The Sweet Side Of The Ropes: Enthralling Tales Of Male-Male Romance

by Kiernan Kelly

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  Renaissance E Books

  www.renebooks.com

  Copyright ©

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  BALLIN’ THE JACK

  BLIND FAITH

  FIREHOUSE HEAT

  THE SWEET SIDE OF THE ROPES

  WAITING FOR DIMI

  About the Author

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  THE SWEET SIDE OF THE ROPE

  Tales of Male-Male Lust

  KIERNAN KELLY

  ISBN 9781615083893

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2011 Kiernan Kelly

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  SizzlerEditions.com

  A Sizzler/Attraction Gay Male Collection

  BALLIN’ THE JACK

  It was Jack's favorite time of the afternoon—just after the noontime rush and before the after-work madness, when several hours stretched lazily ahead of him with nothing to fill them but daydreams. The bell over the door fell silent, the register stopped clanking and clattering and spitting up receipts, and a soothing quiet fell over the store like a warm, fuzzy blanket.

  Damn, but his dogs hurt. He removed his shoes and socks, wiggling each toe in relief. Sighing, Jack leaned back in his chair and put his bare feet up on the counter, folding his arms behind his head.

  Such was life for Jack McGill, proprietor of The Sensuous Shopper, the one and only erotic supply house in town—not that the lack of competition should be surprising. The town wasn't much more than a flyspeck on the map, located in the middle of God's hairy ass, with a population of less than what a good-sized stadium would hold. What was surprising was the fact that from the day he'd bought the store a year ago, business had been booming.

  He didn't even really understand why he'd bought it. If he thought about it—which Jack tried not to do, since it gave him a bastard of a headache—purchasing an erotic supply store smack dab in the middle of nowhere should not have struck him as a sound financial investment. But when he'd seen the ad for its sale in the paper, just a tiny, three-line blurb in the “for sale” column, he couldn't resist. He'd bought it sight unseen from an anonymous voice on the telephone.

  As it turned out, it had been a very healthy move for Jack's portfolio.

  One wouldn't think there were so very many horny people in and around the tiny backwater hamlet of Weesaw, Florida, but his sales receipts told a different story. Maybe, as Jack often theorized over the past year, it was something in the water.

  Every Monday through Saturday, nine a.m. to eight p.m., Jack sat behind his counter and sold condoms, sensual oils, dvds, corsets, g-strings, whips, dildos, edible panties, anal plugs, and a plethora of other aids and devices to blue-haired old ladies, frog-voiced old men, housewives, mechanics, farmers, bankers, police officers, postal workers, and sales clerks. His customers were ordinary, everyday, average people, some as bold as you please, some blushing and not making eye contact, but all buying.

  Why, just last week he'd sold an oversized jelly dildo aptly named Fat Boy,” to the reverend of the First Baptist Church.

  Jack had noticed during the next Sunday's services that the good reverend was walking with a bit of hitch in his get-along. Perhaps he should have talked Reverend Jenkins into purchasing something a bit less ... stout.

  Then there was Mary Wilts, the librarian of the tiny Weesaw Public Library, who was single, lived with her mother, and had purchased so many boxes of condoms that Jack figured she was either a nymphomaniac, or was using them to build a latex hot air balloon.

  Frank Wilcox, full-time Sheriff and co-owner of Frank and Bill's Bait and Tackle Shop, had custom ordered a corset for his wife, Esther. Of course, he'd ordered it in a size 44, while Esther wore a size six, but who was Jack to question his customer's needs? Jack supposed the corset went with the size XXXL pink lace thong and size fourteen black stiletto heels Frank had picked up last week.

  Macy Lees, choir mistress at First Baptist and owner of the Cut ‘n’ Curl on Main Street had bought a life-sized, anatomically correct man doll, complete with a fully functional penis and a tongue that vibrated with three different speeds.

  As Jack recalled, she'd named the doll Moses.

  Pheromones, Jack decided, must saturate Weesaw to its very foundations, from one end of Main Street to the other. But for all the money spent in Jack's store, for all the squeaking mattresses and hoarse cries of ecstasy that floated from open windows at all hours of the day and night, Jack McGill himself had a painful, never-ending case of blue balls.

  And he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why.

  It wasn't for lack of trying. He'd put himself on the market as soon as he'd moved into town, letting it be known through casual conversation that he was single, looking, and not particularly fussy.

  But it seemed that as eager as the townsfolk were to purchase his wares, none were the least bit interested in using them on him.

  Jack had always considered himself bi-curious, ready, willing and able to explore relationships with anyone who could claim two things: that they were over twenty-one years of age, and that they were human.

  Lately, things had been getting so bad that he'd conceded the last part might be negotiable. Hell, at this point, the pockets in the billiard table at the Dew Drop Inn were beginning to look damn attractive.

  He knew he wasn't superstar material. Jack never claimed to be handsome, and knew that his body wasn't anything to write home about. He didn't have a six-pack, or bulging biceps, or rock-hard thighs. He'd never grace the cover of a romance novel. He'd never be a centerfold in a skin magazine, and never have his own month in a beefcake calendar.

  But he wasn't exactly road kill, either.

  At five foot nine, Jack was of average height and weight. He still had all of his hair, mousy brown though it was, and all of his teeth, which were practically straight and definitely white. Jack's skin was clear, with no pimples or extra facial features sprouting anywhere. He made a habit of showering regularly, used deodorant, and scraped his tongue after brushing and flossing.

  He just couldn't understand it.

  Marvin Sweetwater, the janitor for the municipal building, was almost wider than he was tall, had a mole on his cheek that grew more hair than he had on his head, and always smelled like a combination of mothballs and oregano. And yet Jack had seen him slipping into the janitor's closet at the town hall with Marybeth Wilson, the town clerk. Jack's guess, from the bangs, moans, and groans that had issued from the closet shortly afterward, was that they hadn't been taking inventory of the cleaning supplies.

  Now, if Marvin could get laid, why the hell couldn't Jack?

  Maybe he wasn't drinking enough of the water.

  The bell over the door jangled, startling Jack out of his musings. He jumped, nearly falling out of his chair as he brought his bare feet down off the counter, striking his ankle painfully on the way. Standing on one foot, he bit back a curse and looked toward the door, wondering who was in shopping during the time of day when most folks in town were either working or watching All My Children.

  Or getting laid.
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  "Good Afternoon.” The speaker was a pleasant looking man in his early thirties. Nattily dressed in a nicely tailored suit and open-throated white shirt, he carried an oversized briefcase with him. Dark blue eyes twinkled with good humor, and a smile dimpled his cheek.

  Not bad, Jack thought. He looks over twenty-one, and human. He's got the right résumé. He blinked, forcing the thought away. The man was obviously a salesman, wanting no more than to sell Jack a new line of lingerie, or a couple of dozen glow-in-the-dark, penis-shaped key chains.

  "Mr. McGill? Might I have a moment of your time?"

  "Yep. That's me. What can I do you for?” Jack decided to let the man make his pitch, even though there wasn't room on Jack's shelves for anything new. The man's voice was smooth, rich, like melted chocolate, the kind of voice that could recite the tax code and make it sound sexy. It was doing things to Jack's nether regions that made his khakis uncomfortably tight. Sadly, it was more sexual stimulation than he'd gotten from anyone other than himself in the past year.

  "My name is John Smith, and I represent Acme Novelties."

  "Is this some kind of joke? Did Bob Anderson over at Weesaw Hardware put you up to this?” Jack snorted ... John Smith? Acme Novelty? Surely even Bob—who had about as much imagination as a can of tuna fish—could think of better names than those.

  "No, I'm afraid not,” John looked slightly puzzled. “I have some very interesting items I'd like to demonstrate for you.” He slid his case onto the counter between them. “May I?"

  "I guess so.” Crap. That was the man's real name. Way to go, Romeo. “Um, sure. It won't get busy in here for another couple of hours."

  "Great! Okay, if you'd just remove your clothes, we can get started.” John smiled, and shrugged out of his jacket.

  Jack dug a finger into his ear, rooting around for whatever had flown in and scrambled his hearing. Did the cute salesman with the absurdly common name, representing a company that might've been owned by the Roadrunner and Coyote, whom Jack had managed to insult within the first five seconds of their meeting, just ask him to strip? “Come again?"

  "I'll need you to be naked, please."

  "Naked."

  "Yes, sir."

  "As in ... no clothes? That kind of naked?"

  "That would be the one, yes.” John unbuttoned his shirt. He had a fabulous chest. Nice pecs, tight, rose-colored nipples. Smooth bronzed skin.

  "Might I inquire as to why you need me naked?” Jack's mind tried to come up with a plausible explanation for what was happening, but failed abysmally. Are you crazy? Jack's inner voice screamed, as he mentally shook himself. What's wrong with you? The first human being in a year to ask you to get naked, and you want to play twenty questions? For God's sake, take off your clothes!

  "I've found that demonstrating my products on the buyer is a much more effective sales tool than merely describing them, or handing over a sheaf of dry advertising pamphlets.” John's smile never wavered as he slipped off his shoes and socks.

  "Ah, well that makes sense.” Jack made no move to undress even though his inner voice was throwing apoplectic fits inside his head. “What sort of merchandise is it?"

  John unzipped his fly. “Oh, it's top of the line stuff of the highest quality.” He stepped out of his pants, standing only in a pair of black silk jockeys. “You really should be naked in order to experience the full effect of the merchandise, Mr. McGill."

  "I suppose you should call me Jack. It feels weird for you to call me Mr. McGill when you're standing there in your underwear."

  The boxers were the next to go.

  "Or, you know ... in nothing at all.” Jack couldn't help staring at John, or rather, at John's naked flesh, especially at his exquisitely formed, surprisingly large, dangly bits.

  Reverend Jenkins’ “Fat Boy” had nothing on John.

  "Very well, Jack. So, if you please...” John made a motion toward Jack, obviously meant to hurry Jack on his way toward nakedness.

  Jack may not have been a rocket scientist, but he wasn't stupid, either. He knew when to take a hint, and when not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He stripped out of his shirt, khakis, and underwear fast enough to leave skid marks. Standing naked behind the sales counter, he bounced on his toes, waiting eagerly for John to open his case.

  John crooked a finger at Jack. “Come around the counter, if you don't mind."

  Jack tossed a look toward the front door of the shop, grateful for once that the windows had been blacked out. Still, someone could walk in at any time. While the townsfolk were a horny bunch, he wasn't certain that they'd appreciate the sight of their neighborhood smut merchant standing starkers in the middle of his store. “Maybe we should do this in the back room..."

  "Nonsense. This is really no different than a salesman demonstrating vacuums or Ginsu knives."

  "You don't need to be naked to get a demonstration of Ginsu knives."

  "Heavens, no! That would be dangerous."

  They both took a moment to flinch, hands cupping their privates as each visualized the dangers of Ginsu knife demonstrations and certain delicate parts of the male anatomy. It slices, it dices, makes crinkle cut potatoes ... ouch.

  Jack settled for dashing to the door, flipping the “Open” sign to read “Closed,” and locking it.

  John unsnapped the clips on the case, “If you would be so kind as to get down on your knees, Jack?” He popped open the lid.

  This is definitely shaping up to be the most bizarre sales pitch in history, Jack thought as he lowered himself to the floor on his knees. From his new perspective, he got a mouthwatering view of John's oversized cock and furry balls, and curve of his delectable ass. Bizarre or not, the scenery was definitely worth the trip to the floor.

  John removed a simple length of leather from the case. In the center of the leather strip was a small, dark brown ball.

  "Um, I've got ball gags already.” Jack nodded toward the display against the back wall. “Right over there, between the crops and the feather ticklers."

  "Not like this one.” John smiled, fitting the leather around Jack's head. “Open wide, please."

  "But..."

  "Open!” There was a tone of command in John's voice that sent a delicious ripple through Jack's balls.

  Against his better judgment, Jack's mouth popped open. Wide.

  John wedged the ball between Jack's teeth. Instantly, Jack's mouth filled with the flavor of rich, dark chocolate. Unable to swallow because of the ball lodged between his teeth, Jack drooled.

  How attractive.

  "See? It's flavored. This is one is our Swiss Dark Chocolate model. It also comes in Milk Chocolate, Strawberry, Watermelon, Kiwi, and Cheesecake."

  Jack heard the clink of metal, and felt John's warm hands at his ankles. Before he could blink, John had Jack's feet bound, and was pulling Jack's arms behind his back. He went down on his belly as cold metal snapped around his wrists.

  'Mmmf ... mmm ... mfff?” Jack's eyes widened. His inner voice had a million questions, all of which seemed to be variations of “What are you doing?" But the ball between his teeth disallowed articulation beyond a muffled, rather wet, grunting noise.

  "Tsk, tsk. No speaking unless spoken to, Jack.” John wiggled a finger in front of Jack's face. “Don't interrupt my sales pitch again or I'll be forced to punish you."

  Jack took issue when John roughly yanked at his hips, pulling him up into a kneeling position with his forehead resting on the floor, but being trussed up like a turkey took most of the vinegar out of his protests.

  "Mmff, mmm!” Jack tried to shake his head, but his position made even that form of communication nearly impossible. This was taking the term captive audience way too far.

  Jack's eyes bugged out of his head and he yelped when the flat of John's hand slapped his ass. More than his flesh, it stung his pride. He hadn't been spanked since he was a kid.

  Funny thing was, it felt sort of good, too. The stinging was accompanied by a tingling of sorts, t
hrumming in his balls. His cock bobbed its head in agreement.

  The ball gag stifled his cry of surprise, but not the lower, throaty groan of pleasure that followed it.

  "Now, as I was saying, our Tasty Balls are the perfect sex aids. One size fits all. They're expertly made of strong, hand-tooled leather and foam rubber. And the flavor is guaranteed to last through up to six months of casual use.” John's studied, salesman drone would ordinarily have lulled Jack to sleep had it not been for the fact that he had a hard-on of epic proportions virtually screaming for release, which precluded naps of any kind. “Of course, flavor restorer kits are available, which can extend the lifetime of your Tasty Ball indefinitely."

  Honestly, Jack couldn't care less if the gags were made by Elves and flavored by the Easter Bunny. He wanted more of John's hand on his body. Frowning, he grunted behind the ball gag again, and shook his butt for good measure.

  Smack!

  Oh, sweet Christ on toast! John's hand landed a little lower on Jack's cheeks than the last time, precariously near Jack's balls. The resulting sting zapped through Jack's balls directly to his cock. It lengthened and filled, aching sweetly. He wanted to stroke himself, but having his hands cuffed behind his back made that impossible. Houdini, Jack wasn't. He whined behind the ball gag, shooting John a mournful look over his shoulder.

  "You really must learn to have a bit of patience, Jack. Now, I want you to take a moment to appreciate the fine, smooth texture of the ball. Not too soft, not too hard. It's flexible enough to sink your teeth into, but not so much so that you can take a bite out of it and possibly choke. Plus, it really does make for a pretty picture. Why, look at what you're doing to me, Jack."

  Jack watched John wrap his hand around that thick piece of meat hanging between his legs, slowly fisting himself. Watching him was torture. Jack wanted that hand on him, wanted to put his hands on John. Stymied by both the ball gag and the cuffs and chain that bound him, Jack growled low in his throat.

  "See what a difference our Tasty Balls make over the usual rubbery-tasting ball gags? Who would want something that tastes like old tires in their mouth, when they can have chocolate or strawberry, instead?” John stroked his hard-on. It was at full power now, grown ramrod straight before Jack's eyes.