by Solace Ames
“Dulce de leche,” Paul tried, as he rolled Jay onto his back and straddled him. Paul’s cock looked amazing half-hard, thick and bobbing heavily and right there hanging over his own.
“You’ve got to work your lips more on the U sound. Dulce. It means sweet.” This could definitely work. He could fuck Paul without worrying about fucking up his hips, feel it all and see it all happening.
“Mmm. Dulce. Is that better? And are we doing this? I don’t give up my ass for just anyone, you know.”
“Okay.” Jay ran his hands along the side of the ass in question, which had an alluring masculine curve—nice how Paul definitely wasn’t one of those flat-as-a-pancake Anglo-Saxon types—and wonderfully smooth, soft skin. “I mean, yes, I would love that.”
Paul’s smile broadened and got more wicked. “All right then.” He reached for the items on the nightstand. Jay remained mesmerized by Paul’s curving, bobbing, half-hard cock and how it contrasted with his own nearly vertical one. And Paul must have noticed, because he cut short whatever he was doing and reached down and wrapped his big hands around both of them and squeezed, jerking them off together. The pressure was so good, so all-encircling, Jay had to think very hard about not coming. So hard his eyes rolled back. That hurt—the eye-ache—and it helped.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Feels good, hmm?”
“Just get on my dick already,” Jay moaned out, then laughed a little, from how overwhelming it all was. “Unless you want to make me come right now. I don’t know how long I can last, anyway.”
Paul gave one last stroke, then stopped, and broke out his crazy-sexy analytical tone. “Well, you haven’t used condoms in a while, have you? That should make it easier.”
“Oh, you’re right. You know everything,” Jay said, sincerely.
“Trust in me.” Paul smiled and dabbed a touch of lube onto Jay’s glans, then adeptly rolled the condom down. Even though Jay reminded himself not to move, he couldn’t help thrusting upward a bit at the end. “Don’t move,” Paul warned, and Jay thrilled at the command in his voice. He’d given up trying to figure out why. Adriana liked it, he liked it, the rest didn’t matter. “Except your hands. You can keep touching me.”
“Okay,” Jay said, before he threw his head back and gritted his teeth and didn’t say anything for a long time, because the feeling of Paul working down onto his cock was so tight and hot and outrageously good. Paul was right—the condom helped. Jay missed that soft, slippery velvet texture against his skin, but then safe sex also meant not-coming-embarrassingly-soon sex. He wanted to make this last. For Paul. For both of them.
“Nice and hard,” Paul growled, low and breathy. “Give me a second.” He pulled off, the thick columns of his thighs rising and tensing under Jay’s palms, massaged more lube into his hole—God, he made what could have been an awkward bend seem graceful, gorgeous—then seated himself again. Less friction, faster, smoother...just as tight.
Every part of me is available to you.
Jay groaned incoherently and tried very hard not to thrust.
“I’m going to fuck your cock, pretty boy,” Paul said, and did just that. Lowered himself down all the way, and moved, bucking and curling forward.
Jay clawed at the sheets, got a grip and held on. He made it through the hardest part, when his balls tightened and all he could think of was emptying himself, seizing the pleasure. When he held back, it still felt amazing—Paul’s body encircling him, fucking massaging his shaft—and a sense of triumph filled him as well.
He even opened his eyes.
“Oh my God. You look...” Jay couldn’t finish. He tried to speak with his eyes and his hands, running them over Paul’s rock-hard thighs and tight sac and gorgeous cock that he’d already tasted twice but didn’t think he’d ever get enough of. He’s like a drug, Jay thought, but it made him sad, made him think of money and need and things that fell away and didn’t last.
Paul raised himself almost the full length of Jay’s shaft, eased back, and dropped down, and did it again, and then Jay stopped thinking at all.
It hurt when he came—a sharp stabbing pain in his lower spine—because he couldn’t help thrusting, but it was worth it. So worth it. Not just the rush of release, the sudden surging ecstasy, but the vivid snapshot image of Paul getting off on his cock, teeth bared in a snarl.
“You made me hard again,” Paul said, after he’d lowered himself to Jay’s side. Paul took Jay’s hand and had him feel the proof, their fingers curling together. The intimacy of it made Jay shiver.
He nestled his head against Paul’s shoulder. “I’m glad it was good for you,” he murmured, not knowing why he’d just said something so weird and formal, but meaning it.
“Very, very good.” Paul slipped the condom off Jay and headed into the bathroom. Jay sighed and bent his arms back behind his head, stretching his spine until the pain faded into an inconsequential ache. He felt really fantastic now, sated with sex but still eager for more, because Paul had made it clear they weren’t done. Paul was going to fuck him. It was inevitable. A done deal.
When Paul came back, he had a towel. He went to the other double bed, took the pillows, put the pillows next to Jay, and put the towel over the pillows. Thorough. Considerate. There was something evocative and ritualistic about the process, putting Jay in mind of his first nerve-racking sexual encounters and the older boys who’d eased him through it. It’s not going to hurt if we do it right. And it was true.
He wondered if Paul had had that.
“Are they decent to you?” he asked. “I mean, your clients. Your other clients. I know it’s kind of a strange question—” Paul shook his head graciously, giving Jay an all-clear to continue, “—you know, strange because they hire you to tell them what to do, mostly.”
Paul settled down next to Jay and touched his thigh and held his hand, lacing their fingers together again. God, Jay loved that, even though it made him think of Adriana and miss her a bit, as if she should be holding his other hand. “It’s a lot of work actually getting to a session. But once that happens, I’m usually fine. I’ve walked out of a few places right after walking in the door.” He smiled wryly. “Meth.”
“Oh man, that would be awful,” Jay said, wincing.
“I wouldn’t walk out because of poppers or weed smoke in the air, but if I smell meth, I’m gone. I charge enough that most everyone knows I’m serious when I say to be sober. As for regulars, I’m happy with them. Some of them more than others.” That last with a wink that made Jay’s heartbeat skip a beat. “If you’d like to do a night, I have some ideas. And I’d charge the same for two as one...” he trailed off, probably because he’d seen the discomfort written in the tightness of Jay’s face.
They might have money for one more session. One. But the windfall—and it wasn’t really a windfall in the first place—was already gone to hospital bills.
“Is everything all right?” Paul asked gently.
“Yes. I’m fine. We didn’t get charged with anything, but there’s going to be a lot of paperwork to get some of our stuff back from ICE.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. Do you want to talk about it?”
Jay shook his head. “Maybe later.” He touched Paul’s hand where it rested on his hip, completing the circuit, like they were dancing side by side. Paul was probably an amazing dancer. “Do people talk about their problems with you a lot?”
“Yes. I’m not a therapist, but I’m a damn good listener.” Paul did patience like Frida Kahlo did pain. Jay could appreciate that.
“I really hope you’re happy,” Jay said. “You don’t have to tell me you are, if you are or if you aren’t, or tell me anything. But I hope you’re happy.”
Paul kissed him. Maybe to thank him, or to shut him up. Once their lips touched, it didn’t matter. He forgot whether he was inside Paul or P
aul was inside him and where they stopped and where they started and even whose breath was in his lungs.
Paul never stopped touching him from then on. They moved against each other closer, closer, until Paul turned him over and covered him, and he couldn’t move at all.
Jay wanted something inside him very badly by then, but he was glad to follow Paul’s rhythm. Patient. Mounting slowly but steadily. Paul’s fingers stroked and nudged at his hole, sending jolts of anticipatory delight shooting through his nerves.
Then Paul trailed a line of kisses down his spine and went to work with his tongue. It was so good Jay was reduced to clawing at the sheets again, digging his forehead into the mattress and sobbing for breath. He did his best to relax and let more of Paul’s insistent tongue tip slip into him, probing along the inside of his tender ring. But it was hard, and he was so relieved when Paul added his fingers, scissoring him open, holding him there.
Paul’s body shifted higher. Jay felt cool lube trickling down his crack, tickling his balls and falling onto the thoughtfully placed towel. He’s so nice, Jay thought, giddy and euphoric and suddenly very hard again as Paul’s fingers found his prostate and pushed. “Oh God. That’s it. Oh.”
When Paul was ready to fuck, his blunt cock stretched Jay open painlessly. The only hesitation was that for one second, Jay wished they didn’t have to use condoms, that afterward he’d feel Paul’s warm come sliding down the back of his thigh, the proof and the culmination of everything. Other than that, he was grateful as hell, and wanting so hard to show how much he loved it, because Paul had to—Jay forgot why it was important, but Paul had to know.
Paul kept pulling almost all the way out and slowly sinking in again balls-deep, driving him crazy.
“The sounds you make,” Paul said, his voice a little cracked but still marvelously even. “You know, a lot of men swallow it all. They’re worried about making too much noise. But you’re at that sweet spot right in the middle. I want to hear how much you love my cock in you, Jay. Come on.”
That was easy enough.
I’d cry for you, like the girls I’d imagine crying for you.
He opened his mouth and let Paul know.
Chapter Ten
Newark Airport didn’t look that much different from LAX, but the air inside the vast space moved differently and smelled older. Paul had never been to New York before. He was thrilled at the prospect of walking right into the iconic cityscapes and seeing them from the inside. All for free, on a client’s dime, no less.
His client was waiting for him at the Terminal B Arrivals Hall. Martin had hired him several times in Los Angeles; they had a good relationship. Paul walked up to him and hugged him like a friend, a public hug, quick and terse and straight-guy-manly, but winked at him to make clear he could do a lot more.
Martin actually blushed. “Hi, Paul. Was your flight okay? Did you remember to bring thick socks? I hate to nag, but people from California always forget about the socks.”
“I napped. And yes, I remembered. Boots, too, see? I’m ready to stroll in the snow, I promise. You’re looking good, Martin.”
Martin really didn’t, overall. He was shaped like a pear, didn’t have much of a chin, and although he was in his forties, his querulous, watery blue eyes seemed more like those of an ancient man. And he was nervous—he was always nervous. Still, Paul could almost always find some positive quality to focus on, and in Martin’s case it was a nice personality and soft, delicate fingers with well-manicured nails.
On the cab ride into the city, Paul played delighted tourist and asked lots of questions. “I lived in the Village for five years before I moved to Los Angeles,” Martin said. “And before that I was in Buffalo, but I used to come into the city every chance I got. I miss it. Even though things move so fast here, I always felt like I was getting left behind. I hope it’s not going to be the same now, but I don’t know, I just don’t know.” He sighed heavily.
Paul touched Martin’s hand where it lay twitching on the seat, smoothing out the jitters. “You’re not going to have time to be self-conscious at the party.”
“Gallery opening,” Martin corrected. “My business partner calls it a gala, but she’s the ambitious one.”
“Well, you’ll be focused on showing your new boyfriend the beautiful art.”
“The art’s very ugly. It’s a series called ‘The Brutality of Surfaces,’ and there’s a lot of mustard color.”
“You can explain it all to me,” Paul continued patiently. “I’m the ignorant West Coast waiter slash aspiring underwear model who’s going to need a lot of explaining from his sophisticated older lover, remember?”
“Oh, right,” Martin said, smiling and clasping Paul’s hand and finally, thank God, getting into the spirit of things.
Under a violet-gray twilight, the city’s streetlights reflected off the dirty ice crusts in the gutters. The sky swirled with dark clouds that spat out irregular snowflakes. The textures of the buildings entranced Paul, especially the ones that were ornate and age-pitted. Mysterious steam roiled up from iron grates.
Everything was beautiful, everything was complicated.
When Paul stepped out of the cab, the cold wind slapped his face and stung his eyes, but he met it like a welcome challenge, happily. For a second he imagined another man in the cab behind him, waiting to be helped out, darker and younger, with shining eyes.
The gallery crowd was diverse, ranging from the gazelle-like to the interestingly grotesque, but all of them were well-dressed in their own way. Paul didn’t allow himself to feel out of place. He worked the room on Martin’s behalf, starting off with self-deprecating comments about his art education, shifting the subject to Martin’s role in the gallery and then stepping back half a pace, widening his eyes slightly, changing his body language to outside observer. And he kept their wineglasses filled, although he only sipped infrequently at his own.
Martin’s cheeks took on a pink flush, and he stopped twisting his wrists quite so much.
“Where did you hook this fish, Martin?” A weedy-looking man with a dyed-blond soul patch had drifted up to them, smiling and cold-eyed with malice. “And what kind of bait did you use?” He directed himself to Paul. “Hell-o, California Dreaming.”
Paul touched Martin lightly on the shoulder and willed him not to panic—Martin was already making faint sputtering noises. “Martin’s a little embarrassed to mention,” Paul said, meeting the man’s eyes. “We usually tell people we met at the restaurant I work at.” He put his finger over his lips. “You must be an old friend, right? So I’ll tell you. It was a sex site.”
“Oh, really,” the man said, in the kind of voice that sounded sarcastic even when sincere.
“I was bored with all the gym bunnies. I thought I’d get a night of interesting conversation out of Martin. I had no idea he’d be such a tiger in the bedroom. The next morning, I deleted my profile. And now I’m here, at a New York City gallery opening.” Paul looked fondly at Martin’s flustered face, and didn’t look back at the man again. Eventually, he got tired of trying to catch Paul’s eye, and skulked off behind the cheese table.
The crowd soon thinned. They made their goodbyes. “You were amazing,” Martin said as they collected their coats and Paul’s duffel bag. “That guy is an evil queen on an epic level. You have no idea.”
“So you were Snow White and I was the huntsman,” Paul said, laughing. “I love it. Come on, show me the town.”
Martin was already tipsy and didn’t last long. They had a few drinks at a Greenwich Village bar, slow-danced to one karaoke song and then took a cab to the hotel.
The ride turned maudlin. “I feel so weird,” Martin slurred. “It was great and it was all...it was all fake. Not you, I mean. You’re a wonderful authentic person. But me. I faked it. If I didn’t have the money I couldn’t have faked it.”
&n
bsp; Paul held Martin’s hand again. “This doesn’t hurt anyone. You got through a difficult time with a little help, that’s all. Later on, if you feel guilty, spend some time paying it back—go visit a sick friend or donate some money to charity or something. There’s no point in hating yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I always hate myself when I’m this drunk. I’ll be more fun tomorrow.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Paul warned.
In their hotel room, Paul helped a staggering Martin undress and got him into bed. He wasn’t coordinated enough for sex, but he wasn’t at the passing-out stage either. So Paul kneeled over him and jacked off onto his face to the sound of appreciative moans. A warm, wet towel to clean off what Martin didn’t lick up, a kiss on the forehead, a glass of water left on the nightstand and it was good night.
Paul was on West Coast time and didn’t feel sleepy at all. He set up his laptop at the tiny desk in the corner, opened his email and answered or deleted until his queue was empty. Then, when he couldn’t avoid it, he composed a short message that made his stomach twist.
I just wanted to let you know I’ve left the state for the weekend vacation in New York City I filed the travel permit for. I’ll be back on Monday and will call in first thing. Let me know if I need to fill out any additional paperwork.
Too much information? Not enough? His parole officer wasn’t really interested in a high level of detail from Paul. He never asked questions about the “massage” income. But this was Paul’s first trip so far away from the home district. He decided to err on the side of brevity, sent the email, and wondered how many more years this special kind of purgatory would last, trying to keep bitterness out of it.
Even that effort was preferable to the last email he should be sending tonight. He had no idea what to say to Jay. I know you can’t afford me anymore, so here’s a 99 discount coupon came to mind. And I’ve never felt this way about any client, make it stop.
