“Spanish omelet tomorrow, boy.” It was frighteningly natural, especially when one considered that for all his experience as a Dom, he’d never had a live-in boy of his own to perform such services. Such a thing might have been possible in Cairo, if he’d stayed on there, but live-in boys in the U.S. tended to expect to be kept well, or, paradoxically, to be slaves. There hadn’t been any opportunity to forge the kind of partnership he needed. At least, he hadn’t thought so until now. Until Paulo.
Who was driving him crazy.
He tried to focus on the birdsong and buzz of cicadas, but the boy’s singing drowned them out. Today’s soundtrack was, appallingly, “Hair.” They’d been through “Age of Aquarius,” which had made Preston chuckle a little when Paulo changed it to “Age of a queer boy’s ass.” They’d been through “Black Boys” and “White Boys” which Preston tried not to hear as veiled references to their racial differences (which hadn’t concerned Preston nearly as much as their age difference until Paulo’s damned singing about it). Now it was “Sodomy.”
“Masturbation can be fun, join the holy orgy, Kama Sutra, everyone!”
He stuck his head out the window and called up, “Paulo! If you have to give us that Broadway dreck, can’t you pick a different song?”
Hand dramatically over his heart, brown nipple peeking through his fingers, Paulo cried, “Sir! You wound me! I don’t even have to change the lyrics on this one.”
“Anything else, please,” said Preston, fighting a smile as he pulled his head back inside.
There was a pregnant pause before Paulo’s clear tenor rang out with, “Good morning master, your sub says hello. You easily top me, I quiver below.”
“He’s driving me crazy,” Preston muttered to himself, and called Jim. He needed help with the typing if he was going to get these blasted edits done in the next week. And, if he was honest, he could use someone besides Tasim to talk to about Paulo.
The sky opened up as his call to Jim connected, and he watched Paulo dash to secure the remaining windows in the shed and stow the aluminum ladder. He made small talk with Jim while working around to asking the favor he needed, while Paulo toed off his muddy boots in the kitchen and dried off with an old towel from under the sink. Making himself right at home, he thought to himself with, alarmingly, no rancor. Quite the contrary -- Paulo at home in his house pleased Preston very much.
He rang off with Jim and walked into the kitchen. Paulo stood by the stove, intently watching the kettle heat. He’d wound another of his makeshift collars around his neck, this one of tiny immature grapes from the ancient arbor. He looked to Preston like one of Von Gloeden’s wild Sicilian boys, stepped out of an eighty-year-old photograph and into his kitchen.
Shaking the romantic association from his mind, he said, “Might as well head home, after tea, Paulo. Doesn’t look like there’ll be more outside work getting done today.” Maybe some distance would help him get his head right about what they were doing here, together.
To his intense surprise, Paulo crossed the room in a rush and dropped gracelessly to his knees before Preston. Bending low, he rested his damp curls against Preston’s bare feet and murmured something, his breath tickling Preston’s toes. Preston could no more move away than he could remember a time when his hands didn’t ache.
“I can’t hear you, boy,” Preston got out with effort. What the hell had brought this on?
“Please, sir, don’t send me away.”
“Paulo, you go home every night. Today’s no different?”
“Sir, I’m sorry. I overheard you with Jim. Please call him back, sir. Please let me be the one.”
“Do you know what I asked of him?”
“No, sir. But you asked him. Please ask me instead.”
“Can you type?”
That surprised a laugh out of the kneeling boy. To his credit, he stayed down. “Yes sir. Was that all you asked of him?”
Paulo and Jim were friends, Preston knew, so Paulo must know Jim and Preston indulged in a friendly, tension-relieving session now and then. “No, boy, that wasn’t all I asked him.”
“Then, sir, couldn’t you ask me for that, too?” The voice against his toes was back to a whisper, but Preston strained and heard him.
Ask you for advice about a singing handyman who’s gotten way too far under my skin? I don’t think so. When Preston didn’t answer right away, Paulo looked up, then knelt up so his face was level with Preston’s crotch. “Sir, please.” His hands clasped very deliberately behind his back, Paulo leaned minutely forward.
It took an act of will to ignore his erection and step back. Not yet. “Yes, boy,” he said. He could give Paulo part of what he -- what they both -- wanted. “I’ll call Jim.”
Paulo smiled up at him. Unless Preston was mistaken, there were tears in the corners of Paulo’s dark eyes. “About the typing, Paulo. The other, well, we’ll see.”
Paulo nodded, his smile slipping a little, his eyes flicking to Preston’s obvious hard on, and Preston left the room, but not before running his hand over the soft curls of Paulo’s head.
***
He’s made his whole self vulnerable to me, Paulo thought as he finished reading Preston’s manuscript in his apartment over his folks’ garage in the wee hours of the next morning. He washed away his melodramatic mood, along with the results of a melodramatic orgasm, in the shower. He drove his truck over to the big house on the edge of town at dawn, let himself in through the back door and fixed breakfast in a daze of excitement.
He couldn’t tell Preston how working for him, caring for him, and now reading his story, awoke his deepest training, that of a son of Afro-Portuguese immigrants schooled, against his nature, to be macho, to protect and provide. He never expected to have anyone to protect and provide for, but the past month with Preston had changed that.
The rain continued all day, keeping Paulo indoors and close to Preston, listening to his smooth voice dictate changes and work through the more frustrating of the editorial queries. Paulo had been unable to resist asking questions.
“You grew up in Egypt, sir? Is that where you met Tasim?”
“Stories for another time, boy.”
After lunch and a hand massage, he worked up the courage to offer a suggestion to a particularly tricky query.
“She implies I’m a poseur because I admit not being a sexual sadist.” Preston paced, talking with his hands.
“You’re not?”
“No, boy, not really. You understand the difference between being a dominant and getting off on my sub’s pain?”
“Sort of. I mean, does it turn you on when you use sensation to get your sub off?”
Preston eyed him darkly. “You know it does.”
It was the first time since coming to work for him that Preston had referred to their night at Tasim’s club. Paulo thought it would be wise to keep his mouth shut, and was rewarded when Preston kept talking.
“Bringing my partner pleasure turns me on, yes, whatever form that pleasure takes. But what speaks to my nature is...” He stopped abruptly, as if he’d said too much.
Paulo watched him pace, dying to ask. After long minutes, he said, “What speaks to your nature is what we have now? Me offering you everything I am, and you accepting?”
Preston looked startled, and Paulo held his breath waiting to see if Preston would deny having accepted anything. “It’s more than that, but yes. What we have is close to my ideal.”
Sex would make it ideal, Paulo thought, but let it drop. He tapped the computer screen. “You used your skills and training in something you believed in. Like an actor. Tell the editor it’s like any other performance, a craft. Make her see you’re an artist.”
He felt Preston’s hand on his hair in a caress he’d come to crave in the past few days. “Let’s take a break, boy. You can give me that blow job you’ve been slobbering after.”
“I do not slobber, sir!” He tried to sound indignant, but the way his mouth was watering made him splutter. H
e shrugged and dropped out of the desk chair, aiming to slink over to Preston but losing the intention in a puppyish, tongue-lolling bound. So much for dignified seduction.
His special version of Oklahoma! came to mind -- “a prick long and wide as a fat tranny’s thigh” -- but for once Paulo eschewed singing for something much, much better.
Preston was half-hard and smelled really good, so Paulo spent long moments snuffling and licking. Bringing Preston to full hardness gave him a sense of achievement, and pulling a low groan from the man was pure triumph. Paulo gave it his best -- which even modesty allowed was pretty damned good -- until Preston spilled into him with a shout and deliciously painful tugs on his hair. He licked some more, laving balls and shaft, sucking the spunk out of Preston’s pubes, while the man came down. He’d be content to stay there all night.
But that was too much to hope for. “Good, boy. Good boy.” Preston petted his hair for a while, making no move to let Paulo come. “Some tea, then back to work.”
“Yes, sir,” Paulo said, as evenly as he could with an adamant hard on. He headed for the kettle and planned that night’s solitary wank while the water boiled.
***
The night the final edits went off to the publisher, Paulo fell asleep on Preston’s sofa. He’d taken care of some minor storm damage that morning, then spent the afternoon and half the night racing Preston’s deadline with him.
Wired from the mental effort of the work, certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours, Preston puttered for a while, filing all the notes he’d made by hand while Paulo typed. He shut down the computer and went to the kitchen. He wasn’t finished writing for the night.
He’d trained boys. He’d signed contracts for paying gigs. He’d negotiated his publishing contract, with Tasim’s help. But he’d never drafted a contract for a boy to sign with him.
Two drafts and three glasses of sweet tea later, he was satisfied with the terms and the language. Now all he had to do was wait until morning to deliver it, to watch Paulo sign.
Paulo would sign, wouldn’t he? Since he’d come to work for Preston, even since they’d met at the Gay Men’s Chorus concert -- hell, since their scene at Tasim’s club, if he was honest -- Preston had sensed Paulo wouldn’t refuse him.
And he hadn’t, not once. He’d gently insinuated himself into Preston’s work and household, and now Preston couldn’t imagine either one without the boy.
He’d retired from the professional scene planning to reevaluate his path. Tasim had teased him for it, though Jim had tried to understand. But Paulo -- untrained, intuitive Paulo -- had made a place for himself right beside Preston.
Preston still felt vulnerable, but he no longer wondered whether Paulo was sincere. He no longer wondered if Paulo appreciated the value of his own submission. And he no longer questioned whether Paulo submitted despite his faults and shortcomings. He’d shown Paulo his whole life, and Paulo had embraced his gift -- he didn’t see faults, but opportunities to be what Preston needed. His weaknesses inspired Paulo to greater service, not the resistance he’d expected.
Yes, Paulo’s submission, Preston had decided, was wholehearted.
Now it was time for his equally wholehearted domination.
He carried the contract and a small gift box into the living room, and set them down on the coffee table so he could fetch a blanket from the window seat.
Paulo shifted a bit as he tucked the blanket around him, curls mashed flat on one side of his head and wild on the other. Preston petted them, loving the feel of them under his fingertips, and he could have sworn the boy preened in his sleep just like he did when awake.
Tucking him in and leaving the contract suddenly wasn’t enough.
Preston leaned over, bracing his arm against the back of the sofa, and kissed Paulo. Their first kiss, stolen. Preston had a moment’s self-doubt before Paulo moaned quietly and started to kiss back.
“Sir,” he slurred against Preston’s lips.
Preston pressed the kiss, tasting deeply, playing his free hand over Paulo’s chest, plucking tight little nipples, delighting in the knowledge that soon he could make -- and execute -- diabolical plans for them.
Paulo arched up, and Preston was there to meet him, moving the blanket aside and lowering his body to cover his boy.
“Please, please,” Paulo panted into their kiss, which Preston happily admitted had gone a little sloppy. He knew what Paulo needed.
He reached between them and freed his cock, then Paulo’s. Tomorrow would be soon enough to lay the boy out and savor every bit of him. For now, they’d seal their bargain -- a bargain he was sure now Paulo would make -- with something simple, sweet and frank.
He drove one hand into the whorls of Paulo’s hair and grabbed Paulo’s hand with the other, guiding it to wrap with his around their pricks. Tomorrow, any number of tomorrows, would be soon enough to relish the sight and feel of Paulo’s balls plumping and drawing up. For now, the sounds and smells of them getting off together would be enough.
It didn’t take long. “Oh!” Paulo looked stricken as he shot. “That was without permission.”
Preston panted through his own, not very tidy, orgasm. He didn’t tell Paulo his permission had been on the tip of his tongue. With another kiss, he promised, “I’ll punish you in the morning, boy. Hold still now.”
From his position astride Paulo he reached for the slender gift box with his dry hand and pulled out the discreet, beaded collar, letting Paulo examine the tiger-eye and steel beads, and the tiny steel ‘P’ that would rest in the hollow of his throat. “You’ll wear this?”
“You know I will,” Paulo said. He examined the collar. “It’s beautiful, sir. Thank you.” Then he bent his head forward until its crown touched Preston’s chest. The smell of them together must have filled Paulo’s senses, or perhaps it was something else that made him hum contentedly. He drew Preston’s hand to his mouth to lap away their come so Preston could fasten the collar.
This wasn’t the pageantry of the club or stage, but when Paulo raised his head and lowered his eyes, Preston knew Paulo was something new, was his. The drunken thrill of it all gave way to a deep serenity, and Preston tilted the boy’s face up for another first kiss, the first kiss he demanded as Paulo’s Dom.
“We’ll go over the contract in the morning, boy.”
“More editing?”
“Quit whining, and come to bed.”
“Your bed, sir?”
“Always.”
Author’s note: The title of this story was inspired by a line from an article entitled, “On Being Voluntarily Vulnerable,” by Tom A. Gordon, available online here: http://public.diversity.org.uk/deviant/ssethics.htm#VV
Contributors’ Bios
Allison Payne
Allison Payne lives and works in Los Angeles. She finds an artfully placed scratch far more beautiful than a picturesque sunset.
Lee Benoit
Before dawn and after dark, Lee Benoit is a writer of gay fiction, some contemporary, some speculative, some historical. During the daylight hours Lee is a professor of sociology, and round the clock a two-spirit, single-by-choice parent of two.
Zoe Nichols
I've been writing for over six years. I live in California, writing under the cover of darkness, like a super hero. Only I don't have a cool rubber costume and I like having the light on. I enjoy writing homoerotica along with just about any other form of erotica. As long as there's sex and a few hot men, I'm there. I'm published with Torquere Press and recently had a story contracted with Cobblestone Press, LLC. I'm hoping to work more with both.
Toy Box: Collars
Edited by M. Rode
Master Preston's Bright Bottom © 2008 by Lee Benoit
Beloved © 2008 by Zoe Nichols
Stay © 2008 by Allison Payne
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical article
s or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60370-427-4
ISBN-10: 1-60370-427-2
Torquere Press, Inc.: Toy Chest electronic edition / July 2008
Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680
Toy Box: Collars Page 5
