Circlet Press) as well as Women of the Bite (from
Ravenous Romance). Follow Kaysee's rambling, irregular
blogging at: kayseerenee.livejournal.com/.
Clarissa Duquesne is an established erotica writer living
in England.
Derek Clendening lives in Fort Erie, Ontario, where he is
the information services assistant at the public library. His
Beach Boys: Erotic Encounters with the Gay Boys of Summer
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206
narrative interviews have appeared regularly in Dark Scribe
Magazine and he is a columnist at FearZone.com.
Rupert B Yorke has spent most of his life traveling the
world in search of entlightenment and, when he couldn't find
that, entertainment. His ambition as a writer is to bring to
discerning readers the tales he has discovered. He presently
lives in an old fisherman's cottage on the coast of
Northumberland with his computer, his memories, and his
Labrodoodle, Queen Nefertiti.
In former lifetimes, Ziggy Raht was a lesbian healer in
pre-Classical Greece, a dramatist-monk in Renaissance Italy,
a poacher in eighteenth-century France, and an obscure
novelist in early nineteeth-century Russia. In more recent
(duller) incarnations, he has been a food server, actor,
playwright, and administrator. Many lifetimes of romantic,
sexual, and psychic adventure have inspired Ziggy's recent
and budding writing career.
Sèphera Girón was born in New Orleans. When she was
five, her family moved to London, Ontario, where she lived
until she attended York University in Toronto. After she
received her BA, she had two sons with her filmmaker
husband and she launched her professional writing career.
When she and her husband divorced, Sèphera took many
courses that resulted in her receiving certificates in tarot
counseling, touch for health, and reiki. After Sèphera turned
forty, she met her second husband when he came to her for a
tarot reading. They were married in May 2008 in a gothic-
style wedding. Sèphera has written several horror and erotica
novels as well as nonfiction. She is the author of Ravenous
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207
Romance's Sextrology Series, the culmination of Sèphera's
interests all combined into one big, juicy, erotic dark fantasy.
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