With that, he wrapped his hand—warm, strong—around Scott’s.

  Scott shifted, to make room for his oozing erection. At this rate the pre-cum stain was going to show through his pants in a few seconds. Esteban politely did not comment.

  “And now I want to show you what I think you came here to see. Would you like to follow me?”

  What an ass he had, roundly perfect in black Armani jeans. White men don’t have butts like this. The fabric of his shirt shimmered—black silk. The head of a snake seemed to be tattooed on the base of Esteban’s neck—the rest of it must coil down his back, Scott wondered. How big? Yes, that was the operative question, wasn’t it?

  Scott felt he’d acquired another inch or two with the transition into cyberspace. He wanted to take his cock out, to brandish it. He wanted to strip off his own clothes and stroke his whole body—pierced navel, newly sensitized nipples already hard under the fabric of this shirt, rock-hard ass… But his dick, what the hell did it look like? He’d always had a fantasy about being pierced down there too, and had to know whether he was sporting more metal, without the messy inconvenience of actually having a ring installed. He was dying of curiosity, turned on to the point of trembling (already!), champing at the bit to find out what the lack of constraint by the laws of physics would let him do. For starters, to put it in Esteban’s mouth. His ass. And whatever else he could imagine, thereafter. Orifices not yet invented. Positions corporeal bodies could never wrench themselves into. But that would have to wait at least a few more minutes, wouldn’t it?

  “Yes.” Esteban turned around, winked.

  He gestured to the front door.

  “First I want you to undress. Then close your eyes, Scott, and keep them closed. Promise me you won’t open them again until I give you the signal.”

  Scott nodded. He started to ask if this was safe, but he had seen the tattoos on the back of his hand. If things got weird he could always bail, and besides—he was in the Internet. This was not some kind of kinky real-life scenario, like from an online hookup or a sex club or an ad he had answered in a moment of horny boredom. Was it?

  “Some other time, think about how you’d define the term safe,” Esteban whispered, as Scott stripped. “It’s one of those words like real. People tend to use them without being entirely sure of what they mean.” He kissed Scott’s ear. “You’re a sexy son of a bitch and you know it. They’re going to love you, where we’re going.”

  “And where is that?”

  “If I told you, then you’d know.”

  “Do I already know?”

  “You may. In any case, you’re not far from finding out. Follow me,” Esteban told him, taking his hand. “Don’t worry about crashing into the coffee table or stubbing your toe, by the way. I’m good at making sure things like that don’t happen.”

  Esteban led him outside—the thrill of being seen by neighbors, random passersby—and Scott’s buttocks clenched tight when the cooler air outside hit his skin. Down the corridor they walked, to the elevator. Scott’s hallway had a certain smell, comprising old wood, old carpets, old but fragrant cooking scents married for years into a comfortable family. Nubbly carpet tickled the soles of Scott’s feet. They came to a stop where he knew the elevator landing should be. The scent of baking bread reached Scott’s nose: Mrs. Lukovic, in 408, would be fixing a huge spread for her gang of grandchildren. She could conceivably open the door and see him standing here with Esteban, cock at full attention and oozing. She could conceivably have a heart attack, or stroke, or whatever old Croatian ladies have when they open the door and see their neighbor standing naked, aroused to the point of near-death, hand in hand with a gorgeous unidentified Latin boy. She might totally get off on it. Somehow Scott doubted Mrs. Lukovic had gone dry yet. She probably still had her wild moments.

  “Don’t think about your neighbor,” Esteban told him. “Not that one, at least.”

  Scott’s cock was already flagging slightly.

  “Think about Cameron, down the hall.”

  Schwing

  Cameron: soccer player slash bike messenger slash skateboard rebel slash club kid? Just out of high school, maybe a year or so, going to one of the junior colleges down the Peninsula somewhere? Kind of a departure from type, Scott acknowledged, even within the broad parameters Esteban pointed out. But the spiky unkempt hair with the cowry shell woven into one strand, the deep green eyes, and the veined forearms all spoke a language Scott’s dick understood. He likes boys, an inner voice whispered. He has gone down on a couple of guys he plays soccer with. Once he got fucked by a total stranger standing up in the restroom in an office building in the Financial District—he went in to deliver a message and got picked up because the guy looked at him a certain way. A young lawyer or investment banker, one of those guys, nice suit, little glasses, with that look on his face. Cameron followed him into the men’s room, into the stall, and spread his legs. It went right in. He loved it. Scott could see it—could feel the clench as the ring of muscle expanded as Cameron was entered. He was the cock, the ass, the guy in the next stall who heard them grunt.

  “That’s better,” Esteban said. “Our elevator is here.”

  They rode to the parking garage in silence. The elevator did not stop to admit other passengers. Scott struggled with the urge to open his eyes.

  “I have a car waiting,” Esteban told him when their elevator reached the basement parking garage. He guided Scott across cold—cold!—concrete that smelled of oil and exhaust. Dank breezes blew. The garage smelled dark. Scott’s scrotum seemed to shrivel. “You’ll like it, but of course, you won’t see it.”

  “You’re a depraved man, Esteban.”

  “No, my friend, you are. I am merely a product of your imagination.” His tone of voice conveyed a smile. He chuckled. More of a snort. “Or perhaps I’m not a figment, and you’re correct—I am a raging pervert, and you should get away while you can. Run for your life.” As he said this, he leaned close. The words were hot breath in Scott’s ear.

  “I’ll get far, I’m sure,” Scott said sardonically. “Halfway down the block, at least. A naked man running down the street in this part of San Francisco will attract attention. It’s not like this is the Castro at Halloween.”

  “Hold on.”

  Footsteps; the sound of a door opening. Smell of leather. Esteban’s hand on the back of Scott’s head, guiding him into the rear of a car. Buttery-smooth leather beneath his ass, at his back…

  “This is very Story of O,” Scott said when Esteban had shut the door and taken a seat next to him. “Who’s driving?”

  “The driver,” Esteban said. “You can open your eyes now. You won’t see out the windows, nor through the partition.”

  “Mmm…The Roissy Academy in Orinda—that’s food for thought. Maybe it’s out in Livermore or Stockton. That’s even more perverse.”

  Esteban answered with the Latino equivalent of a Mona Lisa smile.

  “Help yourself to the bar,” he said. “We have enough time for a quick drink.”

  “Algorithms and tonic, anyone?” Scott asked.

  “There’s a very good Riesling in the refrigerator, actually. Why not have a glass?”

  Scott found the bottle, glasses, poured for himself and Esteban.

  The car pulled off the road somewhere, but Scott couldn’t tell whether they had arrived at their destination.

  “Slight detour,” Esteban said, taking a sip.

  He moved like a cat and was suddenly straddling Scott, angling his head forward to kiss. When Scott met his lips, he tasted wine; it trickled into his mouth, warmed slightly from Esteban’s mouth, cool at the same time. He swallowed the wine as best he could with Esteban’s tongue in his mouth.

  A burst of annoyance flared: What the hell to do with the glass of wine? Scott couldn’t figure out where to put it. No sooner had the thought registered, than the glass vanished from his hand. No shock registered; disappearing wineglasses made perfect sense within the laws governing this site.

  Esteban withdrew enough to wink at him, but Scott pulled him close to resume making out. This felt like being a teenager again.

  “These clothes have to come off,” Scott said, tugging at Esteban’s shirt, fingers grazing the navel piercing. Had to lick that. And lower. “You’re not getting out of this car with clothing on, buddy…”

  Esteban smiled, chuckled slightly, allowed his shirt to be pulled off. He had no chest hair. “You’re right: I’m not. Where we’re going, to be admitted, we can’t have anything on. But we have time.”

  “Might as well warm ourselves up, right?” Scott breathed into his ear.

  Esteban squirmed, nodded, now underneath Scott and not protesting as Scott’s fingers fumbled with the top button on his tattered jeans. Finding purchase, he pulled.

  No underwear.

  Scott’s dick said a sudden Hello to his chin.

  The car glided into traffic again, almost imperceptibly. What kind of machine was this, that it should move so smoothly? Scott caught glimpses of other cars through windows darkened almost to opacity. Either this limousine was traveling at the approximate speed of a Concorde or other cars were sitting absolutely still. Yet he felt no sense of motion, much less of breakneck speed.

  “Blower Bentley, specially converted for us,” Esteban murmured. “I take all the credit.”

  “How fast are we going?”

  “Who gives a fuck? I want to taste your dick,” Esteban replied.

  He moved slightly and began sixty-nining with Scott, again in defiance of what Scott had taken to be the laws of anatomy and physics. Sort of a fast-forward through the awkward particulars of finding the right position. Scott found himself in the sweet spot, spread-eagled across the leather bench of the Bentley, his face between Esteban’s legs, a perfect cock oozing a trail of clear fluid, inches from his mouth. The sensation of Esteban’s lips and mouth around Scott’s cock, surrounding it, licking it, Esteban’s hand around the base of the shaft… Scott shut his eyes and blanked out into the moment before coming back to himself long enough to commence returning the favor. Esteban tasted as good as he looked: salty, vaguely sweet, sublime.

  There was no Scott in this moment; he lost himself in it.

  There was just the focus on the beautiful cock in his mouth, and by extension the man attached to it, as his own dick and balls were thoroughly licked, stroked, sucked.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Scott stroked the ridge beneath Esteban’s scrotum and then licked it.

  Esteban writhed and moaned, his mouth around Scott’s cock, licking the head.

  Salty fluid in Scott’s mouth, pre-cum, which Esteban was oozing in generous amounts.

  Scott swallowed it, losing his mind with pleasure from the taste: salt, charcoal, skin, some subtle layer of sweetness beneath, like vanilla or cloves.

  At one point Esteban stopped long enough to murmur something in Spanish and rest his head against Scott’s thigh.

  Scott tentatively touched Esteban’s anus with a fingertip, stroked, caressed.

  Esteban spread his legs a little wider, groaning around Scott’s dick again.

  Scott spat on his index finger, wet it well, slid it carefully into Esteban.

  Esteban’s dick spasmed, seemed to grow even larger; Scott took it into his mouth again and continued pushing his finger into Esteban, encountering enough resistance to be sexy but not so much as to know he was causing pain.

  The ring of muscle clamped around Scott’s finger.

  Esteban stopped ministering to Scott’s dick and lay his head against his abdomen, moaning, covered with sweat.

  “I could fall in love with you,” he gasped, his accent thicker now.

  Scott thrust his finger in slightly deeper, then moved it out, then back in, fucking him with the finger while sucking him off.

  A louder groan from Esteban.

  Esteban’s mouth around his dick again, working it harder this time, frying Scott’s brain again from the impossible hot wet pleasure of it.

  There was nothing but this pleasure, the right here, the right now.

  Two fingers in Esteban’s ass this time…

  Esteban doing the same, first a finger, exquisitely searing feeling of being opened, invaded.

  Two fingers inside Scott.

  First sign of an orgasm beginning to coalesce in the base of Scott’s cock, the juncture of scrotum and penis.

  Then:

  “Don’t come, Scott. We’re here.”

  Esteban withdrew his fingers slowly.

  Scott wanted to scream.

  “We’re here. There’s more where this came from, trust me.”

  How Esteban could maintain such presence of mind…

  You’re inside the Internet, you dildo, Scott reminded himself. Don’t lose sight of that. He considered for a second. He had to admit it: These guys were good.

  He tried to compose himself.

  The door opened, revealing the inside of what Scott took to be a warehouse, orange-lit by thousands of candles.

  Two men—one white, one black, both shirtless and clad only in boots and tight leather pants—stood side by side next to the car.

  “Follow us,” the white one said, exchanging a look with his counterpart. “Don’t say a word.”

  Esteban and Scott slipped out of the car. Scott caught a glimpse of the chauffeur—a Nordic ice goddess who could have been Sharon Stone’s younger sister, clad in leather and vinyl—shutting the door behind them. She left black streaks of rubber on the concrete floor (curiously warm underfoot) when she sped out of the warehouse.

  “This way,” said one of the men.

  Scott couldn’t tell who had spoken, but he followed them through the dim, cavernous space. They walked side by side. Perfect asses, Scott noticed. Roundly muscular. The kind of place where his tongue fantasized about going on an extended working vacation. Esteban took Scott’s hand as they entered a corridor lit only by the occasional candle.

  “Where are we going?” Scott whispered to Esteban as quietly as possible.

  Esteban answered with a finger over his lips. He nodded his head forward and kept walking.

  “No talking,” said one of the men they were following.

  The space where they were led resembled the sanctuary of a medium-sized church. Soaring ceiling held up by intricately carved columns. More candles. Broken stained-glass windows whose colors were impossible to identify in the flickering light of hundreds of candles. It was a church, Scott realized with a certain perverse glee. Or it had been.

  Pews? No, he noticed when he looked more closely. The pews had been replaced by rows of chairs. At the back of the sanctuary were folding metal chairs; at the front, a couple of rows of overstuffed armchairs. The chairs in back were occupied by young men—boys—who Scott suspected were his own age: twenties, early thirties. Scott saw white men, blacks, Asians, Latinos, a few he took to be Middle Eastern; some darkly handsome specimens were impossible to place just on sight. He saw long hair and short hair, a couple of shaved heads, dreadlocks. One cowry shell glinted in the dim light: Cameron, from down the hall. Here? Metal gleamed here and there: earlobes, noses, eyebrows, nipples, a couple of navels. Anything lower was hidden from view, although Scott didn’t doubt there were a few pierced cocks in the room, too. One Asian man with a heartbreakingly handsome face had an enormous, intricate tattooed dragon winding its way up his left arm. One black man with caramel skin and buzzed hair appeared to have been painted with henna—all over. A cursive lattice of black lines covered every inch of a wiry bod. He wore a hoop through his left nostril. Scott wanted to lick him. Would the henna turn his tongue black? He’d take the risk.

  “Sit here.” The white guy who had led them into the room indicated a pair of chairs.

  Scott and Esteban sat. The metal of the chair felt warm, as if someone had just stood up.

  The black guy and the white guy appeared to be photo negatives of each other, Scott observed: Their features were similar enough that they could have been brothers, skin color notwithstanding. Perhaps they were half-brothers. That thought enticed Scott like the first nibbles of an undertow, not that he’d get to ask.

  “We’ll begin momentarily,” said the black guy at the altar. “Blindfolds!” he called to someone Scott couldn’t see.

  Six men decked out head to toe in white latex walked down the central aisle tying blindfolds around the naked guys seated in the folding chairs. Dark flowers of fear budded in Scott’s belly, and for the first time he seriously considered pushing the red I’m out of here tattoo-button on the back of his hand. Nobody put up a fight, interestingly enough, although nobody looked thrilled to have a blindfold tied on, either. Scott couldn’t make out their expressions. He didn’t get any sense of being in danger, but he was definitely off a cliff and plunging deeper into the unknown.

  The sanctuary smelled of incense, flowers, and sex. Scott leaned close to Esteban to breathe in his scent, too, to commit it to memory.

  When Scott’s turn to be blindfolded came, he offered no resistance.

  The wait began.

  He heard footsteps, rustlings, movements he couldn’t identify. More people entering the sanctuary and taking seats? That sounded right. Matches striking, perhaps more candles being lit? Also plausible. Naked men stirring on folding metal chairs, seat bottoms becoming uncomfortable beneath trim buttocks? Not just plausible but likely.

  More footsteps. Someone behind him this time, standing up and walking down the central aisle toward the altar?

  Next, from up front, a liquid flesh-on-flesh sound: kissing. Someone was kissing passionately, grunting, drawing breath in the short, sharp inhalations that accompanied being really turned on.

  Unh, oh!

  Gasps.

  The sound of men moving together, sex commencing.

  The murmurs (oh yeah, man, you’ve got a great dick, let me taste it) just audible.

 

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