The Original Gay Porn Community - Free Gay Movies and Photos, Gay Porn Site Reviews and Adult Gay Forums
-
Welcome To Just Us Boys - The World's Largest Gay Message Board Community
In order to comply with recent US Supreme Court rulings regarding adult content, we will be making changes in the future to require that you log into your account to view adult content on the site.
If you do not have an account, please register.
REGISTER HERE - 100% FREE / We Will Never Sell Your InfoTo register, turn off your VPN; you can re-enable the VPN after registration. You must maintain an active email address on your account: disposable email addresses cannot be used to register.
Change at Gallery Place
- Thread starter EasyRory
- Start date
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Don't berate my readers, Auto. They might give me one star and that would be more discouraging than none. 
Rory,
Sorry, I get into the story and, because the star ratings don't appear on subscription pages, tend to forget to hit the ratings.
A most interesting and varied installment. And I find myself trying to picture the burroughs you describe - my son went to American, Lived on Massachusetts across the street for awhile, then moved into an apartment in Bethesda, and we've eaten at Filomena's a few times, so I've been in and around the Dupont Circle area; I know someone attending GW, but haven't been on their campus, just have googled it to get a feel for just how close to 1600 PA is really is - my son almost went there, but American made him a better offer scholarship/assistance for his MA.
Rawson sounds like a nice guy; he certainly was very nice to Matt at a difficult time. I wonder what his history is. The Live boys doesn't bother me, but one always wonders about dead girls.
Two different "escorts" for two different people - ah, yes, Madame Mayflower's contemporaries are alive and well employed in DC, still.
My driving run in was while I was in a U-Haul 17' truck - and an ass in a Range Rover w/ MD plates - cutting out in front of me so I had to stand on the breaks. He didn't understand when I suggested he must not care very much for his wife and kids that were in the vehicle with him to pull such a bull shit maneuver - when I'm driving a billboard that says "not very responsive, takes a long time to break, and , Oh yeah, Driver isn't real familiar with the vehicle, douche bag!". So, yeah, been there, done that.
Things seem to be progressing nicely in the work environs for Tom, and you've got to love Darren's way with words and tact and diplomacy.
A most enjoyable read. I'm glad I finally found a little less hectic time to savour it.
Sorry, I get into the story and, because the star ratings don't appear on subscription pages, tend to forget to hit the ratings.
A most interesting and varied installment. And I find myself trying to picture the burroughs you describe - my son went to American, Lived on Massachusetts across the street for awhile, then moved into an apartment in Bethesda, and we've eaten at Filomena's a few times, so I've been in and around the Dupont Circle area; I know someone attending GW, but haven't been on their campus, just have googled it to get a feel for just how close to 1600 PA is really is - my son almost went there, but American made him a better offer scholarship/assistance for his MA.
Rawson sounds like a nice guy; he certainly was very nice to Matt at a difficult time. I wonder what his history is. The Live boys doesn't bother me, but one always wonders about dead girls.
Two different "escorts" for two different people - ah, yes, Madame Mayflower's contemporaries are alive and well employed in DC, still.
My driving run in was while I was in a U-Haul 17' truck - and an ass in a Range Rover w/ MD plates - cutting out in front of me so I had to stand on the breaks. He didn't understand when I suggested he must not care very much for his wife and kids that were in the vehicle with him to pull such a bull shit maneuver - when I'm driving a billboard that says "not very responsive, takes a long time to break, and , Oh yeah, Driver isn't real familiar with the vehicle, douche bag!". So, yeah, been there, done that.
Things seem to be progressing nicely in the work environs for Tom, and you've got to love Darren's way with words and tact and diplomacy.
A most enjoyable read. I'm glad I finally found a little less hectic time to savour it.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Eight
“It was great seeing an old friend in a new city, caro fratello. I'll go with you to Union Station.” Tom watched Darren stuff a back pack.
“I'm going to take the Chinese Bus.”
“You know the rats they trap in the baggage compartments of those buses? They sell them on the Philadelphia run as scrapple sandwiches.” The old friends exchanged a look. “Well, I don't know. That's what I heard from the carpet layers.”
The original Chinese Bus was a subsidiary of a Chinese transportation company and ran between New York and Boston. Owing solely to rock-bottom fares, the business prospered and there were now several companies that operated between cities in the Boston-Washington corridor. The operation was still trying to live down its reputation as mobile motels for the homeless. The current fleet of buses was spartan but much improved over the unreliable, clapped-out wrecks of former times. It was still true, however, that the round trip fare to New York bought you two five-hour naps at a better price and in safer surroundings than a welfare motel.
“I'm showing solidarity with Nicky's plight,” Darren said determinedly.
“Couldn't you take the train and pretend you took the bus?”
“No, and besides Rory always likes it when our expense accounts are low.”
“I'm going to miss you. I'll walk you to the Metro.”
As they walked Tom questioned Darren. “This thing with Nicky. It's a big deal, huh? Like forever?”
“Oh, man, I don't know. It's for now and it's the best thing I've ever known. But … he loves New York and I think he's moving to Alameda just because he has a job offer and he hates being unemployed. I think he'd be happier if I moved to New York, but … Lots of buts.”
“New York's awesome, I hear. Not always in a good way. But, as you say, he loves you.”
“Yeah, he really does. Amazing, huh?” Darren had recently turned twenty-one and, while he was very mature in his approach to work, he was still a tenderfoot in the land of love. He had worked through the ache of loneliness but never the black hole of heartbreak.
“Not amazing at all, D.” Tom rhymed the Z of Darren's brother's name. “Tell guys in Alameda hello.”
They said goodbye at the top of the Metro entrance. It's hard to hug someone who's wearing a back pack. The gesture was awkward but the affection was real. “Change at Gallery Place?” Darren called out.
“No, get off at Gallery Place.”
Tom watched a woman trip climbing the stairs as she turned to stare at Darren riding an escalator going the other way. “That's the Zara guy!” she said excitedly to her companion. “Darren?” she called out; but she was too late. “It was him,” she said to her doubtful friend.
Matt had found an iron and was ironing Rawson's sheets on their kitchen table when Mike got home. “Do you know how to operate that thing?” the engineer asked.
“Plug it in. What else is there to it?
“What setting are you using for the temperature?”
“On,” answered Matt passing the iron over the sheet without much result.
After more discussion, Mike ironed the sheets, explaining his theories about steam, cotton, and wrinkles to Matt who was paying more attention to something he was reading.
“New script?” Mike asked.
“No, it's called 'Economic Theory and Governmental Efficiency.' Rawson wrote it and I don't understand it.”
“You could ask him.”
“Econ 101? I got lost at 'savings equals investment.'” Matt had been an English major.
“Again, you could ask him.”
“I think he's saying most approaches to productivity improvement do not work in government processes. I get that part. The why loses me.”
“You should get some half-glasses to wear. You look good studying,” Mike teased. “Here are the sheets and pillow cases. They smell nice.”
“I got some scented soap. Grass-scented; it sounded harmless.”
“As long as it doesn't attract dogs. Why didn't you do our sheets while you were at it?” Mike looked at their brimming laundry hamper.
“Where's the fun in that?” Matt took the bed linen and walked to the dacha.
“You don't even want to try them? Come on, Acey-Deucey, just for laughs.” Phil had the box of red glow-in-the-dark, ribbed-for-your-partner's-pleasure condoms in his hand. His teasing touches were arousing Ace. “I want to see what this beauty of yours looks like glowing.”
“Why do we need gimmicks? You're plenty for me, Phil.” Ace let Phil strip him, piece by piece. The touches, the kisses, the licks were exciting enough. They were in a sixty-nine when Ace felt the condom being rolled onto his cock. “You don't want to fuck me this time? I was just getting used to it.”
“We'll get to that part, Ace.” Phil spread lube on the latex. “Look at that telephone pole glow.”
“Did you talk to your boss about transferring to the Virginia store?” Ace was looking forward to Phil's transfer so they could move in together without one of them having to commute across the river. Ace's apartment in bargain-priced Arlandria was both bigger and cheaper. He watched what Phil was doing. The glowing condom did make his dick look bigger.
“Yeah, baby, I did ask the boss. He's not sure if the Virginia store is hiring or not. I got a form to fill out.” When sex was the motivation, Phil could lie with the greatest of ease and credibility.
“Haven't you filled it out yet?” Ace persisted.
“I only got it yesterday,” Phil answered with a little kiss. “You want to start doggie style? I think that warms me up the best. God, I love your dick lighted up.” Phil knelt on all fours and wiggled his ass. “Maybe next Christmas we could … Oh … yeah, that's right. Mmmm. Slow at first ... OW! FUCK! .. Take it easy ...”
“Sorry, getting the ribs past your hole, I kinda slipped.” Ace couldn't feel a thing different but with his glowing cock buried in Phil the room seemed much darker. “Kinda spooky now with the light gone.”
Phil was moaning and cooing, loving the prostate massage the condom was giving him. “Keep it moving, Ace. Don't stop. Oh, yeah … that's perfect …” Phil's arms were shaking from the pleasure and he lay down flat on the bed, but the changed angle took the pleasure away. “Ace, can you angle down more? More …No, the other way … Shit!” Phil switched positions, bending over with his legs tucked under and his back arched, like an Moslem praying. He was impatient. “Try it again, ok? OH! YEAH! That's the way!”
“I can't do this for long. It's really uncomfortable in this position. My cock is bent and ...” Ace complained.
“How is this about you? I'm the one getting fucked,” Phil's annoyance increased. “Shit!”
Ace's cock wasn't getting much penetration and popped out. Eventually, they found a way of rear penetration while lying down that put the condom's ribs in constant touch with Phil's prostate. “YEAH! Oh, my God! More!” Ace had a hard time staying in and the pressure bending his dick made him come without much enjoyment. Phil didn't come at all. “That's it? You came? You're done? Shit.”
Phil's annoyance found a match in Ace. “I don't know why you want to mess around with trick condoms. We were having great sex already. Who needs the toys?”
Phil refrained from commenting, deciding he didn't want to push Ace too far. Eventually he said, “We were having good sex, weren't we? Are you starting to like getting fucked?”
“I don't know. I like it when you do it. I've never done it with anybody else.”
Eventually Phil got around to fucking Ace. He did use the fancy condom, but didn't make a big deal out of it. Ace didn't object and couldn't figure out what the big deal was anyway. The condom was just a condom to him; Phil's pounding him felt the exactly same as the other times, ribs or not. The problem was Phil couldn't get off. Eventually he gave up unsatisfied, tossed the condom on the floor, and lay back frustrated. So Ace tried giving him a blow job but that wasn't going anywhere either. “Ace, stick a finger up me,” Phil requested. That worked. He got hard almost immediately. “Try two fingers,” Phil requested right before he came.
Lucky parked in his garage and looked at the damage to the Mitsubishi. The damage to the plastic front end was minimal, but just enough to ruin its looks completely. The headlights worked; the radiator was intact. It just looked like shit. When he bought the car, it was the closest thing to a sports car he could afford; but it was a disappointment from day one. The car itself was neither more nor less than its price promised. The disappointment was all in Lucky's head. The sound of the engine was never a throaty purr to Lucky; instead, the little engine whined “econo-crap, econo-crap” under hard acceleration. Eclipse seemed to be the right name, everything on the road with more than two wheels outshined it in Lucky's eyes.
I should have got the used Porsche, he upbraided himself over and over. The miserable Eclipse constantly reminded him of every compromise he had ever been forced to make in his life. His view of automobiles had been distorted by reading 'Pale Fire' when he was a teenager. Nabokov's insanely conceited protagonist had taken constant delight from the ownership of his 'powerful Kramler' – an automotive fantasy that fired up V-8 testosterone-laced dreams of youth and immaturity. The Eclipse had always been more like a half-dose of Viagra; and now it was forever ruined.
Lucky was furious with himself for being so stupid. I should have given her cab fare, he thought. Too late, too late. The damage is done. Why do my ideas always come too late?
He got to his apartment and immediately took a shower, rinsing off some crusted remains of his night with Jasmine. The dried reminder and the faint odor of sex stirred him and he stroked his cock. Shit, I'm being like a teenager, he thought. The act of masturbation was its own kind of disappointment, but at least it dulled the pain of his foul mood. He took care dressing and decided to take the Metro to work to avoid the humiliation of being seen driving a damaged car.
“Wow!” Tom said as he entered Lucky's office. “I wish I could look that good. I have no taste in clothes.”
Lucky looked up expecting some expression of mockery to sour Tom's words, but saw nothing but honest interest. “I'd appreciate your opinion of these interface ideas. Gantry said you were the one to ask. Do you want me to leave them?”
“No, I have time now. Let's see what you've got.” Tom spread out several screen shots in front of Lucky and pointed out their features. “I like this one best,” Lucky announced; “The right prominence is given to the chief data elements; it should be easy to search and the comparison tabs are handy.”
Tom smiled, “Good choice, I think. We should have a working database, incomplete but working by the end of next week and you can link to the museums in the Bay Area. Their displays are different but the data is the same. Thanks, Mr. Leighton.”
“Uh, Tom? A question. Your friend, the one who moonlights for Zara?”
“Yes, Darren Alva.”
“What kind of car does he own?”
“Zara gave him an Audi TT coupe to use for as long as he works for them. At some point I think it becomes his, but I'm not sure.”
“How's Gantry doing for you?”
“She's great. I could never afford to pay her what she's worth, but she only wanted a short-term project. I think she has other plans.”
“Glad to hear it. She's a lot of fun, if you're interested.”
“Not interested, I guess. I go mostly for guys these days.” Tom stood at the office door ready to leave.
Lucky looked at him closely. “Well, you're in the right place, then. Half the staff here are gay.”
Tom was puzzled by the conversation. Darren's car. Gantry. Sex. Lucky acted almost human. His phone vibrated and he checked. It was a text from Matt. The carpet layers wanted to move the afternoon cocktail hour to Carderock. “Carderock???” he replied. “Dress for sports,” was Matt's answer.
An hour and a half later Al, Debbie, and Matt were in the front seat of Al's pickup while Mike, Ann, and Tom road in the bed. Scraps of carpet and bolts of cloth for seats made the ride fairly comfortable but the wind was brisk while the truck was moving. Ann sat sheltered behind the cab but Mike and Tom sat in the open on opposite sides of the bed.
“It's cold. Mind if I sit with you?” Tom asked Ann as he moved next to her. The truth was if he didn't move he'd spend the whole trip looking up Mike's baggy, cut-off sweats. As hard as Tom tried, it would be impossible to tear his eyes away from Mike's thighs and potentially more while sitting opposite. He didn't want to make Mike uncomfortable. Mike just watched the traffic and seemed to be oblivious to the display he was putting on.
Carderock was a park along the Potomac River not quite ten miles upstream of the city. It's chief attraction, aside from nature's woods, meadow, and stream was that nobody seemed to know it was there. They met Rawson and another man named Llewellyn who had already parked and were unloading Rawson's car. To Tom's delight, the trunk of Rawson's car was full of lacrosse gear.
Matt's face fell when he saw Rawson with Llewellyn, but he quickly covered up his disappointment. He thought he detected more than a little interest the night before when he had returned Rawson's sheets, but he must have read things wrong. Rawson was still a near-complete mystery and he seemed to like it that way.
The man with the Welsh name was in fact Welsh, from the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama, in the United States on a fellowship. “You're Matt Mitchell? I'm excited to meet you,” Llewellyn said in a strange accent.
“Me? Why me?”
“It's always good to meet a talented young actor before he becomes famous.”
“Thanks, but I'm no way famous. Are you an actor, too?”
“Hardly. I'm an lecturer in arts management. In Cardiff. It's rather like business school for the talented.”
“You should get to know Tom, over there, talking to my brother. He's automating the Smithsonian's collection.” Matt pointed out his garage neighbor.
“Getting to know you is enough.” Dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, the very Welsh-looking man's interest sounded genuine with an intimate edge. Matt felt a stirring of physical interest and then the moment was lost when Al bellowed out, “Choose up sides!”
The day darkened as clouds rolled in from the northwest and after about an hour of muddy play the first raindrops caused people to move under the roof of a large pavilion. The first beer tasted great but the drop in temperature accompanying the rain put an end to the small gathering. The rain also changed the seating for the ride back to the city. The carpet layers had covered the bed of the pickup to protect their samples and so they crowded into the front seat of the pickup, while the men crowded into Rawson's car. Tom sat between the twins in the back seat and tried not to enjoy the physical contact too much. Conversation kept things casual.
“Matt, I hope you don't mind … I wrote about 'Othello' for my article in the Journal,” Rawson said and Llewellyn passed him a copy of the weekend section. The article began with a discussion of the financial pressures under which a small theatre company and the resultant actions producers are forced to take. Matt nodded in agreement as he read.
“The only thing I'd say is the producer chose nudity to satisfy his own kinkiness as much as for ticket sales ...” Matt kept reading. “Yes, I totally agree ...” Then, “Uh huh … yep … you got that right ...” And then he fell silent.
“What?” Mike asked.
“The presence of Matt Mitchell was the take-home delight of the production. His Brabantio glowed with a filial affection that riveted the audience's attention. Despite a distractingly handsome appeal that no amount of makeup could hide, his skills with an old man's emotions and with Shakespeare's lines made him the star of the production. The audience, those who waited at all, waited for his appearances and knew they were seeing a rare new talent. Look for his name in future productions and go see him.” Matt's voice was shaking as he finished reading.
“It was great seeing an old friend in a new city, caro fratello. I'll go with you to Union Station.” Tom watched Darren stuff a back pack.
“I'm going to take the Chinese Bus.”
“You know the rats they trap in the baggage compartments of those buses? They sell them on the Philadelphia run as scrapple sandwiches.” The old friends exchanged a look. “Well, I don't know. That's what I heard from the carpet layers.”
The original Chinese Bus was a subsidiary of a Chinese transportation company and ran between New York and Boston. Owing solely to rock-bottom fares, the business prospered and there were now several companies that operated between cities in the Boston-Washington corridor. The operation was still trying to live down its reputation as mobile motels for the homeless. The current fleet of buses was spartan but much improved over the unreliable, clapped-out wrecks of former times. It was still true, however, that the round trip fare to New York bought you two five-hour naps at a better price and in safer surroundings than a welfare motel.
“I'm showing solidarity with Nicky's plight,” Darren said determinedly.
“Couldn't you take the train and pretend you took the bus?”
“No, and besides Rory always likes it when our expense accounts are low.”
“I'm going to miss you. I'll walk you to the Metro.”
As they walked Tom questioned Darren. “This thing with Nicky. It's a big deal, huh? Like forever?”
“Oh, man, I don't know. It's for now and it's the best thing I've ever known. But … he loves New York and I think he's moving to Alameda just because he has a job offer and he hates being unemployed. I think he'd be happier if I moved to New York, but … Lots of buts.”
“New York's awesome, I hear. Not always in a good way. But, as you say, he loves you.”
“Yeah, he really does. Amazing, huh?” Darren had recently turned twenty-one and, while he was very mature in his approach to work, he was still a tenderfoot in the land of love. He had worked through the ache of loneliness but never the black hole of heartbreak.
“Not amazing at all, D.” Tom rhymed the Z of Darren's brother's name. “Tell guys in Alameda hello.”
They said goodbye at the top of the Metro entrance. It's hard to hug someone who's wearing a back pack. The gesture was awkward but the affection was real. “Change at Gallery Place?” Darren called out.
“No, get off at Gallery Place.”
Tom watched a woman trip climbing the stairs as she turned to stare at Darren riding an escalator going the other way. “That's the Zara guy!” she said excitedly to her companion. “Darren?” she called out; but she was too late. “It was him,” she said to her doubtful friend.
Matt had found an iron and was ironing Rawson's sheets on their kitchen table when Mike got home. “Do you know how to operate that thing?” the engineer asked.
“Plug it in. What else is there to it?
“What setting are you using for the temperature?”
“On,” answered Matt passing the iron over the sheet without much result.
After more discussion, Mike ironed the sheets, explaining his theories about steam, cotton, and wrinkles to Matt who was paying more attention to something he was reading.
“New script?” Mike asked.
“No, it's called 'Economic Theory and Governmental Efficiency.' Rawson wrote it and I don't understand it.”
“You could ask him.”
“Econ 101? I got lost at 'savings equals investment.'” Matt had been an English major.
“Again, you could ask him.”
“I think he's saying most approaches to productivity improvement do not work in government processes. I get that part. The why loses me.”
“You should get some half-glasses to wear. You look good studying,” Mike teased. “Here are the sheets and pillow cases. They smell nice.”
“I got some scented soap. Grass-scented; it sounded harmless.”
“As long as it doesn't attract dogs. Why didn't you do our sheets while you were at it?” Mike looked at their brimming laundry hamper.
“Where's the fun in that?” Matt took the bed linen and walked to the dacha.
“You don't even want to try them? Come on, Acey-Deucey, just for laughs.” Phil had the box of red glow-in-the-dark, ribbed-for-your-partner's-pleasure condoms in his hand. His teasing touches were arousing Ace. “I want to see what this beauty of yours looks like glowing.”
“Why do we need gimmicks? You're plenty for me, Phil.” Ace let Phil strip him, piece by piece. The touches, the kisses, the licks were exciting enough. They were in a sixty-nine when Ace felt the condom being rolled onto his cock. “You don't want to fuck me this time? I was just getting used to it.”
“We'll get to that part, Ace.” Phil spread lube on the latex. “Look at that telephone pole glow.”
“Did you talk to your boss about transferring to the Virginia store?” Ace was looking forward to Phil's transfer so they could move in together without one of them having to commute across the river. Ace's apartment in bargain-priced Arlandria was both bigger and cheaper. He watched what Phil was doing. The glowing condom did make his dick look bigger.
“Yeah, baby, I did ask the boss. He's not sure if the Virginia store is hiring or not. I got a form to fill out.” When sex was the motivation, Phil could lie with the greatest of ease and credibility.
“Haven't you filled it out yet?” Ace persisted.
“I only got it yesterday,” Phil answered with a little kiss. “You want to start doggie style? I think that warms me up the best. God, I love your dick lighted up.” Phil knelt on all fours and wiggled his ass. “Maybe next Christmas we could … Oh … yeah, that's right. Mmmm. Slow at first ... OW! FUCK! .. Take it easy ...”
“Sorry, getting the ribs past your hole, I kinda slipped.” Ace couldn't feel a thing different but with his glowing cock buried in Phil the room seemed much darker. “Kinda spooky now with the light gone.”
Phil was moaning and cooing, loving the prostate massage the condom was giving him. “Keep it moving, Ace. Don't stop. Oh, yeah … that's perfect …” Phil's arms were shaking from the pleasure and he lay down flat on the bed, but the changed angle took the pleasure away. “Ace, can you angle down more? More …No, the other way … Shit!” Phil switched positions, bending over with his legs tucked under and his back arched, like an Moslem praying. He was impatient. “Try it again, ok? OH! YEAH! That's the way!”
“I can't do this for long. It's really uncomfortable in this position. My cock is bent and ...” Ace complained.
“How is this about you? I'm the one getting fucked,” Phil's annoyance increased. “Shit!”
Ace's cock wasn't getting much penetration and popped out. Eventually, they found a way of rear penetration while lying down that put the condom's ribs in constant touch with Phil's prostate. “YEAH! Oh, my God! More!” Ace had a hard time staying in and the pressure bending his dick made him come without much enjoyment. Phil didn't come at all. “That's it? You came? You're done? Shit.”
Phil's annoyance found a match in Ace. “I don't know why you want to mess around with trick condoms. We were having great sex already. Who needs the toys?”
Phil refrained from commenting, deciding he didn't want to push Ace too far. Eventually he said, “We were having good sex, weren't we? Are you starting to like getting fucked?”
“I don't know. I like it when you do it. I've never done it with anybody else.”
Eventually Phil got around to fucking Ace. He did use the fancy condom, but didn't make a big deal out of it. Ace didn't object and couldn't figure out what the big deal was anyway. The condom was just a condom to him; Phil's pounding him felt the exactly same as the other times, ribs or not. The problem was Phil couldn't get off. Eventually he gave up unsatisfied, tossed the condom on the floor, and lay back frustrated. So Ace tried giving him a blow job but that wasn't going anywhere either. “Ace, stick a finger up me,” Phil requested. That worked. He got hard almost immediately. “Try two fingers,” Phil requested right before he came.
Lucky parked in his garage and looked at the damage to the Mitsubishi. The damage to the plastic front end was minimal, but just enough to ruin its looks completely. The headlights worked; the radiator was intact. It just looked like shit. When he bought the car, it was the closest thing to a sports car he could afford; but it was a disappointment from day one. The car itself was neither more nor less than its price promised. The disappointment was all in Lucky's head. The sound of the engine was never a throaty purr to Lucky; instead, the little engine whined “econo-crap, econo-crap” under hard acceleration. Eclipse seemed to be the right name, everything on the road with more than two wheels outshined it in Lucky's eyes.
I should have got the used Porsche, he upbraided himself over and over. The miserable Eclipse constantly reminded him of every compromise he had ever been forced to make in his life. His view of automobiles had been distorted by reading 'Pale Fire' when he was a teenager. Nabokov's insanely conceited protagonist had taken constant delight from the ownership of his 'powerful Kramler' – an automotive fantasy that fired up V-8 testosterone-laced dreams of youth and immaturity. The Eclipse had always been more like a half-dose of Viagra; and now it was forever ruined.
Lucky was furious with himself for being so stupid. I should have given her cab fare, he thought. Too late, too late. The damage is done. Why do my ideas always come too late?
He got to his apartment and immediately took a shower, rinsing off some crusted remains of his night with Jasmine. The dried reminder and the faint odor of sex stirred him and he stroked his cock. Shit, I'm being like a teenager, he thought. The act of masturbation was its own kind of disappointment, but at least it dulled the pain of his foul mood. He took care dressing and decided to take the Metro to work to avoid the humiliation of being seen driving a damaged car.
“Wow!” Tom said as he entered Lucky's office. “I wish I could look that good. I have no taste in clothes.”
Lucky looked up expecting some expression of mockery to sour Tom's words, but saw nothing but honest interest. “I'd appreciate your opinion of these interface ideas. Gantry said you were the one to ask. Do you want me to leave them?”
“No, I have time now. Let's see what you've got.” Tom spread out several screen shots in front of Lucky and pointed out their features. “I like this one best,” Lucky announced; “The right prominence is given to the chief data elements; it should be easy to search and the comparison tabs are handy.”
Tom smiled, “Good choice, I think. We should have a working database, incomplete but working by the end of next week and you can link to the museums in the Bay Area. Their displays are different but the data is the same. Thanks, Mr. Leighton.”
“Uh, Tom? A question. Your friend, the one who moonlights for Zara?”
“Yes, Darren Alva.”
“What kind of car does he own?”
“Zara gave him an Audi TT coupe to use for as long as he works for them. At some point I think it becomes his, but I'm not sure.”
“How's Gantry doing for you?”
“She's great. I could never afford to pay her what she's worth, but she only wanted a short-term project. I think she has other plans.”
“Glad to hear it. She's a lot of fun, if you're interested.”
“Not interested, I guess. I go mostly for guys these days.” Tom stood at the office door ready to leave.
Lucky looked at him closely. “Well, you're in the right place, then. Half the staff here are gay.”
Tom was puzzled by the conversation. Darren's car. Gantry. Sex. Lucky acted almost human. His phone vibrated and he checked. It was a text from Matt. The carpet layers wanted to move the afternoon cocktail hour to Carderock. “Carderock???” he replied. “Dress for sports,” was Matt's answer.
An hour and a half later Al, Debbie, and Matt were in the front seat of Al's pickup while Mike, Ann, and Tom road in the bed. Scraps of carpet and bolts of cloth for seats made the ride fairly comfortable but the wind was brisk while the truck was moving. Ann sat sheltered behind the cab but Mike and Tom sat in the open on opposite sides of the bed.
“It's cold. Mind if I sit with you?” Tom asked Ann as he moved next to her. The truth was if he didn't move he'd spend the whole trip looking up Mike's baggy, cut-off sweats. As hard as Tom tried, it would be impossible to tear his eyes away from Mike's thighs and potentially more while sitting opposite. He didn't want to make Mike uncomfortable. Mike just watched the traffic and seemed to be oblivious to the display he was putting on.
Carderock was a park along the Potomac River not quite ten miles upstream of the city. It's chief attraction, aside from nature's woods, meadow, and stream was that nobody seemed to know it was there. They met Rawson and another man named Llewellyn who had already parked and were unloading Rawson's car. To Tom's delight, the trunk of Rawson's car was full of lacrosse gear.
Matt's face fell when he saw Rawson with Llewellyn, but he quickly covered up his disappointment. He thought he detected more than a little interest the night before when he had returned Rawson's sheets, but he must have read things wrong. Rawson was still a near-complete mystery and he seemed to like it that way.
The man with the Welsh name was in fact Welsh, from the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama, in the United States on a fellowship. “You're Matt Mitchell? I'm excited to meet you,” Llewellyn said in a strange accent.
“Me? Why me?”
“It's always good to meet a talented young actor before he becomes famous.”
“Thanks, but I'm no way famous. Are you an actor, too?”
“Hardly. I'm an lecturer in arts management. In Cardiff. It's rather like business school for the talented.”
“You should get to know Tom, over there, talking to my brother. He's automating the Smithsonian's collection.” Matt pointed out his garage neighbor.
“Getting to know you is enough.” Dark hair, dark eyes, fair skin, the very Welsh-looking man's interest sounded genuine with an intimate edge. Matt felt a stirring of physical interest and then the moment was lost when Al bellowed out, “Choose up sides!”
The day darkened as clouds rolled in from the northwest and after about an hour of muddy play the first raindrops caused people to move under the roof of a large pavilion. The first beer tasted great but the drop in temperature accompanying the rain put an end to the small gathering. The rain also changed the seating for the ride back to the city. The carpet layers had covered the bed of the pickup to protect their samples and so they crowded into the front seat of the pickup, while the men crowded into Rawson's car. Tom sat between the twins in the back seat and tried not to enjoy the physical contact too much. Conversation kept things casual.
“Matt, I hope you don't mind … I wrote about 'Othello' for my article in the Journal,” Rawson said and Llewellyn passed him a copy of the weekend section. The article began with a discussion of the financial pressures under which a small theatre company and the resultant actions producers are forced to take. Matt nodded in agreement as he read.
“The only thing I'd say is the producer chose nudity to satisfy his own kinkiness as much as for ticket sales ...” Matt kept reading. “Yes, I totally agree ...” Then, “Uh huh … yep … you got that right ...” And then he fell silent.
“What?” Mike asked.
“The presence of Matt Mitchell was the take-home delight of the production. His Brabantio glowed with a filial affection that riveted the audience's attention. Despite a distractingly handsome appeal that no amount of makeup could hide, his skills with an old man's emotions and with Shakespeare's lines made him the star of the production. The audience, those who waited at all, waited for his appearances and knew they were seeing a rare new talent. Look for his name in future productions and go see him.” Matt's voice was shaking as he finished reading.
Rory,
Thanks for the new chapter. I saw it last night, but am fighting a cold and it won, so I had to wait 'til this morning to read it.
It was great. Parting is such sweet sorrow between Tom and Darren - I enjoyed the banter about the Chinese bus - I haven't ridden them, but my son and his GF have.
A little second thought/guilt going on back at the Smithsonian?
And, the ending was great. It'd be really nice to see Matt get a meaty role that he can shine in. His ego needs a major boost.
Great, as always, sir.
Thanks for the new chapter. I saw it last night, but am fighting a cold and it won, so I had to wait 'til this morning to read it.
It was great. Parting is such sweet sorrow between Tom and Darren - I enjoyed the banter about the Chinese bus - I haven't ridden them, but my son and his GF have.
A little second thought/guilt going on back at the Smithsonian?
And, the ending was great. It'd be really nice to see Matt get a meaty role that he can shine in. His ego needs a major boost.
Great, as always, sir.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Get well soon, DQ. Let's see if I can post a new Chapter sooner for you.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Nine
Sunday morning Tom awoke with a huge erection. It almost blocks out the sun, he thought, looking at way the sheet rose off his body and cast a shadow over his face. I either need to get out more or cut it off. He rose and dressed, made some coffee, and decided to get out more. He took his mug out onto the porch. Mike joined him wearing pajama bottoms and a sweater over a t-shirt, reminding Tom of the way Californians dressed in layers. The pajama bottoms were loose and flimsy; the gapping fly invited Tom's attention the way Mike's cutoffs had on Friday. He shifted his chair slightly to alter his view and avoid temptation.
“Do you spell it pyjamas or pajamas?” he asked Mike emphasizing the first vowels. “The question came up Friday over how to title a photograph. The archive listed it both ways. I think spelling it with an 'a' is American, but the photographer is Australian. Naturally, we can't find an instance of the photographer using any title at all.”
“With an 'a' I guess. We had a similar problem with a British author over jemmy and jimmy. We settled on crowbar.”
“I guess we could retitle the photograph 'The Girl in the Red Lounge Suit,' but then nobody outside of the three of us would know it. The problem solved itself when the museum decided they weren't the logical holder of the item and we shipped it to the Institution Archives.”
Mike stood up and asked Tom if he wanted more coffee. Tom's eyes went to the the wrong place and caught a fleeting glimpse of Mike's cock. He knew Mike caught his glance but Mike didn't say anything before he left to refill both cups.
When Mike returned he was wearing jeans. “Cooler this morning than I thought,” he commented.
“Where's Matt?” Tom asked, changing the subject.
“I'm not sure. He went to the dacha last night to thank Rawson for the article. Maybe they went out or something.”
After another coffee Tom went for a walk. All he could think of was that fact he had his chance with both of the twins, and turned them both down, which now seemed like two astonishingly stupid choices. The cathedral's tower pulled him like a magnet. Maybe I'll run into Phil, he thought; maybe we could repeat last Sunday's session. He was early for the change ringing so he hiked the church grounds. On the lower field he saw a soccer game and found Phil as it broke up.
“Rough game you play,” he commented, pointing to a fresh bruise on Phil's face. It wasn't a black eye yet, but it was going to be.
“Different game,” Phil said. Phil didn't bother with a discussion of what they would do next; it was assumed. They walked to his apartment with little discussion, both looking forward to some uncomplicated sex, starting in the shower.
“Come on,” Phil said, as he stripped off his muddy soccer clothes . “I get lonesome showering by myself.”
They were equally eager and just rubbing against each other produced erections that never flagged. Tom scrubbed Phil's back and rubbed his cock along Phil's hard round butt. Doing a reach-around, he stroked Phil's cock and almost triggered an orgasm.
“Easy! I want to make this last,” Phil cautioned. They switched roles and Phil gave Tom a complete massage that was as relaxing as possible considering their unsatisfied erections. “Let's move to the bed,” Phil suggested.
As they dried themselves off, Phil asked, ”Have you ever tried any toys?”
“When I first discovered what these things are for,” Tom said, pointing to their cocks, “I did some kinky stuff with a couple of girls. Tricky condoms and dildos - that kind of stuff. It didn't do much special for me, but they seemed to like it. They liked it better than me fucking them, anyway. I wasn't much of a fuck, in those days.”
Tom made no objection when Phil rolled the red ribbed latex onto him. “I like this kind of stimulation,” Phil said. “Not that you're not hot … it's just ...”
“No need to explain. Just enjoy the ride.” Tom carefully entered Phil's ass with a long slow thrust, watching Phil's reaction. The mix of pain and pleasure seemed to be favoring pain at first, a lot of pain. Tom was about to stop when Phil's look switched to pure pleasure as Tom went deeper.
“Oww! You are a big boy,” Phil cooed. “Oh, yeah. Mmmmm.” There was no pretense of affection, just a sensual and selfish enjoyment of Tom's body. Phil came as Tom stroked his cock and then insisted, “Don't stop. Keep going. Keep pumping me. A little faster, ok? And harder.”
Tom continued and got a little rougher as his own orgasm approached. He was slamming Phil without regard to Phil's pleasure, thinking of his own growing excitement. He came explosively, giving Phil a second hardon that appeared along with an expression of pain as Tom's deepest thrusts opened Phil up farther.
“That's the way,” Phil said. “Don't stop fucking me.” Phil's hardon faded as Tom continued pumping, slower now, using long, steady strokes. Phil's cock became totally soft, but it kept oozing clear viscous liquid in a very slow stream. The fuck became more gently sensual and Phil kissed Tom for the first time with his mouth agape as if he wanted to devour him. Aside from the urgency of the kiss Phil remained totally passive, just a receptacle as Tom's passion refired. His orgasm wasn't as explosive the second time, but when Tom finally came he literally lifted Phil most of the way off the bed on his cock. Phil groaned a weird, unearthly sound and when it was over there was cum on his belly. They collapsed, sweaty and completely spent.
When Tom got his breath back, he looked at Phil who lying motionless with his eyes closed. Tom traced the bruise on Phil's face with a finger and watched Phil wince. “What did you mean, different game?”
“You really want to know?” Phil asked and Tom nodded. “Well ...” Phil seemed to be considering how much to tell. “Ace and I … Ace is my boy friend … we've been having a few problems with compatibility. He's really great and all. I couldn't ask for a better boy friend, but … well, you know … we're still working some things out. So I met this guy, Art, and he's more or less a shit, but the sex is … like, perfect. And he lives right across the street from the CVS, so it's handy and all. Like I said, the sex is perfectamundo. Or at least it started out that way. He found all my buttons and knew just how to push them. But yesterday, he … um, he got a little rougher than I had counted on. I think he really wanted to hurt me.”
“He hit you?” Tom had to interrupt.
“No, he wanted to hurt me with sex, I think. We started with him fucking me. He only tops. And he was fast and rough about it. No warm up at all. But once we got going, after a painful start, I was into it. Then he pulled out and switched to a different condom, a built-up one, 'cause his cock isn't nearly as big as yours, and this condom hurt. I didn't see it until we were done, but it had bumps … more like spikes on it and I was bloody when it was over. Then he said he had something else for me next time.”
“But how did you get the bruise on your face.”
“I was sore and couldn't handle sex with Ace last night. Ace was all worried and got me to tell him about Art. Ace was furious. He hit me … and then he cried and apologized … and then he got mad all over again and said he never wanted to see me. He left … for good I think.”
“Phil, that's terrible. We shouldn't have been doing this today. Are you alright? Maybe you should see a doctor, huh?” Phil said no, but then Tom saw blood on the sheet. “Phil, no shit! You should see a doctor. An emergency room. Let's go now! You want me to go with you?”
“No, no, I'm fine. Or I will be. I felt a little faint playing soccer, but it passed.”
Tom continued to insist, but got nowhere with Phil. The most he could get was Phil's promise to see a doctor if he kept bleeding. “And stay away from that Art guy!” Tom concluded.
“I kind of wonder what his 'something else' is. Don't you?”
“No! Who cares? You have to protect yourself. Promise me.”
“Tom … why would I promise you anything? You're a nice fuck and all, but … come on.”
Matt woke up in the dim light of the dacha. There was a lamp burning in the living area, but it was still dark outside. He looked over and saw Rawson asleep on the sofa. They were both fully clothed. “Rawson?” Matt called and Rawson awoke immediately. “It's still early. Why don't you move to the bed and I'll go back to my place?”
The night before Matt had arrived with a bottle of good champagne as a thank you gift for Rawson's praise. “Just a little something. I read that John Gielgud always gave a bottle to his critics.”
“I'll chill it right now,” Rawson offered.
“No! God, no! No repeat of the vodka incident,” Matt laughed. “Save it for another time. Maybe I'll be in another bomb of a production.”
“At least you can laugh about it.”
“That's what makes us better than animals. We can laugh.”
“Animals can laugh. Sort of,” Rawson suggested. “Sit down. I'll get some brandy – just to sip on.”
Matt sat and Rawson returned with two small balloon glasses of brandy. “A man I work with does behavioral experiments with different kinds of animals. He told me about a parrot he had that would whistle and call his dog. The dog would come, wagging his tail; and then the parrot would say,” Bad dog!” and laugh his ass off. If parrots have asses, that is.”
Matt laughed. “But the poor dog! How did he feel?”
“Well, who knows for sure? But apparently, the dog took it well. He seemed to like the joke, too; he let the parrot ride on his back.”
Their conversation lasted for more than a sip of brandy. Matt asked about economics.
“Wow! You really have read my paper. A guy at the Federal Reserve asked the same question. So, I'll give you the same answer.”
Matt kept trying to keep the subject economics and Rawson kept bringing up Shakespeare. The talk went on and on, fueled only slightly by additional brandy, and they covered both topics. Then Matt paid Rawson the compliment of telling him how he could be a model for a Shakespearean hero. Rawson emphatically demurred and then Matt asked, “What about the dead girls and live boys? What did you mean by that?”
Rawson diverted the question. “What's the worst thing you've ever done?” Rawson asked him.
Matt thought and answered, “Mike and I had a deal that the guy who had sex with our neighbor first wouldn't have to work around the apartment. I lied to him.”
“That's so bad?” Rawson challenged.
“I lied to him three times. And I don't think he has ever lied to me in all our lives. And then I got stuck in the lie and had to keep it going.”
“You told him you had sex with Tom?”
“No, Tom told both of us no. Tom's the winner this time. You have to remember Mike and I have the twin-thing between us. He's half my world. I really love him. I don't mean anything kinky is going on; but he's so important to me. He's my conscience and my adviser. And I hate lying to him. I dread him eventually finding out.”
Rawson got serious. “That's your bad thing. I've done worse. Much worse.” He refilled their drinks and sniffed his brandy. “It was college graduation day. Everybody in the fraternity house was a newly minted bachelor of something or other and we decided to have one more bash, one final good-bye party.”
It was plainly hard for Rawson to tell the story but he continued. “It was a typical frat house thing. Too much drinking in a small New England town where there was almost nothing else to do. So one of the brothers talked a local girl into joining the party. Eight of us seniors, the underclassmen had already left for the summer, eight of us … and one girl.” He paused again and sipped.
“She was willing. She was more than willing. The gang bang was more or less her idea. I was the president so I got to go first. Public fucks weren't my thing, but the pressure was on. I unzipped and stuck it in. Gave her a good go, but I didn't come. I faked it and pulled out. Then the v-p went next. He finished up and we headed for a shower, you know, to get the smell and stuff off. I was showering and he joined me in the stall. That happened, sharing a stall. There were maybe eight stalls and over thirty guys living in the house. In a pinch, like a Saturday night with everybody going out, we shared the stalls. Nothing more than showering ever went on that I knew of. But that night we were the only ones showering. There was no reason to share the stall. But we did. I noticed his dick was hard and asked him if he didn't get enough. He said, 'I didn't get what I want. You're what I want.' He barely touched me and I got as hard as he was. Then he kissed me and I knew what had been missing with girls. We went to my room and … well, you get the idea.”
“That's not so bad,” Matt sympathized.
“We started going at it and heard strange sounds downstairs, but we ignored them. This guy was way more experienced than I was with guys and he got me to fuck him. Just as we were going at it, two guys burst into the room shouting, 'She's dead! She's dead!' It took them a second to realize what we were doing, and they ran out of the room. We barely got dressed before the police came and arrested all of us.”
“My God!” Otherwise Matt was speechless.
“The guys who picked up the girl had given her … not the date-rape drug you hear about … just some kind of meth and she was panting and sweating. The guys watching thought it was the excitement of sex. Stupid, of course. Who'd get excited by being gangbanged? It gave her a heart attack. When the police asked why the president and v-p of the fraternity hadn't intervened, it came out. 'Because they were upstairs fucking each other.' The guys who drugged the girl went to jail for manslaughter; but she was old enough and she had done it before so there weren't any rape charges. The school more or less hushed up the other details. Some people knew about it but the year was over and most of the university people had left for the summer. The town was satisfied that two guys went to jail and by the time the fall term rolled around it was old news. But enough people, including a certain professor who didn't like me, knew all about it. So this professor made sure to spread the details around when I made the news as a potential candidate for office.”
“Wow. So you were totally ruined.”
“And I deserved to be. I started the orgy. I was responsible and had done nothing because I went from screwing the girl to screwing a frat brother. OK, technically I hadn't killed her, but none of that helps the girl. And even if she was a hooker, she sure didn't deserve what she got.” He paused for a breath and to let the story sink in. “So that's why I'll never be a candidate for anything. I'm lucky to have an academic career.”
Impulsively Matt put his arms around Rawson and held him. They didn't talk for a while. “But you didn't really ...” Matt began.
“Yes, I did. I really did.” Rawson insisted. “Your brother will probably laugh when you tell him about your lie, but somebody's dead because of my failure.” They fell silent again.
“I thought you were straight,” Matt said.
“I was for the first twenty-two years of my life; but it doesn't really matter what I am. I haven't had sex since. I can't get past that night in my head.”
“Would it help if I said I can forgive you?”
“Yes. It would. It does.” They stayed close to each other and fell asleep.
After Matt awakened and while Rawson was still groggy, Matt repeated, “You go to bed and I'll go tell my brother I'm a liar.”
“Matt?” Matt paused at the door and waited for Rawson to speak. “Don't fall in love with me. I'm a mess.”
“Too late, Rawson.” Matt quietly closed the door and heard it click. He stood in the silence and the darkness for a few minutes and then knocked again. Rawson answered the door in his boxers. “Get in bed, Rawson. It's too cold to be running around dressed like that,” he said, closing the door again. Matt sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes.
“What are you doing?”
“I … I mean, we … are putting an end to this no-sex thing of yours right now.” Matt shed his clothes and climbed in. “Lie back,” he ordered and Rawson complied. Matt snuggled up along side feeling the curly hair between his fingers as he ran his hand over Rawson's chest. His hand slid lower until it encountered Rawson's erection. Matt grasped it gently and jacked. Rawson's eyes closed and he sighed as Matt tentatively licked the head and then took the shaft into his mouth. He did his best and Rawson seemed to be enjoying it but after the initial excitement, things reached a plateau short of orgasm.
“See my trouble. I think I'm … impotent. I don't think I can come.”
“Shut up,” Matt said. “I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me.”
Matt resumed. He pressed firmly palm down on Rawson's pubic bone, forcing his cock to its maximum length and again swallowed the shaft. His other hand tugged on Rawson's balls. Matt heard the gasp and ragged breathing he was hoping for. He stroked firmly and sucked the shaft end, causing trembling in Rawson's legs. “Mmmmm.” Matt's sounds of pleasure were the trigger; Rawson flooded Matt's mouth with semen. It overflowed and ran over Matt's hands and onto the bed.
Rawson hugged Matt to his chest as he gasped for air and then relaxed for a while. “Don't leave!” He sounded afraid that Matt was going out the door.
“I'm going to the bathroom. You don't want me pissing in your bed, do you?” Matt returned with a wet wash cloth and wiped Rawson off. “How long did you go without?”
“Almost five years.”
“Start thinking more in terms of five hours being too long. There's a theory that old guys like you get prostate cancer because they don't come enough.”
“I'm twenty-seven.”
“Old, man. That's old. I bet you can't fuck me,” Matt teased. It didn't happen right away, but before the five hours were up, Rawson proved him wrong.
Sunday morning Tom awoke with a huge erection. It almost blocks out the sun, he thought, looking at way the sheet rose off his body and cast a shadow over his face. I either need to get out more or cut it off. He rose and dressed, made some coffee, and decided to get out more. He took his mug out onto the porch. Mike joined him wearing pajama bottoms and a sweater over a t-shirt, reminding Tom of the way Californians dressed in layers. The pajama bottoms were loose and flimsy; the gapping fly invited Tom's attention the way Mike's cutoffs had on Friday. He shifted his chair slightly to alter his view and avoid temptation.
“Do you spell it pyjamas or pajamas?” he asked Mike emphasizing the first vowels. “The question came up Friday over how to title a photograph. The archive listed it both ways. I think spelling it with an 'a' is American, but the photographer is Australian. Naturally, we can't find an instance of the photographer using any title at all.”
“With an 'a' I guess. We had a similar problem with a British author over jemmy and jimmy. We settled on crowbar.”
“I guess we could retitle the photograph 'The Girl in the Red Lounge Suit,' but then nobody outside of the three of us would know it. The problem solved itself when the museum decided they weren't the logical holder of the item and we shipped it to the Institution Archives.”
Mike stood up and asked Tom if he wanted more coffee. Tom's eyes went to the the wrong place and caught a fleeting glimpse of Mike's cock. He knew Mike caught his glance but Mike didn't say anything before he left to refill both cups.
When Mike returned he was wearing jeans. “Cooler this morning than I thought,” he commented.
“Where's Matt?” Tom asked, changing the subject.
“I'm not sure. He went to the dacha last night to thank Rawson for the article. Maybe they went out or something.”
After another coffee Tom went for a walk. All he could think of was that fact he had his chance with both of the twins, and turned them both down, which now seemed like two astonishingly stupid choices. The cathedral's tower pulled him like a magnet. Maybe I'll run into Phil, he thought; maybe we could repeat last Sunday's session. He was early for the change ringing so he hiked the church grounds. On the lower field he saw a soccer game and found Phil as it broke up.
“Rough game you play,” he commented, pointing to a fresh bruise on Phil's face. It wasn't a black eye yet, but it was going to be.
“Different game,” Phil said. Phil didn't bother with a discussion of what they would do next; it was assumed. They walked to his apartment with little discussion, both looking forward to some uncomplicated sex, starting in the shower.
“Come on,” Phil said, as he stripped off his muddy soccer clothes . “I get lonesome showering by myself.”
They were equally eager and just rubbing against each other produced erections that never flagged. Tom scrubbed Phil's back and rubbed his cock along Phil's hard round butt. Doing a reach-around, he stroked Phil's cock and almost triggered an orgasm.
“Easy! I want to make this last,” Phil cautioned. They switched roles and Phil gave Tom a complete massage that was as relaxing as possible considering their unsatisfied erections. “Let's move to the bed,” Phil suggested.
As they dried themselves off, Phil asked, ”Have you ever tried any toys?”
“When I first discovered what these things are for,” Tom said, pointing to their cocks, “I did some kinky stuff with a couple of girls. Tricky condoms and dildos - that kind of stuff. It didn't do much special for me, but they seemed to like it. They liked it better than me fucking them, anyway. I wasn't much of a fuck, in those days.”
Tom made no objection when Phil rolled the red ribbed latex onto him. “I like this kind of stimulation,” Phil said. “Not that you're not hot … it's just ...”
“No need to explain. Just enjoy the ride.” Tom carefully entered Phil's ass with a long slow thrust, watching Phil's reaction. The mix of pain and pleasure seemed to be favoring pain at first, a lot of pain. Tom was about to stop when Phil's look switched to pure pleasure as Tom went deeper.
“Oww! You are a big boy,” Phil cooed. “Oh, yeah. Mmmmm.” There was no pretense of affection, just a sensual and selfish enjoyment of Tom's body. Phil came as Tom stroked his cock and then insisted, “Don't stop. Keep going. Keep pumping me. A little faster, ok? And harder.”
Tom continued and got a little rougher as his own orgasm approached. He was slamming Phil without regard to Phil's pleasure, thinking of his own growing excitement. He came explosively, giving Phil a second hardon that appeared along with an expression of pain as Tom's deepest thrusts opened Phil up farther.
“That's the way,” Phil said. “Don't stop fucking me.” Phil's hardon faded as Tom continued pumping, slower now, using long, steady strokes. Phil's cock became totally soft, but it kept oozing clear viscous liquid in a very slow stream. The fuck became more gently sensual and Phil kissed Tom for the first time with his mouth agape as if he wanted to devour him. Aside from the urgency of the kiss Phil remained totally passive, just a receptacle as Tom's passion refired. His orgasm wasn't as explosive the second time, but when Tom finally came he literally lifted Phil most of the way off the bed on his cock. Phil groaned a weird, unearthly sound and when it was over there was cum on his belly. They collapsed, sweaty and completely spent.
When Tom got his breath back, he looked at Phil who lying motionless with his eyes closed. Tom traced the bruise on Phil's face with a finger and watched Phil wince. “What did you mean, different game?”
“You really want to know?” Phil asked and Tom nodded. “Well ...” Phil seemed to be considering how much to tell. “Ace and I … Ace is my boy friend … we've been having a few problems with compatibility. He's really great and all. I couldn't ask for a better boy friend, but … well, you know … we're still working some things out. So I met this guy, Art, and he's more or less a shit, but the sex is … like, perfect. And he lives right across the street from the CVS, so it's handy and all. Like I said, the sex is perfectamundo. Or at least it started out that way. He found all my buttons and knew just how to push them. But yesterday, he … um, he got a little rougher than I had counted on. I think he really wanted to hurt me.”
“He hit you?” Tom had to interrupt.
“No, he wanted to hurt me with sex, I think. We started with him fucking me. He only tops. And he was fast and rough about it. No warm up at all. But once we got going, after a painful start, I was into it. Then he pulled out and switched to a different condom, a built-up one, 'cause his cock isn't nearly as big as yours, and this condom hurt. I didn't see it until we were done, but it had bumps … more like spikes on it and I was bloody when it was over. Then he said he had something else for me next time.”
“But how did you get the bruise on your face.”
“I was sore and couldn't handle sex with Ace last night. Ace was all worried and got me to tell him about Art. Ace was furious. He hit me … and then he cried and apologized … and then he got mad all over again and said he never wanted to see me. He left … for good I think.”
“Phil, that's terrible. We shouldn't have been doing this today. Are you alright? Maybe you should see a doctor, huh?” Phil said no, but then Tom saw blood on the sheet. “Phil, no shit! You should see a doctor. An emergency room. Let's go now! You want me to go with you?”
“No, no, I'm fine. Or I will be. I felt a little faint playing soccer, but it passed.”
Tom continued to insist, but got nowhere with Phil. The most he could get was Phil's promise to see a doctor if he kept bleeding. “And stay away from that Art guy!” Tom concluded.
“I kind of wonder what his 'something else' is. Don't you?”
“No! Who cares? You have to protect yourself. Promise me.”
“Tom … why would I promise you anything? You're a nice fuck and all, but … come on.”
Matt woke up in the dim light of the dacha. There was a lamp burning in the living area, but it was still dark outside. He looked over and saw Rawson asleep on the sofa. They were both fully clothed. “Rawson?” Matt called and Rawson awoke immediately. “It's still early. Why don't you move to the bed and I'll go back to my place?”
The night before Matt had arrived with a bottle of good champagne as a thank you gift for Rawson's praise. “Just a little something. I read that John Gielgud always gave a bottle to his critics.”
“I'll chill it right now,” Rawson offered.
“No! God, no! No repeat of the vodka incident,” Matt laughed. “Save it for another time. Maybe I'll be in another bomb of a production.”
“At least you can laugh about it.”
“That's what makes us better than animals. We can laugh.”
“Animals can laugh. Sort of,” Rawson suggested. “Sit down. I'll get some brandy – just to sip on.”
Matt sat and Rawson returned with two small balloon glasses of brandy. “A man I work with does behavioral experiments with different kinds of animals. He told me about a parrot he had that would whistle and call his dog. The dog would come, wagging his tail; and then the parrot would say,” Bad dog!” and laugh his ass off. If parrots have asses, that is.”
Matt laughed. “But the poor dog! How did he feel?”
“Well, who knows for sure? But apparently, the dog took it well. He seemed to like the joke, too; he let the parrot ride on his back.”
Their conversation lasted for more than a sip of brandy. Matt asked about economics.
“Wow! You really have read my paper. A guy at the Federal Reserve asked the same question. So, I'll give you the same answer.”
Matt kept trying to keep the subject economics and Rawson kept bringing up Shakespeare. The talk went on and on, fueled only slightly by additional brandy, and they covered both topics. Then Matt paid Rawson the compliment of telling him how he could be a model for a Shakespearean hero. Rawson emphatically demurred and then Matt asked, “What about the dead girls and live boys? What did you mean by that?”
Rawson diverted the question. “What's the worst thing you've ever done?” Rawson asked him.
Matt thought and answered, “Mike and I had a deal that the guy who had sex with our neighbor first wouldn't have to work around the apartment. I lied to him.”
“That's so bad?” Rawson challenged.
“I lied to him three times. And I don't think he has ever lied to me in all our lives. And then I got stuck in the lie and had to keep it going.”
“You told him you had sex with Tom?”
“No, Tom told both of us no. Tom's the winner this time. You have to remember Mike and I have the twin-thing between us. He's half my world. I really love him. I don't mean anything kinky is going on; but he's so important to me. He's my conscience and my adviser. And I hate lying to him. I dread him eventually finding out.”
Rawson got serious. “That's your bad thing. I've done worse. Much worse.” He refilled their drinks and sniffed his brandy. “It was college graduation day. Everybody in the fraternity house was a newly minted bachelor of something or other and we decided to have one more bash, one final good-bye party.”
It was plainly hard for Rawson to tell the story but he continued. “It was a typical frat house thing. Too much drinking in a small New England town where there was almost nothing else to do. So one of the brothers talked a local girl into joining the party. Eight of us seniors, the underclassmen had already left for the summer, eight of us … and one girl.” He paused again and sipped.
“She was willing. She was more than willing. The gang bang was more or less her idea. I was the president so I got to go first. Public fucks weren't my thing, but the pressure was on. I unzipped and stuck it in. Gave her a good go, but I didn't come. I faked it and pulled out. Then the v-p went next. He finished up and we headed for a shower, you know, to get the smell and stuff off. I was showering and he joined me in the stall. That happened, sharing a stall. There were maybe eight stalls and over thirty guys living in the house. In a pinch, like a Saturday night with everybody going out, we shared the stalls. Nothing more than showering ever went on that I knew of. But that night we were the only ones showering. There was no reason to share the stall. But we did. I noticed his dick was hard and asked him if he didn't get enough. He said, 'I didn't get what I want. You're what I want.' He barely touched me and I got as hard as he was. Then he kissed me and I knew what had been missing with girls. We went to my room and … well, you get the idea.”
“That's not so bad,” Matt sympathized.
“We started going at it and heard strange sounds downstairs, but we ignored them. This guy was way more experienced than I was with guys and he got me to fuck him. Just as we were going at it, two guys burst into the room shouting, 'She's dead! She's dead!' It took them a second to realize what we were doing, and they ran out of the room. We barely got dressed before the police came and arrested all of us.”
“My God!” Otherwise Matt was speechless.
“The guys who picked up the girl had given her … not the date-rape drug you hear about … just some kind of meth and she was panting and sweating. The guys watching thought it was the excitement of sex. Stupid, of course. Who'd get excited by being gangbanged? It gave her a heart attack. When the police asked why the president and v-p of the fraternity hadn't intervened, it came out. 'Because they were upstairs fucking each other.' The guys who drugged the girl went to jail for manslaughter; but she was old enough and she had done it before so there weren't any rape charges. The school more or less hushed up the other details. Some people knew about it but the year was over and most of the university people had left for the summer. The town was satisfied that two guys went to jail and by the time the fall term rolled around it was old news. But enough people, including a certain professor who didn't like me, knew all about it. So this professor made sure to spread the details around when I made the news as a potential candidate for office.”
“Wow. So you were totally ruined.”
“And I deserved to be. I started the orgy. I was responsible and had done nothing because I went from screwing the girl to screwing a frat brother. OK, technically I hadn't killed her, but none of that helps the girl. And even if she was a hooker, she sure didn't deserve what she got.” He paused for a breath and to let the story sink in. “So that's why I'll never be a candidate for anything. I'm lucky to have an academic career.”
Impulsively Matt put his arms around Rawson and held him. They didn't talk for a while. “But you didn't really ...” Matt began.
“Yes, I did. I really did.” Rawson insisted. “Your brother will probably laugh when you tell him about your lie, but somebody's dead because of my failure.” They fell silent again.
“I thought you were straight,” Matt said.
“I was for the first twenty-two years of my life; but it doesn't really matter what I am. I haven't had sex since. I can't get past that night in my head.”
“Would it help if I said I can forgive you?”
“Yes. It would. It does.” They stayed close to each other and fell asleep.
After Matt awakened and while Rawson was still groggy, Matt repeated, “You go to bed and I'll go tell my brother I'm a liar.”
“Matt?” Matt paused at the door and waited for Rawson to speak. “Don't fall in love with me. I'm a mess.”
“Too late, Rawson.” Matt quietly closed the door and heard it click. He stood in the silence and the darkness for a few minutes and then knocked again. Rawson answered the door in his boxers. “Get in bed, Rawson. It's too cold to be running around dressed like that,” he said, closing the door again. Matt sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes.
“What are you doing?”
“I … I mean, we … are putting an end to this no-sex thing of yours right now.” Matt shed his clothes and climbed in. “Lie back,” he ordered and Rawson complied. Matt snuggled up along side feeling the curly hair between his fingers as he ran his hand over Rawson's chest. His hand slid lower until it encountered Rawson's erection. Matt grasped it gently and jacked. Rawson's eyes closed and he sighed as Matt tentatively licked the head and then took the shaft into his mouth. He did his best and Rawson seemed to be enjoying it but after the initial excitement, things reached a plateau short of orgasm.
“See my trouble. I think I'm … impotent. I don't think I can come.”
“Shut up,” Matt said. “I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me.”
Matt resumed. He pressed firmly palm down on Rawson's pubic bone, forcing his cock to its maximum length and again swallowed the shaft. His other hand tugged on Rawson's balls. Matt heard the gasp and ragged breathing he was hoping for. He stroked firmly and sucked the shaft end, causing trembling in Rawson's legs. “Mmmmm.” Matt's sounds of pleasure were the trigger; Rawson flooded Matt's mouth with semen. It overflowed and ran over Matt's hands and onto the bed.
Rawson hugged Matt to his chest as he gasped for air and then relaxed for a while. “Don't leave!” He sounded afraid that Matt was going out the door.
“I'm going to the bathroom. You don't want me pissing in your bed, do you?” Matt returned with a wet wash cloth and wiped Rawson off. “How long did you go without?”
“Almost five years.”
“Start thinking more in terms of five hours being too long. There's a theory that old guys like you get prostate cancer because they don't come enough.”
“I'm twenty-seven.”
“Old, man. That's old. I bet you can't fuck me,” Matt teased. It didn't happen right away, but before the five hours were up, Rawson proved him wrong.
Rory,
So, our good guy Tom tries to come to the rescue, again, to help Phil understand the importance of getting medical help,
and Matt provides the right medicine for Rawson - love and tenderness, and relentless efforts in arousal.
Another very nice installment, sir.
Thank you.
So, our good guy Tom tries to come to the rescue, again, to help Phil understand the importance of getting medical help,
and Matt provides the right medicine for Rawson - love and tenderness, and relentless efforts in arousal.
Another very nice installment, sir.
Thank you.
(Looks like I got my read and post in just ahead of Rocabar, lol.)
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Ten
Late Sunday afternoon, as a thank you for their Friday invitations, Tom took an old bottle of port wine to the carpet layers. “This is in case anybody gets a spring cold. A few sips will do as much as all the cold medicines put together – according to my father, who had a lot of colds.”
His gesture got him an invitation to stay for dinner. Debbie was the cook and enjoyed everything about kitchens. She made lamb with spring vegetables and a bitter salad. It was, in a word, fabulous. The conversation centered around art and the sense that textile designers (probably) and computer programmers (definitely) were on the periphery of serious art.
“That's unfair, though,” Tom commented. “That hanging is – forgive my ignorance of the right words – as fabulous as the lamb.”
“Fabulous will do,” Al said. She and Debbie both smiled at their shared compliment. The hanging was huge, the size of a garage door, made from a variety of modern, mostly textile materials depicting a medieval hunt scene.
“The colors wouldn't be right, but something like that would look great in the Peacock Room at the Freer.” The Peacock Room was a Victorian fantasy that was designed by James Whistler and once was his dining room in Liverpool.
“But the Freer doesn't do much in the way of textiles,” Ann commented.
“If it's Asian, they do. They have lots of fabric scrolls and some ceremonial robes. Of course they emphasize the decoration and not the function. But the Peacock Room lacks any hint of its original use. I think a period dining room table would look right. You could create the table cloth,” Tom suggested. “But what does a computer programmer know?”
“He's going on the list,” Debbie said with a giggle. Her comment drew laughs from Al and Ann and a puzzled look from Tom.
“The list of potential fathers for our children,” Al explained.
In rapid succession Tom was shocked, intrigued, and then overjoyed by the prospect, serious or otherwise. “That's the nicest thing I've ever heard.”
“Be quiet, or you'll be going on my list, too.”
“Ann is husband shopping,” Al further explained.
“Ok,” Tom mused, not at all put off by Ann's interest.
Matt and Rawson dragged themselves from Rawson's bed feeling tired and refreshed at the same time. “I don't know what to say. I'm almost never speechless and I haven't got a clue what to say.” Rawson interrupted Matt's dressing for another embrace.
“Don't say anything. I've got to talk to Mike before I lose my nerve.” Matt sounded very nervous, distracted, and determined. “Come on. It will help if you're there.”
They walked silently. Matt stared ahead, looking intense and Rawson just looked at Matt, wading through his own thoughts. They climbed the outside steps and halted while Matt paced the porch. They could see Mike through the windows; he was cleaning the kitchen. “Mike?” Matt called.
“I lied,” Matt blurted out the instant Mike opened the door.
“Hey, Rawson,” Mike nodded. “Lied about what?” he asked his brother.
“I lied to you about having sex with the people in Apartment B.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, you did.”
“You knew? How did you know?”
“One. You're a terrible liar ...”
Mike turned to Rawson and added, “Terrible liar, but a good actor. How does that work?” After a shared smile with Rawson, Mike resumed.
“Two, Evan told me he was a virgin and I believed him. Three, Paul was super straight and would only have sex with you after the last woman on the planet was dead. And four, Haggar the Horrible was so repulsive nobody could ever have sex with him.”
“Why did you let me …?”
“You were funny. Besides I don't mind cleaning up. It's a mindless job and I can think about other things while I'm doing it. Plus, there's no frustrating delay; the results are immediate.”
Matt said nothing but Rawson joked, “I think I might be in love with the wrong brother.”
Matt was further confounded. He didn't say it, he just mouthed the words. “You love me?”
“Duh ... From the day I met you, I think.”
Matt looked sheepishly at Mike and promised to make it up to him and then turned to Rawson. “Uh, let's go back to your place, Rawson. We need to talk.”
Their return walk to the dacha was as silent as their walk to the garage had been, except halfway along the wooded path, in the dappled light Rawson stopped Matt and kissed him. Matt watched the light play on Rawson's face. “Sunny,” he sighed.
When they got inside the dacha Rawson was the first to speak, “We don't need to talk at all. Not yet. We need to get back in bed. I think you've let the monster in me out.”
Matt was almost naked. “Come on, monster. Hurry up.” Matt watched Rawson undress; he was slower and more methodical, hanging up his clothes. Right before jumping into bed he slid his boxers off and displayed his ready erection. “Sweet,” Matt whispered. “I like it that you're hard already.”
Rawson sucked Matt's cock trying to copy the way Matt had showed him. The lessons he learned drove Matt to a frenzied orgasm and he was disappointed by his quickness. “Oh, baby, I came too soon. You're not even close.”
Rawson didn't care. “I liked watching you come. I did ok, huh?” Rawson rolled over and the last rays of the day's sunlight hit his face.
“Sunny,” Matt said, tracing his fingers over Rawson's cheek, touching some freckles he'd never noticed before. “You look so young in this light. Like a kid.”
“My mother used to call me Sonny,” Rawson told Matt. “She didn't really like my name, Rawson, but my father insisted on it. It was HIS mother's family name. So she made it Sonny.”
“She called you Sonny, but I'm calling you Sunny. That's totally different. I'm calling you Sunny because you look so hot, so sexy with the sun on your face.” Matt paused to kiss the freckles. “And you are hot … I mean, you generate heat. I can feel it just being close to you.” More kisses. “You are my sun and your energy fills me up.” Matt stroked Rawson's erection and kissed a nipple. “You want to fill my ass up?” he invited.
Rawson eagerly responded. The entry was less clumsy this time, more drawn out, and at the same time more intense. Rawson watched Matt's face for clues about how to proceed. Just a twinge of pain this time, then Matt opened his eyes and they watched each other. Matt didn't come but his pleasure glowed. Rawson came harder than before, harder than he'd ever come in his life.
“My Sunny,” Matt sighed pulling Rawson against himself. “See,” Matt said when Rawson's pleasure had passed, “Sonny are Sunny are very different on an existential level.”
“Bullshit,” Rawson chuckled.
“Maybe, but I don't want you thinking of your mother if I call you Sunny.”
“You don't need to worry about any splash of Oedipal emotions landing on you. Psychologists say most communication is non-verbal anyway. I never really understood that before we started having sex.”
“Could you communicate again that part about … loving the right brother?”
“I love you.”
“Could you elaborate a little?” Matt asked.
“No. I think that says it all. I love you. Nobody else. I love you.”
“Hmm ... The non-verbal part was a lot more eloquent.”
“I don't have the words for it, Matt. You overwhelm me. I'm exploding and I don't know how to tell you. I make my living with words and I don't know how to say more than I love you.”
They resumed a non-verbal communication in which love didn't need discussion. It was expressed by a willing look, a shared need, an inviting touch.
Lucky prowled the lot at CarMax. One of the beauties of the TT was it's lack of annual identity. A good looking three-year-old Mark 2 was just as good looking as a new one and the differences were undistinguishable outside the factory in Hungary. Lucky bought a 2007 telling himself that the cheaper coupe was much a more authentic racer than the pricier ragtop. He haggled a bit over the 'no-haggle' price, got nowhere, and then conceded the negotiation. The test drive sold him. The TT inhabited a galaxy light-years away from the dim sun of the pedestrian Eclipse.
The salesman suggested that he also consider a Jeep Wrangler. “It's another car that projects an attitude not related to price. Lot's of guys like you drive it for its statement.”
“What do you mean 'like me'?” Lucky questioned sharply.
“You know,” the salesman winked. “Unconventional and metrosexual.”
As far as Lucky was concerned 'metrosexual' meant homosexual. “You think I'm gay?”
“No, no, not gay.” The salesman winked again. Why is he winking, Lucky wanted to know.
“Up to the minute, aware of your image, willing to make a statement, confident. Definitely not gay.” The salesman looked Lucky up and down, pausing finally at the buttons of his 501's.
Lucky was ashamed of blushing under the salesman's gaze but driving home in the TT boosted his mood by orders of magnitude. He felt a generous impulse and didn't really know how to respond to it. He settled on calling Jasmine.
“I wanted to check on you. Are you feeling alright? No aches or pains from the little crunch?”
“Thanks for asking. I'm fine. To be honest, I never expected you to call.”
“Would you like to have dinner? I feel like I owe you. Being such a lousy lay and all.”
“I'm sorry I said that. I've had much worse. Listen … how about if I cook? You could bring a nice bottle of something red.”
The clerk at Pearson's recommended a Paso Robles blended red as all-purpose, unconventional but good. Lucky bought it thinking twenty-seven dollars a bottle was a little more unconventional than he had planned, but he reminded himself of how much he had saved by not buying the convertible.
Jasmine had found the same sale on lamb that Debbie had and they ate from the small end of a nicely roasted leg. They talked about art and Lucky was impressed that Jasmine, while no expert, asked intelligent questions, that is, questions he could answer and whose answers let him show off his own knowledge. The meal and the companionship were both enjoyable and before he knew it the evening got to the stage of either being over or moving to the bedroom. Lucky picked being over; he was looking forward to driving the TT home.
“So you're not trying to hustle me off to bed?” Jasmine prodded.
“No. I'd like to; but, no.”
“That was the test. You pass. Do you want to come for dinner again … on, uh, Thursday?”
“Sure. How about something to go with white wine? I have a nice Puligny in my cupboard.”
Lucky had rescued the Puligny Montrachet from being swiped by the help after a reception at the Smithsonian. He liked to think of himself as frugal rather than cheap and the waiters wouldn't have really appreciated the flinty crispness of the burgundy anyway. He and Jasmine agreed on a time and Lucky left.
He could feel a slight vibration in the driver's seat of the TT. Not a bad vibration at all, kind of sensual, in fact. His pants felt increasingly tight as he drove across the bridge to Arlington. Oh, I like this car, he thought and squeezed his cock gently.
Phil called Ace and got his voice mail. “Just wanted to call. I can explain. Please call me back.” He missed Ace, missed the certain knowledge that Ace was there offering his support, his faith, and his love. Why wouldn't the tigers of sex let him alone? The sex with Ace wasn't fierce, but it was satisfying and steady. Why do I have to have the peaks when the valleys are good enough?
While thinking these thoughts, Phil's cock sent him a different message. A prickly sensation spread over his groin. He felt his balls tighten and his cock start to fill. He tried to put the insidious mystery of Art out of his head. Why is his cock so compelling? He's smaller than Ace, way smaller than Tom; and yet he hits me just right. Phil recalled the pain of Art's fucking, Art's selfish indifference, his absolute rejection of Phil's needs. He recalled his own spectacular orgasm as Art pounded his ass with the plain intent of hurting him showing in the snarl on his face. Why is my cock so hard? I should be wiped out from the session with Tom and I'm ready for more. My cock is dribbling precum and I haven't even touched it.
The phone call disrupted his reverie. “I don't know why I'm even calling you,” Ace said.
“Ace! Oh, man, I'm glad you called back. I'm sorry for … disappointing you. Please, I want to see you. We can work on things. I'll try harder. I promise.”
“Would it do any good? What's there to talk about? We're on different planets, Phil.”
“But, Acey, you can't forget the good parts. Those parts are so good.”
Ace almost sobbed. There was a catch in his voice as he promised to be on the next Metro to Cleveland Park. Phil promised him a dinner from Nam Viet, and Ace was as much a fool for Vietnamese food as he was for Phil.
They met at the top of the Metro stirs and hurried back to Phil's apartment with the crab and asparagus soup, the porkchops, and the fried rice. The food and Phil's talk of the band mellowed Ace's mood. The anger melted away and most of the hurt was forgotten. “I'm such a sucker for your bullshit,” Ace told Phil with complete accuracy.
Phil enjoyed his mastery of Ace and their make-up sex vanquished the thoughts of Art's alluring promise of 'something else'. Phil took control and soon had the bigger man in his arms and his bed. I like this, he thought; I really like being in control watching Ace respond. It's … it's sort of love and Ace is cute if I can call such a big guy cute. I love the way he wants to be kissed and fucked at the same time.
Ace's reluctance drained away. He bottomed for Phil and for the first time he absolutely loved it. He abandoned himself utterly to Phil's dominance and urgency. With lips on his, fingers squeezing his nipples, and a cock in his ass, the last trace of Ace's resistance melted and he begged for Phil's love. “Oh, please, Philly, I'm all yours. Fuck me ... kiss me some more … love me, baby … make me come ...”
Instead, Phil came; but Ace didn't mind. As he watched Phil's excitement, his ardor only increased. He loved the cock spasming in his ass, the swollen, red look of Phil's face as he exploded, the desperate need he felt in Phil's arms and they tried to merge their bodies. He loves me, Ace thought; he can't fake this, what's right before my eyes. He loves me. And Ace loved Phil back. We can start over, he promised himself.
Phil was ecstatic in his passion. He echoed his own version of Ace's thought and needed to say so. “I love you, Ace. We can start over, right? We can make it up, can't we?”
With promises made again, they drifted toward sleep in the shared afterglow. Ace knew his contentment was back. And Phil knew he would do his best; Ace was worth it. They fell asleep in each other's arms, barely able to stop kissing.
The nightmare ruined it for Phil. He saw Art standing in a darkness made inkier by the glow of a spotlight. The box in his hands glistened with a black sheen. Something else was in the box. “Open it!” Phil cried out. “Open it!” Art caressed the lock with delicate, bony fingers. His smile was gruesome. “Open it!”
“Phil, Phil! Wake up. You're having a dream!” Ace shook Phil and felt him trembling; he hugged him and kissed his hair. “It's just a dream. Just a dream ...”
No, it isn't. It isn't. It isn't a dream. The thought echoed in Phil's head and he knew it was true. Ace continued to hold him and sooth him. Eventually Phil kissed Ace gently and felt Ace's rampant cock in his hand. He encouraged Ace's attention and welcomed the gentle fuck. “Yes, so good,” he sighed as Ace's cock slowly entered him. He felt nothing physically, but accepted the penetration in an abstract way. The box gleamed in his thoughts. Something else was making him erect, something else was taking over his thoughts. “Are you ready?” the spectral figure of Art called out. “I have something else for you. You want it?”
“Yes!” Phil shouted as Ace came in his ass and his own cock pulsed semen onto his stomach. “Yes! Do it to me!”
Late Sunday afternoon, as a thank you for their Friday invitations, Tom took an old bottle of port wine to the carpet layers. “This is in case anybody gets a spring cold. A few sips will do as much as all the cold medicines put together – according to my father, who had a lot of colds.”
His gesture got him an invitation to stay for dinner. Debbie was the cook and enjoyed everything about kitchens. She made lamb with spring vegetables and a bitter salad. It was, in a word, fabulous. The conversation centered around art and the sense that textile designers (probably) and computer programmers (definitely) were on the periphery of serious art.
“That's unfair, though,” Tom commented. “That hanging is – forgive my ignorance of the right words – as fabulous as the lamb.”
“Fabulous will do,” Al said. She and Debbie both smiled at their shared compliment. The hanging was huge, the size of a garage door, made from a variety of modern, mostly textile materials depicting a medieval hunt scene.
“The colors wouldn't be right, but something like that would look great in the Peacock Room at the Freer.” The Peacock Room was a Victorian fantasy that was designed by James Whistler and once was his dining room in Liverpool.
“But the Freer doesn't do much in the way of textiles,” Ann commented.
“If it's Asian, they do. They have lots of fabric scrolls and some ceremonial robes. Of course they emphasize the decoration and not the function. But the Peacock Room lacks any hint of its original use. I think a period dining room table would look right. You could create the table cloth,” Tom suggested. “But what does a computer programmer know?”
“He's going on the list,” Debbie said with a giggle. Her comment drew laughs from Al and Ann and a puzzled look from Tom.
“The list of potential fathers for our children,” Al explained.
In rapid succession Tom was shocked, intrigued, and then overjoyed by the prospect, serious or otherwise. “That's the nicest thing I've ever heard.”
“Be quiet, or you'll be going on my list, too.”
“Ann is husband shopping,” Al further explained.
“Ok,” Tom mused, not at all put off by Ann's interest.
Matt and Rawson dragged themselves from Rawson's bed feeling tired and refreshed at the same time. “I don't know what to say. I'm almost never speechless and I haven't got a clue what to say.” Rawson interrupted Matt's dressing for another embrace.
“Don't say anything. I've got to talk to Mike before I lose my nerve.” Matt sounded very nervous, distracted, and determined. “Come on. It will help if you're there.”
They walked silently. Matt stared ahead, looking intense and Rawson just looked at Matt, wading through his own thoughts. They climbed the outside steps and halted while Matt paced the porch. They could see Mike through the windows; he was cleaning the kitchen. “Mike?” Matt called.
“I lied,” Matt blurted out the instant Mike opened the door.
“Hey, Rawson,” Mike nodded. “Lied about what?” he asked his brother.
“I lied to you about having sex with the people in Apartment B.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, you did.”
“You knew? How did you know?”
“One. You're a terrible liar ...”
Mike turned to Rawson and added, “Terrible liar, but a good actor. How does that work?” After a shared smile with Rawson, Mike resumed.
“Two, Evan told me he was a virgin and I believed him. Three, Paul was super straight and would only have sex with you after the last woman on the planet was dead. And four, Haggar the Horrible was so repulsive nobody could ever have sex with him.”
“Why did you let me …?”
“You were funny. Besides I don't mind cleaning up. It's a mindless job and I can think about other things while I'm doing it. Plus, there's no frustrating delay; the results are immediate.”
Matt said nothing but Rawson joked, “I think I might be in love with the wrong brother.”
Matt was further confounded. He didn't say it, he just mouthed the words. “You love me?”
“Duh ... From the day I met you, I think.”
Matt looked sheepishly at Mike and promised to make it up to him and then turned to Rawson. “Uh, let's go back to your place, Rawson. We need to talk.”
Their return walk to the dacha was as silent as their walk to the garage had been, except halfway along the wooded path, in the dappled light Rawson stopped Matt and kissed him. Matt watched the light play on Rawson's face. “Sunny,” he sighed.
When they got inside the dacha Rawson was the first to speak, “We don't need to talk at all. Not yet. We need to get back in bed. I think you've let the monster in me out.”
Matt was almost naked. “Come on, monster. Hurry up.” Matt watched Rawson undress; he was slower and more methodical, hanging up his clothes. Right before jumping into bed he slid his boxers off and displayed his ready erection. “Sweet,” Matt whispered. “I like it that you're hard already.”
Rawson sucked Matt's cock trying to copy the way Matt had showed him. The lessons he learned drove Matt to a frenzied orgasm and he was disappointed by his quickness. “Oh, baby, I came too soon. You're not even close.”
Rawson didn't care. “I liked watching you come. I did ok, huh?” Rawson rolled over and the last rays of the day's sunlight hit his face.
“Sunny,” Matt said, tracing his fingers over Rawson's cheek, touching some freckles he'd never noticed before. “You look so young in this light. Like a kid.”
“My mother used to call me Sonny,” Rawson told Matt. “She didn't really like my name, Rawson, but my father insisted on it. It was HIS mother's family name. So she made it Sonny.”
“She called you Sonny, but I'm calling you Sunny. That's totally different. I'm calling you Sunny because you look so hot, so sexy with the sun on your face.” Matt paused to kiss the freckles. “And you are hot … I mean, you generate heat. I can feel it just being close to you.” More kisses. “You are my sun and your energy fills me up.” Matt stroked Rawson's erection and kissed a nipple. “You want to fill my ass up?” he invited.
Rawson eagerly responded. The entry was less clumsy this time, more drawn out, and at the same time more intense. Rawson watched Matt's face for clues about how to proceed. Just a twinge of pain this time, then Matt opened his eyes and they watched each other. Matt didn't come but his pleasure glowed. Rawson came harder than before, harder than he'd ever come in his life.
“My Sunny,” Matt sighed pulling Rawson against himself. “See,” Matt said when Rawson's pleasure had passed, “Sonny are Sunny are very different on an existential level.”
“Bullshit,” Rawson chuckled.
“Maybe, but I don't want you thinking of your mother if I call you Sunny.”
“You don't need to worry about any splash of Oedipal emotions landing on you. Psychologists say most communication is non-verbal anyway. I never really understood that before we started having sex.”
“Could you communicate again that part about … loving the right brother?”
“I love you.”
“Could you elaborate a little?” Matt asked.
“No. I think that says it all. I love you. Nobody else. I love you.”
“Hmm ... The non-verbal part was a lot more eloquent.”
“I don't have the words for it, Matt. You overwhelm me. I'm exploding and I don't know how to tell you. I make my living with words and I don't know how to say more than I love you.”
They resumed a non-verbal communication in which love didn't need discussion. It was expressed by a willing look, a shared need, an inviting touch.
Lucky prowled the lot at CarMax. One of the beauties of the TT was it's lack of annual identity. A good looking three-year-old Mark 2 was just as good looking as a new one and the differences were undistinguishable outside the factory in Hungary. Lucky bought a 2007 telling himself that the cheaper coupe was much a more authentic racer than the pricier ragtop. He haggled a bit over the 'no-haggle' price, got nowhere, and then conceded the negotiation. The test drive sold him. The TT inhabited a galaxy light-years away from the dim sun of the pedestrian Eclipse.
The salesman suggested that he also consider a Jeep Wrangler. “It's another car that projects an attitude not related to price. Lot's of guys like you drive it for its statement.”
“What do you mean 'like me'?” Lucky questioned sharply.
“You know,” the salesman winked. “Unconventional and metrosexual.”
As far as Lucky was concerned 'metrosexual' meant homosexual. “You think I'm gay?”
“No, no, not gay.” The salesman winked again. Why is he winking, Lucky wanted to know.
“Up to the minute, aware of your image, willing to make a statement, confident. Definitely not gay.” The salesman looked Lucky up and down, pausing finally at the buttons of his 501's.
Lucky was ashamed of blushing under the salesman's gaze but driving home in the TT boosted his mood by orders of magnitude. He felt a generous impulse and didn't really know how to respond to it. He settled on calling Jasmine.
“I wanted to check on you. Are you feeling alright? No aches or pains from the little crunch?”
“Thanks for asking. I'm fine. To be honest, I never expected you to call.”
“Would you like to have dinner? I feel like I owe you. Being such a lousy lay and all.”
“I'm sorry I said that. I've had much worse. Listen … how about if I cook? You could bring a nice bottle of something red.”
The clerk at Pearson's recommended a Paso Robles blended red as all-purpose, unconventional but good. Lucky bought it thinking twenty-seven dollars a bottle was a little more unconventional than he had planned, but he reminded himself of how much he had saved by not buying the convertible.
Jasmine had found the same sale on lamb that Debbie had and they ate from the small end of a nicely roasted leg. They talked about art and Lucky was impressed that Jasmine, while no expert, asked intelligent questions, that is, questions he could answer and whose answers let him show off his own knowledge. The meal and the companionship were both enjoyable and before he knew it the evening got to the stage of either being over or moving to the bedroom. Lucky picked being over; he was looking forward to driving the TT home.
“So you're not trying to hustle me off to bed?” Jasmine prodded.
“No. I'd like to; but, no.”
“That was the test. You pass. Do you want to come for dinner again … on, uh, Thursday?”
“Sure. How about something to go with white wine? I have a nice Puligny in my cupboard.”
Lucky had rescued the Puligny Montrachet from being swiped by the help after a reception at the Smithsonian. He liked to think of himself as frugal rather than cheap and the waiters wouldn't have really appreciated the flinty crispness of the burgundy anyway. He and Jasmine agreed on a time and Lucky left.
He could feel a slight vibration in the driver's seat of the TT. Not a bad vibration at all, kind of sensual, in fact. His pants felt increasingly tight as he drove across the bridge to Arlington. Oh, I like this car, he thought and squeezed his cock gently.
Phil called Ace and got his voice mail. “Just wanted to call. I can explain. Please call me back.” He missed Ace, missed the certain knowledge that Ace was there offering his support, his faith, and his love. Why wouldn't the tigers of sex let him alone? The sex with Ace wasn't fierce, but it was satisfying and steady. Why do I have to have the peaks when the valleys are good enough?
While thinking these thoughts, Phil's cock sent him a different message. A prickly sensation spread over his groin. He felt his balls tighten and his cock start to fill. He tried to put the insidious mystery of Art out of his head. Why is his cock so compelling? He's smaller than Ace, way smaller than Tom; and yet he hits me just right. Phil recalled the pain of Art's fucking, Art's selfish indifference, his absolute rejection of Phil's needs. He recalled his own spectacular orgasm as Art pounded his ass with the plain intent of hurting him showing in the snarl on his face. Why is my cock so hard? I should be wiped out from the session with Tom and I'm ready for more. My cock is dribbling precum and I haven't even touched it.
The phone call disrupted his reverie. “I don't know why I'm even calling you,” Ace said.
“Ace! Oh, man, I'm glad you called back. I'm sorry for … disappointing you. Please, I want to see you. We can work on things. I'll try harder. I promise.”
“Would it do any good? What's there to talk about? We're on different planets, Phil.”
“But, Acey, you can't forget the good parts. Those parts are so good.”
Ace almost sobbed. There was a catch in his voice as he promised to be on the next Metro to Cleveland Park. Phil promised him a dinner from Nam Viet, and Ace was as much a fool for Vietnamese food as he was for Phil.
They met at the top of the Metro stirs and hurried back to Phil's apartment with the crab and asparagus soup, the porkchops, and the fried rice. The food and Phil's talk of the band mellowed Ace's mood. The anger melted away and most of the hurt was forgotten. “I'm such a sucker for your bullshit,” Ace told Phil with complete accuracy.
Phil enjoyed his mastery of Ace and their make-up sex vanquished the thoughts of Art's alluring promise of 'something else'. Phil took control and soon had the bigger man in his arms and his bed. I like this, he thought; I really like being in control watching Ace respond. It's … it's sort of love and Ace is cute if I can call such a big guy cute. I love the way he wants to be kissed and fucked at the same time.
Ace's reluctance drained away. He bottomed for Phil and for the first time he absolutely loved it. He abandoned himself utterly to Phil's dominance and urgency. With lips on his, fingers squeezing his nipples, and a cock in his ass, the last trace of Ace's resistance melted and he begged for Phil's love. “Oh, please, Philly, I'm all yours. Fuck me ... kiss me some more … love me, baby … make me come ...”
Instead, Phil came; but Ace didn't mind. As he watched Phil's excitement, his ardor only increased. He loved the cock spasming in his ass, the swollen, red look of Phil's face as he exploded, the desperate need he felt in Phil's arms and they tried to merge their bodies. He loves me, Ace thought; he can't fake this, what's right before my eyes. He loves me. And Ace loved Phil back. We can start over, he promised himself.
Phil was ecstatic in his passion. He echoed his own version of Ace's thought and needed to say so. “I love you, Ace. We can start over, right? We can make it up, can't we?”
With promises made again, they drifted toward sleep in the shared afterglow. Ace knew his contentment was back. And Phil knew he would do his best; Ace was worth it. They fell asleep in each other's arms, barely able to stop kissing.
The nightmare ruined it for Phil. He saw Art standing in a darkness made inkier by the glow of a spotlight. The box in his hands glistened with a black sheen. Something else was in the box. “Open it!” Phil cried out. “Open it!” Art caressed the lock with delicate, bony fingers. His smile was gruesome. “Open it!”
“Phil, Phil! Wake up. You're having a dream!” Ace shook Phil and felt him trembling; he hugged him and kissed his hair. “It's just a dream. Just a dream ...”
No, it isn't. It isn't. It isn't a dream. The thought echoed in Phil's head and he knew it was true. Ace continued to hold him and sooth him. Eventually Phil kissed Ace gently and felt Ace's rampant cock in his hand. He encouraged Ace's attention and welcomed the gentle fuck. “Yes, so good,” he sighed as Ace's cock slowly entered him. He felt nothing physically, but accepted the penetration in an abstract way. The box gleamed in his thoughts. Something else was making him erect, something else was taking over his thoughts. “Are you ready?” the spectral figure of Art called out. “I have something else for you. You want it?”
“Yes!” Phil shouted as Ace came in his ass and his own cock pulsed semen onto his stomach. “Yes! Do it to me!”
Rory,
Another very interesting chapter.
Phil is scary. VERY scary. He definitely has issues surrounding Art.
I hope he gets past it, and doesn't hurt Ace even more than he already has.
Lucky - what an interesting moniker for a scum bag. Does he have redeeming character traits? Is he starting to have real human emotions? Why do I question any hope of him becoming REAL?
Matt & Mike - you can't fool your blood, bro, no you can't. And isn't it great that you can't. I loved Mike's comments to Rawson "Terrible Liar, but Great Actor" lol.
And Rawson - what kind of a relationship are the two of them heading into? What good things are in store for Matt, and Mike, too?
Then there's our main protagonist. Tom, our boi toy. If he has a drought with the available guys, it sounds like he's gaining a bevy of hens who would like his seed, and I suspect even the ladies who aren't attracted to the action end of a guy wouldn't throw him out of bed for eating crackers.
Thoroughy enjoyed the action - all of it!
Another very interesting chapter.
Phil is scary. VERY scary. He definitely has issues surrounding Art.
I hope he gets past it, and doesn't hurt Ace even more than he already has.
Lucky - what an interesting moniker for a scum bag. Does he have redeeming character traits? Is he starting to have real human emotions? Why do I question any hope of him becoming REAL?
Matt & Mike - you can't fool your blood, bro, no you can't. And isn't it great that you can't. I loved Mike's comments to Rawson "Terrible Liar, but Great Actor" lol.
And Rawson - what kind of a relationship are the two of them heading into? What good things are in store for Matt, and Mike, too?
Then there's our main protagonist. Tom, our boi toy. If he has a drought with the available guys, it sounds like he's gaining a bevy of hens who would like his seed, and I suspect even the ladies who aren't attracted to the action end of a guy wouldn't throw him out of bed for eating crackers.
Thoroughy enjoyed the action - all of it!
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Back in Chapter One, it was explained that Lucky was short for his real nickname: Luckless, a name he earned in the Navy by being assigned to a terrible ship.
Ah, yes, and so you did.
But, one can be like Joe
from Lil Abner - with a cloud hanging over you because you're the most unlucky person in the world, and still not be a complete scumbag, as our boy frequently appears to be.
But, one can be like Joe
from Lil Abner - with a cloud hanging over you because you're the most unlucky person in the world, and still not be a complete scumbag, as our boy frequently appears to be.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Ah, yes, and so you did.
But, one can be like Joe
Can you spell Joe's last name?
I shouldn't expect my readers to remember every detail of the back story. As the chapters spin on I kind of like Lucky's ironic nickname.
That was a parenthetical question mark. It converted to the dancing banana - I had no idea, lol.
Joe's last name I couldn't remember the spelling for.
A quick Web search garnered me, not only his name, but his pic, too.
Joe Btfsplk: World's most loving friend and worst jinx who always travels with a dark cloud over his head.
Joe's last name I couldn't remember the spelling for.
A quick Web search garnered me, not only his name, but his pic, too.
Joe Btfsplk: World's most loving friend and worst jinx who always travels with a dark cloud over his head.
Attachments
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Eleven
Tom was pleased with the project's progress. An efficient work routine had been established. They were plowing through the inventory and the exceptions were increasingly easy to deal with. All that remained to do was increase the pace and that would require hiring another person or two.
The combination of Gantry and Lisette was a perfect working relationship. Well, almost perfect. To his surprise, Tom was very attracted to Gantry. To say he lusted madly after her wasn't correct; rather, her appeal was a fascinating mixture of intelligence, elegant beauty, and vulnerability. More subtly, somewhere in the ruins Lucky had left behind lay a smoldering sexiness.
Today, she was wearing a silk blouse that draped beautifully over her breasts and a simple black skirt that emphasized her legs. There was no one who looked like that at the home office. Tom found himself lost in a daydream imagining the softness of her thighs.
“Um, alright,” he shook himself out of his reverie. “Thanks to the genius of the two of you, I think it's time to hire another person. Do you have any nominees? Lucky recommended a woman at the Portrait Gallery and Brent has recommended … um, a young man named Charles.” The reluctance in Tom's voice was plain. “I'm not sure that's what I want to do.”
“Are we being candid?” Gantry asked.
“Of course,” Tom answered.
“Lucky's recommendation is probably someone he wants to fuck. And Brent's recommendation is someone he is fucking. Potential problems there. I will say that, to my knowledge, Brent has never pushed anybody for a job who wasn't reasonably qualified.”
“I suspected something like that. I guess I have to at least interview them.”
“You want to try something interesting? You might ask Tin Man Arnheim if he has a nomination. AU's inventory is chaos and they could be your next project.” Tom found himself admiring both Gantry's suggestion and her lips.
“Um, great idea. What about Georgetown, too?” Tom asked, forcing his eyes to the notes he was making.
Gantry chuckled. “Georgetown NEVER has any money. Father John will talk you into doing it for free and you'll end up giving him your lunch money.”
Tom laughed out loud. “I'm not that easy!” And then he wondered if he was just that easy.
“I know another Corcoran student who'd be a hard worker. Plus he needs the money,” Lisette suggested.
“Ok, let's talk to him, too. Can you set it up, Lisette? I'll call Arnheim and the bosses' recommendations. The three of us can interview them as a panel. Unanimous vote needed to hire, ok?”
“Me?” Lisette was unsure of her role.
“You will have to help train them and work with them. They better be people you can work with, right?” Tom got a big smile from Lisette. He crossed to a desk a bit apart and called Tin Man.
“Gantry, nobody ever asked my opinion about anything before!” Lisette whispered.
“He means what he says, I think. And you will have to work with them, Lisette. It's nice working with somebody who has no hidden agenda.”
“Don't be too sure, Gantry. I think he has a little crush.”
“He's gay, Lisette. Brent and Tom … well, you know ...”
“All I know is the way he looks at you sometimes. I know that look.” Lisette gave Gantry a conspiratorial wink.
Matt woke up alone in the dacha. Rawson left early for his downtown office. He looked around the big room noticing the intricate woodwork of the walls and ceiling. The bed smelled of Rawson and the grass-scented soap Matt had used on the sheets. Matt stretched, pushing his hands over his head and feeling the sheets rub against his naked body. The almost non-stop sex that began two nights ago left him feeling luxuriantly limp. He got up and looked at himself in the full length mirror next to Rawson's dresser. Perfectly normal, it appeared. Well, maybe there was a little whisker rash around his neck from Rawson's kisses. There was a note stuck on the glass.
“Use anything, take anything, do anything, just please be here when I get back. I miss you and you're only ten feet away as I write this. R.” A final line added, “Or should I start signing things Sunny?”
Matt got himself moving and went to the garage for a change of clothes. Mike was gone also; he always left early for work.
Mike's internship at the National Building Museum involved analyzing old structures and determining whether they were salvable. He had written their landlord that the large and once-luxurious main house on the estate was undistinguished architecturally, in need of serious repairs, and probably not worth renovating. The landlord, who was also charged with selling the place, liked the report and used it to try to convince the heirs to take an offer before the main house fell down. The heirs continued to dither and took no action, but the landlord offered the twins their apartment at a very reasonable price in exchange for Mike's service.
I owe living here to Mike, Matt thought. What's worse, I'm now unemployed and close to broke. The rehearsal pay was pitifully low but at least I was making something. Now, I'm just another unemployed actor. I have to get a job. Without thinking much about what he was doing, he picked up a cloth and began dusting. He found something in a spray can called Dust Destroyer under the kitchen sink. It made the dusting easier.
I'm not working in a fast food place, Matt told himself. That's lower than low. Plus the pay sucks. Plus the food sucks. I'd inhale a ton of grease every day just being there for eight hours. Bartender? Shit, I can barely make ice water. What can an English major who can't write do?
Hmm … The dusting helped. The window sills are actually clean now and the furniture kind of shines. A little, it shines. Ok, not much, but it looks better than it did. Matt felt himself smiling. Mike's right, as usual, he thought. The results of dusting are immediately apparent. He found that mopping the kitchen floor produced a similar result.
I could be a cleaning woman, he thought. They actually make pretty good money, Mike and I can't afford one. A cleaning man … what are they called? A cleaner, I guess. That sounds kind of like a dry cleaner, though. A janitor! That's what they're called. I could be a janitor. The repetitive motion of running the vacuum cleaner isn't really much different from jacking off and look at the rug. It's got those nice lines in it now. I can tell that I cleaned it. There ought to be some way to clean myself and the bathroom at the same time.
Nothing came to mind as he emptied the trash. The bathroom was probably going to be the biggest challenge, Matt decided. He couldn't think of any shortcuts in the bathroom. He looked at the odd collection of cleaning supplies Mike had acquired.
Lysol, I guess. How do I put it on? The can did not provide any really useful information; it was warnings about things that will never happen. No idiot was going to spray it in his eyes, Matt thought. They could have replaced all that nonsense with simple how-to-clean-a-toilet instructions. Paper towels might work, he thought; but they didn't. They wadded up and shredded in his hands and the cleaner burned a little on his wrists. Ah, the woman in the picture on the can was wearing rubber gloves. Smart chick, Matt complimented her.
“What are you doing?” Mike demanded. “You're all sweaty and dirty.”
“I'm cleaning the bathroom. Trying to. Why don't you have any rubber gloves? And why are you here so early?”
“It's five-thirty. Not so early. You know, I think about rubber gloves, but only when I'm cleaning the bathroom. I never think about them when I'm at the store.”
“You could make a list. Ever think of that?” the suddenly practical Matt sounded absolutely serious.
Mike laughed. “Only when I'm at the store.”
“Five-thirty? Shit. I'm supposed to meet Rawson. I need to take a shower. And ...”
“Well, do it. Where are you meeting him?”
“At the dacha.”
“Take your shower. At least you won't need to find a cab during rush hour.”
“I need to find a job, Mike, not a cab.”
“Life's full of little problems. Not as easy as acting in a pornographic version of Othello, huh?”
At first Matt bristled at the dig, but Mike was right. “Why couldn't I see that at the first rehearsal?”
“You're out of shampoo. Use some of mine.” Mike tossed his brother a tube.
“How do you know I'm out?”
“You're always out of shampoo.”
“Mike?” Matt asked before getting into the shower. “You need somebody in your life.”
“And if we kept a cow, we'd never need to buy milk.” Mike gave his grandmother's standard answer to unwanted suggestions. “What happened to your neck?”
Lucky was enjoying his ride to work. The TT was vibrating in the same sexy way, shaking him into the beginnings of an erection. If only it gave blow jobs, Lucky thought, I could save a fortune on dates. Maybe there's something that plugs into the cigarette lighter; Lucky laughed out loud at the thought. If the art business didn't work out, he wondered if he could sell vibrators for Audis. The gate guard waved him into the underground garage and admired the car. Lucky squeezed his cock; along with his smile, both seemed to get even bigger.
He stopped at the Museum gift shop and looked at what was marked down. There was a small pot with a cut glass flower that was missing a few bits of glass. He bought it for two-fifty plus twenty cents tax and walked purposefully down the hall to his office.
Among the messages on his desk was one that mentioned Janice had called. There was no request for a call back but he called her anyway. “Jan, you called?”
“Lucky, I just wanted to thank you for the recommendation. Someone named Tom has arranged an interview for me. That was so nice of you. I'll tell you the truth … I thought you were just giving me the usual Washington brush off; but anyway, thanks.”
“I'll call you when the interview's over. I hope we'll have something to celebrate.” Lucky thought of her very exciting lips; it would be like getting a bj from Angelina Jolie. “Yes,” Lucky gave the air a fist pump. He buzzed Brent's phone and left a message that he was going to the warehouse to check on the contractor.
Lucky walked the couple of blocks to the warehouse and looked for Tom. Instead he found Gantry and Lisette. “Gantry,” he told her, “I'm so glad you're doing this work. It's great, a real win-win situation. Here, I got you this.” He presented the glass flower that was missing only a few of its petals. Before Gantry could prolong the conversation Lucky hurried over to Tom's desk.
“Thomas ...” he opened. Lucky had decided that using 'Tom' was too close to implying equality. Using 'Thomas' was friendly but in its own way dismissive.
“Morning, Mr. Leavitt,” Tom responded.
“I'm glad you're going to interview Janice Browning. I hope you'll agree that she's very well qualified. She's at the Portrait Gallery now, but how different is that? Art's art, right?”
“I don't think Mr. Freer thought so,” Tom answered, making light of the matter. “Um, Brent has also recommended someone. We're going to interview him, plus a couple others.”
“Um, Thomas, you know Brent's recommendation … is it Charles something? I don't know his last name.”
“Yes, Charles Donovan.”
“Um, well … how to put this? … Charles has another job.” Lucky waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
“Most of our applicants do,” Tom answered.
“He's an escort.” When Tom didn't react, Lucky continued, “You know, rents by the hour...”
“Actually, according to the contract, you rent me by the hour, too.” Tom smiled without indication of any prejudice. “I have to respect Brent's recommendation; we'll give Charles a look-see.”
“Good. I'm glad we had this talk. Brent's leaving himself open to charges of favoritism in exchange for sexual favors. I sure don't want anything bad to come out of it for him. On a different subject, is your friend Darren coming back?”
“Not that I know of, except maybe at the conclusion of the contract, if we need a final audit of performance. He's more experienced at that than I am.”
“Based on your progress to date, I doubt we'll need an audit. That's mostly for overruns and you're on budget.” Lucky rose and shook Tom's hand. He stopped and introduced himself to Lisette on his way out; but, sensing indifference on her part, it was a brief exchange.
“Wow,” Lisette said, rolling her eyes.
“You both heard all that?” Tom asked. “Hiring is going to be more complicated than I thought, I guess.”
“I'd say judge the candidates on merit and thoroughly document the justification for your choice. Then you, Tom, will be in the clear no matter what. If there's a contract dispute, it's out of Lucky's hands and Brent's always fair.”
“Astute, Gantry. We'll all take interview notes and make them part of the record.”
Ace was in Virginia and Phil felt the old itch; Art answered on the second ring. There was no messing around. “Come now,” Art ordered.
“When do I get to see the 'something else' you promised?” Phil asked as he removed his clothes. There was a box at the side of the bed. It looked smaller and much more innocent than it had in Phil's dream.
“You're not ready for it. Don't kiss me,” Art said pushing the now naked Phil away. “Kisses are rewards, not preparations.”
Art's clinical approach only made Phil more eager. His cock waved in front of him almost fully erect. “What do you want to do?”
“First we need some sensory deprivation. I want you to sit in that closet until you have adjusted to total darkness. Touch yourself. Keep yourself erect; but don't come.”
The closet was empty and didn't feel confining as Phil entered. He sat on the floor as the door closed. He was surprised when he heard the lock turn. “You don't need to lock the door,” he called out to Art.
“I do. It changes the feel of your confinement.”
“Confinement? You make it sound like a prison cell.”
“We all live in cells, Phil. At this moment my cell happens to be bigger than yours.” Art said no more.
Phil sat aware of his nakedness and felt slightly absurd. He absent-mindedly stoked his cock. It was hard and didn't need much attention to stay that way. A few minutes passed and still Art did nothing. “Art?” Phil called. “I think my eyes have adjusted to the darkness.” There was no answer so Phil continued to wait. He slowed his stroking, not wanting to get too aroused; he could already feel a bit of precum on his cock. He leaned back against the wall and waited. The hand he had been stroking with he let explore. He liked the feel of the area under his balls. He let his fingers drift lower and rest on his asshole. A little pressure. His breathing rate increased and he used both hands to play with himself. And still he waited. The closet was beginning to get stuffy. He thought he saw a tiny light, a red glowing, but he couldn't touch it. He felt for the door. It was there; the outline was. There was no knob on the inside and pressure didn't move the door by a single millimeter. It was sealed shut tightly so that nothing rattled. Except for the outline, the door could have been part of the wall, as if there were no door.
Again Phil saw a red light glowing. He reached for it but again it eluded him. He wasn't sure it was real and couldn't be sure exactly where his hand was reaching. He suddenly realized that his cock had slumped. He stroked it and found his hand wet with precum, but his hard on didn't immediately return. He continued stroking and gradually the spreading slickness worked its magic. He could hear the squishy sounds of his stroking and his erection returned. He leaned harder on the door with no result. “Art? You there?” he called out. There was no answer and he waited.
“Art?” he called more tentatively, more anxiously. He was aware that his pulse was racing and the air in the closet was growing increasingly stuffy. He was breathing faster through his mouth knowing that rationally he was only about an inch and a half away from the sanity of an everyday world, locked in this crazy closet that grew confining. He felt an odd oppression; it took a moment to determine that he had stuck his finger in his own ass. His hard on pulsed in his hand and he realized he was on the verge of coming. “No,” he panted and barely avoided orgasm.
He stood up and tried the door again. It was solid and unyielding. “Art?” he called and then “ART!” he yelled. An involuntary sob echoed in his ears. There was a click and the door opened. Phil collapsed into Arts hands and then to the floor on his hands and knees.
Art acted and Phil responded at once. There was no pain as Art pushed his dildo covered cock into Phil. Phil immediately felt an anguishing sense of pleasure as his orgasm began. It felt like the semen was wrenched from his body into a vacuum and he collapsed flat on the floor still pumping his hips before it was over. Art immediately pulled out of Phil's ass and stood away from the confused man. Phil again felt his nakedness; and a chill penetrated his body. He shivered and had only his hands to try to use as a blanket. “Art, help.”
Art joined Phil on the floor, covering him with his body and a light but warming blanket. As Phil felt the warmth he heard the words. “You were in the closet for fifteen minutes. Everything you felt you created in your own mind.”
Phil clutched at Art and this time Art allowed him a few kisses. Then he began prodding Phil with the dildo pushing it between his thighs, pushing them apart, seeking Phil's asshole; but the dildo was only preparatory. Before Phil was comfortable, it was replaced by Art's fist. Art was a small man; but any fist is still a fist and much bigger than the dildo The fist wasn't comfortable at all. Even as Phil felt his growing arousal, the pain remained. Even when he came, the pain was primary. It was only after the pain stopped that Phil knew it as pleasure. And if it was pleasure, then there wasn't really any pain. He sighed and cooed and felt more fulfilled than he had ever felt before.
Art tolerated another kiss, a very brief kiss. Then he threw Phil out before he was fully dressed. Phil carried his shoes the two blocks back to his own apartment.
Tom was pleased with the project's progress. An efficient work routine had been established. They were plowing through the inventory and the exceptions were increasingly easy to deal with. All that remained to do was increase the pace and that would require hiring another person or two.
The combination of Gantry and Lisette was a perfect working relationship. Well, almost perfect. To his surprise, Tom was very attracted to Gantry. To say he lusted madly after her wasn't correct; rather, her appeal was a fascinating mixture of intelligence, elegant beauty, and vulnerability. More subtly, somewhere in the ruins Lucky had left behind lay a smoldering sexiness.
Today, she was wearing a silk blouse that draped beautifully over her breasts and a simple black skirt that emphasized her legs. There was no one who looked like that at the home office. Tom found himself lost in a daydream imagining the softness of her thighs.
“Um, alright,” he shook himself out of his reverie. “Thanks to the genius of the two of you, I think it's time to hire another person. Do you have any nominees? Lucky recommended a woman at the Portrait Gallery and Brent has recommended … um, a young man named Charles.” The reluctance in Tom's voice was plain. “I'm not sure that's what I want to do.”
“Are we being candid?” Gantry asked.
“Of course,” Tom answered.
“Lucky's recommendation is probably someone he wants to fuck. And Brent's recommendation is someone he is fucking. Potential problems there. I will say that, to my knowledge, Brent has never pushed anybody for a job who wasn't reasonably qualified.”
“I suspected something like that. I guess I have to at least interview them.”
“You want to try something interesting? You might ask Tin Man Arnheim if he has a nomination. AU's inventory is chaos and they could be your next project.” Tom found himself admiring both Gantry's suggestion and her lips.
“Um, great idea. What about Georgetown, too?” Tom asked, forcing his eyes to the notes he was making.
Gantry chuckled. “Georgetown NEVER has any money. Father John will talk you into doing it for free and you'll end up giving him your lunch money.”
Tom laughed out loud. “I'm not that easy!” And then he wondered if he was just that easy.
“I know another Corcoran student who'd be a hard worker. Plus he needs the money,” Lisette suggested.
“Ok, let's talk to him, too. Can you set it up, Lisette? I'll call Arnheim and the bosses' recommendations. The three of us can interview them as a panel. Unanimous vote needed to hire, ok?”
“Me?” Lisette was unsure of her role.
“You will have to help train them and work with them. They better be people you can work with, right?” Tom got a big smile from Lisette. He crossed to a desk a bit apart and called Tin Man.
“Gantry, nobody ever asked my opinion about anything before!” Lisette whispered.
“He means what he says, I think. And you will have to work with them, Lisette. It's nice working with somebody who has no hidden agenda.”
“Don't be too sure, Gantry. I think he has a little crush.”
“He's gay, Lisette. Brent and Tom … well, you know ...”
“All I know is the way he looks at you sometimes. I know that look.” Lisette gave Gantry a conspiratorial wink.
Matt woke up alone in the dacha. Rawson left early for his downtown office. He looked around the big room noticing the intricate woodwork of the walls and ceiling. The bed smelled of Rawson and the grass-scented soap Matt had used on the sheets. Matt stretched, pushing his hands over his head and feeling the sheets rub against his naked body. The almost non-stop sex that began two nights ago left him feeling luxuriantly limp. He got up and looked at himself in the full length mirror next to Rawson's dresser. Perfectly normal, it appeared. Well, maybe there was a little whisker rash around his neck from Rawson's kisses. There was a note stuck on the glass.
“Use anything, take anything, do anything, just please be here when I get back. I miss you and you're only ten feet away as I write this. R.” A final line added, “Or should I start signing things Sunny?”
Matt got himself moving and went to the garage for a change of clothes. Mike was gone also; he always left early for work.
Mike's internship at the National Building Museum involved analyzing old structures and determining whether they were salvable. He had written their landlord that the large and once-luxurious main house on the estate was undistinguished architecturally, in need of serious repairs, and probably not worth renovating. The landlord, who was also charged with selling the place, liked the report and used it to try to convince the heirs to take an offer before the main house fell down. The heirs continued to dither and took no action, but the landlord offered the twins their apartment at a very reasonable price in exchange for Mike's service.
I owe living here to Mike, Matt thought. What's worse, I'm now unemployed and close to broke. The rehearsal pay was pitifully low but at least I was making something. Now, I'm just another unemployed actor. I have to get a job. Without thinking much about what he was doing, he picked up a cloth and began dusting. He found something in a spray can called Dust Destroyer under the kitchen sink. It made the dusting easier.
I'm not working in a fast food place, Matt told himself. That's lower than low. Plus the pay sucks. Plus the food sucks. I'd inhale a ton of grease every day just being there for eight hours. Bartender? Shit, I can barely make ice water. What can an English major who can't write do?
Hmm … The dusting helped. The window sills are actually clean now and the furniture kind of shines. A little, it shines. Ok, not much, but it looks better than it did. Matt felt himself smiling. Mike's right, as usual, he thought. The results of dusting are immediately apparent. He found that mopping the kitchen floor produced a similar result.
I could be a cleaning woman, he thought. They actually make pretty good money, Mike and I can't afford one. A cleaning man … what are they called? A cleaner, I guess. That sounds kind of like a dry cleaner, though. A janitor! That's what they're called. I could be a janitor. The repetitive motion of running the vacuum cleaner isn't really much different from jacking off and look at the rug. It's got those nice lines in it now. I can tell that I cleaned it. There ought to be some way to clean myself and the bathroom at the same time.
Nothing came to mind as he emptied the trash. The bathroom was probably going to be the biggest challenge, Matt decided. He couldn't think of any shortcuts in the bathroom. He looked at the odd collection of cleaning supplies Mike had acquired.
Lysol, I guess. How do I put it on? The can did not provide any really useful information; it was warnings about things that will never happen. No idiot was going to spray it in his eyes, Matt thought. They could have replaced all that nonsense with simple how-to-clean-a-toilet instructions. Paper towels might work, he thought; but they didn't. They wadded up and shredded in his hands and the cleaner burned a little on his wrists. Ah, the woman in the picture on the can was wearing rubber gloves. Smart chick, Matt complimented her.
“What are you doing?” Mike demanded. “You're all sweaty and dirty.”
“I'm cleaning the bathroom. Trying to. Why don't you have any rubber gloves? And why are you here so early?”
“It's five-thirty. Not so early. You know, I think about rubber gloves, but only when I'm cleaning the bathroom. I never think about them when I'm at the store.”
“You could make a list. Ever think of that?” the suddenly practical Matt sounded absolutely serious.
Mike laughed. “Only when I'm at the store.”
“Five-thirty? Shit. I'm supposed to meet Rawson. I need to take a shower. And ...”
“Well, do it. Where are you meeting him?”
“At the dacha.”
“Take your shower. At least you won't need to find a cab during rush hour.”
“I need to find a job, Mike, not a cab.”
“Life's full of little problems. Not as easy as acting in a pornographic version of Othello, huh?”
At first Matt bristled at the dig, but Mike was right. “Why couldn't I see that at the first rehearsal?”
“You're out of shampoo. Use some of mine.” Mike tossed his brother a tube.
“How do you know I'm out?”
“You're always out of shampoo.”
“Mike?” Matt asked before getting into the shower. “You need somebody in your life.”
“And if we kept a cow, we'd never need to buy milk.” Mike gave his grandmother's standard answer to unwanted suggestions. “What happened to your neck?”
Lucky was enjoying his ride to work. The TT was vibrating in the same sexy way, shaking him into the beginnings of an erection. If only it gave blow jobs, Lucky thought, I could save a fortune on dates. Maybe there's something that plugs into the cigarette lighter; Lucky laughed out loud at the thought. If the art business didn't work out, he wondered if he could sell vibrators for Audis. The gate guard waved him into the underground garage and admired the car. Lucky squeezed his cock; along with his smile, both seemed to get even bigger.
He stopped at the Museum gift shop and looked at what was marked down. There was a small pot with a cut glass flower that was missing a few bits of glass. He bought it for two-fifty plus twenty cents tax and walked purposefully down the hall to his office.
Among the messages on his desk was one that mentioned Janice had called. There was no request for a call back but he called her anyway. “Jan, you called?”
“Lucky, I just wanted to thank you for the recommendation. Someone named Tom has arranged an interview for me. That was so nice of you. I'll tell you the truth … I thought you were just giving me the usual Washington brush off; but anyway, thanks.”
“I'll call you when the interview's over. I hope we'll have something to celebrate.” Lucky thought of her very exciting lips; it would be like getting a bj from Angelina Jolie. “Yes,” Lucky gave the air a fist pump. He buzzed Brent's phone and left a message that he was going to the warehouse to check on the contractor.
Lucky walked the couple of blocks to the warehouse and looked for Tom. Instead he found Gantry and Lisette. “Gantry,” he told her, “I'm so glad you're doing this work. It's great, a real win-win situation. Here, I got you this.” He presented the glass flower that was missing only a few of its petals. Before Gantry could prolong the conversation Lucky hurried over to Tom's desk.
“Thomas ...” he opened. Lucky had decided that using 'Tom' was too close to implying equality. Using 'Thomas' was friendly but in its own way dismissive.
“Morning, Mr. Leavitt,” Tom responded.
“I'm glad you're going to interview Janice Browning. I hope you'll agree that she's very well qualified. She's at the Portrait Gallery now, but how different is that? Art's art, right?”
“I don't think Mr. Freer thought so,” Tom answered, making light of the matter. “Um, Brent has also recommended someone. We're going to interview him, plus a couple others.”
“Um, Thomas, you know Brent's recommendation … is it Charles something? I don't know his last name.”
“Yes, Charles Donovan.”
“Um, well … how to put this? … Charles has another job.” Lucky waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
“Most of our applicants do,” Tom answered.
“He's an escort.” When Tom didn't react, Lucky continued, “You know, rents by the hour...”
“Actually, according to the contract, you rent me by the hour, too.” Tom smiled without indication of any prejudice. “I have to respect Brent's recommendation; we'll give Charles a look-see.”
“Good. I'm glad we had this talk. Brent's leaving himself open to charges of favoritism in exchange for sexual favors. I sure don't want anything bad to come out of it for him. On a different subject, is your friend Darren coming back?”
“Not that I know of, except maybe at the conclusion of the contract, if we need a final audit of performance. He's more experienced at that than I am.”
“Based on your progress to date, I doubt we'll need an audit. That's mostly for overruns and you're on budget.” Lucky rose and shook Tom's hand. He stopped and introduced himself to Lisette on his way out; but, sensing indifference on her part, it was a brief exchange.
“Wow,” Lisette said, rolling her eyes.
“You both heard all that?” Tom asked. “Hiring is going to be more complicated than I thought, I guess.”
“I'd say judge the candidates on merit and thoroughly document the justification for your choice. Then you, Tom, will be in the clear no matter what. If there's a contract dispute, it's out of Lucky's hands and Brent's always fair.”
“Astute, Gantry. We'll all take interview notes and make them part of the record.”
Ace was in Virginia and Phil felt the old itch; Art answered on the second ring. There was no messing around. “Come now,” Art ordered.
“When do I get to see the 'something else' you promised?” Phil asked as he removed his clothes. There was a box at the side of the bed. It looked smaller and much more innocent than it had in Phil's dream.
“You're not ready for it. Don't kiss me,” Art said pushing the now naked Phil away. “Kisses are rewards, not preparations.”
Art's clinical approach only made Phil more eager. His cock waved in front of him almost fully erect. “What do you want to do?”
“First we need some sensory deprivation. I want you to sit in that closet until you have adjusted to total darkness. Touch yourself. Keep yourself erect; but don't come.”
The closet was empty and didn't feel confining as Phil entered. He sat on the floor as the door closed. He was surprised when he heard the lock turn. “You don't need to lock the door,” he called out to Art.
“I do. It changes the feel of your confinement.”
“Confinement? You make it sound like a prison cell.”
“We all live in cells, Phil. At this moment my cell happens to be bigger than yours.” Art said no more.
Phil sat aware of his nakedness and felt slightly absurd. He absent-mindedly stoked his cock. It was hard and didn't need much attention to stay that way. A few minutes passed and still Art did nothing. “Art?” Phil called. “I think my eyes have adjusted to the darkness.” There was no answer so Phil continued to wait. He slowed his stroking, not wanting to get too aroused; he could already feel a bit of precum on his cock. He leaned back against the wall and waited. The hand he had been stroking with he let explore. He liked the feel of the area under his balls. He let his fingers drift lower and rest on his asshole. A little pressure. His breathing rate increased and he used both hands to play with himself. And still he waited. The closet was beginning to get stuffy. He thought he saw a tiny light, a red glowing, but he couldn't touch it. He felt for the door. It was there; the outline was. There was no knob on the inside and pressure didn't move the door by a single millimeter. It was sealed shut tightly so that nothing rattled. Except for the outline, the door could have been part of the wall, as if there were no door.
Again Phil saw a red light glowing. He reached for it but again it eluded him. He wasn't sure it was real and couldn't be sure exactly where his hand was reaching. He suddenly realized that his cock had slumped. He stroked it and found his hand wet with precum, but his hard on didn't immediately return. He continued stroking and gradually the spreading slickness worked its magic. He could hear the squishy sounds of his stroking and his erection returned. He leaned harder on the door with no result. “Art? You there?” he called out. There was no answer and he waited.
“Art?” he called more tentatively, more anxiously. He was aware that his pulse was racing and the air in the closet was growing increasingly stuffy. He was breathing faster through his mouth knowing that rationally he was only about an inch and a half away from the sanity of an everyday world, locked in this crazy closet that grew confining. He felt an odd oppression; it took a moment to determine that he had stuck his finger in his own ass. His hard on pulsed in his hand and he realized he was on the verge of coming. “No,” he panted and barely avoided orgasm.
He stood up and tried the door again. It was solid and unyielding. “Art?” he called and then “ART!” he yelled. An involuntary sob echoed in his ears. There was a click and the door opened. Phil collapsed into Arts hands and then to the floor on his hands and knees.
Art acted and Phil responded at once. There was no pain as Art pushed his dildo covered cock into Phil. Phil immediately felt an anguishing sense of pleasure as his orgasm began. It felt like the semen was wrenched from his body into a vacuum and he collapsed flat on the floor still pumping his hips before it was over. Art immediately pulled out of Phil's ass and stood away from the confused man. Phil again felt his nakedness; and a chill penetrated his body. He shivered and had only his hands to try to use as a blanket. “Art, help.”
Art joined Phil on the floor, covering him with his body and a light but warming blanket. As Phil felt the warmth he heard the words. “You were in the closet for fifteen minutes. Everything you felt you created in your own mind.”
Phil clutched at Art and this time Art allowed him a few kisses. Then he began prodding Phil with the dildo pushing it between his thighs, pushing them apart, seeking Phil's asshole; but the dildo was only preparatory. Before Phil was comfortable, it was replaced by Art's fist. Art was a small man; but any fist is still a fist and much bigger than the dildo The fist wasn't comfortable at all. Even as Phil felt his growing arousal, the pain remained. Even when he came, the pain was primary. It was only after the pain stopped that Phil knew it as pleasure. And if it was pleasure, then there wasn't really any pain. He sighed and cooed and felt more fulfilled than he had ever felt before.
Art tolerated another kiss, a very brief kiss. Then he threw Phil out before he was fully dressed. Phil carried his shoes the two blocks back to his own apartment.
Rory,
Art is one bad ass fucker; Phil is fucked up, in more ways than one.
If he doesn't get help, he's going to get seriously hurt.
Meanwhile, back at the Museum, Tom and the girls are making an interesting workforce. Lucky The Scum is still true to form.
I, too, am looking forward to their interview process.
And, what CAN an ENGLISH major do who doesn't write?
Type? Catalog Art? I'm still wondering - there's a definite lead in there. Pay won't be great, but the potential exposure to other people might be.
And, what happens in the Dacha, STAYS in the Dacha.
Art is one bad ass fucker; Phil is fucked up, in more ways than one.
If he doesn't get help, he's going to get seriously hurt.
Meanwhile, back at the Museum, Tom and the girls are making an interesting workforce. Lucky The Scum is still true to form.
I, too, am looking forward to their interview process.
And, what CAN an ENGLISH major do who doesn't write?
Type? Catalog Art? I'm still wondering - there's a definite lead in there. Pay won't be great, but the potential exposure to other people might be.
And, what happens in the Dacha, STAYS in the Dacha.
