Rewind Boxed Set

by Rowan Shaw

  He shook his head, one leg stuck in his pants that nearly made him trip. "I never strip completely. It's not any different than wearing a Speedo at the beach, really."

  I highly doubted that. "Don't they get to touch you when you give them a lap-dance in the backroom?"

  "They can touch my ass, yes, but that's not sex. Not like the lap-dance I gave Enrique last night." He sent me a quick glance and zipped his brown trousers that were so tight they squeezed his ass like a damn peach.

  "If they jizz in their pants, it's sex."

  Jean-François burst out laughing, his big mouth spreading. "Well then, I'm in trouble because some of my regulars definitely climax every time."

  "They never try to go farther?" It wasn't my first time asking him about all this. I just had a hard time believing his Latin lover was okay with it.

  "Of course they do. It turns them on that it's forbidden."

  "Does it turn you on?"

  His little smirk poked up. "Let's just say sex with Enrique gets rough any night I work."

  "So basically every night."

  His crooked smile said it all.

  Jean-François worked at two different places—the brand new gay club on Rue des Maréchaux and an actual strip club somewhere downtown that had a feminine audience only. Unlike Enzo, who was coy and reserved, Jean-François was loud, outspoken, outrageously sexual, and he enjoyed disclosing every detail of his sex life. It was a bit too much at times—even for me.

  "Speaking of the devil," he said when the entrance door to his apartment creaked open, then slammed shut. The sounds of footsteps preceded his lover, who stepped in just as Jean-François was putting on his red jacket, beaming all sunshine.

  Standing at six feet, Enrique was as tall as him, but bulkier, with biceps large enough that his veins seemed ready to pop. His midnight brown hair was a wild mess from wearing a construction hat all day, and his naturally tanned skin was darker than Jean-François's olive complexion. A grin reshaped his full lips the moment his deep brown eyes zeroed in on his boyfriend.

  He didn't even notice my presence as he pulled Jean-François by the hand, wrapped his arms around his waist, and kissed him, soon grinding against his crotch like a fucking bunny in heat. I cleared my throat, but Enrique simply glanced at me from the corner of his eye without putting an end to their tonguefest.

  Only when he'd aroused Jean-François enough that a growing bulge left an outline in his pants did he stop. "Hi, Patrick. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

  "He's coming to the club tonight," Jean-François replied for me.

  Enrique raised an eyebrow. "Someone needs to get laid, I see."

  "I don't just go out when I need to get laid," I replied. There were a few times when I'd gone clubbing just to dance. It was rare, but it did happen...at least once or twice.

  Enrique gave a tiny smirk and turned to Jean-François. "I need to shower."

  His Spanish accent rolled thickly, though his French grammar was always impeccable, as he took off his t-shirt on his way out and Jean-François put on his boots. He returned fifteen minutes later, dressed in black pants and a white tank top that stuck to his muscular chest. "Ready?"

  Always the designated driver, Jean-François grabbed the keys to his car and glanced at me. "What if you meet someone you like?"

  "I came here on foot. If I find someone I like, we can go to his place or walk back to mine."

  Jean-François shrugged and led us out, taking no more than ten minutes to drive us and park on Place Carnot before he entered the club through a back door to avoid his fans. When we stepped inside, the music was blasting so loud, we could barely hear each other. Enrique sent me a quick glance and left me at the bar to chat with some people I didn't care to meet.

  I sat at the counter and flashed a flirty smile at the bartender before asking for a Heineken. His beautiful lips spread into a lopsided grin, but I knew that didn't mean much. I'd been trying to get in his pants for a while now, and though he enjoyed flirting back, it never went farther than that. I could have taken him on the ride of his life, but he was too professional for his own good.

  I watched as he turned around to get my drink, his tight ass shaped by his shorts. I didn't bother hiding my ogling even when he returned to me, beer in hand. I slid cash over the counter along with a generous tip and spun on my stool to scan the crowd. Everyone around me was chatting, drinking, or fondling in some corner.

  I was annoyed Enzo had refused to come. This whole break-up thing with Florian was bullshit. I didn't give a damn how upset Florian was that some loser had outted him. Did he really think he was the first queer to go through that crap?

  I grumbled, hoping that nailing someone would help me crush my foul mood. But when I gave another sweeping glance around, my eyes never rested on any guy in particular. The music was so deafening, I couldn't focus, the lights from the stroboscopes twirling around, blinding me when I made the mistake of looking at them. Everything here was modern and new, the bar's countertop made of the same black metal as the round cocktail tables surrounded by high leather stools. I liked it better than the older place where the crowd was a lot less eclectic.

  "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" asked the most beautiful specimen I'd seen in a while. Averting his eyes, he tilted his chin toward the stool by my side.

  My lips rose on one side. "Pas du tout, mon lapin."

  No matter how dim the light was, I could see him blush when he dared a quick glimpse into my eyes and sat awkwardly nursing a beer. He was one head shorter than me, with blondish-red hair, deep blue eyes, a five o'clock shadow on his cheeks, and skin as white as milk. I'd never seen him around before. I would have remembered that breathtaking smile.

  "I'm Patrick, by the way," I said, holding out my hand to shake his. "Are you here alone tonight?"

  I'd already figured he was. He seemed to fit in like a fish out of its bowl. But I had a hook, and I was going to pull on that catch until he ended up in my lap.

  "I'm straight," he let out and ignored my hand.

  So he was one of those, huh? Lucky him, I didn't mind fucking straight men.

  "What's your name, straight boy?"

  "Eric," he croaked.

  I let my eyes crawl all over him, taking my sweet time to get my point across. Lone straight men came to gay clubs for two things and two things only. One: to prey on queer women and harass them. Two: to get their dicks sucked in the dark by queer men. He wasn't fooling me with the coy act. I moved closer to talk directly in his ear so he could hear me loud and clear over the pounding music.

  "Tell me, Eric, have you ever let a man fuck you so hard you nearly lost it?"

  His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, his eyes wide as saucers. The way his breath hitched told me everything I needed to know. He was here to fuck, and apparently, it was his first time cruising. I gave an inviting smile, hoping he'd relax.

  Chapter 2

  PATRICK

  Slamming the bathroom door behind Eric, I shoved him against it and turned the lock. It wasn't my first time doing a guy here. It was technically against the club's rules, but it seemed nobody gave a damn whom I fucked or why as long as I kept buying drinks for my hook-ups. I was one of the few who actually tipped too, so the staff tended to turn a blind eye to my transgressions. The music from the club was muffled here, but it was loud enough outside the door that it'd cover the sounds of his coital rise when I'd make him come out of his mind.

  Caged between my hands that I'd propped against the door on each side of his face, Eric gave me a shy look.

  "Say it again," I ordered.

  He swallowed a gulp. "What?"

  "That you're straight. Say it again."

  "I am...I am straight." He didn't sound so sure anymore.

  I moved closer to him and pressed my hardening dick against his thigh. "You're sure you want to do this?"

  He gave a faint nod but wouldn't look at me.

  I grabbed his chin between two fingers. "Look at me."

&n
bsp; When his blue eyes met mine, his pupils were completely dilated.

  "Do you want to do this?"

  "Yes."

  That was all the consent I needed to lean in for a kiss. When he didn't resist, I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck and fisted his hair as I tongued his mouth open. His timid strokes soon turned ravenous against mine before I bent his head backward to suck on his neck, leaving a hickey he'd have to hide for days.

  His moan vibrated in my ear, shooting straight to my cock as I undid his pants. I looked him straight in the eyes to make sure he was still on board before I dropped to my knees. He was huge, bigger than me. Uncut. And hard already. I smirked against his crotch and took him in, needing little effort to swallow him whole.

  "Ah," he gasped. "How did you do that?"

  I didn't reply. I was too busy running my tongue along his veins and glans. He sounded like he might not even last a minute, and when he seemed ready to shoot his load, I pulled back.

  I rarely let them come in my mouth. That was a luxury reserved for those I fucked more than once—a rare occurrence since I scarcely went for repeats.

  I rose to my feet and looked him deep in the eyes. His mouth was wide open in an O, his chest rising and falling erratically. Grasping the back of his head, I pulled him into another greedy kiss and slipped my tongue between his lips as I grabbed his cock and finished him, making him release in my palm. He let out a desperate little cry before I pulled away, smirking at him.

  "Do you want more?" I asked, wiping my hand against some paper towels, glancing at him over my shoulder.

  "Yes." His voice was shaking slightly, but he inched toward me, hoping to take control as they so often did. With my hand against his chest, I held him back and clicked my tongue.

  "Non, mon coco, it's my dick penetrating your ass tonight."

  Straight guys, I swear. They thought they could get the upper hand and rail me just because I was the queer in the duo. Not in my world, mon beau. Though Eric seemed hesitant, he didn't protest when I undid my pants, then grabbed his waist to shove him around and slam him face first against the door.

  "Do you want it?" I asked in his ear, nuzzling his temple. He had to approve first. I didn't fuck guys who didn't want it bad.

  A shallow "yes" croaked out of his throat.

  "Louder." I pulled on his hair, curving his neck to the side, and nibbled on his earlobe until he shivered in my arms.

  "Yes. I want it," he moaned.

  I smirked against his skin and slapped his bare ass before sheathing myself and lubing up with packages I always kept handy. By the time I was done prepping, I knew I'd be able to sink in without a problem.

  "Ever had a dick up your ass?" I asked.

  He shook his head desperately.

  "Ever gotten pegged?"

  He shook his head again.

  "I'm your first, huh? I'm honored."

  I grinned as I toyed with his virgin hole, feeling its rose shape first before pushing one finger inside. Eric let out a deep moan as I played with him before pulling out and penetrating him with my swollen cock. He was tight, a real vise squeezing my dick, his muscles encircling me, all the while trying to push me out. I went in inch by inch, led by the gasps he let out the deeper I got.

  "Is that Jean-Paul Gautier you're wearing?" I asked, inhaling his cologne mixed with the strong, masculine scent of his skin.

  He nodded, and when I knew I'd distracted him enough, I slid in all the way to my balls. He let out another cry, making me still.

  "You okay?"

  He could barely articulate coherent words. I wanted to fuck him so damn hard, he'd lose all notion of time and space, but he had to be soothed into it. I pulled out and slid back in slowly, my thrusts lodging me deeper with each move. The sweet moans from his mouth were fucking intoxicating. He felt almost too good. I ran my tongue along his neck and marked his skin with my teeth as I grabbed his waist.

  I took my time, sliding almost all the way out before slamming right back in. He let out a semi-shout every time, forcing me to cover his mouth with my hand. I was getting too aroused to keep it slow. I increased my rhythm until I was pounding his ass and he was shouting against my palm. I fucking loved it when they lost control and couldn't keep quiet. His cock was hard as a rock in my hand when I jerked him off, his precum wetting my fingers.

  "Deeper," he begged, his voice strangled by his gasps. "Please. I'm so close."

  When he began to shake against me, I fucked him all the way to the top, let him reach his peak, before pushing him over the cliff.

  "I'm...ah." An indescribable sound left his throat as he ejaculated.

  My balls tensed, my orgasm striking me at the same time with goosebumps crawling all over my skin and stars exploding in front of my eyes. The blood in my veins pumped so hard, I felt woozy.

  His soft skin was hot and sweaty against mine, his neck tasting of salt under my tongue when I licked his pores. He had marks all over his tender white skin, like little souvenirs he'd have trouble explaining to his straight buds.

  "You're coming to my place tonight," I exhaled in his ear.

  I had just fucked him to full rapture, but it wasn't enough. By morning, I wanted him to crave my dick like a drug in his veins.

  Chapter 3

  BRANDON

  "Is it good like this, Monsieur Smith?" my student asked in her native French, pronouncing my last name with a heavy accent, making it sound like Smeez.

  "Yes, it's perfect."

  A young prodigy at barely nine years old, Valérie had no sense of her own talent, though she could play Mozart's “Rondo Alla Turca” and many other pieces without a single flaw. She was my most diligent student, and yet the most insecure.

  "When I grow up, I want to be a piano teacher like you," she said and turned her dark brown eyes toward me upon hitting the last note.

  "You could even become a professional pianist. That's what I was aiming for when I lived in the United States."

  I didn't tell her that was before my ex got such a good job offer in France, we had to move. I'd completed my undergrad degree at Manhattan School of Music, getting a diploma I'd never really used though it left me with debts I was still drowning under at age twenty-nine.

  Valérie's eyes widened. "I didn't know you came from America. You don't have an accent."

  I did, actually. My French was unbroken and smooth, but the American drawl was definitely there. She was just too polite to say it.

  "Smith isn't a French last name," I explained.

  "Yes, I thought you came from England. Why didn't you become a professional pianist?"

  "Because I moved here." I'd tried to find a few gigs, but my search had proven fruitless.

  "Why did you move here, then? You didn't want to be a professional?"

  "It's complicated."

  Ever so respectful, she nodded without prying further. "Should I play ‘La lettre à Elise’ now?"

  "You already know that one by heart. Let's learn something brand new. Something harder."

  I stood and looked through my partitions on the overflowing bookcase. I'd set the grand piano in my living room that was big enough to include my black couch, a few bookshelves, and a small TV on a stand. The rug under the piano was from Morocco, but I'd been lucky enough to find it at a flea market, and the magenta drapes at the windows were thick and heavy, clashing against the white tiles on the floor and the beige roughcast of the walls. I was thankful I could afford renting this small house in Villers-lès-Nancy rather than an apartment, which made it easier to receive my students for their piano lessons.

  I shuffled through my shelves for a challenge Valérie would have to work on, but one look at the clock told me our session was over. "Maybe next time. I'm sure your mom is already waiting for you."

  She forced the same wan smile as usual. Her sadness upon returning home made me wonder how difficult life might be for her. It hadn't taken long to realize her mom was demanding. Her attitude was the foundation and trigger
of my student's complete lack of self-esteem. My sessions with Valérie were about more than teaching her the piano; they were about working on rebuilding her sense of self-value too.

  "You did great today. Next week, we're starting a difficult piece. But you can do it."

  She nodded, but the hesitation in her eyes told me she didn't think herself capable.

  "You'll see," I insisted and let her out so she could rejoin her mom sitting in the waiting area I'd made in my hallway.

  I didn't have another student for a couple of hours, which left me enough time for a long lunch break before getting ready for the next session. If living in France had taught me anything, it was that food was an art of life. My lunch breaks, which never used to exceed thirty minutes, now took an entire hour each time. And best of all, I never felt bad for indulging.

  After Valérie and her mom left, I headed to the kitchen and made my way to the fridge. All I had left was two slices of quiche I'd bought from the bakery the evening before. My kitchen was old, like the rest of the house, with black and white tiles that were chipped in some areas, and appliances that needed replacing.

  I pulled the quiche out, and when my phone beeped, I didn't pay heed. I liked to take my meals in peace without distractions. But another message came through, forcing me to pick it up in case it was my ex-wife Ling. I yanked it up from the counter and quickly glanced at the screen.

  LING: Eve and I are going to that new gay club on Rue des Maréchaux tonight. We were wondering if you'd like to join?

  I placed the quiche on the table and sat down.

  ME: Who's taking care of Wei?

  Ling: Eve's sister offered to babysit. Come on, you never leave your house. You need to socialize, find yourself some cute guy, and have some fun.

  Some people might find it weird that my ex always insisted I find someone to hook up with, but that was Ling for you. I hadn't dated anyone since we separated seven years ago. I didn't like anyone pressuring me into meeting new people just because society implied there was something wrong with being single. Everyone always assumed I couldn't be fulfilled and happy without a significant other in my life, but they were wrong. I liked my life as it was. It had taken a while to adapt after moving to France, but my business was flourishing and everything was going great. Why would I want to change that?