Trading Tridents

by C. M. Taylor

  He was babbling. Actual nervous babble was coming out of Kitow’s cupid-bow mouth. So I did what any decent fanboy would do.

  I kissed him, full-on, tasting salt and me, and pushing him backward into the shiny wall until he relaxed.

  We finally broke off for air, and I said, “It’s… not my usual flavor, but I can manage.”

  “You are an actor, after all.” He met my eyes, and then he was smiling again. “You can fake it till you make it. Top drawer. Behind the books.”

  I didn’t know what “it” was, but when I opened the shelf, I found a blindfold, handcuffs, and a string of condoms. There were other things in there, masks and a leather thing I didn’t recognize, and it occurred to me that, with the way we were dressed, we were already well into the territory of “sexual fantasies people don’t usually talk about.”

  He had invited me here, not just to blow me, but to be at my mercy. I took a moment, fingering the handcuffs, to digest this. In a weird way, it was the only thing that made any sense at all today. I mean, face it. I wasn’t ever going to make the cover of Out. Not ever. But… if Kitow was the kind of guy who rewatched Desolation just to watch Legolas getting pinned by Bolg, well, at least I could finally comprehend what I was doing here.

  And… possibly… how I might make it good for him too. I stood for a moment with condoms in hand, trying to wrap my mind around a question I didn’t even know how to ask. It was possible that he needed it like this because he was a true, consummate actor, in everything, even his sex life. And he needed his sexuality to be something of a performance, even more than for the average American male.

  Even so, he would have to know that it would have been a lot easier for someone like me to be his submissive, rather than to dominate him. With Kitow’s George Clooney confidence and Captain America casual Caucasian charm, I couldn’t quite grasp the side of him that wanted to be controlled. Besides, Kitow wasn’t a moron. He had to know he was in charge of this relationship. He was Derek frakking Kitow, and I was a Wookie filling the whole of his tiny trailer with the sheer size of me.

  For the second time in less than half a day, Bamboo Bill came to my rescue. Leering, vicious Bamboo Bill who liked to taunt his victims before skewering them.

  His game was the same as Derek Kitow’s. His game was force.

  You’re an actor; he’s an actor.

  So I decided to show him all the actor stuff I knew.

  “I’m in,” I said. “What do I need to know?”

  WITH HIS arms above his head, he looked like a new man. I had him standing with his back to the wall, handcuffed wrists hooked on a peg in the trailer’s low ceiling. The suit stretched easily and exposed no midriff.

  I could see why he thought of himself as a born submissive. The truth of that seemed written in every line of his body—from the locked muscles of his arms, to his tense buttocks, to the telltale quivering in his eyelids. Above all, it was in his breathing. His chest rose and fell differently now. More ragged, more rough. Prone, he was more alive.

  I watched him for a long time, letting the silence settle between us, still feeling exquisite aftershocks pulsing through me, but more aware of the way the simple act of being bound seemed to free him.

  The trailer had curtained windows and one-way glass, and the light was very dim in the convention’s parking garage. The only sound was Kitow’s Vader breathing, and the silken sound of a blindfold passing through my fingers. It all added to a strange feeling of being underwater.

  “What’s your safeword?” I asked hoarsely. I was way out of my depth and I knew it, so I started by feeling along the edges of the limits he set.

  “Curry.”

  We had agreed on that. One Arthur Curry to another.

  “And your safeaction?”

  He brought his hands together as if in prayer or preparation to dive, and jerked the chain that held him.

  I didn’t really know what was expected of a Dom, beyond the stereotype of leather and dirty insults. The only other bondage play I had ever done was as a stand-in for a skin flick, but I had only worked with women. Nothing like this.

  For a few seconds, I tried to envision myself calling Kitow names and threatening him. But… no. I knew I would never be able to convincingly talk dirty to Derek Kitow. He had told me he preferred silence, anyway, as he explained what he was hoping for with a slightly unnerving, clinical calm. I could only hope that wasn’t just him being polite because all the conversation I could manage now was the sound of our heavy breathing.

  I thought about blindfolding him, but no. I wanted his eyes. Brilliant and teasing and now—provocative. So I gagged him with the scrap of silk instead.

  His breathing changed then, flaring his nostrils and coming deeper and smoother. As if he were meditating on the act of submission.

  His scale armor looked like rust in the dim light as I passed my huge hands over his chest. Lower. His tailored, custom suit opened under my hands.

  When I pulled down the green at his groin, I discovered a naughty little secret.

  He was not wearing anything under his costume at all. Nothing but bare flesh.

  Kinky.

  Now I was the one breathing hard. The pulsing aftershocks became something more urgent and demanding, and I was still naked below the waist myself.

  In his cupboard I had found condoms, lube, and other paraphernalia, but no riding crop, which was the only toy I would have recognized from my skin-flick stint. So I used what I did have.

  He twitched sharply when the cold of the steel trident I’d made touched his bare hip, then held very, very still as I ran it across the most sensitive part of his body. The beveled edge scraped him ever lightly, and he held his breath as one prong, then two, then three passed over his growing hard-on, making him bob higher and harder as each passed over him.

  If it was true that he could not be aroused in any way other than subbing for someone, then sub he could.

  With his hands above his head, his famed body standing there pinned, I ran my hands down the length of him, from his armpits to his exposed hips. Then I got on my knees.

  All this time, he had kept his eyes closed tight, but when I finally got my first taste of him, his eyes flew open. His hips jerked in my hands, but I fought him to stillness. I knew, despite his glazed eyes, he could see us in the mirrored surface of the flat-screen, my shaggy head bobbing against his cock. He was a shining, writhing god of waves and I was a hungry sea monster, hooked on him.

  Derek started to thrash, pulling harder against my grip. I surprised him by releasing his hips, leaving him with the option of fighting my tonsils as hard as he liked, as long as he was willing to ignore the warning of my teeth.

  A car passed outside and its headlights sent white beams through the trailer, like some deep-sea probe exploring our silent Atlantis.

  I reached for the lube, mercifully not far away. When my fingers were cool and slick, I touched his naked buttocks again, and this time pressed between his clenched cheeks to his opening.

  He made a drowning sound in his throat, as I worked a single knuckle into him.

  Then, skewered like that, I began pumping him with my mouth again, simultaneously drilling a little farther in with every stroke of my mouth, and farther still every time he squirmed.

  By this point, my own cock was begging for attention, stirring and eager again. Could I really do this another time already?

  I could.

  I stood up suddenly, breaking off all contact. Kitow gave a muffled scream beneath his gag, his head thrown back and his shockingly flexible body arching.

  His caramel eyes were open now and fixed on me. I yanked my own cock, rubbing it to readiness in three strokes. I ripped the condom open so hard it almost flew out of my hands.

  Then I seized him by the hips and hoisted his legs up, baring his entrance to me.

  And for the first time ever during sex, I issued a command:

  “Watch.”

  The word came out a growl, and Derek�
��s eyes were wide as he obeyed. His own cock was red and raging, purple at the head with need and beading with a clear pearl of precum. He screamed into the gag again as I pushed, rocking back and forth to find purchase, but he didn’t use his safeword.

  Instead he watched, bright brown eyes huge, golden hair falling in his eyes, as I moved into him, his flexible back bending as I penetrated. He screamed into the gag again, still watching what I was doing to him and his own helpless erection. Something savage and hungry, ugly and beautiful happening to him. I watched him try to fight it, gasping against his gag as if I had just pulled him out of the water. His legs were strong, but they could find no purchase, nothing to keep me from pumping him, pushing him, lifting him with every thrust. Derek whimpered something behind his gag, something that might have been ‘no.’ But definitely wasn’t ‘curry’ and was not accompanied by palms pressed together or a jerk on the chain. Raw sex washed through me, my own climax imminent again.

  I wanted to hold both of us forever in that state of breathless arousal, but then I broke apart with a growl and a roar, and my legs shook violently as I erupted deep inside him.

  He didn’t scream then.

  But his every ripped muscle strained with heavy ferocity as I forced him into spasming pleasure.

  Or, at least, what I hoped was spasming pleasure and not just spasms.

  I was still panting as I asked, “Are you okay?”

  His breath was still coming in heavy gasps, and when he didn’t respond immediately, I panicked.

  “Are you okay?” I demanded, grabbing the handcuff keys and fumbling with them as I tried to free him.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. What kind of stupid, clumsy fuck—?

  I had done something wrong. I was sure of it. I was sure of it.

  Reality was cold and ugly and lethal.

  “Wow,” he panted. “Oh, wow.”

  He looked and sounded completely drained.

  “That was amazing…. Usually I need a lot more… a lot more to interest me.”

  “You’re okay?” He was still panting as I undid his handcuffs. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good,” he replied. Then added, “I’m great.”

  He stretched in a long ripple of flesh, then moved his jaw back and forth, testing the places where the gag had been. There was something practiced in his movements as he checked himself for pain he might not have noticed a moment ago.

  “What about you? You okay?” he asked.

  I made a noise that bore an unfortunate resemblance to a snort.

  “Of course I am.”

  Now that he mentioned it, though, I wasn’t entirely sure that I was. Something about all this unnerved me. Something about the way the experience had taken hold of me and him and how, for just a moment, he had been nothing to me but a sheath for my dick, and all his wealth and fame and masculine beauty had only served to make him more—fun to play with. It seemed—like the kind of pleasure that turned normal nobodies like me into the kind of dangerous morons who think they are God’s gift to sex.

  I wanted to curl up next to him, rest his body against my chest, make this fear go away, but I had no idea what part of the trailer to fold out in order to make a bed.

  Derek found a couple of blankets in a cupboard to cover us both with and pressed a nearly invisible button that made the tiny couch beside the tiny table automatically flatten itself out into a little bed. He climbed in and patted the narrow space next to him, and I sat stiffly while he settled his boneless weight against me.

  “You’re not sure about this, are you?” he asked into my chest.

  I opened my mouth. Shut it again.

  “It bothers you?” he asked. “You can tell me if it does.”

  “I just—” I began. “I just don’t want—”

  I was pretty sure Kitow wasn’t going to have the slightest idea of what I was talking about. Because I was pretty sure that I didn’t have the slightest idea of what I was talking about.

  “Because if you pretend to be a rapist, what does that make you?” Derek asked.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Somehow, he had understood.

  “You know,” he went on, “there are things I love about being a sub, and things I hate. I’ve come to hate how a lot of Doms, no matter how good, aren’t necessarily the same people you can go get coffee with. My first Dom was experienced. He helped me start my acting career. But he ended it when I told him I wanted more of a real relationship. I got hurt. Married Angela on the rebound. She was… more understanding than I had a right to expect. Especially after I started hooking up with guys on the side. I’ve just been wanting something more. Maybe I saw something in you on that YouTube channel. Something that really needed to be let off the leash. But inside someone who would always be down-to-earth, always have a sense of humor. I didn’t go for you because I thought you’d make a good Dom. I didn’t even know if you’d be interested in the game. I just—liked you.”

  While he talked, I loosened enough to embrace him, and Derek Kitow curled into my arms with every clear intention of settling into sleep.

  I kissed his hair and said, “I think I like you too.”

  And as I finally let myself relax into him, my last thought was:

  Curse you, Derek Kitow. Now nothing in my whole life will ever be sexy again.

  “OH MY God. Oh my God. Ohmygod. Omigod.” Larry’s voice got higher, faster, and louder in his chant of panic.

  “I think I’m going to cry. I had no idea how badly I needed to see this.” And it actually did look like Harry was going to cry. He was fanning his face with his hand.

  I wasn’t sure if he meant seeing me together with someone, seeing me with Derek Kitow, seeing Derek Kitow with anyone, or just seeing two Aquamen in the throes of passion.

  Knowing Harry, it was probably the Aquamen thing.

  “Derek, these are my—” EX “—friends, Harry Ng and Larry Feldman.”

  They had knocked. So technically they hadn’t just barged in. There had been enough time to scramble for clothes and decency, but not enough to hide, in the slightest, what we had been doing.

  And the Arrys were not the type to play along with the courteous pretense of pretending not to notice they smelled sex.

  I had to admit, upon waking, that the fact that the sexiest moment of my badly undersexed life had taken place while wearing full Aquaman gear was a trifle odd.

  “Smiley,” Harry said to me, “I am so happy for you—both of you—right now, I hardly know what to do with myself.”

  You can leave.

  “We were just coming to tell you,” Larry cut in, “the convention is mostly over now and—”

  “We were worried.”

  “We texted! And we called.”

  Right. My phone was on silent. The way it had been ever since Derek’s Q&A session.

  “It’s no problem,” Derek Kitow said, “If you’re friends of my Aquaman, you’re friends of mine.”

  His Aquaman?

  The only way that I was going to forgive this intrusion was if Derek Kitow forgave it first.

  “We, um, brought you some beer milkshakes,” Harry said, holding out a cup tray. “And we were just going to get some dinner from the vendors—”

  “It’s a DecemberCon tradition to invite friends for dinner on the final night of the con. We would be honored to have your company, Mr. Derek Kitow. If—” Larry dangled this year’s DecemberCon dinner guest hat, a Santafied version of Gandalf Greyhame’s hat, in front of him. “—you will answer one question.”

  Dark brown eyebrows shot up in quizzical surprise.

  Larry waited a beat before blurting: “Seriously, dude, why Aquaman?”

  Derek Kitow grinned and gave a half shrug. “I’ve just always really liked him. My favorite superhero.”

  Larry shot me a look.

  I glared at him.

  Derek must have seen my face change because he laughed.

  “It’s okay… he’s not the most popul
ar superhero. I know,” he said.

  I wanted to worship whatever Derek Kitow worshipped, but my friends weren’t going to let me get away with not showing my real self.

  “So, then, if it’s not Aquaman you’re into—you did all this for me?” Derek waved generally at the trident and my outfit.

  I grinned at the floor. For you, I would come as the drag version of Man-Mera. And then I offered: “He doesn’t allow himself the psychological luxury of an alter ego. That’s pretty unusual for a superhero.”

  When I was researching him for my costume, that was what had stood out the most for me.

  “I like him because he’s the underdog,” Derek Kitow said. “The least-liked superhero whom no one really understands. Kind of the ‘Robin’ of the Justice League. He’s never had the coolest power, or been the most decisive leader. He’s like me. And I always liked his relationship with Mera—who has the awesome power.”

  “Turning water into whatever she wants,” Larry chimed in.

  “Exactly. I always feel like in the comics, they try to play up his powers, make him just another superhero, but that feels like a mistake to me. What I always wanted to see was Aquaman, say without the ability to breathe underwater, just as the world’s greatest dolphin trainer or something. And his relationship with a woman who has the power to manipulate water into anything.”

  A submissive.

  Derek Kitow liked Aquaman because he’d grown up thinking of him as a submissive.

  He had also discovered a deft way to distract the Arrys… debating the comparative merits of an Aquaman who couldn’t breathe underwater. Derek Kitow rose to his feet, straightening his costume with a classic Picard maneuver, and took me by the smudge-tattooed elbow to guide us out of the trailer.

  Just like that, we were all going to dinner together.

  Larry was positing that the real problem with Aquaman was that his powers needed to be based more on marine biology rather than just “the sea.” Arthur Curry in the comics too often felt like “token water-power guy” rather than someone with concrete limitations and abilities. Then Harry got perilously close to the truth when he changed the subject to the fanfic possibilities presented by a sexy superhero sidekick like Mera, who has the clearly superior power.