This
trouble-man, he’s beautiful. He may be the most stunning man I’ve ever seen, in
person or anywhere. I bet he’s in his later twenties. I bet he’s six-feet even
and I bet he’s hung. That’s what his eyes are telling me with cold confidence.
Piercing eyes with some vague, charismatic sadness about them.
Clear, bright blue like a chlorine pool.
They make my
own water, they’re so intense. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t watch my hand, busy
in the other man’s lap. He stares brazenly at my face. Staring is also against
the rules. I will deal with him later.
I release the
currently suffering young man’s dick and slide the coffee table on its Oriental
rug a few feet farther away from us across the hardwood. I move and I kneel,
settling between his legs, sliding his underwear all the way off. I can tell
from his twitching right hand that he wants to touch himself, that his
abandoned erection is paining him in its insistence. I smile to myself,
thinking of his suffering and push his knees a little wider.
“Scoot
forward,” I say, and he obeys.
His smell is
as uniform and as unique as any of the others’.
Personal yet
universal.
Potent and ten times as intoxicating as the
wine.
Summer is nearly over and his tan is just starting to fade. His
thighs are pale and I like the contrast of his white skin against the rich
brown leather. I like the contrast of the deep mauve of his cockhead and his
blushing cock against the dark hair between his legs. I stroke his inner thighs
as I think these things and I make him wait.
I can feel
the trouble-man’s eyes on my back. I touch the underside of the helpless man’s
dick, and he whimpers again. I wonder if the trouble-man is arrogant enough to
be touching
himself
without permission. I pretend that
he’s the one at my mercy because these boys are interchangeable.
Or they’re
supposed to be.
“You look
good,” I say to the man spread wide before me. I stroke him until the pre-come
glistens at his slit, until his groans become maniacal. Now he’s ready. I’m
ready. I hold him tight in my fist and lower my mouth to his head. He tastes
like he smells. Like desperation and youth.
I’ve tasted
this man before, several times. He’s been coming here for a few weeks and he’s
good. He has a perfectly
suckable
cock, not too big
around, but enough to feel powerful in my mouth. He never disobeys the
no-thrusting rule, never gives me
cause
to gag, never
grabs my hair and tries to set the rhythm. He is an exceptional student.
A star pupil.
I hope the troublesome newcomer is taking
notes. I decide to reward the obedient man. I milk him with one rough hand and
flick my tongue over his head rapidly, the way he seemed to love the last few
times. His thighs tense and I see the knuckles of his fisted hands go white.
I know, I
know. This sounds so detached. What’s in it for me?
you
might be wondering. Well, there’s no accounting for kink. No link between what
we want to want and what we actually do. And this is what
I
want. I
haven’t mentioned it yet, but I’m getting off on this. Somewhere beneath my
tasteful, tailored housedress, I’m as wet as a lake. I was dutifully (read,
grudgingly) on board with the whole monogamous sex thing for twelve years and
my ex-husband, for all his faults, was a good-looking man and a good lover.
A courteous and respectful lover, sometimes to a fault.
But
this, right now…isn’t this exactly what I thought about all those years when my
eyes closed and he took me with his mouth or his cock? Some beautiful younger
man, muscles strained as I pleasure him, the perfect marriage of dominance and
submission. Giving and taking. I like balance. I’m very good at yoga.
And since
you’re probably interested, I’ll be forty next month.
And yes, if
I’d worked a bit harder at promiscuity at an earlier age, I suppose I could
technically have been this boy’s mother. Still, as lurid scandals go, I know
mine is vanilla. But this is Beacon Hill, I’ll remind you. My taboos are
fittingly conservative in keeping with the address and the decor.
Now back to
the matter at hand.
In hand.
As all of
this is going on, as I’m teasing this handsome young man into hysterics, I’m
wound tighter than a bedspring between my legs. I’m on fire. But I can’t show
it. I won’t give away my arousal in front of these boys or touch myself or let
them touch me. The stark utility of it is what gets me high. Again,
contrast—cold control versus hot, quaking helplessness.
But in my
mind, the rules are null and void. In my mind, the trouble-man surprises me. He
sneaks up from behind as I suck his colleague, and I feel his steady hands ease
my dress up over my hips. I can just about hear the clink of his unbuckling
belt, the sound of a zipper sliding down over his straining cock. I ache,
thinking of him tugging my panties to one side and the feeling of his head
pushing into me. I’m so
wet,
he’d sink like a hot
knife into butter. I haven’t been penetrated since my husband, years ago now,
and at this moment I want the trouble-man’s hands clamped around my waist, and
I want to feel every inch of him sliding in and out. I don’t care which of us
he’s aiming to please. I only want the bump of his hips against my ass and the
slap of his balls as he plunges all the way in.
That is what
I’ll think about tonight when I’m alone. For now the fantasy is cut short. The
desperate man at my mercy gives in. I stroke him hard as he comes, wanting
every drop he can give me. Not too sweet, not too bitter—just right. His body
goes limp as his voice dies. I swallow and stand and wash him down with a sip
of wine. I smile at his flushed face, his ragged breaths and I lean over and
tousle his hair.
“Very good,”
I say. “I hope to see you again this weekend. Talk to Will about schedules.”
He nods
deliriously.
I switch off
the television and pick up my glass. I pass the man who spells trouble on my
way out of the den and catch his eyes for a moment. He breaks another rule by
holding the gaze and yet another by smiling. His grin is lopsided, much deeper
at one corner and it gives him a dimple. He smiles like a man with something
very clever to say, but he doesn’t break that rule. Not yet anyway.
I smooth a
lock of my just-starting-to-gray hair primly behind my ear, and I give the
trouble-man a good looking-over. He’s hard behind his fly, which I record
mentally as a point for me. I’m going to keep this one waiting a long time.
It is Sunday
evening. It is raining yet again, a heavy shower with the occasional clap of
thunder. It is my favorite weather for staying home with four or five young,
submissive men and enjoying the simple pleasures of domesticity.
If you’re
curious about what these men do when they’re not actively being taken advantage
of, it’s quite low-key. Lounge, I’d say, is the best description. They sit on
my comfortable furniture in the den or the sitting room or the sunroom and do
very little aside from look inviting. They’re allowed to read the paper or
browse my artsy magazines, although if I walk into the room they have to put
such distractions aside and await instructions. Unlike other sorts of pets,
they’re not allowed to stare or drool. They may cast me questioning, eager
looks from time to time then glance away discreetly, pretending to find the
view out the window supremely engaging.
Tonight I am
feeling atmospheric. I love thunderstorms, though it’s highly unlikely that
we’ll lose power. Instead I flip off all the switches in the upstairs fuse box
and light candles. It’s worth having to reprogram all the clocks the next
morning. The lights from the Common leak in, but I pretend it’s the nineteenth
century and they’re gas or however that worked. Sometimes a car drives past on
the street below with its stereo blaring, but on the whole it’s a convincing
fantasy.
The
trouble-man is here tonight. He arrived on time with the others, trickling in
around seven, admitted by Will, playing the part of my stoical, diplomatic
doorman.
Now if you
will refer back three paragraphs and remind yourself what it is my boys are
expected and allowed to do while they’re on the clock, I will tell you now that
the trouble-man is doing few of those things. He doesn’t sit still or act
particularly coy. He meanders. He leans against doorframes, an aristocratic
cowboy, hip cocked, eyes fixed on me like a compass needle drawn north.
I will tell
you more about him, though I’m not a writer by trade and a photograph would
surely do him far more justice. He’s tall and sculpted, as the requirements
dictate. He’s still violating the harem’s rules by wearing a tee shirt, but I
can tell from the way the cotton stretches over the two crests of his abdomen
and the contours of his chest that he’s got a body custom-made to keep me up
nights. His arms look strong with pronounced triceps, matching veins at the
crook of each elbow that make me think of pumping blood and the smell of male
exertion.
He’s blocking
the threshold between the hall and the sunroom, and I want him to move so I can
sit by the windows in the latter and wait for the next round of lightning and
thunder. I have a fat candle in my hand as I approach him, and the flame lights
up his face, his straight, noble nose and full lips. Even in the relative
darkness, his eyes are bright. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, but as
I come close he drops one and raises the other, taking hold of the top frame of
the door, casual. He makes no move to quit blocking my way, but to scold him
too openly would dilute my authority in front of the others.
“No shirts,”
I tell him in an even, bored voice.
His lips
tighten in the smallest possible twitch of a smile, and he obediently reaches
down and peels his tee up and over his head. Two feet away now stands a body
even finer than the theoretical one I’ve been fantasizing about since the night
he first appeared. Not an ounce of fat. Every shape and shadow of him is honed
to conform to an imaginary manual of specifications shelved somewhere in my
reptilian brain. I want to sink my teeth into the rounded swells of his
shoulders. I want to lap Scotch out of the hollows above his collarbones. And I
want him to get the hell out of my way.
“Follow me,”
I say.
He steps
aside the tiniest bit and I slip by, feeling his energy as if I were breaching
a force field. I take a seat on the sofa, below the bay window, beside a young
man who politely sets aside a newspaper he’d been perusing in the candlelight.
He’s European-looking with stylish, long-
ish
dark
hair and an angular jaw. Black tattoos all up his arms, some kind of tasteful,
intricate design. I beckon him to straddle me and to the trouble-man I say,
“Sit down,” and pat the empty cushion to my right. “You could use a tutorial.”
The tattooed
man relocates, pushing his knees into the upholstery on either side of my legs.
He’s wearing black boxer briefs, and I run my hands over his backside, hard as
some impressive cliché. I stroke my palms up his stomach and chest, surveying
the thin trail of dark hair that runs down from his navel to disappear behind
his waistband. He’s stiff already, and I admire the long curve of his erection
where it strains to one side against his underwear.
The
trouble-man sinks into the couch, looking relaxed.
“Take your jeans
off,” I order him.
“Sure,” he
says in a voice I never asked to hear.
“No talking,”
I say with orchestrated nonchalance.
He stands and
unfastens a thick leather belt, unzips his fly and lets his pants fall to the
floor with a clunk of the heavy buckle. He too wears boxer briefs, gray ones.
His hips make a V that draws my eyes straight down to his bulge. He steps out
of his pants and sits back on the sofa.
I catch the
eye of another man—the one I made suffer the other night during
Cool Hand
Luke
. He’s watching from a chair on the other side of the narrow room. I
beckon him over to occupy the remaining empty cushion. He knows what to do, and
I think he’ll set a good example for his worrisome new coworker.
I begin to
stroke the tattooed man in my lap as my star pupil does the same to himself at
my side. I pull down my man’s briefs enough to free him and my pupil follows
suit. The trouble-man just leans back, one arm draped along the back of the
couch, and watches with a little self-satisfied grin tweaking his lips. He is
distracting in his inactivity. I will probably have to fire him after tonight.
Which is a pity, I think, glancing to where his dick weighs heavily against the
cotton of his
shorts.
“Touch
yourself
,” I say to him coldly.
His lips part
a fraction but he doesn’t speak. He nods instead and runs a lazy hand down his
belly, settling it over his cock. He’s in no hurry.
To my left,
my star pupil’s strokes match the ones I’m using to torture the man in my lap.
He adjusts, kneeling to face me so both their exposed cocks are pointed at my
belly. The two obedient men exchange a look and then they each reach a hand out
to
cup
the back of the other’s head and they kiss.
This is a bonus I happily pay extra for. They kiss deeply, faces angled, eyes
closed. I take one of the tattooed man’s hands and wrap it around the other’s
cock.