Tuesday put on his backpack and promised to arrive at my place on time. I wrote seven on his wrist. Black ink over the blue of his veins. He smiled, and since I am careful with my compliments I did not tell him that his mouth is perfect. As he walked out I noticed that his ass matches it beautifully. I’d like to fill his ass and his mouth at the same time. I have the evening to decide what will go in each hole. I briefly wonder if Tuesday has a preference and suspect that I will learn. What I will do with that knowledge, I haven’t decided. I imagine him grateful. I imagine him suffering. In both circumstances, Tuesday’s cheeks are wet with tears and his naked chest is crossed with claw marks.
I like my nails long. Sometimes I paint them with slightly black-tinged gloss so that they shine like talons. Once, when I was at the counter of the grocery store preparing to pay for a package of strawberries, the scruffy man looked at my hands and not my face. He said, “That will be three dollars, Miss.” Slightly amused, I responded, “Here you go,” as I handed him the bills. “Oh,” he gasped looking up, “I thought you were a woman.” I pulled the berries from his hands and hissed, “If you were paying attention you would have realized I’m a goddess.” I strode out before he could respond.
Everyone has his kink. Mine has a feminine bent. “Don’t even think of calling me anything other than Sir,” I tell the boys as I take off my panties. Anyone who looks skeptical earns an hour in my drag closet with the instruction not to come out until he is beautiful. Then I take him out for a night on the town. I put on the corresponding clothes, a three-piece suit with my father’s favorite tie. We look like a het couple so I buy the girl/boy dinner. I have her/him eat out my ass for dessert.
I think about Tuesday while I am making myself dinner. I am hungry and hungry makes me horny. Something about satiation causes the wires in my brain to cross so that after I fuck a boy, after I come inside him emptying a cock full of cream into his body, I myself feel full. I no longer crave anything but, perhaps, to watch the boy clean himself off with a warm wet rag. With the jocks I’ve fucked there is no ritual. I send them home immediately after and I do not care how they brush their teeth or scrub their asses raw in the shower. I’ve been called a bitch on more than one occasion. “Frigid bitch,” was the phrase used by the last quarterback after he told me that he loved me and I told him that I wasn’t interested in fucking him anymore. He called me frigid and I watched my come cool on his chest.
My thoughts about Tuesday are more tender. I make three portions of tomato sauce, one for me to eat tonight and the other two for us to share on Wednesday. I want him to watch me eat and feel hungry before it is his turn. I want to hand-feed this one. I want to play sweet master, for a while. A mediocre top once told me, “You can’t top someone if you’re serving them food.” I liked neither his phrasing nor his twitchy eyes. I assured him it could be done and pointed out that he didn’t deserve for me to prove it to him. Instead, I invited his favorite submissive play partner over and tied him up in my shower. I washed him outside and in. He wept when the water ran cold. I commanded him not to tremble while I patted him dry so gently that he ached to press his hard cock into the towel and hump it until he came but I never let him come. I dressed him up and set him at the dinner table. With one hand, I grasped his throat. With the other, I fed him small bites of vegetable lasagna. I chewed each bite first and, when he looked thirsty, I put water in my mouth and spat it into his. He didn’t play with that top again, a decision I’m sure was influenced by his encounter with me. Everyone has his kink and I have a talent for turning people on to mine.
I don’t think about Tuesday again until I am bathing. I’ve poured in a small amount of bubble bath and the white sides of the tub are as smooth and slick as I imagine the head of his cock will be. The water gradually warms the enamel and I push my back down against the bottom. My cock swells and breaks the surface of the water. It bursts bubbles and I fixate on Tuesday’s ass, how I want to ease in while he pants at the difficulty of having me there. I haven’t seen him around, which means that he is a freshman and, although he has a pink triangle on his bag, the button is new enough that it may have just been put on. He is pretty, but then so are boy bands. I suppose it would not have been difficult for him to be read as straight in high school. Even if people suspected he was gay, he is the kind of pretty that rivals a girl’s good looks. Most guys are too scared to ask a boy like that out on a date much less get their dicks into him.
While it is highly likely that young Tuesday is a virgin, I find it impossible to believe that he hasn’t stuck anything up his own ass. I decide that I will make him catalogue those objects between bites of dinner. Eventually I will put the spider gag on him. I want to enjoy the sight of his mouth open. Maybe the second time he comes over I will start there and work my way down. For our first time, I am exclusively interested in his ass.
I sleep well after my bath. I dream about an old building with many rooms. It looks unmistakably like my college though instead of classrooms there are cells. I walk down the halls and hear the sounds of boys fucking. The doors are oak and each has a window that is placed exactly at my eye level. I look into the first door that I come to and see Tuesday inside, hog-tied on top of Professor Alice Adams’ desk. The room is populated by the men’s lacrosse team. They stare at Tuesday because he is naked and beautiful. They want him but they are only students who will, at most, witness the lesson. A door next to the chalkboard opens and Alice Adams walks in. No, she struts in. She struts toward her desk in a black latex suit that forms the curves of her body into straight lines. A huge pink strap-on protrudes from her fly and Tuesday’s eyes widen as she pulls a condom out of a mysterious and previously unnoticed back pocket. Alice Adams walks past the desk and Tuesday follows her with his eyes. They are the only parts of his body that can move and he stares as Alice Adams hands the condom to a redheaded boy in the front row. The boy blushes brighter than his freckles as she orders him to put his hands behind his back and put the condom on her cock using only his mouth. Once he completes the task to her satisfaction, she rewards him with a piece of chocolate to take away the taste of latex on his tongue.
Alice Adams’ cock is wet with this boy’s spit when she shoves it between Tuesday’s lips. He grunts and gulps until he deep-throats her. The door I am peeping through opens and I find my cock in my hand ready to fuck. I spread Tuesday’s ass and spit on the trembling red opening that reveals itself to me. Alice Adams and I fuck him until the three of us come, me first, Alice second, and Tuesday third. I wake up gripping the sheets. There are hours to fill until my doorbell rings.
I get some work done on my thesis: The Erotics of the Sonnet. I’ve been working on this project all summer and although it is only the first week of classes, I can think of no bigger turnoff than a fourteen-line poem. Maybe a haiku formed from a magnetic poetry set. The only set I’ve ever appreciated was the set of “dirty” magnetic poetry that I got from my dyke cousin Jodie. There are no less than ten rectangles that read cock. The adjectives are impressive, from the functional, hard, to the more metaphorical, effervescent. I would like to have Tuesday compose poems with the set while sitting on a sterling silver butt plug. He’d look darling in just a white button-down shirt and a tie. He’d be pantless so I could see the plug penetrate him and run my fingers along the crevice between perineum and metal when I wanted to distract him from his task. I know this would be unfair of me but I am not attempting to be fair. I would rather dish out what a bottom needs than indulge him in what he thinks he wants. I am insidiously benevolent. My gifts are gifts. My punishments are also gifts, when viewed with the right interpretation. This is not Orwellian doublespeak, but a truth I’m sure a bright boy like Tuesday will be able to grasp.
In my house, the pleasures of the bedroom extend beyond its walls, so in preparation for Tuesday’s arrival, I clean every room. I like the possibility of taking him anyplace. Every space in the house is ready. The tables and counters are clear. The floors are clean enough to eat o
ff of. I pull a large wooden box out from under my bed and lay the gear out on a towel. I unwrap each cock, each plug, each chain, each strap, and each clip. I polish the leather with saddle soap, shine the steel, and wipe down the rest with alcohol swabs and a hint of lavender. I put everything away but a blindfold before the doorbell rings. Wanting has grown in me like a horse pounding its hooves, steam rolling out of its nostrils like the blackest aspect of fire. I conjure spurs and a whip. I tighten myself till I am calm, then I open the door and lead Tuesday in. He trembles as he kneels before me and I brush his black bangs aside to tie the blindfold. His breath is measured and I feel him sinking into where I want him, but before he goes down too deeply, I give him his safeword. I inhale. I begin.
CAPTURING THE KING
Wayne Courtois
The vast acreage of the Thorne estate was far removed from town. None of the family was left now except for old Mrs. Thorne, attended by nurses who were constantly coming and going from the main house. And no one else lived on the estate anymore—no one but Brian and Powell.
Brian worked in the greenhouse, maintaining the orchids. It had been old man Thorne’s wish that, upon his death, the exotic plants would be cared for in perpetuity. So Brian had a guaranteed job for life, and free lodgings in what was once the gardener’s cottage. In a way it was a strange prospect for a young man, that he might be living and working in this remote spot for—what, the next forty years? On the surface, it didn’t seem like much. But the cottage more than suited his needs; he had even turned one of its rooms into a weight room, with the latest bodybuilding equipment. His trips to town kept him in books and music, and an occasional man to spend the night with. As comfortable as he was, he had no need to think about moving on.
And then there was Powell.
Powell—first name? Last name? Brian didn’t know—was also a young man who had been employed on the estate for a few years, beginning as a chauffeur. But those few short years had brought a lot of change, beginning with the death of old Mr. Thorne and the declining health of his widow. Since a chauffeur was hardly needed anymore, Powell took on other responsibilities as the older staff moved on or retired. Now he was even handling the estate’s financial matters.
And Powell was, as far as Brian was concerned, a King. A Nubian King.
Sometimes Brian would look at Powell from afar—their daily lives didn’t intersect very much, they even ate their meals at different times—and suddenly realize that he was standing and staring with his mouth open. Where did he come from, this man with the noble bearing and beautiful dark skin? Oh, Brian had been looking at men for a long time, as long as he could remember; but he’d never seen a man who moved like that…his graceful assertiveness was poetry for the eyes. There was Powell, in the black outfit from his chauffeur days, striding down the great lawn to talk to the yard workers who came out from town twice a month. Some of these guys were sexy, yes, and weren’t shy about taking their shirts off as they worked. But they were nothing compared to Powell.
Once, when Brian and Powell had happened to be in the main house at the same time, Brian had struck up a conversation, none-too-subtly mentioning that the orchid got its name from a Greek word meaning “testes,” because of the way the bulbs looked. “If you come down to the greenhouse sometime, you can see mine,” he said. “My plants, I mean!” Even as he felt his face turning red he kept his eyes on Powell, who seemed to give him a fleeting look—a meaningful one. God, Brian thought, what am I doing? Another time Brian, crossing the grounds on his way to the greenhouse, spotted Powell outside the garage that housed Mrs. Thorne’s Mercedes. The car was of no use to her anymore, but Powell kept it in good condition. Today he was washing the car in the driveway…and he was…naked.
Well, almost naked. He wore black swim trunks—not a Speedo but close to it. And why not, it was a hot day, the hottest day of summer so far. Ducking behind a tree, Brian found he could get a good view of the young man without, hopefully, being seen. Except for his swim trunks and sunglasses, Powell was naked, and he’d perspired enough that his muscular frame gleamed in the sun.
If only I could see the soles of his feet! Brian thought. Then I could die happy.
He watched Powell all through the washing, rinsing, and waxing of the car. In an almost unbearable state of arousal, Brian brushed his hand against his crotch and realized that he had come in his shorts, without knowing just when.
His chore done, Powell walked away. Brian could swear that the barely-glimpsed soles of those feet were winking at him.
One night not long after that, Brian, who had his own car, drove to the nearest gay bar, thirty miles away. It was the kind of place—pool table, dance floor the size of a hand towel—that always seemed larger in memory than it did in reality. But it attracted guys from many miles around, including some just passing through, so Brian usually saw at least a few new faces, all the more so since he rarely dropped by. He was used to the looks he got as soon as he entered—Hey, check it out, this guy is hot—and he absorbed them without, he hoped, seeming arrogant as he made his way to the bar while avoiding eye contact with anyone. He needed at least one beer to overcome his shyness.
He’d barely taken a sip when a guy appeared at his elbow, ordering a beer but also cutting his eyes toward Brian, desperate to put the moves on him. After about thirty seconds Brian returned a glance, enough to get the picture. Not a bad-looking guy—shorter than Brian, shaved head, dark coating of stubble on his face, slim but well built. Brown eyes that were lively, mischievous. His name was Scott, and during some small talk Brian found out what he needed to know, taking a light, playful poke at Scott’s ribs. Scott jumped.
“Ticklish?” Brian asked. Just saying the word ticklish brought a flush to his face, and his dick stiffened a bit.
“Very ticklish,” Scott said, almost proudly, as if it showed just how much fun he could be.
He had no idea.
Even the headlights of Scott’s Jeep seemed eager, bouncing in Brian’s rearview mirror as they followed the rough country roads back to the estate. When they pulled into the cottage drive, Scott was the first one out of his car. “Wow,” he said, “you were right, this place really is isolated.”
“Lots of privacy,” Brian said, fitting his key in the lock.
“Great!”
As soon as he was inside, Scott stripped off his T-shirt. Oh, very nice build. Hairy chest, and a treasure trail leading from his navel to the waist of his jeans, which didn’t stay on for long. Nor did Brian take long to get to the matter at hand; he couldn’t, he was too excited. As they kissed, greedy with their tongues, Brian’s fingers took nips here and there, at Scott’s rib cage, his sides, up into his armpits. Scott gasped and wriggled, pulled his mouth away from Brian’s long enough to say, “I told you I was ticklish.”
That was the last thing Scott would say for a while, because Brian wasn’t about to stop. His hands moved swiftly, attacking Scott’s sides, belly, ribs and armpits. Scott tried to defend himself, but he was always one step behind Brian’s probing, poking, squeezing fingers. It was easy to steer Scott into the bedroom, where the ticklish young man, nearly hysterical, collapsed onto the bed. Brian was right on top of him. Having mapped Scott’s most tender spots—lower ribs, armpits, sides—he kept at them, his victim’s high-pitched laughter and squeals of protest egging him on. Straddling his hips, Brian admired the view: Scott’s hairy, helpless torso, big hard dick riding up on his belly…. Scott was still struggling too much for the tickling to be most effective, but Brian knew the cure for that: more tickling. “Oh yeah,” he said, “I’m gonna keep tickling you, stud, so get used to it. The more you struggle, the sooner you’ll be too exhausted to fight me off. Then we’ll really have some fun. You haven’t felt anything yet!”
Scott’s eyes rolled in panic; his fingers clawed helplessly at the air as Brian kept him pinned down. Ribs, armpits, sides… back and forth, back and forth. Plus there were two sweet spots just above his hips…when Brian squeezed there,
Scott’s laughter turned to desperate, hoarse panting. His struggling body weakened, he sagged back onto the mattress as the tension left him…even as that was happening, Brian knew, Scott was terrified that his body was succumbing to this torture, and soon wouldn’t be able to struggle at all. “That’s just what I’m waiting for, baby,” Brian said. “Waiting till you’re weak and helpless and can’t move at all.”
When the time came, Brian left Scott lying there, the poor man’s chest heaving, limbs too weak to move on the sweat-soaked sheet. In his dresser Brian found his soft restraints—they were made from old bathrobe belts—and began to tie Scott’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts as the young man stared with anguish and fear in his eyes. When he felt the cloth being fastened around his ankle, he managed to struggle a bit.
“What’s that, baby?” Brian asked. “Are you telling me your feet are ticklish?”
More struggling, though it was so ineffective that it was embarrassing—and wonderful—to watch. Brian finished tying off the young man’s wrists and ankles. Scott was squirming, pulling on his bonds, finding that he was indeed trapped and helpless. His cock was harder than ever. He tried to speak, but could barely do more than whisper. Brian obligingly brought his ear close to Scott’s lips.
“Please…please let me go.”
Brian stood up, patted Scott’s shaved head. “I like that, hearing you beg. You’ll be doing a lot more begging before I’m through, I promise you that.”
Best Gay Erotica 2008 Page 2
