“Have you had time to read my manuscript yet?”
No response. We were sitting by the pool of our house in George Town, capital of the Cayman Islands, both of us only in our Speedos. We hadn’t been in our Speedos for very long. We’d come out to the pool to cool off after sex, although the sex hadn’t been that heated. Collin had lain on his back on the bed, and I’d ridden his cock, rising and falling and revolving in slow motion, coaxing the cum out of him. He’d seemed distracted. I’d had to do it all. He’d seemed distracted a lot lately. We’d burned up the bed with sex when we lived in our small apartment in Manhattan and he’d been training in as an international banker and I’d been finishing up my master of fine arts in fiction writing degree.
We’d been a sexy pair then, he a British hunk of twenty-eight and me a corn-fed Nebraskan of twenty-one. We had both been athletic and figuratively swung from the chandeliers in our inventive fuck positions.
Lately, here in the Caymans, where we had everything we could possibly want, including a sexy black majordomo from Jamaica, Thomas, who was forward enough to stand at the sliding doors into the bedroom from the pool and watch us fuck, I was having to do most of the work to bring us both off. Collin hadn’t changed in great looks and sexy body, for his age. It was more that he was going cold emotionally—at least toward me. There were times when it felt like he didn’t even know I was there—or care—until he needed sex.
Having Thomas stand there, watching us, had actually helped me. I could move like I was performing for him and I could imagine him being with us in a threesome. I’m sure he would have been willing. He already was treating me like I was just another one of Collin’s possessions, a sex toy, rather than anything close to Collin’s equal. That had been rubbing off on Collin. He was making a pile of money here in the Caymans with his British bank. I was still shipping manuscripts around to agents. I’d made money off of short stories, but nothing like Collin made from hiding other people’s money. Collin was beginning to remark on that—on his view that I wasn’t pulling my weight.
That was starting to intrude on our sex life, making me feel like a prostitute.
“Time to earn your keep,” he’d say, and then he’d mount and fuck me.
This seemed to have given Thomas the idea that I was just Collin’s whore and that he, Thomas, could treat me that way too. He’d already cornered me a couple of times, embraced me, kissed me, and told me he planned to fuck me. I probably should have told Collin and had the Jamaican dismissed, but he had started coming on to me at the same time Collin was giving me less attention, and the Jamaican was a sexy black bull. The attention turned me on—as long as I could hold the stud in check. And if Collin didn’t start showing more interest in our sex life, maybe I wouldn’t play as hard to get with Thomas.
“I said, have you read my latest manuscript yet? I think this one has legs.”
“Uh, no, I’ve really been tied up at the bank. Someone’s got to pay the bills.”
Of course, I thought. And we were living high on the hog now—a fancy house with a pool, each of us with a sports car, and a cook, cleaning lady—and Thomas, the hunky Jamaican man of all services. We were out of our element still in the Caribbean, so Thomas was earning his keep.
He came out on the patio at this point with drinks for both Collin and me. He was looking good. As was typical with him on this tropical island, he was only wearing baggy white cotton trousers and sandals without socks. He was tall—some six and a half feet, and muscular, an ebony god. The waistband of the trousers rode low on his hips. I loved the look of the line running down from each side below his six pack, under the curve of his hard underbelly, pointing at the goods, when his trousers were dipping low enough to show the curls where his pubes started. Any false moves and the pants would cascade to the floor. He gave me a look and a wink, reminding me that he’d just watched me, naked, riding Collin’s cock, and strutted back into the house.
“I’ve received a check from Chicago Literary Journal,” I said. “Twelve hundred dollars.”
“Great,” Collin said without looking up from the papers he was sifting through. “We can fix the roof on the gazebo now.”
That, of course, was a put down on my financial contribution here. He didn’t really directly say I was sponging off him and was only here now as a sex toy—one he didn’t make full use of—but there always were little jabs like this.
“Do you want to read the manuscript before I start sending it around? You always were a great help in pointing to plot holes and technical issues.” That had been true in the past—when we lived in New York. Not so much here in the Caymans. He’d read a few, without commenting much and eventually stopped showing interest altogether. He once had been enthusiastic about my writing. It was a big reason I went with him to begin with. I hadn’t gone with many older men before him.
I did go with older men, though. If I got it on with Thomas, that would be out of my lane. I increasingly was thinking of getting it on with Thomas, though. From the Jamaican’s treatment of me, moving into a master-slave attitude, I’d say Thomas was increasingly thinking of us getting it on too. From observing how submissive I could get when Collin went commanding and dominant, I’m sure Thomas was learning how to top me.
“We’ll see if I can free some time for it,” he said, still not looking up.
That meant a “no,” of course. Good thing I had other copies of the manuscript. He likely didn’t even know where he’d last left the copy I’d given him. Time to ship other copies without his help.
“Should I tell the cook you’ll be here for lunch?” I asked.
“No, I think not,” he said, standing and stretching. “I have to go into the office. Dinner will have to be late too. I’d best get dressed and get out of here now.” He was a handsome man—and he kept his body lean and muscular. I couldn’t complain about his capabilities in bed—when he employed them. He hadn’t changed his sleek form. We probably still could swing from the chandeliers during sex. It’s just that we didn’t. And I was too young and randy still not to want to. I’d always gone with the older men, but they’d always been men who were still greatly experienced and skilled.
I think for Collin, the pleasure of the game had receded and it had just become relieving the need to evacuate his balls regularly.
At the sliding glass doors to the bedroom, he turned and said, “Thanks for the nooner. You’re still a sweet lay. I’m not sure I know where I put your manuscript. Do you have another copy?”
“Yes, sure,” I said. “I’ll put a copy on the nightstand on your side of the bed.” We had separate sides of the bed now. In New York, we just had a twin bed. We both slept in the middle.
I waited until Collin had gone to his room and was changing into a suit. The bedroom opened onto the pool terrace, so I knew everything he was doing in getting ready from the sounds. I didn’t dare turn my head and look. I had been devastated by his indifference. He surely could have seen that—if he had looked at me. But he’d just prattled on about the weekend plans, which all sounded like business, and said he had to go into the bank—which I knew, as he was always going into the bank. This was especially so when we got anywhere close to talking about this fissure that was yawning and widening between us.
Thomas padded out with another drink. I couldn’t look up at him because there were tears in my eyes. I wanted to wave him away. Another drink was the last thing I needed. I was resorting to “just another drink” too much of the time now. He stood there briefly, looking oh so muscular and sexy, but then turned and went into the house.
When I knew Collin was gone, I stood and looked down at the drink. The last thing I needed at this moment was more alcohol. I picked the drink up and drained it in one go. I went into the bedroom—our bedroom—and sat at the vanity, looking at myself in the mirror. I could see the tears in my eyes, and that’s not all I saw. I saw the fissure that was developing between Collin and me in all its yawning breadth. What had happened to us? We had been so happy in New York when we’d had practically nothing.
Here in the Caymans we had everything. But of course that was the problem. That was numbing each of us to the other.
I folded my arms on the top of the vanity and lay my head down and let the tears roll.
I don’t know why I didn’t jerk and move away when Thomas came close behind me and put his hands on my shoulders, or when he murmured that it would be all right, that he knew what I needed. Nor did I recoil from him when one of his hands glided down my chest and he palmed one of my pecs, worked his fingers into the light brush of curly hair there, and teased out a nipple. I flinched and gave a little groan when he pinched the nipple and rolled it, signaling that this was serious foreplay to laying me, but I didn’t pull away from him. Nor did I pull back when he cupped my chin with his other hand and gently raised my head, turning my face up to his, and gave me a long, lingering look before he took my lips with his.
“Thomas, no, this isn’t what we should be doing,” I whispered.
“It’s exactly what we should be doing,” he answered. “You’re not getting what you need.”
I didn’t resist when he pulled me up out of the chair, took me up in his arms, and carried me over to the bed. He laid me on the bed at the foot, my buttocks at the bottom edge, and slipped my Speedo off my legs. I was naked to him. He unbuttoned his trousers, dropped them, and kicked them away. And then he was naked to me. He was magnificently erect, his black cock thicker and longer than Collin’s was. I was quickly hard too, expanding immediately as he wrapped his hand around my cock.
We both knew what we both wanted. But I made one more effort not to complicate the life here in paradise.
“Thomas, this isn’t right. Collin—”
“You are Mr. Collin’s mistress,” Thomas said, with a laugh. “He treats you like his property. You are a whore to him. There’s no reason you can’t be a whore to me too. I don’t have money, but I have a big black cock. I can take care of you better than his money can. He don’t never need to know. I can make you happy with my cock, and then it will be easier for you to be happy with his money.”
It’s exactly what a man would say to a whore he felt the right to fuck. I couldn’t argue with that. That, indeed, was what I’d become to Collins—his mistress—and not one that he paid a lot of attention to. Thomas could feel me surrender to him. He laughed.
I groaned as he disappeared onto his knees between my spread thighs and, first, took my cock in his mouth and then my balls and then was working my hole with his tongue. I opened wide to him, knowing I must if I was going to take him.
“If you’re going to do it, fuck me good,” I said, wearily.
“I always give good fuck,” he said, with a low laugh.
Taking him wasn’t easy, though. I lay on my belly on the bed, with Thomas covering me. He had worked three inches or so inside me, permitting him to reach up, grasp my wrists in his grip, and force my arms over my head.
His mouth was at one of my ears and he was whispering to me in that deep baritone Jamaican accent of his, “Just relax. Open to me, Mon. Gi it to mi—Give it to me. Let me inside. Let all of your worries go, just for now. Mi ave get wah yuh need—I have got what you need. I will make you very, very satisfied with my cock. Mi wi fuck yah gud, bowy. I will fuck fuck you real good, Mon.”
I relaxed then. I wasn’t a novice. I knew how to open to a man and what to do with the muscles of my passage when a man was inside me. Thomas was huge, but I could take him. I wanted to take him. I knew this was wrong—but it also was so right. I relaxed and he gave me another couple of inches.
I groaned and went up a bit on my knees, raising my hips more, spreading my thighs more, taking a couple of more inches of him. Surely he was all inside me now. But no, he urged me to relax more and when I did, I had it all in one glorious painful slide and felt the kinky black curls of his pubes on the tender skin of my buttocks.
“Breathe,” he whispered in my ear. “You have it all now. Relax to it so that I give you a good fuck. Mi wi fuck yah gud, bowy.”
I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath in. I let it out and, although my breathing was ragged and panty, I felt myself open further to him.
It was then that I had second thoughts—when he fully possessed me and walls were stretched as they never had been before and the muscles of the walls were beginning to undulate over the velvet steel of his shaft. “Thomas, this isn’t good. We shouldn’t—” I started to struggle, but it was no use. He was stronger than I was and held me tight.
“You are fucked already,” he growled. “You will take it until I am finished with you. Tek it, bowy. Take it, boy.”
I surrendered to him and remained open to the cock. I was such a fraud. The time for saying that, for fending him off had long past. I should have said something weeks earlier, when he had taken me in his arms, kissed me, and told me he would fuck me. I knew then that he would—and now he was. My passage walls were rippling over his throbbing cock, making love to it. I was lost to him.
“It wah yuh need. It’s what you need, Mon. Just a little attention. No harm in that. These are the islands. You can take your pleasures and your needs wherever you can find them. Mr. Collins has you here to pleasure himself. No reason you can’t pleasure others as well.”
Tek it, Tek it, Tek it was drumming in my head. And I took it. I opened fully to him, completely vulnerable, burning with need for what he could give.
And then his cock was returning the attention my walls had given it. He began to stroke. Using the leverage of his knees he was rising and falling on my ass, sliding his cock in deep and out, in deep and out. My pelvis was moving with him, rolling with the thrusts, taking all of him that my passage could get, the walls making love to cock. We were fucking.
“Gud, gud, guh wid mi—Good, good, go with me. Yes, yes, you want it,” he muttered. “You’re a little whore for it. Yuh a likkle whore fi it. Yuh a mi likkle whore—You’re a little whore for it. You’re my little whore.”
Angered, I moved again to slip out from underneath him, but I no sooner turned then he slapped me twice in the face, with his palm in one direction and backhanded in the other and put me back in position. “Tek it like di likkle whore yuh—Take it like the little whore you are.”
I let out a sob, but I realized that the rough treatment was exciting me, arousing me. I was feeling the fuck, something I hadn’t done with Collin for months. This demanding, masterful black bull excited me. I settled down with the fuck.
“Yes, please. Fuck me good. Give it all to me, deep,” I whimpered, the acknowledgment that it was what I wanted being painfully pulled out of me.
“Dat a betta—That’s better,” he growled. “You don’t want me to have to beat it out of you. We’re going to get down to business now. I’ll fuck you great. Wi both kno yuh wa it—We both know you want it.”
And he was right. I did want it. I wanted it from him.
It went on forever and I cried out for it and submitted to everything he told me to do. All of my sensations were concentrated on that impossibly thick shaft stretching me, conquering me, working me, and I surrendered to the magic of it, never wanting the stroking to stop. He let loose of one of my wrists so that I could reach under and stroke my cock. He even covered my hand with his and we stroked together. I came on the bedspread with the realization that it would have to be washed before Collin came home—and then realizing that Thomas was the servant here. He would take care of that.
Just like he was taking care of me when he could see that Collin hadn’t been attentive enough.
That’s when I realized that I was going to continue to let Thomas fuck me when Collin wasn’t there to do it or didn’t show me enough attention—even if Collin fucked me too. Thomas was right. This was what I needed.
When Thomas came inside me, I realized that he had barebacked me. I didn’t really give a shit.
We lay there, the big Jamaican having just rolled off to the side of me, both of us panting hard, bringing ourselves under control. We were both young—Thomas younger and more virile than I was. I fell back and grasped his cock, which came back to life and began to engorge again. But I released it as soon as I realized that he could harden right up again.
“We can’t do this again, Thomas,” I whispered. “This isn’t right.”
“Whateva yuh tink, mon—Whatever you think, Mon,” the Jamaican said. He was fingering my ass and even as he entered me with his middle finger and reached in for my prostate, I knew that he was smiling. I knew that he knew that it was whatever he wanted.
I rolled over on top of him, saddled myself on his pelvis, held his cock in position, slid my channel down on it, and began riding the cock. He’d already done me; there was little reason not to get all of the pleasure out of him that I could.
I’m fairly sure Thomas would have made that point himself to get on top of me again if I hadn’t stolen a march on him.
We rested and then we swung from the chandeliers in wild sex, the sex of long-term lovers willing to give everything his partner wanted. And Thomas wanted a lot. He sat on the side of the bed, holding me cantilevered out from his body over the carpet, my legs streaming behind him, trapped under his armpits, his cock deep in my channel, his hands fisting my wrists, as my torso arched out in front of him over his thighs. Using the strength of his massive biceps and chest muscles, he pulled me on and off his cock. I hadn’t been fucked in such a challenging position since Collin and I had left Manhattan. I suddenly was alive and firing on all cylinders for the first time in a long time.
It was nearly dark before he stopped, having shown that he could fire off again and again and again. “Mr. Collin will be home soon. We must straighten up,” he said. He had the decency to saying it with regret in his voice. He also reverted to formal English, no dialect, to let me know we were leaving the world of “us” and entering the world of Mr. Collin. He could have humiliated me by declaring that I was his property now, his mistress, his sex slave. I would not have demurred. But he raised the barrier of the master of the house between us. And I wasn’t the master.
I felt guilty for several weeks after that, which, however, didn’t stop me from riding Thomas’s cock whenever I had a chance, although we did it in his room or in the pool so that Collin wouldn’t see evidence of it. And he had a new, testing position each time. We swung from the chandeliers again and again and again. I spun on that big black bull cock. He reamed me so open that I was surprised that Collin didn’t notice how loose I’d become during our much tamer sex sessions. Perhaps if he was giving me half the attention he was giving his bank and his money-hiding clients, he would have noticed.
The guilt stopped the day I came home earlier than expected from shopping in George Town and found Thomas on his back on a pool bed and Collin saddled on his pelvis, riding his cock. I knew that Collin was versatile and I also was fully aware of the power of Thomas’s charisma and cock. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Collin was paying less attention to me because Thomas was tiring him out.
The plot thickened and the fissure widened.
Having seen Thomas fucking Collin didn’t stop me letting Thomas fuck me too. The first time he came upon me in the silver closet after I’d seen him with Collin as Collin’s car was departing through the gate and I knew he wanted me, I tried to resist, struggling with him. But Thomas actually enjoyed that—and, in the end, so did I. With a laugh, he shoved me up against a cabinet, with one hand cupping my chin and forcing my head back against the cabinet door. His other hand pushed my shorts down to my knees and grabbed my cock. I otherwise was naked. I beat on his chest, ineffectively, with my fists. The man was bigger and stronger than I was, my strikes growing weaker and weaker as he worked my cock and came in to possess my lips with his.
Coming out of the kiss, he growled, “Step out of the shorts,” and I kicked them away.
“Unzip me,” he commanded. I went beyond that, taking his cock out. He was hard. So was I.
“Climb mi hips wid yuh knees—Climb my hips with your knees.” Sinking back into the world of “us,” where Thomas was master and I was slave.
With a whimper, I did so.
“Put it inna yuhself— Put it in yourself.” When I had, he thrust up into me and started to stroke immediately. Snuffling and panting I moved with him. After that I didn’t try to deny him ever again.
The day came, though, that Thomas was suddenly gone and Rondy was there—an older Jamaican, muscular, yes, but not like Thomas was. Not in a sexy, confident, overstepping way.
When I asked, Collin simply said that something had gone wrong in Thomas’s family back in Jamaica, and he had to leave immediately. Collin said we were lucky that the family that had Rondy had shipped back to the UK and we were able to hire him on without a gap in help. That was certainly true. We had a cook and a cleaning woman, but we were still lost without a majordomo.
But the problem wasn’t that we might have been without a majordomo—it was that we were without Thomas. I think that if Collin knew Thomas had been fucking me he either wouldn’t care or he’d let me know he knew. There must have been some falling out between Collin and Thomas that had nothing to do with me.
Whatever it was, Collin must have felt a little bit guilty about it, because he paid me more attention from then and our life seemed to get back on track. He still was wrapped up in his own work, though, and didn’t show that much interest in mine.
Rondy accepted both Collin and me as masters of the house and gave me every deference. Thomas had shown some deference to me when Collin was present but when he wasn’t Thomas had treated me not only as Collin’s sex toy—his property to be used as he wished—but as his, Thomas’s slave, as well.
I missed Thomas—and swinging on the chandeliers.
* * * *
“They are all pigs, of course. Your Collin is a pig too, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t say so, no,” I answered Bobby. We were sitting on the front porch of the Wharf Club, overlooking the George Town waterfront near the end of the city wharf. It was a gay club, not that anyone would admit to that. Sodomy was illegal in the Caymans, although, like most laws here, it was ignored unless it became too obvious. It just was used socially in self-selection separating one strata of “us” from another of “them.” Collin and I were somewhere in limbo socially. We were known to be a gay couple—in whispers and raising of eyebrows—but Collin had an important position in banking and I had an interesting background, as a novelist—a more successful one now that I’d sold one of my novels to G.P. Putnam. Being some form of “artist” gave me leave to be queer and even flighty, if I wished. The English had a tradition of celebrating, in a low-key way, the unconventional artist, and the Caymans were distinctly English in flavor.
Thus far I hadn’t wished to exhibit as flighty, though. More quietly interesting and mysterious. More than one ruling-class married English ex-patriot male I met at clubs and concerts here had suggested what I could do for him in private. Still, we weren’t being invited into the homes of the super wealthy or highbrow here. At the upper level male-on-male passion only was brought up in whispers. The Wharf Club was refreshing because it definitely wasn’t highbrow, although some of my high-class admirers slummed here occasionally, and queerdom could be spoken here at normal volume.
“Oh, come on,” Bobby persisted. “You’ve said that Collin hasn’t given you the attention you needed.”
I knew that was a mistake—telling Bobby that—as soon as I’d done it. But that was before I sold the novel and before Thomas left our services. Collin was a bit better now. A bit. I liked Bobby. I found him easy to talk to, both of us being young, in the arts, and essentially kept men on the island. His keeper was the owner of the club, Gordo Williams, a Jamaican much like Thomas had been—a big, strapping black bull. But where Thomas had been handsome, Gordo was ugly as sin. But he certainly had a magnificent body on him. He bulged and glistened. Gordo owned this club. And he owned Bobby, who had been a dancer off Broadway, had signed on to a Royal Caribbean cruise line dance troupe, and had jumped ship here in the Caymans and was shacking up with Gordo. He danced for his supper now at the club. I also gravitated to Bobby because he was a sunny, funny, saucy, good-looking young man who I was studying to include as a character in a novel still in conception. Also because, like me, he was a submissive bottom and thus not a source of speculation or worry.
“He’s better now,” I said. We were here because Collin and Gordo had business—Collin was Gordo’s banker—and I’d been invited along for a drink. I didn’t get out much and was at a frustration point with my writing—what some called writer’s block, although I didn’t want to acknowledge it was that serious, so here I was. I convinced myself that I was just trolling for plot and character ideas. The writer’s block would be gone by the time I got back to our house on Beach Drive. I had just needed to get out of the house and circulate a bit. Seeing Bobby again would get those juices going—and Gordo. I admit that, after Thomas had fucked me—my first black bull—and after Collin had become distant, I had gotten curious about Gordo. Before, I hadn’t given him a second thought. Now I wondered if he was hung like Thomas had been. I wondered, as ugly as he was, if he would get a bit physical and manhandle me, letting me know I’d been captured, covered, and cruelly capped.
“Well, Gordo is a pig. They are all,” Bobby was saying, as if he’d read my thoughts. “But he has a redeeming quality.”
“What’s that?” I unwisely asked.
“He’s got a dick to beat all dicks—I wonder if all the black men down here do—and he knows how to use it. What do you think, Sean? Do you think all of the black men down here are hung like bulls?”
“I doubt it,” I said, with a laugh. “I haven’t thought much about that.” But I, of course was thinking that—I’d just been thinking it about Gordo. I was thinking maybe so, and ever since Thomas I most certainly had thought about it.
“Gordo’s hung like a champion bull,” Bobby continued. “I’ll say that for him. Not much between the ears or much to look at in the daylight, but a regular baseball bat between the thighs. And that makes all of the difference. In the dark nothing is better than Gordo’s cock—and dancing here at the club, I can tell you that I get a variety of cock. I know that for a fact. You purred for that manservant of yours, Thomas. Well, let me tell you. He had nothing on Gordo.”
“And you know that because . . .” I asked.
“How do you think I know that? Thomas got around.”
“Lucky you,” I said. And I meant that.
“Have you ever thought of another man while Collin was laying you—thought about someone else other than Collin being on top of you when Collin has his dick inside you and is pumping away? I mean other than Thomas? There any of these refined English lords you’d like to lie under and be taken by with finesse rather than brutal power?”
“No, of course not.” I laughed, I hope not too nervously. Of course I’d thought about it—especially during the period Collin and I were in the darkest patch, the period in which Thomas was fucking me too. I thought about Thomas doing it when Collin was on top of me. And some other guys too, including Gordo. Not Bobby, of course. We were too much alike—and both submissives.
“If you did, who would it be? Would you like to stay with black bulls or go for the highbrow? There’s a Jamaican fisherman who comes out there on that dock every morning to take his boat out. I try to be here every morning to sip my coffee and watch him prepare the boat. He’s big, like Gordo. And although Gordo is about as much as I can handle—even when he fucks around, which is OK with me—I think of that fisherman. Gordo us oversexed. But sometimes when Gordo is on top of me, I think of it being that fisherman. And I wonder if he’s as hung as Gordo. I bet he is. I think they are all black bulls down here. Who would it be for you, Sean?”
Gordo, of course. But, not my first pick. A black bull dick isn’t everything I wanted in a man who was covering me. That would be David Irwin, the society doctor, the champion tennis player who lived in the big mansion at the top of the hill, with his wife, Gail. A handsome devil in his forties, all smiles and robustness. An Aussie, I understood. Rich as hell. He and his wife were patrons of everything here. And they threw the most exclusive parties. Always in the society pages of the paper. I’d thought of him being on top of me when Collin was, although I didn’t think of that until Bobby had mentioned it. And Thomas, of course. I always was thinking of Thomas being on top of me when Collin was—the two of us swinging from the chandeliers.
“No, I can’t think of anyone,” I said to Bobby.
“You know Gordo fancies you,” Bobby said, laying his hand on my forearm. “He’s told me more than once that he’d like to do you. If you’re interested, I want you to know that I don’t mind. Gordo needs variety. So, do I, and we have an understanding. He does me best when he’s doing someone else too. I told him that you and Collin were having some difficulty—that Collin wasn’t satisfying you. That’s one thing Gordo does really, really well. He satisfies. And I know Thomas knocked you around a bit and you found you liked a bit of that. Gordo conquers. So, if—”
“Thanks, Bobby, but Collin and I are doing just fine lately.” Oh, shit, I thought. Another thing to worry about and to try not to give in to. Sure, I’d like to try Gordo out. “Is this why I was invited to come along today for a drink? You wanted to let me know that Gordo wants to fuck me?”
“Well, yes . . . except you know I’m always happy when you come along. You’re the only one on this godforsaken pile of sand I can let my hair down with. I wouldn’t care if Gordo was doing us both, truly. I wouldn’t mind if we did a threesome with him. Are you mad at me for telling you, though?”
I could see that he was unsure of himself now. That wasn’t the way I liked to think of the character I was weaving from him. “No,” I laughed, “I don’t care. It’s flattering to know that. The next time I need a big black cock, I’ll be showing up here.” We both laughed at that, but I couldn’t help thinking that I could use a big black cock.
At that moment, Collin came out onto the porch and Gordo bellowed for Bobby to come inside. Collin, whose drink was only half finished, eased down into a rocking chair and Bobby stood and went inside. I had a line of sight into the barroom. Collin and I sat there, not saying anything, looking out at the activity in the small harbor at George Town, and pretending that we didn’t hear the sound of sex from inside the club.
From where I sat, when I turned my gaze away from the sunshine brutalizing the harbor and into the dimness of the barroom, I could see that Gordo was fucking Bobby on top of one of the tables. All I could see was the muscular back of the black stud, his trousers and briefs off, standing, facing the table. Bobby’s creamy, dancer’s legs, were spread and raised, held up by big black hands gripping the young man’s ankles. Gordo’s plump buttocks were contracting and relaxing in a rhythm that harmonized with Bobby’s grunts and groans.
My hand was shaking as I raised my glass to my lips. I hoped Collin didn’t notice. He seemed to be trying not to notice that Bobby was getting fucked royally just forty feet from us. I couldn’t help but wonder just how hung Gordo was. Bobby was a relatively small-bodied young man. So was I. How thick a cock could his passage take? How thick could mine take? Thomas had been thick and I, surprisingly, had been reamed to his needs—with difficulty, certainly, but with glorious difficulty. I wondered if Gordo was as big as Thomas was. Or bigger. Bobby said Gordo was bigger—that he’d been fucked by Thomas as well. That was news.
The fucking obviously hadn’t escaped Collin. As soon as we got back to the house, he wanted me in the bedroom, on our bed. He covered me in a missionary, crouching above me, on his knees, between my spread thighs. He was hovering over me, his forehead touching mine, his eyes blazing as they stared into mine. I clutched him to me, drawing him inside me, my palms squeezing his butt cheeks in the rhythm of his thrusts. He was good. It was a good fuck. He was hitting all of the familiar spots. It was the best fuck we’d had for some time, fed, I’m sure, by the sounds of Gordo taking Bobby at the club. He pulled the cum out of me and he came as well. It was a good, competent fuck.
But while he was fucking me, the images of Thomas and David Irwin . . . and Gordo were flipping up between his eyes and mine.
Afterward, as we sat by the pool, sipping drinks, mellow from the best fuck we’d managed in some time, Rondy padded out with a silver tray, with an envelope on it.
“Well, at last,” Collin said, with a smile, when he’d read the note.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s an invitation. From the Irwins. For a buffet dinner up at their house. We’ve arrived at last,” Collin said. I could tell from the tone of his voice that this was the best thing that had happened to him all day—including the fuck we’d just had in our bedroom.
“That’s great,” I said, my mind going to wondering if David Irwin was hung. He certainly had a robust, strapping body. He looked like he had a bulging basket in those newspaper photos of his tennis matches. And how strong was his backswing; his ball delivery? And he was an older man—at least compared with me. I’d always gone with older men for my longer affairs. I didn’t consider what I’d had with Thomas an affair. It was more of a disease.
“Collin,” I said. “You were unusually randy just now. Back there at the club . . . being able to hear and glimpse Gordo fucking Bobby . . .”
“You’re wondering if I’d like to fuck Bobby too, like that, given the opportunity—and you not caring?”
“Well . . .”
“Sure, it makes me horny to think about fucking a cute little piece like that. It never hurts to think about the possibilities of variety.”
“Oh, well.”
“Are you asking me if I’ve fucked Bobby? It would be best if you didn’t ask that.”
So, he had. “No, I won’t ask that.”
OK, so I felt fine going back to thinking about Thomas and wondering about Gordo and David Irwin.
* * * *
David Irwin indeed was hung—and strong and charismatic. He fucked me in the garden of his house while fifty or more people, including Collin, were enjoying cocktails and a buffet in the Irwin house within our hearing. When he was seducing me, he told me that the danger of that would be all the more arousing for me, and he was right. He had a hand over my mouth to keep me from crying out and alerting the other guests. The other hand was on my lower belly, holding my buttocks into his groin, as he leaned me over a railing behind a gazebo and fucked me from behind. He was long and thick and he knew how to work a passage. The muscles of my passage walls loved what he was doing and rippled over his pistoning cock in appreciation.
He hadn’t asked me if I was willing at the moment he just grabbed me and put me under him. He had just taken me, as if by right. I found it exhilarating. He, of course, knew I took cock. He just had no reason to know I would take his—not consulted or cajoled. Just fucked. He was a lion, the king of the island. He took what he wanted.
Still, I hadn’t been totally a slut about it. I had struggled, surprised when he’d grabbed me and dragged me behind the gazebo. He’d told me in the house that he wanted to fuck me—that we’d been invited to his party because he wanted to fuck me—and I went into the garden with him alone. But I couldn’t know he was serious and wanted to do it there and then when he was hosting a dinner party in the house. I acted like he was just bantering with me, being amusing, while letting me know he knew I was gay and that was OK with him. So, I went into the garden with him.
When he dragged me behind the gazebo, I struggled against him, but to no avail. He was a strong, determined man, and he knew what he was doing. He had his hand over my mouth but his fingers were pinching my nose, controlling my breathing. He was efficient at stripping my trousers and briefs and unzipping and freeing himself. Once inside me, he took me strongly, having me panting at how thick he was. Once he was saddled, I surrendered to him—aided by my having wanted him to begin with.
I wouldn’t have said this was consensual, but it was overwhelming and embarrassingly arousing. And then it obviously turned consensual, as I relaxed—he laughed when he felt me surrender to him—and I set myself and banged him back, pushing back with my hips as he thrust forward. Both of us concentrated on the fuck, both of us fully invested in it.
He released my mouth and nose then, putting his mouth next to my ear and whispering, “I knew you wanted it from me.” He was cocky. There were people nearby. I could have called out for help then.
“Yes, I wanted it from you,” I whimpered.
“And when I want it from you again, you’ll give it to me,” he hissed.
“Yes,” I answered.
When he was done, he eased his grip on me, ran his tongue around in one of my ear cavities to check on whether I would moan for him, which I did, and whispered, “I’m going to let you go now. You can go into the house and announce that I’ve raped you in the garden or you can arrange your schedule to visit me here again Tuesday afternoon and I’ll rape you again. I know your type. You love to be raped.”
“What time Tuesday?” I murmured.
He laughed. I turned my face to him and we kissed passionately.
“Yeah, I was told that you were Collin’s little whore and could be had.”
I chose to ignore that. “So, do we go back in now? Separately, I assume,” I said.
“No, unless you decide to start screaming ‘rape,’ I’m taking you upstairs and banging the hell out of you to give you another chance not to show up on Tuesday.”
“Is that what you want me to think you did just now—rape me?” I asked.
“It’s the feeling I like to have when I do it with a beautiful young man like you. And I suspect it gives you added arousal when you can feel that’s being done to you, yes.”
“Then take me upstairs and rape me again,” I said.
That’s what he did. He guided me upstairs by a back staircase to a bedroom that obvious was a servant’s room, not the master bedroom or even a guest room. It had double locks on it like he didn’t want anyone but himself to go in there. Once in the room, I knew why that was. There was a twin bed and nothing much else in the room, which had a dormer window on one wall. The rest of the room had various restraints in view. There were four on the opposite wall, two above and two below. There were restraints on all four corners of the bed.
“Is this where you bring young men to rape them?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, with a smirk. “Take your clothes off.”
“Just like that?” I asked.
He slapped me across the face, sending me reeling back onto the bed. “Yes, just like that. Do it.”
I did it.
He didn’t use any of the restraints attached to the bed. He used connected double restraints to trap my wrists to my ankles on either side, trussing me up on my back, with my legs bent and spread and my genitals exposed. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t help him, either, I just sat or lay there, at his direction, docilely letting him truss me up, listening to the faraway music and hubbub of the party going on somewhere in the large house. He did tell me to let him know if I was resisting, but I remained mute, thinking only that I wanted his cock moving inside me again and not caring that we might be missed from the party or that someone would come looking for us. This was his time with me to control. He could do anything to me that he wanted to.
He popped a ball gag into my mouth. Standing over me—he was a magnificent figure naked—he flicked my body all over with a riding crop as I jerked and writhed as best I was able and screamed ineffectually through the ball gag until he got overly excited. Then he fell on me between my legs, thrust inside me, and fucked the shit out of me.
We were swinging on the chandeliers. I was climbing on the clouds. He was fucking the hell out of me and it was everything I ever could want. I just regretted that my mouth was gagged so I couldn’t tell him how glorious it was while he was doing it.
When he pulled the gag out of my mouth, he leaned over me, his dick still inside me, and said, “So do you still want to come to me on Tuesday? We’ll be using this room.”
“You didn’t tell me what time,” I responded. “Tell me a time and I’ll be here.”
He laughed. “You are sweet prey and you take it like you really want it. We’re going to have a great time, you and I, until I’ve used up every ounce of you. But this is your chance to pull away from what I have to give you. Do you wish me to let you be now?”
“No,” I answered. “I’ll be here Tuesday if you give me a time.”
It all lasted for less than an hour between when I’d walked into the garden behind him and when we reentered the living room, he from upstairs and me from the garden. If anyone noticed we’d been gone, they didn’t say anything about it. I found Collin and stood very close to him for the rest of the evening. He was glowing, talking with people he knew through business but only now was mingling with in a social setting, one of the most exclusive houses on the island open to him. He obviously felt that he had arrived—and he also probably felt that the invitation had been all about him.
From the beginning, when we walked into the foyer of the house and reached the top of the reception line, I had known, from the looks Irwin gave me, that we got the invitation because of me, not Collin. I wouldn’t have told him that in a million years, though. I wouldn’t have burst that bubble.
The host, the doctor David Irwin, cut a magnificent, charismatic figure. His very presence lit up the room. He was quite tall and broad across the shoulders. He was in his late forties or early fifties, but he still had a wavy mane of reddish-gold hair. His ruddy complexion shrieked of robust health, vitality, and outdoor sports. I had known that he was a champion tennis player in his age category in the Caymans, but further research after we’d received the invitation revealed he had been a professional rugby player and was a horseman. He certainly knew how to ride me.
He was Australian. His wife, Gail, who obviously was some ten years older than he was but still well preserved, was from an old Cayman banking family. She probably had most of the money and nearly all of the social standing when he’d come onto the scene. His smile was broad, and when you talked with him, his concentration on you made you feel like he was fully invested in who you were and what you thought.
He spent enough time shaking Collin’s hand that I’m sure Collin thought the man would call him in the morning to transfer all of his bank accounts to Collin’s personal business even though his wife’s family owned a bank. But quickly enough, he’d turned Collin over to Gail Irwin, and he had my hand in his. Collin, knowing where the family’s money originated from, was happy to go off with Gail Irwin. The way David Irwin folded his thumb inside my palm and rubbed when we shook hands made me shudder, and I realized that this, coupled with the looks he’d sent my way, meant he understood that to be a homosexual top signal to a submissive. I left my hand there, wrapping a finger around his thumb, signaling I would be submissive to him, exhibiting that I would willing sheath him.
“So, you are Sean Walker,” he said. “Haven’t I just read in Publisher’s Weekly that you sold a novel—something about the city—to Putnam’s.”
“Yes, sir, Home from the City,” I said, not being able to stop beaming at him because he knew that about me. “We came here from New York City. I wrote about struggling to make it there.” In just a mention of the novel, he’d shown more enthusiasm that I’d sold it than Collin had. Collin hadn’t told me to send the $30,000 advance I got for it back, though.
“I’ve also read a short story of yours recently in the Chicago Literary Journal. I’d like to talk with you about that later . . . if there ever is an end to this tedious reception line.”
It was only then that he let my hand go. I could still feel the tingling sensation of his thumb rubbing on my palm. I floated a few inches off the floor on my way to the drinks table.
In less than a half hour, he was at my side again. Collin had deserted me, choosing to take advantage of his evening at the top of the heap to try to make some connections that would help him in business. I was standing off to the side in the dining room, watching others graze at the groaning board, and nursing my drink. I obviously was too young for this crowd and possibly many of them knew my relationship with Collin and were politely shunning me.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he said, sidling up beside me.
Before I fully realized who had spoken to me, I said, “Not really. A bit highbrow and much too British colonial for me, I’m afraid.”
“That’s right; you’re an American, aren’t you? But all of this is good for character research for novels, don’t you think?”
I looked at him, realizing it was the host, David Irwin. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Irwin. I didn’t realize it was you. I’m sure you have more important guests to talk with. But, yes, you’re right. Observing your party is good research for characters in future novels.”
“There’s no one more important to me here tonight than you,” he said. He placed a hand on the small of my back.
“That’s flattering even if not true,” I answered.
“Oh, it’s true and I hope to help make your evening here more exciting.” And then, before I could respond to that, he went on. “About that short story in the Chicago Literary Journal. Very interesting, but I don’t think you were being fully honest in it.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Your character, Joshua. He was so frustrated. I know that provided the tension for the story, but I don’t think you revealed his true frustration—although I think you knew what it was. And I think Joshua represented you yourself.”
“Oh?” I said. I, in fact, hadn’t been fully satisfied with that story and I didn’t know why. Maybe the man was on to something. “That’s intriguing—that a story I managed to sell was dishonest.”
“It was well written, I do think. And it works on one level. But on a deeper level, not on the level you were at when you wrote it—about yourself, your own emotions.”
I didn’t say anything, so he went on. “The story is about Joshua’s unsatisfying relationship with the woman Maria.”
“Yes, maybe so,” I said, wanting him to go on. His hand had slipped to palming my buttocks. I suddenly had an inkling where this was going, and the plot of that short story was racing through my brain, forcing doors of understanding open that had been closed when I’d written it and sent it off.
“I think the protagonist of your story wanted to go with men, not the woman Maria—and he wanted to be tested and manhandled by men. I know you are sleeping in Collin Destry’s bed,” he whispered in my ear. And then, off topic, he sniffed and said, “You smell nice. I know that Destry is fucking you. This story you have in the Chicago Literary Journal, though, tells me he isn’t fucking you well, using you fully. I think you want to be used cruelly. I think you want to be fucked to exhaustion. Knocked around a bit.”
I was too much in shock to respond. I also was struggling with arousal. The hand on my butt cheek was squeezing it.
“Raped. I think you have fantasies taking submission that far. I think you are a very passionate young man, Sean. It comes across in your writing. Your Joshua was unsatisfied with Maria because he wanted a man fucking him. That’s what you want too. And you want to feel it when a man fucks you. You want it to be dangerous and taxing and to take you to the edge.”
“Swinging on the chandeliers,” I murmured.
“What was that you said?”
“Swinging on the chandeliers is what I call it. All-out sex.”
“Yes, that’s it. I think you want to swing on the chandeliers with a man.”
“Yes, with a man. You’ve already said that you knew Collin fucked me. Did you invite Collin and me here so that you could fuck me?”
“Not entirely. I read your short story and then about your novel sale and that you lived here in George Town. Then I researched you and found that you were a beautiful, enticing young man. Only then did I invite you to this party—and, truth be known the whole reason I’m having this party is to get you here. I could give you what Destry isn’t giving you, Sean. I could swing you on the chandeliers. If you like big cocks, I can give you a big cock. If you want it wrenched from you, I can do that. If you want to be raped, I’m your man. Rumor has it that you liked your Jamaican servant’s big cock. I want to fuck you like Destry hasn’t fucked you. I want to fuck you like even your Jamaican black bull didn’t fuck you. I can make you feel it—suffer for it. You’ll write best-selling novels full of tension and challenge and satiation when I’ve done with you.”
He had a finger pressing into my crack from behind, finding where my anus opened.
“Sir. We’re at a party—your party. This isn’t really—”
“You’re not saying no.”
“No.”
He laughed. “That’s ambiguous even if it sounds direct. What are you saying no to?”
“No, I’m not saying no. I want you to fuck me. I wanted that before I came to this party.” God knows that when Bobby asked who I fantasized fucking me, David Irwin’s name had popped out. And, no, Collin wasn’t swinging me on the chandeliers. He did that back in New York when we had nothing, but he didn’t do that here in the Caymans when we seemingly had everything. “But we would have to set something up. I came with Collin. He’ll be keeping track of you.”
Irwin snorted. “Collin has forgotten you’re here. I invited enough business prospects for him that he’ll be focused on them for the rest of the evening. I could fuck you on the refreshments table and your Collin wouldn’t notice. I am going out onto the patio and into the garden,” he said. “Follow me.”
And I had followed him.
So, truth be known, I knew exactly what would happen when I followed David Irwin into the garden and what it would lead to if he wanted me. I just didn’t fully understand that the man was as bold in action as he was in talk.
* * * *
Every Tuesday for weeks I was David’s sex slave. He even called me that, took me to his secret sex nest, yoked my neck with a collar and chain when I was with him, and treated me as his slave. He took me in every sexual position he could think of, starting with him sitting on the side of the bed and me streaming down to the floor, my buttocks on his lap, he deep inside me, my ankles crossed behind the small of his back, my wrists bound above my head, my head bouncing off the floor, and him grasping my waist and pulling me on and off his cock.
I found out that the four restraints on the wall were for him to bind me there, either facing the wall or not, either my ankles also restrained or not, and lightly whipping me and then fucking me. The restraints on the pillars of the bed were to spread-eagle me for the attention of the lash and his cock. He took me out on his yacht and, when out in the Caribbean, down into his cabin. He bent me over a railing, bound my wrists to my ankles, and caned me with a stalk of thin bamboo until I begged for the cock—and he gave it to me.
I was his for whatever he wanted.
And he wanted to share me and did so with a black colleague and even with Collin. By the time he shared me with Collin, I knew the doctor was fucking my partner as well. Collin and David had a regular tennis date, but Collin wasn’t that good of a tennis player. I saw his car parked at David’s house and confronted him, and he didn’t deny it. He told me it was just business—that he was cultivating the Irwins’ money—but I knew that Collin was as much a sex slave to David Irwin as I was. What I resented was that, when Irwin called us to his house and said he wanted us both, together, Collin didn’t bat an eye before agreeing to it.
I, of course, was given no option.
The next Tuesday, when I was getting ready to leave for David’s house, David appeared at our house. Collin was there too. He showed no surprise or rancor that I was there—that Irwin was fucking me too. I wondered how long he had known.
They tied my wrists over my head to the headboard and Collin went under me and speared me from below. He entwined his legs in mine and spread and lifted my legs, and David just came in between them, worked his cock inside me above David’s, and they both stroked inside me, making love—no, sex, not love—with me and sex with each other. They kissed over my shoulder.
I was determined to leave them both then, but I lost David before I left Collin.
Before the next Tuesday, David was dead, shot by his wife, Gail. Officially, there was little given out and this being the Cayman Islands and Gail’s family being as prominent as it was here, it was written up as a gun-cleaning accident, with David, not Gail, holding the gun. The rumor mill, though, mentioned David’s secret room and Gail finding it and finding David there with one of the family’s young Jamaican serving men.
Within days, Collin had left for a meeting in London. I don’t know if he really had a meeting scheduled there or not. And, frankly, I didn’t care. I started packing the day his plane took off for the UK.
There was one last thing I wanted to do.
I walked into the Wharf Club when I knew Bobby was at the gym. Gordo was standing behind the bar.
“I hear that you want to do me,” I said. “Just make it interesting, please. And if you aren’t at least eight thick inches, don’t bother.”
He was more than eight thick inches. He stripped us and I knelt in front of him and took his cock in my mouth. He made it more interesting, though. He picked me up and twirled me around in front of him, so that I was off the ground and my feet pointed to the ceiling. My mouth was at the level of his cock. My anus was at the level of his mouth. We both licked and sucked until he couldn’t take it anymore. He flipped me around, slammed me down on the top of a table, with my legs in the splits on the edge of the table top, and, as I yowled at the size of him, he worked his cock inside me, held my chest down on the table top with fists pressed into my back under the shoulder blades, and pounded me and pounded me and pounded me. My arms were raised over my head, grasping the far edge of the table.
After several minutes of this, he flipped me over, and as I panted hard, he sucked, squeezed, and stroked my dick and balls to my release. All the time he had a fat finger up my ass stroking my prostate. He crouched over me when I’d come, thrust inside me and missionary fucked me to his own ejaculation.
He was an ugly son of a gun, but he had the most divine black bull cock.
He wasn’t finished with me. Hardening quickly, he hauled me off the table, hung me in front of him, my knees hooked on his hips and my fists locked behind his neck. He pushed my passage down on his cock again and strutted around the barroom bouncing me up and down on the shaft. I looked up at the ceiling not long before he and I came again, and I saw that the heaviness of his tread on the weak wooden floor was causing the chandeliers in the ceiling to bounce and swing back and forth.
Now this was a fuck.
And, yes, he was bigger than Thomas was.
* * * *
Months later I was in my apartment in Manhattan—one that was slightly larger than the one Collin and I had lived in, its small bedroom accommodating a double bed rather than a twin—when my bell was rung from the door down at the street. I’d been working on my latest—and I think, my greatest work. I’d sold another book, and my agent had written suggesting that I move back to New York to be accessible to publishers. She’d asked right at the time I’d been resolved to leave Collin and the Caymans. It had made my decision easier.
“Yes, who is it?” I spoke into the intercom.
“It’s Collin. Please let me come up.”
I guess I should have guessed he’d show up. He’d sent letters. My agent was an acquaintance of his and didn’t know Collin and I ever were a couple let alone that we were estranged.
“Just a minute, please,” I answered, looking around the apartment for any tell-tale signs for Collin to see, not being sure what they even would be. I spied my new manuscript, the one I was working on, the one I planned to call Fissure. It was the best one yet, although it wasn’t for the mainstream. I’d have to publish it in some other distribution and under a pen name. I’d changed the main character’s names also. They no longer would be who they really were. I had settled on name changes for the Collin, Thomas, David, Gordo, Bobby, and Sean characters. The problem, of course, is that there really were no likable characters in the book. The protagonist was needy, submissive, easy . . . flighty even. Certainly not noble. The rest were grasping. Well, the protagonist was grasping too. But the characters were honest in their dishonesty. I knew David would have given me that concession. I tucked it away behind some books on the bookshelf and then rang Collin in.
“Hi,” he said at the door.
“Hi,” I said back. It was no use asking him how he’d found me—or why he’d tried to.
“You’re looking good,” he said.
“Thanks,” I answered. I know he wanted me to say that he looked great, which he did, but I wasn’t going to give him that.
“I brought you this. I’ve read it and made a lot of notes, just like old times,” he said. He was handing forth the manuscript I had given him to read all that time ago in the Caymans. I’d put that one aside. I flipped it open, and, good to his word, he’d covered it in notes. I’d have to take that back out and work on it—when the hurt stopped, if ever. Collin wouldn’t have seen it, of course, but that manuscript was an early cut at our deteriorating relationship when we were in the Caymans. I, of course, hadn’t set the book in the Caribbean. What I’d surely have to rewrite was that that book had a reconciliation ending. That wasn’t how my new cut at the issue was ending.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“For a few minutes, I suppose.” I stepped aside. “Do you want a beer or something?”
“What I want is that I want you back. I want us to start out at go again,” he said. He was eying the room, looking for doors. His eyes stopped upon seeing the bedroom door. It was open and he could see the double bed beyond.
“That would be hard. I’m here now and you’re in the Caymans,” I said. “Despite what you thought, I have a career now. I make good money, here in New York.” I’m sure that stung. I wanted it to.
“But you’ve missed me, haven’t you?” he said. He was unbuttoning his shirt. He knew me too well.
“Yes, I’ve missed you.”
“You’re not going to turn me down, are you?” There was more than a hint of the commanding voice of my dominating former lover in his voice. The shirt was off. God, he looked good. He started unbuckling his belt. At the base I was still aroused by submission to command.
“No, I’m not going to turn you down,” I answered, lowering my eyes in submission and the reawakening of want.
He fucked me on the bed—gently, almost tenderly, until we both lost control and then frantically, passionately. I lay on my back, thighs spread, legs bent, feet flat on the mattress, and he lay between them, on top of me. He kissed all the way down my body and took my cock in his mouth and then my balls and then he grasped my thighs, pushed them up onto my chest, rolling my pelvis up, and ate my anus out. I gasped and sighed for him, giving him the moans and groans he wanted to hear.
I surrendered to him physically just as he wanted me too and, no doubt, believed he could easily make me do.
I was open to it, needing it, begging for it, as he slid inside me and, hovering over me, his forehead touching mine, his eyes capturing mine, began to pump me. If he noticed how easily I opened, he didn’t mark it. It was a good fuck, a very nice fuck. I went with it, moving my pelvis with his strokes, gasping and groaning when he quickened the pace, filled out more, thrust deeper and harder. When we became frenzied, I flipped him, coming up off my back and putting him on his back—all without dislodging his cock. And then I was riding him hard, gyrating on his shaft, taking him to the root and rocking and revolving on the cock until, with a cry, we both came, simultaneous.
He wasn’t getting all of my attention, though. From time to time I’d look up at the ceiling, at the dangling brass light fixture. It remained solidly in place, not shimmering, not swaying, and swinging . . . nothing. No swinging on the chandelier.
We lay there, me stretched out on top of him.
“That was fantastic,” he whispered.
“It was good,” I responded.
“Do you think . . . maybe?”
“I think you’d best get up. There’s time for a short shower, but then you’d best be on your way. It was fine . . . for old time’s sake. Nothing more, though. My boyfriend’s practice should be over soon. He’ll come straight home, I imagine.”
“Your boyfriend?” he said, instantly dejected.
“He’s a real bruiser. I don’t think you want to be here when he comes home.” I had surrendered to him physically—I was weak that way. But I had not given in to him emotionally.
I stood at the window and watched Collin leave the building. He passed Terrence Jackson, a fullback with the New York Jets pro football team as Terrence entered the building. I went back in the bedroom, pulled open the nightstand drawer, and took out the velvet-cuffed wrist restraints. Terrence was a 240-pound, all-muscle black bull. He had come to America from Jamaica. He had ten thick inches. When he fucked me the brass lighting fixture in the ceiling over the bed swayed, shimmered, and swung.
“Yoh, Mon.Mi home yuh miss me?—I’m home. You missed me?” he asked with a big, white-toothed smile?
“Yes, I missed you something fierce.”
“Lie dung. Open yuh legs. Mi wa sum sugar—Lay down. Open your legs. I want some sugar.”
“Yes, sir.”
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