[My fingers are crossed over this story’s potential for success with you – because a cherished private reader complained that it is “dense,” “fatiguing,” and contains “too much sex.” Oh? For GayDemon readers? I offer it to you with glee.]
When I first moved to Traydon, a jerkwater town north of my state’s leading metropolis, I had a small studio apartment. All I could afford, it was in the back of an old brick building, on the third floor. The only view was of a backyard off the alley where my walk-up stairs doubled as a fire escape. There, discarded furniture and kids’ rusty bikes lay in disarray among tufts of crabgrass and weeds.
When you’re the age I was then, fresh out of college, you’re glad to have any place you can call your own. A place, however poor, without a roommate to deal with or cope with, you know. I wanted to do my own thing, paint pictures. As an aspiring artist, funds were low. I needed to make some money by getting a job. Any kind would do, as long as it gave me time to create according to my vision.
Sitting on an up-ended orange crate, I placed a new canvas board on the seat of a kitchen chair I’d found in the alley, laid out my brushes and acrylics on another box, corrugated but strong enough. The canvas board looked back at me blankly white. We stared at each other. It got the better of me.
After plunking down frustrated on my daybed, I picked up a pulp paperback, Lust for Lads, published anonymously and discarded in an equally anonymous garbage heap down the street. Pure trash as literature – remember, I’d been to college and could prove it – the story featured a worn out author whose life was made miserable by his inability to obtain what he most desired, suckable boys.
The author, one T. Q. Pickens, belabored the old coot’s misery, page after page describing the cuties passing by, going to and fro in brief clothing, never waving when waved at, not a one ever accepting the offer of cold lemonade on his front porch, but ready to jump into any car offering a ride. The dreariness got to me.
It was getting late, dark in fact. I got up depressed, stretched, and walked to the window just as a light came on in the building beyond the junky backyard. New to the neighborhood, I had not seen a light in that window opposite mine. There, a blond boy moved about. No shirt. Curls. Lips pretty as any girl’s. No adult around, just the teen, pressing a beer bottle to his sweaty forehead, then taking a swig.
The bob of his Adam’s apple hit me one way, the way he scratched his curls another. Did something to my cock. Stirred it to protest my underwear, my jeans. Required adjustment, toward my navel. My mind wondered whether he was nude and, if so, why was I not regarding the idea from an artistic point of view. You must know what I mean – without prurient interest.
I could not divine why he continued to drink his beer while looking out the open window. He couldn’t see me, my light not being on. He held the green bottle upside to let the final drop fall to the tip of his tongue – when a big man came up behind him, grabbed the bottle, slapped him across the face hard, and yelled for him to “get the hell out of here.”
There must have been other violence I could not see but heard across the lot. It was horrible. I heard the odd name Rhino screamed. I felt for the boy without knowing if a single beer was the reason for such an attack. Should I call the police? I did not know the address on the other street. The light over there went off.
There was a little alternating blink of red and white on the alley from a neon sign over the back door of a failing bar several doors down. As I stood dazed, I could make out some motion heading across the lot my way. Whatever it was, it smacked into one of the bikes and a light voice cursed. The boy! It had to be.
I peered down. It was. In nothing but a pair of shorts that I could see, he seemed injured. Without another thought, I bolted down the fire escape’s three flights, stopping for a quick breath on each landing, trying not to lose sight of where he was stumbling. My rush startled him.
He shrank to the pavement. “Please don’t hit me again!”
“Hey! Ssshhhhh. Don’t make any noise. I want to help you, if you’ll let me. I live up there,” I pointed. “Come on, you’ll get in more trouble if that guy comes out here looking for you. I saw what he did. Come on. Come with me. Think you can make it up to the third floor?”
Timorously, favoring one foot, he let me lead the way. With some pulls, a few pushes, and a boost at the stairs’ top, we made it to my place. I turned on my light, pulled down the yellowed window shade, managed not to upset my paints and canvas board, showed him the daybed, and introduced myself.
“My name’s Scott. What’s yours?”
“Walter.”
I tried to smile. “You’re safe here, I think. Nobody saw us. I’ll hide you, if you’re okay with that.”
Tears brimmed in sapphire blue eyes.
To dispel my confusion – I mean, what the heck was I doing? – I told him to take a shower. “Get cleaned up and I’ll see what I can do for you.” Showed him how the faucets worked, where he could reach a fresh towel, and turned away while he acceded, took off his shorts, and drew the clear plastic curtain between us.
By the time he finished, I had bundled so much tension that every muscle in my body ached. He whisked suds of shampoo and soap all over a lissome body like those in the canvases evoking boyhood and young manhood by Joachim Sorolla, John Singer Sargent, Giorgos Nicolau, Otto Lohmüller, and Anna Lea Merritt in a book I had for reference. What next?
“Want a sandwich? A soda? I don’t have any beer.”
“I thought you were going to, maybe, put some Band-Aids on me.”
The damp towel dropped to the floor. Nude. He was nude, I told myself. Unashamedly so. Like, in a state of grace. A blond nude with ringlets around his cock.
Dumbly, I found my bottle of peroxide and box of cotton swabs. While I wiped his skin here and there, he asked, “Are you an artist?”
“Trying to be,” I was honest. Applied Band-Aids where skin was broken.
“Will you show me some of your artworks?”
“Tomorrow, if we make it through the night. I’ve got to eat.” God, he made me nervous. I was so on edge that the sandwich I cobbled together was almost a mess.
Walter, a bandaged Classical but all-pink nude, took over. Commented about the lack of food on hand. “Eat that thing before you drop it on the floor.” Bent over, he looked with a sigh in my small refrigerator. “Guess you’ll drink water.”
Every step he took, every move he made, my breath was taken. He caught me trying to absorb the details of how naturally he posed and pierced me with his cool globes of azure.
“Your tongue’s hanging out, Scott. Man, put the food in your mouth. Chew it, Swallow. Drink the water. You’re going to need your energy if you’re planning to paint me. You want to, don’t you? Or do you want to have sex?”
Devil incarnate! He faced my way, squeezed his nipples, stroked his unflawed abdomen, spread apart his legs, cupped his parts with both hands, widened them enough for his penis to slither into view, and wiggled it into erection. Four inches of pink hose rose into five.
My hands shook so badly I had trouble choking down the wretched sandwich, but I managed while he kept vigil on me. Determined that I be able to drink the water, he came over, took my free hand, placed it on his erection, clasped it there, said, “Stabilize yourself,” and lifted the glass to my quivering lips.
I drank. To each swallow, his cock must have felt my hand’s involuntary knead. Moved a little, electrifying me.
“Let’s open your daybed, Scott. You and I will rest.”
Hesitant to ask about anything – especially what he may have done wrong by drinking that beer – I did his bidding. In my emotionally-disjointed fog, I’d have reclined there but was admonished, “You must take off your clothes.”
My nerves grew worse as Walter subtracted my clothing, his nose sniffing here, there, his tongue tempting my neck – with infectious eagerness – hands everywhere on my adult’s body. Most tellingly, on a certain rapidly rodding external organ.
“It’s one thing you hiding me but another, you hiding this from me. It’s amazing! Tell me you do something with it besides pee and jerk off.”
Chagrined beyond words, I shrugged.
“Don’t tell me, you’re devoting yourself to art!”
I didn’t. He forced me to the daybed, smeared my cock with something warm and wet – spit that I supposed was his – and lowered his beautifully rounded buttocks. I remembered from art history, an Attic shard showing buttocks descending on an upright dick. How the boy was able to stop where helmet met anus I never knew. It was to me he looked and said, “You’re bigger than the master you rescued me from,” then sat. Not far, but far enough for its anticipation to make me suffer an early-onset orgasm.
My hips sprang from the daybed up as he collapsed down. In wild frenzy, my cock and his ass contended like enemies in battle. Some mad force snapped my hips hard as hell and hot as its fires. My cock arrowed into the rampaging ass of young Walter. He threw his shoulders back and thrust until he locked onto me.
I couldn’t move.
“Give it up,” came impertinently from his mouth.
I scrunched my eyes tight, growled, “No!”
“Well,” he conciliated, “if we’re at an impasse. Even if you can, don’t cum again. I’m sticky enough. Let’s do something creative…and productive.”
“What would that be?”
“Something that’ll make you some money. We need food.”
“Like getting a job?” My cock jumped around in him enough that he knew where it was.
“You’re an artist, or so you say. Mmm, do that some more, just that way. I’ll pose for your new canvas. Yes, Scott, that’s it – make it last. Paint me well and show my alluring self to the world.”
“Band-Aids, too?
“Yes – no – maybe. Get out your sketch pad. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Get off me. Good. Thanks. Now you, on the chair over there. Show me some poses.”
“You should wear a cock cage so you’ll focus. Got one?”
“A what?”
“Shame I was thrown out from over there so fast. Could’ve snatched all sorts of things to help you take care of me – only I didn’t know we’d meet.”
From coy thumb sucking, nipple display, balls cupped forward, and simple masturbation to squatting in the chair with his butt being fingered and sprawling angled across the chair seat as if sated from sex, Walter held poses while charcoal sticks and colored pencils in my hasty clutch whisked his suggestive images across sheet after sheet of virgin paper.
Despite my lust, I was reminded that some less explicit images were needed. So, back to the task. Knocked out a series of regulation-nice quickies.
We slept. Next morning, he declared them salable, ordering me thus, “Sign ’em, you dope, and hustle over to the Fairfax Street Fair where you might sell enough to get us something for breakfast. I’m hungry.”
*
On the corner of Fairfax Street and Center Avenue, I waved my wares at passersby. “Fresh artistic drawings! Bargain prices – only five dollars each!”
People glanced, smiled or nodded, kept on. Finally, a man came my way, looked at a sketch of Walter’s eyes and one of his butt, and asked in a graveled voice, “Who’s your model?”
A heart-stopping-then-pounding moment. This was the man in the kitchen window, the man who beat up Walter. I blurted, “I don’t know his name. He sat for us at the art school…uuh…last term.”
The man’s face showed doubt. “How many you got there?”
“Mmmm, let’s see,” my voice uneven. “A dozen or so. Do you want to buy some?”
“Here’s a twenty and two fives – for the lot. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it, and you have a nice day.”
I didn’t say I had to run, but run I did – to the grocery store. Grabbing this and that to buy, and dithering about the stern man whose purchase was providing for Walter and me. After making sure the guy was gone, I strode quickly home.
I huddled with Walter as we gobbled cereal with blueberries and quaffed fresh coffee.
“He’ll beat us both, if he finds us.” Walter pointed, “I’m putting you in danger. I should go.”
“You don’t have any clothes,” I pointed back.
“When you show worry the way you are, you are so cute. Want to fuck me to clear your mind – you know, so you can think better?”
Walter shot a hand to what bunched in the fork between my artist’s legs.
The shock of being touched like that knocked me from art-prone thinker to actor in a piece of theater on-the-spot-improvised by my quickly recovering guest. In seconds, he catapulted me naked to the open daybed, taking over my body. Fearful I might self-destruct, I nevertheless gave in, so hot was the emotion flowing over my – no, our entwined bodies.
The boy’s kisses sucked my breath. My cock throbbed as I gasped at and around the small tongue invading his mouth. I tried to swallow the combined saliva that pooled there while passing a hand under Walter’s ever so smooth bottom, which felt like an oven.
My talented fingers proved adept at distending the pulsing aperture. With three of them, I frigged until satisfied mine was the upper hand. With a muttered curse, I wrested the boy from my face, bounded off the bed, thrust my provoker prone, climbed above, aimed and, frantic as a moth darting into flaming death, sank my knob as deep as possible.
A piercing cry strained Walter’s throat, “Oh god, YES!”
My excitement was rubbed into high sensitivity by the clasp of the juvenile-like ass. Beyond my wildest fantasies, its imperatives forced my stomach muscles to heave insanely. Jaw teeth ground hard and veins of brow and throat must have stood out like a roadmap to ecstasy with the rise of my sparking climax.
My sensational, copious effusions – verbal and sperm-laden – drowned out whatever else came from the boy’s mouth while hosing his interior to overflowing. My spastic pelvic dance succumbed to eddies of appreciation and satisfaction in Walter’s trammeled rectum and soon were pacified into glides and slides of comfort to both of us.
Tender kisses to the boy’s neck rippled gently through the teen. Cock deep and at rest in his cummy swamp, I felt certain it was time again to think, as Walter had predicted. The boy who now belonged to me was, in the basest sense, an object of moist openings and slick, warm surfaces. That base self I would not portray but his possessed an outer appearance that deserved to be, must be conveyed from eye-assisted mental image to canvas. My canvas board.
Contented to be immobile, if somewhat in need of less weight to breathe more readily, Walter casually dropped an arm to the floor. Its hand came to rest on a small book. Turned out to bear the title, Lust for Lads.
“Scott, do you need this?”
“Never did. Depressing. Just something I found. Unlike the poor sap in it, I have you.”
“Yes, but there’s the threat we know about.”
I withdrew to let him up. “Let’s take a shower.”
“You need one. Your thing’s dripping. I need the toilet.”
*
Nothing if not bold and daring, Walter’s idea was for us to steal out in the dark of night and to go to my ex-teacher’s place. Prof. Warrington, who had seduced me when I was in his anatomy class, understood my expurgated explanation of need for a hiding place. He offered his attic atelier where, he said, “You can do anything you want with your boy, Scott, and no one need hear, see, or know of it.”
With thoughts tangential to that, he said he might come by some time to check us both out. Gave me a hard-on. The man knew anatomy – mine – most marvelously.
Thanks to the task of cinching one of my large t-shirts at the waist to cover his nakedness, my boy was distracted. As we darted down my fire escape, he noticed a faint glow in the distant window.
“That’s the night light he leaves on when he’s away. You hide in the shadows. I’ll be back. I can get some of my things.” And scuttling he went, fast and stealthily as a rat across the weedy lot. I sweated beads of nervousness until he re-appeared. A loaded garbage bag dangled over one shoulder like some off-beat, off-season Santa’s.
“You glad to see me?” he indicated my pole-like part, a glint in his eye from the streetlight. My mind’s drift to my period with the professor had aroused it. Oh-no, I feared he might go for the betraying thing there and then, inspired by the danger.
I smacked his bottom. “Move it! We need to get to safety!”
*
Prof. Warrington’s hideaway had food – dried and canned – enough for about a week. Good thing, because my money was about shot. Age difference aside, his spare clothes would fit Walter better than any of mine – pants cuffs and shirt sleeves rolled up – although they weren’t needed as part of our secret residence. His spare cash, in a roll taped under the sink, amounted to almost a thousand dollars. The bedside chest’s drawer held condoms, lubricants, what I thought were smelling salts but was informed were poppers, and a couple of butt plugs like the ones he had used with me.
When opened, the doors under the drawer revealed more styles and sizes of dildos than I knew about, but Walter did. Their discovery set him off.
“Wait ‘til you see what’s in my bag.” He rummaged in it. “Here’s my contract as his houseboy. You won’t believe its terms. This is the cock cage I told you about. Talk about a tight fit,” he dropped his voice.
I goggled.
“It’s like a sex store in here! Tit clamps – the cushiony ones feel best – and my favorite handcuffs, mouth spider to hold my jaw open for your cock – it’s okay when you put in correctly – these scrotal belts of different widths – handy when you want to get serious with my balls – the best speculum on the market, clothes pins, my ball gag, the finest anal hook, the usual cock rings, blindfold, paddle, strap, flogger, and collar – no problem with any of them – oh, this inflatable plug especially when used in tandem with my custom-made hobbler, spreader bar, and straightjacket. See? Aren’t they great? What do you think?”
My mouth needed to close. I had to swallow before being able to mumble, stupidly, “What can I say?” I wiped my chin. My personal parts felt queer.
A blush bloomed on his cheeks, “Why, that you’ll use them on me every day. Well, maybe only a few. I have needs you know and, as yours and yours alone, I must be properly cared for to stay in good shape.” He dipped his eyes demurely, “I hope you’ll use me for everything I’m good at.”
If he was granting me the responsibility of ownership, I was crazy enough to accept it. “Put those down and come here.”
I took him by the chin, turned his face up, and kissed him, then, putting a hand behind his head, drew him forward and kissed harder. With a slow, calming breath, I thrust in and madly drummed my tongue into the yielding softness of his mouth, continuing until his nostrils’ rate informed me I could display more force of character. He wanted it.
“Stand back.”
My thumbs moved across the ridge of his collarbone, across the base of his throat, and down to find his slight chest’s nipples. They skimmed and thrummed alternately, then constantly to outline their aureoles, scratch at them, twist them, and to pinch his popping nipples. Walter experienced sudden weakness in his knees and would have fallen had I not crunched his balls in my fist and held him standing.
“Steady now,” was my directive. His limpid eyes looked up and, as passion’s fire spread under his skin, I pulled him to his toes, lowered my head so that our tongues could meet in lush abandon, and gave him a kiss so primal it made him cum over where my fist held his balls.
I tumbled him to the atelier’s bed where he fell submissively. With his emission smeared where I wanted it, I parted his legs, held them wide, and sank into the rich depths beyond his snug entrance. My heart was practically flying out of my chest, it was beating so hard. He was mine, I kept telling myself. To do with as I wished. To maul, if I desired.
Convinced of my right and with lungsful of air, I began to plumb his rectum, submerging my cock in its soothing sensuality over and over. I lingered now and then when he smiled at me, then proceeded to fuck him with unexpected abandon, especially when his surrender seemed lit from within. With convulsive rhythms compelling me to spin out of control, thrills ran like bayonet thrusts through my loins, sending shockwaves of cum as far as the entrance to his colon.
My lust’s haze subsided when I came down from the heights of the fuck’s pleasure. Beneath me, Walter showed a satisfied look. I caught the sigh in his mouth with a devastating kiss. He cupped his breast area and squeezed his nipples tight. With closed eyes, he appeared to be involved in revisiting the torment I’d visited there. His innards clasped my still-inserted organ perhaps without intent.
The consequence was to summon back its hard presence, its rugged strength. And my attention.
“Flagrant devil, would you tempt me yet again?”
Gratitude welled in his eyes as my qualms about indulgence vanished and the remorseless logic of fucking him focused me.
I commingled my fingers with his hair and gentled the tops of his ears. After due deliberation about where I was inside a person as young as he seemed – one only recently ripened into adolescence yet secure in his person, inhibited by nothing, and more experienced than I – I slowly began a revolving action of my hips then let it evolve into fully circular movements.
To ream him thoroughly for a second time so quickly was torturous ecstasy for me, a form not just of physical but mental turmoil. Was he testing my endurance, encouraging me from the mundanity of my former, little-textured sex life? How far might he take me?
From nowhere, a short crop was pressed into my hand. “Use this,” penetrated my reverie.
Without thought, I brought its tip sharply his left nipple – twice. He jerked up, into it. I struck his right and, as he reacted the same way, my cock hardened outrageously. My hand released the implement. I drove into him with malevolence sufficient to destroy as if in combat an enemy of – what? – my peace and quiet.
His gleeful, “YES!” propelled me into convulsive consummation. My cock fired rapid bursts with military precision – until my balls ached. I dropped heavily to him, biting his neck without breaking stride, fucking him to the max. He came again – clear, watery stuff – and proclaimed his love.
*
With Prof. Warrington’s own art supplies, which included several pre-stretched, large canvases, I painted nudes of Walter that would make any man’s head turn. Women’s as well, we speculated.
My severe critic, Walter, had called my skills to account over renderings of his expressive hands, of his flexible feet, of the line of his jaw, sparkle of his eyes, contour of his buttocks, even what he called the ‘bracelet’ of silky hair encircling his ivory-smooth penis in stages of growth. No flow of paint was to show as a brushstroke unless it contributed to the overall effect. Intuitively, he grasped better than I what should constitute a finished canvas!
The day Prof. Warrington came to check on us, we both had just emerged from the shower and had dried each other. Walter remained in his state of nature, I knotted a towel around my waist to answer the rap. A beaming countenance greeted me. I was kissed on the lips while his hands stripped away my pretense at modesty and groped where I was not yet erect. The professor’s eyes drifted from mine to the figure of my boy.
“Hel-lo! Are you being taken care of properly? The grapevine informs me that you escaped your servitude to that brute, across the way from this fine fellow’s little place. Come here, let me see you. Nice stripes, the right kind. Has my former student shouldered the responsibility of taking care of your ass?”
“Scott’s learned a lot. Just look at his paintings over there.” The boy’s flip of topic was deflective, almost.
Four finished, if somewhat stylishly slapdash, canvases arrayed along the atelier’s far wall drew my former professor’s wily inspection. A quick judgment resulted in his telling us, “Sit down while I make a few ’phone calls.”
*
In the four hours that elapsed before the art movers arrived at the atelier’s address, several events took place. I and Walter signed a handwritten agreement to be represented for a year by Prof. Warrington. He presented us with a peremptory challenge to demonstrate specifically how stimulating my use on Walter of his ‘toys’ would be to our sexual engagement.
At first, my foreplay with the boy – “Use ‘my,’ he’s yours, the way you were mine.” – excited me to full erection. ‘My’ boy bristled at my tweaks of his balls and sank instantly to his knees to give suck. I let him bob, boxing his ears with my lightest touch. “Don’t hang back. Go down on it. Make yourself gag.”
The obedient angel did it so well, I came in his heaving throat. I ruffled his hair, then picked up Warrington’s strap to wrap around his cock. Tied, untied, retied in a different pattern, my boy’s cock struggled such that Warrington said, “Good. Leave it that way. What’s next?”
My hand in Walter’s hair pushed his face away and down to the floor. Doggy style had been inculcated in him before he ended up with me so, hands supporting shoulders, butt out for my pleasures, he was available to be mounted from the rear. My anxious erection, coated with enough saliva to go in, needed little aim I was so carried away.
Warrington struck my ass. “Use this on him.”
It was his flogger. No need for it, still, I was under orders to make a show of my dominance. I opened his knees, drilled in, and struck at my boy’s flanks as I fucked his hole furiously.
“Vary your pace, idiot. Fine-tune that ass like I did yours, or don’t you remember how that went?”
Jolted by flashes of that memory, I was helpless not to cum. With a burning urethral flood, my balls gave up their reserves. My boy gave way. Our quivering, post-release huddle on the floor drew Warrington’s derisive, “You call that a fuck!? I’ll rouse you to a better showing of yourself.”
My ass felt his fingers rooting familiarly around, then the insertion of something long and bumpy – one of his vibrators! He punched its power button three times. It came to thrilling, battery-powered life, buzzed more rapidly, then went into auto-mode. This last, which I knew well, might be termed come-and-go-earthquake. No prostate could tolerate it for long without shuddering in defeat.
My spent cock tried. Much as it favored my boy’s inside, it could not tumesce even when cosseted by vibrations slow, fast, or wave-like. I pulled it danglingly out, a move that cost Warrington his grip on the device in me.
His regard conveyed the idea that I should not speak. He rose, unclothed himself – a fine body for his age – then spoke in a low voice, “Observe, Scott, and draw this.”
Post-coital eruptions, thoughts formed slowly for me but surely, one in particular: I was to draw Warrington’s fuck of my Walter. Wet and naked, I made my way to sketch pad and pencils. Once in position to draw, I turned toward the bed. One of its pillows had been thrown to the floor for my boy’s head and the other was being placed under the scallop of his adolescent belly.
The swan-like dip of his neck, curve of his upper torso down to Etruscan-beautiful tapered waist, and blood-warming hemispheres fully exposed on the floor transfixed me. Although every inch had come under my hands and lips many times, I saw him in the light of something sacrificial, ready to be consumed by a demanding god.
Warrington unclad, uncommonly for an art teacher, presented as an awesome sight. Not large but hairy, muscular, threateningly masculine, a man with a boldly massive cock, one capable of destruction or edification, depending on how he used it. I had known and felt it intimately. It loomed mightily as he contemplated – knuckles to his jaw, Rodin-style – his target.
I watched my boy’s buttocks being peeled apart by thumbs stronger than mine. Heard Warrington’s grunt of anticipation. To manly cock’s piercing displacement of his parts, Walter sighed some prolonged breaths. As Warrington maneuvered his fat cock inside in slow, smooth slides, his body covered my boy completely.
I shivered in empathy when he rocked more decisively and began rolling motions at increasing speed, speed that sent his roaring tip past the location of Walter’s prostate. The fuck was so demanding upon the demonstrative top man that his buttocks dimpled when tightening for thrusts mightier than any he had dared to send my way months ago. I watched in continued awe.
A transformation seemed underway. Warrington’s impersonal, nearly clinical fuck warmed. I detected hints of enjoyment, heard descriptions of profound arousal and murmured terms of endearment, outright questions about Walter’s pleasure, proclamations of concern, a declaration of love.
That disquieted me. What he said did not show in the forceful, gluttonous way he barged back and forth. True, he did not add any rush to his speed, yet what I saw impressed me as tyrannical. Until…Walter egged him on by begging with abrupt outrageousness, “Do you really love me?”
Upon hearing that silly, theatrical question, Warrington lost control over his gyrating pelvis. Vaulted into the disjoined rhythms of rapturous, rigorous – I’d call it cubistic – orgasm. His world blew into fragments – in the aftermath of which my boy coolly said, “That was nice. Can you do it again? Please?”
At Warrington’s wheezes, I covered my mouth not to laugh. I reached out to give the man a hand, helped him off, pointed to his clothes, and said, “Thank you, sir. I learned so much. Do come to see us again sometime, when you are up to it.”
I had forgotten to draw a single line.
There was a giant favor not two weeks later. Warrington called us to meet him at a large private art gallery, MW ART, uptown. In new clothes, we were greeted in the foyer of a stark white space where my big canvases of Walter were hung, softly lit and the more beguiling for it. We met owner Mieczyslaw Brownstone.
The way he regarded us suggested he had x-ray eyes.
Effusive, he believed, “These should not be priced. I will invite prospective collectors of erotica from a select list to view and to submit their bids in writing. Do you know about the wealthy survivors of the Mattachine Society, NAMBLA, and collecting institutions such as the Leslie-Lohman Museum? Come tonight for the opening with your sponsor here.” He shook Warrington’s shoulder good naturedly, “Can you outfit them in tuxes?”
A formal wear rental agency provided, even an exact fit for Walter’s diminutive size. We looked spiffy, if I do say so.
Pelted with compliments by many attending the opening, I grew hot under the collar and blushed rather much. Hors-d’oeuvres and champagne were firsts for me. My head swam. Walter, provided with a flute of orange juice, had no trouble mingling. Everyone wanted to have a picture taken with him next to one of my paintings where his innocent look contrasted with the wantoness on display.
At the peak of the celebration, I saw, standing in front of the plate glass window, the gross man who had thrown out my boy, naked and beaten. Red in the face having seen Walter, he opened the gallery door and started in.
Walter saw him, too, and shrank back, “That’s Rhino.”
Mieczyslaw stood in the man’s way, “Sorry, sir, this event is by invitation only.”
Warrington witnessed the would-be invader and joined Mieczyslaw.
“That boy is a thief!” Rhino boomed.
“And you, sir, are not wanted,” Mieczyslaw pushed his chest.
Warrington snarled, “I know you for the monster that beat that boy, Walter, almost to death.” He raised one of his fists in threatening mode.
The big man’s palpable hostility was obvious to everyone in the gallery. Two other men came forward.
Rhino charged, and was taken down by the taser from Mieczyslaw’s pocket. The art dealer was prepared to defend his gallery. After a brief explanation of the man’s danger, Mieczyslaw, Warrington, and the two fellows dragged immobile Rhino to a backmost room.
“You all go back to the party,” Warrington said. “I’ll see to this piece of shit.”
Absorbed as we were with glad-handing, chatting, and getting hugged, even bussed on our cheeks before the last guest left wafted into the night, neither I nor Walter knew what Warrington did. Mieczyslaw said not a word beyond giving us assurances that, within the week, my canvases would be gone and there would be money.
Next morning during breakfast, Warrington turned on the television news. There having been no murders, the leading item concerned an arrest for public lewdness made by the police of an unidentified nude man, driving his car erratically in late night traffic.
“He was saturated with alcohol and uncooperative,” a uniformed spokesperson said at a press briefing. “We have him locked up awaiting arraignment before a judge at eleven this morning.”
To a reporter’s question, the answer was, “He’s no longer naked. We have him in an orange jumpsuit, of course.” Laughter at that. Another wondered about the arrested man’s identification. “If he will not provide his name by eleven, the judge will find him in contempt and he’ll remain in our custody, remanded without bail.”
Not bothering with the rest, we downed our coffee and, after ablutions, retired with Warrington to his bed. He fucked us both, then directed me to “do justice to your boy, there.”
Pumped full of his cum behind and with loaded balls in front, I was not in penile distress this morning, rather the contrary. I moved toward Walter, blocking for a couple of seconds the professorial view of my boy squirting his butt’s contents into a rag he must have had hidden. Secreted from view, the squishy wad was out of my cock’s way. I mounted and entered effortlessly, meaningfully – he being mine to savor.
Walter’s bottom did a shake of welcome. Scooted back to root into my pubes. He moaned, “You deserve me the most.”
Susceptible as I am to flattery, his lean body, bounding buns, and seducing words set off vibrant urgency in my groin. I didn’t want to pin him down but it seemed appropriate what with Warrington watching. Walter flexed his sphincter, giving me the go-ahead. I leaned down to kiss his head before leaning back with dignity to saw very slowly in and out of his beckoning hole.
For the longest time, I sustained that pace, registering its every grace upon the nerves of my keenly sensitive glans and shaft. Purposeful and deep, firm and steady, one blissful moment followed another. I massaged the both of our consciousnesses as only possible between lover and beloved. When the time felt right, mine was the irresistible impulse to launch a pure-form fuck, one with no connection to my brain. Shuttle thrusts packed my vein-heavy girth and rigid length into sublimity. My boy’s inflamed tissues ushered in a coruscating chain reaction which forced from me police-baton reaming across inner nerve endings – and an emission of explosive strength.
Built-up sensory overload’s blast seemed to have melted my boy, who lay beneath my heaving weight. His puddled softness of pink flesh complained, “I can’t breathe.”
My mind’s obliteration faded. I was yet pressed in his relaxed body, long after we had cum. My “What?” must have sounded stupid. My eyes roamed, combed over the situation, came to a conclusion. I straightened and turned such that my cock, its head hanging in shame, pulled free.
Walter’s sob may have been one of joy – I hoped. There was no telling. Warrington’s applause broke the spell.
“”That performance was as remarkable as the transition in art from Corot’s delicacies of nuance to Pollock’s slashing thrusts of paint onto his canvases and – like those – took place on the floor! Too bad there were my eyes only to record it, in memory – alas – not on film. Dare I declare: a work of art.”
A definition I’d learned in modern art history appeared in my thought: A kinetic work of art is overall a temporal metaphor of human awareness and knowledge of the life of feeling. Close enough. Something like that.
Our congress had been an art work in Warrington’s eyes.
The lad in my life, for whom my lusty love remained unabated, set his mind on liberating my reluctance to employ his collection of ‘toys’ in our intimacies. When he first showed them to me, it had been with the declared wish that they should be used by me specifically on him. Cleverly, he waited until a ten-day period when Warrington flew to Mali for a conference on ‘Dogon Masks and Myths.’
He insisted that I learn how to isolate his nipples with clamps or suction cups while, say, tugging his limp four inches to hardness without intent to make him cum, only to make him suffer the indignity; that I cinch his balls with progressively wider belts until their veins stood out in bluish strain for my fingers to feel; that I harness his arms to his back with rope in order to access his entire front for torment with fast swings of a soft leather strap, even to use it on his penis; that subsequently I had to learn a multiplicity of loops and knots to help him experience ‘the bliss of ropes,’ each type of which left his rear to my cock’s pleasure; that I ream his rear with dildos of differing rigidity and flexibility and strap in one, whichever – used however – caused him to cry out.
In combination with the above, thwacks with crop and paddles raised his skin’s hue to red and his erotic desire to high levels. As he taught me, I became conditioned to let my own desire satisfy itself behind him. Progress was rapid – with one stumbling block: oral sex, or so he led me to believe. It was one of his ruses, perpetrated when my head swam with conflict over our play’s absence of affection. To put him in his place, Walter told me about installing the ‘spider’ in his mouth and securing it with a buckle to the back of his head.
Heady sex, then. A sort for me to exert complete dominance over my submissive. The new model strapless ring gag with tongue depressor excited me just to put in place. Great design. His throat was my cock’s to plunder for pleasure no matter what the cost to his breathing, to his gag reflex; mine to cast generous salinous secretions and gobbets of gelatinous sperm against teeth, soft palate, uvula, pharynx and beyond, toward his esophagus.
We discovered the fun in my using the long cord attached to the stainless steel anal hook to pull him toward me and onto my cock when his jaw was wide with its fitted ring gag. I would hit the back of his throat, making him sputter, release the tension for him to move back, tug him my way again, listen for the guttural sounds emanating below the head of my cock and, diabolically, hold him there for as long as I dared. A sort of sporting event which I always won. Or did I?
Once freed of hook and ring gag, Walter would tumble away under my stare. I wouldn’t let go of his wondrous eyes which stared back at me with unguarded grace and tenderness. What I did do most of the time was stand over him, cock dripping from excitement, and reply “I love you” to the question he once used to dismantle me, “Do you really love me?”
That raised our love-making’s effect to an incandescent luster which we alone witnessed. Perhaps reminiscent of the glow of light in certain Turner paintings
Our share of my paintings’ sales provided the funds for us to rent a place of our own – away from Warrington’s presumptuously demanding erections. Actually, we located near the building where Mieczyslaw lived with his lover-twins, Floyd and Florian West.
One inevitable thing led to another. I was able to paint an acrylic-on-canvas series of fully nude, nearly lifesize duos and trios – fully nude – of Walter with Floyd, Walter with Florian, and Walter with both of them in contrived wrestling poses that were lascivious, almost lewd, just shy of porn.
“So decorative!” Mieczyslaw declared. “Clearly meant to ornament the living quarters of one or more wealthy clients.” One, it turned out. His single check paid for our vacation to Ibiza in Spain, Taormina in Sicily, and Santorini in Greece where we encountered and got familiar with other intergenerational couples, celebrated sexuality in countless variants, acquired enviable tans and glosses of culture, and were content to remain, living on proceeds from the sale of my new paintings and Walter’s occasional desire to whore himself for well-paid work in the flesh trade. The boy got around – with cheer.
Guess by this point, you realize I couldn’t provide all the cock-loving my dear Walter needed.
Greater love hath no man for a boy whom he rescued than I. My humane act launched the perhaps extraordinary, certainly remarkable pairing and events you’ve read about here.
Dum vivimus!
If you want to know more about this story’s twins, read: Hiram, Accidental Visitor and Pashtun Passion.
Perhaps one day they ought to have a story of their own.
Meanwhile, please rate your pleasure over the present window-view story.
Was it dense and fatiguing? Does it contain too much sex?