A Gorgeous Mess

by Layla Wolfe

  The veil came down a bit, but Van Winkle’s upper lip still looked like it was snagged on a tooth. “The only kind of men I like are the ones who like to suck dick,” he admitted, softening a bit. “They do it better than girls.”

  “That’s cool. I get it. I couldn’t agree more. Men have more at stake. They put more oomph into it. They have more enthusiasm.”

  “Yeah.” Van Winkle chugged the rest of his drink, now boldly eyeballing Ormond up and down. He made one of those large gulps and exhales that macho guys always make, as though hugely enjoying drinking in the sight of Ormond. “You’re a big, buff, built guy. You’re not one of those guys who likes to toss other guys around, are you?”

  “Not at all. If anything, I am the one who gets tossed around. My men like tossing around a big, buff guy like me.”

  Again, he hit on something that sent Van Winkle off the deep end. The soldier lunged forward, his hands like talons on Ormond’s bare shoulders. Ormond had seen this rapacious, predatory look come over many men in his time. Cops, especially. Once a cop realized that a hugely illicit blowjob was being offered to him, they became greedy, almost violent in their lust. Ormond could handle it. That’s what he was accustomed to. That’s what subs were made for, after all.

  The soldier pressed down on Ormond’s shoulders. He almost leaped in the air in his eagerness to get Ormond to kneel. “Do it, bitch,” Van Winkle snarled.

  Ormond smiled crookedly. “Gladly.” And he dropped to his knees.

  He barely had to assist the soldier in releasing his belt and yanking down his zipper. The stiff, hot cock practically slapped Ormond upside the head as it sprang free. He was hardly taking his time, but he wasn’t fast enough for Van Winkle. The soldier shoved his dry cock down Ormond’s throat. He was so unprepared he had to swallow several times to get some saliva worked up.

  “That’s it,” growled the uniformed man. “Yeah! Yeah! Suck that cock! Suck it good!”

  Ormond was sucking it good, or so he thought. He could only take so much meat in at once. The guy wasn’t among the most hung men he’d ever blown, but because he was so unprepared—and thirsty—he struggled to contain the penis.

  This bumbling seemed to enrage Van Winkle. He now gripped the edge of the counter above Ormond’s head as he thrust his pelvis angrily. “Come on! Do it, you loser! Suck my big, fat dick! You know you want it. That’s all you want—your mouth full of cock. Juicy, hard, fat cock!”

  Ormond felt like telling the guy “your dick isn’t all that,” but he was having a difficult enough time coating the rod with enough saliva to ensure a smooth passage. And the way Van Winkle kept jabbing it in and out, it just wasn’t natural. He slammed the mushroom head of his divining rod against Ormond’s soft palate. He’d twisted Ormond around so he could pin him between his pelvis and the cabinet, banging away with his ham roll against Ormond’s uvula. Ormond could already tell he’d be bruised tomorrow, have a hard time swallowing.

  Grabbing a handful of Ormond’s perfectly coiffed hair, Van Winkle now started shoving the head toward his crotch as he simultaneously jammed his pole down the throat. Ormond was beginning to gag, but he’d taken bigger pricks than this in his time. He was determined to see this guy’s rough tactics through. He must be getting old and soft if he couldn’t handle this.

  “Oh, yeah, just like that. You’re a good cocksucker. You love lapping up that dick, don’t you? You’re going to love it when I shoot my load down your thirsty throat, gay boy. Oh yeah. Uh-huh. Good.” When Van Winkle fell to grunting as he stabbed his joystick in and out of Ormond’s mouth, Ormond thought he had it made. The prick even expanded a bit more in his mouth, a sure sign he was about to come.

  But after a few minutes of grunting like a baby dinosaur, suddenly Van Winkle tore himself away furiously. Ormond looked up from his kneeling position with innocent eyes. What the fuck? The sergeant stood there with his camouflage fatigues around his knees, his rod standing out shiny and red, and he was full of rage. His lobster-red face was all twisted and gnarled like a plastic oak tree, and Ormond seemed to be the source of his rage.

  Ormond had seen plenty play-acted rage. He’d been involved in many D/s scenes where the Dom threw him around, bound him, “forced” him to submit to many different methods of “torture.” But that was all fun and games. This sergeant truly appeared to have deep, dark anger issues, and for the first time that night, Ormond became a little wary.

  “All right, that’s it!” barked the army man. He pointed a stiff arm at the bed. “You can’t suck me right, that’s fucking it! Over there, now! I don’t want any shillyshallying! When I give you an order, you jump!”

  And Ormond jumped. He was halfway to the bed in a flash when Van Winkle caught him by an arm. “I don’t want to see this stupid shirt,” growled the sergeant, and he tore Ormond’s white wifebeater from his torso.

  He didn’t even rip it over his head, he tore the material in his haste to see Ormond’s bare chest. Ormond felt buffer than ever, his torso sporting biomech tats of zombies he had crafted in his time, various monsters and aliens crawling in three-dimensional gore. It was how Ormond rolled. He had not gone overboard on the drawings, but confined them to his pecs, leaving his washboard abs creamy, softly dusted with a line of chestnut fur. He was proud of his torso, and he could see the effect in the officer’s eyes.

  Now Van Winkle tore at Ormond’s belt buckle. “That’s what I want. I want to see you naked. I want to see you completely at my mercy, gay boy. I want to see you sprawled on that bed buck naked, ready and waiting for me.”

  Ormond couldn’t help it. His erection leaped from his jeans as hard as a diamond, the length and breadth of it slapping right into Van Winkle’s paw. The sergeant gripped its heat as he drew Ormond close to him. He slapped Ormond’s bare ass as he fondled Ormond’s meat. He was almost loving now, in a weird way. He nuzzled his mouth against Ormond’s, muttering shit so low Ormond could only make out a few words.

  “Nice hot, fat cock…hung like a horse…juicy dick…”

  Ormond almost started relaxing into it, but just as suddenly, the guy was yanking Ormond’s pants down to his ankles. “Come on! Get on that bed. That’s what I want to see. A naked, muscular buck waiting eagerly all for me!”

  Ormond had the distinct impression that Sergeant Van Winkle had at least pictured this scene many times in his mind’s eye before being able to enact it. His language was too specific, too perfectly rehearsed to have been a one-off, spur of the moment thing. Well, so what if the commanding army man had toyed around with other men before? Ormond had never understood why some of them just couldn’t fucking admit they liked cock.

  Van Winkle didn’t even give Ormond a chance to step out of his jeans before shoving him so violently he flew through the air. Ormond landed on his back on the bed, air expressed from his lungs with a loud oomph, his boner bobbing against his stomach. Van Winkle stood at the foot of the bed with spread feet, supreme and in charge. He ripped his own shirt off, displaying his pasty, hairless torso to the fluorescent lightbulb. Ormond’s penis might’ve even shriveled a bit at the sight of the “88” ink on Van Winkle’s pec. What the hell. That’s his own prerogative if he has white power propaganda painted on his body. I’m not about to marry the guy.

  Now Van Winkle whipped his own belt through the loops, brandishing it, slapping his palm with it. “I want to see that juicy, round ass in the air. Turn over. That’s it. Get on all fours like the dog you are. Good. Perfect. I want to see that ball sac hanging down, full of hot jizz for me.”

  Ormond couldn’t see his partner anymore as he balanced on all fours, waggling his butt at the guy. But it sure sounded like the guy was jacking off. Ormond had seen this before, too. Guys who couldn’t get it up easily, or stay hard for long, or who took too long coming—they were all forms of sexual dysfunction, he supposed. Something to do with their refusal to fully embrace who they were. Their bodies responded by not giving in fully. So the guy liked to grease his pipe while looked at Or
mond’s swaying testicles, his hole? No big deal. Ormond lived to please.

  “Ooh, yeah. That’s it. You’re my submissive little ass. You’re mine, all mine.” He seemed to be working himself into a frenzy. Ormond’s cock twitched at the knowledge he was turning a uniformed man on. That was what he lived for—arousing the men in uniform. He was a “uniform chaser,” he supposed. There was nothing wrong with it. He certainly never got a ticket anymore—not down in Quartzsite, where he was from before they’d formed this new MC, and not in Lake Havasu City since he’d moved here. None of his brothers in the new club had ever been harassed by a boy in blue, either.

  Ormond wanted to participate more. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that, indeed, Van Winkle was furiously whacking off. He asked seductively, “You want to spank me? You want to punish me for turning you on so badly?”

  Again, Van Winkle abruptly switched gears. Ormond should’ve learned by now. Dropping his cock, Van Winkle sliced the air with his belt. “Yes! But not because you’re turning me on—you’re not! I’m gonna whack the hell out of your ass because you’re a disgusting fag!”

  Leaping on the bed, Van Winkle kneeled behind Ormond and, as promised, whacked his ass with the thick leather. As usual, it hurt at first. But sooner rather than later, the pain usually turned to pleasure as it spread through his balls. Not this time. There was something about his method, his precision, but Van Winkle’s bruising lashes were just plain old hurting.

  “Fag! You fag! I seen the way you tried to tease all the guys in that bar. You just think you’re all sorts of fantastic, don’t you? Turning guys on with your tight pants, your bubble ass?” Now Van Winkle grabbed a handful of Ormond’s hair and twisted.

  He sometimes liked to have his hair pulled. Not this time. Ormond was slowly coming to the realization that Van Winkle didn’t like just playing at being a nasty, sadistic asshole…he really was one.

  And that didn’t sit right with Ormond.

  He gasped in between belts, “Justin. We need a safe word.”

  Justin snapped, “What’s a fucking safe word? Oh God, look how red your ass is! You’re dying for me, aren’t you? I’m turning you on beyond your wildest fucking faggot dreams.”

  Whack! Whack! “Justin! A safe word. A word I can use if I seriously, really want you to stop. A word that’ll tell you right away—”

  “Ah!” Justin laid on a few licks of the leather strap directly to Ormond’s balls. Normally, no one went there. It just wasn’t done. Now Ormond knew why. His balls shriveled and shrank so close to his body at the overwhelming pain, they practically retracted into his pelvic cavity.

  Straightening his torso so he kneeled, Ormond twisted around to address Justin. “Listen. I don’t think I like this. I think I’m—”

  Another change of facial expression. Tossing down the belt, Sergeant Van Winkle spit into his palm and rubbed it insistently against Ormond’s anus. Another sea change in emotions, and soon Ormond’s eyes were slipping shut as Van Winkle teased and tickled his asshole. He murmured close to Ormond’s ear.

  “You know you love this, fag. It’s what you live for. You love having a dick inside your ass. That’s all you want.”

  Well, Justin was right about that. Sometimes Ormond did wonder if that was all he lived for.

  He was still shocked when the guy thrust his meat flute unceremoniously into his rectum. With a gasp, he realized the guy was barebacking it. The guy couldn’t possibly have known that Ormond religiously took his PrEP, a drug that had a great success rate at preventing HIV. It was a trick he’d learned from porn actors in Hollywood and, like any good cum slut, he took it daily without fail with his vitamins.

  Still, Justin couldn’t have known that, and as he pounded away frantically, Ormond realized how little Justin cared. Ormond normally liked being fucked by a randy piece of bull meat, but tonight he had little enthusiasm for it. The sergeant smacked him ruthlessly on the ass with his palm as he assaulted him, his grunts coming bearishly between clenched teeth.

  Ormond clutched the headboard and rode it out. His penis was still erect, demanding affection and love, but his heart wasn’t in it. Van Winkle labored in and out of his ass for a very long time, as though chugging away to the finish line in a marathon. The entire time, instead of being carried away in a sexual frenzy like usual, Ormond thought. That was not a good sign.

  I don’t think I like this. Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit. What’s wrong with what Justin’s doing? Why am I failing to respond?

  Ormond was almost sort of relieved when at last Sergeant Van Winkle unloaded in his ass. “Uh! Uh! Uh!” the guy grunted. Out of habit, Ormond clenched and unclenched his ass, massaging the dick inside of it, but his heart wasn’t in it. The army guy grunted until he was done, his half-hearted slap on the ass letting Ormond know.

  Ormond let Justin use the can first. When Ormond emerged refreshed, Justin was already clad in his fatigues, shuffling around on the counter for matches for his smoke. Ormond usually joshed around at this point, but he had no enthusiasm for it tonight. He didn’t even finish the rest of his drink. He finally said,

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  Justin’s answer was immediate. He’d lit his smoke, but continued shuffling around on the counter as if he couldn’t look Ormond in the eyes. “I don’t care what you do. Just don’t involve me in any of your faggish games. You ain’t getting my phone number, that’s for sure.”

  Ormond, normally a very light-hearted and friendly guy, spat, “Not that I’d want it.” He charged the hell out of the room before Sergeant First Class Van Winkle could recover from his witty comeback.

  In the hotel’s parking lot, Ormond straddled his Dyna Super Glide. He pushed the engine button and let the motor purr between his legs for many long seconds.

  He wasn’t sure if he should feel violated or not. There was the delicious feeling of violation after he had pretended to struggle, maybe with a ball gag in his mouth, every thrust of the top’s dick sending him into a higher realm. That was a voluntary violation, the goal of every good power bottom on the planet, to submissively stimulate the other. It was a sort of talent at which one could become expert—the tease, the seduction, the toying. Ormond considered himself an expert in the field. But something didn’t sit right with him now. His submission hadn’t been altogether voluntary, maybe.

  Starting off, Ormond hung an east on McCullough Boulevard, toward the Mojave Mountains. The midcentury hamlet of Rough and Ready was at the road’s end, the subdivision of flat-roofed tract homes with deep eaves, walls of glass, and Formica countertops. The lots were big, though, and Ormond loved living in his midcentury modern house, just a few blocks from the same model where Turk, Lock, and Twinkletoes resided. He’d just finished working on a new Jurassic Park film and his next job was another Hunger Games flick. He was well-established in the industry. If he really did stop cruising bars, which was the creeping feeling sinking its feelers into his brain at the moment, he’d have a lot more time for club business.

  What had just happened to him? The guy hadn’t seemed to even know what a safe word was. Ormond felt violated, and not in the refreshed, ego-boosting way that hookups usually made him feel. He usually felt jazzed after such an encounter, invigorated, renewed. Instead, Ormond felt slightly dirty.

  He parked in a space not far down from his studio. He’d been sculpting a gargoyle and he had a few more ideas, flourishes he wanted to add to it. Although it was almost ten o’clock, the lights were still on in Herbal Legends, so he went and pressed his face to the glass. They had been robbed blind just a week ago, so Ormond was more vigilant than usual. Turk was behind the counter pacing back and forth while talking on his cell. The guard had gone home for the night, so it was the old Prospect Twinkletoes—and Ormond’s roommate—who unlocked the door for Ormond.

  “Come for some more Young Man Blue?” The newly-patched member was completely baked. No one was supposed to smoke weed on the premises but they often went into the back
alley to do the deed. Twinkletoes had a medical marijuana card for his multiple sclerosis. Ormond had one because he’d gone to one of those doctors willing to waffle the diagnosis a little for people who liked to use it recreationally.

  “Nah, I’m fine on it, actually. I’m still working on that ounce I got the other day. Just checking up on you.”

  Twinkletoes nodded with understanding, locking the door behind Ormond. He tossed his head in Turk’s direction. The Bent Zealots Prez paced with agitation in front of several shelves of labelled, weed-crammed jars. They’d been able to restock after the robbery, the next day, actually, because it was Turk’s former MC, The Bare Bones, who owned the plantation where most of their world-class weed was grown. “Turk’s talking to an old friend of his. He’s gonna get to the bottom of this whole armed robbery thing. The guy’s a fucking mercenary in Afghanistan, if you can fucking believe it.”

  “Good,” said Ormond, heading to the dazzling display case of glass bongs. Recessed cans spotlighted different areas of the store in indirect, luxurious lighting, like a jewelry store. As an artistic fabricator, he loved looking at glass that had been blown into colorful shapes. “We fucking need to start pushing back on those assholes. If word gets out that we’re just a lame target sitting here, we’re going to be permanently in their crosshairs.”

  “I’ll say. We need to be certain it was the Hellfires before we hit back, of course. Otherwise we’re just creating new enemies right when we need to be cementing our own foothold in our own backyard.”

  “Exactly,” said Ormond. “I know a few Indians down on the Colorado River Rez. That’s likely where the Hellfires got those goons from. I could nose around, reach out to my contacts.”

  “That’s what Lock was doing, but he’s got some fugitive to apprehend who was last seen heading toward Barstow.”

  The Bent Zealots Veep, Lock Singer, ran a bail bonds operation. He was a bounty hunter, which was how Ormond had first met him earlier in the year. Lock had been pulled over for speeding by a cop Ormond knew well. Out of habit, Ormond had pulled over and taken the burden off Lock by paying off the ticket himself. It was a payment Ormond used to enjoy thoroughly. For a bellyful of jizz he’d made a new friend in Lock. That was when the seeds of their new MC had been planted. Their section of Arizona was clearly crying out for a gay MC. They needed to form a cohesive unit, to band together to fend off all usurpers. So far, they’d had little interference in their agreement with Lock’s old MC to take over the Colorado River territory from Topock down to Yuma. Up until those motherfuckers had ridden up on them out of the blue the other day.