Sport of Kings

by Livia Ellis

“Right.” He nods. “You’re going to be a lot of work.” He tells the driver to take my luggage to the players’ house. He tells me to follow him. He walks directly into the building and to an elevator that waits open for us. The attendant pushes the button that takes us to the top.

  The elevator opens into a room of glass walls that look out over the city. Whoever decorated this space took minimalism to a whole new level. There’s a television, a coffee table, and a large comfortable looking leather couch. That’s it. Except, of course, for the treadmill and the weights. Who lives like this? There is no warmth or color. There is no life. The snow is coming down outside in giant bowling ball flakes. The effect is monochromatic and cold. A red Persian rug is exactly what the space needs. Some orchids maybe.

  It’s already getting dark. I check my watch which I adjusted on the plane. It’s not even four in the afternoon.

  “Enrique.” Marcus pulls off his heavy coat and tosses it on the couch.

  I take my messenger bag off. “Why do you keep calling me Enrique? My name is Alejandro.” I take off my jacket and toss it on the couch with his. This seems to be the place where outerwear is kept. Unreal.

  “You look like Enrique Iglesias, and I’m bad with names.”

  I follow him into a bedroom. There’s a bed and a single nightstand. That’s it. Two pieces of furniture. Who lives like this? At least the bed has been made. Not that it’s hard to shake a duvet out and straighten the pillows. It’s not like there are bolsters or cushions.

  He goes to a door that opens into a walk-in closet. “What do you want to do tonight since pole dancers aren’t really your thing and there is nothing that will get me to the ballet? It looks like I’m your entertainment.” This doesn’t seem to be making him very happy.

  I know what I want to do, but I have no idea how to get him to comply.

  “I don’t know. What do people in Russia do?”

  “Drink and fuck.” He laughs. He’s rummaging through a minimal mish-mash of pieces and occasionally glancing at me. “I love this place. Russians are real. They have big appetites for everything.” He pulls a pair of thick wool trousers off a hanger and tosses them at me. “We’re the same height. Probably the same size.”

  I look at the trousers. Basic black. English wool. Excellent quality. Hand tailored. I have trousers like these. I check the waistband. “Who is Oliver Adair?”

  He glances at what I’m looking at. “He puts his name in his trousers? What is he? Five?”

  “The tailor does that. Usually. Depends. English tailors do. Italian don’t. Who is Oliver Adair?”

  “A friend.”

  “A good friend?” I want to know who Oliver Adair is and why he’s giving Marcus custom made trousers. I actually feel a prickle of jealousy.

  ““He’s one of Vladimir’s sons-in-law. We are good friends. Do you want the pants or no?”

  “They’ll do.” I nod. Oliver was Vladimir’s son-in-law. This was acceptable. A man with a wife was not competition for Marcus’ affection.

  “Lot of work,” he mumbles. He tries to hand me a Corona T-shirt. I wonder if this is some kind of test.

  I look past him. I take a white T-shirt without a beer logo, an ancient pale rose Ralph Lauren oxford, and a charcoal wool sweater. Classic pieces. Preppy chic. I only wish I had my shoes. We wear the same size, but his collection of trainers and riding boots is a bit lacking. What I came with will have to do.

  “Happy?” he asks when I finish rummaging through his belts. I’ll have to use the one I’m wearing. The sweater will cover it.

  “Can I use the shower?” I hold the stack of clothes.

  He looks at me. An eyebrow goes up. I don’t know what he’s looking for in my face. An answer to a question perhaps. But I don’t know what the question is.

  “I’ve been traveling for twenty hours. I smell like airports.”

  He nods. “Sure. Do you want to go out? You don’t seem very enthusiastic about going out.”

  “No. I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

  “You could have just told me.” He looks at me again. “It’s early. Shower. Sleep for a few hours. You might change your mind about going out.”

  “Good.” I follow him into the bathroom. The bathroom gets my approval. Stone slab tiles, German porcelain, and English fixtures.

  The shower is a large glass cubicle with about twenty different nozzles, hoses, and sprays. I strip off my T-shirt as he explains the shower to me. I’m about to drop my trousers as he turns around.

  “Enri—”

  I glare at him.

  “Alejandro. Like Lady Gaga.”

  “Like Lady Gaga?”

  “Yes. Like Lady Gaga. Alejandro. You like Lady Gaga?” He laughs.

  “Of course I like Lady Gaga. Who doesn’t?” How could anyone not love Lady Gaga?

  “Alejandro,” he laughs again. His eyes dart around my chest and arms. “I… I’m just going to be totally honest with you. You are throwing off all sorts of conflicting vibes. The Lady Gaga thing … never mind. This is one of those no offense intended if I’m wrong things. And, if I am wrong, we just move along and forget it ever came up. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He’s a strange man with atrocious taste in clothing and absolutely no design sense. But I still want to do things to him.

  “Are you gay? Because I’m getting the impression you are coming on to me, but then no. Honestly, I’ve never met a straight man that had any appreciation for Lady Gaga. That said, I’m a gay man and I really don’t like Lady Gaga. It’s like you’ve taken playing coy to a whole new level and I’m just … I’m confused. So? What is it? Are you gay? Straight? Coming on to me? Considering filing a harassment suit against me?”

  I stare at him. I don’t know what to say. “I’m shy.”

  “I figured that out. Men? Women? A bit of both?”

  “I like men.” I can barely look at him. I’m suddenly aware I’m not wearing a shirt.

  “Do you like me?” That grin is on his lips and in his eyes.

  I nod.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three. It’s my birthday.” I feel like a ridiculous child for adding that small fact.

  I don’t know what to do with myself. I know I like men. I’ve just never done anything about it. Add to that the fact I just don’t fancy girls makes finding love a bit awkward.

  At this moment my sexual experimentation has included a man at a club blowing me in a shadowy corner, a really well-meaning French girl trying to jerk me off at a country house party, and a first class steward on a flight between New York and St. Petersburg cornering me in the toilet and sucking me off. His number is still somewhere in my leather messenger bag. I thought about calling him, but let’s be honest, the man sucked off a total stranger in an airplane toilet. He didn’t use a condom. I’m sure I don’t want any part of that.

  There isn’t much distance between us. In an instant, he’s in front of me with his hand on the back of my neck. “Happy birthday,” he tells me. His lips touch mine and I gasp. I don’t know how to kiss, but he does. Tongues twirl together as his hand massages my neck. I figure it out quickly. Small sighs come out of my throat. This is better than I ever could have imagined.

  My neck is released, and his hands go to my trousers. I’m terrified I’m going to come if his hand brushes against the bulge in my pants. The last thing I want is for him to find out I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin. Not that I was doing myself any favors with my reaction to his touch.

  His hand slides into my unzipped trousers. I squeak. I actually squeak! At least he doesn’t laugh at me. His fingers wrap around my cock. I’m harder than I can ever recall being. I can’t hold the kiss as he fondles me. My head falls against his shoulder. My eyes close except for a slit through which I can see the line of his jaw and his chin. It’s possible my knees just might buckle under me. I grab him around the waist for support. He puts an arm around my waist to hold me, and then kisses my forehead.

  Marcus isn’t afr
aid to touch me. He rubs me hard and fast. My breath comes in short gasps as he furiously masturbates me. I can’t stop the orgasm from coming. A gurgle and a moan rise from my throat. My hips buck. He holds me tight. I stand, panting and spent. My shaft twitches in his hand. When it’s done, I feel foolish. It’s over so quickly. I’m not half the long-lasting, seductive lover I want to be. I’m barely able to contain myself.

  “Okay?” he whispers in my ear. He kisses my cheek. His free hand holds my head to his shoulder. I nod. His hand slides out of my trousers. They fall along with my shorts around my ankles. I step out of them and kick them away.

  He releases me, and then goes to the sink to rinse off his hand. “How many men have you been with?” He looks at me in the mirror.

  Am I really that obvious? “Lots.”

  “Lots?” He turns around and looks at me. “Really? What’s lots?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve lost count.” I don’t know what to do. Do I get dressed? What does one do in this situation when they’re naked in front of a fully dressed man that’s just masturbated them? I’m not sure Men’s Health has covered this one.

  “Fibber. Just tell me the truth.” He kisses me again lightly, and then pulls away. My cock twitches. I look around for a towel and find only a pile of discarded ones in a corner.

  I hesitate.

  “Two? Three? Maybe you had a boyfriend when you were a teenager? It was all ridiculously sweet and innocent? You’d tell your parents you were having a sleep over, and then you’d jerk each other off during the night?”

  “No.” I shake my head a little. I tell him about the flight attendant, the French girl, and the man in the club. The humiliation is a new kind of hell.

  He looks at me. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “Are you a virgin?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Do you want me to be your first?”

  “Yes.”

  He kisses me again and releases me. He steps away from me. He takes his clothes off as if it were the most normal thing in the world to drop his pants in front of me. I make several silent observations. His body is firm and well-muscled. He is circumcised. He is thicker than me, but I’m longer. We are the same height. Our builds are the same. His outward appearance might have been sloppy, but he is very meticulously groomed under his clothes. He has a scar running down his left arm. He has a tattoo on his bottom. “Who is ES?” ES annoys me. I want to know who has meant so much to Marcus that he’s earned a permanent place on his ass.

  “ES?” Marcus chortles as he turns knobs in the shower. “ES is proof I’m not afraid to make a mistake and that I generally learn from them. I’m going to get that removed one of these days.”

  “My initials are EAS,” I say for some reason.

  “Well then maybe you’ll change my mind about people with the initials ES.” The water falls like steaming rain from the ceiling. I watch him undress. My cock presses toward him. I take a step forward. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

  “I do. For your birthday, I am going to give you the first time I wish I’d had.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the shower.

  His hands run over my wet skin. I look down at his palm wrapped around my cock. “I’ve never touched a man before.”

  “I won’t break.” He takes my hand and wraps it around his shaft, and then holds it there for a moment. I realize we are the same. I touch him as I would touch myself. He won’t break any more than I will. He picks up a bottle of shower gel and fills his palm with a squeeze of lime scented liquid. The gel is rubbed into my skin and a lather quickly forms. I keep him in my hand. I do to him what I do to myself. This earns me a smile. Then a kiss. His tongue slides into my mouth. I push my tongue into his mouth. He told me himself. He won’t break.

  He lets my mouth go and turns me around. My back is to him. He continues to wash me. His hands move over my skin like two fluttering wings. When he nips my shoulder with his teeth, I both laugh and shriek. Wanting a shower wasn’t a ploy to get naked. I really did want a shower. Being bathed is a pure delight. The feel of hands sliding and slithering over my body is one more new sensation to add to the growing list. One hand takes my cock and the other slides between my crack. When he finds the opening to my body, I stop breathing.

  “You’re adorable you know,” Marcus tells me. He wraps an arm around me and pulls our bodies together until his cock presses between my thighs.

  A finger starts to push into me. I very nearly bolt from the shower. There isn’t a condom in sight and I’m nervous. I’m not sure I’m ready for what’s coming.

  “What’s wrong?” Marcus asks me. “You’re stiff and not in the right way.”

  How do I put this without ruining the mood? “No one has ever touched me there before.”

  He moves his finger away. “Do you not like being touched there? Is it uncomfortable? Are you very sensitive? Are you just nervous? I need some information. I’m not a mind reader.”

  “You don’t have a condom, and I’m not sure I’m ready for anal. I was reading on the internet…”

  “Stop talking.” Marcus laughs. He grabs a handful of my ass and squeezes. “Do you really think I’m going to bend you over right here and just have you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No wonder you’re so nervous. Relax. I know what I’m doing. And no more internet for you.” His hand slides between my crack. “Just open up a little. You’ll like this.”

  I spread my legs slightly. He washes me thoroughly, his fingers cleaning my anus and my balls. Particular attention is paid to my taint. Then a finger circles around the pucker of my anus. The finger massages my entrance gently. The sensation of being touched in my most delicate and secret spot pulls a sigh out of my throat. I lean my hands against the stone tile walls. I spread my legs a touch more and press back.

  “You want me,” he says. “You are bursting to be had.”

  That magic, probing finger slides inside me. The rain pours down my back and that finger works me. His hand finds my cock again. His finger slides in just a touch more. My eyes open wide as I cry out.

  “That would be your prostate,” Marcus tells me. His finger applies a firm and steady pressure as his other hand works my cock.

  “I’m going to come.” I sigh.

  Teeth nip my shoulder. “Then come.”

  “What about you?” I want to be a sensitive and thoughtful lover. I’m Argentinean. I have a cultural reputation to uphold. I don’t want Latin men to start getting bad press because of me.

  “We’ll get to me eventually. It’s your birthday. It’s all about you.”

  The pressure on my prostate becomes a massage. His hand around my cock squeezes and tugs. My hips jerk and spasm as I ejaculate onto the tiles. When the moment passes, Marcus gently removes his finger from my anus. He washes. “Best birthday present ever?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is more to come.” He gives my butt a small slap.

  I turn around and lean against the tiles of the shower. He washes his hair as I watch him. It’s all I can do to stay standing, my body leaning against the tiles. I want to fall into bed and just let this feeling of being wholly satisfied overtake me. I’m fairly certain I’d like to feel what his mouth on my cock would be like, but he’s already done enough work.

  “Come here.” He gestures at me with soapy hands. My hair gets thoroughly scrubbed. I let the rain rinse my hair and body. Marcus turns off the water once the soap has been washed away. We dry off, and I follow him into the bedroom.

  The sky is like mercury. The snow and the lights of the city create this effect. The bedroom is cold. Marcus turns on a dim light, which gently illuminates the bed. “It’s freezing.” From the nightstand he pulls out condoms and lube. “Condoms and lube. Not just one or the other.”

  “Really? I know condoms. But lube?” He knows things. Like where the prostate is. “Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t know things. I have the internet.” The words were petulant
and just the sort of thing a nervous virgin would say.

  “I know things too. More than you do. Just for future reference, no more guys in clubs or flight attendants. Horny French girls are fine as long as you use a condom. Okay?” He flicks back the duvet, and then looks at me.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I know you’re nervous,” he says. “It’s fine. I get it. We won’t do anything you’re not ready for. What can I do to make this better for you?”

  “Will you turn out the light?”

  He turns out the light. The room is illuminated solely by the outside world. He drops his towel and gets under the duvet. I join him. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me. We kiss for a long time. Kissing is a good start. Kissing moves to touching with our hands. Our cocks rub together beneath the covers. He takes my hand and wraps it around his erection.

  “I don’t break,” he reminds me.

  The kissing portion of the evening has done wonders to loosen me up. I feel protected by the anonymity of the night. I can be bold in the dark. I push him onto his back and lean over him. The shyness I felt with him was washed away in the shower. I kiss him, my tongue pressing into his mouth. I want to make him feel the way he made me feel. My hand works him until I feel him respond to my touch. His staying power in the shower has diminished. We kiss as I jerk him off. I never would have believed I’d have this beautiful man in my hand like this. Or that my touch would make him moan and thrust his hips. When his orgasm comes, he ejaculates with a cry into my hand. I grip his twitching member as he sends thick streams of cum onto my belly. His pelvis jerks forward with the spasms until he’s spent.

  I wipe off my stomach with my hand. I don’t know what to do with the cum, so I wipe it on the towel I’d used. I lay on the pillow next to him. We touch gently for a long time. Long caresses and pillow talk. Two things I never imagined for my first sexual encounter. I drift off while he tells me about the horses he wants to buy and the plans he has made to start his own stables. I think he kisses me in my sleep. A brief brush of a touch that wakes me just enough to know it happened.

  When I do wake, I have no idea what time it is. But I do know I’m alone. “What do I do?” I whisper as I stare at the ceiling. The internet is a poor advisor. Do I leave? Do I stay? I have no idea. I get up and get dressed. I put on the warm clothes Marcus gave me. I can return them when I see him at training. Then I realize I’m going to have to see him at training. I think we’re ten floors up, and the windows don’t open anyway. There is no way out. I have to go through the front door. If I’m lucky, he’ll be gone.