A Mutual Friend
Page 12
“What if we can’t find a way to get them to take Barclay back?”
That was the real fucking dilemma. Without Barclay as a willing receptacle, the demon would eventually leave the premises, find more promising hunting grounds. We had to put him somewhere safe before he went farther into the dark place that was sucking him of all personality and memory. That morning, he had actually thought he was the demon. He could see the scaly tail, smell the acrid stench. This persona demente had stepped over the threshold where we could control his actions.
I smiled. How many years had I spent smiling reassuringly to people on the brink of suicide, to people confessing to damnable, sinister acts? That was my job. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” I was sure of that. “We can start sleeping in the same room.”
King didn’t reply to that. I was momentarily distracted by the buzzing of my phone. A text from Twinkletoes. I put the phone in my bike’s pannier without reading the text. I had a mission in mind. I patted my leather jacket to ensure I still had my accessories, and King made no bones about sticking the Thrilldo bag inside his jean jacket.
I was amazed by King’s bravery. He’d just been stuck in a dead spin on a motorcycle by a satanic demon, yet here he was, hacking his way through the brush like an explorer.
He had no idea what darkness lurked around the corner, and I wanted to take away the pain of him knowing. There could be another twirling entity, this time sucking him into its vortex. But he hacked away cheerfully, his cheeks reddened by the bike ride, manfully chested like a Jack London character. He had balls, this guy. I felt a very strong affection for him that was similar to the passionate love I’d felt for Noel. That was it, passion. Lust. I lusted for King Statesboro. And he was about to get his tit in a wringer.
About a hundred yards from my bike, King stopped. “This is good.” Yes, it was a little sandy clearing of about ten feet diameter. I eyeballed a sturdy catclaw acacia with lovely chocolate limbs. King could lie there quite nicely.
Stripping off my jacket, as the sun was now becoming hot and strong, I tossed it to the sand, making sure the brown bag fell separately. I followed suit with the Metallica shirt, and grabbed my wide-eyed lover in a Rhett Butler embrace, clamping my mouth down over his as I bent him backward.
My fingers scrabbled for the hem of his T-shirt. I wanted to rub our chests together, my wiry pec hair stimulating his bare nipples. I stood him upright and, as he caught his breath, I whipped off his shirt and flung it near the acacia. I was a couple inches shorter than him but by no means feebler, and I clamped my thighs around his hip like a dog as I rasped our tits together.
“Oh God, Anton!” King gasped, looking down in amazement.
I grinned. “You never knew a man’s chest could be as sensitive as a woman’s?”
“Never! Once a guy—a guy—what the fuck?”
To distract him, I had bent down to take his nipple between my teeth. I nibbled like a rabbit as I scooped up the paper bag, unclipping the nipple clamps from their cardboard display. I replaced my mouth with one of the black latex clamps as King hissed in air.
“Too much?”
“No . . . I think I’ll get used to it.”
“Because I can adjust this screw—”
“No! Oh, Good God, I’ve never had anything like this. Oh holy fuck, are you putting that other one—”
“The chain between them connects them,” I said professionally, pinioning the other clamp on his tit.
Reflexively, he twined his fingers together behind his neck, the perfect position for my next move. Eyes squeezed shut, he breathed through clenched teeth, relaxing into the exquisite pain-pleasure of the clamps.
I shook a handcuff free from the bag. Nothing too technical that might scare King off, these fleece-lined cuffs buckled on. I did one wrist as he looked on in wonder. “Ever been cuffed?”
“No. Anton, I’ve just messed with people in the cab of my truck. None of those lot lizards bring cuffs with them. Or I didn’t think to travel with them. Probably would’ve had the cops called on me. It was all just very basic blowjob stuff.”
“You ever blew another guy?”
“I never dared. Other drivers did. I’d go to visit them in their cabs, say hello, have a beer, and they’d be flat on their stomachs, gnawing on some guy’s skinny prick.”
“But you wanted to? Here, sit on my shirt.”
King sat, and I urged him down on his back. I lifted his cuffed arm above his head, slinging the chain that connected the two behind a stout branch. The crotch of his jeans was filled with his juicy cock, and I gave it an appreciative squeeze.
“Oh God, stop it! I’m gonna jizz in my pants! Of course I wanted to. This one guy was so enthusiastic in his blowing me, I wanted to repay the favor. I’m sure they’re used to it. Guys want to suck as much as they want to be sucked. Don’t you think?”
I casually unbuckled his belt. Just to torment him, I jiggled the chain between the clamps. I even brushed my fingertip over his tortured nips, watching him thrust his hips from nerves and lust. “Some are one way or the other. My ex, Noel, loved nothing more than to slide his cock down my throat. He rarely sucked me. He thought it was too submissive. I rarely got a chance to penetrate him.”
“Though you wanted to.”
“Though I wanted to.” I buckled the other cuff to his wrist, so he was now helpless. I mean, he could’ve kicked me if he’d wanted to. Later down the line, I’d get ankle cuffs.
“You never got to clamp his tits.”
“Never. He’d screw mine up to the highest pain level, so I was nearly blinded with torment. Then he’d get a cock ring—oh, hey, look what I just found.”
King lifted his head and uttered a combination moan and howl. Was he happy to see the cock ring? Or should I have gone slower with him? He cried, “You never got to penetrate Noel, so now you’re taking it all out on me.”
I couldn’t tell if he thought that was good or bad. I continued yanking his jeans down his hips until his stiffy popped out, slapping up against his bare hip. On his back like this he was a Roman marble statue, underarms begging to be licked, nipples protruding like bullets, belly concave, enormous erection throbbing against his hip. I could barely contain my excitement as I pulled off his boots and tugged his jeans down over his feet.
Naked. Sprawled and vulnerable like Icarus, my ginger hunk was begging for release. I kneeled between his outspread thighs. “You’re going to look so good in this,” I urged.
“Do it,” he gasped.
“I hope it’s big enough,” I teased. The ring was bare leather, the sort one wore for looks. I was well acquainted enough with cock rings, as Noel liked to chain me to the wall, tighten a ring around my cock, and torture me with things like a feather duster and occasionally his fingers. He rarely let me come.
Of course, as I wrapped the leather around the root of King’s cock, I was overwhelmed by desire. I admit, I could not resist bending down in half and taking that velvety dick down my throat.
“Ahhhhhh . . . “
King’s hips shuddered as he instantly craved release. I relished the salty taste of a spurt of precum against my tonsils. I mouthed him with my lips covering my teeth. I swallowed over and over, knowing the action of my supple throat muscles would massage his penis. He shuddered his hips into my mouth, plunging the swollen head farther down my throat.
I didn’t gag. I was born for this.
But I knew I had to stop. That was part of the torment, of the fun. Reluctantly I drew back with a long tongue-lick to the underside.
“Ahhhhhh . . . “
King’s ballsac had filled to enormous proportions, constricted by the tight cock ring. I couldn’t resist bending back down to suck up a glimmering drop of seed from his slit, and he cried out in anguish.
“I’m not used to this, Anton!”
I grinned, crawling for the tossed bag of Thrilldo. In a way, King was right. I’d been used and abused by the good Father Noel. Turnabout was fair play. K
ing needed to learn to rise above the pain, to reach that sacred spot sometimes called “subspace” where endorphins filled his brain. Only then would his surroundings cease to exist. It would be just the two of us. He’d fall into a trance of euphoria. Noel taught me all of that.
“Relax,” I said, spitting into my hand. I rubbed it on the giant head of the Thrilldo, wondering if King really thought I was this big. I squeezed the toy like I was squeezing a real penis. It had the substance and give of the real thing, the velvety yet cardboard texture, and indeed my length. I might as well have impaled him myself, but it would add another level to defile him with an inanimate object. To watch him squirm and cry out with pain and pleasure mixed while I leaned on an elbow and watched, detached.
Is this what Noel had felt when he’d assaulted me with my dildo? I think he liked to imagine another man taking me, although he was far too jealous to act on that fantasy. King voluntarily raised his knees when I lifted his ballsac and nudged the dildo against his hole.
“I’m going to be very gentle with my boy toy,” I murmured. I couldn’t stop myself from fondling the heavy sac in my wet hand. This was a man to be treasured, and all he’d done was have furtive, quick orgasms in the sleeper cab of trucks. I nudged the silicon head a half an inch into his canal, twisting and turning it to widen the hole. To take his mind off it, I casually asked, “Did you ever have sex in a truck stop bathroom?”
“Yes,” he gasped instantly, as though holding his breath just to answer that. His hands were fisted behind his head, and I longed to bury my face in his underarm. “I did once. There were no lot lizards around, and I thought I noticed a trucker giving me the eye.”
My cock twitched inside my jeans. Two straight, horny truck drivers? I was there. I pinched one of his tit clamps, and he gasped again. “And?”
He exhaled sharply. Another half an inch up his butt. “And I saw him go into a stall. I went into the next one. I noticed there was a hole in the dividing wall.”
“A glory hole.” I’d used a couple of those on my way cross-country to find Noel. I’d imagined the dicks were his, although it was a smelly, nasty proposition. Especially when you saw who walked out of those stalls.
“He put his fingers through and waggled them. So after I finished peeing, I stuck my wang through. Why not?”
“How’d he suck?” I asked, spitting into my other hand so I could fondle his dick. It was turning purplish with the pressure, and it throbbed with its own heartbeat.
“Uh!” he cried, when I touched him. Another half inch up his pucker. His hips gyrated into the air, as though he wished to be fucking someone. “Oh, he was hungry all right. It’s a travesty how some burly, bearded straight men get thirsty for cock. Then deny it . . . “
“Was he?” I asked. I corkscrewed both my fist and the silicon penis. Backed-up jizz throbbed in his dick, his ballsac. No matter I’d jacked him off that morning. This boy was throbbing with sex. “Was he burly and bearded?”
“Oh God yes,” he said all at once. Talking might’ve been taking him out of the moment. I was taking a chance that it was enhancing the moment. The memory of the illicit blowjob through the stall wall, being cuffed and helpless and at my mercy, seemed to be riling him. He’d been at the burly trucker’s mercy, too. I knew from having received a few blowjobs in my time. It was next to impossible to stop once you got started. Did anyone ever tear themselves away? “He was a straight, bearded guy with a plaid shirt. He didn’t look at me as we washed up. He was embarrassed. Oh God, Anton. That feels so good up my ass.”
“You’re relaxing into it,” I said, adding another inch. My hand was now touching his pucker, he took so much of the length inside him. I sped up my attentions, plunging the synthetic penis inside my lover. “You love having this up inside you, don’t you? You’re imagining it’s my dick.” I tweaked both his nips, and he jumped and hissed.
“How’d you guess? I’ve never wanted a dick as much as I want yours.”
“Then take it,” I growled, concentrating on the dildo and the tit clamps. I pinched and pulled the clamps, enjoying the way his eyebrows and lips moved, his head thrashed side to side. I rubbed the bulging mushroom head of the toy up against his gland, massaging it.
That did the trick. Between hand-fucking him with the fake penis and arousing his prostate and toying with the tit clamps, King lost it. His fingers flung behind his head scrabbled in the sand and his mouth was locked open in a silent O.
“You love this, don’t you?” I snarled. It was something to see a hard cock spew like that without even being touched. I’d never witnessed such a thing, didn’t know it was possible. But I knew the inner connection between the tits and the dick, not to mention the gland and the dick. I’d used both to urge Noel to ejaculate while deep throating him. “You love this up your ass and you love me playing with your tits. Look, King. It’s making you come, and I’m not even touching you.”
“Touch me!” he cried. His hips trembled and his asshole sucked on the silicon cock.
I jiggled the tit chain. His penis jumped as it spurted, first onto his throat, then his chest, then abdomen. “You like this, don’t you? You’re just a fucking sex machine. You love your tits being played with.”
“Oh God yes!” he groaned through clenched teeth. “I’m still coming, Anton!”
Finally, I couldn’t resist. I bent my head low and lapped the rivulets of salty semen. I opened my mouth and sucked it in, all the while fucking him with the Thrilldo. A jet of jizz hit my cheek, and I rubbed it on his ribcage. Inching my mouth up his torso, I bit down on a tortured, distended nipple.
His entire body shuddered. His cuffed wrists shook the acacia tree, raining pollen down on us. I licked and nibbled his abused nip, and rubbed the glans against his prostate. His penis still throbbed and jumped, but he was at last out of honey. I knew at this point to continue biting his tit was causing undue agony, so I let up. I took his pulsing member in my mouth, sucking the last delicious spurts of his load.
He panted now, just a helpless puddle on the ground. I left the dildo inside him and walked away to attempt to pee. But I had such a stiffy it took me awhile.
When I returned, I stood above King with my arms folded, erection filling my jeans. It was all right. I was accustomed to not being pleasured. It puffed my ego to know I had devastated him so thoroughly. He was clearly floating in subspace now, and it was time for gentle aftercare.
Splaying myself out beside him, I softly unbuckled his cuffs and moved his arms down a little at a time. I kissed his cheek, murmured sweet nothings—I really can’t remember. The highlight—and the scare—of the whole event was when King opened his eyes, turned his head to face me, and said dreamily,
“Anton. I love you.”
I was in shock. I didn’t know what to say. I wound up chuckling stupidly, brushing my fingers against his five o’clock shadow, and saying something asinine like, “Oh, that’s just the subspace talking. You’ll be fine in a few hours. You need some protein. Let’s go get you a protein bar.”
I was honestly shocked. Joder! He was obviously only saying those words because I’d made him come so stupendously.
I followed King back to my bike. He stumbled weakly, clearly needing a lot of water. Luckily, I had a bottle, and as he chugged it, I read Twinkletoes’ text.
Father. I hated when he called me that. Barclay has slipped away. And there’s been a murder over on Saguaro Drive, a drive-by shooting of an older man with a .22 like the one we took away from Barclay. Where are you?
That had been an hour ago, so Twinkletoes had followed it up with:
Have you been to Mencken? We need to speed this up. Our pants are around our ankles.
Ay! I swiftly texted back.
We’re about to head to Mencken. Any sign of the cabrón?
“What’s up?” asked King, still a little dazed.
“We’d best hurry to Mencken. Twinkletoes thinks Barclay shot and killed some middle-aged man not far from our house.”
N
W
hat time today did this guy get shot?” asked Anton.
Lily Silverberry and the neo-Nazi Flannery shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Twinkletoes, too, gave side-eye to a potted plant.
We were having dinner at The Pour House, the brewpub down by the water, eating out on the deck to keep an eye on the front door of the Nichols Building. We were trying to put two and two together regarding the seemingly haphazard murder of Ambrose Smart, not far on the other side of the bridge. He’d been helping his wife and teenaged son take groceries in from their SUV when, according to a Bent Zealots mole in the PD, some rando had driven by and shot twice at him with a .22—the same caliber as the pistol Flannery had taken back from Barclay.
“We, uh,” said Flannery.
Twinkletoes took a deep breath. “One ten. And the last time anyone definitively saw Barclay was twelve-thirty.”
“But he doesn’t have a car to do a drive-by,” I pointed out, accepting a beer from the server. I was done with hard alcohol. Smoking Magic Bus cannabis was really helping my back.
Twinkletoes said, “Well, the report didn’t say fired from a vehicle. The wife and kid were more concerned with the one bullet that hit Ambrose in the heart, so they didn’t get a look at the shooter. Yeah yeah, I know. We let Barclay out. It happened on our watch.”
“We’re not sure it even was Barclay who shot the guy,” Flannery pointed out.
Something occurred to me. “This isn’t even Barclay’s MO. Right, Anton? He craves blood. Why would he shoot someone and then just take off?”
Anton said, “You’ve probably heard of a criminal escalating. Killing animals is often an intermediate step. He could’ve been practicing, so to speak. We need to stay in touch with Turk’s police informant, keep on top of stuff like this.”