First-Time Gay Erotica
"The Valet" a sex story by Thom Gautier
Every man has the urge, even if they never admit it, to be
brought down to size by a stronger man––to be made small, to be, in a
word, a peon, a go-fer. While I was living alone and in between
girlfriends, I indulged this strange, luscious urge to be, as it were, a
busboy rather than a waiter. A deputy rather than a sheriff.
The
man who brought this out in me was a fellow I’d never met named Niles.
Niles and I “met” and “talked” online. I told him from the get-go that I
was straight; he said he was straight too, so there wasn’t any
presumption. And yet––.
We talked fairly regularly, maybe twice a
week for six months. When we did, I tried to get him to divulge his
sexcapades. He was a serial monogamist. He showed me photos of himself
and his women. He had no plans to marry. Speaking of the “institution”
of marriage, he said, “Institutions are for prisoners and the insane.”
Once
upon a time, Niles was a philosophy student, engaged, living in his
native Britain when he left “uni” and dumped his bride-to-be, moved to
New York City, went into currency trading and hedge funds and, getting
rich off of shady real estate deals, crooked insurance transactions and
various commodity-trading-ponzi schemes, he bought himself a loft in
Tribeca.
In his profile photo he was tanned, with closely
cropped blond hair and broad shoulders. He resembled one of those
British actors with brown hair and light eyes who take Broadway by storm
every three years in some critically acclaimed production of Hamlet.
When
we chatted online, he quoted from John Donne’s poetry and in the next
breath explained to me what the Standard & Poor’s index means. His
mastery across such a range turned me on. A Renaissance Man. A
conquering Wall Street Bull, I thought. A bull with a mind as sharp as
his horns.
And yes, I’ll admit it, I got myself off thinking
about Niles after our chats.
Mainly I was fascinated by his war
stories and often pleasured myself––with his permission––while I
listened to them in his instant messages. They all rang true. Like how
he flew off to Amsterdam one Easter to meet an online gal-pal, a married
Belgian woman, and how the two of them left a marijuana cafe and fucked
in a Dutch alley, not more than a few feet from the sidewalk, their
bodies concealed by long Armani raincoats.
Once, he explained,
he’d had a colleague’s wife in the cloak room at a Christmas party. I
jerked off as he typed me his story. She gave him head so sweetly that,
each time they hooked up afterward, he would ask for her panties as a
souvenir, souvenirs he accumulated in his desk drawer until the day he
quit. “My one drawer soon resembled the stockroom inventory at
Victoria’s Secret,” he told me, and that detail put me over the top. One
time he logged online, exhausted, and said he’d been counseling a
secretary who had been dumped by her boyfriend. He’d taken her to lunch
and whatever he’d said to help her get over her hurt must have made an
impression because she wouldn’t stop e-mailing him about her gratitude.
“What’d
you do?” I asked.
“I put her off for weeks,” he said. “She kept
up the contact. Clearly she required something of me. I took her to the
movies after work last Friday. She thanked me by inviting me up and
taking care of me. TLC, Thom. Rounded off by a rim-job.” I was so turned
on by the story that I didn’t ask him what a rim-job was, figuring if
you’d gotten one you’d know what it is.
Our text chats graduated
to cam chats. Once, he asked to see my cock. I deferred for weeks. When
he brought it up again, I obliged. Aiming the camera at my cock at his
direction made me feel like I was under some kinky doctor’s care.
“It
is terribly small, as you said, Thom,” he assured me, a sincere empathy
in his voice, “But it’s also how you wield it.”
He refused to
show me his on cam. “I’m afraid it’s one-way on that score,” he said.
After I begged, he did provide a partial photo which showed the top of
his cock in a soft-toned black and white photo, nested in blond pubic
hair, framed by his opened fly and his blue jeans. I told him the photo
was a work of art. He said, “If you become a connoisseur of cock, the
ladies will smell that on you.”
Restraint-Walled by Michael Breyette
Still, it wasn’t all about sex,
our connection. Niles was a nice guy. He often asked about my
upbringing, my siblings, my career goals. He often asked me about my
love life (“Nada,” was how I usually answered). He asked me about my
talents (“Very few, if any.”) He assured me everyone has talents. “I’ll
quote your countryman Ben Franklin, who warns, ‘Hide not your talents
they for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?’”
I
liked that virile mind. He got me to admit that, yes, I did have talent.
I told him I had gone to cooking school. He answered that his loft had a
granite counter in his full-sized kitchen. Jokingly, I said, “Size does
matter when it comes to kitchens.” “Aye, it does!” he typed back and
his exclamation point aroused me.
On a lark, I offered to cook
him dinner one night. “I mean, for you and one of your ladies.” “Like a
butler?” he asked. “Or a valet,” I replied. He liked the title “valet”
better; he said he’d welcome the chance to let me cook dinner.
*
Several weeks after we first floated the idea of my being
Niles’s valet, I got my instructions. His latest gal pal’s name was
Juliet, a fellow ex-pat Brit, an editor at one of the big New York
publishing houses. “How big?” I asked. “Big means one thing,” Niles
answered, “B-i-g.”
His Juliet had recently broken off a very
long engagement from a rather passive if loveable long-term boyfriend
and she was on the rebound, feeling very submissive.
“After almost marrying a wanker,” Niles told me, “She’s into an old
school fling with me. An excursion back to the so-called unambiguous era
whence men were being men, women being women. I told her of my online
friendship. She said you sounded ‘affable’ and the scheme of your being
my valet for a night sounded––her words––‘touchingly kinky.’ As for
food, she likes scallops. I like steak. When can you manage?”
I
assured Niles I could manage to cook dinner any night. He said I’d
better “rise” to the challenge. That command aroused me. “I’ve an iron
skillet,” he informed me. Even that seemingly innocuous detail made me
want stroke myself off.
I had him describe the skillet, its
handle, its pan, its weight, and as he typed those specifications,
descriptions spiked with his cheeky British wit, I got myself off.
*
There were to be ground rules. As a valet, I was not only
to cook dinner. I was to spend the day helping his Juliet shop, carry
her bags, take her out to lunch, on my own dime, of course, escort her
as she got her nails done, etcetera, etcetera.
“No last names and
no cameras,” he said, “You can expect to be patted down,” he added. I
assured him this would be as discreet for me as it was for him.
“And
after you’ve done shopping and catering to my Juliet during the day,”
he said, “You’ll collect my dry cleaning and our festivities shall
commence.”
*
Juliet was waiting for me in a sandwich
shop in Soho. She was tall, dressed in a mauve and ivory flower print
dress. She seemed aristocratic—high cheekbones, short chestnut hair,
stylish pearl necklace, long limbs, perfect posture. She was
approachable and warm and shook my hand with the friendliness of a host.
After she ordered us sandwiches, she asked me how I knew Niles. It
felt like we were religious converts talking about how we’d separately
found our savior.
I explained that I had never met him in
person, that we’d been online buddies. She liked that. I knew Niles had
told her all this but I didn’t mind debriefing her again. After all,
explaining is no small part of a valet’s job. Judging from her sly
girlish grin as I talked on and on about Niles, I worried she might have
the wrong idea. “I’m not...gay,” I whispered. She rapped my hand with
the back of her menu, maternally and playfully, and explained that there
was no reason to be ashamed. “You’ll not be the first straight bloke to
have a man-crush on Sir Niles.” She described how she’d met Niles at
the hedge fund where she was doing some freelance copy writing six
months back. Even before she got into much detail, my cock started to
swell. I must have drank four glasses of water as I listened to her.
After weeks of masterful flirting, Niles had boldly handed her a napkin
during a meeting, in full view of everyone else, a scribbled napkin on
which he’d written, “Does Juliet need to use the ladies room?”
Playfully,
Juliet scribbled the same message onto her napkin, re-enacting for me
Niles’s note, as if she were Niles and I were her. I studied her
impeccable penmanship: Does Juliet need to use the ladies room? I
pictured Niles in suit and tie, leaning back and handing her this
napkin-note with complete disregard for the decorum of the conference
room.
Indeed she’d taken his cue, left the meeting room as
tactfully as possible, sneaked off into the ladies room, at which point
Niles, after a long delay (“He likes for the prey to wait”) sneaked into
the room and led her into a stall.
Juliet cupped her mug of tea
with her long hand and whispered over our table: “I really, really had
to use the ladies room.” Reclining back in her chair, she broke off into
soft laughter and kicked my shins, as my cock hardened so fully in my
jeans that I felt if I moved the friction on my engorged cock would make
me come, right there in the sandwich shop, at the thought of this woman
and Niles fucking in a piss-scented ladies room bathroom while, down
the hall, a hedge fund meeting droned on without them.
*
As
Juliet got her nails done in “Cinderella Pink,” we discussed New York
City, the single life, dating. I offered my condolences for her broken
engagement, the one which Niles had told me about. She ppfffft it off.
“Better to marry no man than spend your life with half a man.” I agreed
with her and wondered how I measured up—half man or whole man.
In
keeping with my valet duties, I paid for her manicure and tipped the
Korean shop girls generously. I felt like a boy scout earning his
stripes. After a while, we headed toward a fancy lingerie boutique and,
just as we passed through its doors, she punched up Niles on her
Blackberry and handed me the phone. At first I deferred: the thought of
hearing his actual voice and making what had been a disembodied Internet
relationship real scared me, but I obediently took the phone from her.
Niles’s baritone was executive yet instructive, almost fatherly, and
his British accent wasn’t as distinct as Juliet’s.
“She’s a
lovely person,” I said of Juliet.
“She is, Thom, she is,” Niles
said, “And she is also an extraordinary partner in crime.” I cradled the
phone and smiled, watching Juliet confer with the shop girls, who held
up hangers draped with various bras and panties for her inspection.
Once
Niles gave me the address of his dry cleaners and a reliable gourmet
shop where I could get “provisions” for dinner, he made me promise that
I’d get Juliet at least one ensemble of white lingerie. “I’d like a bit
of faux-bride drama,” he explained, “this way we ensure that awful cunt
of a fiancé is out of her mind.”
*
At times I was so
turned on carrying this beautiful stranger’s shopping bags through the
city streets that I needed to sit down and catch my breath, just to
realize it was real. To that end, Juliet bought me a pint in a pub near
Niles’ apartment. I was too nervous to go straight up and meet him, let
alone to start cooking in a stranger’s kitchen. She nestled her many
bags into our booth––$696.00 dollars worth of lingerie that I was all
too glad to have paid for.
She sipped a chocolate martini. I
felt intimidated, like on the cusp of a first day at a new job. Juliet
thought the evening would be a learning experience. “I don’t mean that
to be patronizing,” she said, running her red straw across the murky
surface of her martini, “I mean every man could use a mentor at any
point in his life.” Then she plucked the red straw from her drink and
flicked it at my nose and giggled, and called for the bartender to give
me a “serviette,” so I could wipe my face.
*
Niles’
converted loft was one in which the elevator opens up into the
apartment. As soon as I stepped out from behind Juliet I found myself in
a cedar-scented, expansive space of endlessly rising ceilings. Along
the walls were large, healthy palm plants. The immediate left wall
consisted of rows and rows of books on almost every subject.
A
blond man bounded towards us––Niles––shorter than I’d pictured from our
cam chats, but with stockier forearms and luxurious charm in his
welcoming London accent. He wore black jeans and a tight black tee shirt
underneath an unbuttoned olive work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to
his elbows. I handed him his dry cleaning. “You can hang it in the
closet nearest the bedroom,” he said, pointing, and the very command
made me want to answer, “Yes sir.” We held a firm handshake. He drilled
me with his bright blue eyes, like an older brother more than like a
master, and he insisted graciously that we make ourselves at home.
I
hung his dry cleaning, fitting it into a closet crammed with blazers of
every color and fabric––tan cashmere, gray rayon, dark green silk.
“It’s something to meet you in real time,” Niles said, patting my
shoulder. I concurred. I caught the scent of cologne from him, and the
masculine tinge of it made me imagine the scent of British sailors. I
expressed my awe at his art collection, the Persian rug, the statues
made of tusk. “Do you know how many 401k plans and small companies were
crushed to create this palace of mine?”
I smiled at his sarcasm,
and almost hugged him for his criminal arrogance.
As Juliet
watered the plants (“My valet can do that!” Niles shouted to her,
snapping his fingers, winking at me), he showed me around. In his
massive kitchen, he opened the pantry and cabinets and I listened,
trying as much to register that this was really happening as much as I
was trying to remember where everything was stored.
Niles helped
me make room in the large fridge for all the food I’d bought. As I
walked around with him, feeling as self-conscious and displaced and
vulnerable as my first day of kindergarten, I tried to remind myself
that he was, after all, a genuine friend. His brick walls were lined
with gorgeous abstract art. Juliet was petting a Siamese cat as if it
were her own, “Lord Byron,” she said, stroking the cat.
I filled
the large fridge with the groceries while Niles fixed the music, “Brian
Eno, Here Come the Warm Jets,” he said, “I think it’s appropriately
unordinary.”
Before I could compliment the efficiency of his
stainless steel kitchen, he was in an embrace with Juliet, the two of
them joking and kissing like newlyweds while the cat at their legs vied
for their attention.
I busied myself with my recipes, foraging
for cooking pans and measuring cups, spices and oils. Now and then I
peered away from my preparations and watched Juliet showing Niles the
items in her shopping bags, holding up the bras and panties, the teddies
and the stockings. He sized each item up, interrogating her about the
sizes and the names of the designers, as if he were a fashionista. Well,
he’s a Renaissance man, I thought, smiling, my cock going rigid again.
“Man-crush,”
I thought, repeating Juliet’s phrase, “That might be putting it
mildly.”
*
“Valet!” Niles shouted, “Two Schnapps for us,
please, in here.” He pointed toward a room just beyond my view. I
nodded and searched through his stashes of liquor. Vodka, brandy,
cognac, white wine, Merlot, gin. “No Schnapps in the cabinet!” I
replied.
“Better hop to then, valet,” he said. “Bottle shop on
the corner.”
“Peach Schnapps okay?” I asked, throwing my coat on.
“’Tis!”
Juliet shouted. She didn’t look up at me because she was locked into a
stare with Niles, unbuckling his pants as he held on to her hips. As the
elevator arrived I heard her drop his belt to the floor, a metallic
thud, and before the elevator door shut, I heard someone say, “Peach is
splendid.”
*
When I returned, they weren’t in the
living room.
I hurried to pour the drinks. I dashed into the
side room, stopped in my tracks by the sight of Juliet––half naked yet
glowing and innocent in the white ensemble––white teddy, white thong,
white stockings, white high heels. She even wore a sprig of white baby’s
breath over her left ear.
She was on her knees in front of
Niles, who sat on the edge of a king-sized bed, a bed so wide it
occupied most of the room.
Keeping Time by Carolyn Weltman
Her blow job was slow, noisy, hungry,
and her head rose what seemed to be a foot into the air before
descending again, bobbing up and down as Niles’ jaw clenched.
It
occurred to me that until that moment, I’d never seen another man’s
hard cock in real life before. It was a beautifully scary sight.
Standing
there watching Juliet giving him head felt like an intrusion, as if I
were reading someone’s private diary, and the glasses of Schnapps nearly
slipped out of my hands. Still, I didn’t move.
Niles’ muscled
arms supported him as he sat upright. I waited till he saw me. He waved
me in. Juliet stopped and turned around. She didn’t stand up. She winked
at me and coughed and licked her lips. Without getting too close, I
handed them their glasses. I’m sure my face must have been beet-red but
they were poker-faced.
She sipped her Schnapps, relaxed on the
floor at his feet like a slave, stretching and crossing her long
white-stocking legs, kicking off her white heels.
Niles’ slick
cock was not hard but not soft, either, dangling thickly and
impressively against his right thigh. With each passing second, I got
used to seeing another man’s cock. “A work of art,” I thought, “Juliet’s
handiwork.” I became jealous. Of Juliet.
As they finished their
drinks, they let me linger in the room.
On the far side of the
bed, I could see Niles’ black computer, and my mind drifted back to
nights I’d spent online with him. I suddenly felt quite honored
––chosen––that a guy with this kind of lavish life had deigned to sit in
this bedroom and chat with me online night after night.
They
handed me their empty glasses. As I turned to leave, Niles insisted I
stay stay stay. I stared at Juliet as if to ask her with my eyes if it
was okay but I could tell from her empty stare that she was going to
finish what she’d started whether I stayed or I left.
“Take notes
and learn,” Niles said, “Look and learn, valet.” He patted the bed and
indicated I should sit there, on the edge near him.
Juliet,
already kneeling again, fondled Niles with both hands, and barely
registered my presence.
If this wasn’t the strangest moment of
my life, I thought, what could I have ever witnessed that was stranger?
Juliet
seemed different from the Juliet with whom I’d spent the afternoon.
Besides being dolled up in frilly lingerie, she seemed, as she lavished
her mouth on Niles' cock, focused on some goal that not even Niles knew,
some goal that had everything to do with that fat cock she was sucking,
holding, stroking and yet a goal went beyond it too.
She kept
one hand tucked under Niles’ balls, so far underneath that I could
barely imagine what her hidden fingers were doing down there to that
ultra-sensitive skin where his balls ended. With her other hand she was
alternately pumping his massive cock, spitting on it now and then to
make it slick, and gripping it again as she smooched sloppy kisses up
its vein-engorged shaft before gliding her tongue down its entire
length. It wasn’t slow motion but it felt far slower than real time.
Niles
motioned for me to shift even closer to him on the bed so I did,
gingerly, worried that my movements might distract Juliet. But there was
no distracting her. It was as if I were invisible. The sight of her
pink fingernails dragging along his member––the Cinderella Pink color
I’d seen those Korean ladies paint her nails only four hours ago––turned
me on so much that I had to unzip my jeans to let my stiff bulge
between my legs breathe.
“Behave yourself, valet,” Niles said,
grinning as he saw my opened fly. “You still have a dinner to cook.” I
couldn’t believe he was conversing while she was lapping and licking
him. His face was tense and sweaty but he seemed able to focus beyond
his obvious physical pleasure. I must have blushed. I couldn’t take
it––this up-close voyeurism––and yet I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
“Peeping Thom,” he said to me, grinning, as he put his hand on Juliet’s
scalp.
Even as she grasped him with both hands and sucked the
crown of his cock like a lollipop, Niles had the presence of mind to
point to folded laundry in the far corner of the room. “Towel, valet,”
he said, grinning, waving the back of his hand to tell me to fetch. I
was astonished by how calculated and detached he could be––his cock was
longer and harder than I’d ever achieved––but I followed his directive,
hurrying over and snatching the top towel.
When I got back to
the bed, Juliet was stood up, straddling him, lowering herself onto his
cock, still with that entranced gaze of hers, her white thong tossed
aside on the floor like a frilly handkerchief. Her hands hooked on to
his shoulders, and the two of them moved in effortless synch, her long
legs poised, her white toes tiptoed and pressed on the floor by the bed
as they fucked face-to-face like that, up and down, French kissing all
the while.
Each time they stopped for breath Juliet kept calling
out “Gawd!,” and, as embarrassed as I was to be Peeping Thom, I was
transfixed, a valet du chambre with towel in hand as they fucked like
lifelong lovers––gently up and violently down, violently up and gently
down.
Juliet pulled Niles’ thick hair with such force that her
grip jerked his head back and her violent bucking up and down only made
his cock larger, thicker, stronger, and she rode Niles, loving him like
she was performing an exorcism. Then, without letting her come, he
lifted her up by her thighs, off, hoisting her effortlessly despite her
height.
She knelt down and grabbed his cock again, clenching and
unclenching her fist round his prick, licking him and pumping him
slower and faster and then slower again until he erupted, spraying white
plumes like a fountain. Juliet giggled like she’d unleashed coins from a
slot machine as she kept on pumping him, Niles remarkably mute as a
frothy ecstasy streamed thickly from his cock, glazing the crown,
dripping on his thick shaft. It was enough seed, I thought, to sire a
new British colony.
Once Niles subsided and caught his breath he
waved me over to Juliet. His blond-haired golden chest was heaving
handsomely as he panted. He pointed to Juliet’s left leg. She pointed
too. Creamy dollops of his jizz sat like raindrops on her stocking knee.
She held her knee still. I dabbed the gooey drop off the white hosiery,
one by one with the towel, this hot musky stench of another man in my
nostrils so startling and so pungent that I surely must have winced.
“Lick
the last one,” he said, “Go on. Protein. For the chef.”
Juliet
nodded. I leaned forward. I closed my eyes. I poked my tongue out till I
tasted the bland fabric of her stockings. I ran my tongue on her leg
till it touched the hot drop. I licked. It tasted like soy milk burning
with sea salt. I licked again and tasted a bigger drop and swallowed.
Swallowed Niles. I opened my eyes. Juliet waved at me; Niles gave a
thumbs-up. “Don’t dare miss a spot,” he said, buckling his jeans,
pointing to tiny drops that dotted the floor. “These planks are imported
cedar, mon valet.”
*
The loft was spinning beyond
any fantasy I could have conjured. And though I had a feeling that the
evening could go in a million different directions, I didn’t feel
frightened. I was flush with excitement. My knees were weak. My cock was
rock-hard. When Niles emerged from the shower in his dark blue robe, he
wolf-whistled, approving of the aromas that were streaming from the
stovetop as I cooked. “As advertised, you have one mean iron skillet,” I
said, my hand swaddled in an oven mitt as I shook the handle to let the
scallops sizzle.
We laughed and he rubbed my shoulder as if to
assure me that I’d been doing good work. He nodded at the pan
approvingly and offered to man the burners as “the valet” was needed in
the bathroom, to help Juliet finish toweling herself off.
She
seemed reinvigorated by the shower and kissed me on my cheek. I helped
her dress. I asked her whether that had been the first time she’d ever
had a sexual encounter with a third person in the room.
“No.
That was a whole new ball of wax. Aside from making love to a boyfriend
while a roommate slept, which hardly matches what just went on in that
room,” she said, “I think our time spent today made me almost oblivious.
You seemed an extension of Sir Niles.”
I felt put at ease by
her answer like she was as much a novice as I. I assisted her as she
slipped into the black and red bra and panties that we had bought,
hooking her bra clasps, dabbing her neck with perfume, helping her into
her short dress and her shoes before I hurried back out to the kitchen
to finish the meal. Which I did, with élan.
Our dinner
conversation ranged through mostly innocuous subjects. Niles’ former
fiancée had been an aspiring archaeologist and he showed us photos of a
boat trip in Egypt. “Sir Niles of the Nile,” I joked. It felt like we
were family now, and given the peculiar fact of our threesome, we didn’t
need to talk sex at the table: the closest we came to that topic was
when Juliet reiterated her ex-fiancé’s issues. “Sexual dysfunction off
the charts, mommy issues,” she said. “And he was a male chauvinist to
boot.”
My culinary work was determined to have been a “smashing
success,” and my scallops were “divine,” and even the dessert I’d thrown
together—rock cobbler with mint ice cream––was “beautiful,” and we all
three toasted my labors, “To the valet.”
While I scoured the
kitchen clean, Niles and Juliet settled onto the living room floor and
listened to music on shared headphones, kissing and cooing. They were a
magnetic couple. At one point Niles removed the headphones and joked,
“Feel free to turn on the computer and see if Niles is available for a
chat,” and he winked at me as he and I shared a secret laugh––reveling
in how bizarrely well this Internet-hatched date had all panned out.
“Who says you can’t meet nice people through the web?” I joked.
“Touché,” he said, and he kissed Juliet’s nose.
After they
retired to the bedroom, I left them alone and perused Niles’ books.
Through the room’s thin sliding door I heard bursts of laughter and,
soon enough the thumping of the headboard, steady, happy female cries,
more thumping and more happy cries, cries as shrill and surprised as
they were delighted––happy cries so often and so electric that I
pilfered their Schnapps just to steady my nerves.
Once the
frolic ended and the bedroom had been quiet for well over an hour, the
door slid open unexpectedly and Juliet peered out. Her short hair was
damp and tousled. Her eyes were bleary. She made a “shhh” with her
fingers as she waved me in.
She was stark naked. Her breasts
were small but supple. Beneath her long, well-toned torso was a nest of
dark red pubic hair. She shook Niles awake. As his blue eyes opened, she
pointed at me like I was a child who mommy had asked daddy to scold.
“Right,” Niles said, as if my presence had reminded of something on his
to-do list. The knowing tone of his voice scared me.
Juliet
fished two belts from Niles’ armoire and he sprung up from bed, his cock
swaying as he threw back the sheets and invited me to lay down. Juliet
busied herself fastening the belts to the headboard.
I tried to
stall by studying the dirty soles of her long lovely feet. The sight of
her arched feet made me hard.
“You’re a valet,” Niles said,
“But you are also among friends. So. Off with the clothes, and hop up.”
His authority was like an army captain in the thick of a battle, both
reassuring and manipulative of the grunts who were about to take the
field to be cannon fodder. I paused. I studied his blue-eyed
confidence, his tan biceps, his close cropped blond hair. This was a man
who made millions. A man among men. I concluded that, after all, I’d
gotten involved with Niles because I wanted to let go, to cede total
control to a proven swordsman. As unexpected as it seemed, getting into
his bed was a logical next step. I’d done Niles’ bidding all day and,
here I was, my cock rock hard, unsated for so many hours on that I felt
like I was running a fever. I had to see this through.
I
complied. I mounted the bed. Juliet applauded. She sat near me, like a
coach, indicating how I should turn around, showing me how by turning
herself into the doggy position. I had to laugh. She did too. Poking up
at the tail of her thin frame, her little ass looked cute and
vulnerable. I turned around and saw Niles’ face studying my every move.
He wasn’t laughing, and that expressionless authority of his made my
cock throb. I hurried into the doggy position. My cold knees appreciated
the warm bed sheets.
“Nicely done,” he said, and I couldn’t
tell whether he was talking about me or about Juliet who was fastening
of my wrists. I felt my right arm strain so hard I thought I’d
dislocated my shoulder. The wood of the headboard was polished,
blond-colored. “Like the master himself,” I thought.
I could
only see Juliet in the corner of my eye, seated on the bed like a line
judge at a tennis match. Still, her company was comforting, a link to
the familiar. My shoulders tightened in fear and that only worsened the
strain in my arms.
Someone behind me was fumbling in a drawer.
“Catch!” Niles called out as Juliet caught a bright white object and got
off the bed, vanishing from my view.
The next thing I felt were
long fingers probing inside my ass. Greasing my ass. I quivered. More
than once, I flinched and my knees buckled. Not since I was a kid and
had a thermometer stuck in me had I ever felt pressure in there. “It’ll
get warmer,” Juliet said, stroking my backside like I was a skittish
pony while her finger oiled the snug recess of my rump.
“Well
done,” I heard Niles say. “Who’s my valet?”
“I am,” I said,
weakly.
“Pardon?”
“I am!” I said, louder.
“That you
are,” he said, applauding. I heard Juliet giggle and applaud as well,
the very sound of their clapping made my cock jerk to attention. But
that cock was not getting any attention: Niles was about to fuck me.
I
felt like I was passing a boundary I’d never even imagined I’d
consider, let alone submit to. But I had. Acquiesced. My balls filled up
and burned. I exhaled and braced myself as the room went quiet. Then I
heard a suckling noise, wet lips on skin: Juliet, blowing Niles, again?
She was. I could hear him moaning and whispering to her, “Lovely...
lovely...right...right.”
Then it started. Someone mounted the
bed. I braced myself, tensing my shoulders. The mattress quaked. Against
my calves, I felt a man’s hairy legs. A hard knob of hot flesh––his
cock––plunged halfway into my ass, at first just tentatively and then
completely. “I’m clean as a whistle,” Niles whispered in my right ear,
his British accent as sadistic as it was crisp, “Don’t you worry, mon
valet.” My hips strained under his body’s weight, and I am sure I
whimpered like a virgin.
Once Niles’ cock was snugly in me,
Juliet squatted near the pillows to watch, hugging her legs. Now she
seemed part caring nurse, part sadistic voyeur.
The swelling
pressure of Niles’ cock in me strained my sides and the rippling pain
cascaded across my back with each of his thrusts in.
At first I
was sure I would shit myself from his over-fullness in me, but soon I
got used to it and the feeling of him in and out of me –– a man is
fucking me!––felt like a falling, an endless, thrilling falling, a
falling and a freedom with his every thrust in and out of me. This
giddy falling-feeling tickled my balls so much that my cock was nodding
and flinching against the pillows each time Niles moved in and out. At
one point he spanked me. Indecipherable obscenities were said into my
ears and his groans grew as steady as his cock was, steadily pulsing
inside me and drawing itself out again.
Now and then in the
corner of my eyes I saw Juliet caress her legs as if to keep herself
warm. She was watching with disinterest. She smiled now and then when I
turned to my right and caught her eyes. Her presence made me feel almost
safe. Among friends, I thought, and I gasped, because now Niles’
engorged and pulsing cock was motionlessly throbbing deep in me, holding
me prone. My arms were going to snap from the wrist restraints. I was
going to be hospitalized. Stuffed. I’d have his goddamned baby. I felt
his flesh expanding in my ass, in my innards, a massive, steady pulse, a
cock, his cock, thrusting in and out and shaking my entire body as if I
were trembling under an exotic massage.
Then, without warning,
he thrust inside me again, so deep I let out a screech that I can still
sometimes hear when I recall it. My head banged into the headboard more
than once and, more than once, I am sure Juliet squealed and laughed.
Then,
as Niles’ cock held still in me, I felt a creeping, spreading dampness,
and then a thin trickle, like water drops leaking from a lead pipe,
followed by spasms, thick watery sensations shooting hotly inside
me––Niles, coming, the force of his hips behind me, his thighs pressed
against my rear end so firmly I could have been sitting down on cement.
He was groaning with privileged relief as he came in me. His spasms were
glue-like and wonderfully invasive; the room exploded with his guttural
cries––exhausted joy.
As the hot sensation faded and he lifted
up and off me, a cool shudder washed over me, like a dive into a pool in
August.
When Juliet untied the belt straps, I collapsed
face-forward onto the mattress and my aching swollen cock nestled in the
pillows. Shifting and sliding my cock in and out of the silk sheets
seeking relief, I too came.
Behind me—or in me––I couldn’t tell
anymore—I felt a cramping, a ghost-like sensation of Niles’ hard-on in
me.
Juliet had leaped off the bed and was applauding. “Champions
both of you!”
The pressure in my lower back and in my legs soon
gave way to waves of coolness, syrupy calm, even a sense of achievement,
and when I summoned the strength to finally turned over, Niles had
already left the room. I heard the pipes running through the wall above
the bed: he was already in the shower. Juliet was buttoning herself in
Niles’ olive work shirt as if it were her nightgown. She assured me I’d
done “splendidly.” I tried not to blush. “I was going to fight his
request,” I said, “I truly was.”
She asked me had it hurt? “Not
sharply,” I told her, “a bloated sensation, a mad pressure.” She
grinned.
“It was something to see,” she said.
I drew the
bed sheets over my legs and lay there, feeling Niles leaking from my
bottom, the sticky nectar of a British god. I slept so soundly that I
didn’t dream.
*
I was awakened by Juliet who shushed
me as I rose. I was not in the bed anymore. I was on Niles’ living room
couch. She was still dressed in his olive shirt. “Niles thinks it’s best
for all if you wake up in your own bed.”
At first I was taken
aback. “What do you mean?”
“He asked me to wake you and let you
go sleep at your own place.” When I thought about being back in my own
place, I didn’t mind the idea, hurt as I was by being evicted. “I’m the
valet,” I reasoned, shrugging off my sleepy confusion, “I’ll have to
follow the fucking order.” I was groggy and annoyed and I gathered up my
clothes and shoes quickly. Juliet escorted me past her shopping bags
lined up along the wall. Was that today? I wondered. It had been. Or
really, not. It was five in the morning. That shopping was yesterday.
The
garbage from our dinner was still sitting near the elevator. My bottom
and my shoulders ached deeply––it felt like I’d gone to a gym. Or yoga.
She
kissed me on my chin and handed me the trash bag, waving good-bye with
genuine affection as the elevator doors shut.
Downstairs, cold
and dazed by the chilly breezes of lower Manhattan, I hailed a cab and
was gone.
*
For weeks later, night after night, when
I was online, I didn’t see or hear from Niles. Then, some months after
the night in his loft, when his screen status showed him as “offline,” I
received an e-mail with the subject heading, Final Favor.
Tomorrow,
the e-mail asked, might I go down to his loft, fetch a green duffel bag
off his bed and bring it over to its owner at the Good Eats Cafe?
I
replied to the e-mail by asking him if he was there, online, “Can we
instant-message?”
He replied immediately with an e-mail. The
subject said: Out of the Country. I read. It was only one line. A line
as direct as his cock: “Do as I asked, my valet. Love from across the
pond, Niles xx.”
I slept on his request and in the morning
decided to follow through. The key was under the doormat as he’d
promised. The neighbor in the apartment below buzzed me in, also as
promised. The loft was empty. Lord Byron, the cat, swatted and hissed at
me. The green duffel bag was on the bed. I grabbed it and rushed out
like a burglar. When I got to the Good Eats Cafe, Juliet was waving to
me from the far side. My heart leaped at seeing her, and I felt relief:
it had been real. It had happened. Then I realized this was the very
sandwich shop where we’d had our rendezvous on that dream-like day.
I
maneuvered carefully around the tables, hoisting the duffel bag over
patrons’ ducked heads. Juliet seemed tired. With lines under her eyes,
she even looked older. It had only been seven weeks. Her hair was
longer.
“Thank you,” she said taking the bag from me. She seemed
relieved to have the bag but not bitter.
“I didn’t know it was
yours,” I said.
“It’s Niles’ bag. But it’s my stuff inside.”
“Why
didn’t you collect it from his place?”
“Well, as he told me, he
thought it would be ‘too painful’ for me to fetch my belongings from his
place and he wanted his ‘valet’ to do him ‘one more turn.” Her voice
didn’t convey the least bit of sarcasm. She even smiled. “The night we
broke up, he quoted Oscar Wilde, ‘A man can be happy with any woman’”
I
told her that was a shitty thing of him to have said. She shrugged. She
didn’t care. “It happens to be true,” she said, “Look, Niles isn’t
always in the right. I enjoyed it all. My escapades with him taught me
heaps. I’m looking forward to whatever is out there next.”
“Was
it his idea?” I asked “I mean, what he had you do to me so he could––”
“Of
course it was him,” she said. “You were his goal all the while. He told
me that long before you took me shopping and cooked us dinner. Look, a
city girl can only have so many gay friends. At least he could play on
both ends.”
We sat silently for a while. We both smiled with a
kind of pained nostalgia for some lost innocence, like we were
classmates at the end of a graduation ceremony that had come to soon.
I
realized that as much as I’d been hurt by being sent home by Niles in
the wee hours, and then, just as painfully been ignored online for
weeks, I agreed wholeheartedly with Juliet about the learning. That
surreal night had changed me on levels I’d probably take a long while to
fully know. Then, to break the sadness, I asked her a cultural
question. “Are all British gay men like that?” I asked, “So
cut-throat-finance-minded and ballsy?”
“Hardly,” she said. “He
might calm down. He actually has a steady boyfriend. Canadian. Single.”
“I’m
glad I let it happen––” I said, “He’s a cold-blooded wonder, Mister
Niles, but he’s warm too. I’ll really miss the online chats. I feel like
I knew him longer than I did.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Darwin’s
law. The fittest seduce and that’s how they survive. The testosterone of
two men, I think, in that one man. A lot of retirement funds getting
sucked dry by the likes of that boy.”
“That man,” I corrected
her. “What can one do? Force of nature.”
Juliet nodded and slung
the duffel bag on to her thin shoulders. She kissed my forehead. She
couldn’t stay. “He said to tell ‘Peeping Thom,’ to please not message
him online again,” she said. “You should respect his wish. Move on to
wherever this has taken you. This is where we both get off the
Niles-express.”
“Never mind express,” I said. “He moves on at
light-speed.”
As Juliet left the cafe without looking back at
me, I knew I’d obey Niles’ direction to leave him be. It’s what he
wanted from me. It was what I wanted to give him. Now, years later, it’s
still a turn on to me, how I obeyed one man’s marching orders to the
letter.
~
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Copyright January 2010, Thom Gautier
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.
Originally published July 2010