Anthologies
"Just Desserts" a short story by David Ortmann
originally published in Skin & Ink (Alyson Publications)
edited by Jim Gladstone, 2005
Disclaimer: If man on man erotic fiction offends you, don't read this piece.
I dissect men. It's what I do. I don't use a blade. They're erroneous and sloppy. Besides, my eyes are sharper.
My latest fixation was priceless, a one-man concentration of my every bent sexual fantasy. He looked fifteen, and that's a liberal guess. I watched him for some time because that's what I do before I start to take apart. I watch. Sometimes for weeks. I'm good at it, too. My prey never suspects me. I can watch a man for hours, observe the hidden cogs and gears of his personality-his soul even-just by the way he holds his head, handles an object, or manipulates the skeleton beneath the appealing, but often distracting, flesh.
I watched him behind the counter at Walgreens drugstore on the corner of Castro and 18th Streets in San Francisco. I'd been observing him for almost three weeks now. At first sight, I thought, "He's a god," and I never use that term in describing a man or a boy, because I am a god, and there is only so much room in the world for us carnal deities.
He was a Boy, a man who would continue to be a Boy no matter what age he reached. I could see it in the hesitant way he made eye contact with his customers, downcast unless called upon to serve. A good sign. Verbally responsive only when questioned. Not a chatterbox, a rare thing in this town. His movements were confident, but somehow tentative at the same time, as though he were secure in his space but reluctant to invade that of others. The good signs were piling up.
The hands. Pale, slender, but sinewy with muscle. The hands of a swimmer or a pianist, not a weigh lifter or manual laborer. Even from twenty-five feet away, I could see the blue veins lacing them, the same ones that traveled up the wrists and disappeared beneath the starched cuffs of the shirt. Fingernails. Not manicured, but clean and buffed. Neat. The entire appearance was neat. Hair. Just blonde enough, clearly not dyed or treated with the highlights that have become so common. Cropped high and tight like an adolescent boy in the 1950s. A butch flattop the style used to be called, a haircut that looks best on a boy who is anything but butch. The eyes were green, almost tearful, behind expensive eyeglasses. Armani. I couldn't read the frames, but I knew. The face looked sculpted of angles and planes, rather than anything as mortal as bones and tendons. From the cleft in the chin to the dimples that played at the corners of the petulant mouth to the slender arched eyebrows, he was model beautiful. The Boy Scout who could be Porn Star.
Height. Five-nine, tops. He'd left only the top button of the red and white checkered Oxford undone. The Levis were tight, but not overly so, just enough to give a curved hint at the perfectly round, tightly muscled ass and legs that flexed beneath the worn denim. Black dress belt. Leather, expensive. Spit-shined black penny loafers. Kenneth Cole Reaction. Not top of the line, but close. White socks. Visible between the boy's shoes and the turned up cuff of the jeans.
Gazing at him, I smiled. I guess most people would have seen the all-American boy. Apple pie and Saturday afternoon baseball games with a buxom blonde girlfriend cheering wildly in the bleachers. Presbyterian Church. Honor roll. A boy who thought nothing of calling his mother "ma'am." His father, "sir." Another good sign.
But I saw something else. I saw a pig. I saw a masochistic slave boy who'd be at home, not at a baseball game, but on his knees in a rank alley, drinking steaming piss from the source. The fact that he looked as though he was ready to help an old woman cross the street only added to my rising need to take him. The boy's contradictions made my cock thicken and drool.
He would be my greatest conquest. And that's saying something.
I waited to move in until his counter was empty.
"Hey," I said.
"Hello." Eyes greener than I originally noted. Golden flecks within. Unwavering eye contact. Nice. "May I help you sir?"
"Possibly." I half-smiled.
"Do we have something you need?" The voice. Just deep enough.
"No." I waited a moment. His eyes didn't flicker. "But I have something you need."
A moment passed. "Yes, sir," he said, lowering his eyes just slightly enough so only I could have noticed. Bingo!
I slowly pulled off my leather motorcycle gloves and watched his eyes drop to my hands. He swallowed. I watched his Adam's apple move. Glorious.
Digging into the back pocket of my tight 501s, I handed him a small white card. It was blank except for my first name and phone number.
"Call me when that ass of yours needs a little discipline." I hooked my thumbs into the silver buckle of the thick leather belt around my waist. I watched his eyes move from the keys hanging from my left belt loop, to the swelling knot in my jeans that pulsated against my left thigh, and immediately back to my eyes.
"Yes sir," he said. "I will."
"Good." I turned and walked out, feeling his eyes on my ass and enjoying the burn of them there. I didn't need to turn around to see if he was still looking.
He was.
* * * *
Twenty-four hours tops, I thought, letting myself into my two-bedroom apartment on Folsom and Ninth. He wouldn't wait more than a day to call.
The phone rang that night. 7:47pm. Six hours. Not bad.
"Yeah." I answered.
"Hello sir. This is Jim, we. uh. you came up to me at work-"
"I know who you are."
"I wasn't sure. I mean. you must have a lot of boys."
"Some," I answered. The less he knew at this point, the better.
Silence.
"So?" I broke it.
"I was just calling to see if you wanted to. well, what you said."
"I forgot what I said." I toyed with him. "Remind me."
"I need. I mean, I want."
"Say it, boy," I murmured. A bellow couldn't have been more effective.
I felt something in him break over the phone; the resistance, the fear, the anticipation that held him back. "I need to be disciplined. By you, sir."
"You ever played before?"
"You mean like S/M?"
"Yup."
"A little." He said softly. "Not as much as I want to."
"I'm pretty rough, but I'll work within your limits, especially if you're new."
"Thank you sir."
"We'll meet in public, first. I need to be sure you're worth my attention."
"Oh, I will be, sir." His voice was thick and horny. Earnest little fucker, I thought, fingering my cock through a hole in my jeans.
"Just Desserts. It's a coffee shop on Church between Market and 15th. One hour. Don't be late."
I hung up before I could hear his "yes, sir", but I knew it was there.
* * * *
I was almost late, and that would have been a breech of etiquette. A top who requires punctuality in his bottoms should show the same courtesy. It was one of the many unspoken agreements that exist in leather communities around the world. Had I been late, I would have played it off that I didn't give a fuck; it was his job to be on time, not mine. That would have marked me as an uncaring, self-absorbed top, which I'm not. I just play the role really well.
I walked through the door of Just Desserts at exactly nine-pm.
I saw him immediately, dressed in the same outfit he'd worn at work earlier and sitting at a booth in the rear of the shop. He was drinking iced tea. On the table across from him was a mug of steaming black coffee.
"Hey." I said.
"Hello sir."
"That for me?" I indicated the coffee, and gave him a crooked smile.
"Yes sir."
"How'd you know I take my coffee black?"
"I don't know. It just seemed right for some reason." He smiled. "I mean, you can always add cream or sugar, but you can't. well. take it out once it's in there."
"No, you can't." I smiled and sat down, appreciative of the coffee and impressed with the kid's instincts. Coffee is my beverage of choice and I never take cream or sugar. "Thanks."
I took off my gloves and saw the boy's eyes move to my hands.
"I like your hands." He said.
"Why?" I looked down at him
"They're strong."
"Yes, they are." I said, maintaining eye contact.
He blushed. He actually blushed. I didn't think that was possible any more. Masking my surprise, and pleasure, at his apparent innocence, I asked him to tell me a little more about what he was into and what limits he wanted me to observe.
"There's nothing I won't really do, sir. If the chemistry is right.. I mean, I'm kind of a novice, but I've been disciplined. Getting paddled, and stuff. And I like to be restrained, you know. tied up... I do oral. I just don't get fucked, you know?"
"Why not?"
"Well." He smiled, averting his eyes. "I know it sounds totally corny, but I kind of want to save my ass, my cherry, for the right guy. You know, like the guy I might spend the rest of my life with. It's stupid but."
"Nah, it's not stupid." I said off-handedly. His open self-disclosure, so soon, was disarmingly uncomfortable to me. "I can respect that."
"Thank you." He beamed across to me with every perfect tooth in his head on full display.
He'd forgotten to address me as "sir", but that was okay. I'd take care of it later.
"How old are you?"
"I'm nineteen. A and a half, sir," he said, almost proudly.
"I'll respect whatever limits you set," I explained. "But I'll push them."
"I know."
"Do you need a safe word if things start to get out of hand for you, mentally or physically?"
"No, sir. I trust you, sir."
"Alright then." I took a last sip of my coffee and stood. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
"Are you going to let me ride on the back of your bike, sir?"
I looked down at him hard. "How did you know I rode a bike?"
He lowered his head. "The gloves. Plus, I've seen you around the neighborhood once or twice."
I put my hands on my hips and leaned forward, my bulging crotch just inches from his pretty face. "So, why didn't you ever approach me?"
I looked down on his cropped blonde head and felt the heat of those green eyes on my swollen meat. He swallowed hard. "That's your job, sir."
"Good answer." I reached out and grasped him behind his neck. "Get up."
He rose, a full head shorter than me, I noticed. "Ordinarily, you'd walk behind me, but I want you to walk in front of me. I want to watch what I'm about to get."
He murmured "yes sir", hung his head, and walked slowly toward the door. I slapped my gloves against my palm and watched his ass cheeks, bound in tight denim, clench in response to the sound. I let my eyes wander over every inch of the boy I was about to take.
He road the whole way home, comfortable on the bitch seat of my Harley. He leaned into me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He let those boyish fingers rest tentatively against my belt buckle. I almost shot a load into my jeans feeling my bike buzz beneath me, the heat of that kid's hands resting only inches from my cock, but mostly from knowing that he wanted desperately to lower those fingers and explore the terrain beneath, but that he wouldn't dare until told to do so.
* * * *
He followed me into the apartment. I turned to lock the door. I reveled in the feelings coming from him, the fear and desire and longing I could smell on him. He needed to be touched soon or he would break. Still, I wanted to mess with him. The anticipation would build to an extent so extreme that, were I only to touch his neck, he would fire a load into the white briefs I was confident he was wearing.
"You want a drink?" I turned toward the kitchen.
"Yeah sure, thanks."
The slap stunned him. I waited a moment for the crimson handprint to rise on his cheek and for the tears to gather, but not fall from, the corners of those green eyes.
"From now on, you address me as 'sir,'" I explained in an even tone. "Failing to do so will result in more of the same and worse."
He looked me directly in the eyes like the brave little soldier he was trying to be. "Yes, sir. I apologize." The eyes, so innocent, so full of wonder and questioning. I would break him before the evening was out.
"I gotta take a piss. You wanna drink, follow me."
I walked away from the bathroom, and got off on the kid's confusion. I headed toward the second bedroom, my playroom. The lights were dim and cast a red tone over the black walls. The floor was covered wall to wall in heavy black rubber. The only other objects in the room was a double closet, a weight bench, a seven-foot-tall Saint Andrew's Cross encased in black leather, several benches covered in the same fashion, and a large mobile hook hanging from the black ceiling directly in the center of the room.
I watched the lad close the door behind him, my eyes fixated on his perfectly poundable ass and the lean muscles I could see flexing beneath the preppy shirt. He turned his gaze on me. His eyes said, "I'm a little scared." They also said, "Take me."
I peeled off my t-shirt and threw it aside, giving my boy-bitch an eyeful of my powerful body: shoulders broad and sculpted, pecs swollen and cut, covered with a mass of soft dark hair that captured my funk, my sweat, the essence of my very sex, arms the size of a teenage rugby player's legs, and abs ribbed and toned from twenty years of obsessive stomach crunches. I hooked my fingers into my belt and watched the boy's dick harden visibly beneath a zipper that seemed ready to break.
"I gotta take a leak, boy."
"But, sir, there's no toilet in here."
"Come closer," I hissed quietly.
I waited until the boy stood inches from me. I saw his cock twitch again in his jeans. "You're the toilet, faggot." I placed both my commanding arms on his shoulders and pushed him to his knees. "Let's see you open that pretty fuckin' mouth."
He didn't hesitate a moment. He opened wide. I saw the fresh pink flesh that lined his mouth and throat, the thick tongue that had probably never tasted anything harsher than the occasional cigarette. He kept his eyes on me.
I slowly undid my belt, loosening it enough to allow for a length of leather to hang from the loops. I grasped it in my hand and landed a few sharp blows against a face that was just too pretty, a face that demanded to be marked. I watched the red stripes lace his boyish cheeks and felt my cock swell again. The kid had kept his mouth open the entire time. This one had a lot of potential.
I fingered the buttons of my worn Levis, popping them with excruciating delay, making the kid wait it out. Reaching into my briefs I slowly pulled my cock out. It was half-hard, swollen thick, and stripped with fat pulsating veins. The tortured head, easily the size of a toddler's fist was slick with precum. The boy's eyes widened.
I gasped and moaned as a thick yellow stream splattered against the kid's face. Directing the rank spray toward his waiting mouth, I aimed my cock directly at the back of his throat. My piss reeked; I could smell it myself. I knew what the boy was taking, a long day's full bladder worth of sour man juice, and I was silently proud of him. He swallowed and swallowed, not letting a drop of my waste fall from his lips. I backed up, cock in fist, until I was a full four feet away from his toilet mouth, arching a ripe golden stream right passed his petulant, puckered lips. I advanced closer, until my tool was barely grazing those lips, and let loose with a relentless flood, hosing down the inside of his mouth. He took every fucking drop and when I was done, he licked my cock clean with his tongue; even sucking the last remaining spurts from my piss slit.
"Take off your shoes and socks. Leave the rest on." I said, buttoning up.
I denied him the water he asked for and he didn't question me. I wanted him to get used to the taste of my urine. Still in his shirt and jeans, I bound his wrists and lowered the hook in the ceiling. I clipped his restraints to it and cranked it back up, high, and tight, until his feet were barely touching the floor.
I left him there while, out of his limited sight line, I fired up a Marlboro and took my time enjoying the smoke. In the silence I let him ponder what was to come, knowing that he could have no idea and that it was driving him crazy. It only made my piss-spent hose spring to life again. I ground grinded the smoke beneath my boot and slowly approached him. The only sound in the room was the fall of my boots against the floor.
I stood behind him, unbuttoned his shirt slowly, teasingly, and then tore it off his body with a yank intended to make him gasp aloud. But it was me who had to catch my breath at the sight before me. Stripped to the waist, I could now see that the boy was inked beyond belief. Nothing had prepared me for the hedonistic and masochistic streak that must have motivated this boy to tattoo his young body so thoroughly and so severely. Every inch of his hairless torso, abs, and upper arms was covered in intricate designs, woven together in eye-splitting color. Deep canals of green and purple water ran across his chest and down his arms from which breached gigantic turtles, opened mouthed serpents, and immense squid whose tentacles of gold and scarlet wrapped entirely around his tight body. There were crabs, crows in the air, snakes, newts, and grinning gargoyles plucked straight from the nightmares of small children. Discreetly placed within his body tapestry were a small array of inverted crosses and pentacles those neo-pagan symbols of a five-pointed star within a circle, but upside-down, like the crosses. With a flash of fear, I realized I might have a bit more than I bargained for hanging from my ceiling.
I paused, completely thrown and feeling as though I'd just gone from a sex scene into a museum. His body must have registered the shift in my attitude but he said nothing. He hung there, like a good boy. My eyes wandered over his back, which was covered completely with intricate renderings of creatures you would find under a wet rock, except for a large rectangular area in the center of his tightly muscled back. This space was pure, untampered boyflesh, so very obvious amid the collection of hauntingly beautiful images that it had to be intentional. I made a point to ask him about it later, but not now.
I brought a glass of cool water to his lips. His tiny nipples responded beautifully to the clamps I attached to them. I drew the clamp chains to a leather band, which I bound tightly at the base of his substantial cock and balls. The tension between the two would stimulate both these precious points every time he moved. His eyes never left me. I opened the closet doors, displaying row upon row of the sexual torture devices I'd spent almost twenty years collecting. I selected a medium-weight leather flogger to begin . I positioned myself behind him, slightly to the left. I looked down at the whip in my fist and the veins popping from my arm muscles as I flexed them, feeling my cock harden at the sight of my own body and its power over this boy. With a twist of my wrist and a whistling crack, I began to lash his perky little ass, his bewitching, tattooed back, and his intricately decorated chest with the lengths of well-oiled, braided leather.
He had an amazing tolerance for pain and went further with me that first night than I ever though possible. I only glimpsed his asshole once, when I bent him over my weight bench for a session with my heavy leather biker belt. His butt cheeks, laced with vicious red weals from the caning he'd received without a sound, spread wide to reveal a hole pink and tense, hairless and pure. It puckered and tightened with every stripe of the belt. I knew I wouldn't need to use Jim's mouth as a cum dump that night. As he began to shoot his load all over the bench while I belted his boy ass, I watched that cherry flex and twitch and shot five, six, seven geysers of man juice into my own jeans with a moan so loud and excruciating, I was grateful his own cries covered it.
* * * *
We played again and again over the course of the next few weeks. He observed the rule that I would be the one to call him. He was not to call me. He was always available and continued to drive the limits of my perversion beyond what I thought possible. He was an expert cocksucker, whether teasingly flicking his tongue over my glans or when I skull fucked him deep and fast with my full, thick nine inches. His mouth never failed to bring me to ball-shattering orgasms. Where that skilled little fucker learned to be both all boy and all pig, I didn't know. I was smitten with his perfect form and the body art that covered his finely muscled back, his sculpted chest, and his wiry, strong arms. I was drawn deeply into all the contradictions that made him the boy he was, from the wide-eyed innocent smile to the mouth that would accept, unquestioning, anything I would place in it. Almost in spite of myself, I found that I was looking forward to our meetings more and more.
Finally, two days ago, smoking cigarettes on my back porch, after a particularly hot play session, I asked him about his tattoos.
"Do you like them?" he said.
"Yeah, they're cool. What are they all about?"
"Just images and stuff that I've seen."
"Seen where?"
"In my dreams."
"Those must be some dreams."
"Yeah, I have a pretty vivid imagination."
I'd decided a week before that the submissive "yes sirs" would be for play only. At times like this, he called me Rick and I called him Jim. Our conversations had taken on the informality common between friends, or leather buds who have played together for awhile.
"Do they hurt?" I asked.
"When you get them? Yeah. It's fucking awesome! That needle digging in and out of your flesh, the pain, the blood, and the waves of endorphin, the feeling of complete submission, the invasion. Christ, getting inked is one of the hottest things in the world!" His eyes were bright and animated.
"Sounds like a really good fuck, only with a needle."
"Yeah, I guess so." He smiled. "Maybe someday I'll find out."
I decided to let that one go. Jim knew I wanted to fuck him. No need to belabor the point. I'd said I would respect his limits and I was bound to that. Even though, in my private jack-off fantasies, the image of his tight little hole twitching above that artfully tattooed back was more and more frequently the image that flashed across my mind before I shot my load.
"So what's the blank space on your back for?"
"I haven't decided yet. Something special. I'll know it when I see it."
A few moments of silence hung between us as we smoked and I though about how to ask my next question.
"So, what's with all the symbols hidden into the designs?"
"Why?" he said. "Do they freak you out?"
"No," I lied. "Just curious."
"I'm a Satanist." He said simply as though saying-I'm a Gemini. "Those are the symbols of my religion."
"Oh," I said, still not understanding what it meant to be a Satanist. "So what does it mean to be a Satanist?"
"It's a very personal path." He exhaled a long stream of smoke. "I don't belong to a group or church or anything. It's. very individual. Don't believe all that shit you read. I don't sacrifice animals or boil babies, or fuck sheep, or anything like that."
"Well that's good to know."
"It's mainly about hedonism and retribution. We don't believe in denying ourselves earthly or bodily pleasures, as you can probably tell from me." He laughed. "Also, if someone does something cruel, violent, or hurtful, we believe in retribution." He paused for a moment and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Actually, it's not much different in Catholicism. an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But somehow, we Satanists end up with the reputation of cannibalistic sex killers."
"And you're not?"
"Nope. Sorry." He smiled. "Nothing that exciting. But, we're also not out there fucking altar boys, either. It's all about a love of pleasure and of keeping things in balance. Keeping the things we encounter in check."
Nineteen years old, I thought. Jim was smart, fearless kid and that was perhaps the source of my growing attraction to him.
"So." He rose awkwardly. "You'll call me? I hope?"
"I'll call you." I allowed myself to smile slightly. "I'll call you soon."
"Don't make me wait too long," he pouted, "I'm a growing boy."
"I won't." I waited until he was gone to deal with the problem at hand. I paced my apartment thinking. This boy had captivated me, seduced me. I couldn't deny it any longer. I often thought of nothing else. I was so fucked. He was more than just a kid with a cute body, a hot play partner, or some adventurous young bottom. He had a name. Jim. I liked Jim. I really liked Jim.
That was a problem.
* * * *
The following day I was restless. Images of Jim had haunted my dreams and, although the dreams were intimate, colorful, and beautiful, it was their very beauty that upset me so. I thought about my life in the leather community and how leathersex could well have been tailor made for me, tailor made for the man who wished, all his life, to hide.
From the time I was first submissive in the bed of a man whose name I have long forgotten-getting my sixteen year old tits twisted, my hole plunged, and my punk ass whipped-I knew that this ballet of masculine intimacy and distance, tightly weaving the cords of torture and bliss, was the dance I was destined to do. It didn't take long for me to graduate from bottoming to topping. Some move that way with age and experience, others don't. After a slew of evil and unskilled tops, at barely eighteen, I ran there, and I stayed.
In Leathersex there were rules, codes, conventions, and most of them unspoken. Hanky codes, harness styles, the cut of the chaps, cock rings, how you hang your keys, where you're pierced, , the width of your belt. And there are many more. . I like them because they cut down on useless chatter and process. You can look at a guy, examine him, and know exactly what you're getting. Most of the time.
My golden rule has always been to play as hard and as often as I want, but never let the boys in. Keep them at a distance. I'm not designed for relationships. Don't ask me why. I examine others, not myself. Maybe I don't have the ability, or maybe I just don't give a fuck. San Francisco is a transient town, much like New York or D.C., or any of the major American gay urban hubs. Boys pass through, stay awhile, and eventually move on. There is always a new crop of idealistic, fair-haired lads to replace them. It's easy to live my philosophy of disattachment in a city like this.
Love? Don't do it. Can't have it. Not my gig, you know? Love is like eating sushi from a pushcart on 8th Avenue in New York. You know you shouldn't go there, but you're craving it. You eat it, puke for days, and vow never to eat fucking sushi again. And you don't.
Have I broken the hearts of corn-fed transplants along the way? Boys so much like the boy I used to be? It happens. I don't like it, but that's the way it goes. It's part of the game. The dance. If you can't tango, don't step on the goddamned floor. You know?
In my thirty-four years, I have been in love only once. And it won't happen again. I was seventeen. My last top. He was older. I forget how old. I can't remember his name either. He left. I don't remember exactly how. My mind has learned to forget the things it needs to forget. I know what happened, I know it hurt, but the feelings are inaccessible and that's just where I want them. I remember that hurt as what it is, something that happened to somebody else, because I was somebody else then.
I was a stupid seventeen-year-old faggot, alone in this supposedly accepting gay-mecca, who got burned so bad, I thought I'd never walk the street or look another man in the eye again. But I got over it. The pain eventually went away. I admit, I cried more than I imagined humanly possible, but finally the tears stopped. I've never cried again and really don't think I ever will. Sadness, like love, or desperation is something I've learned to keep at bay. It's served me well and sharpened the observation and analytical skills I need. A man totally in control. A fucking leather daddy pervo top sex machine. With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel-a rock. An island.
Perhaps that's what was bothering me so. Somehow, in the last few days, I'd broken my own long held rule. I'd let a boy under my skin.
I'd let Jim in.
* * * *
He called me late yesterday morning. A major breech of etiquette, the bottom calling on the top. What bothered me more than Jim's call was the realization that I was less angry with him than I was thrilled to hear from him.
"What's up?" I said, keeping my composure.
"I'm sorry to call you. I know it's not cool," he said with overflowing excitement in his voice.
"But I have a surprise for you!"
"What is it?"
"I did it! I got my tattoo. The one for my back! I told you I'd know it when I saw it! And I saw it." He said. "All I could think of when I was getting inked was you. Every time that needle plunged into my skin I dreamed it was you holding the needle, torturing me and marking me. It was fucking sick! There were moments when I thought I'd pass out from the pain and then the endorphins would kick in and I'd be flying! I almost came in my shorts getting inked yesterday and I haven't beat off since! I'm saving it all for you. It took four hours. They wanted to do it in two separate visits, but I wanted it all right away. It's still healing, but the bandages are off. I really want you to see it."
"When do you want to come over?"
"Is this afternoon okay? Four o'clock?"
"I'll be here."
"Awesome! I can't wait to see you!" he said, adding "sir" almost as an afterthought.
* * * *
I wanted everything to be perfect. I cleaned the playroom and then the entire apartment before dressing. I discarded five t-shirts and four pairs of jeans before settling on a basic white, slightly see-through Hanes and a pair of faded, ripped, obscenely tight Levis 501s that I'd had since the 1980's. I cinched them with my studded belt and pulled on my tall, shiny, motorcycle boots. Uncomfortably nervous, I practically chain-smoked until I heard the door buzzer at exactly four.
He bounded up the stairs to my apartment, his face red, his breath short, as if he'd run the whole way. I was struck immediately by his clothing, the white baseball cap, worn backwards, was all boy. The rest of him was all whore; a tight black tank top that showcased the wicked tattoos lacing his arms and the snug Levis cutoffs that displayed his muscled legs, fine fuckable ass, and the healthy bulge in his crotch.
"Hi," he panted.
I smiled. "Calm down there boy. Catch your breath."
"I'm fine," he said. "Just excited."
I thought I was doing a good job of remaining calm. I couldn't let him know just how much he captivated me. Yet.
"Can we go in the bedroom?"
Another golden rule: Keep the boys in the playroom. Once you let them in the bedroom they're not just boys anymore, they cross the line into the realm of boyfriend, lover, and partner. Words I detested. Words I feared more than detested, I guess.
"Sure." I said, breaking the rule. "Anywhere you want. But I want you stripped buck fucking naked when I get in there."
"Yes sir." He smiled broadly and was gone.
I smoked another cigarette to kill five minutes, which felt like five hours, and then went in.
Jim, the boy who I'd decided would soon be My Boy, was standing at the foot of my king-size bed with his back to me, stripped to his bare, inked, gorgeous self. My eyes went immediately to the new tattoo; an intricate stained glass window covered what was once the empty rectangular patch of virgin boyflesh. The tiny panes were inked in cool colors: purples, greens, turquoises, aquas, and a blue that was so deep it was almost black. The window had been designed in such a way as to give the impression that moonlight was streaming into it from outside. The illusion cast a dreamlike glow over the bedroom.
Curling up the boy's spine, at the center of the window, was a huge snake, its scales a warm mosaic of reds, siennas, umbers, oranges, golds and rusts. The serpent was inked to look as though it were coiled around the boy's spinal column. Its glistening sunset-colored head was turned in profile, centered directly between his perfectly proportioned shoulder blades. The eye of the snake was purple, with flecks of orange at the core. It gazed out with a wise and knowing expression. The expression of a god that has seen everything since the dawn of creation and still looked out upon the world with ancient, fiery eyes and a cynical twist at the corner of its grin.
The serpent's tail curled like a bullwhip out of control, lashing across Jim's lower back before coming to rest in a jet black arrow pointing downward where his luscious cheeks dove together. It was a wicked and beautiful invitation to the magic source, that aching hole waiting between the smooth globes of the boy's perfect ass.
I was without words, only aware of the thumping of my heart, reverberating in my throat, head, and ears. I felt sure Jim could actually hear it. Finally, he turned his beautiful head and, over his left shoulder, fixed me with a bewitching gaze. The golden flecks in his green eyes blazed.
"Follow the serpent," he said, his voice thick with desire. "Sir."
He leaned forward and with one fluid motion splayed his naked body across my bed. I watched him, transfixed by the artfully inked back, the glow from the vibrant colors, and the beckon of the snake. By the time I moved on him, I'd shed every stitch of clothing. I wanted nothing to come between Jim's skin and my own. I looked into the eyes of that snake and listened to a gasp escape from Jim's mouth as I flicked my tongue tentatively over his shoulder blades and the ridges and muscles of his gorgeous back.
I followed the path of the snake curling its way down and across Jim's devilish body, flitting my tongue teasingly at times, biting and nipping at his flesh hungrily at others, until I reached the serpent's pointed tail. I gently parted his waiting ass cheeks, still streaked with the light crimson welts from his whipping several days ago. I shook my mind to clear the image of abusing this perfect boy. I never wanted to strike him again, in passion or play. I wanted to love him. I do love him, I realized, smiling brightly while parting his ass and seeing the prize I'd longed for staring back at me, the twitching, pink, virgin asshole that had consumed my every waking and sleeping thought for weeks.
I let my tongue dance over every part of his bottom for almost fifteen minutes, feeling the spring of lust coil within him, before I allowed it to dart out lightly and flick his perfect ass ring. He yelped like a whipped puppy, the coiled spring released within him and his body convulsed with a second, softer cry. I continued to rim him with gentle strokes of my tongue, moving upward to service the arrowed tail of the serpent whose invitation I'd accepted. For all the times he had serviced me, I was now servicing Jim, lacquering his tight hole with long strokes of my tongue. His boyish asshole smelled of a combination of lavender, lemon, and his own raw scent. I penetrated him with my tongue and he moaned. He was tight, but soon I felt the first ring of muscles surrender to my gentle tongue fucking. I licked and sucked and slurped and pulled, digging my nails into his ass flesh and burying my tongue in his hole to the hilt. He moaned and cried and clawed the sheets. I was so entranced, he could have shit in my mouth then and there and I wouldn't have cared.
I was fucking his ass hard with my tongue and Jim was moaning, crying, and writhing like a live wire. I could feel the electricity in his body and I knew, even before he asked, what was to come.
I raised my head and gazed up the long expanse of his back to his proud, strong head. He turned over his shoulder and fixed me with an expression so full of lust, longing, and openness I was almost blown right off the bed.
"Please," he whispered, barley able to form the words. "Please sir. When I was getting it, when the needle was going in and out, all I could think of was how much I wanted, needed you to fuck me just like that needle did. Fuck me, sir. Fuck me, please." He was crying openly now.
I rolled a condom over my dick, which was swollen to its full nine inches, and covered it with lube. It was Jim's first time and my cock was not exactly training wheel size. I put my hand gently on his precious back and said softly, "Just relax, Jim. I'll go slow. We'll build a rhythm and ride it out together. Just breathe deeply into it."
I positioned the head of my cock, purple with lust, over Jim's dilated cherry pucker. I eased myself in slowly, conscious of his moans and cries, pulling back and pausing when I knew he needed it. Finally I felt my pubic hair brush against his ass. I was in completely. Jim and I synced our breathing and I felt his ass muscles relax and then tighten around my dick.
Slowly and expertly, I fucked his spread ass. He was tight but able to flex his ass muscles to grasp my dick, and pull it in further, as if by force of suction. Soon my nuts were slapping loudly against his ass as I fucked his little hole viciously. He cried aloud when the head of my cock clipped his prostate gland, that sweet little butt nut that was the source of forbidden pleasure in all men. I knew exactly when and where to clip that bud exactly how to send Jim's body into spasms. I looked down and watched his back muscles flex as I jack hammered his hole. The stain glass window still glowed from within and with every ripple of muscle in his back; the coiling serpent seemed to move before my eyes.
Before I realized it, I was on the verge of coming. Usually I can last forever, but Jim was milking my stick for all it was worth. I conjured up mental images to turn me off: nuns in habits, lesbian with mullets, and those chicks from Friends. I thought I had it under control when I felt something gently nip at my cock. Again, as I thrust, I felt that gentle teasing bite. No matter what I thought of, that nip was going to send me over the edge.
Jim moaned again, "Fuck me sir! Plow my ass. Make me your boy. Fuck me!" he said and I felt it again, a little nibble on the tender head of my cock. Was it my imagination, or did Jim's prostate have a tiny mouth full of small teeth that nipped at my stick every time I clipped it? With every thrust, every little bite on my cock, each tightening of Jim's virgin butt muscles, and the view of his body squirming beneath me as I fucked him silly, I felt it coming on, the kind of orgasm that builds somewhere at your feet, crawls up the back of your legs, sends a shudder through your shoulders and neck, before it descends into your balls and blazes there. The kind of orgasm you have once, maybe twice in your life. My heart was beating so fast I thought I would have a heart attack, the monster in his bowels kept nipping at my dick, and his muscles sucked me in further, until I had to work to pull out and impale him again and again.
I thrust deeply into him and felt a load churning in my nuts that I feared might burst the condom.
"Oooh," Jim moaned beneath me. "I'm going to come sir! Fuck me. I'm not even touching my dick. Oh, shit! I'm gonna shoot. Oh, fuck me!" I felt his body shudder. He screamed and I felt his body convulse. He was shooting into the sheets beneath him. With every load he shot he quivered and made a sound as though he were both laughing and crying.
I continued to piston his ass with every ounce of energy I had left in me. My nuts drew up into my body, my feet tingled, my cock felt like it was going to burst, and I screamed, grabbing his shoulders as I unloaded the first of almost ten jets of come into him. One two three four, and then my eyes began to roll back into my head as I continued to dump my load into him. I saw the tight, inked, expanse of his back, the glimmering panes of the window, and the serpent coiled up his spine. Just before my vision went dark, I swear I saw that snake wink at me.
* * * *
When I opened my eyes I felt Jim breathing gently and regularly beneath me. Our naked bodies were glued together with a combination of sweat, saliva, and come. The sheets and comforter were a tangled disarray, damp with body fluids and lube. I leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss at the base of his neck. "I'll be right back," I said. "Just rest for a minute."
I gently pulled out of him. The condom was swollen like a water balloon full of white molten lava, but it hadn't broken. Walking into my bathroom, I pulled it off my cock, knotted the base, and tossed it into the waist basket where it landed with a thud. I bent down before the sink and turned the taps on full force. I washed my face vigorously, feeling myself somehow returning to my body. I looked into the mirror, content with my exhausted expression and the smile that bespoke my happiness. I was happy. The fuck of a lifetime. Never had I experienced such a profound connection to another person, or such a mind-bending sexual experience. It was a journey, a sexual journey that landed me back, safely on my own shores but somehow changed for the better. In my mind I thanked that glorious boy I'd left on my bed for opening me up again, for making me feel this alive. Jim.
I went back into the bedroom. He was gone. Shorts, tank, boots, baseball cap-all gone. I grabbed my robe and walked out into the kitchen. Nothing. Living room. Empty. Playroom. Bare. I was only in the bathroom for a couple of minutes. Where the hell could he have gone so fast? And why?
I opened the apartment door, looked at the empty stairwell leading to the lobby and street below. I saw Jim standing there, at the foot of the stairs, inches from the lobby doors, looking up at me, fully dressed and smiling.
"Hey," I said, bounding down the stairs. "How'd you get dressed so fast?"
He just smiled at me.
"Look," I said. "You don't have to go, Jim. You're not some bad boy who has to run out anymore. It's cool. We just shared something pretty intense up there, your first time and all. Let's hang out. Chill. Debrief. Whatever."
"No, I have to go."
"Why?"
He began to laugh, long and heartily at a joke I clearly did not get. I just stood there. Finally he stopped and just shook his head.
"You don't get it, do you? After all this time, you still don't get it?"
"Get what?"
"Okay, let's back up. How long had you been stalking me, watching me, before you finally got it together enough to actually approach me?"
He must have read my look of shock.
"How did I know you were watching me?" he said. "Because it was obvious. You were sloppy. Blatant, even. Besides, you watched me for two, maybe three weeks. Right?"
"Yeah, Jim, I guess. But that doesn't matter any more-"
"No, it matters," he said. "God, I can't believe you don't see it yet."
He threw back his handsome head and laughed again. I was beginning to feel angry, sad, and stupid. What wasn't I seeing?
"Rick, you're so narcissistic and self-absorbed. In the three weeks you carelessly and obviously stalked me you never once noticed that it was me who was following you. Yes, I followed you and watched you for six weeks! I saw you flirt with other boys, play with them, seduce them, and cast them aside as if they were nothing. I knew what kind of bike you rode, I knew your insipid come-on lines, I even sat in the same coffee shop as you no less than five times, just observing, and you never caught on. How did you think I knew how you took your coffee?" He was laughing again.
"But. but why?" I asked.
"Because this had to happen. Things were out of balance," he said evenly and without a hint of emotion. "You've been flaunting your ass around town like your shit doesn't stink for years now, playing the role of the untouchable, the inaccessible king of topmen, and leaving a string of dashed hopes, busted dreams, and torn egos in your wake. Boys like me, Rick. Some got over it. Some didn't. You'd have treated me just the same, except you fell in love with me."
I couldn't speak.
"Don't bother confirming or denying it. You did. It was part of my plan. Pleasure. Retribution. Balance. I all but told you so that night out on your back deck and still you never caught on. I put things back into balance. It's what I do. Goodbye."
I felt a numbness crawl through my body. He turned toward the door, paused and turned back to me, smiling. No, sneering.
"Oh, you were right by the way. In the bathroom. It was the fuck of a lifetime," he said. "And I should know."
"So you're not a."
"A virgin? No. Mind reader, yes. Virgin, no. Sorry pal." He laughed. "It was a game, Rick. A game like you've played with half the boys in town. Only this time the boy had the advantage and won. How's it feel, tough guy?"
I was too stunned too say anything. He just kept smiling.
"I'll see you around." He reached for the doorknob, and turned to look at me one last time. "Or not."
He turned, opened the door, walked through , and closed it behind him.
I fell backward, my mind reeling while my body collapsed. I lay my head back against the hard stairs. I don't know if I actually passed out or if I fell, mercifully, to sleep.
* * * *
Once my head cleared, I pulled myself off the steps, went back to my apartment, locked the door, took a sleeping pill, slugged a Miller, and put myself to bed. My thoughts were racing. I would deal with it all in the morning. Tomorrow. I crawled beneath the cool sheets like a weary child, which is what I was. The down comforter was like a warm cocoon around me. I was so exhausted that I didn't notice the bedding was pristine and undisturbed, as though the hottest lovemaking session of my life had never even happened.
The next morning, I set out to find Jim, to apologize for my arrogance, to make amends, to win him back somehow. But he wasn't behind his counter at Walgreens. I went back the next day and the next and the next, but no Jim. Finally I approached the manager.
"Does Jim work here any more?"
"Jim? No Jim here. Sorry."
"Did he quit?"
"Nope, never had a Jim doin' counter work here."
"Are you sure?" I said. "Cute, blondish, five-nine, wore glasses, you know.a Levis and plaid shirt sort of kid. He worked behind that counter." I pointed to where I first approached him.
"Sorry man." He said. "If he looked like you say, trust me, I'd remember him."
"Thanks." I said, feeling the store close in around me and needed to be out of there. I headed quickly for the door.
The weather was beautiful, one of those amazing spring days that are rare in San Francisco, a day where everything seems bright and fresh and alive. I began the walk home, looking down, watching my boots fall against the pavement, and feeling some comfort from their rhythm.
I never saw Jim again. And as the lonely days, weeks, and years continued to pass , I found myself wondering if I'd ever seen him at all.