Boys In Heat, page 3
“I know a place,” he tells me, as if that’s explanation enough. I don’t ask how he knows or where it might be. Instead I watch his hand work in my lap, and after an eternity, I finally talk myself into placing mine over it. He turns his hand over, and his grip is warm and confident. I like the way his black nail polish looks, like little glossy squares where his nails are. His fingers curl around mine, holding me fast, and my dick strums with desire just a thin layer of clothing away.
Before I know it, we’ve pulled into the parking lot of a rundown motel that looks like it caters to truck drivers and prostitutes. From the way Damien drives past the office, I figure he must have stopped already and gotten the key before picking me up. We pull around behind the motel and coast to a stop at the end of a long row of rooms. Damien extracts his hand from mine and yanks up the parking brake. “We’re here.”
I clamber out of the Camaro, an exit much less graceful than Damien’s. While I’m straightening my shirt, trying unsuccessfully to stretch it down enough to cover the obscene outline of my dick in the front of my jeans, Damien comes around the back of the car and hooks one of my belt loops on his way by. There’s a black messenger bag slung over his back. “Props?” I ask as he leads me to the door of our room. His smile intrigues me. Suddenly I wonder if there was anything I should have brought, but other than the handful of condoms shoved into my back pocket, I can’t think of what else we could possibly need. Lube maybe, but the condoms are heavily lubricated and I’m sure there’s a free minibottle of lotion in the bathroom just waiting to be put to good use.
Inside, the room is sparsely furnished—one large bed, a nightstand with a phone, a huge mirror that dwarfs the small dresser beneath it, a lamp that’s already on. “I see you’ve been here,” I say as I close the door behind me.
Damien shrugs and the bag slips off his shoulder to the bed. “Once or twice,” he admits.
I so didn’t need to know that. “I meant—”
He gives me a saucy wink I’ve seen before, through the lens of his webcam. “I’m kidding,” he says, but I don’t quite believe him. With a pirouette, he flops onto the bed and leans back, checking me out.
I glance about the room, searching for something to focus on, something safe, something not Damien, but he’s like a vortex in the center of my world. No matter where I look he’s there, in the corner of my vision, watching me. Where’s this nervousness coming from? This isn’t me. Online I’m so much cockier, so different. Trying to keep that in mind, I ask, “Like what you see?”
“I can look at you online,” he replies. He shakes his long hair behind him and says, “Come over here and let me touch you already.”
“What’s in the bag?” I want to know. He doesn’t answer, just reaches out and snags the waistband of my jeans to reel me in. I laugh as he thumbs open my fly. “You’re all about jerking me around, aren’t you?”
My zipper parts beneath his insistent hand. “I can jerk you off,” he offers, a slight smile toying with the edges of his mouth. He has a wide mouth, much larger in real life than I imagined it to be, with strong teeth that flash when he grins and a tongue that’s pink and tempting. I want to kiss him again, feel that tongue against mine, and I surprise both of us by climbing onto the bed above him. His hand rubs at the front of my underwear as I push him back, my mouth seeking his, but he waits until he’s against the bedspread with nowhere else to go before he gives in to me. It’s a rough kiss, desperate. Damien rubs my erection through my briefs, sending shivers of pleasure shooting through me with each stroke, and I hump against him, my legs splayed on either side of his hips, my weight bearing down into the palm of his hand. Some very small part of me is aware of his other hand fumbling at the bag beside us, unzipping it blindly, reaching inside for whatever he’s got in there, and for a brief second I wonder if he has a fetish I don’t know about yet, if he’s pulling out a huge dildo he plans to ram into me, or maybe whips and chains. But the reason we agreed to meet like this, the reason we even started talking online, is that he’s a bottom and I’m not. He’s been adamant about that from the start. Behind my closed eyes, I can see the line of text from his instant message: when we hook up just remember i’m the one getting fucked brandon, alright? i’m dying to have that thick cock of yours shoved so far into me i can taste it in the back of my throat. This, two days after I sent him a webcam shot of my dick, something I’d never done before, but look where it got us.
Damien works down the front of my briefs, exposing my cock and tucking the material below my balls. I break away from him long enough to get a look at whatever it is he’s taken out of the bag, only to find myself blinded by the sudden flash of a camera. I push away from him and roll off, hurt. A camera? While we’re—
“Damien!” I cry, scrambling to the edge of the bed. But I misjudge the distance, the pants around my hips don’t give me much movement, and I fall to the floor in a horny, aching heap. My underwear bites into the tender skin below my balls and I struggle to pull it into place, but I’m too hard and too close to coming to be able to force myself back into the confines of those briefs. A camera. To take pictures of what, us? Me? For who? If he’s posting this shit online… He rolls to the side of the bed, looks down at me, that damn grin still in place. As I fight with my clothing, I spit out, “Fuck you.”
“Brandon,” he starts. A gentle hand smoothes over the top of my head but I shake it away. It settles on my shoulder and I scoot out of reach. “Listen to me,” Damien says, his voice low and comforting. “Brandon, it’s not what you think.”
“I think you’re fucking sick,” I tell him. Somehow I get to my feet, but my hard shaft points directly at Damien’s face and when he takes a playful bite at it, I turn my back to him. “What are the pictures for, your blog? I’m not some show-off cam boy like you.”
“You sent me that pic of your dick,” he points out.
“For your eyes only!” I tell him. I’m amazed that I’m still so hard for him despite this. Maybe because of it, a voice inside me whispers, but I refuse to believe that. “I thought we were here to hook up,” I tell him, finally pulling up my briefs. They’re damp and clammy against my skin, my hands smell of musk and sex, my cock burns with a sweet fire that threatens to set me aflame but I ignore it. I stagger as I try to pull my jeans up. “You never said you wanted to document the deed.”
Damien touches the small of my back. I’m precarious anyway, teetering on one foot as I wrestle with the jeans, and it’s all too easy to fall back on the bed beside him. “Brandon,” he murmurs, kissing my shoulder. His lips are hot through my shirt. I want to push him away again but can’t. As if he knows this, he nuzzles against me, forces his head under my arm to rub his nose into my ribs. His hair feels impossibly soft beneath my hand. “My little broken boy,” he calls me, a play on my username that melts whatever defenses I’ve tried to shore up between us. He says my real name again, lays his head in my lap. My hand is on his back now—when did he remove his shirt? He has two small wings tattooed between his shoulder blades, and I brush his long hair aside to trace the curve of the ink on his pale skin. He’s playing with my dick again, one finger poking at the swollen head through my briefs. His breath tickles along my inner thighs. As if nothing happened, he asks, “You have any tats?”
I frown at the wings on his back. “No,” I admit. I feel I have to add, “I’ve thought about it but haven’t really decided what I want to get.” Then, not ready to let him win yet, I ask, “What did you bring a camera for?”
He licks the front of my briefs and laughs. “I’m a cam whore, Brandon. You know that.” When I don’t reply, he says, “I wasn’t going to put them online.”
“What were you going to do with them?” I want to know.
He shrugs, a move that settles him on my lap, and his tongue licks out again, rubbing insistently at the slit in my cockhead. “Just get off on them later,” he tells me. He kisses me through the briefs, his lips now working my hard length. “If you come now,” he asks, “can you come again later when we fuck?”
“We’re still arguing,” I point out.
Damien grins against my crotch. “No, we’re not.”
I’m not so ready to give in. “Why didn’t you tell me about the camera before?”
Another shrug—he’s infuriating. “I didn’t know the flash would go off.”
“Damien!” I push him away but in one fluid movement, he slides off the bed and stands in front of me; unzips his jeans, hooks his thumbs into the waistband, pushes both jeans and underwear to the ground; steps out of the clothes, an uncut dick jutting from the swirl of black hair at his crotch, his eyes never leaving mine. He pins me in place with that stare like headlights in the night. I don’t realize he’s climbing onto me until he eases me to the bed, and then it’s too late to hold him back. “Damien, no,” I try, but my hands touch his flat stomach and find their own way up the narrow plane of his body, over the tattooed vine that trails from his navel to circle around one hard nipple, over his shoulders to cradle his jaw in my palms as I pull him in for another kiss. His lips glance off mine to suck at a sensitive spot behind my ear and I sigh into the sheet of his hair that tickles beneath my nose. “You’re evil,” I tell him.
He laughs, a little breathless, and says, “You like it.” His hands rub along my sides, pushing my shirt up out of the way, and then he sits down on my throbbing crotch, pulls the shirt off over my head, and tosses it aside. He fingers the camera beside us on the bed. “Can I?” he asks.
I want to say no, but I don’t want to lose what we have between us, this moment or the past three weeks or how he makes me feel, the surge I get whenever I see his name in my in-box, the strangling rush of lust when he looks my way. “Swear to me that the pictures don’t go online.”
His smile is promise enough. “You’re so sexy,” he tells me as he brings the camera to his face. I try not to feel self-conscious when the flash goes off, but I still feel exposed and vulnerable and not a little bit used. As if he knows this, Damien rocks above me, rubbing his ass against my still-hidden dick. “Smile for me,” he says.
I do, but it’s a halfhearted gesture. “Are you going to want to do that while we’re getting it on?”
Damien makes a strangled sound and sticks his tongue out at me like a petulant little boy. “You’re mean.” He snaps off another picture or two, then tosses the camera onto the pillows beside us. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring the video feed. I could make a killing selling porno DVDs. Bel Ami has nothing on us.” Before I can answer, he laughs. “I’m kidding. Don’t you trust me?”
“I thought I did,” I say.
“You do,” he assures me. He starts to stroke himself, the head of his cock peeking out at me from the foreskin, and I have to touch it, just to see what it feels like in my hand. When I thumb over the knob, creamy juice trickles out. Damien takes my wrist and makes me lick it. He tastes salty and just a little bitter. When I reach for him again, eager for more, he catches my hand and laces our fingers together. “Where are the condoms?” he wants to know.
“My back pocket.” I try to touch him with my other hand, but he grabs that one, too, then spreads my arms out to either side and leans down over me for a quick kiss. I whisper into him, “No fair.”
“I don’t know about you,” he says, his words mere breath against my skin, “but I’m ready to get fucked. Roll over.” Before I can comply, he rolls me onto my side and digs out a handful of condoms from the pocket of my jeans. They scatter beside me on the bed. Then Damien tugs on my jeans and briefs, pulling them down as he scoots to the edge of the bed. I kick off my shoes and pants and he crawls back on top of me. Then he presses against me, his hips rubbing our cocks together, his shaft as hard and unyielding as my own. For a brief moment we kiss, his arms encircling me, trapping me between him and the bed. Just as I begin to move against him, though, he sits up and straddles me again. “Cheers,” he says as he rips open a condom packet. With expert moves, he rolls it onto my shaft and leans above me for another kiss. “Guide me into you,” he whispers.
Holding the condom tight around the base of my dick, I massage my balls while my other hand rubs between Damien’s legs in search of entry. I find his puckered hole and finger it, which makes him moan my name in a guttural voice. I ease him down, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of my head, his mouth open, cheeks slack, brilliant eyes closed in pleasure. When I’m inside, he sits on me, taking me in completely, and as he rocks against me, my hands push down against the tops of his thighs, holding him in place. We find a slow rhythm, steady; his muscles work at my cock, squeezing me to orgasm, and I thrust up into him over and over again as he moves above me.
At some point he opens his eyes, stares down into me, his gaze unwavering, consuming, devouring me. The intensity of his stare, the emotion I think I see behind his dark eyes, drives me to a shuddering climax and his name claws out of my throat in a hoarse cry with the force of my orgasm. Once I come, he scoots up closer, astride my chest, and lets me suck the tip of his dick while I work the foreskin back and forth, bringing him to release.
Later I agree to more pictures, if only because I like the way his eyes light up when he holds the camera in his hand. He takes shots of me sprawled on the bed, wrapped among the sheets, coyly peeking out at the lens. He likes my lips and wants close-ups of them on his dick, which I’m all too eager to taste again. Inside the bag are candles that he lights and places around the room. More photos, these of him dribbling hot wax onto my back, the curve of my buttocks. A shot of one lit candle precariously stuck a few inches into my ass—uncomfortable, yes, but I trust him and he says it looks incredibly hot, my hard cock sticking out between my legs at the same angle as the candle above.
Then it’s my turn, and he wants me to take him from behind, camera clicking as I fuck him again and again, and I suspect he’s converted me into a cam whore, too.
Because I’m tattoo-less, Damien uses a black marker to draw an intricate design that swirls from one hip bone to the other and spans the space between my navel and dick. He hovers above me, the narrow marker ticklish on my skin, his hair like feathers where it brushes along my thighs. I lie back and stare at the ceiling while he works, trying not to breathe, but every now and then a giggle escapes my lips, and I have to sit up to check on his progress. He looks so serious, frowning at the lines he’s inking onto my skin. “This is permanent?” I ask him.
“It’ll come off eventually,” he replies, distracted. His face is just inches above my crotch, and my dick keeps trying to stand up beneath his chin. He holds it down with one hand, which only makes it more eager for his touch. At one point, it brushes his cheek and he kisses it, an absent gesture that makes me laugh. I think I love him. Has it really only been three weeks? It feels like forever. The marker dances across my stomach as he draws and my skin flutters at the touch. “Brandon,” he warns.
In the same warning tone of voice, I say, “Damien.” He gives me a cautionary look, which only makes me sputter with stifled laughter. Then, getting serious, I ask, “Can we do this again?”
He blows across my belly. “Soon as the ink dries.”
“I don’t mean now,” I tell him. At the questioning look he gives me, I explain, “We can have sex again, I’m not saying that. But I meant can we do this whole thing all over again? Like next weekend, or something?” His stare unnerves me, I can’t read behind it, I have no clue what he’s thinking. What if this is it for him? What if we go back to an online relationship that slowly unravels until we drift apart? What if—“What do you think?” I want to know. “I mean, about hooking up again—”
A sly grin pulls at his mouth and lights up his eyes. “Next weekend sounds good to me,” he says. Then, recapping the marker, he sits up on the bed and stretches his legs toward my head. I grab one of his feet, then thread my fingers through his toes. Lying on his side, he rubs at my balls and asks, “Ever done a sixty-nine?”
In response, I slide down to take his uncut length into my mouth again.
COCKFIGHTING
Keith Peck
He speaks slowly, the blond one does, his voice scratchy from ambient cigarette smoke, over the very bluesy, very up-tempo music the band plays outside on the patio. It’s not overly noisy inside the bar here at Sadlack’s, since most everyone is on the patio swaying with the beat. But it’s loud enough to keep him from being overheard.
“I’m not bullshitting you, pussy. I can make a dude cum twice, just from pluggin’ his hole. Hands free.” He gazes across the U-shaped bar, through the windows that look down on the parking lot in front of the Buddha’s Belly, the skater-cum-head shop next door. “You’re lucky if the guy even feels your prong.”
He shifts his jean-clad ass on the stool, taps a square-toed boot against the bar. A golden Vandyke rings his lips. A dark blue bandana keeps his face free of his hair, but a flaxen cascade pours down his back. He is Snake, an appellation now so old it has become his true name. To those who inquire about his name, Snake explains by thrusting into their surprised faces his thickly muscled forearms, tattooed with anacondas entwined and thrusting reptilian penises at each other. He likes to punctuate the gesture with a Gene Simmons tongue-waggle and a Hannibal Lecter hiss.
“I make you cum, bitch,” snarls Skunk, sitting next to him and slowly consuming a beer. He always seems more surly and angry than he actually is. Skunk is not Snake’s brother, though the two have faked it in cheap motels at the top of their lungs. Beautifully long like that of his rival, Skunk’s hair is straighter than Snake’s; it’s also black as his pungent namesake. While Snake is tall and athletic and his skin is for the most part un-inked beyond his forearms, Skunk is tall and lithe and is in the process of covering every square inch of flesh with tattoos. His loose fatigue pants, tucked into his boots, ride low enough on his hips to show a few inches of tattooed skin between his T-shirt and the belt loops. On one bicep, an assortment of disembodied, red-veined eyes gazes upon an African-hued jinni emerging from a mighty bong.
