Bend Over Big Boy

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Torquere Press www.torquerepress.com

Copyright ©2008 by Torquere Press First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

CONTENTS INTRODUCTION LOGAN'S PROJECT SPIKE RELEASE LESSONS IN KNEELING NO MAN'S SERVANT RIDERS ON THE STORM DRIVE IN THE HOLE FUCK ME ... PLEASE THE GHOST LIKE CLOCKWORK A GAME OF EMPIRE CROCODILE BIRD PERSONAL TIME OPEN UP UNMASKED ABOUT THE AUTHORS ****

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Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

INTRODUCTION Butch subs. Tough guys in peril. Topping the man who thinks he's the ultimate top. The big dog who can bottom may be an underrepresented breed, but there's not much that's hotter. Whether he begs for it, needs a little coaxing, or puts up a fight, there's something irresistible when a macho guy proves he can take it like a man. Here are sixteen stories that explore the butch bottom from every erotic angle. The smoking hot "Logan's Project" opens the anthology as a quintessential example of the theme, followed by a gang of sexy tough guys who don't give it up without a struggle: the flex-and-shove between Carl and Ben in "Spike," fangs and claws bared in "Release," the resistance and then understanding of "Lessons in Kneeling" and "No Man's Servant." The tenuous balance of want and pride carries on in "Riders on the Storm" and "Drive." Things get rough, hot and heavy in "In the Hole," and then venture into the raw yet sentimental "Fuck Me ... Please." The next few stories indulge in tricks and deception to get what they want: the cat-and-mouse game of "The Ghost," whimsical verbal sparring of "Like Clockwork," and the more sinister machinations in "A Game of Empire." The collection wraps up with four stories that delight in their subject matter. "Crocodile Bird" and "Personal Time" are sweet and playful, "Open Up" is full of wicked charm, while "Unmasked," which 4

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

ends the anthology, flips the subject back on its head with glee. No matter what kind of big boy you like on the bottom, you'll find a wide variety of shapes and sizes to surprise and delight you in the following pages. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

LOGAN'S PROJECT Chris Owen The warehouse didn't look any different from the outside, but it wasn't really supposed to. All the work being done was internal, the rustic look of the warehouse being a prime draw in eventually attracting tenants. Logan's goal was to fill the newly refitted space with an interesting mix of people not unlike himself. He was hoping to turn the neighborhood into a trendy spot for the up and coming to live by reclaiming and refurbishing the buildings. With luck, the area would get an injection of desirable people, and the hookers and drug dealers would move a few more blocks west. Mostly, though, Logan was hoping he'd actually turn a profit. That was part of the reason why he was at the building after hours, keeping an eye on the renovations, making sure the work was getting done on time and mostly within budget. That, and to keep an eye on the demolition man. Though he was no contractor—he had people for that—he could see things were going on schedule. He knew that the upper floor was almost ready for roughing in. But because the lower floor still needed some demolition done, things were mostly on pause until that was complete and the dust could be kept to a minimum. Logan liked his building. He got hard just walking in and seeing the interior change. It was his dream and it was coming true. He didn't care that it was happening through someone else's sweat and labor; he was doing his part. He'd 6

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

never really been one for physical work, but he could plan, he could pay bills and he could claim it as his own. Hell, his name was going to be on the sign and that made it his. The sign wasn't up yet, and the parking lot was almost empty, the deep shadows of the city block weighing down where the street lamps didn't reach. He'd have to get after the city council for better lighting before he started renting space. Logan picked his way to the big doors, pleased to see that whoever was still working had obeyed orders to keep the site locked up and the drive clear for emergency vehicles. Logan let himself into the warehouse and closed the heavy door behind him, then listened for the scattering of rats. He didn't hear it this time and he smiled. Maybe they'd finally gotten that under control. He sure as hell hoped so. "Toby?" Logan called, walking down a makeshift corridor toward the back of the first level. He could hear heavy, rhythmic thumping from down there and could see the flood lights shining, a halo of dust making the whole back end look like a shining cloud. The entire interior was still one massive loft space, support beams all over the place and open duct work to the upper floor. He could see enough not to trip, but not who was working. "Toby?" he called for the contractor again, louder. The thumping stopped and Logan could hear dirt and cinder dust settling on the floor, chunks of the wall clattering down. "Mr. Logan?" a voice called back. "Don't come down here without a mask, sir." "Right." Logan veered, heading to the left and toward the table where he knew the masks were kept. It wasn't his 7

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

contractor down there, it was the demolition man. Or, as Logan had taken to thinking about him, Mr. Big. Very big. All over and just as tight and toned as any wet dream. Mr. Big had been a marine if his tattoos were telling the truth, and he had the biggest arms Logan had ever seen. He was all brawn, all sweaty and dirty and utterly, perfectly glorious. He was also polite and cool and wouldn't give Logan the time of day unless he was answering a direct question and couldn't escape before Logan had asked it. Mask on, Logan grabbed two bottles of water from the tub and went down to the dust cloud to see what Mr. Big was working on. "Thirsty?" he said by way of greeting, passing a bottle into one big hand. "Thanks." The demolition man didn't say anything else for a long moment and he didn't open the bottle. He stood for almost a minute, water in one hand and a heavy mallet in the other, his overalls completely covered in concrete dust. "Uh, everyone else is gone for the day, sir. You might want to come back tomorrow." His voice was slightly indistinct through the mask. He had thick canvas gloves on, his hat and boots and everything else made gray by the fine powder. "No, this is fine, thanks." Logan smiled at him and moved into the area Mr. Big was opening up. "There weren't any surprises in here?" "No, sir. The plans were good ones, and the walls are coming down pretty easy." Mr. Big moved around behind Logan, his boots scraping on the cement floor, dragging through the rubble. "The building is sound. I'll be tearing down here for another day or so." 8

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Logan nodded to himself and took another long look around at the crumbled walls, hazy through the dust. "Take a minute," he said, turning to face the demolition man. "Give your mask a break and breathe a bit." Sweat was trickling down the side of Mr. Big's face, leaving streaks that Logan wanted to lick away. He wanted to taste the salty grit, wanted to have the flavor of his building. Mr. Big looked around uncertainly. "Not good to breathe in here." Logan nodded and wondered if he could maybe get Mr. Big to slip more than just the mask off. "Come with me," he invited. "Have you done much work upstairs?" Mr. Big followed after pausing for a moment to set his mallet down. "Not work, no, but I've been up there. Helping out, moving equipment." Logan nodded and started walking, resisting the urge to wave a hand through the air to clear a path. "Come see. I'll tell you my plan. Maybe there's less crap in the air up there on the other end." "You're going to ruin your suit, sir." "I'll buy another one." Logan led the way to the far end and into the cargo elevator. "I'm going to have three iron staircases built," he said, pointing. "Here, the far end, and there, over to the left. Big and wide, when that side is cut into for the windows." Mr. Big looked thoughtful. "Western exposure?" "Northwest. Be nice in the late day and won't get too hot in the summer. Anti-glare glass." He watched Mr. Big pull the grate closed and hit the button to take the elevator up, 9

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

almost drooling when the man's arms flexed. "The units will be staggered, front and back, the hallways running like a snake all the way down the building. Big units, the two on the end being huge and taking both floors." God, it was going to be gorgeous. Prime real estate and all he'd been dreaming of for months and months. "Nice." Mr. Big finally took off his mask, his hand tugging it up and off and taking his ball cap off with it. "Shit, sorry," he said as the cap landed on Logan's shoes, the gray dust that came off ruining what was left of the shine. He bent down to retrieve it and paused. "It's all right, I don't mind." Logan looked down at him. He knew he was caught and he knew his cock, ever the most adventurous part of him, had just given a leap. In for a dime, in for a dollar, Logan smiled. "I don't mind at all." "Yeah, I can tell." Mr. Big was looking right at Logan's crotch. "Dust does it for you?" He looked up at Logan, his face dirty, his eyes questioning. Logan took a moment to be relieved that the big man wasn't pissed and angry. "Not really. Well, maybe. The building does, the way you're covered in it, the thought of you pulling down walls and getting all ... yeah." Logan shrugged. The elevator lurched to a halt and Logan grabbed the grate to keep from falling into Mr. Big. It would really suck to wind up rubbing his cock on the guy's face and then get pounded for it. Best to wait until he knew which way Mr. Big was going to go. 10

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Mr. Big didn't say anything at all, just waited until Logan got his balance again and then pulled himself up by the grate, opening it up in the same motion. He didn't say anything as he followed Logan out onto the loft and then to the safety rail to look down onto the main floor. "There's your dust," Logan said, pointing to the cloud still glowing in the flood lights. "It's your dust," Mr. Big said, holding onto the railing. "Your building, your dust. I just wear it." Logan felt his mouth twist into a crooked smile. "You wear it well." "Know why I wear coveralls with long sleeves when I'm knocking down walls?" "So you don't slice your arms to shit when the cement blocks fall apart? I mean, I saw that movie, Ghost. I know how hot it looked when they were breaking that wall down, but come on. They would have been totally fucked up if they'd really done it like that, all uncovered and unprotected." Mr. Big stared at him and then started to laugh. It was a big, full belly laugh that echoed through the entire space. "That's ... God." Logan raised an eyebrow. "Well?" "You stand in front of me, almost poking my eye out with your prick, and then you don't even let me make with the bad pick up lines about being covered in dust and the places it creeps into?" Mr. Big was grinning at him, suddenly looking even hotter than he had when he was being all deferential and calling Logan "Sir." 11

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"I..." Logan looked at him and then looked around the empty warehouse. "Want to fuck?" Mr. Big grinned at him. "No." Oh, ouch. "You confuse me," Logan said, tilting his head and looking up at him. "I wasn't kidding about where the dust gets. I'm not doing any fucking until I've had a shower. But you can blow me." Logan's eyebrows shot up. "How about the other way around?" As soon as the words were out he wanted to kick himself. Did it really matter? Mr. Big looked amused. "You think?" He stepped back and spread his arms wide, then turned in a circle. "Do I look like the kind of guy who'd get on his knees to suck off the boss?" "Do you seriously expect me to answer that?" But Logan was smiling, his whole body going tight and tense. Backing up another step, Mr. Big motioned with his hands. "Come away from the rail, sir. Not even sex with a suit is worth the medical bills if we fall." Logan snorted and moved slowly, taking long strides deeper into the building, into the shadows. "You have a thing for suits?" "Hell, yes." Mr. Big was pretty emphatic about it, looking him up and down. "Be better if you weren't dusty, but you'll do." "I'll do?" Logan stopped walking and carefully put his water bottle down. His fingers itched to curl around his cock, ready to tug it out and feed it to the demolition man. Mr. Big's smile was feral as they started circling each other. "You'll do. You want it. You want it all—me, the 12

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

building, the dirt and grime." He opened his coveralls as he moved and tugged his arms free. Underneath the heavy cotton, he was wearing a white wife-beater, now streaked and stained from a day's worth of sweat and dust. Logan watched him and made no move at all to even loosen his tie. "And you think it would be better if it's me on my knees. We seem to be at a stalemate." The tense and tight feeling was starting burn all along Logan's spine. His balls ached and he could feel his cock start to drool against the silk of his boxers. "No stalemate." Mr. Big's teeth flashed white as he stepped through a shaft of light. "We know there's gonna be fucking. We're just negotiating for position now." "Well, at least we're on the same page." Logan turned, watching the large body shine as the wife-beater was peeled off. The dirt had compacted into trails wherever sweat had run, making muscle definition that much sharper. "I'll allow that my suit is likely going to be ruined. But I want you down for me." "What's in it for me?" Logan undid his trousers and pointed. "Check it out." "You've got to be kidding me." Mr. Big rolled his eyes. "I'm profoundly disappointed in you. You think you've got something I haven't been offered before?" "Check it out," Logan repeated patiently. "Maybe you have, maybe you haven't." He decided to help out a bit, maybe put his money where he wanted Mr. Big's mouth. Shifting his weight, Logan got his cock out and turned slightly. He saw 13

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Mr. Big's eyes widen when the metal caught the light. "Come see." Mr. Big looked almost mesmerized as he came closer. "How many?" Logan waited, smiling to himself. He wished he had a handy table to lean back on; his legs weren't going to hold him for long once Mr. Big started sucking him off. "Six," he said as Mr. Big crouched down in front of him. "And five rings through my perineum." "God." Mr. Big touched him, his fingers gently tracing each barbell of the ladder up Logan's cock. "Hurt?" "Not anymore." Logan laughed then moaned as Mr. Big touched him again, going back down. "Feels fucking amazing, really. Think about it, imagine the way it'll feel inside you." "Oh, I am." Mr. Big was murmuring, almost whispering against him. "Okay. Yeah. For this, I'll play. As long as you're a Boy Scout, anyway. I'm at work, you know? I didn't plan on getting laid." "I didn't either, but I had dreams." Logan reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pleased that his hands weren't shaking, and produced a strip of condoms. He hadn't been a Boy Scout and he certainly hadn't planned on getting his rocks off, but he'd take it. Or give it. Something. It was hard to think, what with Mr. Big on his knees, his hot breath dancing over Logan's cock. Mr. Big looked up at him. "You want me to suck it?" His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip and Logan was pretty sure it had been unintentional. Mr. Big's knees were splayed out, his coveralls hanging off his hips, and Logan suddenly 14

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

realized it was hot up on the loft. Mr. Big was sweating, beads trickling down the side of his face, and Logan's shirt was stuck to his back. "Yeah," Logan said with a nod. "Suck it. Don't make me come, though. I want to come in your ass." "That's entirely up to you." Mr. Big licked over the head of Logan's cock and tongued his Prince Albert. "Whether you come or not, I mean." "Oh, God." Logan braced himself as every muscle in his body jumped. His ass clenched and he thrust forward instinctively before he could lock his knees. "Stop talking." He dropped a hand to Mr. Big's shoulder and held on, squeezing the thick muscle and feeling sweat under his palm, slippery and hot. Mr. Big, former Marine and current demolition man, could take orders. He stopped talking and got to work, licking around each and every barbell before going down on Logan's cock with enough enthusiasm that Logan had to dig in and get stubborn. He would not blow his load down a throat when he could have this man's ass. In the warehouse. Covered in dust. On all fours, coveralls around his knees, grunting and pushing back when Logan fucked him. Logan gasped and pulled away, his cock dragging out of Mr. Big's mouth with an obscene sucking noise. "Jesus fucking Christ." He knew his eyes had to be huge, and the shake that had started in his knees had finally made its way up to his hands. 15

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"Aw, come on, sir." Mr. Big looked up at him and grinned, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Let me suck your cock. Won't get anything on your suit, I swear. I'll take it all down." Logan nodded and reached down to tug at his balls. His shirt was in the way and he had to lift it, one hand flat on his belly to keep it up. "Lick me," he ordered. "Nice and slow. Want to feel it, but I'm going to come in your ass." Mr. Big made a noise that Logan was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear. When he started licking, though, Mr. Big moaned and panted and gave Logan's balls a tongue bath that redoubled the shaking in Logan's legs. Then fingers started playing with the rings between Logan's balls and his hole. "Fuck, yes," Logan said, grabbing onto Mr. Big again. "Do it." There was fire in the pit of his belly and he could see precome leaking out and sliding down the side of his cock. When Mr. Big took him in again, fingers tugging at metal and mouth wide open, Logan started to thrust. He would have come like that, despite his best intentions, except Mr. Big moved. His weight shifted, just enough to make the blow job slightly less perfect, and Logan realized he was shoving his coveralls down. Logan snarled and pulled away again. "Over," he barked, getting another thrill when his voice echoed through the space. The echo came back, bringing with it the highlights of sound and underlining them: the sounds of cloth and latex and panting and wet, sucking kisses and the sounds of dirt 16

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

and sand under their shoes, the mad scramble for balance and position. His trousers were totally wrecked, he knew it. But he was behind the mountain, fingering Mr. Big open and licking around his hole in a poor excuse for lube, so he didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to give a flying fuck about his suit, not when he was going to make the demolition man beg for it. It was what he wanted. What they both wanted. His building. His suit. His demolition man. "Fuck me. Please." His fucking life. With a laugh of triumph and delight, Logan surged forward and thrust in, deep and hard. Mr. Big's ass was tight, so fucking tight it was like plunging into a wet dream. They both yelled, both of them grunting and swearing and their voices came back to them like the building felt it, too. "Hang on," Logan told him, pulling out and letting him feel every bit of jewelry he had. "I can't!" Mr. Big sounded pained, and his ass was pushing back, moving with him. "Fuck me. God, just do it. Again. Please!" Never one to deny—well, possibly merely beyond being able to deny—Logan followed his body and drove into Mr. Big again and again. He could feel the grating debris on the floor under his knees and he could hear their sex in a cacophony of sound around him. He sure as hell could feel it. Smell it, 17

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

rising up from the sweat-covered body he was riding. "I'll be back tomorrow," he promised. Then he leaned over the broad back and licked away the dirt and sweat along Mr. Big's spine. "We can do it against a wall." "Fuck!" Mr. Big arched and came, the sound of his juice splattering. Logan couldn't even swear. He couldn't breathe; all he could do was stab into Mr. Big another couple of times and follow him, his cock being milked and massaged and squeezed until it was either come or die. Given the choice, Logan knew what he'd rather do. He didn't pull out until he'd gotten fairly soft, and then it was with a certain amount of care. He knew what it felt like after. "You okay?" "Shh." Mr. Big was still on his hands and knees, panting. "Now you stand up. Zip up. And you go." Logan grinned. "Nice. I like it." He got to his feet, a little unsteadily. "And tomorrow?" Mr. Big stayed where he was, but Logan could see him smile at the floor. "Tomorrow you better bring a change of clothes, 'cause I'm going to rip yours." "We'll see." Logan smiled too and zipped his fly as he walked away, leaving his demolition man to clean up. "Thanks for the fuck. See you tomorrow." Playing the game, he didn't wait for a reply as he left. He did whistle, though, completely pleased with progress on his community restoration project. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

SPIKE Matt Stedmann Ben Edwards and I leapt upwards for the ball at the exact same moment, our bare chests almost touching through the volleyball net. Sweat flew as we each reached for the ball. He tried to spike it over me after the setup his teammate had given him; I did my damnedest to stop him. I almost managed to block it, but at the last moment, he slipped it past me. The ball slammed down over my shoulder right toward Shawn, who tried to get under it but as usual wasn't fast enough to keep it from hitting the floor of the gym. The East End Enforcers cheered as they scored the point, and Ben sneered across the net at me, hands arrogantly planted on hips, his chest still heaving from the exertion of his leap. "Don't worry about it, Carl," our team captain Kevin called out to me from the back row. His voice was firm and confident as always. "Don't let them spook us, guys—we can still win it." Most teams in the citywide Tuesday night men's intramural volleyball league had no idea who they were facing when they went up against the Judy Garland Memorial Volleyball Team. As if you could miss it—We're Here, We're Queer, We're in Your Face and We're Gonna Kick Your Ass. But denial is a powerful force. I guess most guys still think that you can't be an athlete and be gay too. But the East End Enforcers knew exactly who we were and they really hated to lose to us. And 19

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

none of the Enforcers hated to lose to us more than Ben Edwards did. C.J., the Enforcer's captain, called out "10-9, our service," and Shawn rolled the ball beneath the net to their team. As the Enforcers' players rotated, Ben moved one position away to my right across the net. That didn't keep him from glaring challengingly at me, his big arms loose and ready at his sides. I glared right back. Ben and I were the only ones shirtless in the sweltering heat of the upstairs gym at the downtown Y where the league played its games. Sweat rolled off both of us. His glistened in the stubble of his buzz cut, and flowed across his muscular neck to mat down the dark blond curls of hair that covered his upper chest and trailed down in a line across his belly, vanishing into the waistband of his gym shorts. It had darkened the gray fabric of the shorts and molded them tight against the sinewy muscles of his upper thighs. I'm six feet, but Ben is about an inch taller than me. Where his hair sprouts across his chest like moss on a great tree, mine is confined to a small dark patch in the center of my chest and spreads instead all over my forearms and legs. Where his eyes are hazel, mine are a deep brown, almost as black as my hair. I hate Ben Edwards. I hate him because he's an arrogant S.O.B. and a damn homophobe. I hate him because he struts around in a cloud of straight-man privilege and doesn't even notice it. And I really hate him because he's so fucking hot. I hate every inch of his powerful, masculine, hairy body. I hate the way he moves and the way he sweats and the way I can 20

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

feel the heat roaring off him whenever I get too close. I hate the way we've nearly touched so many times yet I've never felt his skin against mine. And I hate the way that I want him so badly at the same time that I hate him so much, which is so fucking twisted that it completely turns me on, which is even hotter and just makes me hate him even more. But most of all, I hate him for that jacket. The jacket. The one I've only glimpsed him wearing a few times, on his way into our games or leaving the gym. There's nothing special about it, just an ordinary black leather jacket that most of the Garlands wouldn't look twice at, worn and creased. But on Ben, it becomes something else. He wears it like it's a part of him, like a second skin that moves with the same power and grace that he does, and he doesn't even realize it. I want that jacket, covet it with an unreasoning desperation that I haven't felt since I was a little boy. Somehow, everything about him—everything I both despise and yet am so irresistibly drawn to—is distilled right down to that jacket. It's everything I hate about him and can't have; everything I've hated and couldn't have about every straight man I've ever wanted. I've had fantasies about bumping him off and taking that jacket for myself; believe me, I'd do it if I thought I could get away with it. Ben hates me too, which is why we're always in each other's faces. It's bad enough that the Garlands are a bunch of queers, but even worse that we consistently beat them game after game. The one exception to that attitude seems to be Diego, a slim Latino Enforcer with the tightest ass you've ever seen, who looks back across the net at us with an utter 21

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

lack of hostility and more than a little interest. Most of the guys, Shawn especially, are sure that he'd willingly come over to the Dark Side if given half a chance. But Ben's really got some kind of a chip on his shoulder about us, or maybe there's just something special about me that sets him off. Since we're each the best spiker on our teams, the end result is that our teams rotate players so that we're always faced off against each other. Everything about him says that he's challenging me, from the way he stares at me to the way he constantly leans toward me from his side of the net as if he's getting ready to charge at me. Every time he gets a spike over the net, or blocks one of mine, he leers at me with a triumphant grin like he's just personally fucked me over. And I don't take that shit from anybody, especially a straight boy who thinks he's better than me. When he smiles that arrogant grin of his, I just want to shove it right back down his throat. Maybe it was the heat, but tonight, the antagonism between Ben and me seemed to infect both of our teams. While there's usually at least a pretense of friendly sportsmanship in most of our games against each other, tonight everyone was playing in deadly earnest. The Enforcers in particular were focusing their efforts on Shawn, making a point to hit the ball to him as often as possible. Shawn's a good sport, but he's the weakest player on our team, and the Enforcers' efforts to humiliate him were getting the rest of the Garlands seriously pissed off. By the time Ben and I were back in the front row and facing each other across the net again, the score was 15-14, 22

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

game point for us, and Darnell was serving for our team. Darnell is one of the best servers in the league, but he's also one of the most flamboyant queens anywhere. He's relatively subdued most of the time when we're playing ball, but when he gets riled up, the diva just comes right out of him. Darnell sashayed his hips as he strolled into place, bouncing the ball against the floor before him. Then he turned and flicked one wrist at the Enforcers. "Are you boys ready for me?" he called out in a high, girlish voice. His only answer was a low growl from the Enforcers, which was answered in kind by the other Garlands. Kevin was facing me and I saw him roll his eyes at Darnell's deliberate instigation. "Come on, guys," he said, "let's keep it cool. Let's win this and go home." Darnell smiled sweetly. "Okay, boys," he purred, "Here it comes!" Then he reached overhead and hammered the service toward the net. Darnell's serve came in low and furious, skimming over the top of the net by the merest fraction of an inch. One of the Enforcers in the back row dived underneath it, barely stopping it in the last instant before it hit the floor. Then another slid under it, and set up the spike for Ben. As the ball fell earthwards toward the net, both Ben and I leapt straight up for it without hesitation, our bodies jammed against each other across the net. We were pressed together from chest to belly, the sweat sliding between us as we each strained to reach the ball first. Ben's breath was hot on my face as we both stretched out as far as we could, our bodies 23

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

almost merging as we hung suspended in space together, each of us struggling toward our goal. But Ben's extra inch on me gave him the advantage. His fingers could reach just a little bit further than mine, and it was enough to give him the critical purchase on the ball. With a roar he slammed it down over my head and I heard a muffled "whump!" as it hit something behind me. As we both fell back to earth, the moment broken, Ben's eyes locked with mine in a combination of arrogance and triumph. I came down hard, twisting my right ankle beneath me and hitting the floor roughly as I sprawled onto my right side. I lay there stunned for just a moment, trying to catch my breath, then levered myself up onto one knee to test my ankle. It seemed okay, and I was still cautiously flexing it from side to side when I heard a commotion behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Shawn was lying flat on his back, apparently out cold. The ball was still rolling to the far corner of the gym from where it had struck him dead center in the forehead. Kevin had leapt to his side and was lightly patting his cheeks, trying to get some response. I heard whoops and cheers from the Enforcers, and turned back toward the net. Ben was standing with his hands on his hips, looking triumphantly over at Shawn. Then he pumped one fist in the air. "Got 'im! Nailed that faggot!" he shouted. The fucking bastard. And he'd just used the "F" word, too. Kevin's shout, "No, Carl!", came a moment too late. My vision went red with fury, and as Ben turned to exchange high-fives with the other Enforcers, I screamed and leapt. 24

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

My dive took me just beneath the lower edge of the net, and I tackled Ben around the knees. He went down hard, and before he could react, I swarmed up his body, trying to get a grip on his sweat-slickened skin. He got his hands up in time to prevent my punch to his face and tried to grab my wrists instead. We rolled over and over on the floor, grappling with each other as each of us tried to get a firm grip. He was more muscular than I was, but my rage gave me the strength I needed. I finally managed to get on top of him, pinning him beneath me as I straddled him. Then I slammed his shoulders hard against the floor, knocking the breath out of him. Before he could recover, I grabbed him by the throat with both hands and lifted up his head to bash it against the floor. In the instant that I touched his throat, he went rock hard beneath me. Time stopped. We both froze for what was probably only a moment to those watching, but felt like an eternity for the two of us. I could feel his hard cock beneath my ass where it lay trapped along his left thigh. It seemed to pulse in time with the pulse of blood in his throat. My forearms were resting along the sweat-dampened curls of hair on his chest, and we both shook with the force of our rapid breathing. The heat of our bodies surrounded us with a nimbus like that of a blast furnace. His arms had come around my shoulders, meaning to push me off him, but in their sudden stillness, it felt as if they were embracing me instead. And as our eyes met over my clenched hands, I saw the anger in his eyes replaced with shock and an almost desperate desire. 25

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

The moment stretched out between us, and then broke as our teammates swarmed around us to break up the fight, our momentary pause having given them the opportunity to catch up with us. A pair of strong hands grabbed my shoulders, trying to pull me away from Ben, as C.J. tried to do the same to him. "Easy, easy," Kevin was muttering in my ear. As the captains struggled to pull us apart, members of both teams clustered around us, half of them shouting us on and the other half shouting for us to stop. As Kevin finally managed to pry my hands off Ben's throat and wrench us apart, I clearly heard Darnell screeching over the rest of the crowd, "Kick him to the curb, girlfriend!" The chaos slowly subsided over the next few minutes. Although tempers were still running high, the fight between Ben and I seemed to have convinced everyone that things had gotten way out of hand. My teammates helped me to my feet and dusted me off, pointedly keeping me a good distance away from Ben and his teammates, who were doing the same. "You did the right thing, honey," Darnell told me as he handed me a towel. "I would have bitch-slapped that queen so hard she'd be looking out the back of her head for a week." Shawn was now sitting up and was being attended to by the Enforcers' Diego, who had crossed over to the other side of the net. Diego had an arm around Shawn, who was stubbornly insisting to the guys clustered around him that he was fine and had just been stunned for a minute. He looked a little flushed, whether from his injury or from Diego's sudden attention, I couldn't tell. 26

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

The two team captains were standing by the side of the net, speaking in low tones and gesticulating, obviously discussing the outcome of the game and what to do next. At one point, they both raised their voices and looked like they were about to get into a shouting match, then stopped when they realized that we were all staring at them. At last they nodded in agreement, and came over to the rest of us. "We're going to call this game a draw. We all need to go home and cool down," Kevin announced. "And you owe Ben an apology," C.J. said, glaring at me. "You and Ben both owe each other an apology," Kevin added, glaring right back at him. C.J. looked like he wanted to say something to that, but instead he just nodded and waved Ben over. Most of the Enforcers came with him, as the Garlands moved in close beside me. Ben avoided my eyes as he strolled over. He was trying to act casual, but all of his earlier cockiness was gone. "Okay, shake and make up, guys," Kevin said, and as Ben reached out to take my hand his eyes finally met mine again. He grasped my hand and I squeezed back hard, thinking of my hands around his throat. His eyes widened slightly and he gulped, then quickly dropped my hand as if he'd been burned. As everyone murmured their approval, C.J. herded the Enforcers toward the locker room stairs as Kevin motioned for us to hang back for a few minutes. At the last moment, Ben looked back over his shoulder toward us. His eyes bored into mine before he vanished down the stairs. Like a lot of straight guys, the Enforcers never take showers at the gym, and certainly never when they are 27

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

sharing the locker room with us. They don't know what they're missing. Not that there's any funny business going on—we all know each other too well by now for any of that— but we can't treat the whole thing with the kind of sober solemnity that straight men seem to think that it requires. You'd think they were in church or something. Tonight, all the Garlands were more than a little boisterous, still hyped up from the night's excitement. I was the Man of the Hour—I could tell that even Kevin was proud of me, for all of his official disapproval of the fight. But as I showered and toweled off, all I could really think of was Ben. Ben's throat, thick and muscular under my hands, Ben's chest sweaty against me as we both went up to the net, Ben's eyes boring into mine, desperate with need, and Ben's cock steel hard beneath me. I imagined him now, flesh burning with both desire and humiliation, picking up the jacket from where it had been waiting for him all evening like some loyal dog. Kevin and I were the last ones out of the gym, everyone congratulating me before they left. Darnell bussed me full on the mouth, declaring, "It's about time someone took that queen down a notch." Shawn shook my hand solemnly, then leaned over to whisper in my ear that he and Diego had made a coffee date for later that week. Kevin looked at me suspiciously when I told him that I was going to hang out by my car in the parking lot for a while before going home. I told him I just wanted to have a few quiet moments alone, and had to promise that I wasn't going to go looking for trouble. Once Kevin's taillights faded out, the parking lot was quiet. The cars that remained cast long 28

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

shadows in the dim illumination of the streetlights. I knew what I was waiting for, and I wasn't wrong. In a few minutes there was a scuffling sound from the alley beside the building. Then Ben emerged from the shadows at the alley's mouth. As I walked toward him, I saw that he was wearing the jacket. He had hastily thrown it on over his shorts without a shirt, leaving it unzipped. His chest within lay partly exposed, the hair plastered tightly against his skin where the sweat had dried. The dark leather of the jacket rose and fell quickly in time with his nervous breathing, like a living thing. As I entered the alley, he retreated until his back was against the building wall. He leaned against it, chest puffed out, his pose almost indolent as if trying to recapture his accustomed arrogance. But the way he shifted from foot to foot, making the bunched muscles of his bare legs jump and twitch, betrayed his uneasiness. Ignoring his challenging pose, I walked right up to him and looked him in the face. He wouldn't meet my eyes; his gaze darted from side to side like that of a trapped animal. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he said suddenly, pushing off the wall and trying to brush past me. I reached out one hand and gently clasped it around his throat. He froze in place. "How long?" I asked quietly. He gulped, and I felt his Adam's apple bob beneath my palm. His eyes slid downward, still not meeting mine. "A few years," he finally forced out. "But no one's ever ... done it. Until tonight. I've wanted it ... a long time. No one knows." 29

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"Of course not," I said, sarcasm beginning to creep into my tone, "A big strong guy like you, always having to be Top Dog, how could you admit you wanted something like this?" One of my hands caressed his throat. The other involuntarily reached up and began to stroke the slick leather of the jacket. "So how far are you willing to go for it?" I asked him. "What?" His eyes flickered toward me in surprise, then slid away again. Their whites gleamed in the streetlight. I tightened my grip on his throat and pulled him to face me. Then I grabbed him by the collar of the jacket, twisting both hands in the leather as I pivoted and slammed him back against the wall. I didn't let go, just kept shoving his shoulders back against the wall as he began to struggle. I leaned in close until he was forced to look directly into my eyes. "I mean that I'm not some faggot you can use for your pleasure and just throw away. You think you're so hot, don't you? What were you thinking? That I'm just something for you to shove your dick into? That I'd put my hands on your throat and let you fuck me just so you could get off?" His guilty start told me he'd been thinking exactly that. "Sorry, pal, you may think you're hot, but guys like you are a dime a dozen in the bars. I don't need this." I reached up and lightly drummed my fingers against his throat. "But you do." I was bluffing, of course. At that moment, I was more horny for Ben than I'd ever been for anyone in my life. I was willing to play along with his bent little fetish if it would get me what I wanted. I wanted to feel his hot dick, and to run 30

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

my hands through the fur on his chest. I wanted to see his eyes beg me for release as he writhed in ecstasy. And I wanted something else too. My own dick had gone hard as steel just thinking about it. But I'd be damned if I'd go for it any way but on my own terms. Slowly, deliberately, I grabbed his throat again with one hand, and with my other hand I reached into the crotch of his still-damp gym shorts and grabbed his cock. It was already hard, pulsing in my grip. Ben moaned and slid down the wall a bit, his knees going wobbly. He began to lean into me and I stepped back suddenly, breaking the contact between us. He staggered and nearly fell, catching himself against the rough bricks of the alley wall. I stood with my hands on my hips, legs spread, purposely aping his challenging stance of earlier in the evening. "Give it to me," I commanded. He looked up at me, confusion and desire warring in his eyes. "Wh-what?" "The jacket. Take it off and give it to me." For a moment, I thought he was going to refuse. I could see him struggling with himself, literally beginning to tremble as his body fought with itself over whether to run or to submit to my command. He didn't understand what was happening, not really, at least with his head. And he didn't know how passionately I wanted the jacket. But on some level, he could feel what it meant, could sense some of what I was demanding that he give to me. At last, he bent his head, and slowly shrugged the jacket from his shoulders. He held it out to me like an offering, and I 31

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lifted it from his hands. He seemed smaller without it, diminished somehow, his bare shoulders gleaming in the light from the streetlamps that bled into the alley. My hands tightened around the jacket for a moment, and I felt it flex in my hands. Then I put it on. It was heavy on my shoulders, its weight grasping me and bearing down on me. It felt hot, still warm with the heat it had stolen from Ben's body. It smelled like him, too, with the scent of his sweat familiar from a hundred gym encounters but with a deeper, more rank animal scent, something I'd never smelled before yet knew was inescapably of his body. I was surrounded by it, this deep intimacy between his flesh and the jacket that had become mine now. I almost could have left right then. I'd already won, and we both knew it. But it wasn't quite enough. He'd given me the jacket, but he hadn't given me everything. "Don't stop," I told him. He looked up at me in alarm from where he was half-propped against the wall. I stepped back up to him, my chest now armored by the jacket while his naked chest was exposed to the night air. I grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed roughly downward. He fell to his bare knees against the stones of the alleyway, his head level with the front of my crotch. I had thrown on sweatpants after my shower and my stiff erection poked straight outward at his face. Ben made a small noise of protest and got one leg beneath him, ready to leap away. I bent over and wrapped one hand firmly around his throat again, and once again he froze in place. "It's your choice," I told him. 32

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

He stayed there a long moment, weighing the unspeakable act of sucking my dick against his own desperate need. At last, he dropped down again onto both knees and pulled down the front of my sweatpants. He wasn't very good at first. He slid his lips hesitantly over the head of my cock and sucked down the shaft as if he were swallowing some foul-tasting cough medicine. But when I tightened my grip, and then placed both hands around his throat, everything changed. I don't know how long he had been nursing his fantasy, but with its final fulfillment he turned into a wild man. I wasn't even squeezing that hard, barely choking him at all. But at once he shoved his mouth down hard onto me, swallowing my cock like a drowning man desperate for air. Hot saliva slid from his throat, slicking my cock as he relentlessly impaled himself on it over and over. I was leaning forward to grasp his throat, and the bottom edges of the jacket hung open around his head, surrounding him, almost as if they were another pair of hands grasping him and holding him against my crotch. A sense of triumph rushed through me at the sight of arrogant Ben Edwards willingly—no, eagerly—on his knees sucking me off. I was mesmerized as I watched the shaft of my cock plunge between his lips again and again. And as I felt the hot wetness of his mouth engulfing me while his tongue slid over and around my cock, I began to wonder if Ben hadn't been fantasizing about more than just a hand around his throat all this time. 33

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Just the thought made my cock swell, and under his insistent, ferocious pressure, I felt myself building all too quickly toward an explosion. I let go of his throat with one hand and tried to shove him off me, hoping to gain a respite, to savor the moment. But he was beyond control. He lunged at me, reaching around to grab the cheeks of my ass as he swallowed me to the root. I was barely able to hang onto him as he pulled me deeper and deeper into him. Thrown off balance, my free hand came down hard on the back of his head, and then, all too soon, I came. Pleasure gushed through me and I doubled over with the force of it, involuntarily squeezing Ben's throat tighter as with my other hand I shoved him hard onto me. I gripped the back of his stubbled head as, in a burst of release, hot come blasted out of me and into his throat. He gagged on it, spewing back a mouthful that gushed from between his lips and around the shaft of my cock to spatter onto his chest. Ben let my cock slip from his mouth, and it rested against his cheek as he sat back from me, fluid still pulsing down over his lips. Then he slipped back onto his haunches and lost his balance, sprawling onto his back as my hands slipped from his throat. I fell forward with him, landing on my knees between his outstretched legs. Ben lay stunned in the aftermath of his frenzy, gazing up at the night sky between the alley buildings and absently running his tongue along his lips. My body was still shaking with the aftershocks of my orgasm, but as I looked down at Ben, spreadeagled on the dirty bricks with a mouth full of my come, I knew I hadn't 34

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taken quite everything from him yet. Before he could recover, I quickly pressed my advantage, reaching out and stripping his gym shorts down around his ankles. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already slick with pre-come. I reached forward and shoved a hand into his unresisting mouth before he could react, wetting it with saliva and my own come, and then wrapped it around his cock. He jerked forward, the rippled muscles of his abdomen knotting as he almost came off the ground at the touch of my hand. With my other hand, I reached out and grabbed him by the throat again, roughly shoving him down onto his back. He began to writhe beneath me, muscles bunching and releasing beneath his furry torso as he danced in time to my stroking fingers, his chest wet and glistening with sweat and come. Ben's hands came up and wrapped around my own hand, urging it to press tighter against his throat. I shoved them away. I wasn't about to let him use me to asphyxiate himself. Instead, I shifted positions before he could react, sitting above his head so that I faced his legs, and trapped his upper arms firmly beneath my knees. The ends of the jacket caught between us, the edges of the metal zippers biting into his skin. I grabbed him again, one hand wrapped tightly around his throat and the other wrapped tightly around his cock, and began to stroke once more. Ben's eyes, upside down to me now, lost their focus and he began to moan, louder and louder with each stroke. His back arched once, and then again, raising him all the way up off the ground as he strained to push himself deeper into my stroking fist. 35

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

I lightened my touch on his cock for a moment, teasing him as I looked down at his beautiful body, glistening wetly in the dim light, and savored my triumph. The jacket was mine now, and he was mine too. Then I roughly squeezed his cock a final time, and as he erupted in my hand, spurting a shower of come into the cool night air, I bent close to his ear and whispered, "I win." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

RELEASE Mychael Black The sound of Jared's fist hitting bone made a satisfying crunch and he smirked as his opponent sank to the ground, bruised and battered. The crowd roared, the steel cage a flimsy barrier to the ravenous patrons. Jared flexed, muscles rolling, cock filling, as he drank in the bloodthirsty praise of his fans. Yet again, his title as the prize combatant of the city's premiere fight club remained intact. Wolf or human, he had no equal here. He was king. The cage door rattled when it opened. Jared walked out amid slaps on the back and more than his share of gropes. He shrugged it all off, heading straight for the makeshift bar. Blake, the bartender, who had more holes in his skinny body than nature intended, set an ice-cold bottle of some off-brand beer on the bar just as Jared sat on a rickety stool. "Good show, ol' man," Blake shouted over the din of heavy music and calls for more blood as two more fighters—one huge human and one burly wolf—took the cage. Jared nodded, lifted the beer in salute, then tossed half the contents back in one gulp. "Thanks." He finished off the beer and slammed the bottle down. Thirst sated, he swept the crowd with a hungry gaze. When he found what he wanted, he licked his lips. Fucking perfect. The wolf inside him was just as hungry as the man for a hot, tight hole. With Blake's chuckle in the background, the music pounding in his ears, and the need to fuck pumping through 37

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

his veins, Jared stalked across the room to a table in the corner. His prey for the evening stared up at him with pale gray eyes, rimmed in black. Equally black hair draped over slender shoulders, straight and shiny, even in the dim light. If it weren't for the angular shape of the jaw, Jared would've sworn this was a chick. Wouldn't have mattered, really—an ass, a pussy, he wasn't picky. "Interesting occupation you have." There was the slightest hint of a Southern drawl buried in those words and long, slender fingers cupped a dark bottle. Jared snorted. "Wanna fuck?" One manicured eyebrow rose and the tempting morsel gave Jared a once-over that made his prick twitch. "Here? No. Somewhere more ... private? Absolutely." Well, that was easy. Jared jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Alley's that way." "I don't fuck in alleys." Long legs swung out and the man stood up, comically short compared to Jared's own six-footfive. Jared wondered for a moment if the man's asshole would even stretch around his prick. "Name is Geoff." "J—" "Jared," Geoff interrupted. "I know." Jared bristled. "After you," he growled. Skinny little fuckers and their pretentious games. It annoyed the piss out of him, but this one, he'd teach not to fuck with a wolf. Stupid goth kids. Geoff gave him a cryptic smile and turned, presenting Jared with a mouthwatering view of a tight ass in black leather pants. At least the vamp-wannabe knew how to dress. 38

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Geoff walked out of the bar and into the dingy alley. The second the door closed, Jared made his move, slamming the man against the brick wall and taking a hard kiss. Geoff's bottom lip split under the pressure and blood sweetened the assault. Jared lapped at it, the animal roaring deep inside. Vampiric blood. The shit was sweeter than a mortal's, and far more addictive. "Fucking vampire," he snarled, catching Geoff's wrists and pinning them above the vampire's head. "What the fuck is your kind doing here? Not afraid of the big bad wolf?" "Not at all." Without warning, a foot swept under Jared's feet and he went down hard. He snapped and jumped up, wolf and human in him both ready to fight. Most vampires didn't have the balls to step foot near this place. "Are all vampires that stupid?" Geoff faded a split second before Jared lunged for him. Reappearing behind him, the vampire wrenched Jared's muscular arms back with surprising strength. "I make the rules, pup. Got it?" "Fuck you!" "On the contrary..." Dangerously long teeth scraped the side of Jared's neck, making the wolf snarl. "It is I who will be doing the fucking, and you begging for my cock up your ass." "Like hell," Jared snapped. He jerked away and spun around, ready to strike, but the goddamn bloodsucker wasn't there. What the fuck? Laughter, soft but teasing, came from above. Jared glared up to where the vampire sat perched on a rusty fire escape ladder. 39

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"This is proving to be more fun than I thought," Geoff mused. "Get your skinny ass down here or I'm comin' up for you." Jared hated fucking games and he was growing rather tired of this one. Geoff jumped, landing without incident in front of him. How the fuck could something so small, so insanely ... puny, best him? "Down." Jared blinked. "Excuse me?" Fingers snapped in front of Jared's face and one slender finger pointed to the ground. "On your knees." "Fuck no," Jared snorted. Who did this son of a bitch think he was? Vampire or no, sexy as sin or no, Jared wasn't about to drop and beg like a desperate pup for this man. When he didn't obey, Geoff reached up, grabbed Jared's shoulders, and shoved him to his knees, joints connecting so hard with the concrete that Jared grunted in pain. What the fuck was this guy's deal? "Suck it," Geoff ordered, pulling open his pants. Despite the urge to rip this bloodsucking idiot to shreds, Jared couldn't tear his gaze from the hard cock in front of him. Uncut, long, slender, it was the sweetest-looking thing Jared had ever seen, and that was saying something. Clear drops of pre-come beaded at the tip and he watched, transfixed, as Geoff stroked himself, spreading the liquid along skin so smooth, it looked like velvet. Jared licked his lips, his own cock throbbing in time to his heartbeat. 40

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Geoff's other hand came up to cup the back of Jared's head and pulled him in closer. Jared inhaled, shuddering at the musky scent of blood and male, arousal thick in the air. He stared, gaze following the motion of Geoff's hand as it slowly pumped up and down the shaft, thumb grazing the tip with every pass, spreading more wetness over the crown. With a growl, Jared tore Geoff's hand away and sucked the man down, snarling around the cock sliding over his tongue. Jesus fucking Christ. Heat, blood, spunk ... Jared drowned in it all, head bobbing as he sucked. He didn't care if anyone saw him out here, on his knees, deepthroating vamp cock. Geoff moaned and his fingers speared through Jared's shaggy brown hair, tugging. "Yes," the vampire hissed, hips rocking, pushing in and out. "Teeth, pup. Give me your teeth." Growling at the diminutive name, Jared let his teeth lengthen and scrape the hard flesh in his mouth. Geoff shouted and bucked, fingers fisting as he thrust his prick balls-deep. Oh, someone liked that. Smirking triumphantly, Jared inhaled deep and bit down. A hard slap connected to the side of his face, followed a split-second later by rich, thick heat pouring down his throat. Still reeling from the blow to his pride, Jared swallowed convulsively and scowled up at Geoff. "Bad pup. Never bite the hand that feeds you." The vampire withdrew and tucked himself back into his pants. "Get up." Oh, fuck no. Jared seized Geoff's wrist and snarled. "You are not gonna leave me high and dry!" With his other hand, he pulled out 41

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

his own cock, giving it a rough tug while staring defiantly at Geoff, daring him to say something. The vampire stepped closer and Jared had no idea what to expect. He sure as hell wasn't expecting the kiss. Geoff's blood-sweetened tongue stroked across Jared's lips, then delved between them. The stark contrast between Geoff's earlier brutality and his gentleness now left Jared stunned. When Geoff pulled away, Jared felt himself leaning forward, almost whimpering for more. It was no ordinary kiss. Ordinary kisses were tongues and dueling and fighting for control. Geoff's kiss was something entirely different. Jared wanted to resist the lure and temptation this man presented, but with a single kiss, the damned vampire ensured reluctant compliance on Jared's part. Whatever spell the vampire wove with his lips and tongue, it tempered the beast, placating it until all that remained was the human side of Jared craving contact. "Up. A shower, then more." Geoff turned and started walking, not giving another glance in Jared's direction. Jared swore to himself. What the hell? A few minutes ago, he was ready to split this man in two on his cock. Now, he was too intrigued to do anything but follow. Tucking himself back into his pants and shaking his head at his own scrambled priorities, he got up and hurried after Geoff. "Do you always do this?" he asked after a few moments of silence. "What?" Geoff smiled over, fangs bright in the moonlight. "Take strange wolves home?" "Yeah." 42

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Geoff shrugged. "No. I could ask you a question as well. Why do you do what you do? Why the fighting?" "Because it's in my nature. A damn good way to release pent-up energy." Jared glared at Geoff. "Why? If you don't like it, then why were you there?" "I was there to see you." Jared blinked. "What? Me?" "Is that so hard to believe?" "Yes? No? Fuck, I don't know. I just fight." "Yes, to release energy." Geoff stopped at a nondescript warehouse and pushed open a door, waving Jared inside. "There are other ways to handle it, pup." Jared growled, but stepped through the door anyway. "Like?" A slender hand took Jared's and Geoff led him down a narrow hallway and out into a loft-style apartment. "I bought this place several years ago. Painted the windows black, warded the entrances. No one disturbs me here." He turned to Jared with a cryptic smile. "No one will hear you when you beg." "I do not beg," Jared shot back. "You will." Geoff stepped closer, the scent of his arousal thick in the air between them. "When I am done with you, you will beg for release—release only I can give you." "You really are deluded." Geoff snapped his fingers. When Jared didn't move, he wasn't entirely surprised to find himself shoved to his knees. "When I snap, you will kneel." The vampire circled around behind Jared and long fingers wrapped in Jared's hair, tugging 43

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his head back, exposing his throat. "When I command, you obey. Obedience is rewarded with pleasure; insolence is rewarded with punishment." "And what makes you think you can force a wolf to obey you?" Jared barely suppressed the groan when fingertips stroked the thick vein in his neck. "Because you want to." Jared opened his mouth to argue, but the hand in his hair tightened, the slight pain a teasing promise. Pain, he understood. Pleasure at his own leisure, he understood. Pleasure for the sake of someone else? It wasn't something he'd ever cared about. He took what he wanted, and more often than not, the recipient came like a rocket. But he'd already been denied orgasm by this freak with pointy teeth. And yet, he still followed. "I can feel you thinking about it," Geoff whispered, fingers stroking Jared's skin. "No one would ever know..." "My obedience." "Your obedience. It is all I ask." Normally, Jared would've laughed at the whole notion. He obeyed no one. His cock, however, apparently had its own agenda, as the slightest thought of debasing himself for this man—this vampire—in the name of pleasure, was enough to make him painfully hard. If anyone ever found out, his standing would be lost. He would be shunned for it. But equally strong was the promise of those fingers, the same ones that left his cheek stinging earlier now caressed his skin with surprising gentleness. Jared licked his lips. 44

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

"I am waiting, pup." "Yes." "Yes ... what?" His nipple was tweaked, then rolled between Geoff's fingers. Jared grunted, hips jerking. "Yes ... sir." "Mmm ... much better. Now, show me how much you want to please me. On the floor, on your back." Jared turned and lay down. He stared up at Geoff, a slight shudder running through him. There was knowledge in those eyes he hadn't seen before. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that Geoff was far older, and had far more experience in this, than Jared did. Geoff undressed and Jared's heart beat sped up as he took in the sleek, lithe form. Pale, smooth skin everywhere, his to touch. He started to lift his hand, but a single look from Geoff had it falling to his side again. "You will pleasure me—tongue only." Before Jared could ask, Geoff was over him—more specifically, over his face. Jared inhaled deeply, cock throbbing at the strong scent of pure male just above his nose. Geoff reached back and spread himself open, giving Jared a tantalizing view of a smooth, tight hole. Forcing his arms down when he wanted to grab on, Jared slipped his tongue out, grazing that sweet, puckered skin. Geoff moaned softly and then came down, driving Jared's tongue into tight, velvet heat. "Yes," Geoff hissed, grinding his ass on Jared's face. "You belong to me—your mouth, your tongue. Every inch of you." He moaned and rocked, movements quickening. "My wolf..." 45

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The muscles around Jared's tongue tightened and spunk splashed onto his stomach, Geoff chanting his name softly. The musky flavor filled Jared's senses, every contraction of Geoff's ass making his own cock throb painfully. His hips lifted and his claws scraped the dirty concrete floor as he struggled not to grab the vampire and take what he wanted. Then slick heat surrounded him. Jared cried out, hips bucking, pushing his cock down Geoff's throat. He felt, more than heard, the word 'come.' Pleasure rushed through him, taking his breath away, and he couldn't stop, the sensations going on and on. Geoff licked him clean, then pulled back. He turned and leaned over, giving Jared a soft, sated kiss. "Better than any fight, yes?" "Can we do it again?" [Back to Table of Contents]

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LESSONS IN KNEELING Anah Crow "I'm fully aware of the irony of the situation." Tiras stood at the window that gave him a stunning view of the port of Nyhitin and the fireworks going off against the black sky. His palms were wet, his stomach was in knots, and the armor that he'd lived in for five years suddenly felt ill-fitted and awkward. "I thought your Highness might feel better knowing that he was taking part in a long-honored family tradition." Lian's voice was too cool, too smooth. Tiras was across the room before he knew what he was doing. Pens and papers went in all directions, Lian's chair crashed to the floor, and then Tiras was looking up into Lian's pale gray eyes and startled face. His hand was clenched around the man's throat, almost wrapping all the way around, and Lian's feet dangled around Tiras' knees. The scholar had the presence of mind to put one foot on Tiras' bare thigh and push himself up and back against the pillar where Tiras had him pinned, relieving some of the pressure on his throat. "That tradition always included my family as the victors," Tiras snarled. Lian, his inhalations thin and reedy, looked down at him with something that might have been pity. Tiras wasn't used to seeing such things. "I am unaccustomed to failure." "Then your education was sorely neglected." Lian's voice was still smooth, so smooth. This close, Tiras could see more 47

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than one white scar marring his lip where someone had split it, another scar near one eye, yet another on his forehead, and his slender nose had been broken more than once. Tiras' uncle had not been a kind master, nor Tiras' father before him, and Tiras was succeeding them in kind. "For good reason." Tiras dropped Lian and turned away. That wasn't helping him and guilt got him in the gut when he watched Lian's face slowly changing color. He had only known the advisor for the week since his uncle fell on his own sword in the field, and already, he hated and needed the man. Lian had negotiated them a tolerable peace. He turned away and paced the room instead, trying to ignore his heart pounding in his ears. The royal family of Rhyenth had housed him in the finest rooms here in the secondary palace by the Sea of Seray. The capitol of Rhyenth was still a tent-city a decade after Tiras' father had sacked it. The thought brought Tiras little joy now. He swiped at a curtain of amber beads that shrouded the bathing pool, just to hear them rattle, sneered at the luminous globes held in brass sconces worked to look like lilies. The mosaics on the walls were a blur of color, the carved pillars merely obstacles, the vases that overflowed with flowers belonged in a woman's room, the soft couches and pillows were for weak-backed libertines. Would he be on his knees tomorrow? Bent over in stocks? Would they strip him bare? Beat him? Would they parade him through the streets first? Would they spit on him? Worse? What about after? Would they hang him up for all to see? 48

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"You're hyperventilating." Lian's cool voice cut into Tiras' tumbling thoughts. "Perhaps some wine?" When Tiras looked over, his advisor was back in his seat, the papers rearranged, reading over the terms of the new agreements between Stratymos and Rhyenth. Lian looked up, his expression calm; calm like water that closed over anything that happened to it. "I will fetch it for you," Lian said. He put his pen down and rose gracefully, with dignity, for all that he wore a scholar's robe—two pieces of undyed linen hanging free from the gold collar that marked his rank and belted at the waist with knotted cord—instead of armor. "What troubles you, your Highness?" "They left me my sword," Tiras spat, smacking the weapon in question where it hung by his side. The sound rang through the room. It was better than addressing any fears he had. "There are no bars anywhere." "You would have preferred shackles?" Lian brought a steel and gold goblet of green wine and held it out with both hands. He was a willowy, contemptible thing, fine-skinned, pale, with silken hair the color of oak. "A dungeon, perhaps." "One chains what one fears." Tiras avoided smacking the wine out of Lian's hands but only because he was thirsty, his mouth painfully dry from over-breathing. He took it and drank instead. The wine was sweet, with a peppery aftertaste that was pleasing. "Or one respects it, treats it with dignity according to its station," Lian pointed out. He waited and Tiras realized that he was holding still, should Tiras disagree with him. When 49

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Tiras didn't move, he turned away. "You could always fall on your sword, should it please you to do so." Tiras felt a rush of shame that it hadn't immediately occurred to him to die, and that he had rejected the thought every time it had occurred to him after. "Would you advise your lord to his own murder?" He drained the wine and threw the cup down on a couch. "No, and not only because I have no taste for treason," Lian said easily. He sat down again and went back to his reading, shaking his head so that his hair fell back over his bare shoulders. "Why not then? It might be a noble end." "Death is rarely noble," Lian said, not looking up. "Neither is abandoning one's duty. Your Highness would be doing his country a disservice to leave it in this wounded time." The man had a point. Lian might be infuriating but his advice, when Tiras could hear it, was good. Tiras picked up his wine glass again and went to fill it himself this time. "They might prefer my demise after tomorrow," he said. "It all depends on how you conduct yourself." Lian put down his pen now and looked at Tiras, steepling his fingers under his chin. "It is not such a terrible thing. You simply have to bear it with grace and show your people that to be defeated is not the same as to be degraded." Tiras stared at Lian in disbelief as the advisor rose and stepped away from the desk. A moment later, Tiras' wineglass crashed into the pillar behind Lian, the wine drenching his hair and his shoulder and his robes, but not touching the papers. "Tomorrow, Teygtin of Rhyenth is going 50

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to take me, have me, like a bitch in front of his court, in front of his people, in front of my people, to seal the surrender of Stratymos, and you tell me that this is not degrading?" Lian stood there, drenched but unperturbed. "A man is degraded by his own actions, your Highness, by his own mind, by his own shame, but never by the actions of another." His expression never shifted. "Which of us is undone, sire?" Tiras could strike the man's head off, but it would change nothing, would not make him kneel, would not make him wrong, and that was infuriating. His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, then he turned away to undo the belt. "And if I were do to this to you, you would feel nothing?" he spat. He threw the belt down on a chair and fumbled at the clasps of his breastplate. "You would still stand there with your face like water and your eyes like stone?" "Who says it has not been done to me?" Lian's voice was gentle and his fingers slid past Tiras' to undo the clasps. "Which of us would be ashamed if you did?" He smelled of wine now; drops of it were beaded on his fair shoulder. Tiras already knew the answer to the second question. "Has it?" "A long time ago," Lian said, as though it were nothing. His face was as calm as ever, even with locks of his hair stuck to his cheek with wine. "Who...?" Tiras let the question die; it was none of his concern. He just shifted to let Lian lift the breastplate and backplate away. For one so willowy, Lian was surprisingly strong. 51

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"Shall I make you a list?" Lian carried the armor over to the stand and hefted it up. "It is not terribly long, but I would not embarrass any of them, not even the dead. You are tired," he said once he had turned back to Tiras. "I will call attendants to bathe you." The idea of strange hands, enemy hands, on him made Tiras ill. There would be enough of that tomorrow. "You do it," he said flatly. It was far below Lian's station, but Tiras didn't care. "As you wish." Lian said nothing more as he undressed Tiras. The calm that had been so infuriating just moments before was soothing now. He knelt before Tiras to undo the greaves that covered Tiras' sandal-straps and then removed Tiras' sandals, and Tiras felt a surge of desire at the sight. Lian's pale hands were dirty now, the fingers creased with Tiras' sweat and the dirt of the road, the groomed nails chipped and dark beneath. Sullied. The linen robe was smudged where Lian had put Tiras' feet in his lap one at a time, still wet and sweet and green with wine where Tiras had thrown it. "What if..." Tiras found his voice slightly unsteady. "What if you desired for me to do such a thing to you? Would you be ashamed?" "Not in the slightest." Lian turned his smooth face up to look at Tiras. "What of you? Would you be ashamed of wanting me thus? It is my understanding that it is the way of soldiers at times." 52

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"That's different." Tiras pushed himself to his feet and let Lian undo his brass and leather skirt. "That is a thing between equals." "And I am not your equal," Lian said without rancor. "Do you think you are?" Tiras put his hands on his hips and looked down at Lian. He was nearly twice the man's weight and only a little taller, broader by more than half, scarred from battle, and of noble blood. "I think all men are equal. All people." Lian took the skirt away and laid it aside. "A small illusion that gives me comfort. That I do as you wish does not make me less. And I would not fear what awaits on the morrow." He gathered up the hem of Tiras' tunic and waited for Tiras to shrug out of it so that it would fall into his hands. Tiras unfastened the material at his shoulders and let the tunic drop, baring him, exposing his half-hard cock. Lian pulled the tunic down so that Tiras could step out of it and now he was naked save for the bands of gold at his wrists and arms and throat. "What if I told you to attend to my need," Tiras asked. "Would you feel equal then?" "I would." Lian shook out the tunic and laid it with the skirt. He looked up at Tiras with those beautiful eyes and asked, without regard for the consequences, "Why do you not order me to do so?" Tiras was silenced by the question and he covered his confusion by turning away. "Because I wish to bathe now," he said, feeling angry about it. He swatted the beaded curtain aside and stalked into the room where a hot spring swirled in a natural pool. The air was warm and heavy with the mineral 53

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scent. Lian passing through behind him stilled the beads to silence. "What if I wished it?" Lian's voice had no hint of mockery and Tiras looked over his shoulder to see his advisor, bearing wine and a fresh goblet, standing just inside the door. "You would not be ordering me then." "Do you?" The idea made Tiras hot through that he might move his cool advisor to desire. "After you bathe." Lian nodded toward the pool. "Go on, I will attend you." Tiras had no choice but to step down into the hot water, his mind was in such a tangle. The fear of tomorrow had been supplanted by the puzzle that was Lian. He was struggling with the pieces when Lian waded into the water, still dressed, to bring Tiras more wine. "Why do you not undress?" "I am your advisor," Lian said. "And so I am dressed appropriately, since you have not requested otherwise." The robe swirled around him as the water danced, making beautiful patterns. "I can advise you as easily here as I can elsewhere." "On what subject do I need advising?" Tiras took a drink of wine and hoped it would soon dull his head. "The treaty is defined. You have perused it for errors." He found a ledge that would let him sit with the water up around his chest and settled there. Lian filled his hand with soap and came to stand in front of Tiras. He coaxed Tiras' feet up and began by washing them. "On the subject of tomorrow and all the days beyond it. And on the days that brought you here." 54

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"Speak." Tiras resolved not to throw anything, or do anymore harm tonight. Even in the low light of the globes on the wall, he could make out the lingering remains of his handprint under Lian's chin. It shamed him, yes, if only because he had lost control. "This is not your defeat," Lian began, as he washed Tiras clean. "You did not start this war, nor did you continue it. Tomorrow is a new start for our people. An end to the hunger and scarcity, an end to farmers going to war, an end to the slow death of our country. The gods have truly schooled us to humility, and so you should not be ashamed of any of it." His voice was like balm on a burn, and his words were even sweeter. He looked so serious and wise, even with his skin and hair sticky with wine. Tiras was hit with another wave of shame. "Tomorrow marks the end of terrible things and the beginning of peace." Lian looked up at Tiras, his eyes intense. "The victories of war have been bought by the lives of thousands. The victory of our peace can be brought by the grace with which you bend your knees." The whole idea left Tiras sick but he could see it, perhaps a little, through Lian's eyes. It bothered him that Lian's hair clung in the wine on his face and neck, it bothered him beyond concentrating on Lian's words and so he pulled away from Lian's strong, soothing hands. "Wash yourself," he ordered. Lian tilted his head, regarding Tiras a moment, and then he slipped away under the water, his hair fanning out on the surface. When he rose, his robe clung to the supple lines of 55

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his body and his hair was sleek with water, falling away to leave his serene face bare. "Better?" he asked. "You say that this thing tomorrow, it will be no more than I make of it?" Tiras didn't comment on the fact that it was better, or that his hands itched to pull away the wet robe so that he could look at Lian bare. "You can teach your people that their dignity is not lost in this defeat." Lian took up more soap and came back to wash Tiras clean. Tiras would have moaned with the touches save for the specter of tomorrow looming over him. "You're a madman," he accused, feeling anger flood him to drown the fear. "These scars, did they degrade you?" Lian's hands trailed over ridges of keloid that marred Tiras' chest, cool, sweet hands like the wine. "Why should they?" Tiras could name each scar and its source, with pride. "They are far more than the wound you will receive tomorrow," Lian said simply. "The defeat for which you suffer tomorrow is not even yours. More than that, you suffer for the good of all your people." He looked Tiras in the eyes and his own had some heat behind them. "These..." Lian's hands found every scar with such ease that he had to have studied each one some time when Tiras wasn't looking. "...each is a failure. Your defeat in a moment. A defeat that bought nothing for anyone. Tomorrow is only another moment."

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"I survived." Tiras' voice was thick with desire and knotted with emotion. He could almost believe it would all be well when Lian said it, but that made him no less afraid. "You will survive tomorrow, also." Lian raised the soaking hem of his robe and leaned in to wash Tiras' face. "Your body and your soul." Tiras' unsteady hands found Lian's slender hips and he wanted, how he wanted, and he could think of no way of making Lian's willow body bend for him that would not leave him feeling less of a man. How could he ask for something his predecessors had stolen by force? He leaned in and let his head rest in the curve of Lian's throat. Surely, there was no shame in that. Lian's hands on his neck were so strong and comforting and then Lian's lips pressed to his hair. "It will be only a moment of pain," Lian said again. "And over. I promise you this. You can be no stranger to the idea." Tiras' mind wouldn't listen to reason and his heart was a knot in his chest. Ideas were not reality. "Show me," he said. If he knew, it would not be so terrible. "As you wish." Lian washed Tiras' shoulders clean with his robe. "After you are clean." He took more soap. "Now, your hair." Tiras leaned back, obediently, slipping under the water to get wet. Lian finished washing him efficiently, and then saw him rinsed. With that done, Lian offered Tiras his hands to help him out of the tub. Tiras took Lian's hands and pretended he wasn't clinging to them. Lian led him out of the tub and through the beaded curtain. 57

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**** The bedroom was hung with red tapestries and lit with candles instead of the orbs in the outer rooms. It was warm from a coal fire in a low brazier set to combat the breeze from the windows that were open to show the ongoing fireworks display. In the distance, Tiras could hear singing. Lian stepped away and shed his wet robes so that he would not drip on the rugs, leaving the gold collar of leaves around his neck. He picked up a towel and came to dry Tiras off, his expression never shifting. After a moment of passivity, Tiras took the towel away from him to do the same in return, feeling clumsy and stupid, watching his big, scarred hands against Lian's lithe, flawless body. "Turn," he grumbled, and Lian did, pulling his hair out of the way. Tiras ran the towel over Lian's back once before he really saw the scars there. Lashes. Tiras ran his fingers over them one at a time and felt Lian's back go rigid with the touches. Lian bore it a moment longer before turning to take back the towel. "I should be attending you," he said. His face was still so calm. "As you wish," Tiras said, echoing him. That made Lian smile a little as he knelt to dry Tiras' legs and feet. The pressure at the back of Tiras' throat was something new, an even deeper ache for this wise, beautiful puzzle he had inherited.

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"How was it that you wanted me?" Lian asked, once he had finished and risen again. He turned away to hang up the towel, waiting for an answer. Tiras had no idea how to say what it was that he wanted, how to make the words come from his mouth. He wanted to break something, to reconsider the idea of falling on his own sword, to lash out at Lian who was turning to look at him. Lian went to the vanity and searched there among the alabaster and the marble and the glass until he found what he was looking for, three small containers that he cradled in his hands. "How was it, then?" Lian asked. He put the delicate little containers down on a carved shelf by the bed and stood there waiting. "On my knees," he prompted, "on my back?" "Neither." Tiras made the word come out by pure force of will. "I want for you to be as Teygtin." Lian's expression shifted then, from impassive to what might have been tender. He crawled up onto the huge bed, making even that look graceful, and knelt among the red and gold covers. "Come here and I will advise you on the matter." Lian held his hands out to Tiras and Tiras found himself across the room without knowing it, watching his battered hands sliding into Lian's flawless ones. "Breathe," Lian said, his own breath soft on Tiras' mouth. "Just tell me what do," Tiras said, feeling tension claw at his muscles. "Only this." Lian's kiss was assertive and cool; his fingers slid through Tiras' wet, tangled curls without catching. 59

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One kiss and then another and this time, Tiras had to remind himself to breathe. He slid his hands over Lian's hips and up his back, over faded scars and lean muscle. Lian's body felt good pulled against his own; the kisses made the tension fade so that when Lian drew Tiras down into the pillows, he followed to feel Lian more instead of pulling away. Lian was supple under him, his body making a cradle for Tiras', his hands stroking Tiras' face and hair as they kissed. Tiras found himself achingly hard, bracing himself on hands and knees to slide his cock against Lian's flat belly, moaning. Lian found his nipples and the little shock of pain from Lian's fingers closing on them only made Tiras shudder and moan again. What came next? This was all familiar, all right, though it was strange to be with a man. Tiras had never wanted for women; they came to him almost on the heels of his thoughts. He knew what other soldiers did, but had always pushed it aside as a symptom of long campaigns and parched need. Now, he thought he might have been wrong. Tiras wanted nothing more than to say he'd changed his mind, to push Lian's thighs apart and take him, to watch that slender body arch, to watch Lian's cool expression break with pleasure. It was this body of the man who made him so angry that made him want deep in his belly. Only fighting had set a fire like this in him before. Instead, Lian moved under him, urging him to turn over and Tiras pushed down uncertainty to roll onto his back. Lian straddled his hips, looking down at him. Tiras ran his hands 60

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down Lian's chest and belly, then looked up at Lian's face as he ran his rough fingertips over the shaft of Lian's erection. The calm wavered and Lian smiled at him, bringing a rush of heat through Tiras' belly and up into his cheeks. Tiras' chest was tight as he looked down to what his hand was doing, drifting up and down. Lian's cock was beautiful, darker than the rest of him, thicker than Tiras expected, the head darker still and swollen with need. As Tiras stroked, a clear droplet gathered at the slit and, curious, he wiped it away with one finger and brought it to his tongue. It tasted slightly salty and it was slick; there was something about it that excited him unreasonably and he wanted to taste more. He did it again and this time he heard Lian's breath catch. That made heat come to his cheeks again and he looked up to see Lian looking down at him with darker eyes now. Lian tossed his hair back and leaned down to catch Tiras' mouth with his, kissing him hard, sliding his tongue in to taste the ghost of himself on Tiras' tongue. "You want me," Tiras said when Lian pulled away from the kiss. He tried to ignore the way his voice cracked on the words, on the surprise and on the heat of saying them. "Yes." Lian sounded amused, but he kissed Tiras again and there was no time to be angry with him. This time, when Lian pulled away, he reached out and picked up one of the little containers from the table. It was a brown alabaster pot with a gold rim and a lid carved like leaves. "What are you doing?" Tiras felt the knot of anger started to twist, the way it always did when he didn't know enough. 61

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"Advising you." Lian smiled, a genuine smile, and it was so beautiful that Tiras laughed, surprising himself with it. "Trust me. I know my business." "I do." Tiras' father and uncle had only listened to soldiers, had kept men like Lian around to translate treaties and to record their words and deeds. There were few soldiers left to listen to now, and Tiras had little choice. Lian kissed him one more time, soft and slow, making Tiras reach for him to keep him, but Lian pulled away in the end. Lian kissed down Tiras' chest, licking at scars and biting at his nipples until Tiras whined with it, arching and shocking himself with how much he wanted Lian, wanted Lian to do anything more. When Lian moved to kneel between Tiras' thighs, pushing them apart and opening him up, all he felt was more need. Lian's tongue slicked down the dark hair that led from Tiras' belly to his groin; a slow tease that made Tiras' heart beat harder. Lian sucking Tiras' cock down made Tiras moan and grab at the bedcovers. He fisted his hands in the embroidered silk so that he wouldn't tangle them in Lian's hair and force Lian's mouth down on him. He opened his eyes to watch Lian sucking him off, trying to muster up the words to explain that this wasn't what he expected. How could he complain with all that slick heat and pressure and the head of his cock sliding so far down Lian's throat that he couldn't stop making desperate little noises? Just as Tiras felt himself being drawn up tight with pleasure, his mind losing grip on anything and everything, the pressure eased and Lian's slender, slick finger invaded him. 62

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Tiras gasped and forced himself to stay still, to let it happen, and as he lay there taut as a drum, it began to feel good. He remembered to breathe and Lian's mouth was still sliding over him, so hot and wet, and the thrust of Lian's fingers as another slid in just blended with the pleasure he was feeling. The tipping point between accepting, almost enjoying, the invasion and wanting more came when Lian touched something inside him that made Tiras arch and cry out wordlessly. Suddenly, everything shifted and he was rocking his hips, trying to get more of Lian's fingers into him. "Please." Tiras didn't even know what he was asking for. "Oh, Gods, Lian ... please." Lian must have known, though. Seconds later, Tiras was wailing his name and drowning in an orgasm that came up out of him like a flood. Lian made him writhe and shake and it was so much more, just so much more everything, than ever before. When it was over, Tiras wasn't sure he could ever be angry about anything again. A soft kiss on his forehead made Tiras realize that his eyes were closed. All the light and colors he was seeing were on the inside of his eyelids. He opened his eyes to see Lian leaning over him with a little smile curving the corners of his lips. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Lian whispered. Tiras laughed at him breathlessly. "Shut up," he said, trying to remember breathing and moving his arms and legs and such. As he came back to himself, he could feel Lian's body pressed against his, Lian's erection hard against his hip, and that sent a jolt of need through him. "What did you do to 63

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me?" He pushed Lian over on his back, clumsily, and Lian moved easily. Lian lay there, spread out and relaxed, looking up at Tiras. "What I knew would feel good." He reached up and smoothed Tiras' curls back from his forehead. "I want to do that to you." Tiras looked around for the alabaster pot Lian had been holding and found it halfway across the bed. He went crawling after it to bring it back, wondering what was inside and if that were part of what felt so good. "Another night." Lian beckoned to Tiras and, without thinking, Tiras came crawling back to his side once he'd retrieved the little pot. Smiling, Lian drew Tiras down to him and kissed him again. "Tonight is for other things." "But..." Tiras felt petulant, and then felt ridiculous because of it. He was sulking because he wasn't being allowed to suck his advisor off, hardly noble thinking. Still, he stroked one finger up the underside of Lian's cock, wanting it anyway and not able to understand why except that it belonged to Lian and would make Lian feel good. He was considering putting his mouth on it anyway when Lian tapped his hip. "Come," Lian said, and Tiras found himself moving to lean over Lian, straddling his hips this time. Lian sat up a little to kiss Tiras on the mouth. "What do you want?" Lian was so small under him. Tiras took a moment to look down at Lian's long limbs and fair proportions and fine skin— fine skin marred at the throat with bruises. Tiras dipped his head to kiss them, all his sullenness washed away by regret. When he pulled away, he looked down at Lian. 64

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"I just want to make you feel like that," Tiras admitted, trying to ignore the way heat filled his cheeks. How Lian looked graceful and composed almost all the time was a mystery to him. Tiras felt like a bull or a bear, thick and clumsy and made for fighting and surviving, not grace. "You have lessons to learn," Lian said, his tone gentle. "But I might be able to oblige us both." He held out his hand and Tiras relinquished the alabaster pot. When Lian opened it and held it out to him, Tiras put his finger in and found it full of salve, thick and smooth, and smelling a little of beeswax. It didn't take long to understand what Lian meant. Tiras balked, internally, but it must have shown on his face because the corners of Lian's mouth twitched. Tiras' pride raged at that for a moment, and then he remembered how good it had felt when Lian touched him. Lian didn't have to do this thing, to offer himself up. Tiras was the one who had asked for this and Lian had brought him pleasure. The more he thought about it, drawing the salve down the length of Lian's cock with the tip of one finger, the more he wanted it. Wanting it was the only thing holding him back. Lian made a soft noise of need at Tiras' touch and his lashes fluttered. That little break in the cool façade brought Tiras a surge of desire. He stroked Lian's cock tentatively at first, then with more confidence as Lian's eyes widened. How he wanted to be the cause of that, by any means. The thickness and heat of Lian's cock in his hand made him want in the way that he had while Lian touched him 65

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before, that intense drive to be filled up somehow. Tiras moved before Lian said anything, feeling awkward and ashamed and slightly desperate, not certain how they fit together but wanting it terribly. Lian moved with him, though, his cool hands on Tiras' hips drawing him into place. "Breathe," Lian reminded him again. Tiras looked into Lian's eyes and tried to remember to breathe. It was less painful than it was difficult and once he turned his focus onto his own body, he was able to slide Lian's cock into him, settling down across Lian's hips. Lian was biting his lip and he was looking at Tiras in way that could only be called hungry, and that made Tiras shiver. Lian reached for him, so Tiras bent down to kiss Lian's bitten lip.Moving felt good and got a soft noise from Lian, so he did it again, feeling Lian shift under him as they kissed. Even like this, Lian knew how to make it feel even better, hot and thick inside him, filling him up and making him hard again. When Lian touched him, slid his hand over Tiras' cock, he shuddered and sat back to get Lian deeper into him. It felt so good that he forgot to move for a moment, but Lian's hips kept rocking under him, pushing up into him, and making him moan over and over again. Then Tiras opened his eyes and saw Lian under him, saw the cracks in his calm showing in the way his lips parted and his breath came fast. That was all his. Surrendering had won him a prize he never could have taken by force. It felt like heaven, too. Bracing his hands by Lian's shoulders and rocking back to take Lian into him hard and fast. Tiras' breath was ragged 66

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and he could feel his composure slipping again, so soon. He was hardly ready for it but the way Lian moved in him brought back echoes of the way Lian had touched with his fingers and Tiras couldn't help himself. Tiras looked down to watch Lian's hand sliding over his cock, the pale fingers glistening with salve and with the clear fluid leaking from the head. Those slim, refined fingers that had been inside him and brought him such pleasure were pushing him now, stroking and teasing. Tiras' breath caught and he cried out, softly, riding Lian harder until pleasure inside and out overwhelmed him. Shaking and writhing, he watched his come spatter Lian's flat belly, sullying his skin. "Tiras." His name, whispered, brought Tiras' attention back to Lian's face. Lian's eyes were dark, his cheeks hot, and his breath came harshly as he trembled under Tiras. "Please, Lian," Tiras said, the words welling up unbidden. Then Lian arched under him, closing his eyes and baring his bruised throat. His hips came up hard, making Tiras gasp. Soft sounds came from him and Tiras could feel everything get slicker as Lian found release. It was everything Tiras had wanted, to see Lian like this, so human and alive. Finally, it ended and they were both shivering a little with pleasure, Lian slowly relaxing under Tiras and opening his eyes again. "Now, which of us is undone?" Tiras whispered, smiling. He felt so good; he didn't want tonight to end, ever. Lian laughed at him, shaking his head. "I see it was not all so bad as you feared," he said. "No." Tiras moved away, wondering if his weight bothered Lian, but his advisor just held out a hand, beckoning him 67

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back. Tiras lay down at Lian's side and put his head on Lian's shoulder, feeling slightly sore and very contented. "It was not so bad at all." Tiras kissed the bruises on Lian's throat again. "What did you mean, that my education had been neglected? Not this." "No, but perhaps I should have. All great men must take lessons in kneeling," Lian said, stroking Tiras' hair. "Not in being beaten down, but kneeling. All men should learn how to give way, for their own good and for the good of all, when the time comes. It is a graceful gesture. We all have to kneel to something, even death." "To win is everything. To be a king is to never kneel." Tiras had once been as sure of that as the sun rising. Now he lay here in Lian's arms and questioned everything. "What is victory? A field so soaked in blood it grows no food? A nation of beggars?" Lian rolled Tiras over in the sheets and looked down at him. "And what is a king? The one at whose feet the starving cringe in fear, or the one that they call milypan, beloved ruler, and bless his name over a heavy table?" "My father began this war for his people," Tiras said, feeling the dearth of his years and the thinness of his learning. He had grown to be a man in the face of this war, earned his title and his honor in it once he came of age. "Your father was angry at a shepherd-king who would not give him a daughter to wife," Lian said, shaking his head. "His war was terrible and angry and sprawling, but wise. Your uncle could not bear that history think less of him than his brother. His war was proud and stupid and fatal." 68

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"And I have no war." Tiras had no idea what to do about that. "History will speak of you with more love than either." Lian kissed Tiras on the forehead. He sounded so sure that Tiras had to believe him. "How do you know?" Tiras slid his arms around Lian's waist and held him close, then tilted his head back to look up at Lian's face. "Because you are here with me, listening." Lian kissed Tiras on the mouth then, hot and fierce, making Tiras moan with need and surprise. Lian wound his fingers in Tiras' hair and tilted his head back to kiss him even deeper. Tiras whimpered, his back arching and his thighs parting. "Listening and learning to kneel." There was no speaking for a time, just Lian's mouth hot on Tiras' and Lian's hands touching him in ways that made him ache with want. Tiras could hardly breathe for all the kisses and he wondered how he could ever have thought Lian cool and impassive. Lian was all heat, all pleasure behind his calm, and Tiras wanted him all over again. If it were not for tomorrow lurking, he would never have known all this pleasure. The thought of tomorrow sent a shot of fear through Tiras and he pulled his mouth from Lian's with a gasp. "I want you to have me first, have me on my knees." The thought that anyone but Lian should have that was unbearable. "Please." Tiras wanted it, he only wanted it from Lian.

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Lian kissed him again and then looked down on him, holding Tiras cradled in the curve of his arm. "As you wish," he said gently. "Please." Tiras had never said the word so many times to one person before in his life, but saying it to Lian brought a rush of heat that helped wash the fear away. "Please, Lian." He knew his cheeks were hot, he knew he was begging, but it felt so good. "Please have me." Lian kissed Tiras before he moved away. Tiras wanted to reach for him, but then remembered what it was he was begging for. When he rolled over on hands and knees, he could see the night sky beyond their room and the fountains of light that burst against it. "Lian..." He wanted Lian to touch him, to take everything else away. Knees apart, head down, he felt a rush of shame and anger, and then Lian kissed his shoulder, his neck, and his cheek. "Please." "As you wish." Lian's breath was hot against Tiras' ear. His fingers slid into Tiras and made him whimper, only this time it was more fear than need. "As you wish, milypan," he said again, his voice tender. Lian's touches were as soft as his voice, as knowing and as wise. His fingers stroked inside Tiras and touched him deep within so that pleasure ran through him to chase away uncertainty. Soon, Tiras was moving to get more, his breath coming faster, little moans welling up from deep in his chest. He was hard again and wanted Lian desperately. "Lian, Lian, please." Knowing what he was begging for now made the begging itself arousing. Tiras writhed a little, 70

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looking over his shoulder, wanting to know that Lian wanted him. Lian was there with a kiss so fierce it bruised Tiras' mouth and made him moan. Lian's free hand clenched in Tiras' hair; then Lian's fingers were out of him, Lian's mouth left his own. Tiras whined with the sensation of emptiness, but Lian filled him a moment later, making him arch with pleasure. "Yes, yes," Tiras was hardly aware that he was muttering. "Lian, yes." It was even better like this, down on his knees. Panting, he lowered his head and shoulders to the rumpled covers, fisting his hands in the silk, pushing his hips up and back to take Lian in. As he rocked and moaned with Lian's thrusts, he had a flashing image of how they must look, and that shocked him with a rush of wanton heat. Lian's hands were cool on his hips, moving to stroke Tiras' back now and again. Tiras closed his eyes and begged with his body for more, forgetting that he knew how to speak. He felt so good, so undone and so full and so open, all he could do was make little noises of pleasure and shudder every time Lian pushed into him. Lian knew, knew everything, and gave Tiras more until the little noises were full, rough cries. When Lian finally touched Tiras, closed his gentle hand around Tiras' cock, it didn't take more than a few strokes to make Tiras lose control. He shook and came, at Lian's mercy and loving every second of it. Before it had faded, he was begging again, wanting to feel Lian's pleasure. "Please, Lian. Please." Tiras didn't know if he knew any other words anymore. It didn't matter; he didn't need them. 71

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He writhed and tensed, and he was rewarded by Lian's nails digging into his hips as Lian pulled him back. Lian shuddered and Tiras heard his breath catch and that made Tiras moan. A moment later, he was gasping and whimpering as Lian came inside him with one hard stroke after another. When it was all over, Tiras closed his eyes and tried to cling to the moment, so he would remember how good it was. When Lian tugged him over on his side and curled up against him, Tiras grabbed Lian's hand in his own and clung to that as well. Lian said nothing, just kissed his shoulder and let Tiras breathe. Late in the night, Lian rose and brought warm water, which he used to wash Tiras clean. He rearranged the bed so that Tiras could lie among the pillows under the soft layers of blankets. Tiras watched him moving around the bedroom and felt a pang in his chest that Lian might leave him, Lian who had put on his cool demeanor that was as much his uniform as the robes he wore. "Lian?" "Yes, your Highness?" Lian stopped, his hands full of damp towels, and turned to look at Tiras. "Stay with me." Tiras felt like he should reach out and grab Lian by the wrist in case he refused; it would feel unbearable for Lian to leave him right now. "Please," Tiras added. He didn't want to look at a ring of bruises on Lian's wrist; a bracelet to match the necklace of red and violet Tiras had given him already. "I will not leave you," Lian promised. "I have some few things to do, then I will return." 72

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Tiras relaxed into the pillows, nodding. "Thank you." He closed his eyes, listening to Lian go about his business, and tried to sleep. Still, he was awake when Lian returned after what seemed an eternity. Lian lay down in the bed and Tiras turned over to find him bare and cool under the covers. Tiras burrowed into the circle of Lian's arms, his head on Lian's chest. Then, with Lian stroking his hair, he finally drifted off. When he woke in the night, restless and afraid, Lian was there to soothe him back to sleep again, over and over. **** The morning began with a knocking at the outer doors to Tiras' rooms. Tiras sat bolt upright in bed, his heart clawing at his ribs. It was still black outside; a few stars lingered in the sky. Lian put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Remain here," he said. "I will attend to your affairs. You need not bother with anything today but remembering what you've learned." Tiras did as he was told and watched Lian move gracefully, pulling a loose red sheet about him, to go out and answer the door. Lian returned with Tiras' ceremonial armor in his arms, still dressed in the sheet as though it were the latest fashion. "The ceremony will occur at dawn, in the courtyard." Tiras felt sick, but he pulled himself together, drawing on Lian's obvious calm. "Would you like some wine?" "Just help me get ready." Tiras got to his feet and squared his shoulders. He could do this. It would be but a moment in the whole of his life. 73

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The sky was gray turning to rose when the guards banged on the doors again. Lian had dressed in a clean robe, this one pure white, and his hair was caught back in a gold clasp. Tiras had been distracting himself by watching the advisor dress but now he was hit with another wash of shame. "I will be by your side," Lian said calmly. He gathered their copy of the treaty that would be signed as well at the ceremony, a mingling of the civil with the barbaric. When he turned to look at Tiras, he let the façade slide enough to give Tiras a smile. Tiras remembered to breathe. "It will only be a moment," Tiras said, feeling more sure of it now. "Only a moment," Lian promised. "A moment, and then the future." He held out his hand and Tiras took it. "You will want me then, after that moment?" The words were not as steady as Tiras would have liked but he needed to know before he could make his feet move. "More and more." Lian's voice was calm, his expression as smooth as a still lake, his eyes as cool as stone under water, and looking at him made Tiras feel stronger. "And I will be proud to serve you." "Hold my pride for me as well, then," Tiras said. The doors rattled once more and opened; his personal honor guard stood there waiting now. "It is yours for the safekeeping." He let Lian lead him to the threshold. As they passed through the doors, Tiras let go of Lian's hand and stepped ahead. Shoulders back, head up, he was ready to surrender, and to surrender well. It would not have been so simple if he had not had his advisor to spend the 74

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night giving him lessons in kneeling; he would never forget that, not for all the years he had left to rule. The sound of soldiers moving with him masked the fall of Lian's feet one pace behind him and to his left, but with him, nonetheless. [Back to Table of Contents]

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NO MAN'S SERVANT by K. C. Warwick It was late afternoon when Nick finished shoeing the plough horse and watched as it was led off down the lane toward the village. It was a big black horse, powerfully built, but it had stood tranquilly enough for him, as most of them did, responding to the quiet strength of the smith with calmness of their own. It never paid to lose your temper with something that was stronger than you were. Nick reached up and stretched his tired muscles in the warm August sunlight. He was thirty-two years old, tall, strong and healthy. He had removed his shirt earlier on and the sunlight touched tanned skin, corded muscle sliding beneath, glistening with sweat above the leather apron he wore to work in. His hair, short and dark, was damp and fell into his eyes so that he pushed it away impatiently, leaving a grimy mark across his cheek as he did so. He'd been working since dawn—one thing that could be said of the English Civil War was that it brought plenty of work for blacksmiths and farriers, assuming that you got paid for it, of course. Now he could do with a rest before he started on the bent ploughshare that waited at the back of the forge. The horse was almost out of sight, but as he watched, he saw it suddenly throw up its head and prick its ears, and a moment later, three horseman rode round the corner of the lane and into view. Royalists, by the look of their shabby finery, and that might or might not mean trouble. To be 76

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truthful, anyone from either army could be trouble nowadays, what with their inconvenient habit of living off the land and helping themselves to the property of those unfortunate enough to be in their path. There wasn't much to choose between the two sides in that respect, for all that Cromwell's new Model Army was supposed to follow the ten commandments and King Charles' men were said to be gentlemen. He straightened up, hands on hips, and tried to look unwelcoming. He knew he was big enough to discourage most people from taking liberties, but three to one might be too much for him. Maybe the riders would not stop—but of course, they did. It was the foremost horseman who drew his eye, because of the arrogant way in which he sat his animal, as if the whole world belonged to him. He was of Nick's age, with long fair hair spilling onto his shoulders in the typical Royalist fashion, and eyes that were light blue and slightly narrowed against the sunshine. Nick heard him say, "Ah, the farrier," and then those blue eyes raked over him, examining him from head to foot, lingering slightly on his bare torso. Nick had been the recipient of such looks before, and was fairly sure of what it meant. What he was not sure about was whether he had any interest in encouraging it. But by now one of the other men was addressing him. "We've a mount here with a loose shoe," he said, indicating the horse the fair-haired man was riding. "Can you see to it?" Naturally he could, it was his job, but instead of saying that, he walked over to the creature and leaned his shoulder 77

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against the beast's, causing it to shift its weight so that he could pick up its off-foreleg. He had already noted that the clenches were rising from the hoof wall and had guessed that this was the problem shoe. "Bring him in," he told the rider, without looking up. Then he dropped the hoof and went back into the forge to stir up the fire. As he worked the bellows, he could hear the conversation outside. "You two ride on to Worcester without me," suggested the fair-haired man. "There's no call for all of us to be held up and I can find my way safely enough from here. I doubt there are enemy troops around." One of the others responded, laughing, "Who is she? Not that red-haired wench we saw in the village? Hardly worth riding back for, I'd say." Nick knew of the woman in question and was inclined to agree with the speaker. However, he was willing to bet that she was not what the fair-haired soldier was interested in. "Mind your own business," was the brisk response. "Tell Richards I'll be there later and not to start the battle without me." "Battle!" was the scornful reply. "They won't be fighting over Worcester yet a while—not unless His Majesty pays us a visit, and if he knows what's good for him, he'll stay well away!" He heard someone dismount and farewells being exchanged, then the doorway darkened as the fair-haired man led his horse in. Nick took the reins from him, and tied the animal up to a ring in the wall. As he turned, he found himself walking straight into the rider, who put out a hand to 78

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fend him off. The man was about his equal in height, but Nick reckoned he had an advantage in weight over the other, though it was difficult to tell beneath the loose coat and fancy shirt. The hand that was presently resting on his chest was large and warm, and the stranger made no move to take it away. Instead, he said softly, "Steady," and smiled, a charming, calculating smile which Nick did not return. He was fairly sure by now that a familiar game was being played, but he wanted to know considerably more before he decided to take part in it. Instead, he pushed past the man, and ignored the strong fingers that slid over his nipple as he did so. Despite this, the touch lit a little ember of heat within him, ready to burst into flame in the same way as the glowing coals in the furnace had done. He reached for his tools and returned to the horse to begin removing the shoe, conscious of the man leaning against the wall beside him. As he bent to pick up the foot, the other spoke again. "So, what name do you go by, Master Farrier?" "Is it any of your business?" Nick asked, cutting off the clenches with his pliers. "None at all," the soldier admitted cheerfully. "But I like to know what name to address a man by, especially when he is doing me a favor." "This isn't a favor," Nick told him shortly. "I expect to be paid. It's how I make my living." "For which you will certainly be paid in full. Well then, I've no objection at all to you knowing my name. I'm called John Wyatt." 79

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Nick grunted. John Wyatt seemed to be an impulsive and hasty individual, but then, what harm would it do to tell? "Nicholas Makepeace," he said, prizing the shoe loose and straightening up. He pushed a bar through one of the shoe holes and thrust the whole thing into the heat of the fire. Behind him, Wyatt remarked, "That's a good Puritan name—Makepeace. Is that your inclination?" He didn't seem hostile, only curious, but Nick was still careful. "I call no man my master," he replied, going back to the horse, "neither King Charles nor Oliver Cromwell. I am no man's servant but my own." "A good enough philosophy," Wyatt admitted, "if you are allowed to pursue it. Now I," he continued, "am a King's man, as you might have guessed." Nick bent to trim the ragged edges of the hoof and said nothing. Let the man talk if he wanted to. It seemed that he did. "I've always found the Puritan viewpoint needlessly constricting," Wyatt continued. "All that talk of hellfire and repentance. I'd rather sin and be damned, if that is what is to happen to me. Don't you agree?" "Depends on the sin," Nick said, going back to the forge to look at the shoe. It was not quite hot enough, so he stood there waiting, and Wyatt asked in a tone that might have been serious or not, "What sort of sins do you prefer?" "Those that I don't get caught committing," Nick told him promptly and Wyatt laughed. 80

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He had a pleasant laugh and it lit up his face, so that Nick found himself looking up with a smile, almost against his will. Wyatt gave him an approving nod. "Well said." He paused, then went on easily, "I must admit that, when it comes to sinning, I favor lust above the others." By now, Nick was trying the hot shoe against the horse's foot, the pungent smoke rising up into his face as he did so. He blew it away and remarked, "I wouldn't imagine there's much chance of that in the King's army." The shoe needed altering; he took it over to the anvil and picked up his hammer. "Oh, you'd be surprised," was the reply. "There are all sorts of opportunities if you look for them, and I was never one to let a chance slip through my fingers..." Nick let the hammer fall in three heavy blows and then took the shoe back and tried it again. He was undecided about this man; it was difficult to know whom to trust in these turbulent times, when the Puritans were always on the lookout for malefactors. But whatever else Wyatt was, he was certainly not a Puritan, that was for sure. Nick's judgment was clouded by the fact that it had been longer than he cared to remember since he had slept with anyone. The last occupant of his bed had been a gypsy lad who had needed an axle mending on his cart. It had been pleasurable, but brief— these encounters always were—and he was certainly ready for another. Wyatt was comely enough, and willing, but still he hesitated. He knocked in the last nail, and reached for the file to smooth the clenches into place. Wyatt was still leaning 81

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against the wall, whistling softly to himself, apparently content to let Nick take his time making his mind up. But when the job was finished and Nick straightened up, patting the horse on the neck, he pushed off the wall and stood before the farrier, his lips curved in a faint smile. "My thanks. You work quickly." Their eyes were almost exactly level; Nick made to step back, but a strong hand closed around his arm. "Further to what we were talking about earlier—" "You were talking," Nick corrected. "And you listened, and understood exactly what I meant." Wyatt's fingers moved in gentle circles against Nick's skin. "From the fact that you did so, I gather that you are not entirely averse to the suggestion. I would guess that there are less opportunities here to indulge in lust than there are in the Royalist army." The fingers transferred from his arm to his chest, kneading the hard muscles there. The feeling was pleasurable; he found himself pushing back against the touch and was not surprised when the caress moved to his nipple and strong fingers brushed over the rough skin. "Why not take advantage of our meeting?" "I know nothing about you," Nick pointed out, keeping his breathing steady with an effort. "You know that I desire you. Isn't that enough?" Wyatt took a step nearer and his free hand came up to cup Nick's head, drawing him close so that their lips met. At the same time, his fingers closed round the nub of the nipple and twisted, causing Nick to gasp long enough for the other man's tongue to slide into his mouth. Wyatt's hands and tongue 82

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were skilled, and Nick's body made a decision which his mind was not altogether convinced was right, meeting the other's tongue with his own and pulling Wyatt against him so that he could feel the hardness in both their groins. "I take it that means yes?" Wyatt muttered, breaking the kiss for a moment. Nick nodded, aware that he was acting purely at the behest of his body, but willing to accept that. "Let me shut the forge," he said. Once the heavy doors were closed, he led Wyatt through into the cottage adjoining. "Cottage" was perhaps an overstatement, since there were two interlinked rooms under a thatched roof, with an attic above. He took Wyatt into the one that he used for sleeping, and which contained a bed he'd made himself and a couple of chests for clothes. It was pleasantly warm from the late afternoon sun and Wyatt glanced around and nodded. "This is your cottage?" he questioned, stripping off his coat and the scarlet sash which he wore knotted underneath. "It was my father's and my grandfather's before me," Nick said. "Further back than that too. We've always been smiths." He had left the heavy apron in the forge; now he pulled off his breeches and bent to rummage in one of the chests. Wyatt had been undressing too, but Nick was conscious of a sudden stillness as he retrieved a small pottery jar from its resting place. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was the matter and found Wyatt grinning at him, running the sash between his fingers. "I'm just admiring the prospect," the soldier told him. 83

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Nick looked down at the jar in his hand then back up to the by now almost naked Wyatt. Stripped, it became apparent that the man was nearly as well-muscled as Nick was himself, though slimmer with it. It would be good to have something solid underneath him, he reflected. The gypsy lad and his kind were too fragile; he was always afraid of hurting them if he held them too tightly. Might as well sleep with a woman. This man was tough; he didn't look as if he would damage easily. Just how tough he was became apparent as they embraced one another, naked beside the bed. Wyatt felt like steel in his arms, but it was a good feeling and his cock began to harden, rubbing companionably against the other man's. Wyatt liked kissing, but Nick was not averse to that when he was left in so little doubt as to the gender of his partner. He returned the kiss, and felt the soldier's hands slide down his back to grip his arse. "I've wanted this," Wyatt murmured in his ear, "since I saw you standing at the forge door, Nicholas Makepeace," and his fingers slid into the cleft of Nick's buttocks and brushed over his entrance. So it was going to come to a fight, was it? "And if you think I'm letting you take me," Nick murmured back, "then you are greatly mistaken, John Wyatt." He felt and heard the low laugh in response to this. "Do you think so? You think I'll tamely let you have me, without so much as a protest?" His tongue licked down Nick's throat, warm and wet. "I don't doubt there'll be protest," Nick replied. The tongue was distracting him, making him shiver. "I wasn't going to take any notice." 84

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"Then, neither will I." Wyatt bent suddenly, hooked his hand under Nick's right thigh and pulled it upward, at the same time sweeping Nick's left leg from under him so that he fell onto the bed with a resounding thud which knocked all the breath out of him. By the time he had managed to wheeze in a lungful of air, his hands were neatly bound with the scarlet sash, which in its turn was secured round the wooden bedpost. How in the devil's name had the man done that so quickly? He stared up at Wyatt, who was straddling his thighs, and tugged ineffectually at his bonds. The bedpost was part of the structure of the house; it was about as likely to move as his anvil in the forge. He struggled and bucked, but Wyatt was too heavy to dislodge. This was the first time he could remember being pinned down by someone stronger than he was, and now he didn't know what to do, except fly into a rage. He remembered the plough horse: it never paid to lose your temper with something that was stronger than you were. Firm hands stroked his ribs, easing his breathing. "I'm sorry, I didn't intend you to fall so hard." He could almost have sworn that was genuine. "I suppose you didn't intend to tie my hands either," he remarked angrily. "Ah, no. I did that on purpose. It will be much easier that way." "Easier for whom?" "Both of us. Otherwise, we'll spend all our time fighting— and I might lose. I'd rather fuck than fight, any day." "So I gather." 85

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The hands on his ribs moved up to his chest. "Your heart is beating very fast. Calm yourself." "Fine advice, from the man who is on top! You never discussed this with me!" "Of course not—you wouldn't have agreed. Just put your trust in me; you won't regret it." "If you're going to put that weapon up me," Nick replied, lowering his gaze to the other man's cock, "then I think I'm going to regret it very much." His own member was no longer showing any interest in the proceedings. "Nonsense." Wyatt glanced down at him with amusement. "You're just as well-endowed as I am. Have you ever hurt anyone?" "Not knowingly, but I'm patient and careful." "And so will I be. Believe me, I've had plenty of practice." His fingers reached Nick's nipples, working them gently, and then he leaned forward and Nick felt warmth and wetness close around the hard nub. He became incensed again, writhing in his bonds but totally unable to get away from that persistent mouth and tongue. This man was treating him like a woman, which was a liberty he allowed no one, particularly when it came to sucking on his nipples as though—he paused in his anger, suddenly becoming aware that his body was responding to this. Long hair tickled his chest and, despite himself, it sent a tremor through him. Wyatt bit gently, pulling at the nipple and circling it with his mobile tongue. Then he shifted to the other side while his fingers twisted and tugged at the damp nub he had abandoned. Nick could feel the other man's cock pressing 86

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against his own thigh and wondered how patient Wyatt was prepared to be. At present, it seemed as if he was ready to suck on Nick's nipples until night fell, and the smith could already feel his cock hardening again as his breathing sped up. He didn't want this, so why was it arousing him with such intensity? Wyatt shifted sides again, this time bracing an arm under Nick's back so that the smith arched up involuntarily into the hungry mouth. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable, especially with his arms stretched above his head still, but Wyatt told him softly, "That's good. Give the control to me. Let me do this." With an effort, he made himself think of resistance. His legs were free; he could try to kick his way out of this, but then Wyatt shifted sideways, his other hand sliding down to cup the smith's cock, and Nick found his thoughts easily distracted away from conflict. The mouth on his nipple was holding most of his attention, but now strong fingers closed round the base of his shaft, stroking expertly. He made a small breathy sound, between a gasp and a whimper, a sound which he had not even known he could make. Wyatt raised his head for a moment and asked softly, "Shall I stop?" Nick ordered himself to say yes, and ended up giving an indeterminate grunt which could have meant anything. Wyatt smiled and leaned over him again. This encounter was not going at all how Nick had intended. Wyatt was controlling his body in ways he had not expected, using pleasure rather than force. He felt confused and helpless, and full of desire. Not 87

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that that meant he was going to accept being fucked without protest... As if he could read the other man's mind, Wyatt sighed and reached for the pottery jar, which had fallen onto the pillow. Nick felt himself tense; he stared up hotly into the soldier's light blue eyes. Wyatt pulled out the cork with his teeth, and settled back down beside Nick. "You're making this very difficult for yourself," he said mildly. "Change places and see how you like it," Nick snapped. "I only want to give you pleasure. I assure you, I don't enjoy causing pain." Nick was more nervous than he would admit, so it was something of an anti-climax when Wyatt merely resumed his ministrations, tonguing the smith's nipples whilst his nowslick fingers caressed Nick's cock into life again. After a while, he began to relax a little, and Wyatt shifted up the bed, his lips leaving the smith's chest and fastening on Nick's mouth instead. It was as pleasurable as the kiss in the forge had been, but longer and more passionate, and during the course of it, Nick was only partially aware of the soldier's fingers stroking the firm flesh of his balls and then moving to circle his entrance. He tried to make a protest, but anything he might have said was muffled by the kiss, and by the time he was in a position to use his lips for speech, one long finger was securely within him. It was not that he was a virgin in this respect. He'd been fucked as a young man, but being stronger than his partners, he quickly established that his was the dominant role. His memories were of something uncomfortable and 88

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unsatisfactory, and he had no wish to relive them. But what Wyatt was doing was not, strictly speaking, uncomfortable. Strange, unwelcome, but it didn't hurt—except his pride. And the soldier was soon demonstrating his skill at kissing again, making Nick arch up against him as his cock hardened and called for attention, and incidentally making it easier to manipulate the finger which remained moving gently inside him. During the next kiss, the finger was withdrawn, only to be reinserted a moment later, slick with added liquid, and accompanied by its nearest fellow. The two fingers made Nick draw in a sharp breath, but Wyatt murmured, "Come on, you can take this," and then thrust his tongue into Nick's ear. The gesture was so unexpected that he gasped again, and when Wyatt took the smith's earlobe between his teeth and bit gently down on it, he felt his hard length pressing up against the soldier's body in good earnest. Now Wyatt was sucking where he had bitten, and the two fingers within him were stretching him expertly, twisting within him whilst one knee nudged his thighs further apart. Then a bolt of pleasure went through him like a bowshot, so intense that the gasp he gave was almost a cry. He blinked up at Wyatt, his senses humming with the residue of pleasure, and the soldier grinned at him. "Good? It can be better than that." Nick was still struggling to understand how it had been done. The gypsy, he recollected, had tried to explain about this phenomenon, but Nick had not understood what he had been saying, and to be truthful, had not really tried. If both parties achieved fulfillment, then that was surely all that 89

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mattered? But Wyatt was obviously a more skilled and considerate lover, putting Nick to shame. He found himself thinking, If I had been inside him, I could not have done that. Then all such self-doubts were driven from his mind by the movement of Wyatt's fingers, producing the same excitement, which, this time, left him trembling beneath the other man. "I think you're ready," Wyatt told him softly. Whether he was ready or not, he could not have said, but he knew that the withdrawal of the fingers from within him left him with a palpable sense of loss and the intense desire for their return. Wyatt, sliding on top of him, took hold of one of Nick's thighs and hitched it up to rest against his hip, easing himself between the other man's legs and then letting his full weight rest on Nick for a moment. The smith wanted to thrust up against him, to demand that something replace the intimate caress that he was desperate for, but he found himself pinioned securely beneath the soldier's body. Held there, unable to move, his only thought was how good it felt. Wyatt reached out over Nick's head, and—not without some difficulty—undid the sash. Impatiently, Nick flexed his arms, then pulled the other man down on him in a fierce grip. They kissed again, and Nick reached for his own cock, bent on obtaining some release, but Wyatt's hand was there first. "Let me," the soldier ordered. His hand closed round Nick's hardness and, at the same time, his own slicked length nudged at the smith's entrance. If this was what it took to regain that pleasure, then Nick was happy to comply. He pushed hard onto the questing head, and Wyatt told him, "Gently now," before pressing slowly into 90

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him. It hurt, though not as much as he had feared it would, then the pain eased and pleasure began to take over, partly from the motion of Wyatt's hand around his cock and partly from the friction within him as the soldier made his way in. Then there was that sudden excess of pleasure, sweeping all before it, and his whole world became comprised of what Wyatt was doing within him, and how long he could last without coming. Now, for the first time, the soldier was showing signs of arousal, sinking into Nick, carefully at first and then with greater passion and less control. Nick could feel the hard muscles of Wyatt's back under his hands; he anchored himself to the other man's body and gave himself up to the invasion. He no longer cared that Wyatt was taking him, or that his pride was injured by his own submission. He wanted that hard cock within him, ruthlessly seeking out satisfaction and giving it in equal measure. He was panting now and so was Wyatt, his breath hot on Nick's chest and shoulders as he drove in. The soldier's free arm was under Nick's back, supporting them both, and one jerk of his hips completed the penetration. Deep within him, Wyatt moved with practiced skill, until every part of the smith's body was on fire with longing and desire. He clamped his thighs around Wyatt's muscular waist and bucked up, and ecstasy exploded within him like cannon-fire. He groaned aloud and spilled into Wyatt's hand, his cock twitching with the effort to deliver its load. As he fell back limply, the soldier gathered him up and drove into him again and again, while he shuddered and 91

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panted. Then with a cry of his own, Wyatt filled Nick with warm wetness until the smith felt it running out down his arse and thighs. Panting still, Wyatt lowered himself onto the body beneath him, pinioning Nick once more. The smith, still quivering with the residue of his climax, rubbed against him until the last vestiges of sensation had left them both. Then Wyatt withdrew from him and rolled over with a satisfied sigh. "You took that like a man," he said breathlessly. "I didn't have much choice." By rights, he should be exacting retribution for the indignities he had suffered, but somehow, it was easier to lie there and let his body recover. Wyatt stretched an arm across the smith's chest and stroked the hard muscles of his arm appreciatively. "Sometimes having someone else take the mastery is a good thing. You have a fine body, Nicholas Makepeace. There's nothing that can compete with the feel of a real man under you..." Nick grunted, not dignifying this with an answer. "Ah, a man of few words. I like that." "You seem well able to make up for my deficit." He yawned, allowing Wyatt to caress him, feeling both the sun and the other man's touch on his skin. After a while, the soldier said reluctantly, "I have to travel on to Worcester." "To get yourself killed in a lost cause?" Then, before Wyatt could answer, "Share my supper, if you like. It's only bread and cheese but there's plenty of it. It's probably better than army rations." 92

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He felt rather than saw the blue eyes on him. "You're prepared to break bread with me?" Nick shrugged. He was going to ignore the comment, touching as it did on issues that he was not yet ready to deal with, but honesty compelled him to say, "Why not?" He ought to have added: you are a skilled lover and I'd let you take me again, but he suspected that Wyatt knew that anyway. They ate at the rough table in the other room, sharing wine from a flask Wyatt produced from his saddlebags. The sun was on its downward course toward the horizon when the soldier at length led out his horse from the forge and tightened his girth. "Will there be fighting at Worcester?" Nick asked, bending to examine the shoe he had put on, and feeling a twinge of soreness as he did so. "Probably. Charles has not made himself popular by bringing the Scots in. Cromwell wants a confrontation, and Worcester is as good a place as any." He turned to Nick. "I wish you a prosperous summer. May that proud neck never bend to anyone—except possibly myself, if I should ever chance this way again." "Be sure you'll not find things quite so easy if you ever do," Nick warned, but he found himself thinking that a repetition of what had passed between them would not be unwelcome. He closed his hand around Wyatt's forearm for a moment, then stepped back and watched him mount his steed. For a long moment their eyes met, then Wyatt raised a hand in farewell and touched his heels to the horse's sides. When he was out of sight on the road to Worcester, Nick turned and went back inside the forge. 93

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**** In early September, the leaves began to change color and Nick watched fugitives from the battle of Worcester making their way along the dusty roads. He looked for John Wyatt but did not find him, and tried to persuade himself that he was neither disappointed nor worried. Ten days after the battle, he looked up from the forge where he was mending a scythe blade, and saw a familiar figure leaning against the door frame. Wyatt looked travel-stained and weary, his coat hanging loosely around his shoulders, and a recently-healed scar across one cheek. His eyes looked bruised, as though he had spent a great deal of time looking at things he would rather not have seen. Nick straightened and said, "I wondered if you'd come back this way." "One road is as good as another from the field of defeat," Wyatt replied. He looked almost too tired to stand without the help of the door frame. Nick put down the scythe and hung up his hammer. "Come in," he told the other man, and led the way through into the cottage. Once there, he pulled out a stool for his guest and reached for the pot of soup that was hanging over the fire, waiting for his supper. He poured some of this into a bowl and set it before Wyatt, together with a hunk of bread and a cup of ale. The soldier nodded his thanks wearily and began to eat. 94

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"Are you off to France after King Charles?" Nick asked, wondering when Wyatt had last tasted food. The soldier shook his head. "No money. And no inclination, I'm sorry to say." "You were captured?" "Parliament relieved me of everything I own but was gracious enough to leave me my life. I was luckier than some." He sounded bitter and disillusioned, a far cry from the confident officer who had ridden in a month ago. Nick waited quietly until Wyatt had finished the soup and bread, and drunk half the ale. He washed the bowl and spoon, then sat down again. "So where were you going?" Wyatt looked at the floor. "I was told to go and earn myself an honest living. For some reason, I thought of blacksmithing." Nick was surprised, but not as surprised as he should have been. It was true that he had considered taking an apprentice, but had thought more in terms of some compliant young man with more muscle than brain, who'd do as he was told without arguing. He had a feeling Wyatt would be a very different proposition. "It takes seven years to learn to shoe a horse," he pointed out mildly. "That's why I'll leave the farriery to you, but even a dolt like me can surely hammer hot metal into shape. There must be plenty of swords at the moment that need to be beaten into ploughshares." In his mind's eye, Nick saw Wyatt stripped to the waist, bending over the anvil and wielding a hammer. He tried not to let this affect his judgment. He could feel Wyatt's eyes on 95

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him, and after a moment the other man went on, "Maybe I'm presuming too much on our brief acquaintance? I'm well aware that I've no right to ask." He sounded hopeful but diffident, unsure of himself for the first time since Nick had met him. The smith allowed himself a faint smile. "You won't last a week," he stated. Wyatt smiled back. "Maybe not. Try me." "In the forge, I am the master." The smile widened. "And in bed?" "You won't catch me by surprise again." "No." Wyatt's expression changed to rueful. "I'm resigned to spending some time on my back. But not necessarily all the time." Well, that sounded fair enough. This might work, and it might not; time would tell. He stood up and said, "You need some rest. You know where the bed is." As he turned to go back to his work, Wyatt caught his arm. "Thank you," he said simply, and Nick nodded acceptance. As he blew up the fire again, he could hear Wyatt whistling in the bedroom, and after a while, Nick found that he was whistling too. [Back to Table of Contents]

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RIDERS ON THE STORM Eider Grey It's February in Kentucky, and the watery gray roads smell of mud (if you're lucky) and skunk (if you ain't). If you're fast enough, though, the puddles don't matter, and the stink won't stick to your leathers. If you're fast enough, the dead trees on either side of the road turn into a colorless blur, so that you could almost pretend the winter was spent and gone at last. Coyote rides plenty fast enough. His Triumph sounds like Calamity itself, visited on these winding back roads, her engine strained to the limit as he throttles out. Half the gang thinks Coyote hails from warmer places, and that's why he gets so edgy when the winter drags on too long. Copperhead says he reeks of Arizona, maybe even SoCal. Some place made of sun-baked deserts, wide flat roads where you can see miles to every side. Copperhead's never been there himself, of course, but who hasn't seen it on TV? Naturally Coyote's West Coast, says Donner. Can't you see it in his fancy ponytail, in the cut of his leather jacket? No Kentucky boy would flout those fine leather boots, not in this mud. He's gotta be a California twenty-something; you know the type. Wild-eyed, living too fast. You see them on TV, too. The rest say Coyote wishes he were slick as all that; he's just naturally twitchy. They're much more inclined to think he rides because he's running. From the law, says Tuesday Blue. 97

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Jailbreak south of the state line, someplace in Tennessee. Scout disagrees with a scoff, says Coyote's just on the run from his girlfriend's daddy's shotgun. Donner says: More like his boyfriend's. That gets a chuckle all around. Nobody'd tell Coyote to his face that he's pretty, but they all know it's true. Not just the nice copper color to his sleek ponytail, or the striking pale eyes set in that tan face. True enough they're easy on the eyes! And has he got prettier lips than Crystal Sue back home, Scout asks, to watch Tuesday Blue's face get red. Comparative merits of the local girls aside, they all agree that Coyote is hotter than he has any damn right to be. Of the whole club, Poet's the only one to keep his own counsel on their newest member. He's not the type to waste his voice on speculation. What Poet thinks of Coyote is his own business, and nobody knows his mind. Much as they might want to. Nobody rightly knows just where Poet hails from, either, or where he's headed. Scout says he lost that eye in Korea. Tuesday Blue says it was a bad wreck when he returned. But they don't talk about Poet much, truth be told. Doesn't seem right. He's got a hell of a nickname for a biker, especially one as tall and broad-shouldered as he is. You wouldn't blink if he introduced himself as Crusher, or something like. But he's just been Poet, for as long as anyone can remember. It's easier to talk about Coyote, and the way that he takes his corners, the way he leans into the curves of the road like he's making love to the dirty pavement. Poet takes the lead, 98

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of course; he's been around the longest, earned his colors. But Coyote rides second even though he's new, pushing his speed against Poet's tail. He's doing that now. They're not lost, though rightfully only Poet knows the names of these roads. The troupe is riding together, holding tight formation like they're one long vehicle. Laying back the miles, they're each of them craving sunshine and clean pavement, mornings that don't herald more sleet, afternoons that promise long sweet miles to go. But try as they might, it's still February, and spring is long in coming this year. Around sunset, they pull into the Stuckey's, the one at the southern end of the hollow. It's a place where the back roads follow old rivers and lead nowhere, where the trees are tall and the roads are sunken with use, and the locals might be friendly if they know you, but if you're a stranger then they ain't. Poet's Harley is a well-recognized sight in these parts, the man's dark leathers and his silvered head. The place is near empty; their six bikes rumbling up to the curb dominate the parking lot. Their rides need gas, and Donner's grumbling about motoring so long without supper. He'd have a hell of a gut if he didn't work out; all the man thinks of is food. "Hungry?" Tuesday Blue's parked next to Coyote, nodding at the younger man. He knows the answer already, of course; they all do. Coyote won't go inside if he can help it. But Tuesday Blue's a good guy, and he asks every time. Coyote's chaps are splashed with road mud and he cusses at the mess he's made of his boots. He shakes his head. 99

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So they leave him standing in the parking lot, one hip leaning against his still-warm bike. He lights a Marlboro with more flame than necessary, holding down the switch on his lighter to feel the fire react. It's pretty cold with night descending, but Coyote doesn't notice. He's thinking of Poet. What switch to push to release the heat he wants, the jumping blue flame that responds to his touch? Most things just take a light pressure in the right place, but he hasn't found it yet. Not for lack of trying. A year he's spent riding behind, watching Poet's shoulders and his gauntlets flex as he steers. Watching his backside in those jeans, framed so fine in leather chaps. His thighs tightening on his mount with every tight turn. A year rebuffed from every angle, every frustration doubling the burn. But he refuses to think that it's impossible. The edge of the cig goes a little black with the fire, and his tongue tastes the burning. He breathes it hungrily, eating the smoke and holding its heat inside as long as he can stand it, and then another beat more. Not till it's smoked and done does he realize it's his last cigarette. He swears again. The door to the Stuckey's jangles with bells as he steps inside. After standing out in the February chill, it's uncomfortably warm in here, the air close and smothering. Smells of hamburgers—Donner'll be happy. "Coyote." The sound of his name slides down his spine and it's hard to breathe, hard to turn around and look Poet in the eye. But 100

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he has to; there's authority in that voice, and even if he rankles at it, Coyote still knows his place. "Didn't think to see you in here." Poet's in the aisle with the cigarettes, too, looking but not touching. A box of Luckies has his eye. Coyote can't help the grin. "Thought you quit." Only he would dare press that button; three aisles over, Copperhead makes an incredulous sound under his breath. But their road captain won't rise to the bait. "I did." There might be a smile in his one good eye, but his mouth doesn't twitch. "No harm to window shopping." Coyote, who has never quit a vice and never claimed to, shrugs. He looks at Poet through his eyelashes. "Sure, if looking's good enough for you." Maybe Poet knows that Coyote is trying to get to him; maybe he doesn't care. Coyote palms a soft pack of Marlboros, the old kind, unfiltered. His favorite. Even though they're still in the plastic, he lifts the pack to his face, breathing slow. He feels Poet watching him. Somewhere beneath the convenience store staleness, there's the scent of tobacco: sweet, smoky sin. Coyote licks his lips. Poet swallows hard. The temperature skyrockets, and Coyote thinks the ceiling just got maybe two feet shorter. It's more than enough to get him hard. Hell, he was already halfway there, just standing outside thinking about the man's pants. Poet's still looking at the shelf, though, like he's thinking of buying a pack of smokes after all. Or like he's trying not to 101

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meet Coyote's eyes. His gloves are off, Coyote realizes; the fingers trailing patterns in the dust are bare. At that moment, a door opens behind Poet's back. It's Scout, walking out of the little one-room bathroom. Coyote weighs his options in the time it takes him to draw two breaths. Not a lot of room in there; not a lot of light, either. But on the other hand? He thinks of the dim and cramped space, thinks of Poet's hands against the graffitied wall. Thinks of his own hands shucking down that tight denim. Thinks of Poet's knuckles scraping the plaster walls—thinks of someone rattling the door handle right as Poet loses some of that self-control. It sets his teeth on edge, and makes his own jeans uncomfortably tight. Coyote's mind is made up; he kicks himself into gear like releasing the brake and adding full throttle. If it gets him kicked out of the club, then he'll turn in his colors. At least he'll have tried. Nobody's looking, but honestly Coyote's beyond caring. He shoves the Marlboros into his back pocket, and in the moment that Poet opens his mouth to ask a question, Coyote maneuvers both of them back into the little bathroom. He's got Poet by the elbows, digging his fingers into the leather jacket. Surprise is unfolding on the older man's face, and it makes Coyote hungry. Something you didn't expect, old man? I've got more up my sleeve, 'f you wanna see. He moans deep in his throat; he can't help it. He's never been so close to Poet, not alone, not enough to tell he smells of gasoline and February rain, or to see the edge of the scar peeking out from underneath his eyepatch. 102

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Surprise almost shifts to annoyance. Poet turns his face, gives Coyote the unnerving sightless glare of his blind side. He says, "What are you doing, k—" Coyote hears it coming a mile away, Poet ready to call him "kid." Maybe to pin his hands to his sides and give him a talking-to, all tough. But he's got Poet's back to the wall, and all he has to do is slide a thigh between Poet's legs, to get him good and off balance. Instead of "kid," Poet's breath stutters out as, "Coyote." The word hitches against the back of his tongue, just so, and his chin tips back so his head bumps the wall. It's like the note his Harley makes when the engine kicks in, breathing warm exhaust into the chilly day. Nobody else's bike sounds quite like Poet's; nobody's voice sounds quite like Poet's. A couple of decades of smoking unfiltered cigs of his own gives his voice that raspy edge, no matter that he's quit them now. Coyote leans closer, and it's not his imagination that Poet's got a boner of his own, whether or not he meant to. It's just like the moment when the bike heats up between Coyote's thighs, that growl of the engine that sounds deep and low from his boots to his belt buckle. He's so keyed up he can feel his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He's got Poet against the door, their legs pressed hard against each other, his hands up under his leathers and the T-shirt beneath. And Poet wants it. Poet makes a low noise, not admitting surrender with his voice, but with the angle of his back and the spread of his 103

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boots, the splay of his fingers against the wall. The long, slow sound of a zipper baring its tiny hot teeth. It's invitation enough. Coyote's fingers fumble at his own fly, and skin against skin is even hotter when there's no fabric in the way. Poet's cock juts from a nest of salt and pepper curls, ruddy, more than ready. But it's not his dick that Coyote wants. Coyote punches the battered old dispenser twice; gets three foil wrappers for his trouble. Two of them he crams in his pocket, but the last one he opens with his teeth, impatient. It's crap, and he might've suspected as much from a machine older than he is. But even though it's cheap, the condom slides down over his dick nice and slick and snug. Hell, yeah. Feels so damn good he forgets to be particular. He nudges his cock against the southern end of Poet's hollow, and finds a welcome far, far better than any pit-stop Stuckey's. Coyote drives himself in, and Poet takes it. It's like riding so fast that the rain won't hit you. It's like losing track of the miles, curve after curve, craving the distance and the speed for their own sake. It's coming so fast and hard that February doesn't matter, winter doesn't matter anymore— Poet has his own cock in his hands, working himself in time with Coyote's desperate rhythm. His good eye is closed, and he's saying Coyote's name through his teeth, again and again. Fuck if it doesn't sound like poetry. 104

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Coyote loses it, spilling himself hot and hard into that welcoming heat. **** When Poet clicks open the restroom door, it can't have been more than a few minutes. Donner's on his third cheeseburger, and Scout and Tuesday Blue are arguing over the price of gas. Poet straightens the strap on his eyepatch, and only Coyote is close enough to hear that he's winded. Coyote can't wipe the fool grin from his face. Poet puts his hand in Coyote's back pocket, warm fingers sliding against denim—and pulling out the packet of Marlboros. "Don't forget to pay for these." Coyote's air leaves him in a rush, and he scowls. After all that, Poet's thinking of the goddamn cigarettes? But the look that he fixes Coyote with isn't stern, it's ... something else. Coyote wonders just who has gotten the better of whom, here. "'Course," he lies. "Was just going to." Back outside, he straddles his Triumph like he's mounting a lover, a lover of steel and horsepower and chrome. He feels like a million bucks. When Poet's Harley stutters to life, the sound is so like his own orgasm that Coyote laughs out loud. The other bikers look at him like he's lost his marbles, but then again that's nothing out of the ordinary. Tuesday Blue looks like he might say something, but thinks better of it at the last minute. He shakes his head, smiles. It's time for speed. They rev out of the dilapidated parking lot with a roar of departing engines. 105

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DRIVE Jamie Booth I. I know him from the gym. Or, rather, from the bar next to the gym. We've just come up with the plan when I think of him; we're identifying the gaps and filling them in, when I think of him and think he's perfect. **** I've never seen him with a woman, although really I've never seen him drinking with anyone at all. Today he's sitting at the bar undoing his daily dose of free weights with a pint of wifebeater. He's hunched over his mobile phone, his hand dwarfs it, his thumb working away on those tiny keys, clickclickclick; it looks faintly ridiculous. I edge in next to him, order the same as he's got. It's a while before he looks up and seems to notice me. "All right?" I nod. His eyes flick up to mine for the briefest second and he nods in answer like he's barely even registered me. I can't tell if there's any recognition there, like if he's noticed me noticing him bench-pressing eighty, so I'm wondering if this is really a good idea. But he's as good as anyone, I suppose. I say, "I've seen you 'round, yeah?" I'm moving my pint glass in circles on the bar top, can just hear the circle noise it makes over the tinny sound of bad chart R&B coming from 107

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the speakers. I keep my eyes on it, round and round. Keep it casual. He flips his phone shut then and looks at me properly. Big, dumb metalhead with that straggling hair the color of mice and a neck as thick as my thigh. Not my type, not at all; he's got that air of casual violence about him like he could snap you in half with his mind. His eyes, though, they're soft and brown and amused and I can feel him looking me up and down, and I can tell. Him staring like that, it makes the back of my neck prickle, starts up this burn along my cheekbones. I try and ignore it, push it down. I say, "I might have a proposition for you, mate." One corner of his mouth actually quirks up in an almostsmile at that, his eyes crinkle at the corners before I realize how bad I worded it; and me, the Brains as well. Never send the Brains to do the Talk's job. I say, "How'd you feel about making some cash? On the quiet?" Digging myself in deeper, I realize; that mocking smile widens just slightly, a hint of white teeth. He swivels round on his stool to face me, legs apart, one elbow propped on the bar, radiating the irritating confidence of the beautiful not-too-bright. You don't have to be a rocket-scientist to put a car in gear, though, right? Big, steady, obedient; that's what we need, just like the Gun. I say, "You drive?" and his eyes glitter, his grin wobbles, and I want to walk out, rewind the afternoon and start over again. I look him levelly in the eye, look, serious face, and to be fair he takes it in his stride and cuts me some slack and says, "Yeah. Got my Heavy Goods License an' all. What you proposing, then?" 108

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This is when it suddenly strikes me that he's hot. II. I guess you think it's a bad idea, recruiting some guy I hardly know for something like this? He could be anyone, why should I trust him? It's better though, best not to have too many ties or too much loyalty at stake, in case things take a turn for the worse. I've smelled pot on him before now a few times, drawn conclusions from the way he looks; enough to know he's not going to be trouble even if he doesn't take the job, not like he'll be running to turn us in. But he takes the job. Sticking out his hand, palm flat, he says, "I'm Sam." We shake. "Jase." I say. This is before we've decided to stop using our real names; now, we're the Brains, the Talk, the Gun. Now he's the Driver. He only comes to one planning meeting. When he turns up, I can see it on the Talk's face; who the fuck is this moron? But the Driver sits quiet, takes it all in, looks like he's listening but doesn't say a word and you can tell the Talk's pleased with this. For some reason, the fact he's pleased makes me pleased in turn. Proud, like. Pleased with myself for finding our fourth wheel, pleased with the Driver for acting the part. I'm feeling quite ... what's the right word? Proprietorial over my new recruit, like he's my protégé or something. The Talk's referring to him as Brains' Boy with this stupid smile on his face like he knows the score and even though I can't stand the rat-faced dickhead half the time, that still gives me a little glow. My boy, right? The Gun couldn't give a shit either way—he'll go along with it, do what he's 109

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told, in and out and get some cash. He's the one who's getting hold of the car but I don't even know the Gun's surname. III. We're in suits. I've had a shave. The car arrives for us one at a time and I'm last. The Talk's face is pinched, peering through the side window, hands clenched on his briefcase handle. The Driver leans over to fling open the passenger door for me; he's got his hair tied back with an elastic band and engineer boots on, heavy on the pedals. He's wearing this black T-shirt for some fucking awful metal group, the logo so bristling with spikes that it's unintelligible. When we pull up outside, the Driver says, "Three minutes." And opens the glove-box, pulls something out. I can't believe it. The Talk says, "No. No fucking magazine." He snatches this heavy metal mag from the Driver's hands. He's on edge, his eyes darting everywhere. He says, "Concentrate, for Christ's sake." It's too late in the day for this. We're off kilter as we go in. ...And as we come out. Early. Spill into the street with a wailing of alarms. We forget who's sitting where, pile in and I'm in the back, staring at the back of the Gun's ginger head. "Go! Move!" The Driver floors the clutch. His docile eyes are wide with panic; his hands shake with adrenaline as he fumbles the gears and the car stalls. "Fucking move!" 110

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I guess a HGV license doesn't prepare you for this. We leave twin stripes of black rubber as we wheel-spin out of the avenue. **** They're not helping matters. There's pretty much a constant stream of bad temper back and forth between the Gun and the Talk, most of it aimed at the Driver. They're blaming him for the mess, for being behind schedule, for stalling the car. They carry on, elaborating on this fantasy of everything falling down—we'll get caught and it's the Driver's fault, prison, and it's the Driver's fault; they're not helping at all. I can see his hands on the wheel and they're still shaking. Being big, bravado, the strong silent type—it's no indication of whether you'll go to pieces in a crisis. I know that now, right? I should say something to calm it down, shut them all up, defuse things, like. But I'm damned if I'm going to redirect their bitching at me instead. Sudden, he slams his foot down on the brake, emergency stops right there in the street, sending me and the Talk nosediving into the back of the front seats. The Talk erupts this immediate torrent of abuse, blood spouting from his nose down his white shirt front. The Gun just turns and punches the Driver, hard, in the side of the head. The Driver's eyes roll back for a second and he reels, shakes his head like a cartoon character, gathering himself to retaliate. The Gun rabbitpunches him, twice, three times. Cracks him square in the temple—I cringe, that soft spot—and he slumps forward over the wheel, out of it. 111

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"Roll him out. Quick." "No, wait," the Talk says, "If we leave him, they'll pick him up and he'll talk." I say, "So what? He doesn't know anything. He doesn't even know your names, only knows my first name. Leave him," Leave him out of it, "he'll slow us down." "He'll give descriptions. Put him in the back." the Talk says, "Move it!" All of this in about thirty seconds. He's heavy as we heft him onto the back seat. I slam the driver door closed and think I should've driven to start. IV. "What the fuck was that?" the Talk says, pacing. The Driver still looks dazed, slipping sideways on a plastic chair. "What are you, undercover police?" "No, nothing like that." His voice rasps, sounds dry, whispers around the bare walls. Everything echoes in here; an office that's between occupants, anonymous and out-ofthe-way. The Talk arranged it. Low rent, no questions asked. Or answered. There's one corporate-issue desk covered in chipped wood-look Formica. No carpet. The plastic chairs look artificially orange under the fluorescent strip-lighting. Everyone looks pale, and hunted. The Driver looks the palest. "So what the hell—" The Talk punctuates it with a smack around the back of the Driver's head and the big guy flinches, more out of irritation than actual pain. "—was that back there, then?" I'm leaning against the wall, chewing on my lip, praying the Driver doesn't get chippy, that he doesn't try and get up 112

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or fight back no matter how pathetic the Talk's' girly little slaps are. But he's not stupid, he knows the Gun's sitting there behind him, out of his line of vision. I'm trying to avoid his eyes because I really don't want to get involved in this, I don't even want to be here any more, but then of course I have to look up. And he's staring at me, questioning. I lift one shoulder, just shrug, barely. I don't know. "I don't know," he says quietly. "You don't know?" The Talk's voice is going high and silly. If this was a gangster film I'd be ripping the piss out of it by now. The Talk smacks him again and he frowns and ducks away from the blow. It's like watching a mosquito annoy a lion or something; I have this hysterical urge to laugh. The Driver says, "I don't—I mean, I just ... panicked, yeah? I'm sorry. I didn't realize..." He doesn't look scared, like. He doesn't even look that bothered. I watch him through my eyelashes and think, he doesn't know what he's dealing with; he really is that naïve. He looks like some kid who's been called to the headmaster's office: unrepentant, bored and eager to give the insincerely correct answers that will give him the quickest access to freedom. The Talk turns his back. He struts away across the office and kicks a leg of the desk, hard. He keeps kicking and kicking and laying into this tin waste-paper bin too, hammering it around the bare concrete of the floor so the hollow metal echoes build and multiply, until it lands with a clang in a corner, its gray enamel paint all over silver-edged dents. The Driver watches him with detached interest; I can't tell what he's thinking. He could be planning some genius way 113

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out of the situation or deciding what he'll have for his dinner, for all it shows on his face. I stop slouching against the wall, stand up straight, avoid their eyes. I'm getting a really bad feeling about this. **** "Steve." The Gun jumps, visibly, when he hears his name mentioned. It's been so long since we used names. The Talk says, "Get here." And the Gun hoists himself up and walks behind the orange plastic chair. His hair in the sickly light is orange too, bristling. He runs a hand through it. The Talk says, "He needs sorting out." "Hey, come on now..." It's my own voice. When they all turn to look at me, even the Driver, I wish I'd shut up. "There's no need. I mean." I'm keeping the shake out of my tone. I'm doing it well. "Nobody knows where we are. Nobody knows who we are. We switched the cars fine—so what if they pull some DNA or whatever from the first one if there's even anything left of it, we've got no previous, we're not on record." I stop, take a breath. "We had our faces covered inside. None of us are so interesting that they'll get us just off witness descriptions." The Gun snorts a little laugh at that, but I can see the Talk glaring evils at the Driver, thinking except him, the liability. And who brought him into the camp, eh? I say, "So no need for any heavy stuff." The Gun looks a bit disappointed. But the Driver is looking at me like I'm his knight in shining armor 114

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or something, so much I can feel my face start to burn again and I have to look away. "Is there fuck no need." I know it, the Talk wants to see some blood, as in some blood that's not his own. He's a vengeful little prick and no mistake. He twists his fingers into the Driver's hair, yanks his head back roughly and you can tell that does hurt him, his teeth bared in annoyance—I can almost feel it, a staccato of hairs ripping free from his scalp. The Talk nods at the Gun. "Sort him out." He lets go of the Driver's hair and takes a step back, and next second the Driver's head snaps smartly back, quick as a whip. His chin lolls against his chest as he gasps for breath. The Gun smacks him again, so fast I barely register it, just stare in horror, paralyzed, thinking say something, say something. A cut's opened along the Driver's eye socket, glistening red like a split pomegranate. His t-shirt's ridden up and I notice, in sharp focus, a vein standing out just under the soft, furred skin of his taut belly. There's panic in his eyes. I'm starting to, really inappropriately, feel turned-on. Then he says, "Wait. Stop. I'll play." V. He's looking at me when he says that, like he expects me to save him from something. And no mistake, he's a big lad, he could take a beating and get back up smiling, but this is nails-in-baseball-bat territory. This is might-not-wake-upagain territory. The Gun makes to hit him again, but the Talk is interested and halts him with a raised hand. Watch. 115

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**** Shakily, the Driver slides off his chair and onto his knees, keeping his head bent down low. It's an unmistakably submissive gesture and it looks so weird on a man of his size. The Talk can't take his eyes off him; he's fascinated. It's me the Driver's looking at the whole time. He licks his lips, maybe nervous, maybe something else, maybe a little of both, and my cock twitches. Perhaps he was planning some genius way out of this situation, after all. I say, "Ah, come on..." I try a little laugh, but my throat's closed up and it won't even come out. When I look at the Talk, he's wearing this evil little smile like he's just had a brilliant idea what he's really into. He says, "Go on, Jase. Your call. You'll enjoy it." I hate him. I hate that he's right. I hate that he's finding this so funny, thinking he's punishing both of us at the same time and getting his kicks to boot. Part of me knows I should say, fuck you. Fuck you all, I don't owe you this. Walk out of the door and not look back and leave them to take it out on the incompetent prick any way they like—the second he stuffed up, he's no longer my responsibility. Part of me, the blood's starting to pound. The Driver's trying to keep his head down and look scared but I catch his eye and it's pure lust. It really is just some adventure to him. Just go with it? I want him, I can't help it. Kneeling down like that, his face is level with my crotch. I hold him by the hair too, but a handful at the back where it won't hurt too much. Not too much. I haul 116

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him to his feet; I'm not a small guy by any means but he's almost a head taller than me and standing this close, it makes me feel stupid. How dare he not be scared, the stupid bastard. A little fuse of anger flares inside me and I push him, stumbling, toward the desk. VI. He shakes like a racehorse, all that pent-up energy. Any other circumstance and I guess he'd have me by the throat, flipped and pinned easily. But right now with two guys standing by looking for revenge, ready to kick the shit out of him if he makes a break for it; well, he's in a bind. The thought of it has me hard as hell. One hand on the back on his neck, I press his head down, face mashed sideways against the fake wooden desktop. His hands splay palms flat, either side of his head, bracing himself. I hear the Gun say, "This is bullshit." And I hear the door slam as he leaves, but I can't take my eyes off the Driver's arse. It's enough to make me able to forget the Talk's even still in the room. I bend down over him—the height thing isn't noticeable now, is it, big guy? No, not so tough now. I'm getting into this. I move up against him, make sure he can feel how hard I am, pressed up against his tight backside. From here I see the side of his face in disgusting, thrilling close-up: stubble and open pores and the regimental stripe of one sideburn. My voice buzzes moistly against his ear as I whisper it, "Spread your legs." 117

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I feel him shudder down the whole length of my body. He shuffles his feet apart, moving with difficulty because I'm weighing down on him, like. Reaching around, I tug open his belt buckle and wriggle his combats down, bunched up with his shorts. My hand brushes his hard-on, thick and wet against my palm, and he jerks back against me involuntarily. When I sink two fingers inside him, he bleats a tiny noise that sounds like surrender. My useless recruit; how well do you perform away from a car? I add another finger, twist. I scissor them brutally wide. He's tight, really tight. It crosses my mind he might not have taken it before—yeah, all right, it's unlikely. It's just my fantasy. Look at him; I can't see his face, just the notches of his spine where his shirt's pushed up and he's bending right forward, how the material of his shirt's pulled taut across his big shoulders and I still can't read whatever that ridiculous band name is. He's so used to fucking, so unaccustomed to being fucked. I work my fingers right in, right out, slowly. He works his cock against the smooth veneer of the desktop, and I choose to let him. I'm rubbing myself up and down the furred crack of his arse, getting him wet, making sure he knows what he's in for and how big. I line up the head of my cock and ease it relentlessly in, as he exhales a keening whine and clenches around me. And I take it slow; I want to enjoy this. His shoulders are stiff with the effort of trying to relax. I bend right over him, just working my hips, moving just slightly inside him. From here I can hear him gritting his teeth. Beneath my fingertips I can feel the sweat breaking out on his skin, can smell it, can hear his ragged breathing. I stand 118

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up, lean back, moving just slightly, just slightly. As he gets a little more accustomed, he begins, clumsily to push back against me. I lean over him again, then, grip his hips and start to pound, the sound of skin on skin punctuating the empty-building silence. **** I come, in stutters, my mouth full of his dry hair. Across the room, the Talk stands up, abruptly, with a rude scrape of chair legs across the floor. He nods, that's that, then, and walks out of the room. When I hear the door bang I feel like I can exhale for the first time in like, an hour. The tension's suddenly replaced by this weird wave of almost ... euphoria. Leaning close over the Driver, I say, "You got off lightly." I'm still catching my breath. From his position, still bent over the desk, I hear his whispered reply, "Next time." [Back to Table of Contents]

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IN THE HOLE CB Potts "Do you ever think about it?" Mark asked, voice dropped low enough so he could only be heard by every living soul in a five mile radius. "All that tail, in there, behind bars, can't get away?" Grant rolled his eyes. "No. Don't be stupid. I'm not gonna look at a fuckin' inmate like that." "I thought that was the fantasy, man." Mark was way deep into his beer at this point, a sloppy reminder of why Grant seldom, unlike his fellow Correction Officers, stopped at the Ninth Ward after work for a cold one. "Cages full of men who ain't never gonna get laid the regular way, all willing to do anything for a blow job." "Man, you're sick." Grant dropped a couple bucks on the bar and stood up. "'Sides which, I'm not all that homely. I don't need no date that lives in a cage." "But that's where Mark finds all his dates," Patty, the bartender, scooped up the bills with a smile. "Down at the kennels at the SPCA." "Very funny." Mark took another pull on his beer. "Why would I go way the hell down there for a bitch when you're already here?" Grant laughed, and made a point of getting out of the bar before Patty hurled her reply. **** 120

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"You're home late," Rusty said, looking up from the morning paper. "Any bullshit?" "Nah." Grant grinned. It still tickled him to come home and find Rusty there, even though the wiry guard had long since recovered from a nasty go-round with an out-of-control inmate. "At least, nothing unusual." Rusty raised an eyebrow, so Grant continued. "Mark wanted me to stop by the Ninth with him, have a beer." Grant shrugged. "Sometimes you gotta, you know?" Maintaining a good relationship with one's colleagues—the men who might, at a moment's notice, literally have to save your ass—is a critical part of a CO's life. Hurt feelings, suspicions—any little emotional rift—can slow response times, just enough, when you need it the most. "I know," Rusty said. "He is an ass, though." "Agreed." Blueberry muffins generally aren't considered ideal for after-beer consumption, but Grant managed to devour one just the same. "He was on about it again, too." "'Bout what?" "Me being gay." While it hadn't been a secret, Grant never made an issue out of being out at work. It wasn't the type of thing you wanted inmates to know—and frankly, Grant could have lived without Mark knowing, as well. Rusty's eyes narrowed. "What did he say?" "Nothing much. Did I like the idea of having all the guys in cages, that kind of shit." Rusty snorted. "Typical." "Yeah." "You didn't tell him the truth, did you?" 121

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Grant looked up to find Rusty's bright eyes staring directly at him. "What do you mean?" "That you got no business checking out convict cock," Rusty said, folding his arms over his chest. "Considering you'd rather be in the cage than guarding it." Even now, after everything, Grant could still blush. "I don't know what you mean." "I don't know what you mean, Sir." Rusty's voice dropped a notch, into a more authoritative register. Grant's cock twitched in response, untouched. Untouched. Not unnoticed. "Isn't that what you meant to say?" Rusty asked. "Yes, Sir." Grant replied, a little convict attitude coming quickly to his tongue. "I'm sure that was what I meant to say ... Sir." "Enough bullshit." Rusty stood up, the stride and bearing all CO, despite the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing. "Turn out." "Man," Grant whined, although his fingers dropped to his uniform buttons fast enough. "You pigs always making us turn out. Gets you off, I bet, having us strip down all the time." "Enough lip." Grant's uniform was on the floor already, white T-shirt stark and bright against the Empire blue. "I don't have all day here." "Pushy motherfucker." Pants shed, Grant stood before Rusty clad only in white socks and underwear. "This do for you, Sir?" 122

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"Not hardly." Rusty's gaze fell on Grant's briefs. "Who knows what you're hiding in there? Take 'em off." "I want my lawyer." Grant slouched, shoulders hunched forward, doing his best to look the part of an inmate. "You can't make me do that." "You want the hole?" Rusty stepped closer, until he was almost nose to nose with Grant. "Do you know how much it'll bother me to throw your ass in Ad Seg, boy?" Sweat broke out on Grant's forehead, a fine sheen of need. "Not a bit, Sir." It was not a question, but Rusty answered anyway. "That's right. So get out of them damn drawers, and do it now." Grant was hard already. There was no denying it—not when he had to stretch the elastic waistband way the hell out to maneuver around his swollen cock. His briefs fell around his ankles, kicked, almost as an afterthought, to join the rest of his discarded uniform. "I'm gonna assume," Rusty said, "that you weren't dumb enough to hide anything in your socks. So you can keep them on." He grinned, just for a second, before adding, "'Sides, the floors are cold." "Thank you, Sir." "Still," Randy replied, "I've got to check you over. Feet apart, hands together." Grant assumed the position. Rusty's fingertips were featherlight at his temples. "I really should have gloves. Who the hell knows what you've gotten hidden in here?" His fingers slid, authoritatively, firmly, 123

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through Grant's hair. This was clearly not a caress. It was a search, pushing through brushy locks for the concealed bit of wire or sharpened melted plastic, as hard as and deadly as steel. That knowledge didn't stop Grant from moaning a little and leaning into Rusty's hands. "You little whore," Rusty whispered. "You wouldn't last a day inside, would you? First guard who touched you would know how easy you are." Grant grinned. "Only if he was you." "Hmmph." Rusty let his fingers traced round Grant's ears, tugging once at the lobes. "Only if he was you, Sir." His hands slid down the length of Grant's neck and over bulging shoulders. "Don't think you can sweet talk me out of this search, boy. I know you're holding." Cruel fingers closed round Grant's nipples. "I've just got to find it." "I don't got nothing." Surly. Rusty laughed. "Like I'm gonna believe that." He pulled on Grant's nipples, strong and steady, stretching the tender flesh until Grant was forced to take a half step forward. A shoulder in the sternum was his reward, putting him down on the kitchen floor hard. His legs sprawled out in front of him, one foot nearly touching the front of the refrigerator. The tile was cold against his ass, but not nearly as cold as the look in Rusty's eyes. "Did I tell you you could move, boy?" "No, Sir, you didn't." Grant's cock was so hard it was wrecking his hearing. His head was full of pounding need, need, need, clouding his vision. 124

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"Roll over," Rusty barked. "Here?" Grant looked around the kitchen. There was barely enough space to flatten out—his shoulders were nearly as broad as the distance separating the refrigerator door from the breakfast island. "You gotta be kidding." He never saw the slap coming, lightning quick pain flattening itself against his cheek with a loud crack. "I said get down!" Cheek flaming, Grant stared at Rusty. He had a hundred pounds on his lover, easy. All he'd have to do is stand up, and this little game of pretend could be over. More than over. He could chuck the cocky little bastard under his arm and throw him out in the yard. It wouldn't take nothing. Rusty had skills, to be sure, but Grant had experience to spare. Still, it would mean the end of the scene. Not only the scene, but his relationship with Rusty. While Rusty might not be everything he wanted, Grant thought, it was the closest he was ever going to get. "Yes, Sir." Gods, the tile was cold. Frigid against his bare stomach, torture on his nipples. And his cock? His achingly hard cock? Trapped between an unyielding icy floor and the weight of too many cheeseburgers, it had no where to go and nothing to do. It was awesome. Rusty apparently thought so too, striding over to peer down at Grant. "When the hell are you going to learn to listen?" he asked, kicking Grant's legs apart, none too gently. 125

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"I don't know, Sir." Rusty sighed. "We'll keep working on it till you do, boy." He bent over and picked up Grant's discarded uniform pants. They jingled in his hands, half a dozen keys and carabineers hanging from the thick leather belt still trapped within the navy polyester loops. Rusty took no notice of any of that, opting instead for a thin white plastic strip tucked innocuously around the largest key ring. "You're lucky Sarge didn't see this," he commented, tone almost neutral. "One of the boys snatched this off of you, it could be an issue." Grant said nothing. "Hands behind the back," Rusty snapped, falling back into guard mode. "Now, boy!" Grant near to dislocated his shoulders, bringing his beefy fists together in the small of his back. Rusty looped the small plastic strip round Grant's fists, pulling the zip tie tight. There was no way Grant was getting out of them until Rusty cut it off. He was trapped. Simple and effective, inmates had been trying for years to work their way out of the zip tie handcuffs. You couldn't break them, you couldn't chew them, you couldn't even, with the help of a friendly cellie, melt them off. All of that was doubly true when your hands were secured behind your back, difficult to see, much less work on. Not difficult to feel, though. Grant could already feel the dull ache in his arms, biceps stretching out to accommodate the unusual pose. 126

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"Tight enough, Sir?" he spat out. "Or are you trying to cut off my circulation, give me gangrene or some shit?" "We still got attitude, eh?" Rusty bent over, grabbed Grant's cuffed fists, and pulled upward. "Why don't you get on your feet and we'll see if we can't do something about that?" Rising from a prone position is difficult. Rising without using your hands, in response to tremendous force jerking you up and backward, isn't any easier. And when Rusty planted a foot in the back of one awkwardly bent knee and pushed just enough, Grant went sprawling flat on his face. "I thought I said get up, boy!" "Motherfucker!" Grant pulled his knees under his stomach, gaining a moment's worth of balance before trying to rise again. "You pigs're all dirty motherfuckers!" "Really?" Rusty dropped one hand to Grant's exposed ass, pushing the cheeks apart. "I wouldn't say I'm the dirty one here, boy." Grant froze, feeling the cool air invading space normally kept body-heat warm. A blush rose in his cheeks, the scarlet heat of humiliation warming him. Warming him, and sending a fresh jolt of blood right to his cock. "You think I like that?" Rusty asked. "Looking at your skanky convict ass?" Grant said nothing. Rusty responding with a stinging swat to Grant's rump. "That was not a rhetorical question, boy." 127

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Grant struggled to his feet. "Yes, Sir. I do think you like looking at my skanky convict ass." He turned his head to stare over his shoulder at Rusty, who still had a firm hold of the zip tie cuffs. "I think you like it a lot." Rusty laughed. "Think pretty well of yourself, don't ya?" A twist of the arm, and Grant suddenly felt the need to walk forward through the kitchen. "Let's see how you do after some time in the hole, boy." Grant's bedroom wasn't particularly ornate. Hardwood floors, a double bed, a dresser with a mirror on it. Sparse. The type of room a bachelor kept, if he tended toward the obsessive-compulsive, and couldn't stand clutter. Which is why the sight of a pile of clothes, still all on hangers, surprised him so much. Slumped in front of the room's lone window, it looked as if all of the contents of his closet had tried to make a break for it, escaping to the great backyard of freedom—the whole jail break failing when confronted with the glass pane of reality blocking their progress. "What the hell?" he asked, the words flying out of his mouth faster than thought. "Shut up," Rusty snapped. "You're in a mess of trouble as it is, boy. Don't make it worse for yourself." "I don't see how that could happen," Grant snapped back. "I know the way you pigs think. This is the worst you got for me." "Really?" A vicious shove, and Grant found himself sprawled across the bed. "You have no idea, boy." Grant shivered. Rusty clearly had plans. 128

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Of course, he took his time sharing what those plans might be, taking his sweet ass time running both hands over the back of Grant's splayed legs, cupping Grant's bum before sliding up over his back. "You're asking for time in the hole, and time in the hole is what you're going to get," Rusty said. "Maybe an hour. Maybe more. Whatever you need to get that smart mouth of yours under control." "An hour? What's an hour?" Rusty laughed. "It might just be the longest hour of your life, boy." His voice shifted somewhat, then, from guard mode to the more familiar lover's tone. "Your safe word is Red Light. It gets to be too much, you tell me Red Light. Understood?" "Yeah," Grant said, mind racing. What exactly was Rusty up to that he needed a safe word? They'd never played with one before. "Red Light." His cock was pounding, curiosity as much an aphrodisiac as contact. "Sir." "Good boy." Rusty walked to the dresser, opened a drawer. "I did some shopping the other day, you know." His footsteps echoed in the room as he returned to the bed, the only sound save Grant's breathing. "So you wouldn't be bored while you're in the hole." A finger, slick with lube, slid between Grant's cheeks, brushing the wrinkled surface of his pucker. "Shopping for what, Sir?" Grant asked, softly. "None of your business, boy." The finger started pushing in, slowly, an inch at a time. "Convicts don't get to ask no questions." 129

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"You can't do this!" Grant protested, starting to rock his hips from side to side. "It's against the law." Rusty laughed. "Who's going to stop me?" Another finger slid in beside the first, none too gently. "You're just some mouthy inmate with an attitude problem. Nobody cares what happens to you." Grant moaned. "That's better, boy." Rusty started moving his fingers a little faster. "That's the type of sound I want to hear out of you. That's what that mouth is for." "Oh, really?" Grant lifted his head to look back at Rusty. "Is that what it's for?" Rusty smiled. "You just couldn't keep quiet, could you? God knows you don't have the sense He gave a goose." He pulled his fingers out, with a slick, sodden pop. "That's why you're going to the hole, boy. Straighten your ass out." "I don't think that's possible." Grant smiled. He liked this, the comfortable give and take with Rusty. "We'll see." Rusty held up a butt plug, thick and flared and obscenely pink. "If I can't do it, it's not gonna be from lack of trying." Grant's eyes went wide. That plug was huge! "That's never gonna fit," he said, fighting off the urge to scramble off the bed and run. "Sir." "We'll see." Rusty cocked his head. "What's your safe word?" "Red Light," Grant responded. "Sir." "That's what I want to hear," Rusty said, "if this turns out to be more than you can bear." He raised a finger. "Not if it 130

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hurts, not if it's uncomfortable. You are being punished, you realize. I want you to feel it. I want you to think about the consequences of your attitude." Grant swallowed. "Yes, Sir." He let his head fall flat on the bed, burying his face in the blanket. He'd clearly told Rusty too much about his fantasies, about his need to be punished, to be held accountable for all the things he'd thought but could never say. Told too much, and this was the result. It was terrifying and exhilarating—so much so that Grant didn't know whether to moan or cry when he felt the plug starting to slide in. Rusty was going slow. It was clear he didn't want to hurt Grant, not in that pain-for-no-reason sense of hurt. But the plug was big—way thicker than Rusty's fingers. Even thicker than Rusty's cock. It widened as it went deeper, forcing Grant's bowels to take more and more and more inside. Rusty leaned over the bed to whisper in Grant's ear. "You should see how hot you are right now. Filled up and helpless." He bit Grant's ear, just a little. "Are you scared, boy?" "Yes, Sir." Grant turned his head so he was facing Rusty. "Please let me go, Sir. I'll do anything." Rusty reached down and grabbed the base of the plug. "You silly boy." He pushed the plug the last few inches necessary to disappear within Grant's ass. "You're going to do that anyway." Grant groaned, biting his lip. "Oh God, Sir! I can't take any more." 131

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Rusty smiled. "That's too bad, boy. There's lots more coming." He bounced off the bed, the reverberations in the mattress causing the rubber plug to jostle, ever so gently, within Grant. "Oh my God," he said, hunching his hips against the mattress. "I'm gonna, Rusty." Rusty grabbed hold of Grant's cuffed hands and hauled him to your feet. "No, you're not." Grant blinked at him. "I'm not?" A small leather strap snapped round the base of his throbbing cock, put in place by an insanely grinning Rusty. "No, you're not. There's no rewards for bad attitude, boy." He shouldered Grant around until he was facing the closet. "You're headed for the hole, remember?" It was clear where all the clothes had come from. The closet was completely bare: no shoes on the floor, no boxes of old papers stowed up on the shelf. Rusty had even unscrewed the light bulb from the ceiling. There was, however, a shiny silver hook stuck into the back wall. It was roughly two and a half feet from the ground, a strange height. Grant didn't have much time to ponder the logistics of the situation. Rusty had him on his knees in the closet in two seconds flat—the zip tie handcuffs neatly fitting onto the silver hook, securing him to the wall. "Welcome to the hole," Rusty said. "You're going to spend an hour in there, thinking about your attitude." He let his fingers trace over Grant's cheek. "Thinking about me, and how you need to treat the guards if you want to get by in this 132

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outfit." He let his voice drop. "You want respect, boy, you got to give respect. When I open up this door next, that's what I want. Some respect. Do you understand?" Grant looked up at Rusty, at the set line of his jaw, the strange light glinting in his eyes. Letting his eyes drop lower, he took in the raging hard on his lover clearly had, barely confined in a pair of tight blue jeans. "Yes, sir." "Good." Rusty smiled and reached around to his back pocket. "Just to make sure you don't get distracted, I've got a little something you can wear." Grant shifted his hips, feeling the weight of the plug tilting within him in response. "I think I'm wearing enough, Sir." The strap round his cock was damnably tight. "Really." "I'm sure you do." Rusty shook the stocking hat in front of Grant's face. "But you're not the one in charge here." He slid the cap over Grant's close-cropped hair, unrolling it until it completely covered both eyes. "I am." Grant couldn't see a thing. "Oh, Sir." He leaned forward as much as he could, bowing his head. "Please. Don't do this." "You know your safe word." Rusty's voice broke a little. "Otherwise, boy, it's time to think about that attitude of yours. About respect." His hand rested on Grant's shoulder, and pushed him slightly backward. Then he closed the closet door. "See you in an hour." ****

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It didn't seem possible, but closing the closet door made it even darker. Grant knew it was all black around him, a void of nothingness holding him within. Holding him within, as he was tethered to a wall, hands bound, on his knees. On his knees, with his cock pinned by a tight leather strap and his ass full of the biggest plug he'd ever taken. All this, with no one to see it, no one to care. Beyond the door, he knew Rusty was there, listening for any sound of distress, keeping track of every minute as it passed. Grant knew this, and still he wondered. Would Rusty open the door in an hour? What type of respect was he looking for? The plug in his ass was impossible to ignore. Every breath, every motion, every idea that crossed Grant's mind made it move, just a little. Just enough to keep him on the edge of orgasm—yet not enough to make him fly. That was something within his control, though. If he rocked his hips forward a fraction, the plug would slide so— and if he went back the other way, it would shift with him, pressing hard against all of the most sensitive points. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Grant worked out how far he could move in either direction—and what that range of motion would do to him. If he let his weight collapse, rocking back on his heels, he could even drive the plug a little deeper. Fucking himself, bound, in the darkness.

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It was a delicious idea, a hot idea, the type of idea that would wake Grant up in the middle of the night panting, soiled sheets snarled round him. But now it was happening for real. And the reality was that the closet was smaller than he'd ever realized, smaller and darker and tight round him. His knees were starting to ache, the distraction of the plug not quite enough to cut out the pain. Worse than that, his balls were starting to throb with the need to come. He could end it: call out to Rusty with his safe word. The door would fly open and he'd be freed. Comforted. Perhaps even a penitential blow job from his partner, atonement for a scene too intense. Yet, this is what he wanted. What he'd asked for, perhaps not directly, but realized more completely than he'd ever imagined possible. And that plug did feel good in there. Another shift to the left, a glorious slide to the right, the most self indulgent taps of the base of the plug against his heels. Grant was enjoying himself. That's when he started to feel it. The plug, large and round and flared, was warming up. It wasn't noticeable, at first—you can't have something that size inside you and not feel a bit of a burn—but now it was clear that there was something happening. Heat was radiating from the plug, a steadily intensifying rise in temperature. Grant moaned. 135

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Loudly. "I guess you've discovered my surprise," Rusty said. His words were muffled by the door, but Grant could still make out most of them by listening carefully. "That lube I used is friction activated. The more you move, the more it's going to burn." His laugh was dark, malevolent. "That should help you stay still. Stay still and think about me." "Son of a bitch," Grant muttered. "You evil motherfucker." His cock, however, was not complaining. The minutes went slowly, their passage dropping to a glacial pace as Grant tried to freeze in place. The burn in his behind was constant, but steady, intensifying only if he moved. If he moved every now and then just because, well, who was to know? That was his theory, anyway, until he moved often enough and rapidly enough that a big, loud, shuddering moan escaped his lips and pushed through the door. The type of moan that should have been accompanied by the panting groans of an earth shattering orgasm—the orgasm he would have had, were it not for the incredibly tight, devil-sent, strangling piece of leather Rusty had put in place to prevent. That explained his frustrated sobbing. The door flew open. Rusty pulled off the stocking cap, leaving Grant blinking into the startling bright light. "You okay, boy?" He looked concerned. "I heard you crying." "I'm fine." Grant dropped his head. "I just want to..." "To what?" 136

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Grant looked up at his lover. "To give respect, Sir." Rusty smiled. "I thought you might." His hand went to his zipper. For the first time, Grant noticed that Rusty had changed into uniform during his sojourn in the closet. Dark navy blue pants and a heavy black belt were directly in his line of vision. "You want me to let you loose before or after?" Grant's arms were aching. His knees were telling him all about every one of the long years they'd spent on this earth. His ass was on fire and his cock was a pillar of need unmet. "After, Sir." His eyes were locked with Rusty's. "Please." **** Rusty's cock was just like the rest of him: long and thin and sprinkled with freckles. It stood out starkly against his uniform pants, contrasted even more vividly with the black leather gloves Rusty was wearing. "You like this cock, boy?" He ran his fingers over the length of his shaft, inches from Grant's mouth. "You want some of this?" "Yes, Sir." Grant could barely speak, but Rusty didn't seem to mind. "Please, Sir." "That's the attitude I want from my boy." A leather-clad finger brushed over Grant's lips. "Open." Grant let his jaw fall. "Now, if I feel your teeth, boy, you're not coming out of this hole for a good long time." Rusty placed both hands on the sides of Grant's head, gripping lightly. "If ever."

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He slid his cock in, pushing all the way to the back of Grant's throat in one stroke. "You just hold still, Boy. You let me do the driving." Grant did. There was no option—his hands, bound behind and tethered to the wall—could neither stroke nor caress. Rusty held his head firmly in place, meaning all he could do was concentrate on the prick driving into his mouth, filling him, using him. "Feels so good," Rusty said, ratcheting the speed up a notch. "I could get used to this. Keep your ass in the hole all the time. Come by and see you whenever I get a hard. You want a meal tray? Here's your freaking meal tray." Grant shuddered. His cock was aching. He wanted to come so bad, so bad—but the strap wouldn't allow it. Nor would Rusty, he imagined. It didn't matter, not then. Not when Rusty was abandoning all semblance of control, sliding further and further down his throat with every stroke. He had to time his breathing right, stealing gasps of air between each thrust. "Yeah, you little whore," he grunted. "Take it, take it all now." Then, with a ragged break catching the edge of his words. "Here it comes, baby. Get ready. Get ready now." Grant, unable to show his readiness any other way, leaned forward. Opened his mouth just a little further. "Yeah," Rusty said, emptying himself into Grant's mouth. "That's it. That's it now." His hands stayed locked on Grant's head, holding him in place throughout the exchange, not allowing any movement until he started to soften. 138

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"What a good boy you are." He pulled back a fraction, letting his cock slip out of Grant's mouth. "You can lick me clean, now." Arms aching, Grant bent his head, letting his tongue slide over the tip of Rusty's softening cock. His own cock, neglected, was screaming for attention, but he tried to ignore it. Rusty's pleasure was what mattered now. "That's enough." Rusty cuffed the side of Grant's head, gently. "You'll get me all hard again, and you can't stay in the hole all day." He smiled down at Grant. "No matter how sexy you look there." He tucked himself back into his uniform pants, and leaned forward. "It's time to get back to population." The zip tie slid off the hook. Grant was still bound, but free. "Let me help you up," Rusty said, hooking his arms under Grant's. "You're going to be sore." "You think?" Pins and needles raced through Grant's flesh, sending shivers of pain through sore muscles. "Where's this attitude coming from?" Rusty snapped, sliding back into guard mode. "This session ain't over till I say it's over, boy." Grant bowed his head instantly, contrition more overpowering than pain. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir." "That's better. Since you seem to have gotten at least part of the lesson, I'll allow you partial release." Rusty smiled. "Pick one torment, and I'll take it away. The cuffs? The plug?" He reached down and tapped Grant's throbbing cock. "This little strap here?" 139

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"That," Grant begged. "Please." He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Please, Sir." Rusty flicked the strap off of Grant's cock. "I thought you'd pick that one." His fingers wrapped round Grant's cock. "Now, I suppose you'd like to come." "If I may," Grant said. "Sir, please." Rusty stepped forward, pushing Grant up against the wall beside the closet. "How does that feel?" he asked, slowly pumping his hand over Grant's cock. "That big plug in your ass? Me touching you?" "Awesome, Sir," Grant groaned. "I want to come, Sir. Please." "All that time in the hole, you were hard. Waiting for this, weren't you?" "Yes, Sir." "You're not looking at no convict cock, are you?" Rusty's hand moved a little faster. "You're a convict. My convict. In my hole." "Sir, Sir..." There were no more words as orgasm long denied was released, flying from Grant's cock to splatter over the floor. "Sir!" With that, all of Grant's strength left his body, sending him tumbling to the floor. He fell hard, in a heap, the plug still lodged in his ass. "Holy shit!" "Are you okay?" All elements of Rusty-the-guard were gone, replaced instead by Rusty-the-lover, sweet and contrite. "Did I hurt you?" "No," Grant replied, struggling to stand up. "I don't know what happened." 140

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Rusty helped him up, guiding him to the bed. "Lay down." The butt plug that took an eternity to slide into Grant was removed in an instant, thudding to the floor. "We took it too far, that's what happened." The thwick-click of a jackknife opening filled the room. "Hold still, I'm going to slice." Grant froze as the zip ties parted. "Rub them. Get your circulation back." Rusty commanded. He pulled a blanket over Grant. "Babe, I'm fine," Grant protested. "Better than fine." "You're shaking," Rusty replied. "Shaking is not fine." Grant pulled Rusty down to face him. "If I wasn't shaking after that, you'd better be worried. Not the other way round." "You're really okay?" Rusty asked. "Really, really." Grant kissed Rusty, just to prove it. "Trust me." "Good thing," Rusty said. "'Cause I have no idea how I'd be able to keep from doing that again." "I should have known," Grant said. "You pigs are all the same." Rusty laughed. "Lucky you." [Back to Table of Contents]

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FUCK ME ... PLEASE Martin Delacroix I'm going to tell you something I never told anyone before. It's private, and if you share this information with another soul—I don't care who—I will kick your ass into next week and that's a promise. Understand? OK, then. Buy me another beer. And a shot too, please. Thanks. Thanks very much. Now, listen: I'd just finished a four-year hitch in the Marines: boot camp at Parris Island, infantry training at Camp Lejeune, two years in Afghanistan (a real shit hole), and eighteen months in Okinawa (another shit hole). Like most jarheads, I came out of service with a shaved head, an attitude and an empty wallet. I've got no folks; I was raised in foster care, so when I got discharged I had no place to go. I arrived at San Francisco airport with twenty dollars and some change in my pocket. I didn't own any street clothes, so I wore a Marine T-shirt and camouflage pants tucked into a pair of grunt boots. I carried my duffle bag on my shoulder. I took a bus to downtown (five dollars) and it dumped me at Transbay Terminal. I had no idea what to do. I stood on a noisy street corner and I watched traffic pass. I felt the sun on my arms, I smelled diesel fumes from buses that came and went. It felt strange, being a civilian again. I'd enlisted at age eighteen, right out of high school. The Marines were all I'd 142

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known in my adult life, and now I felt like a fish scooped from a tank and dropped into the ocean. Free at last, free at last. But free to do what? I walked down Mission Street with my duffle and I checked things out. I'm from Lakeland, Florida, a citrus and cattle town, and everybody there is pretty much the same. Not so in San Francisco. In the space of three blocks I passed all kinds of freaks: a man wearing a dress and high heels, a barefoot bum talking to a Dumpster, a guy with no legs rolling down the sidewalk on a wheeled platform. Asians were everywhere, little men and women, Chinese people, I guess. I'm six-footthree and I weigh one-ninety and I felt like a giant moving among these folks. I found a temporary employment office where they hired day workers and I went inside to inquire, but the girl behind the desk pointed to a wall clock. She said if I wanted work I'd need to be present at eight in the morning. I should return the next day, she said, and maybe they'd have a job for me. Until then... I'd developed a thirst, as the day was warm and I'd had nothing to drink since leaving the plane, so I ducked into a tavern and grabbed a stool at the bar and I rested my duffel against the foot rail. The place was dark, lit only by those plastic signs provided by breweries. The bartender seemed nice enough, a guy in a tank top with tattooed forearms and earrings in both ears. I ordered a beer and turned around on my stool and I studied the place. Of the dozen tables, only half were occupied, each by groups of guys, two or three per table, speaking in low voices, sipping from glasses of beer. A 143

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juke box played Garth Brooks. A pool table, lit by a fluorescent fixture, wasn't in use. Framed photos of ball players, members of the Giants and the Forty-Niners, hung on the walls. The bartender brought my beer and I took a gulp and smacked my lips. I held the glass to my cheek and savored its coldness. I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in Okinawa, seated in my favorite bar, the Green Dragon, a dump patronized by enlisted men. I'd gotten drunk there many times, I'd kicked Navy ass when some swab at the Dragon got me irritated. I don't like sailors and their stupid uniforms with the flap on the back and those gay-looking caps. And now, wouldn't you know it? Just when I opened my eyes this seaman came cruising into the tavern in his swab outfit, complete with patent leather shoes and an eagle on his sleeve. He took the stool next to mine. He placed his cap upon the bar. I checked him out while he ordered a beer. He was my age, probably five-ten, a hundred and fifty pounds. He had what I call "pretty boy" features: a turned-up nose, dicksucking lips, and high cheekbones. His eyelashes were long, like a girl's, and when he blinked it was hard not to notice. His hair was dark, cut short on the sides, a bit of length on top. He turned his face toward mine, before I could swing my gaze, and our eyes met. He nodded. He said, "Hey." I said, "How's it going?" We made small talk, and for a swab, he wasn't such a bad guy. He told me his name was Tyler and I said mine was Forrest and when we shook his grip was firm. He was 144

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stationed on a nuclear submarine, he said, one presently in port. He'd been granted one week's shore leave. He was from a small town in southern Illinois and this was his second visit to San Francisco. He'd taken a room not far from the tavern. I asked what his hotel cost him and he said forty-eight per night, which included donuts and coffee in the morning. He asked where I was staying and I said, "I'm screwed. I blew my last paycheck before I left Okinawa. Guess I'm on the street till I find temp work." He nodded and didn't say anything. We ordered another round of beers and he turned toward me on his stool and he rested his feet on the stringers. He placed one forearm on the bar. He talked about serving on a submarine, how for months at a time he lived underwater with one hundred-ten other sailors. Everybody lived real close, he said, and they had to get along. You know how some guys have an air of confidence about them? Tyler was like that. I mean, even though we were the same age and I was bigger than him, with a lot more muscle and broader shoulders, I felt like he was stronger and wiser than me. His voice was deep and he spoke good English, like a school teacher would, and he seemed to know a lot about important things: geography, current events, and so forth. I bought beers till my money ran out, then Tyler bought me a few more. He seemed to have plenty of cash. (I guess you don't spend much money when you're submerged.) By the time we left the tavern, the shadows outside had grown long. Afternoon traffic had picked up and I felt woozy. I'd drunk maybe eight beers on an empty stomach and the 145

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alcohol had garbled my thinking. I got bold. I asked Tyler, "Could I stay in your room? Just for tonight?" He rested his hands on his hips and he looked at something over my shoulder, then he returned his gaze to me. He said, "Forrest, you need to know something." I said, "What?" He said, "I'm gay. I've been stuck on that submarine five months—no privacy and no sex. While I'm in San Francisco, I plan to get laid every night, so having you in my room would not work." I was surprised as hell, 'cause Tyler seemed pretty normal to me. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, toward the tavern. I said, "Is that place...?" He nodded, and it occurred to me we'd spent over two hours drinking beer and talking and not a single woman had entered the bar. I studied the sidewalk. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. I'm not innocent, I know what sorts of things go on between guys in private. Once I spent a weekend by myself in Wilmington, a city near Camp Lejeune. I was seated on a bench in a public park on a Saturday night and a guy came up and sat beside me, a decent-looking guy, maybe twenty-five. He wore eyeglasses and nice clothes, but he wasn't a sissy or anything. We got to talking and I told him my story, that I was a Marine, that I had a room in town for the weekend, and after a while he said, "I want to tell you something personal." I said, "What?" 146

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He said, "I think you're good looking. I'd like to suck your cock." I was surprised, of course, by his proposal. I'd never, you know ... done such a thing. But I was alone in Wilmington and nobody knew me there and I said to myself, Hell, why not? I told him, "All right, okay. You can do that." And we walked to my motel (it wasn't far) and once inside he asked me to strip to my skivvies and I did and he took off his eyeglasses and his shirt (he was pretty well built) and he got on his knees before me, on the carpet, and he started mouthing my cock through the skivvies. He stuck his fingers inside the leg holes, he tickled my nuts and I got stiff pretty fast. My shorts turned into a circus tent, and finally the guy yanked them down to my feet and I kicked them off. I stood before him, butt naked. The guy gushed over the size of my cock (it's nine inches when hard) and the way my balls look (he called them "low hangers"). His tongue and lips were all over my pecker, licking and sucking while his fingers stroked my nuts, while they combed through my pubic hair. I mean, I got excited. I dug my toes into the carpet, I flexed my fingers. This guy knew what he was doing and after ten minutes I blasted a load down his throat and he swallowed every drop like it was some kind of liquid treat. I'd already had my Wilmington experience when I met Tyler, so the fact he liked men did not shock or repulse me. I still respected him, plus I needed a place to stay—badly. Looking up from the concrete, I made eye contact with Tyler. 147

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I said, "If it's sex you're after, you can suck my dick. It's not a problem." He kept his gaze locked onto mine, then his eyes narrowed. He said, "What would you do for me? How would I get satisfied?" I shrugged and looked away. I didn't have an answer for him. He said, "I'm a top man, Forrest. Do you know what that means?" I shook my head, still not looking at him. He said, "It means I fuck ass." I nodded. Now I knew what he was saying, but having no experience, I couldn't imagine some guy letting himself get used like a girl. There'd be no pleasure in it for him, right? I studied my boots. I weighed my options while pedestrians streamed past us on the sidewalk, while traffic growled and wheezed beyond the curb. The sun had descended behind nearby buildings, the air had cooled and we stood in a shadow, me and Tyler. I transferred my duffel from one shoulder to the other. I chewed my lower lip. I looked at Tyler again. He gazed at something across the street and I viewed him in profile and he looked very handsome. His face was dusted with stubble at the chin and jaw line. I asked myself: Could I? I did not want to spend the night outdoors, sleeping on top of a cardboard box in an alley like bums did in Okinawa. I said to Tyler, "Let me stay at your place. I'll do what you want." 148

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He swung his gaze back to me. He squinted, he said, "There are homeless shelters, you know." I shook my head. I said, "I'd rather go home with you." On the way to Tyler's, we stopped at a cafeteria and he bought us dinner and we sat across from each other at a Formica-top table, eating shepherd's pie and green beans and drinking iced tea. Tyler spoke of his life in Illinois, of his working class, Catholic family. They were proud of his service in the Navy, he said, but they'd be disappointed if they knew about his private life. The first time he'd had sex was following his high school graduation, just after his eighteenth birthday. He'd taken a summer job on a farm, one where he tasseled corn, and he shared a room with a college guy who also worked on the farm. This guy taught Tyler everything about sex between men. One night they fucked on a blanket in a corn field, between the rows, under the stars, and Tyler said it was the best experience of his life, that night. Afterward, he said, he knew he was gay, no question about it. I said, "I've got very little experience with sex of any kind." I spoke of a Japanese girl I'd fucked in Okinawa, of how she cried when I entered her, due to the size of my cock. I told him about the blow job in Wilmington and he asked me if I'd enjoyed it and I said, "Sure, I guess so. But it ended awfully fast." When I told Tyler about my lack of family, a sad look crossed his face. He could not imagine, he said, growing up without parents and brothers and sisters. It must have been hard, he said, getting moved from one foster home to another. 149

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I shrugged. I told him, "It was all I knew." Tyler's room was located at the rear of his hotel. A doublehung window offered a view of an air shaft and a fire escape, providing stingy light that gave things a washed-out appearance. The bed was a queen with a chenille spread and two pillows. Tyler's hair brush and shaving kit sat atop a chest of drawers, next to a bottle of cologne and a paperback book. (Who was Kurt Vonnegut? Why would he write a book called God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater?) A naval uniform and several items of civilian clothing hung in the closet. The bathroom had a wall-mounted sink, a tub and shower with a plastic drape, a john and a medicine cabinet. Another window, this one above the toilet, also looked into the air shaft. Its pane was hardly bigger than a cookie sheet. The whole place smelled like ammonia and carpet freshener. Tyler pointed to a corner. He said, "Put your duffle there." He switched on a floor lamp, one with a shade yellowed by age. The bulb's glow lit up the room; it reflected in Tyler's blue eyes, in the crystal of his wristwatch. He looked at me and said, "Let's take a bath." Getting naked before another guy was normally no problem for me; I'd gang-showered with hundreds of Marines. But now I felt uncomfortable, knowing Tyler's persuasion. I knew he wanted my ass and I felt blood rush to my cheeks when I took off my shirt, when I lowered my pants. My hands trembled when I peeled off my skivvies. Tyler was slender but his chest and biceps were defined. He had a flat stomach, a circumcised dick and a shaved ball 150

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sac. His butt cheeks were rounded and a stripe of hair grew in the cleft between them. I followed him into the bathroom. A fluorescent fixture hung above the medicine cabinet, but Tyler didn't switch it on. We stood in semi-darkness, watching the tub fill with warm water. The air steamed and Tyler shifted his weight. His hip met mine and he left it there, his skin pressed against my skin, warm and smooth. Reaching behind me, he cupped my butt cheek. He squeezed and my dick began to swell, ticking upward till it pointed at the ceiling, stiff as a peg, jerking in time with my pulse. When the tub was half-full, Tyler turned off the flow of water and we climbed in. We sat facing each other, knees raised, legs crossed at the ankles. The tip of my cock poked out of the water, but Tyler's cock wasn't stiff yet. It floated beneath the surface, amidst his patch of dark pubic hair. The tub was cramped and our shins pressed together. Our leg hairs co-mingled. Tyler dipped a washcloth into the tub water, using the cloth to sluice my shoulders. Then he got on his knees and he wet my chest and back, reaching here and there, taking his time. The room was silent, save for the sound of dripping water. The steamy air relaxed me, but every time Tyler's skin rubbed against mine my stomach fluttered. I found his nipples especially appealing. They were dime-size and dark as chocolate. I reached for one and teased it with my fingernail and Tyler halted his work. He raised his chin and looked at the ceiling. I pinched the nipple between my thumb and index finger and he made a little groan in his throat. 151

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Unwrapping a bar of soap, Tyler worked up a lather in the washcloth. He commenced washing my arms, he dragged the cloth over my skin and the soap's fresh odor hit my nostrils. He did my chest and shoulders, worked up more lather in the cloth, then he had me pivot and he scrubbed my back. The nubbly surface of the cloth felt delicious as Tyler made circles on my skin. He told me, "Stand up," and I did, still facing away from him. Water streamed off my ass, off my legs and my rigid cock; it made dripping sounds in the otherwise silent room. Tyler soaped the backsides of my thighs and calves, he scrubbed my buttocks, then worked the cloth into my crack. I felt his fingers press against my hole and I flinched, I reached behind me and grabbed Tyler's wrist, pulling his hand away. I whispered, "Don't." Tyler froze. He drew a breath, then let it out slowly. He said, "Forrest, I've got to clean you in there. It's important." I looked over my shoulder. I said, "Give me the cloth. I'll do it." He did as I asked and I washed myself quick as I could, then handed the cloth back to Tyler. He said, "Turn around." I did so and my dick bobbed before Tyler's face. I could tell by his expression he was unhappy. His mouth was a thin line and a vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows. He worked up a fresh lather with the soap and washcloth, then he scrubbed the fronts of my thighs and calves without looking at me or saying anything. 152

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When I asked him, "What's wrong?" he looked up at me. He said, "You've got to let me touch you back there. We agreed, remember?" I glanced away from Tyler, studying the ceramic tiles. "Forrest," he said, "look at me." I looked down at him. He said, "It'll be okay. I'll be gentle and we'll take it slow." Words spilled out of my mouth. "This is hard for me. I never did this sort of thing. Nobody's ever..." I looked away again. Tyler reached for my cock and squeezed the head. He lowered it a few inches, then let it go and my dick bobbed like a diving board when a diver goes airborne. Suddenly the whole scene—the two of us naked in the tub with my boner pointing at Tyler's face—seemed funny. I laughed and the tension I'd felt moments before melted away. Okay, I told myself, your asshole will get poked tonight. Accept it. Tyler grinned. He got on his knees, soaped his hand, then wrapped it around my dick and squeezed. He slid his hand back and forth, making a squishy sound, and it felt really good. He soaped my nuts with his other hand and my spine tingled. I whispered, "That's nice, what you're doing right now." (I'd jacked off with soap in the shower dozens of times. How come it felt better when Tyler did the job?) He told me, "Don't shoot, Forrest; hold your load for later." I nodded. I chewed my lower lip. I studied the tiles. Tyler rose and turned on the shower. We stood together under the spray, chests touching, my cock mashed up against 153

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Tyler's belly. Lather slid down my legs, it washed over my feet and into the drain with a gurgling sound. Tyler wrapped a hand around the back of my neck, pulled my face to his and kissed my cheek. The shower hammered our shoulders and his cock swelled till it pressed against my groin, firm as a green banana. Tyler moved his lips from my cheek to my mouth, trying to kiss me, but I turned my head. I told him, "I don't kiss men. It's a gay thing and I won't do it." The hiss of the shower was the only sound in the bathroom. Tyler let go of my neck. He stepped back from me. His cock bobbed before him, not as big as mine, but plenty large. I looked him in the face and, again, I could tell he wasn't happy. He said, "Kissing me is not a 'gay thing.' It's just sex." I said, "I'm not comfortable with it. Sorry." He lowered his chin and shook his head. Seizing the washcloth, he soaped it up and handed it to me. He said, "Will you wash my back? Or is that a gay thing, too?" He turned away from me and I could tell he was pissed. I placed a hand on his shoulder and I made circles on his shoulder blades with the cloth and lather streamed down his back. I moved the cloth over his shoulders, then down his spine to the small of his back. I washed his hips, then his ass cheeks—they were firm and smooth. Kneeling on the tub floor, I re-soaped the cloth, then I washed the backs of Tyler's thighs and his furry calves, his ankles and feet. The shower spray pounded my back. It fogged the air. 154

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I soaped the cloth again and patted Tyler's butt. I told him to turn around and when he did his erect cock brushed my cheek, bobbing before my nose. I started with his shins, then worked my way up to his waist, scrubbing. I rose and did his arms and armpits, his belly and his chest, giving extra attention to his nipples. I washed his genitals last, using my hands as Tyler had done: taking my time, applying much soap, sliding my fist back and forth on the shaft of his cock, kneading his ball sac. I would say the head of my cock looks like a plum, but Tyler's is more bullet-shaped. The shaft of his dick, just behind the head, thickens for an inch or so, and this part caused my grip to spread each time my fingers passed over it. It kind of spooked me, the girth of that portion of his penis. It made me wonder just how I would handle getting fucked when the time came. I thought, Maybe I can talk him out of it. I stepped aside and Tyler got under the spray, rinsing himself off. We both shampooed our hair, then we took turns drying ourselves, standing on the bath mat in the steamy air. Tyler left the bathroom, taking time to comb his hair before the dresser mirror, his towel wrapped about his waist, while I sat on the corner of the bed, wearing my towel. I cracked my knuckles and glanced about the room. I chewed a hangnail. Tyler opened a dresser drawer, producing a bottle of lubricant and a foil-packaged condom. He placed these on the night stand, along with a hand towel, then he switched on the night stand lamp. He lowered the window shade to the sill. He 155

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flicked off the floor lamp and light in the room shrank. Things became more ... intimate, you might say. Tyler looked at me. He held out his hand and said, "Give me your towel and I'll hang it in the bathroom." A moment later he was back, naked like me. His dick was soft and it swayed when he walked to the bed. He sat next to me and the bedsprings squeaked. He raised a hand, stroking my temple with a finger. He said, "You look nervous." I looked at him briefly, but I couldn't hold his gaze. I stared at the carpet and again, words poured from my lips. I said, "I don't know about this buttfucking business. I know I agreed and I want to be fair, but—" Tyler moved his hand to my shoulder. He said, "It's scary, the first time. I know." I looked at him. I said, "You've...?" He nodded. He said, "It hurts in the beginning, but once you relax you'll be fine. It'll feel good if you don't fight it." I knew Tyler wouldn't lie. I figured things would be okay. I told him, "All right, let's do it." Tyler reached between my thighs, stroking my cock, squeezing the head, and soon I was stiff. All it took was him touching me that way. Okay, I'll admit I'd been attracted to certain guys before, I'd jacked off thinking about them, but I had never acted on my feelings. I'd never considered having sex with another man 'cause in the Marines that sort of thing is forbidden. But I wasn't a Marine anymore; I could do what I wanted. And now, sitting on that hotel bed with Tyler, I got very excited. I 156

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mean, I actually trembled, thinking of what we would do together. Tyler put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I smelled the soap I'd bathed him with. He nuzzled my ear with the tip of his nose, kissing my neck, rubbing the edge of his jaw against mine and our stubble made scratchy noises. All the while he stroked my cock and my pulse galloped. I turned my face toward Tyler's and pressed my lips to his cheek. I reached for his cock and wrapped my fingers around it. When I teased the head with my thumb, his dick came alive, twitching and swelling, getting stiff as a broom handle. Tyler put the tip of his tongue in my ear, twirling it around. It tickled, but in a good way. Nibbling my earlobe, he whispered, "I'm going to suck your cock." I said, "Okay, sure." Tyler put a hand on my chest, and pushed me backward till my shoulders met the mattress, till I stared at the ceiling. He gripped my cock with his thumb and index finger, raising it straight up. His tongue glided over every inch of my dick; then he took me into his mouth. Forming a seal with his lips, he commenced sucking, his head bobbing up and down. His mouth made a slurping sound which was nice in the silent room. He teased my nuts, then lifted my scrotum and kneaded it with his fingers. He tickled the tender area between my sac and my hole. I placed a hand on the back of his neck, running my fingers through his hair. 157

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Tyler followed a steady rhythm while he worked on my cock—he didn't rush things. I knew I shouldn't get carried away, I shouldn't come in his mouth like I'd done with the guy in Wilmington. I figured things would go easier if I carried a full load when Tyler fucked me, if I was horny when it happened, but it took some effort to not shoot, as he was very good with his mouth. (The guy in Wilmington had nothing on Tyler in that department.) Twice I asked him to stop sucking 'cause I was close to blowing my wad, and when I asked a third time he stopped altogether. He lay upon the mattress beside me. He propped himself on an elbow and we stared at each other and his lips parted into smile. Again, his teeth glistened. He whispered, "How do you feel?" I said, "Really good." He said, "Why don't you try sucking my cock?" I looked away from Tyler and my cheeks burned. This wasn't something I'd anticipated. I said, "I don't know. I never..." He said, "I'll teach you." And I figured, Oh, what the hell. He had me get on my knees before him while he sat at the foot of the bed with his thighs spread apart, his boner pointing skyward. He placed a hand on the back of my neck, he guided my lips to the head of his dick. I smooched it here and there, then I stuck out my tongue and licked up and down the shaft and it felt pretty hot, doing these things. I mean, Tyler's a good-looking guy and the skin of his cock is very smooth, like cream cheese. When it came time to suck, 158

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he told me about covering the edges of my teeth with my lips. He gripped my jaw and lowered my chin and this caused my mouth to gape. He slipped his cock inside me and it slid across the surface of my tongue, jabbing the back of my throat, and I nearly gagged at first. He kept one hand on my neck, using it to work my head back and forth. His cock slid in and out of my mouth while I clenched it between my lips, while I worked him with my tongue. We did this for several minutes, until Tyler's chest heaved, till the noise of his heavy breathing filled the room. He pulled out, lifting his cock and holding it against his belly. He said, "Lick my nuts, Forrest." Like I said earlier, Tyler shaves his scrotum, so his skin there is silky. I took my time, tasting every portion of his sac, even lifting it to get at the underside. I took his balls into my mouth, one at a time. I rolled each testicle around the surface of my tongue and he seemed to like this. I know I did; my cock was throbbing. Tyler finally pushed my face from his groin. He said, "OK, enough." I looked up at him and he patted the mattress, he said, "Come up here now." I rose, I sat beside Tyler and the bed sagged. He reached for my cock, stroking it while he looked at me. He said, "I'm going to fuck you now, Forrest." My scalp prickled and dampness gathered in my armpits. He had me lie on my back, stacking the pillows so when my head rested upon them I looked at Tyler instead of the ceiling. He sat beside me on the mattress, looking down. He stroked my dick. He said, "Getting fucked can feel very good. When another man's cock stretches you open—when it gets 159

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inside your most private place—it's a bit freaky at first. When you're growing up, people tell you only girls get fucked, that a guy who gets screwed is a sissy, a fag, but it's not true. Having the balls to let another man pump your ass till you come—till he comes—takes courage. Understand?" I nodded, but I wasn't sure if I believed what he'd said. How could something painful feel good? As if he'd read my thoughts, he said, "I told you before, relaxation is the key. And I'm going to help you with that." I said, "How?" He let go of my cock and took hold of my ankle, he lifted it. He said, "Raise your legs till your feet are over your head." I did what he said, bending my knees, bringing them to my shoulders. I gazed at our reflections in the dresser mirror and I nearly laughed 'cause I looked so silly in that position. Tyler got on his knees before me. Seizing my other ankle, he spread my feet far apart. I know it doesn't sound comfortable, having your legs up like that, but you'd be surprised; it feels quite natural. No strain on the back at all. Tyler lowered his face till his nose touched my scrotum. He nibbled the skin there, licking and sucking till my balls came alive. They actually moved inside the sac, excited by Tyler's attentions. He lifted the sac, he tasted the tender area behind, working the tip of his tongue southward till it pressed against my hole. He nudged my anus with his tongue, licking, nudging a bit harder, then licking some more. I reached for the back of Tyler's head. Sifting my fingers through his dark hair, I said, "Are you sure it's okay, what you're doing? Is it safe for you?" 160

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He looked up, lips shiny with spit, and grinned. He said, "It's why you had to clean yourself back here." He lowered his face and his tongue worked on my hole again—jabbing, then licking, then jabbing harder, and it felt pretty sexy. I enjoyed the warmth and wetness, the eagerness of Tyler's attentions. Each time he nudged my hole it contracted, fighting the intrusion; a natural reaction, I guess. This went on for three or four minutes, till Tyler looked up with a frown on his face. He slapped my butt cheek. He said, "Forrest, stop resisting. Open up." I whispered, "I can't help it; I keep flinching." He said, "Let me help you." His thumbs went into my crack, spreading my hole, exposing untouched flesh. He lowered his face and his tongue went to work, probing new depths, jabbing, getting up inside me. It's hard to describe how it felt, this "rimming," as Tyler called it. Like he'd said earlier, a guy's anus is his most private spot. Once he's out of diapers, nobody touches him there but himself, right? To have this rule violated—especially by another guy's tongue—is a shocking experience. I felt both shame and excitement. At first I wanted to say, "Quit it, don't do that." Then, minutes later, I fought an urge to say, "Stick it in deeper." The more I relaxed, the better his tongue felt and the farther he got it inside me, the more he tasted virgin flesh. Tyler's slurping was the only sound in the room. Ten minutes passed, maybe. I don't know 'cause I lost track of time, holding the back of Tyler's head, feeling his tongue penetrate me, over and over, and I thought to myself, 161

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This must be what the words "making love" are meant to describe. Tyler is giving himself to me in a very intimate way. He raised his face from my groin and a little smile played on his lips. Rising up, he kissed my forehead. He asked, "Are you okay?" and when I said, "Yeah, I'm great, that was ... amazing," he waggled his eyebrows. He said, "Let's do something else now." He reached for the bottle of lubricant and the hand towel. My legs remained hiked as they'd been before, only I held them up myself now. My hole was exposed, and though I couldn't see it, I knew my crack was shiny with Tyler's spit. Kneeling before me, he flipped open the cap on the lube bottle. He poured some ooze onto his middle finger, coating it with a thick film. He looked at me and asked, "Have you ever stuck a finger up your butt while you jacked off?" I shook my head. I'd never dreamed of such a thing. He said, "I'm going to finger you, real slow and real careful. Like the rimming, it'll help you relax, but even more so." I glanced away from Tyler, at our reflections in the mirror. Then I looked back. I said, "Will this hurt?" He nodded. He said, "Not badly, though. After a few minutes you'll be fine." I looked at his finger. It wasn't flexible like his tongue. It would feel like a piece of school chalk, invading me. I looked back at Tyler and he raised his eyebrows. He said, "Ready?" I looked away and nodded. The lube felt cold when his fingertip touched my anus. It made me flinch. I shivered and goose bumps popped up on 162

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my arms and legs. Tyler applied pressure and I felt the rim of my hole begin to stretch as it had when Tyler's tongue came calling, only now it sensed that something more rigid than a tongue was knocking on its door. My hole pushed outward, resisting Tyler's entry. "You're fighting me," he whispered. "Don't." Beads of sweat gathered on my forehead and I chewed my lower lip. Tyler applied greater pressure and my hole stretched wider and I felt a sharp pain, one like a thorn inflicts when it punctures your foot. I hissed. My chest heaved and I threw a forearm across the bridge of my nose. I said, "It hurts. Pull out a second, please." Tyler did so. He re-greased his finger while I caught my breath, while my hole flexed. It seemed relieved by the withdrawal. Tyler invaded a second time. His finger still hurt, but not as much as the initial assault had. I felt a throbbing pain rather than a sharp one and I thought, Okay, this isn't too bad. Then his knuckle met my sphincter and fresh pain erupted. My hole went into spasms. I yelped, my hips bucked and my shoulders dug into the pillows. I broke into a sweat and my chest heaved. My cock went soft. Tyler whispered, "Stay with me, don't make me pull out." I swung my gaze to his. I said, "This isn't fun. It hurts." He said, "Give it a minute, Forrest. Okay? I nodded, swinging my gaze to the ceiling. I returned my forearm to the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, thinking: Sixty seconds. It's not a long time. 163

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Tyler kept his knuckle inside me. My hole squeezed his finger, continuing to produce spasms, but the frequency of my contractions lessened as each moment passed. "Take deep breaths," Tyler said. "It helps." I did as he said. Shifting my ass on the mattress, I pondered the fullness I felt down below: How amazing that a single finger can control my body as Tyler's does. It makes me squirm, it makes me sweat and groan—just one finger in my hole. Who'd have known? As soon as my hole relaxed, Tyler slid the remainder of his finger up inside me. He plunged it back and forth, the knuckle stretching me each time it came and went. I lay still, listening to the slick sounds. I felt my sphincter relax as minutes passed and I felt something else, too: each time Tyler's finger got fully buried in my hole, an electric shock jolted my insides. It stole my breath, it spread from my loins, becoming a syrupy warmth which I felt in my stomach, in the cleft of my buttocks, in the head of my cock, and even in my nipples. I thought, What the hell? Tyler withdrew his finger, held it aloft and conjoined it with his index finger. He reached for the lube and greased both fingers while I squirmed on the mattress, while I thought to myself, Now he'll use two, won't he? He did and I couldn't help it, I resisted again. I made Tyler withdraw, but soon his fingers returned and I let them in. I wasn't happy about it, but I submitted. What was the use of fighting Tyler's penetrations when we'd already gone this far? My body clenched against Tyler's fingers as he pried me open, while his knuckles made their presence known. Sweat trickled 164

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from my armpits and lamplight reflected off my skin. I tried to focus on my breath huffing and the squishy sound of the fingering. Again, my body relaxed with the passage of time. The pain subsided and that warm feeling returned. It crept through my body, making my spine tingle, and I sensed that if I should touch my cock I would blow my load. Tyler continued working his fingers in and out and a combination of sweat and sex scented the room. I thought to myself, I get it now; this whole routine, this stretching-bydegrees, is aimed at getting me ready for Tyler's cock. An hour from now I'll be just another guy who's been buttfucked, and who will I be then? Forrest? Or someone else? I mean, I felt conflicted. I was a jarhead, a soldier for Christ's sake, but this knuckle-fucking had me cooing like a songbird on a Sunday morning. Tyler withdrew his fingers, telling me to lower my legs for a moment, to take a rest. He went to the bathroom and washed his hands, then returned, rigid cock wagging before him. Standing by the nightstand, Tyler opened the condom package with his teeth. He placed the condom at the head of his cock, then unrolled it till his dick was encased in latex. The condom was pre-lubricated. It reflected the lamplight. Tyler glanced down at me. He winked and made a little smile and I tried to smile myself, but could not. I was simply too nervous. My cock had gone soft and my hands were clenched at my hips. My toes flexed and I continued to sweat, the smell of it heavy in the room. 165

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Tyler returned to the bed, kneeling before me, cock bobbing. He seized my ankles and raised them over my head. He said I should hold them aloft, like before, and I did so, exposing my anus. Grabbing the lube bottle, Tyler poured more goop onto his cock head. He seemed in no rush, and I wondered if he was prolonging my suffering on purpose, if he found my dread of deflowerment amusing. Returning the lube to the night stand, he wiped his fingers on the towel. He moved between my upturned thighs. He looked at me and patted my ass. He flickered his eyebrows and said, "It's time to fuck, Forrest." I couldn't hold his gaze. He seemed to find the whole situation humorous and fun-filled, but not me. I felt miserable, thinking of what lay in store. I told myself, You're a dumbass, letting this guy violate you, just for a place to stay. Tyler drew closer and his cock bumped the inside of my thigh. He seized his pecker; he guided the tip to my tender hole which already burned from his previous attentions. Pressing his cock head against my anus, he applied pressure and I felt my sphincter stretch. Like I said, Tyler's cock head is bullet-shaped and his initial entry wasn't too bad, but trouble surfaced when the thick part of Tyler's cock sought admission to my hole. Sure, I'd handled his middle and index finger, knuckles and all, but they'd hurt nothing like this. I felt a searing pain, as though someone held a flame to my hole, like my flesh down there was ripping apart. I cried out and drew back my hips, pulling away from Tyler's cock. I released my ankles. I seized Tyler's shoulders 166

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and pushed him from me. He tumbled off the bed and onto the carpet, hitting the floor with a thud. I rose to my knees on the mattress. I looked at Tyler and shouted, "Are you trying to kill me?" It took him a moment to answer. (I think he was dazed from his fall.) He rose to a sitting position, scowling. He said, "I'm only trying to fuck you, Forrest." I said, "I can't do this, I can't handle your cock. I'm sorry." He hissed and shook his head. Rising to his feet, he placed his hands on his hips. His dick remained stiff, wagging before him. He said, "This is bullshit. I've taken several cocks up my ass. A few were bigger than mine, but I never whined about it; I handled the pain." I said, "Well, you're—" He said, "What? A fag? Sure I am, but at least I'm tough." He looked about the room, then he returned his gaze to me. "What is it you jarheads call us Navy guys? 'Swabs'? You think we're punks, right?" I didn't answer him. He said, "Aren't Marines are supposed to be macho? Aren't they called 'devil dogs'?" He snorted and shook his head again. He said, "You're not so tough; you're too pussy to handle my dick." I felt blood rush to my cheeks. I nearly slugged Tyler at that point, because of his taunting. I didn't like him questioning my masculinity, swab that he was, but he had a point. We both knew I didn't object to an ass-fucking; instead, I feared the pain. I couldn't take it like Tyler could. He was tougher than me. 167

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Tyler said, "Why don't you get dressed and clear out? I'm tired of this whole business." I thought to myself: Make your choice, Forrest. Either let him fuck you or hit the street. Dodge the pain or face it. "All right," I said, "Get back in the bed. Do what you want." He narrowed his eyes. He said, "That's not enough, what you just said." I said, "Huh?" He said, "Ask me for it. And say 'please' when you do." My heart hammered my rib cage. The fucker wanted me to beg. Anger boiled in my chest and I felt an urge to get myself dressed and hit the street, but I didn't. I gave in to Tyler's will instead. I told myself, Go ahead, punk. You've already humiliated yourself before this guy. Do what he wants, just say it. I moistened my lips. I looked at Tyler and said, "Fuck me." He said, "Fuck me ... what?" I swallowed hard. I held Tyler's gaze. I said, "Fuck me ... please." A smile crossed Tyler's face. He returned to the bed and I assumed the required position, lifting my ankles. Tyler regreased his cock and pressed it to my anus. Looking into my face, he said, "Ask again." I glanced away. I drew a breath, then let it out. I looked back at Tyler and his eyes locked onto mine. My voice cracked like a teenager's when I said, "Fuck me ... please." He drove his cock into me, then, and I cried out. The pain was no less than before. My hole burned like someone had 168

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shoved a hot poker inside me. I cried out, but did not pull back; I let Tyler have his way. I submitted. Then, like when he'd used his fingers, Tyler's cock nudged something inside me and again I felt the electric jolt. Warmth spilled into my sensitive spots. He fucked me hard, making me grunt with each thrust. I sweated buckets, soaking the sheet. Tyler brought his lips to mine. I tried turning my head, but he seized my chin and held it in place. He pried my mouth open, his tongue entered me, exploring, rubbing against my tongue. My dick swelled. It dripped pre-come upon my belly while Tyler pumped my ass, while his cock stretched me, over and over, till I stopped fighting, till I relaxed and accepted my role in our lovemaking. I told myself, Admit it, Forrest. This feels awfully good... I was Tyler's fuckboy now. I sucked his tongue like a slut on prom night. I sighed when he pinched my nipples. I shuddered when he whispered into my ear, "You're a hot lay, Forrest. I love drilling your ass." He increased the frequency and power of his thrusts. The headboard drummed the wall in time with our movements and my whole body felt electric. Tyler'd gotten sweaty as me and we shone like two seals in the lamplight. Minutes passed. My hole felt raw and sore now, but I didn't care. Tyler brought his lips to my ear, whispering, "I'm ready." He returned his mouth to mine and our tongues entwined. Tyler moaned and his dick throbbed inside me. He ran his hands over my scalp, groaning with satisfaction. I reached for my cock and squeezed it only once, then come 169

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

spurted all over my belly and chest. Some hit my cheek, and some struck Tyler's too. I cried out, my lungs pumped and my spine tingled. My mind went blank. It took a few minutes before my breathing slowed. I felt exhausted, but in a good way, as if I'd hiked up a mountain and reached the summit and now I could sit and enjoy the view. Only, instead of peaks and valleys, instead of rivers and meadows, I had Tyler to look at. His blue eyes and his smooth skin, his muscles and his dark hair. The lips I had once refused to kiss. He stayed inside me a while. We said nothing to each other, only breathing in the silent room. Then Tyler withdrew and I lowered my legs and he lay beside me on the bed. He stroked my cheek with a finger. He said, "Are you okay?" I nodded, making a little smile. He said, "I didn't hurt you, did I?" I said, "Some, but it's all right." He said, "Be truthful, Forrest. Tell me how you feel right now." I thought a moment, then I said. "It's like I've been in jail a long time, and now you've released me." (Which was exactly how I felt.) He smiled at me, then. He moved closer. Draping an arm across my torso, he lay his head upon my chest and I stroked his hair. I closed my eyes and seconds later fell asleep. **** I stayed with Tyler till his submarine went to sea—five happy days. We did the sights together: the Golden Gate, 170

Bend Over Big Boy by Kit Zheng, Chris Owen, Mychael Black

Muir Woods, Fisherman's Wharf. There's something magical about doing such things with an intimate companion. I'd sit across from Tyler in a crowded restaurant and my knee would touch his and I'd look at him, recalling last night's steamy fuck. I'd grin and even blush a little, remembering the smells and sounds, the grit of the sex we had shared. That's how it was for me, anyways. Do I ever hear from Tyler? Of course. He writes once a month, at least. His sub will surface, then rendezvous with a supply ship and mail bags get exchanged. I go to college part-time now, plus I work as a janitor for the public school system. I clean rooms at an elementary school at night, after the kids are gone, and sometimes I'll take a break. I'll sit alone in a quiet place and read Tyler's letters, over and over, sometimes out loud. I'll think of that day I first met him, hearing his voice inside my head and recalling his touch on my skin. I long for the day when Tyler returns to San Francisco, when he'll take me to a room and close the door. When he'll make me