Best Gay Erotica 2007, page 11
“Yes, that sounds wonderful.”
He poured some dark, thick liquid into an enameled mug and set it in front of me.
“Looks like we’re in for a storm tonight,” he said as he sat at the table.
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight…?”
He cocked his head at me for a moment before answering. “Er, no, I saw it on the Weather Channel.” He tried not to look smug; I felt suitably chastened.
“Do you keep the lighthouse?” I ventured.
“Arr, no, I broker real estate in Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. The Internet has been very liberating for me, let’s me telecommute.”
So far the score was intrepid traveler: 0, gnarly old man: 2. “But,” I protested, “that was an old lighthouse I saw outside, wasn’t it?”
“Arr, that it were, that it were. And,” he puffed on his pipe and then took it out of his mouth to point the stem at me, “therein lies a tale you’ll be wantin’ to hear.”
Oh good, here it came. “Yes, of course.” I picked up my mug of coffee, using it to warm both my hands.
He began: “It’s a tale of unnatural love and tragedy that was the biggest scandal around these parts for years before or after.” He was evidently well practiced at telling his story, and clearly relished the chance to tell it again.
“This lighthouse last shone its light on a warm summer evening in July 1889, the night of the new moon and doubly treacherous for sailors.
“The retired Captain of a whaling fleet lived then in this house. He had been successful at his work, retiring in his early forties. When he was on land he preferred the seclusion of these modest and remote surroundings.
“Living in a room over in the lighthouse was the lighthouse Keep, by all accounts a big, rugged bear of a man with fiery red hair. Many’s the time the Keep and the Captain would share meals and companionable times together, despite the differences in their social backgrounds. No one knew it at the time, but it all came out afterward that the Captain and the Keep were secretly lovers, and had been for nearly eighteen years by that summer.
“Earlier that spring, a young nephew of the Captain, barely sixteen years old, came to live as a Ward of the Captain. He had recently been orphaned when his parents were killed in a tragic accident. The Ward took to these remote surroundings and quickly recovered his youthful zest for life. The three of them seemed to find comfort and delight in each other’s company.
“But their idyllic arrangement was not to last. As the summer unfolded, it seems that the Keep developed an unquenchable carnal lust for the Ward. The Keep had also begun to harbor peculiar notions about how to rejuvenate his own body to regain his youthful vigor, notions that involved mystical, sadistic rituals, according to some. These two unstoppable forces in the Keep’s mind finally collided on the night of that new moon in July.
“The Captain, you see, had been called away to consult with the government, for whom he served as an adviser on nautical matters. He was gone for several days, returning two days earlier than expected.
“He arrived late, well after dark, but was surprised to find his house dark and—verified by a brief search—deserted. Perhaps his Ward and the Keep were in the lighthouse, swapping late-night stories and playing cards, as they often had before. Sure enough, he saw candlelight flickering through the open door of the lighthouse as he walked toward it.
“However, the sight that greeted his eyes when he reached the door was far from the innocent recreation he had imagined. He saw his Ward manacled to some infernal machine, totally naked, with numerous welts visible on his flesh; the lad may even have been unconscious by that time.
“The Keep, himself totally naked save for leather boots and a leather mask, held a bullwhip in his hand, intent on his deviant ritual.
“Outraged, the Captain cried out for a halt to the diabolical proceedings. Startled by the intrusion, the Keep dropped his whip and ran up the stairs toward the top of the lighthouse.
“Now in a fit of jealous rage at the Keep’s betrayal, the Captain pursued the Keep to the top of the lighthouse. What really happened there, we’ll never know. The official story was that the Keep, faced with the certain revelation of his proclivities, jumped to his death on the rocks far below. Unofficially, most folks around here believe that the Captain threw the Keep over the railing himself, but none could fault him for it.
“That night, the lighthouse went dark and was never illuminated again. The Captain nursed his Ward back to health. The Ward never spoke of the incident, nor gave any indication that he even remembered any of the events of that night. The Captain never regained his former spirit; he died just a few years later, a diminished and broken man. The Ward eventually got married and continued to live in this house—he was my great-grandfather. And legend has it that, on nights of the new moon, the ghost of the Keep prowls restlessly about the lighthouse, hoping to consummate his bizarre ritual.”
He finished his tale and puffed on his pipe with satisfaction, waiting for my predictable response.
“Shocking!” I said, shaking my head.
He nodded. “Arr, that it were, that it were.”
“I don’t suppose,” I ventured, “that tonight, by any chance, happens to be a new moon?”
Again he nodded. “Arr, that it is.” Suddenly he whipped the pipe from his mouth and leaned across the table, a look of earnest urgency on his face. “You might wish to mock my tale, but you would be wise not to go near the lighthouse tonight.”
I was a bit taken aback. “I certainly won’t.”
“Good, good. Well, let’s get you into bed, safely tucked away from this old man’s ghost stories. We’ll have an early morning.”
He pushed himself up wearily from the table and led me to a small room off the kitchen. It was furnished with a small table and chair and a single bed already made up.
“Heed my warning and have a good sleep,” he said as he withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
I was, indeed, terribly fatigued, so I got out of my clothes quickly, slipped into bed, and turned off the bedside lamp. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, and the blankets warm and cozy. I barely had time to hear the old man climb the stairs to this own room before I fell into a deep sleep.
I don’t know what brought me so quickly out of my deep slumber, but I awoke to the sound of a loose window shutter banging against the cottage. Apparently the storm was underway and it was windy. I got out of bed and pulled on my trousers to investigate.
I looked in vain through the kitchen windows for a loose shutter, but by then the banging had stopped anyway. However, my attention was drawn toward the lighthouse, where a warm glow spilled from an open door, a light such as might have come from a multitude of candles.
As I watched I was startled to see a shadow come and go, as though someone were pacing just inside the lighthouse door. Without much thought, I imagined that my host was preparing a display to enhance his ghost story.
Woooooo! Heed my warning and do not approach the lighthouse indeed. Booga! Booga! I thought in response. Then I did exactly what I shouldn’t have: I disregarded my host’s stern warning, went out the kitchen door, and walked toward the lighthouse. As I drew closer, I had the fanciful notion that the light from the door had mystical, magnetic powers pulling me inexorably closer. Perhaps such notions were the result of strong coffee and gothic tales before bedtime.
I reached the lighthouse and stood in wonder outside the doorway. What I had expected was nothing to do with the reality that confronted me. Directly opposite the door, built into the curve of the staircase that spiraled along the outside wall, was a large wooden device built of substantial timbers, each some six or seven feet long, in the shape of a large X. The extremity of each timber was wrapped with chains, attached to which there appeared to be leather straps.
In front of the wooden device, in the center of the floor, lay an enormous bullwhip, resembling nothing so much as a very large, very scary snake lying in wait for prey. Spooky and intimidating.
As I had imagined, the entire scene was illuminated by what must have been a hundred candles. There were candles everywhere, in candlesticks, on steps, hanging from sconces, and simply sitting on the floor. As before, I felt mysteriously drawn by the light to step through the door.
I had read enough of these types of stories to know what was about to happen, but I guess I thought surely not this time, not here. This is reality, after all, not gothic fiction.
Suddenly the light went out—an opaque bag had been thrown over my head. I couldn’t remove it, because now someone much stronger than I was holding my arms pinned behind me. The last thing I remember is something like a smell of mint, and then I blacked out.
As consciousness returned, I felt groggy and sluggish and in no hurry to wake up. For some reason, my shoulders ached. I had just turned my head and cracked an eyelid to see why when I heard the crack of a whip and felt something tickle my left nipple.
Awareness returned in a flood and my eyes popped open. I barely had time to register the presence standing before me, nor realize the consequence of his drawing back the hand holding the whip, before there was another crack and a sensation at my left nipple like a fluttering tongue.
Despite his obvious skill with the whip, I wasn’t convinced that this game’s odds were in my favor. Sooner or later this whip business was likely to prove painful, and I don’t do pain very well.
The whole situation was wholly unreal. Could I have predicted a week ago that tonight I would find myself in an abandoned lighthouse, stripped naked—had I mentioned that?—lashed to a St. Andrew’s cross, experiencing foreplay-at- a-distance through the agency of an eight-foot bullwhip? He pulled back his whip hand and—crack!—I felt a touch light as a feather across my balls. Hey! This was getting serious!
Who was this guy anyway? I’d vaguely been thinking it would be my host, but this clearly was not the gnarly old man. No, this apparition was well over six feet tall, with shoulders nearly as broad as the lighthouse door and a burly build to match. His body was covered with flaming red hair, at least all the parts that I could see, which was most of him since the sum total of what he wore was: leather gloves, knee-high leather boots, and a leather hood that covered the top half of his head but stopped short of the full, red beard that covered the rest of his face.
Certainly he could be described as a “big bear of a man.” Was this meant to be the prowling ghost of the lighthouse Keep here to consummate his eternally frustrated ritual?
Once again he primed his whip, once again with the earsplitting crack, and I felt a gentle tweak at the tip of my dick. My first reaction was to complain that this dangerous farce had gone on long enough, but I was betrayed by my dick, which had grown full and very firm, in evident affirmation of this unique stimulation. Judging from the state of the Keep’s own intimidating erection, it seemed to be working for him, too.
This foreplay with the whip seemed to be over. The Keep slowly, deliberately coiled it in his hand then stepped toward me. I was entranced by the sight of his heavy, meaty dick bobbing its head at each step.
He stepped right up until the tip of his hard-on touched the tip of mine. The feeling was electrifying. I stared into his eyes as he stared back into mine. I felt his warm breath fall down my chest and wondered: do ghosts breathe?
With the whip he gently caressed my dick, slow strokes up and down the entire shaft. At one point a drop of hot wax dropped onto my shoulder from a candle in the sconce hanging above my head. My dick jumped in surprise; the Keep snorted at my reaction.
Without warning he swiftly lifted his whip and coiled it two, perhaps three times around my throat. I was concerned about his intentions, but strangely aroused as well. My dick could not have been more engorged than it was right then.
He pulled just enough on the ends of the whip to tighten it slightly around my neck. At the same time he squatted somewhat and began working on my nipples. At first he merely licked and brushed them with his beard. Before long he began biting them, starting with light nibbles that got progressively firmer and, I might add, more painful and more pleasurable. Between my nipples and the whip wrapped around my throat, I was starting to feel light-headed. I was startled again when another drop of hot wax fell on my shoulder.
With another tug on the leather noose the Keep moved his attention to my very attentive erection. He sucked and licked, again with great deliberation, for many minutes while I concentrated on trying to breathe in enough air, a challenge I feared I was slowly losing.
Just as I felt certain to pass out—whether from lack of oxygen or in ecstasy or both—the Keep released his hold on the whip and pulled it free of my neck.
He dropped to the floor and positioned himself on his back with his head beneath my dick, his naked body stretched out on the floor in front of me. It was a sight I was sure to remember, provided I survived the night.
Again, he found a creative use for his whip. He grabbed the business end and coiled it a few times around my dick. When he held the two free ends and twisted them, the coil around my dick tightened into a leather sleeve that he used to jerk me off. At the same time he started stroking his own dick with the identical rhythm.
As I watched him jerk himself, it almost felt like his dick was an extension of my own, his perfect tempo taking me ever closer, ever so slowly, toward my own climax.
I was nearly there, and the Keep knew it. At the last moment, he released his hold on the coil around my dick, grabbed the butt end of the whip and pressed it against my asshole. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. With his insistent pressure the end of the whip slipped inside of me.
Suddenly, all my senses were overwhelmed. The room, the candles, the hot wax, my bondage, the vision of the Keep lying naked before me, the sight of him jerking his dick, the whip deep inside me—it was too much. He fucked me with only a few strokes of the whip before I came with a vengeance. Hot cum spewed from my dick, covering the Keep’s prone body from his neck to his belly. Several more times he plunged in the whip, and each time I pumped out another load.
Here, then, was the consummation of his ritual, the elixir for which he eternally searched. He jerked himself off with maniacal fervor and in moments covered himself with his own copious amount of cum, pools of pearl-white liquid that merged with my own contributions.
We were exhausted, fully spent—at least, I was. I tried to relax, to slow my heartbeat, to regain normal breathing, to get the feeling back in my shoulders, and to see whether I might persuade the bullwhip, which still dangled from my butt, to slip out of my asshole.
Suddenly a gust of wind howled around the lighthouse, throwing shut the door then flinging it open again. The candles flickered ominously. The howl of the wind increased to a roar that sounded uncannily like an angry voice.
The reaction of the Keep was remarkable. As if in fear of the sound, he leapt to his feet and ran full out up the stairs toward the top of the lighthouse. I listened with increasing despair as the sound of his boots on the steps grew more distant and then vanished.
Five seconds, maybe ten, passed in silence and then another gust of wind howled around the lighthouse. This time, however, it created an unearthly and chilling sound disturbingly like a human scream. Was this the ghost of the Keep, falling once again to his death on the rocks below? Was he fated to endure the horror of his death for all eternity?
The sound of the scream receded. Suddenly, the silence was absolute, and I felt very alone, very abandoned. I had barely begun to worry about my predicament, when I noticed once again a faint odor of mint and passed out.
I awoke to find myself lying comfortably in my bed in the cottage, with bright morning sun streaming through the window. I heard someone, presumably the gnarly old man, moving about in the kitchen. He must have been preparing breakfast: there were sizzling sounds and the most welcome smell of bacon cooking. I quickly got up and threw on my clothes, noting that my arms were rather stiff around the shoulders. I walked into the kitchen, relieved to see that it was the gnarly old man and not another apparition. He gestured for me to sit at the table, where he fed me a hearty meal of fried eggs and bacon. I ate with an unusually aggressive appetite. Our conversation was minimal. At one point he looked in my eyes and pointedly asked, “So, I hope ye slept well and sound.”
“Oh yes,” I said with great conviction, “quite well indeed. It must be the sea air.”
He regarded me skeptically, but decided to pass on the cross-examination. “Arr, that it be, that it be.”
We finished our meal in silence and drank the last of the coffee. Then he slapped the table and announced, “Well then, let’s get the old truck fired up and go get you pulled out of the ditch.”
“Sounds good to me.”
KURT
Jonathan Asche
Thursday
I’m standing at my apartment door, trying to keep my hand steady as I put my key in the lock, when my new neighbor steps out. He looks at me as he locks his door, smiles and says hello. He’s cute—I noticed that when I saw him moving in a couple of weeks ago— and, according to my gaydar and the rainbow sticker on the back window of his car, family.
I say hello back as I push my key in. He introduces himself, says his name is Jake and offers his hand. I transfer the bag I’m holding to my other hand and we shake. I offer a hasty I’m-James-nice-to-meet-you. I notice his interested smile, but he’s too late. Had he introduced himself to me a week ago, I might’ve been more accommodating—giddy, even.
When he starts with the small talk I quickly excuse myself, saying I have some work I need to get caught up on, and open my apartment door.
“Okay,” Jake says. “Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime?”
