by Willa Okati
He was just about to relax completely when the noise started again next door. “Take those clothes off,” Billy ordered. “I want to see you naked. Every inch of all those muscles.”
“Only if you strip as well. Fair is fair, eh?”
“Who says we have to play by the rules? I want to sit here and take in the sights. All that delicious skin revealed one inch at a time.”
Quentin heard Enrique’s bass laugh. “All right. So you want a show. Fine, then, a show you get. But then I want you to be naked too.”
“Believe me, I plan on it.”
Quentin could almost see Billy’s face, sparkling with mischief, as he leaned back in his personal comfy chair—which had not been appropriated for the den. Perhaps he’d be spreading his legs wide, resting his hand over the bulge in his jeans…
Quentin closed his eyes tightly. Instead of listening, he deliberately tried to distract himself. Melissa. He had to think of Melissa.
Melissa—the beautiful, the bold, the brave. He knew that people who didn’t like his girlfriend called her a bitch, but he’d stood up to defend her honor more than once. Melissa was just a strong woman who had no problem voicing her opinions, and he’d been glad to defend her for it.
Granted, she’d usually raked him down for his pains, claiming she could take care of herself. Quentin accepted that about her too. Melissa didn’t need anyone. The fact that she’d taken Quentin on as part of her life was something he remained grateful for.
She was his guide, now; she was part of his salvation.
Trying to block out the sounds from the room next door, slithery noises of clothes being shed one piece at a time along with Billy’s raucous version of “The Stripper”, Quentin turned his mind to the time that he and Melissa had first met.
It was over a lunch table in the cafeteria, during his last year of graduate school. She was younger than him, still working on pre-law, but old enough to know her own mind. She’d seated herself at his table without asking, looked him over as if weighing him in the balance as a worthy companion, and then struck up a conversation leading in a decisive direction. “You’re in the Ph.D. program, correct? What do you plan on doing with your life? Do you feel like going to dinner tonight to discuss this?”
Such boldness had stolen his breath. From there, everything had unfolded so naturally. She’d wanted to go to dinner and a movie, and Quentin had been so startled and flattered that he’d scraped up the money to treat her. She was a beautiful woman bound to a mission.
He knew, granted, that he was only a part of Melissa’s long list of life goals. Find a man who’d be a success and an asset in a marriage—a distinguished professor—check. His past was a stumbling block, but Melissa had judged him to be rehabilitated enough to work with. And she did care for him, he was sure of it, especially when he clung to her during the times that things grew hard to handle.
The few times they’d had sex had been…well, not earth-shattering, but certainly satisfying—if accompanied by an illicit guilt. Father Andrew would not have approved of sexual liaisons outside the bonds of matrimony, even if the parties involved were male and female.
Every time, Quentin had been careful about making sure Melissa was fully satiated before seeing to his own pleasure. Ah, the sense memory of how her hands felt scratching down his back—wonderful. She had sharp nails that left raised welts in their wake, but Quentin wore the marks like badges of honor.
Despite Father Andrew’s inner reprimands against sins of the flesh, the marks from making love to Melissa meant something. Scratches from a woman’s hand were concrete badges of honor he wore to prove he wasn’t what he had once been. Proof that he could start fresh and leave his past behind.
“There, I have undressed. Do you like what you see?” Enrique sounded teasing. An image of the man, naked, flashed into Quentin’s mind. He’d have strong limbs corded with muscle, the day’s sweat dried on his skin. His smell would be strong and salty—Quentin almost imagined he got a whiff of the aroma of pure male.
He turned his head into the pillow and inhaled the scent of soapy laundry detergent instead.
His nose might be placated, but his mind kept bringing up images. He could all but see Enrique turning around in a slow circle, arms at his sides, slightly raised so Billy could see everything. His cock would be long and thick, probably uncut, and already hard. How long? More than seven inches. Through that coverall, at least a size too small, Quentin had seen…
No. Think about Melissa.
There wasn’t an inch of Melissa’s body that Quentin hadn’t paid extremely close attention to. He knew her all the way from her petite but proud breasts to the neatly trimmed patch of dark curls between her thighs, what lay beneath the tuft of hair, and her defined legs, kept hard and slim through daily jogs.
And her face…well, again, she could be hard, but nothing disguised her beauty. A practical oval shape with a straight nose and a small but kissable mouth, plus big brown eyes that never betrayed what she was thinking. He loved her mystery, something she never dropped even when they were having sex or when he simply wanted to kiss her.
She appreciated the gesture when he went down on her, Quentin was sure of it. He’d learned to like the salty taste of a woman, and been careful in his study of what pleased her and what didn’t. He had it down to an art now, knowing exactly where to lick and where to flick, where to suck and where to use his fingers.
Melissa didn’t like the word pussy, though. Too crude for her. She either didn’t refer to her genitalia at all, choosing to direct Quentin by pushes on his shoulders to move him down, or in less heated moments using the more clinical term of vagina.
He hadn’t minded. Anything to stay in her good graces.
Clinging to her strict direction kept him from going back to what he’d been.
“Ah, so now it is your turn,” Enrique teased. Quentin imagined that he could hear a slick sound, as if Enrique were stroking his cock with a handful of lotion or some such. “I want to see you as you have seen me.”
“Fair enough.” There came the squeak of chair springs from Billy standing up. “You stand there and keep on doing what you’re doing.”
“Don’t want to come too fast, friend.”
“You won’t. Besides, even if you do, I bet a man like you can go all night.”
Enrique laughed. “You bet I can. Especially when I’ve got a tasty treat like you to lick up and down.”
“Ooh, there’s going to be licking. I’d better get these clothes off in a hurry, hadn’t I?”
“Tease.”
“Damn right I am. But I never leave a man in trouble for long,” Billy boasted.
Quentin heard the rustling sound of clothes being shucked off, then some soft noises of a shirt and pants hitting the wall next to his bed.
Billy spoke again. “See? I’m ready, willing and able.”
“Oh, yes, you are. Let me touch you. That fat cock of yours is bueno. Le deseo.”
“You’re going to have me. I’ll shove my dick so far up inside of you that you’ll taste me in the back of your throat.”
“Oh, so you think you’re going to be the one on top? We may have an argument here, amigo.”
“I’m always on top.” Billy sounded cocky and brazen as ever. “Don’t tell me you’ve never bottomed.”
“Not often. Although for you, I could be tempted.”
“How about if I suck this big long prick first? Would that get you in a good mood for the fuck of your life?”
“Promises, promises. Do you swear you will deliver?”
“Do you? I want that payload in my mouth. Heavy, thick come pouring over my tongue.”
“Ah, you push me beyond what I can be expected to bear.”
There were two soft thumps, as if Billy had gone down on his knees. “Hang on,” he said huskily. “Here comes the ride of your life.”
Sucking, licking noises started, along with a series of deep groans from Enrique. Quentin fisted his hands in his c
overs and tried not to listen.
God help him if he could stop himself, though. It brought back memories of nights when he had…with another man, smelling so rich and heavy…sparkle on his cheekbones, liner around his eyes, and his hair a shade of green not found in nature.
Quentin’s cock gave a twitch, the way it always did when he let himself slip and think about those days when he’d been so wild and so incautious. With a wrench, he stopped himself from thinking about those times and focused instead on the people who’d helped him straighten himself out when he’d gone to them for help.
The Center.
Quentin knew that activists generally ran such establishments down as deplorably dehumanizing, but for Quentin, they’d been exactly what he’d been in need of. Plenty of people were comfortable being gay, but he didn’t—couldn’t—fit into that mold.
The deprogrammers had been the ones to encourage him to stop wearing sparkling makeup and to wash his face clean. Helped him dye his hair back to its natural brown until the green grew out. Spent nights with him, holding his hand, after he’d been invited to one party or another.
He’d obeyed their advice, and never thought about being with another man again.
That was, until he arrived at Sweetwater College. Now, it seemed that everything was coming flooding back as sure as Enrique would pour his essence down Billy’s eager throat.
Quentin lay quiet and still as he could while the sucking noises went on and Enrique started to babble in Spanish. He counted the ticking of the second hand on his watch, lying on the bedside table, and passed away the minutes while focusing on that sound. It went on…and on…and on…
God, but Enrique had stamina. When Quentin let his focus slip, he could still hear Billy’s mouth messily devouring the Mexican’s cock, hungry noises that burned a track into his brain. He couldn’t help envisioning that prick sliding in and out between Billy’s mobile lips, Billy’s cheeks hollowing and bulging as he sucked on the downstroke and let his mouth fill on his way back up.
Quentin’s dick throbbed uncomfortably. He ground his teeth.
“Dios mio!” Enrique shouted. There was a clatter, as if he’d grabbed at something that went flying. He rattled off a long string of Spanish syllables that ended in a deep, almost painful-sounding groan, and trailed off into Billy’s soft laughter.
“Told you.” Billy sounded obnoxiously smug. “I’m the undisputed champion of sucking cock.”
“Ay…you are good at what you do. Now I have to wonder what happens next. You going to put that baseball bat between your legs to good use?”
“I knew I’d have you begging for it. Lie down on the bed, Enrique. On your back. I want to watch your face while I fuck you.”
Footsteps crossed the floor. Billy’s bed creaked under the weight of a solid man, then groaned in protest as Billy added his own weight. “Lube and condoms are in the drawer to your side. Get one for me, then put it on my cock. You slick me up and I’ll slick you down.” He paused. “You need much stretching? I bet you do, since you’re always on the top.”
More Spanish. Quentin recognized a few curse words in the stream of sound. “Shut up and fuck me.”
“My pleasure.”
A bottle of something clicked open, and then slippery noises started. Enrique cried out in something between pleasure and pain, followed by Billy’s murmured reassurances. Quentin could see it so clearly—Billy’s fingers moving in and out of that tight, rounded ass, scissoring wide to open the way for his cock to plunge—
Oh, God.
Quentin realized that he’d wrapped his fist around his own cock and had started to pump it nice and slow, timing his pulls to the sounds from next door. He stopped, heat flooding his cheeks. What kind of pervert was he? Look how far he’d fallen. No one decent should get off on listening to two men fuck one another.
He tried to be angry at them, but found that he couldn’t. His traitorous cock was pounding with blood, demanding to be satisfied. Father Andrew had frowned on masturbation, but God, Quentin had never been able to stop. Maybe if he concentrated on his own dick and worked on bringing himself to a satisfactory conclusion, he’d be able to ignore the fucking going on next door.
“Ai!” Enrique’s howl split the air.
Right, that was it. Quentin threw off the covers and wriggled his hips until he was free of the boxers. He didn’t have any lotion or a similar substitute handy to make his hand slick enough to make this really enjoyable, but he’d do his best.
He lay back, closed his eyes and thought of Melissa. She liked riding him, rather than being underneath. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see her sitting astride him, and pretend that his own firm grip was the tight, clenching warmth of her womanhood. Oh, yes, Melissa.
No more of his misunderstood young-adult sexuality issues. He had a woman, or rather she had him, and he was on the right track.
Jerking himself off with quick, steady movements, Quentin kept up his fantasy and thought he was doing pretty well, even as his climax began to creep up on him. Melissa, with her dark hair loose and swinging. Small drops of sweat on her creamy white skin. His own hands guiding her hips as she rose and fell on the length of his dick. The way her fingers would pinch and rub at her nipples, something she wouldn’t let him do—but he understood her quirks, and tried not to mind.
Yet, no matter how hard he pumped himself, he couldn’t seem to produce an orgasm. He knew there was one in wait, coiled and ready at the base of his spine, but it wouldn’t rocket up into his balls and out the length of his shaft.
Frustrated, he stopped for a moment. The second he did, the sounds of Billy fucking Enrique rushed in on him, loud as a concert, bringing up almost crystal-clear images. Billy would be on his knees, pushing Enrique’s thighs wide apart. His cock would be plunging in and out of a tight brown hole, the opening greedily swallowing his length. Both men would be glistening with sweat, great huge drops that ran down their backs and chests.
This was wrong, so wrong, but impossible to resist. Quentin slowly began to work his erection again. His cock tingled, just as his lips had earlier when Billy kissed him. He closed his eyes, unable to deny himself the pure pleasure, even though he knew it was wrong, wrong, wrong. God help him!
Heavy breathing drowned out the sound of his watch’s soothing tick. “Going to come,” Billy said roughly. “You want this load up your ass?”
“Want, fuck, yes, want.”
“Get ready for me. Open wide, wider. Good. God, yes. So good.”
“Come for me, amor. You are so beautiful. You almost make me hard again…”
“Good. This night isn’t over yet,” Billy promised.
Quentin couldn’t help but picture Billy tossing his remarkable streaked hair out of his eyes as his hips snapped forward, slick sounds filling the air.
“Coming, Enrique,” Billy warned. “Coming now. Oh, God, oh, God, oh God…”
There was a pause, and then both men groaned loudly. Billy let out a whooping war cry, and then all was silent except for the sound of their breathing.
Quentin couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled hard on his cock and felt himself explode into orgasm, more come than he’d thought possible pouring from his cock, wetting not only his hand but his belly, thick stripes decorating his torso. His head buzzed with sound and his vision faded into a vista of fizzy darkness.
When he came to himself, he was panting. Deep, ragged breaths. His fist felt as if it had conformed to the shape of his cock, and his fingers ached when he slowly released them. Unable to move any more just yet, he lay still and struggled to catch his breath.
Then, he heard a pounding on the wall. “Hey, didn’t realize these walls were so thin, you voyeur, you.” Billy chortled. “Want to come and join us?” he asked, the very devil adding a note of temptation and teasing to his voice. “Sounded like you were having a good time listening in, and there’s enough of us to go around.”
Heat flooded Quentin’s cheeks and he groaned as quietly
as he could.
Facing Billy the next morning and pretending nothing had happened would have been hard enough. Now, though, he thought it would be impossible. Billy had heard him. Oh, God, had he said something when he came? Please, no. He couldn’t have borne it if he’d said something aloud to betray himself.
Ignoring Billy’s teasing question, Quentin grabbed a handful of tissues and roughly scrubbed himself clean of the spunk that had decorated his body. Tossing them into the trash can beside his bed, he rolled over and tugged the covers snugly up around himself.
“Ah, don’t tease. Doesn’t sound like he wants to play. He’s probably half asleep, man,” Enrique chided.
“Maybe so. Sounded like a good one. You want to go again? Looks like it to me. But we keep it quiet, okay?”
“You gonna let me fuck you this time?”
“It’s against my rules, but hell, you never do know, do you? The night’s still young and anything is possible.”
Quentin tried his hardest to concentrate on sleep. On Melissa. On anything except what was happening next door.
Because, God help him, he’d liked it. And he’d been trying so hard to be the man he expected himself to be.
But it looked like he was starting to backslide, and no, no, no, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t…
Chapter Four
“It’s seven fifty-three on this bright August morning. Welcome to the Morning Show with Ed, Ed and Julie. If you’re late for work, better hurry. But hey, if you don’t have anything better to do, stick around. We’ve got the top ten hits on the way, and—”
Quentin opened one eye. The other side of his face was buried in his extremely comfortable pillow.
However, he could clearly see the clock.
Seven fifty-three, as the radio announcer had said. Right on the money, and almost two hours later than he’d planned to get up.
“Damn,” he swore under his breath, the curses unfamiliar on his tongue after so long but coming far too easily. “Damn, damn, damn.” Tension gripped him hard in its fist and rattled his bones. “Billy.”
