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

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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

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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 say it again, more than once. Fuck me, Tyler. Fuck me ... please. [Back to Table of Contents]

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THE GHOST Noel Blue The pale powder fell from Detective Neil Margrave's fingers in a shimmering trickle, landing softly back in the red velvet box from which it had come. He wasn't supposed to have touched it, not before the lab boys had a go, but he didn't care. The gems were gone, and in their place was this pretty pile of sand. If the thief's previous crimes were any indication, the powder was nothing more than his usual little bit of "gotcha," a gentle teasing reminder of what had once been therein. It would be studied and analyzed and pondered over for months to come, but would ultimately reveal nothing. Nothing but more police frustration. As the last bit fell, Neil was reminded of sand in an hourglass. Running out, like the time left in his once radiant police career. Who was this master thief? How was he so good? With a deep breath to shake off the rush of adrenaline and excitement beneath the anger, the raw admiration for the man's audacious flair, he closed the lid of the case gently and turned on his team. He spoke with great deliberation. "How. Did. This. Happen? How did he get past us?" His dark eyes swept his underlings, lips tight, broad cheekbones catching the light of the expensive fixtures mounted on the wall of the display room. "How did he know these were fakes, and the real ones were in the safe? How?" 172

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Everything had been planned to perfection. Publicize the display of a priceless collection of jewels in a prominent luxury goods store as an irresistible lure for the City's Most Wanted. Spend money on perfect fakes. Place a small, crack police team in the building to watch them carefully, just enough manpower to be safe but not enough to be conspicuous. This method had worked quite well before. Neil himself had employed it several times to great success. But not this time, not against the Ghost. This had truly been the perfect crime. Somehow, the thief had known exactly the three minutes when there would be no one else in the room, even though the detectives themselves hadn't planned it. He had moved quickly, knowing exactly where the real jewels were. Now the priceless gems were gone. Neil whirled on his team, drawing on his rising anger and turning it on his subordinates. The whole of his broad, six foot three frame was tense and taut. The three detectives and Sloane, the contract field tech, all looked scared and intimidated. Neil was in no mood to shield anyone from his emotions. He was angry, enraged, unhappy. But there was more going on in his mind, more complicated emotions. Emotions like admiration. Desire. In his head, he replayed the scene from the Saturday before. It was perhaps the millionth time he had done so. A necklace had been stolen from a small, private museum, but the police were unable to figure out how. Needing some fresh air, Neil was outside the building, around back. He had 173

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already faced the press and been put through the ringer on the front steps. He saw a young man on the sidewalk, on the other side of the wrought iron fence, sitting, leaning on his handlebars casually. A small smile on his lips, chewing on the arm of his sunglasses. Sexy. Neil hated the fact he always remembered how very sexy the thief was. And then the man lifted one gloved hand, opening, showing the necklace in his palm. Neil stared at the necklace, and then at the man, realizing who he was with a jolt. With a wink and a wolfish grin, the Ghost had driven off, engine roaring, Neil yelling and attempting futilely to chase after him. He had attempted to report the incident to his superiors, but they had treated him like he was crazy, and had imagined the necklace in the hand of some crackpot fame seeker. It was not reported to the press, and Neil had accepted that general opinion was he had either lied or hallucinated that necklace in the man's hand out of exhaustion or frustration. Neil knew he had not. Pulling himself back into the present reluctantly, he gathered the team to discuss what could have happened and how they could have failed so colossally, but nothing that was offered as an explanation bore scrutiny. Had the Ghost gone through the ducts? Had they all stepped away from their posts at the same time? It was unlikely. But how else could the Ghost have pulled it off? Because he was the Ghost. Neil sighed inwardly. Because he can. 174

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"Sweep the place," he said to the others. "See if you can find anything, anything at all. I..." He turned toward the door. "Have a very goddamn painful phone call I need to make." Two hours later, Neil was ready to turn in. During an uncomfortable phone call, Sergeant Tristani, a man with whom he had several years of fantastic relations, had screamed at him for the loss of the jewels and he had barely said anything in return. This was Neil's first major failure in his career, but it was going to cost him dearly. The most frightening part? He wasn't sure he cared. Yeah, but who am I without my job? He pinched his nose and tried not to groan, running his hands down his face and wincing at his several-days' stubble. The brass was upset because the media was already having a field day, and this was really going to take it to the next level. Whoever it was perpetrating these crimes was confident, bold, fearless, brilliant. Everything Neil was supposed to be; obviously the thief was more so. And the fact that it was such a scruffy, handsome man, one who looked like a halfhomeless biker who modeled on the side pulling off these slick crimes was even more irritating. And erection-inducing. "Hey, boss, want some coffee?" Neil just shook his head and grunted. One of the detectives, Nick, sidled up to him. A week ago, he would have given anything to fuck that fine, round young ass. Now, he couldn't care less. It wasn't like him to lose interest so fast. Nick slinked off, obviously disappointed he'd lost Neil's favor. To save his career, his all-consuming passion, Neil had to solve this case. It was as simple as that. So how was it that 175

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he found himself not caring? Why did his motivation for wanting the case solved feel wholly personal? "Paris, Rio, London ... now here." A female detective came up to Neil and made a noise of frustration. "But why has he been here so long? This isn't his MO, to do more than one heist in a city." They'd been over this. Neil had no answer for her, but he tried anyways. "Maybe he's changing his pattern," he answered grimly. "Maybe he's changing up his game." "Maybe it's not the same guy." "It's the same guy," Neil snapped, and she started, eyes wide. He ramped down his anger, knowing she wasn't the one to take it out on. "But we'll get him." He didn't believe it. "We just need to figure out how he's doing all this. As the detective moved away, he stood up, planning to step outside for some fresh air. Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he turned to see Sloane, the contract lab tech, standing there meekly. Sloane was a lean man with floppy black hair and huge glasses. Neil often didn't notice him; he was efficient and intelligent, and didn't get in the way of the other aspects of the investigation. Neil appreciated that. "What have you got, Sloane?" Sloane shuffled his feet and looked down at something he was holding in his gloved hands. "Um, well, I found this piece of paper over there, underneath the stand where the decoys were. There was just a little corner sticking out, and, um, I grabbed it." 176

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"Huh. Well, it's probably just something from the building staff that got stuck in there, but good work. Take that to the lab and get me a report by tomorrow morning. I don't expect we'll be finding anything else, so—" He was turning away when Sloane interrupted him. "Uh, actually sir, it, um, has your name on it." "What?" He whirled, eyes wide. Heads snapped up at his sudden movement. He lowered his voice. "What are you talking about?" "It, well, seems to be a letter to you." Sloane's big, Kedsshod feet shuffled. Blood rushed to Neil's head, and he could feel his pulse quicken, clouding his senses. That cocky, handsome grin, that wink ... that brilliant, insane mind. The Ghost was an enigma, and an irresistible one. "Give it to me." "Okay." Sloane handed the note over with an uncomfortable smile. Neil, who had never had interpersonal confidence issues, pitied the man. "Sorry, uh, I opened it. I didn't read it." "Don't worry about it, Sloane." It was a tacit dismissal. Neil knew he shouldn't touch it, not without gloves. But he didn't care what he should or shouldn't do. He had to read the letter. Using all his will to keep his hands from shaking, he opened it swiftly. The note was handwritten. How foolish, he thought with an amusement that broke through his tension. If we ever catch him this will make some very convenient evidence. Tidy, slanted writing. Confident. 177

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Detective Neil Margrave— You're good, but I'm better. This is only because I know something you don't, however. Seeing you once made me need to see you again. The tempo of his pulse raced, and he bit back a string of swear words; the last sentence was blatant, teasing phraseology, not something a man would say to another man in a non-sexual context. Was the Ghost playing with him? Did he know Neil was gay? How could he? Tonight. The Victorian hotel, the Bronx, ask for Ryan's room. Whenever you're ready. I'll tell you how I pulled this heist. How I pulled all my heists. I'm giving myself to you. "Does he think I'm stupid?" Neil muttered. He tried to ignore the rush of blood throughout his body. I understand it's a risk. You can bring one—but only one— member of your team. I'll know if you tell anyone else. The Ghost Sloane was watching him quizzically from the case in the center of the room as Neil re-entered the room. The detective affected a sneer. "Cocky asshole." He carefully put the note in his pocket. "I'll take this to the chief tomorrow. I need some fresh air." He spoke loud enough so everyone could hear him. His team nodded in response. He almost ran over Nick, who was coming out of the elevator and clutching his coffee cup with a wide-eyed, "Holy Sh—Detective! What are—" Whatever the younger man saw in his superior's face frightened him, and he shut up instantly. Neil barely registered his presence. 178

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The elevator ride was unbearably long. He threw open the heavy front doors of the building and looked around, eyes sweeping the street. And there he was. Sitting on that beautiful motorcycle again, long denim clad legs balanced on each side. The streetlight glanced off his blond hair, and there was that same cocky grin. Their eyes met, and the thief lifted an eyebrow. Neither of them blinked. In an instant, Neil's body betrayed him, and he felt his erection forming, straining against his boxer briefs. He wondered if his face reflected how aroused his body was. The moment was sexy, and undeniable, and he wanted to rush across the street and pull the young man into a savage, angry kiss. What confused him even more was that, normally, he wouldn't even find the guy that attractive. Oh, he was hot, but he was too muscled, scruffy, looked like he lived in cheap motels and nasty diners. Not Neil's type. But the complicated mind that lurked underneath, the one that would write that both tender and mocking letter ... that was the sexiest thing he had ever encountered, and he wanted desperately, painfully to understand how it worked, how the wheels turned. Despite himself he took a step down the stairs, gratified by the widening of his prey's eyes. What he was going to do wasn't clear, maybe beat him up, maybe actually kiss him, but he was going to do something— "Detective Margrave!" The voice came from up the street, and he stopped his advance in surprise. "Oh, fuck, yeah, 179

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looks like we're the first ones here! Ernie, come on, get a move on. Detective! We hear that the Ghost has pulled off another heist, and when you were in the building, even! Do you have a statement? Detective!" Turning his head Neil saw Ted Beards, the leading television reporter in town, running toward him with a cameraman trying desperately to keep up. The detective couldn't keep a snarl from his face. No, no, he thought angrily, So damn close! He heard the rumble of the motorcycle's engine, and then it zoomed past them and into the darkness. "Friend of yours, Detective Margrave?" Ted asked, his voice thick with curiosity. With a withering glare, Neil went back inside the building, telling the plainclothes police officer by the doors to make sure they were good and locked. He didn't know who had called the media, but he was pissed. It was embarrassing to admit to himself it wasn't for the usual reasons. **** No more clues were found, so he dismissed all his detectives. Once again, it was a flawless crime. Neil stood alone in the room and took a deep breath. It was unlikely, in his mind, that he would still be the team leader tomorrow. Perhaps it was unlikely that he'd even be alive. Am I really to that point? he asked himself sadly. A figure stepped out of the shadows as he entered the echoing marble hallway. 180

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He peered at it. The disheveled, lanky shape was unmistakable, even when the features were murky. "Sloane? Why are you still here?" There was a pause. "Are you, uh, going to meet the Ghost? Alone?" Neil narrowed his eyes. "I thought you didn't read the letter." "I lied." "Are you going to try to stop me?" Neil stood up to his full height, throwing his shoulders back and placing an expression of contempt on his face, lip faintly curled in a snarl. He knew when to be intimidating, and what he knew of Sloane, the man was easily intimidated. Or so he thought. "No. But I, uh, think I—I want to go with you." "What?" Contempt changed to incredulity. "Are you crazy?" "No. But I still want to go." "Go home, Sloane. Go home to whoever is waiting for you, and leave me alone." "If you don't let me go with you, Detective Margrave," Sloane's voice was steady, "I will tell the captain that you tampered with and withheld valuable evidence that I called to your attention." "Are you blackmailing me?" Sloane had the good grace to look embarrassed. He did not, however, look particularly scared. "Uh, yeah. I guess I am."

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"Huh." Neil was more impressed than anything else; he never would have ever guessed the mousy, skinny guy had the balls. "I guess I don't have a choice, do I?" He saw Sloane start to smile, and cut it off with a firm finger to the chest. "But you will leave the second anything happens, you understand? If you don't, I will break every bone in your body, and I won't give a shit if it costs me my job." He briefly noted that the man felt a lot more muscular underneath his baggy clothes than suspected. Full of surprises, the lab tech. Sloane nodded vigorously. "Come on." He started walking down the hallway and didn't look back, even when he heard the younger man scrambling after him. The ride to the hotel was silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Neil wondered what he was doing, letting a lab tech convince him he should come along. It wasn't the blackmail; that had been a stupid ploy, and Sloane would have a lot of trouble following through with that against a celebrated detective like Neil. No, the tech was there because Neil was afraid. Afraid of himself. He parked the car a block away and approached the building casually, hissing at Sloane to do the same. It was a seedy hotel, one that looked like it was decorated in and had its glory days in the forties. The same could be said for the guy behind the desk. "Hey. Here to meet Ryan." What a stupid name, he thought, funneling his tension into anger. He wondered why the Ghost had chosen it. 182

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"Room 522." The old man didn't even look up from his magazine. "He's expecting you." Neil slipped him a five and went toward the elevators, aware of every sound his feet made on the scuffed and dirty floor, and the echo made him wince. Sloane spoke again on the elevator. "Detective Margrave ... You really sure you want to do this?" He was clearly nervous, running a hand through his chestnut hair. Neil had to admit he had beautiful eyes. Neil made a quick decision. "Go home, Sloane." His mind was already one step ahead, and he knew he had to get rid of this stammering distraction. "I told you, this is my choice to make." He was getting hard. His body was betraying to his enemy him once again. "Detective..." The elevator came to an unsteady halt before them. "Go. Home. I never should have agreed to let you come." He got on, standing close to the doors and making it clear Sloane shouldn't try to join him. "Damn it!" Sloane swore, but he just stood there, looking like a lost, scruffy little puppy, head bowed and shoulders slouched. The doors closed. Neil forgot him as the doors opened on the fifth floor. He walked around the corner, approached room number 522 and knocked loudly. The door swung open. Neil fought his erection with as much willpower as he could muster. 183

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And there he was. The Ghost, the man on the motorcycle. The Ghost stepped back with a wry smile, and Neil was surprised to see the other man looked even more nervous than he felt. Who was he to be nervous? "Come in." The thief had a smoker's voice, graveled beyond his years. Up close, he was still attractive, maybe about thirty or so, his skin tan and already leathered. His blond hair was cut close, his wide, attractive face could have been anyone's. His blue eyes shot all around the room, as if he felt trapped. He looked like Nick, although with less skill in the personal hygiene department. Neil tried to fight his disappointment. This confused, scruffy young man was the criminal genius who had written him that teasing, intelligent letter, who had led him on a merry chase, who had filled his dreams with erotic images that were more about intellectual sex than physical? That had distracted him from his crumbling life? "I thought you'd be taller," he laughed bitterly, aiming the comment at himself. "Huh?" The criminal looked confused, clearly not understanding. Neil was dissatisfied, finding the ultimate criminal sorely lacking in ... what? He wasn't sure what it was. but this man didn't have it, whatever it was. There was a disconnect between Neil's fantasy and the person who stood before him. The Ghost shifted his face back into the cocky, reflective gaze Neil had seen both outside the museum and the skyscraper, obviously with effort. "Anyways, you're here, 184

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Detective, uh, Margrave. So, you want to know how I did it?" His smile became conniving, and he took off his jacket. Neil stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Sure." "Well, first you're going to have to take a seat." The nervous eyes shifted to the door. "First you're going to have to submit to me." With jerky motions, he took off his T-shirt, showing a lean, muscled chest. "You're going to become my slave." The words were not flowing from him naturally; he sounded like he was reading from a script. "What?" Neil was confused, and moved back a step. "What the fuck? Are you coming on to me?" "Uh, yes?" the guy answered, nervously. A very strange answer, and Neil was confused. It wasn't a very heartfelt agreement. It didn't sound like something he wanted to do. Like a lightening bolt, the truth hit him. His eyes widened. With a burst of speed he rushed forward and punched the guy in the stomach, hard. "Fuck!" the man swore, and went down, curled in on himself. "Fuck! What was that for, man?" Eyes full of contempt, Neil stared down at him. "You're not the Ghost. There's no way a dumb asshole like you could pull off the theft of a pack of gum. Where is he?" "I don't know!" the young man wailed. He tried to get up, and Neil kicked him, hard. The man wailed in pain. "I really recommend telling me." He lifted his booted foot again. "But I don't!" He was sullen now. "He just emails me! He just told me to come to this room, and meet you, to try and 185

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get you naked!" Suddenly his legs kicked out and caught Neil in the ankle. Neil stumbled briefly, giving the other man the opportunity to get up off the floor and make a break for the door. Neil reached for his gun in order to make him stop ... and it wasn't there. "Fuck!" He went to follow, fighting a limp, when the door flew open. It was Sloane. "Grab him!" Neil bellowed, and Sloane exchanged a look with the imposter, who blew past him. "Damn it, Sloane!" Sloane tilted his head, looking puzzled. "Should I go after him?" "No. We'll never catch him now, and you're no cop, anyways. Fuck!" Neil pounded his fist angrily against one mold-stained wall, leaving an imprint and obvious damage in the drywall underneath. He didn't care. "How the hell could I let myself be played so easily? That bastard!" The bed groaned under his weight as he dropped down to sit, running his hands through his hair. Sloane perched next to him carefully and without comment. Neil brooded unhappily, lost in his own head. What an idiot. He was a stupid son of a bitch who let his crotch do the leading, and now all he had was the burning knowledge he was a fool. That letter he had received was probably useless, but it was still evidence, and he had wasted a possible opportunity and used it for his own means, to satisfy his own desires. But that wasn't the real reason he was so down. You're disappointed, something told him, you're deeply, completely disappointed. 186

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He tried to ignore that voice, but it was too damn loud. "Detective Margrave..." Sloane said quietly. "Can I ask you something?" "Sure." How could he possibly be more humiliated than he already was? "Go for it." Point out that I'm even dumber than I think I am. "Why did you want to meet the Ghost alone so badly?" He let out a humorless laugh. "I'm not really sure, Sloane." "Really?" Neil shrugged. "I don't know. Chasing him has been exciting. I haven't felt excitement in years. He makes me angry, he frustrates me, he's gotten me this close to being fired. And it's great. I feel alive, I feel imperfect. I like it." "So now that you're out and gay, you feel like a misfit?" Neil whipped his head up to stare at Sloane in shock. "How do you know that?" Sloane chuckled, and Neil's breath caught as he felt the man's hands touching his arms, lightly, almost tenderly ... felt a light touch around his wrists. "I know everything about you, Neil." There was then a sudden metallic snap, and the detective felt the distinct and unforgettable sensation of handcuffs around his wrists. His hands were now firmly trapped behind his back. "What the...?" He stood up, and struggled briefly. He felt a rush of excitement that he attempted to conceal with rage. He snarled at Sloane. "What is this shit, Sloane? What are you doing?" This time, Sloane laughed, and with one hand pushed Neil down on the bed again. "Keeping you contained, officer." He 187

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took off his glasses, and with one hand swept his dark hair back from his face, showing gleaming green eyes and a sharp-featured, grinning features. He was standing up straight now, and for the first time Neil saw how very good looking he was. How hadn't I noticed? But that was neither here nor there. He'd been handcuffed, and that wasn't good. Standing up again, he put his authority in his mien and his voice. "Don't fuck with me, Sloane; even without my hands, I can beat the living daylights out of you. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I want this shit." Before he could blink, Sloane's face was right in front of him, and Sloane's hands on the sides of his head. Green orbs locked onto his own. "But isn't this exactly what you wanted?" Sloane breathed. And then kissed him, violently. By the time Neil figured out what was happening, he was in the middle of it, giving as good as he got. He jerked backwards as he felt his cock stir. Things were getting weirder and weirder. "What the fuck was that? Why the fuck would I want you to kiss me, you prick?" He writhed in the handcuffs. "Let me out of these. I'm getting really fucking pissed off. This has been a really shitty day, Sloane, and you don't want to get me angry." "But don't you feel alive, turned on when I anger you? When I give you the slip yet again?" Neil stopped. "What?" Sloane grinned, and ran a finger down the detective's chest, and then bunched the fabric up in his hand. "Welcome 188

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to my room, Detective Margrave. Sorry you had to wait so long to meet me." His whole body was on fire with rage and shock. And ... excitement. His breathing was shallow. "You ... you're the Ghost?" Sloane shrugged and smiled modestly. "I didn't create the name, but, I suppose so, yes." "So you ... How did you get a job with the police?" It can't be. Sloane can't be the Ghost. "I'm a contractor, Neil." The name came out like a caress. "Trust me, they have much less impressive background standards than for the actual police. And in terms of what they needed, an experienced lab tech ... my resume was impeccable." "You fucker. The last three heists were inside jobs." It was impossible for him to keep the awe out of his voice. "You just waltzed into that room and took the gems." Sloane grinned. "In my pocket." This time, Neil sat on the bed on his own, his legs no longer holding him up. His thoughts rushed. He'd largely ignored Sloane for so long, barely noticing him except in admiration of his technical skills. But Sloane had always been there, over his shoulder watching. Waiting. The bastard was brilliant. "Genius," he whispered. "Funny how you can say that and not even look at me." Sloane grabbed his chin, his eyes intense. Neil's searched his face, memorizing it. "Why the ruse, the idiot biker pretending to be you?" 189

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"To keep you occupied. It was convenient for you to think someone else was to blame. Also, as a test. A distraction." Neil closed his eyes. "Fuck. Of course. You'd found the perfect setup, the perfect situation, and you had to keep me out of your way." He sneered, but it was directed at himself. "I'm such a moron. The perfect patsy, letting you play me as long as you could. You were seeing how long you could keep it up, weren't you?" "No." Suddenly Sloane was on his knees, staring up at him. "You misunderstand me. Or, no." He shook his head. "You don't. I did want to play you as long as could. But not for the loot." His hands squeezed Neil's thighs and continued to move upwards. Neil knew he should move. And yet, he couldn't. The touch burned his skin. Here, before him, with gleaming eyes and wicked smile, was a worthy opponent. Everything he could have hoped the Ghost was. It turned him on so much it hurt. "So what did you do it for?" he managed to get out. "Isn't it obvious?" It wasn't to Neil, but before he could speak, Sloane leaned forward, running his tongue up the length of Neil's clothed cock, causing the detective to squirm and swear. "I want you. And I wanted you to completely accept how much you wanted me, your enemy." His hands took the top of Neil's pants and underwear, pulling them down slowly. Neil's penis sprang to attention, reaching forward, and despite himself he lifted his hips, wanting, needing that touch. 190

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"Fucking beautiful," Sloane said dreamily, almost as if to himself, before looking up at Neil again. "But I wanted to put myself in a physical package I knew you'd want, the pretty young biker. He was irresistible, wasn't he?" "You dumb fuck." Neil growled, and the younger man blinked in surprise. "The way he looked had almost nothing to do with it. It was the mind I thought he had ... Your mind. That was what made me so fucking—" He stopped himself, embarrassed, suddenly vulnerable in front of the one man he should be anything but vulnerable to. But that was exactly what was so damn hot, and he couldn't deny it anymore. "So fucking...?" Down on his knees between Neil's legs, Sloane looked up with bright eyes; it was shocking now to the detective that he hadn't noticed them before. "So it's my mind you want?" He leaned forward and ran his nose up the length of Neil's cock. "Hope you don't mind if what you get is my body." And then, without warning, he slipped the detective's cock into his mouth, all the way down to the base. "FUCK!" Neil shouted, overwhelmed by the sensation. He arched against his handcuffs, frustrated and turned on by the fact he couldn't actually touch the other man. His body was straining toward coming. "Stop. Stop," he insisted through gritted teeth, and Sloane's head popped up. "You aren't enjoying it?" "That's not it..." He shook his head, but couldn't say it. It was degrading.

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"You want to do more?" That quirked smile again, and a tongue against his balls before Sloane lifted his head up completely. Neil glared at him defiantly. He knew what he wanted, and it was impossible to say it. He'd never said it to anyone before, not in his thirty-four years. "Come on, Detective," Sloane purred, and undid his shirt, opening it to bare Neil's hairy, muscled chest. He pinched one dark nipple and Neil twitched with a strangled oath. "What is it?" "Fuck me." Sloane's eyes widened. "What?" "Fuck me, you thieving asshole. I ... want you ... to top me. To fuck me hard." His eyes blazed, daring the man to laugh at him, or to show incredulity. Instead, a new expression spread over Sloane's face. It was empty of the wry, ironic humor, and full of surprise. "Really? "If you don't want it, you don't, forget it." Neil turned away. A hand pulled his face around again. "No." Sloane's breathing was shallow, and Neil could see his erection. At that moment, he knew he had to taste it, feel it between his lips. "There's nothing I want more. Nothing I want more than you. Surprised myself, really." He trailed a finger down Neil's wide cheekbones. Neil flushed, and bit at the digit. Sloane drew back, surprised, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. "Shut the fuck up and let me suck you," Neil growled. 192

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Sloane quickly pushed down his pants, revealing lean, muscled legs, and came forward. Neil took him in greedily, loving it when Sloane grabbed the back of his head to guide and control him. "Fuck, Detective," he groaned. The grip of his fingers tightened. "Wanted ... this ... for so long..." Neil tasted the telltale pre-come, and pulled back, getting a moan from the man standing over him. "Let my hands go and fuck me, Ghost boy. If you don't, I'm going to bite you." What Sloane did next unnerved him, and robbed him of words. Slowly, almost tenderly, the man bent down and kissed the top of Neil's head, running his hands through his short hair from his ears back. "Anything you want," he answered quietly. He pulled a key from his pants pocket and quickly undid the cuffs. "Now's your time to get away," Sloane said teasingly as he threw them away, his pointed devil's grin returning. "You could escape." "For someone so smart, you're awfully stupid, Sloane." Neil reached up and grabbed the man by his hair, giving it a good tug before pulling his face almost to his. "Do you really think handcuffs could have stopped me if I really wanted to escape?" "No?" "No. So—" He jutted his hips forward, rubbing his cock and his ass against Sloane's straining groin, loving the sensation that mingled with his own rising anticipation."—keep your promise, 'Ghost,' and fucking fuck me. Before I beat the shit out of you." 193

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Sloane's pupils dilated, and his breathing became ragged. "God, you're amazing." He positioned himself on his knees, and Neil lifted his legs, running a large fist around his erection, groaning as he felt the head of Sloane's long tool push against his hole, pushing forward. But, to his deep consternation, the man didn't enter at that moment, and after a beat, Neil stared over his own body at him incredulously. "What?" "Well," Sloane looked worried. "We have no lube." "Use spit, then." Neil threw back his head proudly. "I can fucking take it." "Yeah." Sloane was serious now, no smile. He gathered spit and covered his hand with it before bringing it to his own cock and coating it with the slick wetness. Then he leaned forward, lightly kissing Neil, their tongues dancing. "I think you can." With that he pushed forward suddenly and swiftly, and Neil closed his eyes and bellowed as he felt the pain explode through him. It felt so fucking good. Neil pushed his ass into the sensation, the raw and rough explosion of the flesh of Sloane's cock giving him pleasure like he'd never known. He reached again for his own cock but Sloane stopped Neil, taking it in his hand and jacking it up and down, rubbing it deliciously raw. "Fuck, Sloane..." he growled, the name stretched out into pleasure. "Aaron," the thief said, and leaned forward to nip Neil's knee. "My real name is Aaron." He started to thrust faster and Neil arched into the bed. 194

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It could have been a lie, it probably was a lie; who knew if it was really his name? But at that moment, Neil didn't care, the sensation of the scratchy bedspread underneath his back as Sloa—Aaron pounded into him faster and faster set his body on fire. "Aaron ... Fuck, yes, Harder, Aaron!" "Oh, god." Aaron's head had fallen to the side, eyes closed in ecstasy. Neil could feel both the rock hard strain of the cock inside him and of his own, the increasingly erratic thrusts, deeper and harder and faster. "Coming ... Oh, FUCK!" Aaron's warning was cut off as his lips opened to an "O" and then he let out a strained, sexy yell, his fingers and clutching around Neil's cock as he spasmed. Neil's own orgasm was like an explosion, light bursting from the corner of his vision. He bucked, growling as he pushed against Aaron to get the last of his hard, violent movements. It was the longest he had ever come; his pleasure just seemed to go on and on as it came out endlessly. Aaron leaned forward and violently mashed their lips together, holding himself inside Neil as the other man came. As the shudders subsided, Aaron kissed down his chest, running his hands through the come, tasting it. Of its own accord, one of Neil's hands lifted and touched Aaron's hair. "Well, that was both more painful and better than I thought it would be," he said, bemused. Aaron lifted his head, surprised. "What? You've never bottomed before?" A grin that could only be called delighted spread over his face, but he quickly dropped it when he saw 195

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Neil's warning snarl. He chuckled quietly, and they fell briefly into a comfortable silence. Neil stared at the ceiling, mind working but not settling on any particular thought. He had a decision to make, and he was going to have to make it now. But it wasn't coming easily. It was Aaron who broke the silence. "So ... now what?" Neil looked down at him, face blank. He answered as best he could, figuring the question had the same meaning as those in his own mind. "There's two options. One: I drag your ass in, now." He tightened his grip on Aaron's hair. "And you spend the rest of your life in jail. But I also don't believe you'd let that happen." Those green eyes caught his again. "Why wouldn't I?" Neil snorted, putting his hands behind his head to lean back upon and looking at Aaron in amusement. "So you're saying you'd let yourself be thrown in jail for one quick fuck? I doubt it. I'm surprised I'm not already tied up again, or knocked out, or something. Maybe dead." "What's not to believe?" Aaron wasn't smiling. "There's no profit in it. You're a thief." "No. I am a thief, yes, but I'm not in it for the money." He ran a finger down Neil's nose. Something wicked sparked in his eyes." I do it for the game. I'm in it for the thrill. And profit ... Sometimes, it's not financial. It's for the profit of discovery. The spoils of risk." "Uh-huh. And I'm your latest thrill, your latest game? Mind-screwing the cop as the greatest risk, yeah? Fuck that," Neil growled. He began to move away, but Aaron stopped him with surprising strength. 196

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"You're my favorite game. You're the only game that's been more than an exercise, more than play. Ever since the first time I saw you investigating the Van Gogh heist." His eyes clouded. "You were so beautiful, striding around like some sort of caged beast." He took advantage of Neil's shocked stare to kiss him, biting his lips. "Fuck," Neil swore into his mouth, and flipped them, pinning Aaron down, muscles bulging. "You're a twisty bastard, you know that?" His head was light with the knowledge that he was the reason the Ghost had stayed around so long, fighting with an anger at how thoroughly and easily he had been manipulated. The thief was equally as obsessed as he was. Aaron's smile was small, tight, and his eyes were still intense. "Yes, I know that. What's that other option?" "I let you go." Neil sighed. "Maybe it's good I'm not the 'perfect detective' anymore. They'll stop expecting me to pull their asses out of the fire every time. If I get fired for not catching you, I get fired. I'll live. But." He put his face inches from Aaron's and growled. What he was about to say made his heart ache, oddly, but it was the only way. "You get out. You leave. You never pull a heist in my town again. Move on. Push off." "No." Aaron shook his head, expression nonchalant. "That's not actually an option." "What?" Neil was incredulous. "You want to end up in prison, you dumb fuck? I might now officially be a shitty cop, but I'm still a cop, and you're still a criminal scumbag. I'm not 197

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going to let you keep this up on my turf. No matter how good it feels to have you fuck me." Aaron stretched like a cat, and his long lean, muscles shifted under his pale skin. "I'm obviously not that bad a scumbag to you, if you're going to let me go. But it's nice to hear I'm a good lay." His wicked smile played around his lips, dancing. Neil felt a stirring in his cock, and took a deep annoyed breath. "You little..." Aaron lifted a hand to his lips. "Option three. I quit stealing. I stay in your town." "As if I believe you'd—" "Your career is magically saved by finding where I've stashed everything I've stolen," Aaron continued. Neil's mouth felt like it was frozen open. "And the Ghost goes 'poof.'" He made a dissipating motion with his two hands. "Forever and ever." "You..." Neil shook his head. "Crazy asshole. I thought you were in it for the 'game.' Men like you don't just stop that shit, you'll be bored." "Mmmmm." Aaron ran a finger down Neil's broad chest, snagging hairs. "You have the most amazing body ... I was already getting bored with the thievery game; it was losing its thrill, and I've been getting sloppy. If you're not going to put me in jail, I'd rather quit at the top of my game." His smile was sly. "I'll find new games to keep me busy." "And Ryan, the idiot biker? Doesn't he know about you?"

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"His money was waiting for him at the bus station, he's done his job. He was an easily manipulated grifter who has no idea who I am. I wouldn't worry about that." "You're fucking nuts." He couldn't keep the admiration out of his voice. "But." His large hand pinned Aaron around the neck, and his other was around his arm. He squeezed both, making it clear he could break either very easily. Aaron's breathing deepened, and his face became flush. "If you ever involve me personally in any of your fucking games, I will snap you like a twig, understood?" Aaron reached up and wrapped his limbs around Neil, and electricity shot through the detective as their renewed erections met. The younger man put his lips near the Neil's ear, and ran his tongue slowly along its edge. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Detective Margrave." One of his fingers started to rub gently between Neil's asscheeks, and the policeman's body instantly pushed into the touch. "Fucker," he swore, and cut off Aaron's laugh with a crushing kiss. He wasn't sure if he could trust the thief to mean everything he said—actually, he was pretty sure he couldn't. But that was part of the game, and Neil was now ready to play. [Back to Table of Contents]

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LIKE CLOCKWORK Meredith Shrike Captain Gideon P. Highwater was assured of three immutable truths: one, that he was easily twice as sharp as he was good-looking; two, that he was, in fact, excruciatingly good-looking; and three, that he never got caught. But while he was every bit as intelligent and handsome as he had been a quarter of an hour previous, he was, even he had to admit, having a teeny tiny bit of trouble with the third one. Because he had been caught, there was no doubt about that. Caught, and good, by the cleverest little bit of clockwork that he'd seen in many a long day. He would have stopped to admire the whole contraption that had done it, had he not been, as had previously been asserted, caught. Not to mention kitted out in a fine pair of Doctor Cedric O. Greenfiddle's patented irrodium auto-cinching cuffs. Around his ankles. And hanging from the ceiling. There were wrist binders as well, of course, but they were nothing more than a flimsy, insulting afterthought, and Gideon would have been out of them in a trice if he hadn't been so busy being indignant about the entire affair. Perhaps, he thought, with a brief aside to wonder if his rakish hair looked every bit as rakish upside-down as it did right-side-up, perhaps—just maybe—he should say, Captain Gideon P. Highwater never stayed caught. Because, as sure as his eyes were blue and his ass indescribably perfect, his means of escape was at that moment detaching from the 200

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underside of the Zonlicht's hull and skittering toward its master. The Latchkey was a small, spidery-legged contraption made up of pins and cogs and steam-compressed bolt cutters, and Gideon had procured it not because he felt he needed it, but because it had been under lock and key in the Greenfiddle labs and was supposed to be unstealable. So he had stolen it. It had been ridiculously simple, really. The Latchkey was designed to free things; all Gideon had had to do was suggest it free itself. And three and a half minutes later (by Gideon's pocket watch), it had come tottling out of the laboratory and had been as friendly as a puppy ever since. By all reports, the project financiers were infuriated at the loss of three years' work, and the good Doctor Greenfiddle himself delighted that his invention had worked so well. Gideon had activated the device the moment he had been snared in the clockwork trap, glad at least the wrist restraints allowed for a certain freedom in the fingers. As a result, he expected that the Latchkey would be arriving within the next four minutes, and that in the next five, Gideon would have in his possession that lovely little droplet of crystallized giltruby that was twinkling in the case below him. The sudden appearance of a pair of gleaming black boots in his field of vision forced him to add another minute and a half to his estimate, give or take ten seconds. "I see you've been introduced to the Miriam Vise," the owner of the boots said, and the set of his ankles was nothing short of smug. Gideon could see little else of the man, except for the reflection of a royal guardsman's uniform on the 201

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highly-polished marble floor. "She's quite the jealous lady, as I'm sure you've noticed." "Really?" Gideon drawled, as only a sky-pirate who is upside down and about to escape can drawl. "I would have called her a bit of a claptrap. All that whirring and the whistles. Overdone really. And the ankles! I mean, you could have the decency to snare a man upright, as is proper and polite." "Hm. Well, the prototype was intended to be more wristoriented, but it kept ripping the arms of the test mannequins out of their sockets." The boots became knees and a chest as the guardsman knelt down, and then a face interposed itself between Gideon and the giltruby. Even upside down, Gideon felt his heart go up into his throat in a way that had nothing to do with the inversion of his own personal gravity. "I'm sure you can agree that such measures would be a bit ... extreme. Even for the Giltruby Arietis of House Xersetos." Gideon pried his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "Quite," he said, while his brain sped on in silence. Where were they recruiting the royal guard these days? The Isle of Adonis? The other guardsmen at the door had had all the physical appeal of a three-week old cucumber sandwich, but Gideon's captor was something else entirely. Supremely blond, with a good jaw and a mouth that was, in spite of the stern frame of the close-cropped beard, decadently pouty. There was more than the due course of law and order in his pale eyes, and those gabardine trousers, so ill-advised on the other guards, framed a backside that was almost as fine a work of art as Gideon's own. He had quite a nice view of it, reflected in the rosy 202

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marble floor (how the palace maids must slave for that shine!), but Gideon decided, without question, that he would have to take a better look to be sure. With the usual sort of unplanned inspiration that had won him infamy in five confederations, Gideon deftly pressed the blue stone on his forefinger ring. Somewhere down the corridors of the royal treasury, the Latchkey hummed and clicked as it accepted new orders. Gideon's handsome antagonist reached out to catch the back of the sky-pirate's head and hold him steady, the better to look him sternly in the eye without having to weave along to Gideon's bothersome pendular swaying. Gideon had begun to feel rather like he ought to be counterweighted and put in a grandfather clock. "Now then," the guardsman said, and Gideon quietly savored the way the man's fingers tightened in the soft burr of his hair; it was so deliciously straightforward and honest. "I may not be one to indulge in the popular serials in the evening Tribune, but I do confess I know the slant of your burnsides, my boy. I thought Gideon Highwater never got caught?" "I really should speak to someone at the papers," Gideon said brightly, "and specify that it should be 'Captain Gideon P. Highwater never stays caught.' Because once in a while, you have to admit, I have to be a little bit caught. Livens up a dull afternoon, makes sure my sketch for the wanted posters is properly up to date and flattering, all that sort of thing." The other man's lips (utterly indecent, they were!) tightened in a grim smile. "You'll stay caught this time, 203

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Highwater. As sure as my name is Jules Alexandre X— ugmph!" "You must have the devil of a time getting your linens embroidered," Gideon said, noting it was precisely five minutes and twenty-three seconds after he first summoned his clockwork assistant, "what with a surname like Xugmph." Jules growled something understandably uncivil, trapped underneath the weight of the Latchkey sprawled across his chest. Seven of the device's eight arms were busy pinning the taller man to the floor; the eighth was industriously nipping through Gideon's restraints. Gideon's ankles came free and he flipped neatly down to the ground and busied himself getting out of the wrist binders on his own. The Latchkey might have done it faster, but Gideon felt it was better to keep one's hand in with regard to that sort of thing, and it gave him a chance to study his prize. Which was not, at that moment, the giltruby. "I'll see you hanged!" Jules spluttered, and the righteous fury in his eyes triggered a suffusion of warmth low in Gideon's belly. "Would you?" Gideon made a show of fussing over his shirt cuffs; they'd been soiled with lubricating oil from the contraption. "The boys at Madam Evangelina's salon are easy providence; I'm sure for a silver sovereign they'd be delighted to inform you just how hung I already am. Or were you wanting to personally test the veracity of that claim?" Jules seethed, and Gideon winked at him. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I believe that's mine." Gideon stepped over Jules' prone body, ignoring the guardsman's abusive protests as the 204

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Latchkey began to systematically install him in the Miriam Vise—right-side-up. Gideon left them to it and got on with his business. The giltruby's case was made of three triangular panes of delicate, etched glass, gleaming in a beam of moonlight in the center of the room. The case reflected Gideon's slim hips and arched eyebrow half a second before it shattered gorgeously under the butt of his pistol, and then, oh, then! Gideon had the giltruby in his hand at last. Framed in smooth coils of copper wire, its crimson depths flickering with ancient magicks, the ram's horn shape of the giltruby was as light as a feather in his palm, and glowed like a young girl's cheeks. Gideon tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket, turned around, and promptly forgot about it. The Latchkey was a thorough bit of clockwork. Jules was snared in the Miriam Vise's cunning chains, legs sprawled, arms outstretched, and tilted back at a delicious angle like the arm of a sundial. He was unable draw himself up to his proper height, which would have been some inches more than Gideon's slight frame. Had he been free, he likely could have snapped Gideon in half like the proverbial twig. As it was, Gideon could actually bend down to look him in the eye. It was not a comfortable rig, as Gideon had cause to know, and Jules writhed against his bonds. His thighs tensed with strain under their covering of dark gray wool, and the brass button at his collar had come undone as though solely to give a teasing glimpse of the line of his throat. Gideon glanced at his pocket watch, and estimated that he could spare a minute or ten. 205

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"What do you want with the giltruby?" Jules panted, ceasing to struggle for the moment. "It responds only to members of the royal house." "I'm collecting the twelve gems of the zodiac," Gideon said, absently patting his waistcoat pocket as he stepped up beside the prone guard. "I've seven out of twelve, now." "Then ... you mean to resurrect the Celestial Device?" Jules asked, his face going ashen. "Oh," Gideon said, running the back of his hand down the other man's cheek, and savoring the soft brush of golden hairs against his knuckles, "not right this very moment, no." He leaned in and caught that fine chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing the man's proud face toward his own. Jules' eyes went wide with comprehension half a second before Gideon had crushed their mouths together, sweeter plunder by far than any common royal treasure. For a moment, the gilt chains of the Miriam Vise clattered with Jules' indignation, and then the clenched jaw went lax and welcoming under Gideon's lips. Gideon was deft with his tongue—he would not risk so dull a trick as having it bitten off—but there was no dissembling in the raw, hungry moan that welled up from Jules' chest. "Law and justice are too pious a pair of spinsters for a man like you to be wasted on," Gideon said, wrenching Jules' jacket open and sending a rain of brass buttons onto the floor like a shower of cathedral bells. His hands slipped past the crisp folds of Jules' shirt, tracing a ticklish path over the taut muscles of his belly. "You'd make a far finer pirate." 206

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Jules had a streak of red across his face that had nothing to do with rage. "And be chased across the sky like some infernal winged fox? I think not." "But it is the fox that has caught the hunting hound," Gideon said, swinging one leg over Jules' tense leg, so he was straddling it. "Do you so enjoy your leash? I suppose we'll see." Gideon shifted his weight, as though moving forward in a waltz, or in a duel with epees, and his hipbone came up just so against the crux of Jules' thighs. The other man's cock was thick and rigid against the pressure of Gideon's body, deliciously hot even through the confines of his trousers. The noise Jules made was not that of a hound on the scent, but something far sweeter. "I see," Gideon said, and his own voice was rough, "you fancy your chains." "Unhand me," Jules growled, but Gideon did the opposite, thief-fingers circumventing wool and linen to close on the aching weight of Jules' cock. Jules' cry of need rang in the dark, empty vaults of the royal treasury. "I don't think that's at all what you mean," Gideon said, and shucked Jules' trousers down as far as his spread thighs would allow. Gideon allowed himself more time for admiration than he had spent on the giltruby's exquisite case. Jules' cock was ruddy to the tip, curving up from golden curls and nuzzling almost innocently into Gideon's hand. It jumped slightly with the rapid beats of Jules' pulse, forthright and hungry. His bare ass, reflected in the marble beneath (Gideon did hope those maids were paid exceptionally well) was parted just enough to give a hint of the puckered, pink bud of 207

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his opening. Gideon watched in the reflection as his own silver-ringed fingers cupped the weight of Jules' balls, leaving them with a gentle tug before stroking one trigger-callused fingertip over a vise much tighter than any clockwork binders. Jules' cock begged for equal attention, and Gideon deigned to give it some, bending down and sweeping his tongue over the salty bead of anticipation that had gathered at the tip. Jules arched up, letting himself hang from the chains and moving his hips greedily into Gideon's hand. "Get on with it, man!" he gasped, fists clenching uselessly. "I thought thieves were supposed to be quick?" "Do I drag out the scene? A thousand pardons, then." Gideon whistled and the Latchkey skittered up obediently. It produced a gleaming copper syringe from one of its many compartments, and smacked it into Gideon's waiting hand. "I should not want to keep the audience waiting." Protest, if Jules wanted to give it, was not accorded the opportunity. The black rubber nozzle of the syringe slipped easily between Jules' buttocks; he caught his breath hard against his teeth as Gideon depressed the plunger. "Clockworks work best when well-oiled, wouldn't you agree?" Gideon struggled to maintain his carefree tone. The empty syringe clattered to the floor and the sky-pirate fumbled with the front of his trousers. Thin tendrils of oil trickled down Jules' thighs, catching in the pale hairs of his legs. "After all, I wouldn't want your gears to stop." "I'll stop your gears," Jules growled, with an emphatic rattle of chains. "If you don't get your damn cock out and— nnnnnngh!" 208

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Jules' slightly supine angle in the chains was perfectly accommodating; so much so that one would think the Miriam vise built for such activity. Gideon spared a glance for the reflection beneath them long enough to watch the tip of his own aching cock being swallowed by the welcoming constriction of Jules' asshole. After that, he was far too preoccupied with the sheer, unmitigated pleasure of fucking the man to be bothered with narcissism. That Jules would like it hard and fast was never in doubt; these military types were all the same. In truth Gideon was having a fair amount of trouble with his own patented brand of disinterest. He clutched Jules' beautiful ass hard enough for the firm flesh to go white around his fingers, and snapped his hips forward with the same kind of greed that drove him across a thousand skies. Jules found enough slack in his ankle chains to hitch his legs higher up around Gideon's waist, gripping the chains above his wrist cuffs and arching back, letting Gideon's plundering run deep. Rogue and scoundrel but never for a moment discourteous, Gideon wrapped his fingers around Jules' thick shaft and pumped it in time. "Admit it," Gideon rasped, control fraying like a silk scarf left too long in the wind. "I—" "No." "Never—" "I won't say it—" "Get—" "Hnng!" "—Caught." 209

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"Never!" Jules vowed, and came, spilling himself all over his shivering belly and Gideon's ringed fingers. Gideon dug in his heels and gritted his teeth but could not stop his own answer, coiled pleasure bursting free like a copper spring, licking down his thighs as he flooded Jules with his release. For a moment they both hung suspended on the weight of the chains, gasping for air. Gideon caressed Jules' buttocks, smoothing the red marks left by his fingers. Given the chance, they might have stayed as they were for some time, but the Latchkey bounced up to them and clicked its pincers in warning. It waved a lacy handkerchief at its master like a maid seeing her lover off to war, and Gideon made a bored attempt to clean himself up a bit. "Well," he said, more breathless than he cared to admit, "I'd best be off." "Leave me hanging here if you must," Jules said, with resignation, "but would you at least have the decency to pull my pants up this time? It was twenty minutes before they found me last week, and I thought my arse would freeze off." "Aww, poor diddums." Gideon clicked his tongue and tugged Jules' clothing more or less back into place, but not before wrapping the scrap of embroidered lace around Jules' sated cock, like a souvenir. "I would not expect the Crown Prince of the House of Xersetos to be such a sniveler." Jules' lip curled in something like real annoyance. "I'll give you sniveling, you nancy little box of satin petticoats—" "Next week," Gideon said, and kissed him again, sticky fingers tangling up in the prince's blond hair. "We've no time now. And do try to come up with something cleverer than this 210

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Miriam Whatsit. I would have been out of it and gone if you'd been any later. Back in the skies with my prize." "I know the prize you're after," Jules said, and smiled against Gideon's mouth. "And it's not the giltruby. Not that you even have the giltruby." "Another fake, I expect?" Gideon sighed. "I've got quite the collection. Ah well. I'll find the real one, by and by." The Latchkey whistled in warning; there were footsteps coming up the stairs of the far corridor. "Get out of here, pirate," Jules murmured. Gideon brought his palm smartly against Jules' backside, snapped his fingers for the Latchkey, and was out the window and on the roof. A moment later, the actual members of the royal house guard clattered into the room, urgent and overwhelmingly ineffectual. "Damn and blast, Your Highness!" One of them fussed through his snowy whiskers, hurrying over to free Jules from the cuffs. "Are you all right?" "Not to worry," Jules said, subtly shifting his hips to make the hidden handkerchief stroke its lace gently between his legs, like the memory of a sky-pirate's cuffs. "He's only gotten away with the fake." "Yes, and it's a damn good thing you were smart enough to move the giltruby this morning. But the fox himself has given us the slip again! I begin to think it's true, he can't be caught!" "Oh, he can be caught, Humphries," Jules said, smiling at the open window, the shattered case, and the whole wide, unfettered sky beyond. "Believe me. He can be caught." 211

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A GAME OF EMPIRE Autumn Winterwind 2865, June, en route to Alpha Centauri Communique/route/ImpNav/Wilhelm II/RAdm vBielefeld/private Fritz, I'm taking a job at Beta Ceti. Please believe me when I say you can trust me. Should you remember that you're human, I'll follow you anywhere in the Empire. Your ever faithful, Hans. Bielefeld frowned at his screen. "Of course I'm human. What else would I be?" He marked the message and saved it, cursing himself for the sentimentality. 2875, April, Beta Ceti The comm unit beeped. Vice Admiral Friedrich von Bielefeld turned from his contemplation of space and pressed the button. "Report." "They've caught him, sir," Lieutenant Schneider said cheerfully. "They're putting him in the shuttle as we speak." "Excellent news. Bring him to me and have the guest room prepared—and remove all objects that could be used as a weapon." "Not the brig, sir?" "He's too dangerous. I want him where I can keep an eye on him." "Yes, sir," Schneider signed off. Bielefeld smiled. He draped the standard uniform coat over the back of his chair, then he took his formal black uniform 213

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coat from its hanger and slipped it onto his shoulders. He buttoned it from the bottom to the standing collar, arranged the insignia and cords across his chest, and waited. **** Two armed soldiers brought Hans Schmidt to Bielefeld's quarters. The prisoner wore gray trousers without pockets and a tunic. His hands were cuffed behind his back, which pulled the light fabric tight across his well-muscled chest and biceps. Bielefeld directed the soldiers to cuff the prisoner's right arm to a chair. "You may leave." "But Sir, the prisoner—" "Is restrained. Wait outside the door until I call you." Reluctantly, the two soldiers obeyed and left Hans and Bielefeld alone. Hans stared at Bielefeld, whose uniform provided an impressive display of rank. His broad shoulders filled out the coat, and the gold braided cords accentuated his chest. Blond hair brushed the top of the collar. "I thought it might be you," Hans said darkly. "I'd heard some hotshot young Admiral was in charge of this sector, trying to catch me, since the others all failed." "Vice Admiral, Herr Schmidt." Hans snorted. "Come on, Fritz. You know as soon as your precious Emperor gets the message, you'll be promoted. Admiral in the Galactic Fleet at thirty-five. Impressive." "Don't be so familiar, Haensl," Bielefeld sneered. "Yes sir, Admiral von Bielefeld, sir!" Hans smirked. 214

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"Don't irritate me. I hold the key to your life in my hand. You cooperate, you live. You refuse, I let the Emperor decide your fate." Bielefeld frowned. "And you know the penalty for treason." Hans laughed. "I could have died a hundred times already! What makes you think a death sentence worries me? I would gladly give my life for my comrades' freedom." "As expected, your idealism lacks in finesse." Bielefeld sighed. He stepped toward Hans' chair. "Do you truly believe your movement would survive for long without you? The Empire has sought to capture you because you are the linchpin of the workers' revolt. Without you, it falls apart. You best serve your cause if you remain alive to champion it." "That sounds like treason, Fritz. I never thought you had it in you." "Perish the thought. I am merely concerned with the current and future well-being of the Empire, and to that end, I offer you a pardon. The station of Beta Ceti IV is in dire need of a good representative in the Senate. If you prove to me that you will submit to my authority, and by extension that of the Emperor, I will plead your case to him personally." Hans raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?" "Then your workers' revolt dies with you. It's your choice." Bielefeld summoned the soldiers to take Hans away. "Think about it. I shall expect your answer at dinner tonight." As the door closed, he muttered, "I hope you choose wisely." **** 215

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Two soldiers accompanied Bielefeld into the room Hans occupied, and Bielefeld sent them outside to wait. He had traded the dress coat for the standard uniform jacket, offwhite with gold trim, and far fewer decorations. "Let's not talk business until after dinner," he said, raising his wineglass to his lips. The galley had followed his orders to the letter: there was only plastic, and no knives. Conversation was awkward; no topic seemed far enough away from the business at hand. "So, Fritz, what do you want from me? You tell me to submit to your authority or be executed for treason. Do you expect me to grovel and scrape and beg for you to spare me?" Hans asked as he shoved his empty plate away. "Do you think you can break my spirit?" Bielefeld pushed his chair back and rose, stepping around the small table. "Heaven forfend. Your spirit is far too valuable—it's why I want you to represent Beta Ceti IV. The last representative was entirely too susceptible to bribery." Hans regarded him skeptically as Bielefeld shifted the cuffs to behind his back. "Then how?" Bielefeld avoided the question. "You need to learn who holds the authority in this galaxy." A haughty half-smile played across his lips. "Rather, you need to remember who holds authority over you," he said, brushing fingers across Hans' crotch. "That was over long ago," Hans stated flatly. "I left you." "You did. But I've never forgotten how you responded to my touch." His hand gripped Hans' stiffening cock through the prison trousers. "And twice now you've ignored my request not to call me Fritz." He let go, provoking a gasp from Hans, 216

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and removed a flexible riding crop from a pocket of his jacket. "Stand." Hans glowered. Bielefeld brought the crop down on Hans' muscular thigh. "Stand." At Hans' second refusal, another stroke, and Bielefeld said, "Don't make me call the guards. Now, stand up." Hans glowered, but he stood. "Stand behind the chair and bend forward." Hans complied, and he felt two solid blows through the thin trousers. "You're stronger than you used to be." "And older and more practiced," Bielefeld said, laying a third stroke. Hans refused to make a sound as it connected to his ass. He wouldn't give Fritz the satisfaction. "Stand straight," Bielefeld ordered. He tucked the crop away. Before he summoned the guards, he ran his finger along Hans' cock. "I see part of you still respects me. I'll be back in a few hours to hear your answer." When Bielefeld's back was safely on the other side of the door, Hans sat on his chair and groaned softly. "Damn you," he whispered. "Damn you. This isn't a game." **** As promised, Bielefeld returned. Hans willed his body to be insensate, his mind to steel. "You won't win this," he said. "Win? Lose? Meaningless. Live or die, Haensl. I'd rather you lived, for selfish, nostalgic reasons. Which do you 217

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choose?" He trailed fingers down Hans' tunic, following the curve of his pectoral down to his rippling abdominals. Hans held his breath and thought of his dead comrades. "Death, like my fallen brothers in arms, dead at your hands." Bielefeld's face registered distaste. "You understand that I shall do everything within my power to convince you of your mistake. The journey back to Sol III takes nearly two months. I hope I won't need the whole time." He pinched a nipple. "You think that if I let you dominate me again, I'll follow at your heels. I'll be your good, loyal pet. Well, fuck you, Fritz," Hans spat. Bielefeld's lip curved cruelly upward. "Oh no, we can't have that. Where is the silver-tongued devil who has vexed the Empire for the last year? Unfortunately, I have some business I must attend to, so I cannot exact punishment tonight." He smiled a bit sadly. "It seems your lieutenants aren't as good at uniting the cause as you are. I think we'll only need a few more days to quench your little revolution." He stroked Hans' square jaw, and Hans jerked away. "I'll be back later." After Bielefeld left, the guards shifted his cuffs to the front of Hans' body. He dropped onto the edge of his bed, leaned his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He'd played right into Fritz's game, he knew it, and it didn't matter which he'd chosen. He needed to fight Fritz for two months; to do otherwise would be to betray his comrades' trust. He could hold out that long. He hoped. **** 218

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Bielefeld did not return the next day or the day after. The guards brought Hans' meals and uncuffed him to shower, and he tried asking them for information, but he guessed they were under strict orders not to speak with him. He only had access to one incoming comm channel, and it was some modern so-called music. So he waited. When Bielefeld returned on the evening of the third day, his blue eyes were ringed with dark circles. He called up a video on the terminal. "Your revolution is over. Your lieutenants surrendered this morning. Look!" He gestured to the screen, where two young men and a woman were being led, handcuffed, into the Imperial Security jail. "As I told you, your insurrection will die without you. Yet you choose death— foolish!" Frustration flashed across his face before he could smooth his features to disdain. "How do I know it isn't faked?" Hans asked, his heart sinking to his feet. "Have I ever lied to you, Haensl? Will you change your decision?" "No. I won't betray the people who trusted me." Bielefeld sighed. "I'd hoped I wouldn't have to beat your idiotic pride out of you." He summoned the guards. "Cuff him around that post. Facing it. Then leave." He hung his coat over a chair removed his belt. Hans steeled himself; Fritz was a man of his word. He felt the prison-issue trousers jerked down to his ankles, and the sharp stinging of the leather across his ass. "You'll beg like you used to, Haensl," Bielefeld whispered in his ear. 219

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"Never," Hans replied, his erection giving him the lie. Bielefeld took Hans' cock into his hand. "I've never forgotten the sound of your voice, begging me to get you off. I've longed to hear it again." "I'm stronger than you now," Hans said, his raspy voice betraying him. "If I weren't cuffed, you'd be begging me for mercy." Bielefeld chuckled, breath against Hans' ear. "Are you, now? Would I be?" He closed his teeth on Hans' earlobe, and Hans—mostly—stifled a gasp of pleasure. He stepped back and took aim with the belt. "Beg me," he growled. "Beg for release." "Never." Bielefeld brought the belt down again. "You will." "Never!" Hans braced himself against the post. The first stroke of the belt stung, but he knew the next would be harder. He grunted involuntarily as the leather hit his ass a second and third time. He focused his attention on the heat building across his ass, while trying to ignore the stiffening of his cock. He heard the whoosh of the belt as it swung toward him and muffled a groan of pain as it connected. The pain—such a close neighbor to pleasure, isn't it? Fritz's voice echoed in his memory—turned to desire, and he braced himself for another hard blow, but the next lashes were almost gentle. Hans opened his eyes—he hadn't realized they were closed—and turned his head. Fritz's eyebrows were pulled downward, in thought, and his arm was pulled back, the light fabric curving around the bulge of his bicep. Just before he began to swing, 220

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Fritz's eyes met his, and his lips curled slightly. The next five strokes came in rapid succession, each harder than the previous. Hans held in a stream of curses, and it stopped. Bielefeld traced one of the red welts across Hans' ass. "Beg for release," he whispered. "No," Hans rasped. "Then watch," Bielefeld said, unzipping his fly and moving so Hans could see him. Slowly, he ran his hand up and down his cock. Hans started to turn away, but Bielefeld grabbed his chin with his free hand. "Watch. Every. Moment." Hans felt a disquieting urge to have Fritz's cock in his own hand, to be the one giving him pleasure. He very nearly hated himself for it. "Oh, that's right. You always liked watching," Bielefeld purred. Bielefeld's hand moved faster, and Hans felt Bielefeld's eyes concentrating on his face. Hans' breath came faster, betraying his desire. Bielefeld muffled a groan as his come dripped over his fingers. He wiped his hand on Hans' shirt and zipped up. "I have no compunction about leaving you like this. Beg me to let you come." "Never." Bielefeld shrugged, turned his back, and walked off. Hans sank carefully to the floor, sitting on crossed legs while his cock ached for touch. He wept silently, forcing his thoughts to his fallen comrades to overcome his carnal desire, and hating himself for having to at all. ****

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"We move tomorrow, back to Sol," Bielefeld reported. "Your countdown begins at ten hundred hours tomorrow. I hope you'll change your mind without too much persuasion on my part, though I would rather enjoy the persuading." Hans shook his head forcefully. "And betray my comrades' trust in me? Their deaths would be rendered meaningless." Bielefeld's fist struck the table. "Don't you understand? It already is meaningless! Your revolution has collapsed. The workers are back to work." Hans' eyes narrowed. "I won't deal with the enemy." "Fool. You reject the power I offer you." "I reject the chains you would put on me." "Once you wore them gladly." "I threw them off when they no longer suited me." "They suit you still, Haensl, my dear." "They suit you better, Fritz, my dear. I've changed." "Have you, Hans? I think you haven't." He turned to leave. "I need to finish reports before we depart. I shan't be back until after the ship has moved." He stood by the door. "Do consider my most generous offer. The Empire needs more men like you." "Stuff it, Fritz. You've heard my answer." His lips curled up in a parody of a smile. "And it's the wrong one. You'll take it before the journey is through." He stepped through the door, and it closed behind him. Hans glared at the door. Same old Fritz, he thought. I know his game. I can beat him at it. **** 222

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Bielefeld returned the day after departure, bringing lunch with him. He knew Hans was an intelligent man, beneath the muscles built by years of dock labor, and he sought to appeal to his logic, rather than his body. He went to Hans' room, bearing beer and sausages, in an attempt to relax Hans and remind him of home and their old friendship. Bielefeld smiled. "Shall we talk about soccer? Were you able to see the Imperial League Cup out here? It was a remarkable season this year." Hans shook his head. "Part of the embargo." He took a piece of sausage and one of the beers. "Who won?" "Bayern." Bielefeld rolled his eyes. Hans snorted. "Of course. But you didn't come here to talk sports." "You're right. I'll get to the point, then." He took a bite of sausage and washed it down with beer. "Answer me honestly, Hans. Explain to me why the riots started. I've heard the official version from the former Senator: rabblerousers fanned the people's discontent and fomented rebellion. The companies are not at fault, in the official version, but I hear rumors. Tell me, old friend, what happened, because I don't understand." "Of course you don't," Hans interrupted. "You've got it so good, as an officer and, incidentally, the Crown fucking Prince." Bielefeld glowered at him. "There are systems of recourse in the colonies, and it could have been brought to peaceful resolution." Bielefeld gestured to Hans. "Do tell." 223

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"The official version is a pack of lies. You want the truth? The managers of the mining companies let ships go so long without maintenance that 'accidents' happen far too regularly. Dock supervisors ignore labor laws—I once worked 20 hours with a half hour break to eat, so the shipping company could fill more ships." Hans' voice rose slightly. Bielefeld's eyes narrowed. "And no one complained to the authorities? Every station has a representative to advocate for the citizens." Hans grunted a deprecating laugh. "What good would that do? The authorities are bought and paid for by the company managers. They get away with murder." Bielefeld frowned. "I see. It is as I feared." He shook his head. "The system in place in the colonies to redress grievances has failed, so you took it upon yourself to change the system, through violence if necessary. Why?" Hans snorted. "Got your Imperial attention, didn't we? We figured, once we had your attention, we could work something out. Didn't quite plan for the Navy, though." Bielefeld laughed. "You most certainly got our attention. I've heard rumors of abuses around all the colonies, but none so bad as what you describe. I believe you would be able to bring an end to these abuses, on Beta Ceti and all the other colonies, if only you would be the Senator." "And wear your leash. Convenient for you, isn't it?" Hans took another drink. "Don't you think it would reflect badly upon you if your hand-picked Senator, who just happens to be the leader of the Beta Ceti riots, went his own way?" 224

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"Yes, I'd need your assurance that you wouldn't start riots in the capital, or try to assassinate my father. Or me, for that matter. You accept my offer, and I will trust you." "Take your collar, you mean." "My honor, Hans. I have no desire to micromanage politics." "You'd stake your honor on me?" Hans' shock was visible on his face. "The Empire needs more men like you—brave, strong, and willing to stand up when the Empire is dishonored. You only need a sense of loyalty to the Empire itself." He shrugged. "Or to my person, since it's the same thing." "I still refuse." Hans emptied his glass. Had the revolution truly benefited the Empire? What would his comrades say? "Answer me this. If you were so sympathetic to our cause, why was the Imperial Navy fighting to stop us, then?" "The easy answer: following orders. The honest answer is more involved. We have heard rumors that the Senator was more loyal to money than to the Empire. After his unfortunate accident, I personally requested this sector, with the express purpose of capturing the leader, rumored to be one Hans Schmidt." Hans frowned. The way Fritz had said the word "accident" left little doubt in his mind that it hadn't been. "I'm not a pawn in a game of empire." "I agree. But I would like to inherit an empire intact and at peace, with mostly happy citizens." Hans thought for a moment. "So, you've got some scheme to bring bread and circuses to the colonists. What's the real 225

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reason the navy was fighting us, then? Or is your Imperial Father unaware of your plans?" "I have kept him apprised of my intentions. But you must guess that it's not just the furthest colonies with these sorts of troubles. If we let the rioters win, we would see riots on the other colonies as well, and more chaos and fighting." "An example, then." Bielefeld nodded. "Exactly. Father and I spoke of this matter frequently. If I hadn't requested this sector, he would have assigned me here, as his proxy, should that have become necessary. And it's not just bread and circuses. With your help, we can enact real change." "More autonomy in the colonies. A citizens' board with authority to penalize criminals." Hans raised an open palm. "That is the goal of our revolt. Can you offer us that?" "If you take my offer, Hans, I can guarantee you the Emperor's own backing." "I won't take it, Fritz. I can't." Hans shook his head. "Not at that cost. You and I are very different people now, and I can't take your collar and still keep my pride." "I'd hoped you would accept my offer for my sake, if not for the Empire's or your own. I've looked forward to seeing you, Hans, even after the pain you put me through." Bielefeld rose from the table. "My duties call." He kissed Hans on the forehead. "Until tomorrow. I'll ask again, so consider all I've said." Hans wished his hands were free so he could punch something. He knew Fritz wasn't lying; his overblown sense of honor wouldn't allow him to do that, even for the good of the 226

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Empire. Had his cause truly been to the Empire's benefit, and did that make him a loyalist? He knew in his gut that Fritz was right: Beta Ceti IV needed him in the Senate to advance their cause, but the condition placed on it was one he couldn't bear. He wouldn't be betraying the revolution if he got the bastards who ran the docks put out of business; that had been the starting point, after all. His memories of the Emperor as a kind, yet serious, man had never quite fit with the image popular in the colonies, and he knew that this man would never condone the abuses that happened far out in space. That Fritz was able to make him that offer was proof enough. "Your honor, Fritz? You know damn well I couldn't betray your honor. Why do you need to collar me to believe that?" he murmured to the empty room. The implication of his parting shot hit him: Fritz had missed him. Hans knew exactly where to strike; he only had to determine when. He'd accept the deal, but only on his terms. Surely his comrades would forgive him. **** Lieutenant Schneider brought Hans his lunch several days later. "His Highness too busy for me today?" Hans asked. Schneider set the trays on the table. "He is otherwise engaged, yes." Hans raised an eyebrow. "So you're allowed to talk to me, are you? But you'll report everything to him later, I assume." 227

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"Naturally." Schneider bit into his sandwich. "I've been wondering what you've done to make him so angry. If it were just about the little insurrection, you'd be locked in the brig or in solitary somewhere. But I've never seen him like this." "What do you mean, 'like this'?" Hans asked. "He said you'd ask a lot of questions, and I may answer at my own judgment. We have strict discipline on this ship. It's important, for cohesion and all that. So when a shipman gets out of line, he is taken to the brig and flogged. Five or ten lashes for most offenses. I've never seen him be as harsh as he's being on you." Hans almost choked. "He gets off on that. Didn't you know? His Royal Dick gets hard when he's using that whip." Schneider almost looked embarrassed. "I'd heard rumors, but I never gave them much thought." "They're true, Lieutenant. Most likely. Your Admiral is a twisted, twisted man." Hans leered. "And he's probably only gotten more twisted in the last ten years. Oh, he didn't mention that? We were lovers." Schneider shook his head. "Is that why he's so angry with you?" "He can be so harsh because he knows two things: first, that I can handle it, and second, that I enjoy it. But your assumption is faulty. He's not angry." "No?" "Have you ever seen him angry? Have you ever seen him turn completely to ice and just stop? I only ever saw him truly angry once, and I hope I never see it again." A dark look crossed his face. "No, Schneider, he fears me." 228

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"Fear? Explain yourself." "You'll have to take my word for it, or ask him yourself. He'll deny it, of course. It wouldn't do for His Imperial Highness to admit to being afraid of anything, now, would it?" **** Bielefeld returned for dinner that evening. "Lieutenant Schneider tells me some interesting things, Hans. You think I'm afraid of you." "I know you are, Fritz. Surely you remember why I left for Beta Ceti. Or didn't you understand it then?" Bielefeld sipped his wine. "You didn't want to be with me anymore. That certainly seems reasonable enough for someone to head to the other side of the Empire, but hardly a reason for me to fear you." "You don't get it, do you? When you got back from your first tour, something happened to you. You told me never to mention it again, but you were a different person before Lord Stefan's stunt." Bielefeld flinched at the name. "Thank you ever so much for reminding me of that. I had completely forgotten his betrayal," he replied sarcastically. "Before that incident, you trusted me. You are afraid that I would do to you what Stefan did, if you let me close again." "You're wrong." "Am I?" Hans didn't let frustration creep into his voice. "You hate the idea that anyone could wield power over you. You stopped trusting that people you cared about wouldn't try to use you, your name, for personal gain. When you learned 229

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that sex, pleasure, and pain were powerful tools, you learned to wield them. Masterfully." Hans smiled wryly. "But you refused to let anyone have that power over you. The caring man I knew was replaced with a machine. You wouldn't admit it, and you wouldn't let me inside your guard. That's why I left." Bielefeld glowered. "You're wrong, Hans." He left without finishing his meal. **** Weeks passed, and Bielefeld had not gotten Hans to change his mind. It had nearly become ritual, him asking Hans to accept the offer, then tormenting him and asking again, but the persistent refusals had begun to wear on him. They were over halfway back to Sol, and he was beginning to fear Hans would never accept. He carried a small bag into Hans' room one evening and had the guards cuff him naked to the post, with his arms above his head and feet spread. Bielefeld rolled his shirtsleeves up to his biceps. "So much nicer without that prison shirt." He walked closer and inspected Hans. He ran a fingernail lightly down the muscles of Hans' back. "You've got scars I don't remember," Bielefeld said, tracing a particularly long one across Hans' hip. "Accident at the loading dock. Cart got loose, ran into me. Supervisor wouldn't let me go to the infirmary until my shift ended, but my mates found an old shirt and bandaged it as best they could." His tone suggested a shrug, since his shoulders couldn't. 230

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Bielefeld's tone suggested murder. "I want that shift manager's name." Hans snorted a derisive laugh. "Too late. I killed him myself six months ago." "Saves me the trouble, at any rate." He opened the bag he'd brought in and removed a cat-o-nine-tails, flicked it across Hans' back. "I'll ask you again: accept my offer." "I can't, Fritz. You know that, and you know why." Bielefeld's arm traced an arc that let the leather hit squarely across Hans' back. "Count." Leather met flesh twenty-five times before Hans' breath came in ragged gasps, from pain and pleasure, both. "Tell me to stop, Hans, and I will." Another crack. "Twenty-six," he rasped. "I won't give you the satisfaction." "Your stubbornness will be your downfall, old friend." "Twenty-seven." Hans panted. "Are my terms unfair?" "Twenty-eight. I won't submit to you." "You will." Hans hissed when the leather hit his back. "Twenty-nine." Barely time to catch a breath, then "Thirty! Shit!" His pride waged war against his sanity: his back hurt, he admitted it, but asking Fritz to stop would be to admit that he'd won. "Fuck! Thirty-one," he forced through clenched teeth. The small voice urged him to say it, stop it, it wouldn't be admitting defeat, not yet. He could still win. "Stop," he whispered. "Stop it." 231

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Bielefeld's arm had been raised to strike, and he dropped it, tossed the cat-o-nine in the bag. "This isn't submission," Hans growled. "I know." Bielefeld slipped his hand around Hans' half-hard cock and stroked it. "Ask me to please you," he breathed into Hans' ear. "Or tell me to stop." "You manipulative bastard," he growled. "Fuck you." "Be civil, Hans," he whispered. His tongue traced Hans' ear, his teeth closed on the lobe. "Now, which would you prefer?" He squeezed Hans' shaft while his other hand stroked his balls. He pressed a finger to the perineum, and Hans groaned. "How badly do you want pleasure, Hans? Enough to ask me for it? Enough to beg?" "Never badly enough," he gasped, "to beg from you." "Oh, come, now. You know that's a lie." His finger brushed against the pucker of Hans' ass. "'Oh, God, just fuck me, Friedrich!' Does that sound familiar?" Hans tried his hardest to focus on the denial. "That was years ago, Fritz." Fritz's hands were making it difficult to concentrate. Hans felt teeth sink into his earlobe again and felt breath against his ear. "I've never forgotten." He pressed his finger past the first ring of muscle. "And your body hasn't, either. Tell me you want it, Haensl." Hans' mind wandered into memories of Friedrich, his body beneath Friedrich's, hands gentle on his bruised skin. He struggled to bring it to the present, to remember his fight, but his traitorous mouth whispered, "Frit ... Friedrich, I want it." 232

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Bielefeld's heart jumped. "What do you want, Hans? Tell me." "I want you," he whispered. "I want you to fuck me. I want you to make me come." The phrases sprang unbidden from his lips. Bielefeld stepped back. "Oh, Hans, I will." He slid his trousers to the floor and stepped out of them, and picked a tube of lubricant out of his bag. He stepped behind Hans, taking care not to touch the welts across his back, and pressed his cock into Hans' ass. Hans hissed softly, then moaned as Friedrich's cock hit his prostate. "Touch me," he panted. "Please." "In good time. You've waited five weeks; surely you can manage five minutes more," Bielefeld replied, rocking his hips slowly, then faster. He slipped one hand around Hans' waist, then around his cock, moving his hand in rhythm with his thrusts. Hans' shoulders tensed as he tried to lower his arms. "Oh, God," he moaned. "Fuck me harder, Friedrich." As Bielefeld did so, Hans' come spurted over his fingers. "My dear slut," Bielefeld breathed into Hans' ear, moments before he came. They stood still, breathing, until Bielefeld withdrew and wiped his softening cock with a damp cloth. "I haven't accepted your terms," Hans said, his voice still unsteady. "Haven't you?" Bielefeld asked. He lowered Hans' arms and led him to a chair. Hans yelped as his back touched the back of the chair. "Fuck. Did you draw blood?" 233

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"I may have been a little too forceful on occasion." Several of the welts were red on the edges. "I apologize." "I don't accept your terms." "Stubborn man. You would prefer your comrades' deaths to be in vain and your stand to end with a blade through your neck." "Better than the one through my soul that you offer." "I would sooner kill myself than your spirit. If that is how you see it, then I apologize. On my honor, I would never seek to destroy you." "You want to turn me into your puppet! You want me to be a good, compliant pet!" Hans shouted. The door slid open. "Is everything OK, sir?" "Yes, it's fine, Lieutenant. Thank you." Bielefeld's voice turned to ice. "A puppet, is it? All I want is to know that I can trust you with my life, my honor, and the Empire itself." "And you think the only way to prove that is to have me begging for your mercy every night. How innovative." Hans snorted. "Do you have a better idea, then?" "Release my hands. I won't escape, and I won't try to kill you." Bielefeld considered the request a moment and summoned a guard. "Unlock his cuffs." The guard looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure about that, sir?" "Do it."

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The guard complied. He wanted to wait inside the door, but Bielefeld insisted that he leave. Those poor guards had already heard and seen enough. Hans rubbed his wrists. "That's so much better." He stood up and walked behind Bielefeld's chair. "Now, it seems to me that you need me. You've been giving orders for so long, you hardly remember how to stop." He dropped his hands onto Bielefeld's shoulders, bent forward, and kissed him. Bielefeld froze. He held fast to his carefully-crafted veneer of control and wouldn't let Hans crack it. "Oh, come, now, Friedrich. You may prefer to wield the whip rather than receive it, but don't tell me you've forgotten how my hands made you writhe." His hands moved down Bielefeld's torso, unbuttoning his uniform shirt. "Such wonderful skin. I want to feel it under my fingers, Friedrich. I've thought of you, under me, moaning and whimpering, every night after you left." It had been torment, as his hands had been bound. Bielefeld raised his arms to push him away. "This is your 'better idea'? Trying to persuade me with sex that sex isn't just about power? Brilliant plan." Hans grimaced. "You have a point." Hans stepped in front of him. "But if the only way to get you to trust me again is to submit to your power games, then we are at an impasse. Let go of your ridiculous self-control for thirty minutes, and I'll take your stupid deal." Hans stroked Friedrich's face. "That's the best I can offer you. I've trusted you as long as I've been on this ship. I hate to admit that, but it's true." He knelt in front of Friedrich. "Now I ask you to trust me. You did, once. 235

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Let go." His hands rested on Friedrich's bare, athletic thighs. "Let me touch you." Bielefeld hesitated. Hans had been his closest friend, and most frequent lover, until that incident with Stefan. "You want to let go. Why else would you have chased me, on a personal request no less, across the Empire, if you didn't know, deep down, underneath your hurt, that you can trust me?" "I trusted you, and I trusted Stefan. He wanted to use me. Don't you?" "I don't. I'd gladly step into the Senate on my own merit, but the death sentence sort of prevents me from doing that. And you're the one who came up with the deal, as I recall." "Silver-tongued devil." Emotions warred across Friedrich's face: desire, control, need, and a slight softening at the corner of his mouth. "Your devil. Always." He looked Friedrich directly in the eye. He knew he'd almost gotten through. "If you betray me, now or ever, I will personally carry out your execution." "I'm not a duplicitous wanker like him." Hans smirked. Bielefeld hesitated in thought. "I'll grant your request, then." Hans' smirk changed into a lascivious grin. "Come with me," he said, leading Bielefeld by the arm. He grabbed Bielefeld's wrists and pressed him against the wall, hands overhead, and pushed Bielefeld's thighs apart with his knee. He pressed his lips against Friedrich's, slid his tongue into the other man's mouth. He felt Friedrich's cock twitch against his 236

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leg and ran his free hand down Friedrich's tight stomach. "Tell me you want it." Bielefeld shivered. "I want you to suck my cock, Hans." Hans let Friedrich's wrists go and bent down in front of him. Hans took Friedrich's length into his mouth and ran his tongue along the head. Friedrich moaned, and Hans grabbed his balls, giving them a tug. Friedrich hissed, but his hips jerked forward. Friedrich's neatly trimmed fingernails scraped his scalp as his fingers gripped Hans' hair and pulled it upward. Hans moaned around Friedrich's cock. "God," Bielefeld whimpered, fingers tightening. Hans flicked his tongue across the head of his cock. "Fuck! Do that again," Bielefeld groaned. Hans half-smiled as he probed with his tongue into the opening at the tip. He dragged his fingernails along Friedrich's inner thighs, downward and back up. He pulled his head backward, and Friedrich made a disappointed grunt as his cock slipped out of Hans' mouth. Hans stood up, dragging nails up Friedrich's chest, and slid his tongue into Friedrich's mouth. He slipped Friedrich's shirt off his shoulders and tossed it toward his pants. Hans eyed him hungrily. His fingers traced the few light scars across his beautifully sculpted torso. "Surely they wouldn't have allowed you to be hurt in training." "I participated like everyone else. And sometimes I lost." "This one?" Hans traced a scar that crossed his ribs. "Knives." Bielefeld gasped as Hans' teeth bit his nipple. "That one looks brutal." He touched an oval scar above his hip. 237

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"Shrapnel. I didn't move in time." "A shame these mar your otherwise perfect skin." He pushed Bielefeld onto the narrow bed and knelt over him. "How long has it been, Friedrich?" He pressed lips to Bielefeld's throat, flicked out his tongue and licked up to Bielefeld's earlobe. "When was the last time you let someone touch you? Was I the last?" He bit gently on Friedrich's earlobe and sucked it. "No one since you, Hans." Bielefeld whimpered. "But you've had lovers, yes?" He kissed down Friedrich's chest and firm stomach. "As many as I could want." "How many shared your proclivities?" Hans made the last word sound dirty. "Several." He groaned when Hans' lips pressed down near his cock. "And none of them touched you like this?" He raked fingernails up the inside of Bielefeld's thigh, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. "Not one." "You need me. Your body is starved." Hans kissed the reddening lines on Bielefeld's leg upward, to his balls. "You need to trust me again." He knelt across Bielefeld's legs and pressed his erection into Friedrich's belly as he leaned forward to kiss him. "Let me fuck you." Bielefeld hesitated. "You used to enjoy it," Hans said. He leaned closer and put his lips next to Friedrich's ear. "You liked it almost as much as you liked making me bleed." He bit Friedrich's earlobe again 238

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and felt his cock jump against his abdomen. "Just ask me. Beg me to fuck you." Bielefeld moaned. "Damn you. Do it," he said. "Do what?" "Fuck my ass," he growled. "As you wish, Your Highness." Hans grabbed the lube and knelt over Friedrich. Hans bit the skin on Bielefeld's neck and shoulders as he pressed his cock into Friedrich's ass. Just below the collarbone, he bit and sucked, leaving a large red mark, just where his collar would hide it. Beneath him, Friedrich moaned and raked fingernails down his back. "Oh, fuck," Hans moaned. "Welts," he whispered. Friedrich's fingers pressed harder on the way back up. "Sadistic bastard," Hans gasped. Bielefeld murmured, "Was that ever in doubt?" He snaked a hand between their bodies and pinched Hans' nipple. "Not for a moment," Hans agreed. "But it just means I have to do this," he said as he pulled his cock out. He looked directly into Friedrich's eyes. "Hands and knees." Friedrich's eyes darkened a moment in contemplation, then cleared, and he turned over and knelt. Hans thrust in again, hard and fast. Friedrich groaned beneath him. Hans ran his hands up Friedrich's broad back, feeling taut muscles beneath soft skin, and curled his fingers into the hair at Friedrich's nape. "Isn't there something better you could be doing with your hands?" Bielefeld murmured. "Patience is a virtue, remember." Hans leaned his chest on Friedrich's back and wrapped his arms around Friedrich's chest, thrusting harder. Friedrich arched his back into Hans' 239

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thrusts, and Hans realized he was going to come. He grabbed Friedrich's cock in his hand and pumped it in the rhythm of his hips. "It's been too long," he panted. "Fuck, I missed you." He cried out as his cock spasmed, and Friedrich's breath came harder and faster, and Hans felt come drip on his hand. He leaned on Friedrich for a few moments, relishing the feel of Friedrich's body against his and the sounds of their breath mingling, and he could almost pretend the last ten years hadn't happened. He grabbed the top sheet, pulled out, and wiped off. Bielefeld rolled to his side, his back to the wall. Hans lay down behind him and spooned into his back. "You were right, Hans." "About what?" "I needed you." He rolled slightly toward Hans. "You've changed your mind?" "Have you decided you can trust me?" "I have." "Then I'll be your Senator for Beta Ceti IV." Hans curved his lips into a smirk. "And you can still have your whipping boy. That's how you'll know I trust you." [Back to Table of Contents]

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CROCODILE BIRD GS Wiley Rahotep hadn't worn makeup for a long time. It was common for men at home in Egypt, but here in Rome, it wasn't, and in this part of town, the last thing you wanted to do was draw too much attention to yourself. He missed it sometimes, and when he heard the Sixteenth legion was coming home, he found the malachite eyeshadow and the kohl eyeliner in the bottom of the wooden box and set them out on the table. It was Gaia the washerwoman who told him. He was down at the market getting his usual breakfast, a small loaf of bread from the baker and a bruised peach from the fruitseller, when Gaia rounded the corner. "The Sixteenth is coming home today." She sounded excited, and understandably so. After being away from Rome for months— sometimes years—at a stretch, the legionaries came home eager to spend money. It was good news for everyone, from the merchants to the taverns to the whores, when a legion was in town. "You're sure?" Rahotep asked. She nodded. "They arrived in Ostia yesterday. So I shan't worry if I don't see you around for a few days." She gave a lewd wink and laughed, her voluminous stomach jiggling as she made her way back to her storefront. It was good news, but Rahotep wasn't about to get his hopes up ... Centurion Tiberius Cordius of the Sixteenth 241

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Legion was literate, but he did not write letters to Rahotep. They had not been in communication for nearly two years, and for all he knew, the man could have met his death at the end of a barbarian sword months ago. Still, Rahotep deviated from his usual routine and went to the baths, just in case. He paid a barber for a shave, then bathed in the pools. The conversations in the tepidarium centered on the coming of the legion, as well as the usual business dealings. Rahotep listened carefully to one of the men, a weaselly merchant named Tucco, who was talking about getting into the business of importing exotic beasts for the gladiatorial games. He had a particular interest in the hippopotami of Egypt, and Rahotep was able to advise him on some locations to find them. "You're throwing good money after bad with them, though. You won't get your investment back." He'd held many jobs in Rome, one of which had been handling beasts and prisoners in the Coliseum. The number of beasts—not to mention men—who died before ever setting foot on the arena sand was staggering. Thinking of the hippopotami made Rahotep think of Egypt, and that, along with the prospect of seeing Cordius soon, made him happy. He hummed cheerfully to himself on the way home, and when he got back to his cramped apartment, he pulled out his mirror, a disc of polished bronze he'd bought as a gift for himself a few months earlier. He ran an approving hand over his newly shaven cheeks and his thick dark hair, cut short in the Roman style. Rahotep had always been proud of his looks. He was equally proud that, despite the hardship he had known since 242

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he'd come to Rome, and despite the numerous jobs he had held, he had never resorted to whoring. It had been his mother's profession in Alexandria, and it had taken her life at a young age. It was a road Rahotep had sworn he would never travel, and he hadn't. From time to time, he used his beauty and his charm to get what he wanted, but he only had sex when he wanted to. It had been a while, but he hadn't lost his touch with the makeup. Using the wooden applicator, he outlined his eyes with thick black kohl, then used the malachite eyeshadow on his eyelids. It was a stunning effect. He'd always had a flair for it. For a while, Rahotep had worked as a steward in the household of a wealthy widow who thought it fashionable to have freemen as well as slaves in her employ. One night, he had shared some of his makeup tricks with the Nubian cosmetics slave, and the domina had been so impressed, she'd given them both a day off and a handful of denarii to go with it. When he'd finished with his makeup, Rahotep put on his best tunic, freshly returned from Gaia's laundry because one was never too poor for cleanliness. Then he waited. The first legionaries arrived in the quarter barely an hour later. They were not allowed to carry arms in the city, but they were still impossible to miss, with their crested helmets and burnished armor shining in the sun. Rahotep watched from his small square window, an uneasy excitement mounting in his stomach. It had been two years since he'd last seen Cordius, and while Rahotep certainly hadn't been faithful, the legionary had never been far from his mind. 243

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Tiberius Cordius was not a rich man. He was a plebeian, like Rahotep himself, although, since Rahotep was Egyptian, many mistook him for a slave. Cordius was getting on in years, in his mid-thirties now, and although. as an officer of the legion, he was forbidden to marry, Rahotep knew he lived periodically with a woman in an apartment a few streets away. She had borne him several children over the years, and Rahotep sometimes saw them, if he happened to be over that way: two little boys, the image of Cordius, and an older girl who looked of marriageable age. Rahotep hadn't been to their street for a long time, and he wondered idly if Cordius was a grandfather by now. Rahotep didn't have to wonder if Cordius would go to his family before he came here. He knew the answer already. The legionary was a man of honor, and Rahotep could never be his top priority. Rahotep also knew that, as soon as possible, the man would be at his door, and he would hopefully stay for a few days. They had met six years ago, shortly after Rahotep arrived in Rome. He had been young then, a beautiful eighteen-yearold who had made the long journey from Egypt to Rome alone in search of adventure. He was a half-breed, the son of a Roman legionary and a freed Alexandrian prostitute, and while he had never known his father, he had grown up surrounded by the Roman soldiers and the Roman culture that had infused Egypt in the years since they had been conquered. Even as a child, Rahotep had known his future lay in the vibrant heart of the empire, and he had vowed to travel there as soon as he was able. 244

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When he at last arrived, he found Rome different than he had expected, but it was not a disappointment. He got jobs easily enough, although he never stayed anywhere for long, and while there were some who looked down on foreigners, there was enough diversity in Rome for Rahotep to be accepted by most people of his own class, as long as he kept his more exotic traditions—such as the makeup—to himself. He was in a tavern one night, talking with a group of other young plebeian men and drinking the sour wine that made him long for the rich, delicious beer of home, when Cordius entered with two or three other soldiers. Since they were in uniform, they immediately drew attention from everyone, including those customers foolish enough to think they could take on the legion and drunk enough to think they would succeed. Rahotep watched Cordius smash his fist into the face of an oncoming assailant as if he were swatting a fly, and then immediately turn and shove another drunken fool into a fellow legionary, who threw him out the door. Rahotep finished his wine and went over to the legionaries' table. "That was quite an impressive display," he said, smiling. "More where that came from." Cordius cracked his knuckles. His friends chuckled, but Rahotep knew they were watching him closely. "I wouldn't dream of tangling with the legion. I was rather hoping I could show my appreciation by buying you gentlemen a drink." He lowered his eyelashes and looked up at Cordius. The legionary grunted, but he moved over on the bench. 245

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Rahotep used his best tactics on Cordius, flirting and fluttering and flattering him outrageously. It wasn't a wasted effort. When the other legionaries rolled out of the tavern and headed back to the barracks, Cordius hung back, and when Rahotep said, "I have an apartment not far from here," Cordius grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him against a nearby wall. Rahotep's mother had died when he was young, but she had been around long enough to teach him how to defend himself. He carried a knife, a thin blade secreted in a hidden pocket, and he was wondering whether he needed to reach for it when Cordius pushed an impressively large erection into his hip. "This what you're after, boy?" Rahotep smiled. "That rather depends on what you're after. Sir." Cordius' large hands went around Rahotep's hips and lifted his feet off the ground. A back alley fuck was not what Rahotep was after; he had seen too many of those squalid, pitiful couplings in Alexandria and here in Rome. He squirmed free and walked away, hoping Cordius would follow. He did, after a time, and they spent the night on Rahotep's straw mattress. Cordius proved to be pleasantly surprising, both in his abilities and in his tastes, but when he left, Rahotep did not expect to see him again. When he turned up at the apartment the next night, and the next, Rahotep was suspicious, at first. What did he have to offer a legionary that couldn't be had somewhere else just as easily? But whatever it was, it kept Cordius coming back, night after night, for six 246

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months until Cordius told him the Sixteenth was being shipped out again. "This is for you." He tossed a leather purse onto the bed beside Rahotep. Immediately, Rahotep felt the anger rise in his chest as he looked at the money. "I am not a whore." And, even after all this time, if Cordius insisted otherwise, Rahotep had the knife nearby and knew how to use it effectively. "Don't be stupid," Cordius snarled back. "It's not a fee, it's support." "What in the name of the gods does that mean?" "You're not working." That was true, at the moment, but something always turned up, and Rahotep had never been unemployed for long. "I'm going away. A Roman soldier takes care of his..." He hesitated a moment. "Responsibilities before he leaves." "I am no responsibility of yours." "Just take the fucking money. Pay your rent on time for once." Cordius was dressed by this time, and he fastened his cloak around his shoulders. Rahotep stood up. At first, Cordius had been steadfastly against kissing, claiming it was weak and unmanly, but it hadn't taken long to change his mind. Rahotep kissed him, his hands on Cordius' broad shoulders, and Cordius kissed back. When he pulled away, Rahotep said, "I will miss you." Cordius shrugged. "I'll be back." But he kissed Rahotep again before he left, and held him in his arms for longer than Rahotep would have expected from a hardened legionary. 247

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That had started a pattern. Rahotep got on with his life, with his jobs and his various amusements, and when the Sixteenth was in Rome, he and Cordius were together, for a few weeks or a few months until the legion left again. Now, after six years of it, Rahotep had no reason to expect things would be different. Unless something had happened to Cordius. He checked his makeup in the mirror again, then looked out the window. Down on the street, Gaia the washerwoman was quarreling with a taller, thinner woman with a wizened face. The market was bustling with late afternoon shoppers, women getting food for supper and men heading to the tavern for a drink before they went home. The air was heavy with the scents of cooking and spices, and as Rahotep breathed deeply, he saw Cordius, coming up the street and pushing through the crowds that parted to make way for him. Rahotep's heart began an erratic dance, but he contrived to look calm and unconcerned as he sat on his only chair and waited for the door to open. The last two years had aged Cordius. His hair was gray at the temples and appeared to be thinning in the back, but apart from that, he looked none the worse for wear. His eyes darkened when he saw Rahotep in his malachite and kohl, and Rahotep was pleased he had gone to the extra effort. Cordius groaned as their mouths met. Rahotep was a little surprised at the urgency he felt as Cordius kissed him, and his hands gripped the tunic on either side of the legionary's breastplate. Cordius pushed Rahotep away long enough to remove his cloak and unbuckle the armor. It hit the floor with 248

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a clatter, and Cordius' hands were on him again, lifting him up with ease, pulling Rahotep's legs around his waist and kissing him roughly enough to make Rahotep pant against his mouth. Cordius was taller than Rahotep by half a Roman foot and outweighed him by at least forty pounds, and Rahotep knew the soldier was being careful of this when he lowered them gently onto the mattress. In his more poetic moments, Rahotep thought of them as the crocodile and its caretaker, the crocodile bird, he'd seen countless times along the Nile. The weaker one could have been so easily crushed by the stronger, but it performed a vital service and so the crocodile took care not to harm it. They lay together for a while, pushing urgently against each other with hands and bodies, until the urgency grew too great and Cordius said, "You know what I want." Rahotep did. It was what he almost always wanted, and it had given Rahotep quite a surprise their first night together. He had brought Cordius home that night fully expecting to be taken by a legionary, only to find that the legionary had something different in mind. Rahotep pulled off his tunic and threw it on the floor beside Cordius' clothes. He ran his hands down Cordius' strong thighs, noticing they were marked with some new scars, and pushed his legs open. He had placed a bottle of oil beside the bed earlier, hoping for just such an opportunity, and now he splashed some onto the palm of his hand. Cordius grunted as Rahotep slipped a hand between his legs, and he eagerly rolled onto his stomach. 249

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Rahotep rubbed Cordius' wide back for a while, taking care as his oiled hands slipped over old injuries and tight muscles. Only when Cordius was relaxed and ready did he take the next step. Entering him at last was bliss, pure happiness Rahotep had known in few other circumstances. Cordius was tight and hot, and Rahotep could feel the kohl trickling down his cheeks as he sweated his way to a climax. Once he'd reached it, spurting his seed into Cordius and onto the mattress between his legs, Rahotep slid down and took Cordius' large, stiff cock into his mouth. It didn't take long. When he'd finished, Rahotep swallowed hard. He was out of practice, but he managed to get it all down. Then, he reached over and wiped his tunic across his eyes. Streaks of makeup were left behind on the cloth and, after he'd thrown it to one side, Rahotep lay beside Cordius, resting his head on the barrel chest. "It's good to have you home," Rahotep said, when their breathing had slowed. "Indeed," Cordius replied, and when Rahotep glanced up, he had a rare smile on his face. They slept for a while, and when Rahotep awoke, it was dark outside. He listened to the sounds from the street for a while, the clattering of the carts that weren't allowed in the city during daylight and the arguing and screaming and laughing of the people. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Cordius opened his eyes. "Will you stay?" Rahotep asked, casually. 250

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Cordius shook his head, and got to his feet. "I cannot. I need to spend at least a night with Vita and the children." Rahotep nodded, as if he'd expected that all along. As Cordius bent to pick up his clothes, Rahotep thought he saw him wince, and when he walked back toward him, he definitely noticed a limp. "Are you injured?" "Nothing serious. But I'm not as young as I was." He looked at Rahotep. "I've decided it's time to leave the legion." Rahotep blinked. "What will you do instead?" He couldn't picture Cordius as anything but a legionary. He was cut out for it, both in body and in mind. "I will find something," Cordius said, confidently. He hesitated, then went on, "It means I will be in Rome much more frequently. Can I take it there will still be a bed for me here?" He sounded almost embarrassed to ask. Rahotep stood and put his arms around Cordius' neck. "Whenever you wish it." Cordius bent his head and kissed him, ending it with a firm—but not unenjoyable—slap to Rahotep's rear end. The thought of having Cordius on a more regular basis was enticing, not to mention exciting. Rahotep knew better than to think they would live together, or even that Cordius would spend longer periods of time with him; his woman and their children were still his main priority, and Rahotep understood that. But if Cordius were to be around permanently, Rahotep decided, looking at the kohl and the malachite on the table, he would have to invest in more makeup. And maybe, he 251

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thought, smiling to himself, he would have to risk wearing it outside his apartment. Possibly even as he strolled past Cordius' woman's place a few streets away. [Back to Table of Contents]

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PERSONAL TIME Connemara A. James It was a matter of timing. Andrew Lin's usually wellordered schedule was disarranged by a series of chance occurrences that Wednesday, throwing off his routine. First, the representatives from Dallas had arrived early, and they had an appointment later in the day which was making them jumpy, as it was across town. They had insisted on starting the morning meeting a good half hour before it was scheduled. Taking the opportunity to make a good impression, Andrew had graciously acquiesced. The meeting had ended even earlier than expected, as the men from Dallas had rushed through their presentation, and the usually lethargic Ryder, one of his project managers, had apparently been inspired by the possibility of leaving work early. He had finally completed the report he had been picking at for weeks. These swift, smooth events had set the pace for the rest of the day, and astoundingly, everything had continued to happen sooner rather than later. Andrew was used to being pressed for time, but having an abundance of it was a novelty. If all these things had happened a half hour later than expected rather than earlier, he would have been able to deal with the situation easily. Yet, when the end of the day neared and most of his jobs seemed to be more or less wrapped up—and he didn't have quite enough time to start anything new—he felt at a loss. He stood gazing out the broad window of his corner office, his eyes 253

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narrowed slightly as he examined the skyline, plagued by a feeling of vague dissatisfaction. At the age of forty-three, Andrew was exactly where he had always expected he would be at this point in his life. He was firmly ensconced in upper management, his prospects were extremely good, and he had hopes of retiring early when the time came. However, although the present was ideal, the future—or rather his plans for it—left a fair amount to be desired. His life at this point was like today: although it was going well, the orderly, predictable part of it was wrapping up too fast, and the loose end was approaching. Most of his friends were looking forward to spending their retirement with their spouses, their families. As for his own family, his parents were still alive, and he wasn't exactly estranged from his siblings and their offspring, but the prospect of spending any more time with them than he already did failed to excite him. He didn't have a boyfriend, let alone a partner. His career prospects might have been excellent for a man of his age, but his romantic prospects were quite the opposite. It wasn't that he was suffering from a dry spell. No, he had no trouble getting dates, but most men weren't able to hold his interest for more than a few weeks, if that. Andrew had never seen himself as the type to settle down. Even now, he wasn't sure if that was what he wanted. But he was sure that he was dissatisfied with the way things were. The skyscrapers gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Andrew had worked hard to win this office for himself, but he seldom had the opportunity to enjoy the view for any length 254

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of time. People who had offices with a view were not often people who wanted to stand still and contemplate the skyline. He found he didn't enjoy it. He wanted to do something. He was supposed to meet his friend Russell Santiago— known to his friends as Sant—after work. The traffic would probably be bad; it tended to tie itself in knots at this time of day. If he left now, he'd be assured of arriving on time. Not that Sant was a stickler for punctuality, but it was an excuse to move. On his way out, he spied Ryder, who was also leaving, and raised his eyebrows at the younger man. Ryder replied with the satisfied smile of someone who had managed to earn his early departure from work. Andrew could have pointed out that he had taken so long initially on the report he had hastily finished today that he was still behind, but he was willing to let it go. He shook his head and smiled back. On an ordinary day, Andrew would have driven to the gym after work. He considered the possibility wistfully, but although he did have extra time, there wasn't quite enough of it for him to fit in a workout, no matter how brief. He'd promised to meet Sant at his house, so he dutifully turned down Lake Drive and drove south. Unused to driving toward Sant's house at any time of the day, Andrew found the traffic unexpectedly light, then found parking on the street without any significant difficulty. Early again. Sant's neighborhood was residential, and his stone rowhouse looked much like every other house in the row, but Andrew remembered the number. He could have gone 255

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somewhere else to wait, but he didn't think Sant would mind if he was early. Not that there was anything to do in this area, other than take a walk down quiet, tree-lined streets. He climbed the steps and was about to ring the doorbell when suddenly the door was thrown open. Andrew took a step back. He found himself face to face with a tall young man with broad shoulders and a slightly haughty expression, carrying a gym bag. He was wearing gray track pants and a black sleeveless T-shirt that fit him— not too tightly, but just tight enough to show off the musculature of his torso, which he had every right to show off. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his warm, dark skin. His long black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. His eyes widened in mild surprise at finding someone on their way in as he was on his way out, but only for a moment. Then he smiled. "Hi there." He had a deep voice, but he spoke with a slight drawl; not an accent, more of a playful mannerism. Simultaneously, they each stepped aside to let the other pass. The stranger laughed. He raised his voice as he turned over his shoulder to call out, "I think there's someone here to see you." "Andrew?" Sant's voice came from inside. "Is that you?" The young man turned his head to meet Andrew's gaze again. Still standing to one side in the doorway, he said, "You first." Swallowing, Andrew did as the he suggested. As Andrew passed, his arm brushed the younger man's waist, but the stranger didn't draw back, and his smile didn't waver. 256

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Sant hurried into the foyer. He had a towel around his neck, and was wiping at his face with it. "You're so early. Akash and I just finished up." "So I see," said Andrew neutrally. Akash was still lingering in the doorway, and Sant waved at him, cheerfully. "I'll see you next time." "Next time," Akash agreed with a nod, then left, closing the door behind him. Only when his view of the young man was cut off did Andrew realize he'd been staring. Sant didn't seem to notice, but then, he wouldn't. "I knew you were going to make a few changes in your life, but I didn't think you'd go that far," Andrew observed wryly as he turned toward Sant. "What?" Sant blinked, then reddened as he caught his friend's meaning. "Ha ha, very funny, Andrew." He shook his head. "Akash is my personal trainer." "Yes," Andrew said, "I got that idea somehow." "Ha ha," said Sant again. "What's gotten into you today? First you leave the office early, now you're actually making jokes." Andrew shrugged. "Enjoy it while it lasts." "Yeah, I'll have to do that." Sant was two or three years younger than Andrew. He was technically Andrew's colleague, but he wasn't working at the moment. He was taking what he called a "sabbatical"—basically, an extended vacation, which he was using to pull himself together after a long and grueling divorce. Apparently, Sant had decided he needed to "find himself," a process that seemed to involve wheatgrass juice, therapy, meditation, and other things Andrew regarded as 257

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dubious practices. Now, it seemed to include a personal trainer. It was, in Andrew's opinion, the best idea he'd had so far. Sant had always been chubby, and he'd put on more weight since his wife had left him. Working out would do him a lot more good than deep breathing and health food. **** Andrew had been early all day. He could deal with a bit of waiting, so he didn't mention Akash again for another few hours. He hadn't seen Sant in a while, so there was a fair amount of catching up to do. Sant liked to talk. That suited Andrew fine. He was willing to listen, even though half of what Sant said made him roll his eyes. They were going to dinner, but first, Sant had to show him the improvements he'd made to the house and talk about what he was planning to add and the furniture he was going to buy, his wife having taken the greater part of what he'd owned. Though Sant was straight, sometimes Andrew felt the man was more gay than he would ever be. Sant had found a new restaurant that he was excited about. They were going to eat there there that evening, and it wasn't until he was done describing the menu at length that Andrew mentioned Akash again. "How long have you had a personal trainer?" "A few weeks now," said Sant. "Do you like working with him?" "Definitely. I feel healthier already." "I was thinking of hiring a personal trainer myself. Would you recommend him?" 258

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Sant laughed. "A personal trainer? Andrew, you go to the gym more than anyone I know. Why would you—" He broke off suddenly. "Oh." Andrew smiled. Sant returned the smile with a wry expression. "I can give you his card," he offered. "He did mention referring friends to him." "I'd like that." "I've got it in my wallet," said Sant, who was the kind of person to keep everyone's cards in his wallet. "But I don't know if he's—" Andrew didn't let him finish. "He is." Sant might have known more about interior decorating than Andrew, but in matters like this, he referred to Andrew's expertise without question. "Good luck," he said, as he handed the card over. **** Andrew didn't call that day or the next. There was no need to rush things. He wasn't worried. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking of Sant's personal trainer throughout the two days he waited, remembering the shape of the young man's thigh glimpsed through the cloth of his track pants as he'd moved, the curve of his lip, the fall of his hair, his playful tone. He wanted to stroke that thigh, bite that lip, pull that hair, hear that voice gasp and say his name. He couldn't deny that he felt eager, although he had no expectations. He had spoken to the man briefly. Anything might happen. Or nothing. 259

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Two days was enough of a wait, but he didn't call from work. He could have closed the door of his office and made a personal call, but he didn't want to do that. He liked to take his time. He didn't call until he was home again, seated in his chair, gazing out the window at the hazy sky, darkening as the sun sank. "Yeah, hi?" Akash picked up after a couple rings, slightly breathless. Andrew pictured him stripped to his waist, his body gleaming with sweat. Andrew wished he could have seen him with his shirt off. It was still a possibility. "Hello. This is Andrew Lin. I'm a friend of Sant—Russell Santiago. I met you briefly at his house the other day." "Oh right," said Akash. "I remember." His tone was neutral. Andrew found it impossible to guess what he made of this phone call. "Russell told me you were taking new clients, and I'm interested." A pause. It could have been Andrew's imagination, but Akash's tone seemed slightly teasing when he spoke again. "Yeah, I'm taking on clients, if you're interested." Another pause. Andrew wondered what he was thinking. "Look, I'm a little busy now, but we can set up an initial consultation if you want, and talk about your fitness goals." "That sounds like a good idea." "How's tomorrow? I could come by your place." "I'll be home around six-thirty. Does that work for you?" "Yeah." He could hear the smile in Akash's voice. "It works." **** 260

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When tomorrow came, it was not at all like the day he'd met Akash. Instead of an excess of time, he didn't have enough. For the first time in years, he slept through his alarm. Once he got in, he discovered that Ryder had completely cocked-up the project he was working on, treating Andrew to an escalating series of headaches. The copiers all seemed to run out of toner at the same time, and then, in the day's crowning moment, the office network went down. It was truly beautiful. A three-car accident at an intersection near his house meant that the traffic was one big painful snarl. Stuck in the car, his hands clenching the steering wheel, he was painfully aware of the fact that if he could have left his car behind, he could have made it home on foot in a matter of minutes. The phone rang. He picked it up. "Hey, Andrew, it's Akash. I'm at your house, but nobody's here. You okay?" "I'm fine, but unfortunately, I'm stuck in traffic. We may have to reschedule." "That's too bad." Akash's pauses, Andrew was coming to learn, meant that he was thinking rather than distracted. "How far away are you?" "If they'd clear up this damn accident, I'd be home in five minutes." "Oh yeah? Where are you?" Andrew told him the street name. "What kind of car do you have?" Again, Andrew told him. "But—" 261

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"Okay, talk to you soon," said Akash easily, and hung up. Andrew felt like he'd only traveled a few feet when there was a tap on his car window. Akash was standing there, smiling. Andrew pressed the button to roll the window down, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?" he asked. "Aren't you going to let me in? I came all this way." "All right." Andrew feigned reluctance, hiding a smile as he unlocked the door. Akash slid into the seat and took a deep breath, leaning back. "Since you're trapped here anyway, I thought we could still have our meeting. It would have been stupid for me to leave when you're so close." "Good thinking." "So—" Akash threw a sideways glance in his direction. "What is it you think need to work on, exactly?" "I was thinking more of a general regimen." Akash nodded. "Do you go to the gym every day?" "Yes. But I need some additional guidance. I think I've reached a plateau." "A plateau," Akash repeated. "We'll have to do something about that, then." Andrew found it hard to keep his eyes off the other man. Akash was wearing jeans today. They were tight, and they succeeded in showing off his muscular legs. Andrew wished he wasn't wearing a loose jacket, but perhaps he'd get to see him with it off sooner rather than later. Akash must have been aware of his close attention, but he was completely at ease, half-sprawled over the dark upholstery of the car seat. "All right. What kind of equipment do you have?" 262

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Andrew couldn't suppress a smirk, but he answered Akash's question. There were people with more gym equipment in their homes, but he had a few pieces. He enjoyed working out, liked to test his control over his limbs, pushing himself toward his limitations. He did like to go to the gym, to watch the other men there—sometimes to meet them, to fuck—but he liked to work out alone as well. Then it was just him and his body. Although he wouldn't mind having Akash's body there with him as well. "We can start next week, if you want," Akash offered. "I do." Akash turned in the seat, facing him. His dark eyes were shining. "Good. I've got kind of a full schedule, but how's Wednesday for you?" Andrew consulted his planner, then suggested, "Tuesday?" Akash shook his head. "I'm busy Tuesday. I'm pretty booked up right now." Andrew frowned. He was going to be unusually busy himself in the coming days, especially with people like Ryder working under him, but he didn't want to put Akash off for too long. He made a decision. "Wednesday's fine." "You sure?" "I have some personal time accrued. I might as well use it. I'll just take the day off." He could worry about the annoyances his absence would cause after the fact. Akash nodded, accepting this. "I'll come over at one, then. Since you've got the whole day now." They talked for several minutes more, working out the rest of the details, and the man's continuing subtle flirtatiousness 263

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left Andrew guessing. He knew that Akash knew what he wanted, but whether Akash wanted the same thing—he couldn't quite decide. As Akash left the car, Andrew got a glimpse of his ass in those tight jeans, and he told himself that he would enjoy finding out what it was Akash wanted. **** On Wednesday, as he sat at the kitchen table drinking his coffee, he wondered why he didn't do this more often. Most of his life was taken up by work and the gym. He rarely spent any time doing nothing in particular, enjoying himself. Even when he went on a date, most of his attention was focused on what would happen later in the evening. It wasn't that he wasn't thinking about Akash's arrival, but for some reason he didn't feel tension, only a pleasant expectancy. Maybe should use more of his personal time, instead of letting it pile up endlessly. He took his time in the shower, then combed his hair. He would have spent more time getting ready, but he would have felt foolish making the effort when they were going to be working out. After all, he looked good enough as it was. He still had all his hair, and it was as black as it had ever been. Most people thought he was still in his thirties. He glanced at himself in the mirror and was more than satisfied with what he saw. His chances with Akash were good. Like everything else that day, Akash was exactly on time. He rang the bell and Andrew answered. Although the day was cold, Akash wasn't wearing a jacket this time. His track pants were loose, but his T-shirt was fitted and sleeveless. Andrew's 264

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gaze lingered over the smooth, firm lines of his shoulders and biceps. Akash passed very close to him as he entered. "I hope you're ready to work out," he said. "I'm ready." It was difficult not to smile. Akash smiled back, narrowing his eyes as he did so. "Then show me your equipment." Andrew lead the way to his weight room. **** He had just broken a sweat on the weight bench when Akash suddenly said, "I like working with you. You're easy." "Am I?" Andrew sat up slowly, dabbing at his face with the towel around his neck. "Yeah, you already know just what to do." Akash took a step toward him. "It almost makes me wonder why you need a personal trainer." "I don't have your expertise, of course." "I'm certified, but I bet you know as much as I do." "Maybe. But I thought I'd see what it was like to have some guidance." Akash took another step. He was standing above the weight bench, looking down at Andrew. "That's what I'm here for." Andrew felt his heartbeat quicken, and not because of the weights. He reached out and placed a hand on Akash's thigh, feeling the heat of his body through the thin cloth of his track pants. 265

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Akash was smiling, and he continued to smile. "I don't sleep with clients." "Why not?" Andrew asked, tightening his grip. He could feel the hard muscle of the other man's thigh. Akash didn't pull away. "It's bad for business. And it's unprofessional." "I wouldn't want to make you behave unprofessionally," said Andrew. He slid his hand up and over until he could feel Akash's cock, already half-hard. The track pants did little to obscure its shape when he pressed lightly, his fingers cupping Akash's balls. Akash drew in a sharp, small breath. "What if I fire you?" Akash regarded him calmly, but Andrew could see the want in his eyes. "We're only partway through the first session. Maybe you'll hurt my feelings." "Will I hurt your feelings?" Akash laughed. "Why don't you try and see what happens?" "All right. You're fired." Akash leaned down and kissed Andrew's mouth, then spoke against his lips. "I guess I don't feel too bad." Andrew grabbed him by the waist and made to pull him down into his lap. He had been waiting for this. He was hungry. But Akash backed away. "Our session's not over yet. You wanted guidance, remember?" "But I fired you." "You're paying for this session anyway. You might as well make use of it, right?" 266

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"That makes sense," Andrew admitted in a low voice. His face was warm. "Then let me tell you what to do." Akash's eyes were halflidded but bright. Andrew swallowed. He hesitated. This wasn't exactly what he had expected. Nonetheless, it was a tempting proposition. "All right." "Good." Akash pushed him down onto the long, padded body of the weight bench, and Andrew allowed himself to be pushed. Akash straddled him at the waist, leaning forward to press his mouth to Andrew's, kissing him hard. He ran his hands over Andrew's chest, his torso, making a low noise that Andrew could feel as Akash's tongue pushed its way between his lips. Akash broke the kiss to take a breath. "You're so sexy," he murmured, stripping Andrew of his T-shirt and sliding his hands down the newly exposed skin. Andrew drew in a sharp breath as Akash's fingers focused on his nipples, giving them a sharp pinch. By the time Andrew had breathed out again, Akash's tongue was where his fingers had just been. He licked the sweat off Andrew's chest. "Fuck, you've got great definition." He bit at Andrew's pecs as his hand slid down to find Andrew's cock, wrapping his hand around it through the fabric of Andrew's sweatpants. Andrew sighed with pleasure. "I want to fuck you," Akash hissed. Andrew didn't usually take it from other men, but Akash was so hot as he kissed his way down Andrew's stomach toward the waistband of his sweatpants. It would have been 267

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difficult to refuse him anything right now, so Andrew didn't. "Yes. Please." "I've got a condom." Akash's gym bag was nearby, and he darted away. He rummaged through the bag until he came away with one of the familiar square packets. Andrew's eyebrows rose. "Do you do this often?" "I had a feeling I might need it," said Akash as he came back. Andrew laughed. Then Akash stripped him of everything, until he was lying naked on the weight bench with his legs spread and Akash kneeling between them. Akash reached out to press his fingers to Andrew's lips. "Suck them," he said, and Andrew sucked did so, running his tongue from knuckle to fingertip. "You look good doing that," Akash breathed. Andrew couldn't smile with the other man's fingers filling his mouth, so he gazed up into Akash's eyes and sucked harder. Akash made a soft noise of appreciation as he slowly pulled his fingers out. They were very wet. Leaning back, Akash reached down between Andrew's legs and found Andrew's asshole with his fingertips. Andrew raised his legs higher, drawing them farther apart as he kept his eyes on Akash. It was an incredibly hot, watching the younger man fingering him. Akash was still wearing all his clothes, but his track pants couldn't hide his hard-on. Andrew's own cock ached as Akash's fingers moved inside him. "Please. More." Akash pushed in farther and Andrew gave a start, his cock twitching. "Yes." Three of Akash's fingers were deep inside Andrew. He curled them slightly. "You feel so good. Are you ready?" 268

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"God, yes." Akash pulled his fingers out, then pulled down his pants, freeing his erection. His cock was thick and slightly curved. He'd set the condom packet down on the end of the weight bench. He picked it up and tore it open, and in a moment, he was ready, too, lifting Andrew's legs up over his shoulders, then pressing the head of his cock to Andrew's asshole, guiding it in with one hand. He narrowed his eyes, and Andrew took a deep breath, making himself relax as Akash pushed his hips forward. "Fuck me," said Andrew, although Akash was already fucking him, pushing his dick in slowly until his hips met Andrew's ass. Andrew was breathing hard. He'd never wanted this so much—a hard dick inside him, taking him. He arched his back, the upholstery on the seat of the weight bench sticking slightly to his skin. "Harder," he asked. "Ah—yes. I'll fuck you." Akash reached down and grasped Andrew's cock. He made little circles with his thumb on the head, spreading the beaded pre-come. Andrew moaned, rolling his hips to take in more of Akash's dick. "Harder," begged Andrew again, and Akash fucked him harder, stroking his cock as he did so. He reached back to brace himself on the bars of the bench behind him as Andrew's dick filled his ass. "God, that's good." Akash's dark skin gleamed with sweat. His hair had fallen free of its tie and was hanging in his face. His teeth were gritted. Andrew watched his face. Gorgeous. He could get used to this view. 269

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Akash met his gaze. "I'm gonna come." His hand on Andrew's cock grew more urgent, stroking him firmly, expertly. "Come for me, Andrew." He didn't blink, continuing to slam his hips against Andrew's ass, making the weight bench shake. "I wanna feel you come." The command was so sexy, Andrew couldn't have helped it if he'd wanted to. He let out a groan, his head rolling back, his grip tightening on the bars behind him as he came all over Akash's hand. His ass tightened, and it made Akash's cock feel even bigger, so he groaned again, clenching his jaw as Akash gasped and came just a moment later. "Fuck, so good." Akash looked down at Andrew, gaze moving slowly over his naked body. "You look good like that." Once his gaze had reached Andrew's face, he brought his hand to his lips and licked it clean. His dick had softened, and he pulled out slowly, then collapsed on top of Andrew. He reached down to pull the condom off, and after a brief, reflective pause, tossed it to the floor. Andrew didn't object. They lay together on the weight bench. After a few moments, Andrew, without thinking, brought up a hand and rested it on Akash's head, then, once a few more moments had passed, began to stroke his hair. Akash made a soft, pleased noise. "You're very good," said Andrew. "I know." Akash chuckled softly, then added, "You're good, too." There was only one thing Andrew could say to that. "I know." He ran his hand down Akash's back, and Akash licked at his throat. It was a pleasure to feel the smooth, taut flesh. 270

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So warm. He didn't stop until his fingers reached the firm curve of Akash's ass. Akash made another pleased noise and moved up a little. Sensing what was wanted, Andrew slid his hand between Akash's buttocks, then smiled. Akash paused in licking at Andrew's neck just long enough to ask, "You like that?" Akash's asshole was already wet. He'd prepped himself, maybe before coming over, or maybe during a brief bathroom visit he'd made earlier. All the time he'd been fucking Andrew, Akash's ass had been primed with lube, ready for him. It was enough to make Andrew's dick stiffen again. "Yes, I do." He slipped a finger into Akash's slick asshole and began to slide it in and out, fucking him—but not too deep, just enough to make him want more. "You can have it, if you want it." They had gone far beyond flirtation, but Akash's tone was still flirtatious. "Give it to me," said Andrew, his voice rough with desire. "Let me get another condom." Andrew sat up. When Akash returned to him, condom in hand, Andrew took it from him. "I want you to get on the bench with your ass in the air." "So you're the trainer now?" "That's right." Akash laughed softly but did as he was told immediately, resting his forearms on the long seat of the weight bench but keeping his feet on the floor, his ass raised. Andrew couldn't resist. He leaned in to bite at one of those smooth, dark cheeks—and then the other. He wanted to fuck him, but the man's ass looked so good, he couldn't resist tasting it first. He 271

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licked at the skin between Akash's buttocks—making Akash shiver—then ran his tongue down until he reached Akash's asshole. The lube had a sharp, synthetic taste, but he didn't mind it, encouraged by the noise Akash made, the way he shuddered, the heat of his skin and the tightness of his ass. It made him so hard. He reached down to stroke his cock. He lapped at Akash's asshole, giving it a few more lashes of his tongue, then pressed his finger there again. It slid in easily. Akash moved back, wanting more, but Andrew didn't give it to him—not yet. He pushed his finger in up to the second knuckle, then drew it out again. "God, just fuck me, please," Akash moaned. "You want me to fuck you?" "Fuck—Andrew, yes!" "Shit." He tore the condom wrapping open. He didn't think he'd ever managed to put a condom on so quickly or so easily. Everything was going so smoothly, and Akash's ass was ready for him, a perfect fit, hugging his dick just the right amount as he grasped Akash's thighs and thrust his hips forward. Then Akash was begging for it, moaning, telling him how big his dick was, asking for more. Andrew reached around to grasp the other man's cock, thick and slick in his hand. Andrew didn't hold back. Akash was very good, the best fuck he'd had in a while—he knew how to take it. When he came, he came hard, and Akash moaned his name. Soon enough, it was Akash's come all over Andrew's fingers, and he was licking it off—but Akash sat up quickly 272

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and helped him. Their tongues met, and then Andrew was kissing him, the taste of Akash's come in his mouth along with Akash's tongue. Afterward, they sat leaning against each other on the weight bench, both of them naked. Akash's fingers played lightly over Andrew's chest, and he was smiling. Andrew looked down at the two used condoms on the floor. He wasn't in any hurry to clean that up. "Can I take you out for dinner?" he asked. "No, I've got a client later." Akash didn't seem entirely pleased by that fact. "Do you have to go?" Akash sighed. "I should. My other client fired me today." "Ah, that's too bad." "I know. Some people are so inconsiderate." Andrew realized he was stroking Akash's hair again. But he didn't stop, and Akash didn't pull away. "How about tomorrow?" "What about tomorrow?" "Come over tomorrow. Whenever you're free." "I thought you were such a busy man," said Akash, kissing at his jaw. Andrew shrugged. "Like I said, I've got some personal time that I should use." "Okay, tomorrow. But you still have to buy me dinner, since you fired me." "That's only fair." "And say you're sorry," Akash demanded. 273

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"I'm not sorry," Andrew replied promptly, and Akash laughed. "Good," he said. "Me neither." [Back to Table of Contents]

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OPEN UP Clare London He hadn't been here before—I'd have remembered. I mean, I knew most of the names of the regular patients, but even if he wasn't one of the regulars, I'd have still remembered him. I recognized him even though he was sitting in the waiting room in the middle of wailing children and white-faced youngsters and falsely-cheerful adults. He barely looked up, flicking listlessly through a Town and Country magazine. It looked incongruous in such large hands that were probably more used to manual labor. He grunted a couple of times—with impatience, I assumed, because we were running late. Now and then, his eyes flickered over a young man sat opposite him and his shoulders tightened. I reckon I was the only one saw it. Because I recognized what he was. It was the last hour of the day and I was kept busy through the remaining appointments. Gradually, the noise from the waiting room outside died away—the nervous coughing, the shifting around on seats that were never meant to be the height of comfort, the occasional involuntary moan. My boss had gone for the day, but I offered to clear up the room for him. The equipment just needed a wipe down with the sterilising wipes, some patient records to be re-filed, a swift brush over the floor—then I was free to lock up and go home. 275

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I was washing around the sides of the sink when I felt the prickle at the back of my neck. When I turned around, I knew who I'd see. He filled the doorway. He leaned casually with one hand against the frame, the muscles bunching on his upper arm. It was a hot day and many people had left off their jackets, but I didn't remember him wearing one in the first place, just a white cotton vest. In the waiting room, his bare, tanned shoulders had been a visual oasis in the middle of striped dress shirts and pale pink dresses—his skin, glinting with sweat under the fluorescent lights. I could see now the vest was creased around his waist but tight where it counted— right across his pecs. They were muscled, and hard; they strained the fabric across his chest. His nipples were tight button buds under the white jersey. I imagined that my fists could hammer on those muscles all day and never get an answer. Except the one he wanted to give. I cleared my throat. I resisted the urge to ogle up at him, but he was a good six inches taller. "If you need to make another appointment, the girls can book you in tomorrow morning. We're closed now." He didn't even seem to be listening. His eyes were dark, set in a wide face and around a nose that had probably seen a fair share of action outside any boxing ring. His mouth was wide and looked greedy and it was... Grinning. "You wear that thing for a joke or something?" His voice was slightly hoarse, maybe from too much smoking, maybe 276

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from the dry air in the surgery. Certainly not from nervousness. His eyes raked up and back down my chest. Maybe they rested for a second longer than necessary at my crotch. I was glad the hem of my overall reached down to my hips, as I was suddenly, instantly hard. I felt my hands clench into a fist, then open out wide as if surrendering. I bit back the whimper that begged to be released. "It's my uniform," I said. It was a white polyester tunic, short sleeved, zipped down the front. Okay, so it was never going to be on the cover of GQ as this season's must have, but it served its purpose. "It's what I wear at work." My voice sounded barely more than a whisper. The white, sterile walls of the room took its echo and swallowed it dead. He shrugged, his whole upper body tensing then relaxing with the movement. The vest rode up on his body, exposing a small band of a belly that looked just as tanned and just as taut as the rest of him. His free hand came around to hug at the front of his jeans. He wore them fairly loose around the hips, though maybe that was less to do with fashion than to give enough comfort for thighs that looked strong enough to crush my hand if I dared to slide it in between them. I imagined sliding on warm sweat up toward his crotch, my fingers tangling in the hairs of his groin, the skin of my palm stretching wide to consider the impossibility of reaching around the thick cock I knew was swelling up there... "You can keep it on," he said, his voice breaking into a dream that was making me sweat—very, very sweetly. "Huh?" 277

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He took a step inside the room. His eyes flickered over the couch in the middle of the floor, currently set upright in its usual seating position. "Keep the dress thing on when I fuck you. If that turns you on. Gets you hard." My eyes widened with shock. "What the fuck? I told you, the surgery's closed for the day. You shouldn't even be here, I'm locking up. There's no way..." "There's every way," he said. It was amazing how he could do that with his voice—speak normally, with normal words, yet pitch the pure authority straight into my veins like a shot. I felt the pulse in my cock throb like a tangible squeeze. "You want it, and I give it. Head, dick up the ass. whatever. I've no time for games." I flushed from head to toe, I could feel it. I took one step to the side, to keep the length of the chair between us. "Get out. I'll call someone—" He shook his head. He was still grinning and now his eyes were fully on my groin. One hand toyed with the button of his jeans—the buttonhole looked relaxed and loose, like it'd often been wrenched open. In a rush. "All gone. They've all gone. Just you and me left." "I have to clean up," I said, gasping the first thing that came into my head. "Have to get you dirty first, then," he hissed. "Drop your pants. Get on the chair. Unless you want me to fuck you over the sink." He looked mildly interested for a second. His hand cupped his groin speculatively. "Or up against the wall. Those tiles slippery?" 278

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I was still gaping at him but the heat through my body wasn't just from indignation. No, my limbs were full of hot, spiking excitement and my heart hammered in my chest with rightful vindication. It had been too long since desire like this crawled through my veins, since it swamped me, drying my throat and filling my cock. Too miserably long! Too long spent in a quiet, single apartment; too long spent in busy, respectful days at work; too long spent with mild young men who bought me the occasional small glass of beer and wanted to talk about my opinion of current affairs, the role of gay men in the media, and whether I truly believed in an equitable relationship. Too long pretending not to recognize myself. "You looked at me," the man said. I couldn't even nod. I realized I didn't even want to know his name. "In that room." He jerked his head back toward the waiting room. "Couldn't take your eyes off me. So you're gagging for it. Don't make me hang around any longer." He moved his hand—large, bold, strong with hair on the knuckles—and flipped open the button on his jeans. The zip eased down swiftly, also used to his demands. There was something swarthy behind his hand, nudging at his wrist, not cloth, not underwear at all. Hair. Skin. The hot, sweaty shadows of his cock, coming out to play. "Fuck," I said. I hadn't meant to say anything. He laughed, sharply. I didn't think it was at me, but then I didn't think he'd be interested in discussing the subtleties of humor with me, not right now anyway. "Yeah. Get the chair 279

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flat and we'll fuck. Like I said. You want it hard? It's going to be fast and I don't take requests once I'm started." The last guy I fucked said I was too nice, said I was too submissive. To be honest, we both were, though I'd always thought there was something provocative in me that stopped me seeking that role on a full time basis. The Last Guy and I ended up sharing a joint and watching re-runs of Friends and never doing it more than twice. Couldn't make our minds up how to do it, then the moment passed. I looked up at the guy in the doorway and knew that'd never happen with him. I doubted he had a TV in the bedroom. Hell, I doubted he used a bedroom that often. "Hard," I whispered. Please was implied. He grinned again and stepped forward, pulling out his cock. I was fascinated by it; the purple meat damp and thick, just as I'd imagined, the dark color a stark contrast to the icy white of the room. He smelled of musk; it jarred with the antiseptic tang in the air. I stumbled around to get the controls of the chair, winching down the back so that it could lie as a bed. I fumbled with one hand, trying to unzip my tunic, panicking whether I'd worn a clean vest myself today. My dick strained at the front of my pants, trying to burst out. I knew they'd be stained damp before I finally got them open as well. I knew without doubt this was a one-off, limited-time offer. The guy had moved forward, his jeans open but still hovering at his hips. He obviously wasn't going to get fully undressed, though he plucked the edge of his vest and started to peel it up over his head. I'd get the top half naked 280

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at least, although I might never get to see those thighs, or the muscles in his solid buttocks curving inwards as he clenched and thrust on top of me ... My asshole flexed tight at the thought then relaxed, like a small, pouting mouth, opening its pink lips to give its own version of an anal blow job. Then my foot knocked against the column under the chair and something whirred into life. I pulled away and it stopped, but not before I'd seen him jump back and his eyes widen. "Hey." I lifted a hand, weakly. "Sorry. Just hit the foot pedal." He'd gone pale—there was no mistaking it. He was starting to shake his head. He actually took a step backwards. I stared between his dilating pupils and the thick, glistening cock in his fist and I gulped in air. "It was just the power. For the drills." I didn't know what to say. My tunic was open, the seams flapping on my chest. My pants were, indeed, damp at the front and clammy against my erection. But I'd seen that look in men's eyes before and it wasn't from sexual lust for my ass. "Fuck it," he said, frowning. "Turn it off." I watched the flare of panic in his eyes, and things seemed to shift between us just a little bit. My ambitions ... changed. "Can't." I shrugged, gently. "Something's been left on. Maybe one of the switches isn't working." I ran a finger along the edge of the unit beside the chair, topped with a gleaming stainless steel tray, laid with a single bright, white towel. "Probably just the polisher. I've put all the loose instruments away." I glanced up at him and then back down to the tray. I 281

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had an irresistible urge to laugh. "It's only a noise." I tapped at the foot pedal with one foot and—apparently carelessly— folded my fingers around one of the hand pieces. It whirred for another second. He moaned. I kid you not. We dealt with it a lot in the surgery. Dental phobia. Definitely more often than we dealt with me being fucked raw on the chair. I took a step nearer to him. "Are you scared? A lot of people are at the dentist..." "Fuck no!" His eyes were livid with a hideous mixture of lust, mortification, and fear. Irrational fear—yet very obvious. "I just had a check-up, didn't I? Fine with that—no problems there. You're talking crap." "Okay." I shrugged. "Of course I am." I couldn't resist it—I tapped the pump again and the whine hissed through the room. The guy nearly went into spasm. He was struggling not to take flight—struggling to hang on to his pride and sexual credibility. "You look pale," I said, softly. "Why don't you lie down on the chair first." You remember that provocation I mentioned before? The one that kept me just this side of submissive? "I really want you to fuck me. I really want it. Now." I shucked off my tunic and peeled my own vest over my head. I made sure I kept hold of his gaze all the time. So, okay, I'm no macho man like him, but his eyes flickered to my nipple ring and they glazed over. I had the piercing done after the Last Guy incident, not sure what I was trying to prove but it certainly had the right effect now. His cock bounced in his fist 282

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and the color came back to his cheeks. "Lie down," I said, quickly. "I'll suck you." It rested uncomfortably with him—me giving the instructions—but he sidled over to the chair and threw himself down. The plastic wheezed quietly under his weight; the muscles on his belly tensed up around his navel. I stood close to the side of the chair, my heart beat quickening again at the sight of him, unfastening my pants at last. I tucked my hands in the waistband and dropped both pants and briefs together, letting them crumple around my ankles. My cock sprang out with its own version of halleluia, desperation gleaming wetly and stickily at its tip. His eyes flickered shakily between my modest offering to the prick party and the central column of the unit—which wasn't the world's most flattering comparison for me—but I knew he wasn't viewing them from the same point of view. When I pushed the unit and tray to one side, he relaxed a little. Returning to the matter in hand, he prodded my thigh with the chubby wet head of his cock, gesturing it toward me. "Suck it. Let me fuck that mouth of yours." His hand was tight in my hair as he pushed me down on him, though I went willingly enough. I got a hand around the base of his cock before I gagged and then I sucked as if I might never get another chance this side of the millennium. The shaft was so thick and greedy in my mouth that it needed all my attention. His hips thrust up against my chin, sweat springing up on those fabulous pecs, my other hand clinging bravely to his hip to anchor myself. But when I crouched further down over the side of the chair to get a better angle on him, my boot knocked against the unit again. The chair 283

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creaked and the metal tray rattled. I felt his answering shudder all through his groin. I lifted a hand across and put it flat on his belly, holding him down on the chair. He grunted with irritation and tried to shake it off. So I pressed the edge of my foot properly down on the pedal and let the whine seep out. Again. His cock jerked fiercely in my mouth and his torso went rigid. He stopped trying to push me off. I grinned around his dick, my tongue licking fast. "Turn over," I hissed. "Fuck off," he grunted. His conversation wasn't proving the most exciting I'd ever had during sex, but the circumstances rather limited us. "Your ass is the one taking it." "Rimming," I said, slowly. "It's good. You want my tongue on your ass? Let me show you." His cock was throbbing on my tongue and he slid it out reluctantly. He huffed a bit and turned over, eyeing the unit beside us suspiciously. I kicked off my own pants, knelt up on the chair so I was straddling his hips, and then I tugged his jeans down his thighs. They were, indeed, magnificent thighs—I ran my hand up them, feeling the line of the muscle, catching up the thicker hairs near the crease of his buttocks. I peeled his cheeks open, finding the dark, hairy pucker. I dropped a blob of spit down on to it, my saliva glands at full throttle at the sight of what was on the menu. I guess I was just clumsy in my excitement. Right? My foot slipped off the side of the chair and caught the edge of the unit, rattling the steel tray again. 284

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The guy's body tensed from top to toe and so I got my view of the muscles of his ass after all, clenching in from the base of his spine down to the tops of his thighs. I sighed, happily. He wriggled, too, though I was half on top of him by now, my tongue at his crack. Maybe he was trying to get away—to restore his control of the situation. He liked it, though, I could tell—his hole was flexing in and out happily beneath my tongue's unpractised but enthusiastic work, the creases glinting with my saliva, the inside of his legs tight with anticipation. I poked experimentally with my tongue at him, licking the rim as if looking for entrance. He grumbled from underneath me again—I rattled the tray again. He went quiet. I slid a hand in between his legs and poked a fingertip at his hole instead. He growled and I had visions of being slung back off him, tumbling across the room, having to explain to my boss tomorrow morning why there were blood stains on the tiling. But just as he was phrasing his by now familiar response, my foot slid back down over the side of the chair and caught the pedal full on this time—there was another burst of whining from the unit. The air tube hissed as well, like it had come out in sympathy. He went still. My hand was sticky with the sweat that sprang up on his skin. I went back to work. I slid my finger in and out of his ass—it wasn't a hard passage, though every muscle spasm along his spine announced that he hadn't expected this when he visited the surgery today. 285

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"Just a check up," I murmured, smirking. "Tell me if anything hurts." "No," he growled. "Get the fuck out of there." I smiled, ignoring him, and slid in another daring finger. Like I said, looked like he'd been here before. His voice was angry but his legs gripped at the bed of the chair and his hands clenched at its edges. He leaned over on to one side and I could see the size of his bulging cock, trapped underneath his groin and begging for release. He was getting off on this, same as me. There was the glimmer of foil peeking out of the top pocket of his jeans. With my free hand, I peeled out a condom packet. To fit all sizes. How thoughtful to offer precautions for us both. "Some of them have diamond coating," I said, cheerily. "The drills. Makes them really hard wearing. And different speeds. Higher torque—smoother operation." I twisted my fingers, loosening him up, then fumbled under the tray, knowing what I'd find. "Lube for the hand pieces," I announced, my fingers suddenly very proficient with the onehanded opening of sealed containers. Amazing what proper motivation can do for you. "The drills can go up to 350,000 rpm. Adjustable forward and reverse." My fingers, newly slicked, thrust in and out. When his back arched and his growls became fiercer, I knew I'd hit the right spot. "What the fuck are you doing?" he panted. He sounded genuinely interested. "Different kind of drilling," I hissed. I slid on the condom and slicked up my cock, my hand swift and steady, the flesh 286

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swollen and demanding. Then I prised open his buttocks again, tugging his hips up to meet mine. He came up on to his hands and knees, hobbled by the jeans still tangled around his thighs. His balls hung down in the valley between his legs, heavy and crinkled; his cock bobbed up from under his belly and he reached a hand around to grip it. I nudged my cock against his hole and poked at the entrance. He tensed again and his head swung around to glare at me. I dropped a foot to the pedal again and it whirred obediently. His pupils dilated, fast. "Ask me nicely," I whispered. My cock throbbed in my hand, impatient to be deep inside. I nudged again at him, his opening starting to peel apart around the head of my dick. When he hesitated—well, what do you think I did? My foot tapped on the pedal. The whine settled into a much longer rhythm, an ululating wave of wailing. The tray rattled; the air tube sucked. He keened, no other word for it. His yell echoed off the tiling and the white, clinical fittings like that of a trapped beast in heat. He clutched the side of the chair and strained his ass up toward me, pushing back on to my cock. "Fuck me," he hissed. "Get me out of here—but fuck me first!" I guessed that was as nice as he was going to get. And one thing I know about phobias is that, allowed to run unchecked, they can interfere with normal functions—normal bodily functions. I gripped at his thighs and I sucked in my own air, hoping for more stamina than my excitement led me to believe was mine to command. I pressed slowly but firmly 287

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in, thrilled at the heavy, muscled body I had splayed out underneath me, taking whatever I gave him. "Open up!" I quipped. "This is hardly going to hurt at all!" [Back to Table of Contents]

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UNMASKED Syd McGinley "Alan, you're full of it!" "I hate Halloween. I hate the masks. I don't like not knowing who people are." I pinch him hard. We've only been seeing each for a few months, but I already know that's bullshit. "You faked last week when I had my Zorro mask on?" He leers at the memory, but says, "That was different. I knew it was you and it was hot imagining who might be there, but I don't like really not knowing." I'm astride him, but I sit back on my heels. "You're scared?" He nods. It's funny to see him freaked. He's six feet four inches of tanned muscle, with a Marine haircut. Jarhead, I whisper when I fuck him, and he can't resist or retaliate. "And clowns, but worse, those George Bush masks." He shivers. He's so disconcerted. Hand on heart, I promise not to subject him to any masks. "And I hate costumes." "Are you sure you're gay? How can you not want to dress up? Or go to the haunted house? There's an AIDS benefit there after the parade. I heard there's Phelps in Hell! And the Santorum and Satan Show! Frist-Fuckers of America!" "Hunter, get it through your fucking head: I hate Halloween." 289

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"Has Wicca Jane hexed you?" Wicca Jane and her girlfriend live downstairs. The entryway they share with Alan is strewn with amulets and herb bundles. He usually pokes fun at them. "I know it's not real, but it's freaky." "At least come to Ray's masked ball? He's dying to meet you. You haven't met any of my friends yet." He's adamant. He'll keep the front lights off and hole up in his kitchen until the trick-or-treaters are gone. He knows he's being silly, and he teases me by saying he knows he'll be safe because Jane will charm their entry before she goes to her Samhain ceremonies. He's cute when he flirts. So, although I know he's distracting me on purpose, I give up. Just on the argument, not on us. Besides, I'm hard again. Arguing—even bickering—gets us hot. I'm still astride his waist. I clamp my heels on his hips and bend forward until I'm doing a push-up over his face. If he won't say what I want to hear, then he doesn't need to be talking. It always surprises him that I'm smaller than he is, but I often get to top him. He's not pleased, but hasn't objected yet. I suspect revenge will come, but until then I'll use his good nature as much as I can. My dick's already grazing his throat, and he's swallowing while trying to protest. I laugh. "I know you don't deep-throat, Alan, but if you won't come out to play, then I'll need to get my fun here." He says something choked that I interpret as "not fair," but I'm pushing harder and deeper. Alan's hands are cupping my balls and probing my hole in an attempt to make me 290

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shoot sooner. Poor Alan, I came earlier, and I'm deliberately being a slow shot. He doesn't like this, but he's fucking awesome at eating meat. He could swallow a foot-long frank and not blink. He takes pride in his cocksucking even when the tears are in his eyes from a ramming. I repeatedly hit his gag reflex and pause to feel his soft palate quiver on my cockhead. Fuck! He's got his finger in my ass, and has hit the sweet spot. I spurt in his throat, and stay deep for the last spasm to pay him for triggering me sooner than I wanted. He may hate deep-throating, but he's a slut for sperm, and nurses at my shrinking dick to get it all. "Fuck, Alan, don't, man. You know that feels too—ah fuck." He's flipped me, and is tormenting my cock and balls. They're too sensitive, and I'm squirming and pleading in no time. "Back off about Halloween, Hunter. I'm warning you." I nod. At that moment I'd agree to anything, but later I realize he took a Halloween deal instead of fucking me while I was helpless. He hasn't had my ass yet. I don't give that up easily. I'll bottom for the right sort of guy, which is just as well as I invariably fall for other tops. I'm not sure yet if Alan's one under that sweet-natured exterior. He may really be just a big old jarhead looking for a daddy. **** Now Halloween is here, and I'm making one last try. I'm not breaking my promise, but it's fair enough to try one more time to get him to just Ray's party. After all, I've skipped the 291

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parades and the benefits, but surely a party with friends is different? Alan's good-natured about it, but still says no. He distracts me with the new canapés he learned to make in class this week—he's gone back to school as a culinary student—then coaxes me into bed. I know he's trying to please because he rolls right over without our usual wrangling about who's the real top. I don't care why he's presenting his hole—I fuck him hard. Afterward, I still want to go out. "Go, don't stay in because I'm hung up." I give up, but still squeeze him before I get out of bed. "Okay, babe, I'll come by tomorrow. I'll leave directions to Ray's on the coffee table—in case you change your mind." **** Just minutes into the masked ball and I miss Alan. Ball is a grandiose term: it's a seething mass of smeared makeup and parade-battered costumes crammed into Ray's loft. Everyone's talking about the haunted house. It sounds even better than I imagined. Ray's a six-foot-tall skinny black drag queen, so he's both scary and convincing as Condi Rice in her Matrix storm trooper outfit. It's fun, but I've seen enough. I turn to Alan to say, "Let's go," but of course, he's not with me. Shit, I must be falling for him if I'd rather be home with him than out on my favorite night. I slide out of the party and head to his place. I know he'll ignore the doorbell even though all the ankle-biters are home with sugar highs by now. The porch light's off to keep trickor-treaters away and I search for the door handle. Something scratches my face. I yelp and freeze. It hits my scalp. I inch 292

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my hand to my cell—it has a penlight—and point it. Fuck. An herb bundle to protect the entry. I'll kill Wicca Jane. I let go of speed dial, and use the penlight to go up Alan's stairs. He'd shyly given me a key a few days ago. He's awful sweet for such a big lug. I'm not surprised his lounge is dark—he'll still be in the kitchen absorbed with new recipes. I've taken off my mask; I keep promises although he's spoiled my Halloween. Most years, I spend all October creating something grotesque and fantastic. This year, I couldn't summon the interest. I knew all along Alan wouldn't come, and without him it seemed pointless. Dispirited, I'd defaulted to a generic Zorroesque costume—plastic sword, tight pants, boots, and open shirt. It was okay, but my heart wasn't in it. Shit! Now my heart's in my mouth! A dark shape looms backlit in the doorway. I scream: there's a monster in Alan's kitchen! The kitchen light snaps off and a hand on my nape draws me in. My knees are Jell-O. The creature is huge—I'm fiveeight and it's a foot taller. It pushes me down to my knees. The kitchen is stark black-and-white in moonlight. All I see is silhouette: a square head and lumpy neck. From my knees my perspective is distorted, and then my view's blocked by crotch. Whoa! Monsters are in proportion all over! I admit it, I'm a slut; I perk up when I realize why I'm on my knees. My eyes adapt. The hands on my shoulders are green-tinged, but the cock before me is honey colored. And tastes familiar—I grab Alan's ass and slurp at his hard-on. Before I lose myself, I remind myself to lie later and say I knew it was Alan before I 293

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started the blow job. I apple-bob for his balls, but he tugs my hair and returns my mouth to his rigid Franken-pole. His bent knees let his prick slide into my throat and he thrusts. I gag, but keep my hands on his butt. I knead his glutes and tickle his hole. He roars and shoots. I sputter, then murmur, "Ah! Sweet mystery of life...." He cracks up. "Are you ever serious, Hunter?" "How can I be? I'm in breeches blowing Franken-cock." He flips on the lights. Platform shoes give him those crucial four extra inches. "Why are you dressed up?" A doubt assails me. What if he had a date and I hate Halloween was a ruse? "Thought I'd try Ray's—for you—you looked so puppy dog earlier." I'm abashed, aware I suspected him unjustly, and that I dove for his prick before I knew who he was. He must have been thinking ahead if he had even a basic Frankenstein costume ready. I've been sulking all month while he's been battling his demons. Still. "Puppy dog!" I say indignantly. I squeal as he swats my ass. "Breeches suit you, but better off." He hauls my breeches down. My knee-high riding boots stop them. He catches my prick in his green palm and caresses me until it strains toward him. He pulls my shirt over my head, but my hands stick at the buttoned wrists. He makes no move to undo them. I'm bound knee and wrist by my own costume, with my face hidden in shirt. 294

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I'm helpless as Alan drags me to the sofa and onto his lap. He spanks my ass, flips me over, strokes my prick, turns me back again and slaps harder and harder until I writhe. He torments my asscheeks until they tingle and pulls on my cock until I beg him to finish me. He's mean and succumbs to the inevitable trick-or-treat jokes as he slaps and strokes. "Which is which, Hunter? Do you even know?" I've slid half off his knees and he can access my prick with just a reach around. He tickles my cockhead: "Trick." Slaps my ass: "Treat." He pulls the shirt from my face. He stares into my eyes and works my shaft. "Just a trick, Hunter?" "No," I groan. "Then what?" I wriggle. Why the hell do all my relationships end up with men discovering I'm a bottom at heart? Alan slaps me hard again. "What, boy?" "Treat?" I venture hoping he just wants the other half of the joke. Fuck! He's slapped my balls. He stops spanking me or stroking me and watches me fight with my pain and dignity. Alan wipes my tears with my shirt. "Come on boy, I've unmasked you. You're not the tough guy you say you are. I heard you squeal when Jane's sage bundle hit you, and you screamed like a girl when you saw me. You were on your knees for a big cock in a second, and you're crying from a little spanking and a tiny ball slap." I'm not the world's smartest guy. I say, "At least I'm not afraid of a children's holiday." 295

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Alan's affectionate good humor evaporates in a second. He throws me off his lap and I'm on the floor on my hands and knees. He grabs my Zorro sword and slashes it against my ass. I howl. It may only be a toy, but, shit, it stings. "I know who I am, boy, and I'm man enough to admit my fears. Are you?" He hits me again, and I crawl away as fast as my clothingbonds allow. He strides after me, switching at me. Damn, if only Wicca Jane were home. Surely he wouldn't do this to me then? The calm part of my brain says: Of course he would. If he's already doing this, nothing would stop him from gagging me. I finally get enough of a grip to stop crawling. I know I have to stay still and let him finish venting his anger on my ass. My attempts to escape are only fueling his anger and provoking his desire. I hear him laugh when I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the coffee table and stay obediently still as he takes a few more swipes at my tender ass. "Do you know who you are now, Hunter?" "Yes," I whisper. I turn around and rest my face on his monster shoes. "Your boy." "I could get to like Halloween," he says. "So long as you remember from now on who's who, and drop your act. Hunter: you've been caught." [Back to Table of Contents]

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS Mychael Black (Release) Mychael has been writing gay erotica and gay fiction for several years. When not writing, he can usually be found researching or brainstorming. His favorite subjects of research are: Medieval history, Welsh history, Welsh culture, Welsh language, Swords, Castles, Archaeology, Celtic history, Celtic mythology, Vampires and vampire mythologies, Magick, Christian mysteries, Angels, and other such topics. Mychael welcomes feedback and will gladly answer all messages. He can be reached at: mychael [email protected]. Websites: www.mychaelblack.com mychael-black2.livejournal.com groups.yahoo.com/group/theprincesangel Noel Blue (The Ghost) Noel Blue has been writing for about two years, submitting serial stories to nifty.org and slowly building a small but friendly fan base. Her stories can be found on www.noelblue.com, or at groups.yahoo.com/group/NBstories/. Jamie Booth (Drive) Jamie Booth hails from the UK and is Northern through and through. "My interests include dancing, bubblegum and exploring abandoned buildings," says Jamie "and, of course, writing. My chief passion has always been horror, but I write for a wide range of genres including urban fantasy, science 297

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

fiction and erotica. I have a handful of short stories published in anthologies, a couple of competitions under my belt and I'm currently working on my second novel—a horror-tinged steampunk adventure yarn." Jamie dreams of the time when it'll be possible to give up the day job and become a full time writer—or a rock star, whichever happens first. Anah Crow (Lessons in Kneeling) Anah Crow is a queer Canadian writer and poet whose first loves are words, stones, wind, and water. Since none of those things are particularly cuddly, nor do they make tea and tell her that her writing isn't terrible, she is also blessed with as many partners and friends as she can possibly manage. Anah has been writing queer fiction since her salad days when she first wondered about such things as why Arthur and Lancelot didn't simply get a nice cottage together by the Lake where the Lady and Guinevere could come over for tea on Sundays and they'd all live happily ever after. Martin Delacroix (Fuck Me ... Please) Martin Delacroix is a former journalist and trial lawyer. He writes novels, novellas and short fiction. He resides on Florida's Gulf Coast, at Pass-a-Grille Beach. Eider Grey (Riders on the Storm) Eider Grey has been writing fiction since she was old enough to spell. These days she's lucky enough to live and write with her partner-in-crime, Meredith Shrike. In her free time, she enjoys playing word games, drinking hot tea with honey, and wearing fuzzy socks. Sometimes all three at once. CA James (Personal Time) 298

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C.A. James is a freelance writer and illustrator who resides in southern New Jersey, where submarine sandwiches are called "hoagies," and that's how C.A. likes it. Clare London (Open Up) Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves and writes. She juggles fiction with a frantic family life and waits for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She's written in many genres and across many settings, with short stories published both online and in print anthologies. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama, with a healthy serving of erotica, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters. Clare currently has a fantasy novel in the process of publication, two more nearing the submission stage and plenty of other projects in mind ... she just has to find out where she left them amongst the frantic family life. Clare's website: www.darkpearldiva.com Clare's blog: claredivatoo.livejournal.com Syd McGinley (Unmasked) Syd McGinley is English, but has lived in the USA since 1989. Syd teaches college in a red state, stays sane writing dirty stories, and under-appreciates beloved Joe far too often. Current projects include a regency novel and a contemporary D/s novel as well the Dr. Fell series and the Another Fine Mess anthology. Visit Syd at www.sydmcginley.com. Chris Owen (Logan's Project) Chris Owen lives and writes in the wilds of Eastern Canada. A fan of Macintosh computers, knitting, cowboys, firemen and 299

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cheese, Chris spends hours each day trying to figure out how to write and knit at the same time. Recently Chris has started learning yoga in a misguided attempt to see if it's possible to knit with one's feet so the hands can keep on typing. Chris' latest releases are all at Torquere. There is very little yarn in the stories, but the content of firemen and cowboys is high. Chris' website: www.chrisowen.net CB Potts (In the Hole) CB Potts lives surrounded by prison guards—sadly, none of them are quite as sexy as Grant and Rusty, but that's why we have fiction, isn't it? She's also the author of the Rockhound series, Dance with Me, and a few other titles Torquere fans might find familiar. You can always find CB online at cbpotts.livejournal.com. Meredith Shrike (Like Clockwork) Meredith Shrike would like you to infer from this bio that the author is witty, charming, and thinking about having a nice cup of tea; and really, there's no better way to do that than to just say so outright. Currently engaged in multiple original writing projects as well as collecting the erotic memoirs of Uncle Gideon, Meredith resides on the east coast of a fairly large continent in the delightful company of partner-in-crime, Eider Grey. Matt Stedmann (Spike) Matt Stedmann's erotic fiction appears in the anthologies Homosex: Sixty Years of Gay Erotica, Out of Control, Blood Lust, Men for All Seasons, and Quickies 3, which was nominated for the Lambda Literary Award. His erotic nonfiction appears in the anthologies Best of Both Worlds and 300

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ReCreations, which was also nominated for the Lambda Literary Award. He really, really enjoys watching volleyball. KC Warwick (No Man's Servant) I live in the heart of the English countryside surrounded by animals, and have been writing male/male romance for as long as I can remember. I was brought up on Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, long before the days of Harry Potter, so there is often a strong fantasy element in my writing. Other stories of mine published by Torquere are "Cold Iron" in the Animal Attraction anthology, Thieves In the Night, Taming The Mountain Mist and Rules. I'm currently working on a historical novel set in Elizabethan England, which is my other interest. GS Wiley (Crocodile Bird) I love researching and writing historical fiction, especially historical romances. I live in western Canada with my husband and our dog, both of whom are very supportive of my writing compulsion! Autumn Winterwind (A Game of Empire) Autumn Winterwind never expected to use her German major for evil, but her partiality for anachronism and the Victorian age combined with her fondness for German history to create this story. She has written a variety of short fiction, but none for publication. ABOUT THE EDITOR Kit Zheng Kit Zheng is usually found masquerading as a writer. Kit enjoys basking in the warm light of the computer screen and affecting a look which suggests the planning of artistic 301

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masterpieces, great literature, or at the very least, a world takeover. Sadly, regardless of whatever deadlines might be looming, the real truth is that Kit is merely contemplating what to have for dinner. More uninformative tidbits about Kit can be found at kitzheng.thatdamncat.com. [Back to Table of Contents]

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A Game of Empire Copyright 2008 by Autumn Winterwind, Crocodile Bird Copyright 2008 by GS Wiley, Drive Copyright 2008 by Jamie Booth, Fuck Me ... Please Copyright 2008 by Martin Delacroix, The Ghost Copyright 2008 by Noel Blue, In the Hole Copyright 2008 by CB Potts, Lessons in Kneeling Copyright 2008 by Anah Crow, Like Clockwork Copyright 2008 by Meredith Shrike, Logan's Project Copyright 2008 by Chris Owen, No Man's Servant Copyright 2008 by KC Warwick, Open Up Copyright 2008 by Clare London, Personal Time Copyright 2008 by CA James, Release Copyright 2008 by Mychael Black, Riders on the Storm Copyright 2008 by Eider Grey, Spike Copyright 2008 by Matt Stedmann, Unmasked Copyright 2008 by Syd McGinley

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