King Perry (22 page)

I grab the ginger peach soap and let my left fingertips toy with the hairs on his slight treasure trail, trailing further down to reach his nuts with my soapy grasp. It doesn’t take long to create a wet lather, protected from the full spray by the arch of his back.

“The Strange Musician played his flute-like instrument at the homecoming jubilation, and the usual good-natured arguments commenced over the exact sound. An angel choir. Cricket hymns. One king said, ‘I think it sounds chartreuse.’”

Perry arches back against my cock, and he uses those gym-trained ass muscles to grip my dick. While his brain may not think he’s ready, his body says, “Let’s give it a shot.”

The unwrapped condom remains in the soap dish, but I’m not sure I’m going to fuck him, now that we’re here. Fucking is not always the goal.

“King Aabee spent his first years back among the Found Kings resolving engineering problems in the sewers. He had gained much experience, you see, and whenever a problem came up, King Aabee said, ‘I will go. Send me!’”

Perry chuckles.

“Many kings encouraged him to rest, to take it easy after his time among the Lost Ones. But then King Thaddeus the Barn Cleaner asked if any king would assist him and King Aabee said….”

I nudge him with my cock, right at his sore, puckered hole. I clear my throat so he understands that this is his cue to say the punch line. Perry laughs and pushes back under the spray.

“I will go. Send me,” Perry says.

I feel him relax, ready himself for the inevitable assault. I press hard against the wrinkled flesh, remembering the beautiful warmth I experienced last night.

He groans.

The heat, the spray, the sensation of my hard cock against his swollen butthole—it’s too much distraction, and Perry surrenders to our gilded cloud cage. He is mine.

I withdraw the pressure and allow my cock to glide up his ass, wedged deep in the cleft. He twists, releasing the tension of anticipation, and a shudder ripples through him, the disappointment of a near miss. He wants me inside.

Yes, this is definitely better as a close-to-fucking. This will ratchet him higher, tighten his coils.

I use a softer, raunchier tone to say, “Invitations piled up,
thick eight-inch
stacks
…”

Perry moans.

“…while he worked the sewers, invitations that begged Aabee to lecture at universities, meet admirers for lunch, and join friends who wished to treat him to sailboat cruises through the Greek Isles. But he was too busy.

“Over the next three or four years, King Aabee acquired a reputation for volunteering for tasks that others found daunting: sitting with the dying, waiting in hospitals for test results, and clearing storm gutters with good cheer.”

I steal soapy lather from his cock and apply it to my own, creating a foamy glide between us. And while the water washes most of the suds down his thighs, I squeeze him tight, trapping enough bubbles to make our rubbings slippery.

I position myself to kiss his hole with the head of my dick and he responds with a slight stiffening when I do this, but instead of entering him, I guide my cock to stroke his taint, pushing against his balls. He squirms.

“Yes,” he says in an elongated hiss, escaping like steam.

“Whenever a new communication came from the Lost Kings, someone would inevitably suggest, ‘We need Aabee on this. Check the sewers.’”

Perry laughs and says, “This sounds great, this life of his. The Sewer King.”

My cock stops stroking the vulnerable underside leading to his nut sack, and he tries to return us to the groove by thrusting back and forth, but when he feels me not responding, he stops and waits patiently.

“Did you have more you wanted to say?” I ask politely.

“No, Extreme Dominatrix,” he says, gurgling as he lets water fill his throat.

“Now, that name could work,” I say as I begin to saw against him again. “Two
x
’s. Did you just say that to suck up?”

He says, “You’re probably right.”

I laugh.

He says, “You’re not going to fuck me, are you?”

“You’re not enjoying this?”

“It’s driving me crazy.”

“Good.”

He turns his head in a way that suggests to me he wants to be kissed, so I lean in close and he leans back, forcing my dick against him. I lurch hard, and if I were fucking him this would be a balls-deep stroke, and his body jolts in surprise as I squash him against the shower door.

This forces our kiss to work harder, to fight to keep each other’s mouths together while I hump his lower half and push him away. His appetite for me grows strong. My appetite for him has never diminished, not since Tuesday.

I love him.

We break our embrace, leaving each other gasping.

Take a deep breath, Vin.

“After a while, the Found Kings recognized the sounds from his flute more than the sight of King Aabee. Yet nobody could agree on what they heard. Some heard the scent of May lilacs; others said it tasted like ginger. One king said, ‘It’s my grandmother’s voice, singing in Swedish.’”

Perry’s body ripples in harmony with my patter and our delicious lovemaking, grace and ease purring through him.

I kiss him on the neck and slowly withdraw my cock, my dribbled precum washing down his cleft. I let my dick rest against his beautiful ass cheek, hard and eager. I would so love to finish this.

“You’re kidding me,” Perry says over his shoulder. “You’re quitting right now?”

I hug him from behind, and though he may not want our sex to end, I think he finally recognizes that I’m in charge, and with a certain new level of acceptance, he lets himself be held, allowing his head to fall back on my shoulder.

We rock this way for a moment, neither of us wanting to end our reconciliation shower. It feels good to be in love again. Well, Perry may not use that exact word, but I feel it growing in him.

“I have to go downstairs and check on something. Everything you need is on the bed. Fresh clothes, shaving cream and razor, grooming stuff. Q-tips. There’s a gym bag to pack up everything, including your clothes from yesterday. We won’t come back here.”

I finish rinsing off. Best to depart quickly before questions begin.

“I might jack off when you leave,” he says, trying for a threatening tone.

I’m happy to have fun with Perry again.

I hop out and snatch a cloud towel from the stack.

“I don’t think you will. If you spurt your load, well then, you’ll never find out the next chapter of King Aabee. When you’re ready, meet me in the lobby. Make sure it’s within forty to forty-five minutes, okay? There’s a window of opportunity for our next gig.”

He says, “Okay. I won’t be that long.”

“I bought this really sexy underwear in the Castro on Thursday for you. I spent thirty minutes picking it out because I couldn’t decide which color would look best against your ass. Seriously, I had a shopping boner for like twenty minutes just thinking about you.”

“Uh, thanks,” he says, laughing under the spray. “Boner boy.”

His lusty grin is sincere. He likes that I thought about him this week.

He says, “But if the clothes don’t fit, let’s swing by my place. It won’t take long.”

I ignore his comment.

We’re not going to his place, not for anything, but I don’t want to argue the point. I have worked far too hard to separate him from his San Francisco routines to let him visit a place where he feels comfortable.

I dress quickly in clean clothes and stick my head into the cloud cage as he’s washing his hair. “See you downstairs.”

“I’ll hurry.”

“Don’t hurry. Just don’t dawdle.”

I like the word
dawdle
. Dawdle, dawdle. I also like leaving him with somewhat contradictory instructions.

Waiting near the elevator, I decide this isn’t the inside of a pomegranate any longer, but a luxurious tongue designed for sensual pleasure. I should have licked his balls for a while. It’s my own fault; I told them what time to meet me here.

Soon, a white-gloved young man appears from the elevator, pushing a cart draped in white linen. A silver-domed platter sits on top.

“Hi there, I’m from 2625. I ordered this food. I’d like to place this card.”

“Absolutely, sir,” he says with deference, a professional cousin of the ponytailed waitress from the art gallery. He lifts the dome, and I place the card strategically.

I crumple a few bills into his hand, and he smiles his gratitude. He has too much professionalism to check the denominations. With a nod, he heads toward our room pushing the cart.

“If he asks, tell him that Mr. Vanbly ordered this for his guest.”

He nods, pleased. “Thank you, Mr. Vanbly.”

I stand out of sight, but not too far away. I hear the soft rapping on the door and the lilted announcement, “Room service.”

I hear Perry say with surprise, “We didn’t order room service.”

“This has already been paid for, sir,” he says politely, looking at me for reassurance, “ordered by Mr. Vanbly for his guest.”

The door opens, permitting the young man’s entrance.

As soon as the white-gloved gentleman removes the shiny dome, Perry will see a meal identical to what we ate at St. Anne’s: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fried potatoes, and orange juice. I bribed the cook to include onions with the fried potatoes. I wanted an exact match. He will find strawberry jam in a silver dish with a tiny silver spoon and, in the center of the arrangement, a card that reads: ENJOY YOUR LUNCH, BEAR WALKER.

Ten

P
ERRY
crosses the lobby in his new jeans and the hunter-green shirt under his leather bomber jacket. His gaze assesses the lobby, the guests, and the décor. With the duck parade concluded, the lobby resumes its primary function as a way station for high-paying guests. Perry moves with long, confident strides, hunting leisurely for me. Perry is a classy guy; he belongs in a place like this even if he’s nervous around money. I, however, dress like a delivery guy: jeans and a fresh red T-shirt with my lumberjack overshirt and my crusty black leather jacket. I love this jacket. Perry nods when he spies me engaged with a middle-aged couple and their bored preteen son.

“Hey,” I say as he draws near. “What vineyard tours do you recommend?”

Perry’s face blanks out. He nods at the man and woman, and they nod back. “Uh, I’ve heard the Beringer one is cool, I guess.”

“These folks only have time for one or two. They want to see something special.”

When this husband and wife chatted me up a few minutes ago, they thought I might be a tour bus driver. That’s when people notice me—when they need directions. Their poor kid does not appear happy. They missed the duck parade by an hour, and despite his parents’ promise to return tomorrow, he refuses to forgive.

Perry says, “Maybe the concierge can help.”

“True,” I say. “How about the Schramsberg tour? It’s underground, in spooky carved-out caves with tons of cobwebs everywhere.”

The kid perks up.

“The tasting is done in a crypt like you’d see in a horror movie, lit only by long taper candles. They say it’s haunted.”

The kid’s eyes dart from mom to dad, trying to register their reaction. I’m not steering them wrong; it’s a good tour.

“Creepy?” says the mother.

“Elegant,” I say under my breath, nodding slightly toward her son.

She inclines her head to indicate she gets it. She says, “Haunted, huh? I dunno. I don’t want to scare Danny.”

“I won’t be afraid,” he says. “I promise.”

She nods and looks back at me. “How dark do you go red?”

I say, “I like pinot noirs and shiraz, but after a certain price point, $35 or so, I can’t say much. I’m not well versed in merlots. Those heavier red wines put me to sleep. How about you?”

I see Perry is quietly impressed with my cache of wine knowledge. I’m definitely more of a beer guy, but discussing wine in California is as essential as bitching about October rains or Muni stations you hate; you have to be ready to contribute to the conversation.

We finish with enthusiastic handshakes, and once we’re alone, Perry says, “The jeans are great; so are the shirts. Thank you.”

“No problem,” I say, looking up.

“How did you guess my jeans size?”

“Huh,” I say, making sure I seem distracted. “I need you to do something. A favor.”

I don’t want to answer his questions yet, how I know that he likes Diet Coke for breakfast, that he prefers grapefruit juice, which colors and fashions he wears.

He says, “Okay.”

“Get the van. Throw your gym bag in the back. Tell the valet we were in 2625. Will you do that?”

Perry says with cautious surprise, “Yeah. Where are we going?”

I hand him my valet ticket and some cash for the tip. With free access to the back of the van, he could cheat and peek under the tarps. But I don’t think he will. He has decided to trust me, though I am an Alcatraz fugitive and the Destroyer of Cakes.

A few minutes from now, when we’re reunited, I’ll check the tarps. I arranged them in such a way that it will be obvious to me if they have been moved. He won’t be in trouble if he looks; I just need to know how much he trusts me.