Best Gay Erotica 2003, page 10
I could see Blake’s clamped jaw through the hood. “You have been pierced before,” I said.
“Yes, sir. But not much, sir.”
I took another needle in my hand. “And it hurts good, doesn’t it?” I said. “Fucks you up fast.” I pinched his left nipple vertically this time and ran it through, making crosshairs of the needles. A high, almost voiceless whine came from the hood. I quickly pierced his right nipple a second time. A thin line of blood trickled down from it.
Blake’s hands were shaking. “Sir, how do you mean ‘made queer,’ sir?” He was struggling for focus, always a good sign to me. Shows me I’m getting through to him, and not just some means to his selfish end, that I’m not here just to get him off. That it’s my playroom and my show and I’m the one in control.
“I was a fat kid,” I said. I pinched the skin on his chest just below his left nipple and ran another needle through. “I got teased. So I fought.” Blake shivered, no doubt due to the endorphins coursing through his body. “I was a wrestler in college,” I said, adding another pinch, another needle, another and another, until there were spidery metal ladders running parallel down his torso. “I was too clumsy to be a boxer,” I said, splashing more alcohol on his stuck and bleeding skin. I put my face to Blake’s. “But here I am, beating the crap out of you,” I said. “I always liked it. My parents unwittingly fostered it, but they didn’t instill it. I was queered to channel my instincts. What did your parents do?”
“Sir?”
“Your parents. What did they do?” Blake was acting stupid. I knew he understood me. Maybe that was part of his game, part of bottoming for him.
“My dad was a surveyor, sir.”
I slapped him hard. “No,” I said. “I mean how did they treat you?”
“Fine, sir.”
“No forced enemas from Grandma? Mommy didn’t wash out your mouth with lye soap?”
“No, sir.”
“Just you, reading comic books as a boy to having leathersex as a man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like I said. You were born to it. And Tom trained you?” “He introduced me to a lot of people, if that’s what you mean, sir.”
Tom had hardly trained him well enough if he says so many words before saying “sir.” “Do you need those jeans?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“Do you need those jeans?” I repeated, a sharp tone in my voice.
“No, sir.”
I took a Tanto knife from the hutch and quickly slit open the seam of his Levi’s. The denim sighed hoarsely against the steel blade, and fell to the floor. I slipped the point up under his balls, giving him a little thrill before cutting away his briefs.
After a quick search, I found a pair of tweezers in the hutch. I grabbed Blake’s balls in my gloved hand and inspected them closely. The hairs were short, clipped maybe three weeks prior. Holding his scrotum tight, I slowly plucked out a single hair with the tweezers. “The Greeks had an interesting standard of beauty,” I said. “They thought pubic hair was vulgar. Big dicks were unsightly, too. Ugly. Only barbarians had them.” I plucked more hair, watching the thin flesh stretch into a small red point, then release the follicle. “The Greeks knew about masculinity. Knew what made a man a man. Knew how to run their schools. Regimented the boys. Taught them philosophy, athletics, how to make war, how to fuck.” I plucked relentlessly, enjoying the busywork. “Not like today. There’s no regimentation, no sense of group purpose. There’s no conforming to community. In my day, you were teased. You were called names. You fought back. It was healthy. These days, you get shot. Where’s the social principle?” I heard him breathing low and steady, the plucking a slow and steadily building irritation. I dribbled some alcohol onto his sac; he hissed as myriad small wounds were cleansed, the liquid fiery on his flesh.
“I’ll be back,” I said. I went upstairs to the kitchen and grabbed another beer from the refrigerator. The tiled walls looked elegant in the moonlight, and I thought it was a shame Blake wouldn’t see them—not this time, anyway. When he was truly a guest, he’d see the rest of the house. If Blake responded appropriately, if he bottomed as he’d been trained, he’d be welcomed back. I may have a reputation as a mean top, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy entertaining. I drank my beer and gazed at my reflection, ghost-like in the kitchen window, distorted and distressingly jowly, not at all what I know I look like. I’m no hot commodity in a youth-obsessed culture, but age seldom matters in the leather world.
When I went back downstairs, I removed the cath. I wanted to get physical with this boy, wanted to hurt him good, see how far I could take him. When the cath was finally out he asked, “May I piss, sir?”
“You can try, but you may not need to,” I said. The blood from the piercings had dried, dotting his torso with tiny crusts. One by one, I took the needles out. Blake kept his head still the whole time, not making so much as a whimper— contemptible, I thought.
“What did Tom tell you about me?”
Blake answered quickly. “That you were a mean top, sir. That he knew you, sir.”
Tom didn’t know me. I mean, we knew each other in the bar, but he didn’t know me. Obviously. Tom had never been to my home. Maybe he set this up, sent this boy home with me to tease me. “What else?”
“Nothing else, sir.”
“Who taught you how to bottom?”
“Taught, sir?”
“Yes, taught.” I punched his gut for emphasis. “Who taught you?”
“Sir, you said I was born to it.”
Another punch. “Don’t argue with me, boy.” I stepped close to him so that he could feel my breath in his face. Suddenly it was clear that Blake couldn’t answer that quickly if he were bottoming properly. “Don’t you find some private part of your mind during a scene like this?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, it’s time someone sent you there,” I said, punching him hard in his gut. Blake slammed against the cross and started coughing, as if afflicted with dry-heaves. Perhaps I’d finally taken him by surprise. His cock stood straight out from his groin. “I’ll show you how to take pain.”
I left him panting for a few minutes while I went to the corner and picked up a small wooden box with a crank on the side and two long wires coming out, which I placed at my feet. I grabbed a butt plug speared with a length of copper tubing capped at the end and held it to his face. “Ever play ‘Telephone’ as a kid?” I asked. I smeared the plug with some K-Y. It felt cold in my hands. “Spread,” I said. I reached through his legs and guided the plug up his hole. “Things always feel colder shoved up your ass, don’t they?” I said, but Blake remained silent. A drop of dickspit oozed out of his hard cock.
“In case you don’t remember, ‘Telephone’ was the game you played by saying something in someone’s ear,” I said, attaching an alligator clamp to one wire. “They’d repeat it to someone, for however many people were playing. By the end, it was usually something different from what was originally said.” I attached the clamp to his balls, sinking the teeth slowly into his scrotum flesh. The other wire I attached to the copper tube sticking out of his ass.
“We’re going to play a variation of that game,” I said. “We’re going to play ‘Tucker Telephone.’ Warden Tucker, as the story goes, was a small-town Georgia jailer, who used a generator just like this one to teach those in his custody some respect.” I picked up the box. “Every time you say something that I think is a lie, you’ll be corrected. Do you understand?
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good,” I said. I fingered the potentiometer dial, made sure it wasn’t set too high. “Who trained you?” I asked.
“Tom, sir—Tom Beauchamp, sir,” said Blake.
“How did he train you?”
“He introduced me to people, sir.”
I gave the box a single crank and Blake jumped. Electricity must be new for him. The plug stayed firmly in his ass. “How did he train you?”
“We played, sir.”
Another crank, and Blake grunted sharply as the juice hammered his balls. “How did he train you?”
“He flogged me, sir. He paddled me, sir. He—”
Two cranks. Blake threw himself against the cross but didn’t cry out. “How did he train you?”
“Sir, I’m not sure I understand the question, sir.”
Two slow cranks sent a sustained electrical kick to his nuts. “Quit playing stupid!”
Blake panted a few moments. “He saw my potential, sir,” he said, more as a question.
“Potential?”
“As a bottom, sir.”
“Why?”
“Sir, I can’t speak for him, sir.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Did you appreciate your training?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did it accomplish?”
“Sir?”
I turned up the potentiometer and cranked once. Kicking any man’s nuts should be this easy. Blake yelped and jumped, tugging at the restraints. “What did it accomplish? What did it do?” The plug jumped up his ass every time I cranked, rubbing hard on his prostate. His cock dripped freely.
After a long pause, Blake said, panting, “Made me a man, sir?”
“Bad answer,” I said, cranking as I replied. Blake screamed, full-throated, but his cock held hard, bobbing as his body thrashed against the cross. A few floggers tapped sympathetically against the pegboard.
“Did they call you ‘faggot’ in school?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“You lie.” I made a great show of dandling my hand on the crank.
“Sir, no one called me ‘faggot,’ sir,” he said, hurriedly.
“Every boy who grows up to be a gay man is called ‘faggot’!” I shouted, and turned the crank angrily. Blake screamed and writhed against the cross, his body a mass of motion. His cock seemed stock still in relief to his body and its frantic spasming, as if it were a stake impaling him in the crotch, which was no doubt what he felt from the juice coursing from his ass to his groin. “Being called ‘faggot’ defines our community!” I yelled, cranking to underscore my point.
I set the box down, yanking the clip from his balls. “You young people,” I said, grabbing his throat, “you take what we made for you and you have no appreciation for it.” I socked him hard in his gut. “We laid out a beautiful plan for you,” I said, bringing my knee to his groin, “and what do you do?” I doubled my fists. “Whatever you want,” I said, punctuating my words with three hard blows to his chest and face. I expected to hear Blake cry inside his hood, but he didn’t; his cock remained hard as ever, with what looked like a drop of jizz leaking from it. “We gave you a community,” I said, landing a punch on his ear, “and you squandered it.” I stood for a moment to catch my breath.
“I don’t understand, sir,” said Blake, softly, but assuredly focused. All this abuse and he was still unmoved, still gallingly present. I went to the pegboard and grabbed a long singletail whip.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” I said. I cracked the whip once into the open room behind me, but Blake didn’t react. Of course he wouldn’t; he had no appreciation for drama, for ritual. I would make him react, force his will, take him down, break him, and make him new where others had obviously failed.
I lashed the whip on his shoulder. “Never called ‘faggot’,” I said, lashing him again on the shoulder, adding a stripe parallel to the first. “Never teased,” and the singletail whistled through the air, striking bright red on the shaved skin of his belly. “Never tormented.” The lash landed this time on his right pec, leaving a sliver of a welt. “You don’t join clubs.” Crack. “You scoff at titleholders.” Crack. “Both your parents loved you.”Crack, in the little well under his throat. “You don’t earn your leather.” Crack. “You simply wear it.” Crack. “You’ve only known safe sex.” Crack. “Always had your perfect existence.” Crack, under his left nipple, leaving a dot of blood that blossomed on his ribs, a sight that made my own cock throb for the first time that night.
Crack. “You always had a family.” Crack. “You never feared for your job.” Crack. “You never feared for your life.” Crack, right above his navel, a wide diagonal welt, yet Blake made no noise, his cock bobbing in the air, hard, fat, defiant, and insulting. “Never had your masculinity questioned.” Crack, left thigh. “Never had your home threatened.” Crack, right thigh. “Always living in your secure, well-adjusted little world.” Crack, askew of his girdle of Apollo, the tender flesh welting brightly, something for his fist to hit when he jacked off for the next week. And still Blake made no noise, resolutely taking everything I gave him, absorbing blow after blow. How I hated him for it.
I put down the whip and realized I was panting. I could smell his blood where it leaked out of his skin. I was determined not to lose my composure, but just as determined to teach him how a scene is done. “Would you like a beer?” I asked, calmly.
“Yes, sir,” he said, totally aware of his surroundings, serene and comfortable.
“I’ll be back.” I went upstairs and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. Then I went into my bathroom. Hidden in plain sight, in the medicine cabinet, was a bottle of roofies, a memento of a former boyfriend. I crushed two between a couple of spoons and dumped them into the beer. I waited a few more minutes for them to dissolve.
Downstairs, I poured the beer down Blake’s throat. “That’s a good boy,” I said, as if cooing to a pet. He had no trouble swallowing, but some still spilled down his leather-covered chin. A half-hour later he was slumped against the cross, dangling from the restraints.
He had provoked me. He’d get what he deserved. I took him off the cross and laid him on the floor. His ass was dimpled, sculpted like the rest of his body, and yielded the plug easily, the copper pipe glinting in the light. I pulled my stiffening cock out of my pants and snugged on a rubber; I would have him, but he would not have me, not my flesh, not my load. He disgusted me. I smeared more K-Y on his hole, already slick with sweat, and laid my full weight on him as I shoved my cock in.
“You’re my sweetmeat now, aren’t you?” I said as I fucked him roughly on the floor. His chin and cheek dragged across the concrete, leaving a trail of drool from his open mouth. “You’re my bitch.” His hole was pliant against my hard cock, rapt yet relaxed, ministering to my thrusts, a hole that knew it was meant for cock, and opened accordingly. “Can’t stop it now, can you?” I said. “Taking your Daddy’s cock, your coach’s cock, your brother’s cock, your drill instructor’s cock.” I punched his kidneys hard. “Your teacher’s cock, your priest’s cock, your doctor’s cock, every cock you’ve ever seen, every cock you’ve ever known, every cock you’ve ever wanted,” I said, and spit on his back. His eyelids fluttered. “Fucking that hole like the faggot-whore hole it is,” I said. When I came, I hammered his back with both fists; a rib cracked.
He was still unconscious at daybreak. I dressed him in his boots, an old pair of sweats, and a ratty T-shirt. I tied a leather cord around his neck, not as a symbol of his interest in leathersex, but like tying a festive package with a colorful ribbon. I dumped him into the bed of my truck, drove to the bar where I picked him up, and deposited him in the entryway. They opened at six, and could surely find a home for him. He wasn’t welcome in mine.
Baying at the Moon
David May
…And shall you, gliding in your silken shirt,
Deny the hidden bruises of your flesh,
Not boast the livid honour of your hurt?
Come; if they fade, I’ll brand you deep afresh.
—Vita Sackville-West
New England is dotted with small towns like this one, villages with empty factories and warehouses that had once been the centers of their economies, empty brick buildings set along rivers and shore lines, buildings converted to shopping centers, offices, and loft apartments with startling views of New England sweeping past village scenes of churches, storefronts, centuries-old houses, markets, and schools— silver-blue winters, burnt-orange autumns, the oppressive green of summer, the brilliant yellow light of spring: views from homes like ours.
I watch him in our kitchen while I’m supposed to be working, watch him move with cool efficiency as he chops, slices, grates, tastes, stirs, and smells. He is manly as he does these things, as I never knew a man could be in a kitchen. I admire him as he goes about his business, calm and collected, confident. I watch him and smile, content with my life. After so many near misses, after too many tears, we are together.
He looks at me, smiles.
“You’re not done, are you, Sir?”
“No, not yet,” I answer.
He shakes his head, not daring to chastise me, nor wanting to.
“They’ll be here before you know it.”
“They” are our dinner guests, people he’s collected in the few years of our life here: The women who own the antique store down the road, the Unitarian minister and her husband, the gay biker couple in the next village, Jake and his new Dutch boyfriend, the mayor and her historian husband. Their combined presence will mean activity, noise, and conversation. I know he’s right and that I should get back to it.
“And you want that grant.”
“This is my grant proposal, not yours, boy.”
He beams.
“Yes, Sir.”
As usual, those two words give me an instant hard-on. I’m tempted to order him to suck my cock right then and there, knowing that he’d obey me in an instant, eager, smiling, and without question. But I also know that this interruption might interfere with his preparations, leading him to apologize for a meal that falls short of his expectations. He would apologize repeatedly, blaming only himself, even when it was my interruption that caused the shortcomings of the meal, shortcomings apparent only to him.
So I only smile instead. Going back to my work I realize once again that I am, as I am every day, happier than I was even a moment before.
