Goldilocks: A Man, a Jersey, and a Tight End

by A. M. Riley

  “Okay.” Brian stood and watched as Paul stripped the dark satin comforter from the bed and laid two layers of fresh new cotton sheets down instead.

  “Lie down, Brian.”

  Brian lay down on the bed. His skin was white and spotless and flushed with excitement. Paul took off his boots and shed his jeans. He was pushing off his boxers when Brian said, “Can you…wear the leather pants?”

  Paul managed to keep his mouth from dropping open. He had leather leggings that tied up the sides. They were almost costume-like, and he hadn’t even known that Brian knew he had them.

  Brian was flushed and breathing faster. “I’d like it.”

  Paul grinned. “Okay, hon.” Then he rummaged in the closet, brought out the leathers, and fastened them on.

  “Oh, wow.” Brian lay back, watching as Paul coated his hands and arm in oil. He opened his legs and looked up at the ceiling, feeling Paul’s oily fingers stretching him, breathing deeply when Paul inserted a third finger into his channel, rubbing and massaging slowly and carefully. Brian’s cock was fully erect and straining against his belly. Paul leaned over, the leather creaking, and kissed it. Brian murmured and moved his hips fitfully.

  “No, Brian. You are not to move at all.” Paul carefully laid his arm across Brian’s pelvis so that he couldn’t move.

  “Maybe I need the harness,” whispered Brian.

  Who was driving this train anyway? thought Paul. “I’ll tell you what you need.”

  Brian turned wide, dilated eyes toward him. “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’ll lie still because I told you to, understand?”

  Brian’s ribs rose and fell rapidly with his breathing, but the movements of his hips and legs ceased. “Yes, Sir.”

  Paul poured more oil on his hand. Brian was so oily that a deep stain was gathering around where his butt rested on the sheets. Sliding slowly in and out, Paul inserted the tip of his forefinger. “Lie still,” he commanded and slid in four fingers.

  Brian went completely, utterly still. The nipples rings flashed as he panted. “Oh.”

  “God, baby.” Paul slid his fingers in very slowly, feeling Brian’s flesh gripping him but giving way very, very gradually. In and out, in and out. Brian moaned, head tossing to one side, and Paul stopped. Brian’s channel clenched and relaxed a little. A rhythmic thing, like spasms.

  “Paul,” he breathed.

  “Yeah, hon.”

  “I want more.”

  Christ. Paul had to close his eyes for a second and get hold of himself. “Anything you want, baby.” He began the slow rub and slide in and out, in and out. Each time, he got a little closer to his thumb. Reaching over at one point, he just dumped oil over the whole area until his hand resembled a piston on a high-octane machine.

  They were breathing in unison, he realized. The thud of Brian’s blood was something he could feel around his knuckles. The grasp of Brian’s body, the timing of his breathing, all mirrored by Paul’s body.

  He reached the point where the tip of his thumb was at Brian’s hole, and he slid it in, just the tip.

  Brian wailed.

  Paul stopped again, heart thudding.

  But Brian’s one hand somehow found his shoulder and squeezed, and somehow Paul knew that was a signal, and he pushed just a little more. Hairs and micrometers and tiny little bits, and time stopped. He and Brian breathed in unison, and Paul’s thumb was swallowed. It disappeared; his entire hand was inside Brian, who closed around his wrist like the sleeve of a sweater.

  Paul couldn’t breathe. He felt like weeping but didn’t dare move. Brian’s cock was leaking steadily, a tiny stream dribbling down his hip, and Paul leaned over, all on instinct, his hand inside Brian, and suckled very gently at the leaking cockhead.

  Brian didn’t move at all. Still and silent, his entire body seemed to shudder, and the channel around Paul’s hand clenched, rhythmic pulses moving from his fingertips to his hand. The cock in his mouth swelled, and for reasons he would never understand, Paul knew it was time and he spread his fingers, just a little, and turned his hand.

  An eerie wailing cry from Brian, and great spurts of come filled Paul’s mouth; Brian’s body vibrated around him, under him. And then, holding the softening cock as gently in his mouth as a retriever would hold a pheasant, letting his hand relax, he felt the aftershocks shudder through Brian’s body one after another, like waves pounding on a beach.

  Paul didn’t know how long it took for him to slowly inch his hand from inside of Brian, how long to strip his leather pants off. They were completely soaked inside with come he didn’t even remember producing. He didn’t know how long it took to gently, so very gently, gather his lover up against him and cradle him like a broken child, crooning mindless words.

  Brian’s eyelashes fluttered open, revealing eyes almost neon blue. “Now I’m yours,” he whispered simply.

  Paul wanted to weep. “Yes.”

  * * * *

  It was after four a.m. Jim sat in the kitchen, drinking shots of tequila. When Paul came into the kitchen, he poured a shot into a waiting glass and held it out to the man.

  Paul stared at the alcohol. “No, thanks.”

  Jim gave him a look. Shrugged. And tossed the drink down himself.

  Paul went to the sink, poured himself a glass of water. Drank it. “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “Nope.” Jim poured another glass of tequila.

  “This changes everything,” said Paul.

  Jim nodded. “Glad to hear you say that.”

  Looking dazed, the giant inked man wandered back toward his bedroom. “Good night.”

  Jim watched him go. “’Night.”

  Chapter Nine

  “If you were a woman, I’d guess you were pregnant,” said Scott.

  They were sitting on the front porch, resting from their soccer game. Brian lay on the hanging swing above Scott, pushing it back and forth with one foot and he laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  It’d been a week since the Super Bowl, and Scott was feeling just a tad more settled. Jim had kept him pretty much restrained most of the time, and Scott had spent more time staring at corners than a grown man, in his opinion, ought to have. But he felt mellow. Or as close to mellow as he had in a long time. This afternoon, Brian and Scott were taking a break from soccer, lounging on the front porch. Jim had gone to the store, and Paul was out talking to a local Honda dealership. He’d decided to try to start his own in SoCal. It was a few years before they had planned, but as soon as he did, they wouldn’t have to be separated.

  “When a girl starts getting that secretive look on her face, she’s generally got a bun in the oven,” said Scott, lazily tossing the soccer ball up and catching it with the same hand. “I’ve seen it a lot.”

  “You’ve known a lot of pregnant women?”

  “I’ve known my share. A woman is sexy when she’s expecting,” said Scott. He mulled over how to explain it. “She’s full of wonder.”

  Brian smiled to himself.

  “See?” Scott sat up and pointed at him. “That! What is that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” lied Brian. “I’m just in a good mood.”

  Scott went from curious to pissed off, just like that. “Oh. Right.” And he hopped up and tossed the soccer ball down into Brian’s lap. Just a little hard.

  “Ow! Scott?”

  But Scott reentered the house, slamming the door.

  Brian jumped up and followed him. “What the heck is wrong with you?”

  “Heck?” sneered Scott. “There are no tops for miles, Goldilocks. You still scared to swear?”

  Brian scowled. “Why are you being such a jerk?”

  “Me? Why am I?” said Scott.

  Brian shoved him. “Yeah.”

  Scott shoved Brian back. “Hey. Jerk.”

  Brian shoved him a little harder. “Stop that!”

  Shove. “You!”

  Shove. “No. You.”

  Another shove, and t
his time Scott left his hand on Brian’s chest and pushed him right into the wall. “You think you’re all that? You think you can just…”

  “What?” said Brian, wrestling to get away from Scott and failing. Arms wrapped around each other, each trying to gain some kind of leverage, they fell against the wall and on to the floor. Brian’s elbow contacted Scott’s chin, and a spark lit a fuse that had just been waiting in Scott’s brain.

  He sat up and punched Brian right in the eye. Brian howled and swung out at him.

  * * * *

  “What was that?” said Jim. He’d picked Paul up from the dealership on the way home from the store, and they were disembarking from the van when they heard what sounded like a crash in the house.

  “The front door is open!” said Paul.

  He and Jim ran to the house and through the door as a knot of frenzied fists and knees and angry faces careened against the wall next to it.

  “Hey!” Paul yelled.

  The man-meld worked a few feet inward and fell onto one of the leather chairs. The whole mass of bodies and furniture fell over. Jim appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s going on?” he yelled. “Scott?”

  Paul waded into the mess and, like separating fighting dogs, came up with two bloody men, each held by the scruff of a torn shirt and each still trying to reach the other with fists and feet.

  Jim grabbed Scott and pried him loose, swinging him around easily and tossing him onto the sofa. When it looked like Scott might bounce right back up, Jim merely pointed one thick finger at him. “Stay.”

  Scott stayed. He raised a hand to his eye, which was purple.

  “Brian?” Paul was on his knees, next to Brian, who was propped up on his elbows, his nose, mouth, and the whole front of his shirt drenched in blood. One eye was swelling shut. Paul’s hands wandered rapidly all over him, checking for breaks, open wounds, cuts. He found, much to his relief, only the bloody nose and eye; he stood and, looking from man to man, pronounced loudly in the voice of Zeus, “Would somebody like to tell me what is going on here?”

  “Ask him!” said both Brian and Scott, pointing at each other.

  “He’s got a bee up his butt,” whined Scott.

  “He’s been a jerk all day,” complained Brian.

  “Ever since you came back,” said Scott to Paul.

  Brian sat upright, his one eye wide with outrage. “This is not Paul’s fault! You…you’ve gone mental or something.”

  Jim looked at Paul, arms crossed, one hand stroking the end of his beard. Paul met that gaze. “Go to your room,” he said to Brian, quietly. “Clean your face and wait for me.”

  “Somebody’s in trouble,” sneered Scott.

  Paul’s head swiveled. “Scott…” he said.

  “Scott, go to your room too,” said Jim. His voice was cool, and his gaze was leveled on Paul. There was something in that look.

  Scott huffed, but he got up and did as he was told.

  Paul and Jim watched their men trudge off. Then Jim turned his glare back on Paul. “This is your fault,” he said.

  “Jim…”

  “No, you listen to me. You are not the only man in this relationship. You may be the bossiest, most willful man here, but we all care about Brian. We all need to know what’s happening to him.”

  Paul was silent. Cowed.

  Jim hmphed and muttered, and then he said, “And we all care about you too, Paul. You think Scott doesn’t see something troubling you? You think I don’t?”

  Paul raised both hands and rubbed his temples with his palms as if his head would burst. “Jim…”

  Jim came across the room then and wrapped those big arms around him. Paul just laid his head down on that big, sofalike shoulder and let Jim hug him.

  After a while, Jim gave Paul a few good pats on the back and released him. “I have a certain man quivering in my room waiting for his punishment. I think it’s cruel to make him think about it for too long.”

  Paul nodded.

  “But, tomorrow morning breakfast meeting. Agreed?”

  “Yes, Jim.”

  Jim patted Paul on the cheek. “Good boy.”

  The sass in Paul’s eyes would have gotten him a swat if he’d been another man.

  * * * *

  Brian wasted a few minutes trying to see his eye in the bathroom mirror, but he knew things would be worse if he wasn’t ready when Paul came in. So he stripped off his bloody clothes, slid on some boxers, cleaned up his face as best he could, and knelt on the pillow, head down, waiting.

  Paul came in quietly, and the door clicked shut. He didn’t speak. Brian stayed where he was, head down, while Paul went into the bathroom, opened and closed medicine cabinet doors, ran water, and came out again. He sat on the bed, putting things there that Brian couldn’t see without raising his head, which he dared not do.

  He heard the thump of Paul removing his boots and the groan and creak of the closet doors being pushed wide open. Then came much rummaging at the back of the closet where Paul kept those things, and Brian’s heart started beating hard.

  “Come here.” Paul’s voice was flat. Brian went to him and sat next to him on the bed where Paul indicated. The gentleness in Paul’s eyes belied the authority in his voice, and his fingers were gentle when they grasped Brian’s chin and raised it. He studied Brian’s eye, then brought out some salve and tape and rubbed arnica gel into his bruised chin. When he was done, he stood.

  Not knowing what to do, Brian stayed where he was.

  Paul folded his arms. “Get the paddle, Brian.”

  “G-g-get it, Sir?”

  “Yes. I want you to bring it to me.”

  This wasn’t a request Paul had ever had made of Brian before, but he went to the closet, confused, pushed back Paul’s and his wardrobe to reveal the wall behind with the row of harnesses and straps and various sex toys.

  “Which one, Sir?” he asked.

  There was a moment of silence. Then in a cool voice, Paul said, “Which one do you think?”

  Brian’s hand was shaking as he took out the paddle made of clear plastic. Paul had never used it on him, but Brian knew instinctively that this one would hurt the most.

  Already choking back his fear, mouth dry, Brian brought the paddle to Paul and put it into his hands.

  Paul just sat there.

  Breathing hard, almost unable to do so, Brian knelt and draped himself over Paul’s lap.

  There was the briefest comforting stroke on his back, the small compassionate gesture touching Brian so deeply it almost made him want to cry. And then a swift sound and the first swat.

  Oh my God, that hurt!

  An involuntary cry issued from Brian’s mouth, and he jumped. Paul’s arm came down across his back, holding him in place. Another swat. A pause. Another. The pauses between were almost as bad as the actual blows. The sting and fire seemed to go on and on after the first contact.

  “No!” blurted Brian after the last one. But Paul kept going. The same rhythm. Slow, sharp.

  “Please…” Brian scrabbled at the floor, his legs jerking. Paul swatted him again. And again.

  The burn was so intense that it felt like Paul had poured gasoline over Brian’s butt and lit a match. He was sobbing now, unable to hold on or get away. If it weren’t for Paul’s arm lying over his back, he would have fallen off Paul’s lap.

  The paddle came down again. And again.

  A thousand years later, and it stopped. Brian kept sobbing. The pain was still rippling across his backside. Paul held him like that for a long time. Finally, Brian was too tired to cry anymore, and Paul helped him to slowly stand. His butt hurt so badly that even walking hurt, and Paul seemed to expect that, helping Brian to hobble to the bed and lie on his stomach.

  Then Paul sat next to him and laid his hand, warm and gentle, on the back of Brian’s neck.

  Brian’s brain felt empty. His eyes were empty and tearless. His muscles were loose and empty. He closed his eyes, and he was empty, and he floated awa
y.

  * * * *

  Scott didn’t even resist Jim. Jim came in, pointed at the cross, and Scott just rolled to his feet with a fatalistic expression and stood quietly while his ankles and wrists were bound.

  “Do you need a gag?” asked Jim.

  Scott shook his head. He didn’t feel like talking anyway.

  “You understand what has to happen?” asked Jim.

  Scott nodded.

  A drawer opened; there was rummaging. It closed.

  “You understand why?”

  Scott was trying as hard as he could not to twist around and see what Jim was holding in his hand. His naked butt was twitching with anticipation, and he had trouble bringing enough air in to reply.

  “I really lost control. I…I hurt Brian.” His voice was shaking, and he had to draw in a deep breath to say, “I don’t know why I did it.”

  The softest touch of something slender and hard against his legs. Scott strained, looking down, and saw the end of a wooden paddle resting on his leg. His heart started pounding hard and fast, and he lost control of his breathing.

  “I’m sorry, Jim,” said Scott, his voice shaking.

  “I know you are. We will all talk about this tomorrow, Scott. You aren’t alone in this.”

  Scott couldn’t trust his voice. He nodded his head.

  “Seventeen, Scott. Do you understand?” And the paddle swished through the air.

  Scott grunted and jerked with each swat. Jim didn’t spank him often, and he had never done so before with anything but his open hand. The paddle was a level of punishment beyond anything he’d experienced, and yet, somehow, anything less would have almost disappointed him.

  By the fifth swat, Scott was crying out, the shock of each blow so intense he’d already lost count of how many he’d received.

  “Ten,” said Jim, as if he knew.

  Scott nodded, gasping for breath; his legs jerked against the restraints by the twelfth. And when Jim said calmly, “Thirteen,” and swatted, Scott sobbed out loud. Really sobbed, tears welling from his eyes and stinging as they trickled over his cut face. Scott rarely cried, and he never cried openly; it was a bizarre feeling.