Aching For It

Stanley
Bennett Clay

Dominican Heat, Book One

Handsome
Hollywood photographer Jesse didn’t expect to fall in love when he and fellow
black gay comrades ventured on a ”sexcursion” to the Dominican Republic, where
gorgeous young locals offer erotic delights for a reasonable price. But fall in
love he did when he met, under the noblest circumstances, the young and
hauntingly beautiful Dominican bodega worker Étienne.

A
whirlwind romance of deep love and hot, steamy sex ensues, but getting his man
to the States is no easy task for Jesse. He’ll do everything within his power,
even a little law-breaking with the help of his devil-may-care sister, to
ensure that his and Étie’s love flourishes just as hot in Southern California
as it did in their island paradise.

A Romantica®
gay/GLBT
erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Dedication

For
Reny

In 1999, I was a different kind of man. Seeing Étienne
Saldano working behind the counter of a bodega in Santo Domingo, Dominican
Republic, changed me. I was completely in love, as sure as my name is Jesse Lee
Templeton III.

Before I met Étie that year, the pain of my ex-lover Sean
cheating on me ached inside me like stomach cancer. So when my good friend,
travel agent William Castle, told me he was planning a two-week sexcursion to
Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, where young male sex workers, known as
bugarrones
, were readily available for as little as twenty American
dollars, I told him to count me in. Spending two weeks forgetting about that
slut Sean and fucking and getting fucked by some of the hottest men on the
planet was right up my alley.

Once we checked into Casa de Mita, euphemistically called
Casa de Juan, or House of John, the sex fest was on. As promised, hot Caribbean
hunks found their way to the open-air lobby of House of John where we horny
Americanos waited with bated breath.

A stunning, burnt-yellow
bandolero
with a jet-black
mustache as thick as his whiskey-colored lips was the first to arrive. A
copper-toned hottie, bow-legged from the weight of his bulging package,
followed. A mocha beauty with a killer smile and dimpled cheeks licked his lips
and caressed his balls in the entryway of the lobby.

It was Christmastime in the Caribbean as one gorgeous
bugarrone
after another entered bearing the ripe-and-ready fruit of sexual promise and
gratification. Each hand-selected boy toy was ready and willing to give us
American visitors the full tour of Dominican heat that flamed between their
legs for as little as two hundred pesos a ride. It was the dream situation for
any hunk-loving, ass-worshipping, dick-lover, primed and oiled for two full
weeks of no-strings-attached sex. No hole would go undrilled. No drill would go
unpolished.

And so, night after night, I fed my hungry ass with luscious
Dominican
pinga
and, as one who loved fucking as much as getting fucked,
fed many a tight Latin hole with my fat black dick that more than lived up to
the stereotype. I had died and gone to boy-sex heaven.

Or so I thought.

I soon discovered “too much of a good thing” is a valid
concept. After six straight days and nights of fucking and getting fucked by
nameless and shameless island beauties, I was becoming dulled by it all.
Around-the-clock sex suddenly began to feel like a steady diet of ice cream and
cake, and I was turning emotionally wretched by the sickening sweetness. The
need to fuck my ex out of my consciousness was no longer a need. Something
inside me nagged relentlessly as I constantly traded one spent model in for
another. Here I was in this beautiful country spending most of my time humping
in a bed underneath a squeaky Casablanca fan. I couldn’t see the paradise for
the trade.

So when I finally came up for air, that’s when it happened.
That’s when Étienne happened to me.

I didn’t want to believe it, and neither did he, but it was
love at first sight when Étienne and I met at the little shop called Bodega
Colonial where he worked. Even though neither one of us verbalized what was in
our hearts, our meeting was ostensibly business. I was simply a professional
photographer from the States asking a handsome young man to model for me. He
was a young bodega-counter worker gladly jumping at the chance to make one
hundred American dollars just for posing and being photographed all around the
city. But suddenly we couldn’t help ourselves, couldn’t keep our feelings to
ourselves. In a matter of days, we both confessed our love for each other.

And yes, I almost lost Étie once he found out through a
chance encounter with Sylvester Winfrey, one of my sexcursion vacation mates,
and Sylvester’s personal
bugarrone
of choice Edgar that I was just
another john at House of John, the notorious whorehouse gay Americanos
frequented for the purpose of sexually exploiting Étie’s fellow countrymen.

His surprise when he saw Edgar with Sylvester, my surprise
when I realized Edgar was Étie’s ex he’d left when Edgar became a sex worker
was the shocking and near-fatal dénouement that threatened to smother our
infant love before it was able to fully breathe.

But love did indeed claim a conquest. When Étie realized I
had abandoned my sexploitations even before meeting him, and that I had fallen
in love with his country and had fallen in love with him, he forgave me.

I checked out of House of John and into the Santo Domingo
Hilton, where we shared our first and final night of intimacy before I returned
home.

And what a night it was.

I didn’t know if it was real or just some wonderful, magical
dream.

Was I suddenly kissing him? Sweetly stunned by the taste of
his warm, probing tongue exploring my wanton mouth, teasing my hunger to have
any part of him inside of me, and me in him? Was the running of my fingers
through his raven hair, then touching his handsome face with the beautiful scar
underneath his right eye, a desire fantasized or a distinct occurrence?

Was my twenty-four-year-old new Latin lover really naked in
my thirty-eight-year-old arms? Was his thick, stiff young dick really cradled
against mine? Was the hot thrill of him against me too unreal to be real?

No. It was as real as our new and mighty love. Our
lovemaking was proof positive.

When we gave each other oral pleasure to the point of near
explosion, pulling away simultaneously, forcing our passionate gluttony to hold
back some for what was to come, then we knew that our love was so much more
than a dream.

When he teased and then entered my hungry asshole ever so gently
with his pulsing dick and built his rhythm inside me into a frenzy of
unbearable pain and pleasure, I shuddered with the deliciousness. I slammed my
begging hole into his hot lap of lust and luxury. My wicked grimaces, my
heedless wailings as he fucked me with a masterful skill, on my stomach, on my
back, then doggy-style, were my cries for more and then more. He lathered my
bucking back with his moist and warm kisses and his sweet musty sweat.

I desperately tried to bury and muffle my unbearable ecstasy
in the pillow beneath my chin. But the thrill couldn’t be tamed. So I neighed,
part into the pillow I now chewed on, and part into the bed sheets I clutched
for dear life, until we both exploded, he inside the condom inside my grateful
rectum, me in gushes wild and splattering without me ever touching myself.

And then we collapsed into each other’s arms again. We
kissed each other, tasted each other like desperate spouses the night before
one of us would be deployed to some distant, battlefield. In fact, I indeed
would be deployed back to my Southern California home in less than ten hours.
Our time together before my departure was short and precious. So before we knew
it, we were at it again.

He was on his back. His legs were on my shoulders. Both our
dicks bobbed and weaved and shuddered with the weight of their bone-readiness.

“I love you so much, baby,” I whispered softly, bending down
to him, kissing the crown of his precious cock, sparkling and beautifully
mushroomed from the loose foreskin I’d pulled back with one cupped hand, while
my other hand toyed furiously with my own naked-headed, rock-hard cock, pre-cum
erupting from its slit. And suddenly I couldn’t keep myself from sucking that
golden stick of joy of his, with a gluttony barely restrained, until I had
spread his legs and found his other treasure.

The sight of his glistening hole made me tremble. The sweet,
sweaty pucker of his slightly hairy ass was an aphrodisiac. My nose scouted
with earnest his dizzying manroma. And then my tongue bum-rushed and feasted
hungrily upon the entrance to nirvana.

“Oh yes,
Papi
, yes…” he moaned as my anxious tongue
found its way inside him. His hunger, as ravenous as mine, was desperate for a
feeding.

“Yes,
Papi
, yes…it is all yours.”

He found the condom by touch, tore open the package with his
teeth, and with one hand, slipped it on me and rolled it down my nervous shaft.
I lubed him gently between his legs. One finger, then two, found their way
inside his warm and pleading ass.

He writhed up and kissed me. His tongue dug deep into my
mouth. He then arched himself and found my throbbing dick with his ass. He
teased himself upon me, impaled himself with a force that caused him to gasp,
to hold his breath, then let it out with a baby’s whimper.

The pleasure dizzied me. The warmth of his tight and moist
insides consumed me.

He gently grabbed my cakes and guided me into a rhythm in
step with his own. In little time, the grinding and the pumping was marvelously
desperate.

Our kisses and grasping became frenzied. Our passion threw
us to the floor, against the wall, in positions impromptu and invented by lust
and love.

“Fuck me,
Papi
,” he begged in desperation. On a
mission, I obeyed.

His hard and chiseled body, all six feet of him, was splayed
against the wall he fucked while I fucked him. He reached up and clawed that
wall. He reached back and clawed my ass. He jammed me deeper into the ass I now
knew completely belonged to me.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!
Por favor
!” He begged and screamed
and demanded as his nursing hole tightened and flexed and choked my pounding
penis. I panted breathlessly and licked his neck whorishly. Desperately I rode
him and kissed him. I twisted stiff nipples on hard-flexing pecs with abandon.
We were lost in each other, in the righteous ether of the nasty, profane and
profound, until at once we exploded—me inside of him, him splattering the wall
and his six-pack torso with a double load of thick, white man-cream—with
hosanna-like screams and matching cries of jubilation that shattered
tranquility and threatened to summon the law.

I knew I had found my love mate.

Some information can’t be shared with everyone, but when
someone, something, delivers a level of happiness you’ve not known before, it’s
hard to hold back. I wanted to declare our love, Étie’s and mine, from the
highest mountaintop.

Yet there were those who didn’t share our joy. Sylvester
Winfrey was one. I suppose I really shouldn’t blame Sylvester for his cynical
take on my romantic bliss. He would be the first to tell you that romantic love
was not his thing, that he got involved in intimate situations just for the
sex.

“I’ll let all you other stupid motherfuckers put a hoop
through your noses and get dragged through the muck and mire of emotional
slavery,” he preached.

Fortunately for me, I would only have to listen to his mouth
for the hour and a half plane ride from Santo Domingo to Miami, where our
connecting flights took us to separate destinations, him to Shreveport, me to
Los Angeles. I guess he felt the same way about
my
mouth, because I did
go on and on and on about Étie. But I couldn’t help myself. That’s what people
in love do; go on and on and on.

Before boarding my connecting flight, I called Étienne
again, already missing him terribly. Hearing his voice dizzied me. Hearing him
say, “I love you,
Papi
,” almost made me rebook a flight on the spot back
to Santo Domingo. We hung up with the bitter-sweetness suffered exclusively by
new lovers parting for the very first time.

I then called my crazy and beautiful baby sister Francesca.
Still somewhat skeptical, considering the infidelity of my ex Sean, she didn’t
want me jumping at the first cute young thing that rebounded my hope after Sean
had turned me into a romantic agnostic. But I was back in the temple of love
again, and though Frankie had her concerns, even she had to confess that there
was something in my voice different enough, encouraging enough, eyes-wide-open
determined enough, that made her believe maybe, just maybe, this was
the
one.

The six-hour flight from Miami to Los Angeles seemed
interminable only because I couldn’t wait to see my younger sister’s
expressively beautiful face. She picked me up at the airport, and we hugged and
kissed and then laughed and gossiped as the warm Santa Ana breeze played in my
dreads and teased her buzz cut as we sailed down La Cienega Boulevard in her
Mercedes CLK320 convertible.

Before dropping me off at home, we stopped for drinks at The
Abbey in West Hollywood, where all the model-quality young white gay boys
water-holed. Although they were just a haze to me, they truly struck Miss
Frankie’s fancy in that usual lustful way of hers. And they flirted back, as
young white gay boys do in the presence of a beautiful black diva, which my
baby sister was and still is. It took me a moment to distract her flirtatious
stares with the pictures I had taken of Étie.

“Dayum, Junie!” she gasped, almost choking on her
cosmopolitan. “I’d do his ass even if he was a fucking serial killer.”

“Okay now, Miss Thing,” I warned humorously, “hands totally
off.”

“Well, all I can say, Big Bro, is that he is totally
beautiful. And you deserve some beauty in your life.”

“Thanks, Sis.”

“I just hope to God he’s as beautiful inside as he is
outside.”

“He is, Frankie. He really, really is.”

* * * * *

A month later, after my heart threatened to burst, I
returned to the Dominican Republic and to my baby Étie.
Señor
Trujillo,
Étie’s boss at Bodega Colonial, gave him a few days off so he could spend time
with me.

Seeing Étie again in the flesh after an agonizing month-long
absence, and being with him for those precious few days, was beyond words.

We booked accommodations at a lovely, all-inclusive resort
in Punta Cana, a storybook repose on the northern shore of the island, and
wasted no time once we checked in to our room.

As indelible as the picture of him was in my mind, beholding
Étienne in the flesh, watching him slip out of his white linen shorts,
revealing his full nakedness before me moments after we were securely behind
closed doors, was seeing him new again. How could I have forgotten how
perfectly formed he was? Or was my love for him so newly intensified that this
beholding simply magnified his beauty?

“I wait so long to give you this,” he purred, standing in
the puddle of linen, his jet-black hair gleaming and tussled by the T-shirt
he’d pulled over his head and discarded. A curly lock dangled lazily over his
right eye. He stood generously before me, a welcome-home gift poised to house
my love.

Before I knew it, I was kissing him and he was kissing me.
We were in each other’s arms. The feel of his nakedness against my leisure
travel wear was a challenging impediment, so he tore my shirt open, popping
buttons in his quest, tearing it off my sweaty torso. Hungrily he kissed my
chest then returned to my lips. He then worked my pants down over my own
stiffening penis, which he grabbed as he kissed me, playing with it
rambunctiously like a child’s favorite toy. His mouth wanted a taste, but as he
went down, I stopped him, pulled him back up toward me, and chuckled breathlessly
as I looked into his pleading eyes.

“Hold on, baby,” I said in a husky pant. “Let me shower off
the funk of that six-hour plane ride first.”

“I no care,” he whispered in the ear he was now nibbling on,
grabbing my sweaty balls with one hand while finding the moist crack of my ass
with the other. “I lick your funk clean.”

He then pulled the ball-caressing hand slowly from my crotch
and licked and sucked his exploring fingers, savoring with closed eyes the musk
of my genitals, causing my heart to flutter with the thought of those sucking
and licking lips sucking and licking me.

We grabbed each other and in the heat of our passion,
tumbled to the floor, kissing and moaning and laughing and giggling as our
naked bodies collided and we tussled like wrestlers in love. We touched each
other everywhere, probed each other’s pecs and limbs and feet and appendages
and orifices and genitals with hot and moist mouths, spit-lubricated fingers
and twittering tongues.

My sweat was now his sweat, and our commingled funk enveloped
us in a haze of sixty-nining. He was on his back, sucking my dick and licking
my balls dangling just above his head. I was on my knees, my face buried in his
solid, sturdy ass cheeks, my tongue dining ravenously inside his tight hole.

“Damn, baby, I love you so much,” I managed to say between
eating his ass and sucking his dick.

“I love you too,
Papi
,” I heard him say, over and
over, with panting and smacking and slurping.

And then it was happening. I knew I was near. I knew, and he
knew that he was near too. Desperately I turned myself around and climbed his
straining body. I was on top of him, kissing him hungrily, and he was kissing
me with equal hunger. Our dicks, sandwiched between us, were rock-hard and
ready to explode as we grinded each other into an intense heat.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” he shrieked passionately as he shot hot cum
against my dick and stomach, against his stomach, flooding the airless crevices
that barely existed between our entwined bodies.

And before his rod was drained, my panting cries announced
the second coming—my bucking, braying coming. The flames of intolerable bliss
shot through my quivering body as I held him, kissed him desperately, shook
savagely, cried his name and exploded furiously—gloriously—into that hot,
delicious milk of his. I dumped what seemed a bucketful as I twisted and
shouted on top of him, deliriously lost in the love puddle we had birthed. He
held me tightly, laughing and crying as much as I, until the storm of ecstasy
had calmed.

Still…very still.

We lay there oh so still on the floor. Me on top of him, his
arms around me, my head on his chest, his heart pounding vigorously, as fast as
mine.

And still it wasn’t over. That first night of our reunion,
lovemaking seemed even more intense than that first night we’d shared a month
earlier.

And so all night long we fucked like yard dogs and loved
like saints. We found new ways to thrill each other with new heights of amorous
gratification, and under the light of the midnight moon, we lay naked on the
deserted beach and made love to the rhythm of the flowing and ebbing waves.

Back in our room, we attempted to wean ourselves from the
blistering and bliss-filled heat of our passion in the shower, but even the
tepid-to-cool water that rained upon us couldn’t put out the fire we ignited
over and over with our kissing and soaping and sucking and cleansing and
licking and fucking. We grew dangerously close to the scorch of unbearable
pleasure, but our hearts gave us no choice. Our carnal expressions of love new
and immortal were commands from our rapture we gladly obeyed.

Each night we fell asleep in each other’s arms. Each morning
we awoke, still embraced.

That all too brief time together couldn’t quench the thirst
we had for each other. Our moments on the beach; during candlelight dinners
when knowing mariachi underscored our telling glances; in each other’s arms,
minds, bodies, souls and hearts created a pact of eternalness that we knew not
even death could tear apart, though time loomed as a too strict overseer.

“Would you come live with me in America?” I asked him as we
lay in each other’s arms two days before it was time for me to leave.

“I would live with you anywhere,” he answered with a
sweetness I had come to know as simply his nature.

He then kissed me so gently I drew faint and floated
heavenward, buoyed by the flutter of an angel’s slow wings embracing us just
below my out-of-body soaring.

Those last two days together suddenly gleamed with hope that
we both knew would be a dream come true only with great determination and
fortitude. Neither one of us was unaware of the hurdles that stood ahead. The
United States immigration laws are hardest on third-world people of color from
poor countries, and our government is bloated with litmus that severely limits
legal immigration for that targeted group, red-tape landmines designed to
cripple a young man like my Étienne.

But still, we forged ahead. We had to. Our very happiness
was at stake.