Best Gay Erotica 2005 Page 13

  He could talk ten-to-the-dozen, as I’d quickly found out. So it was particularly rewarding to shut him up, and I sensed that I would have shut him up with or without the drugs; he seemed to babble through nervousness and the need to prove his powers of communication. I could sense his fear, the danger he felt with the realization that I’d been premeditative enough to knock him out with he-knew-not-what. I could do anything, as he knew.

  “I’m going to fuck you, Casey,” I whispered close to his ear.

  “Why didn’t you say? I don’t mind…I’m not blinkered.”

  “I know…but asking is so boring, darling.”

  “You can’t rape me, Ant—you know what they say; I’m willing….”

  “That’s not what your body language is telling me, Casey.” I ripped the boxers from his lightly-golden-haired buttocks, transfixed, momentarily, by the enormity of the almost-erection that greeted my eyes in the mirror. “Not even that fools me, but it’s quite nice, all the same.” As I pushed him onto his knees and helped gravity part his thighs, I decided to give in to the desire to see him come before getting stuck in myself, so to speak. Kneeling snug behind him, I started to touch him—no lubrication, no niceties save a few tender kisses and bites to his shoulder and neck. He straightened his arms against the wall, resisting the urge to collapse forward. I sensed his need to convince me he wanted this in any case, even as his fading consciousness demonstrated his manipulation and lack of consent. I reached forward to get the KY from the floor next to the mirror.

  Working him with my hand, I could see his head drooping just as his tensed arse pressed back into me. I stroked him hard, desperate to keep him awake, then pulled his head back by the hair to watch his half-open eyes watching himself and my greased fingers. In his drowsiness, it was easy to bring him to orgasm. I wanted him spent beforehand; he’d have had too much physical pleasure in being fucked otherwise. But he still tried his best to convince me:

  “Screw me, Ant. You know I want you to.” His glazed eyes stared into mine in the mirror. The struggle to keep his cool was valiant and impressive, more so than his pseudo-educated talk beforehand. I sunk into him, tasting his neck again like a bloodsucker, wallowing in warm locks as I let the viciousness take me over. I could feel his insides give way to me, hear his heroic stifling of the cries as the pain hit in—pain, not only of the penetration itself, but of the leather slicing into his wrists as my thrusts pushed him down and into his own reflection. I trailed fingers, still sticky with gel and his cum, through his finely conditioned curls, and felt a flinch. Finally, as I shot into him, he let himself collapse into the wall, a slight sob escaping his gentle mouth.

  It was after that that I first strung him up like a carcass; he was so passed out that he stayed mute, eyes shut, for around six hours. I sat there and watched him for about half of that time, lost in the delicate trail of blood down the inside of his right thigh, the way his thick neck gave way to a broad yet finely muscled back, the way his legs remained parted. I could see his impressive biceps straining automatically to counter the drag of the shackles on his wrists, could sense the pressure building in the knees that were so cruelly—and only just—robbed of their rightful position on the ground. It was a false rest, of course. I never waste good drugs on my boys after the first requirement. Besides, it spoils the entertainment.

  The distant village clock was striking midnight as he started to come round. I’d enjoyed a fine Bourgogne and my favorite speciality from the local charcuterie by that time. I offered him some food, but all he could say—rather pathetically—was “Let me down?” and “My head’s killing me.” I love the way he’s so lacking in pride like that. I moved a bench around so that I could position it under him, twisting his arms around till they were crossed and contorted above him and his thighs were neatly straddling the wood.

  “You must like a bit of torture, Casey, judging by those great piercings you have through your nipples?”

  He shook his head slowly. “What’s the safe word?”

  I shook my head in turn. “There isn’t one around here, Precious.”

  “So why are you asking me?”

  That kind of talk is simply begging for a nonverbal response. I lubed my electric probe and set it next to his left nipple. He gasped and shrank back, a faint burn mark evident on his chest already. “Want it inside you?”

  “…don’t….”

  He made it so much more fun than usual. I have to confess, I’ve never stuck the thing inside anyone; I don’t know what it would do. But I’ve often threatened. Even the hardest cases tend to turn to jelly at the prospect. But with Casey, it was more about how many sweet noises I could wring from him without actually hurting him much at all. There was something so wronged about his expression all the while. Most of them have forgotten who I am by that stage; if they worshipped me before, they’d long since stopped—at least, until they wanted to keep up with the image at the next interview. Casey radiated submission and, somehow, I knew that what he thought of me, I’d know. Me and no one else.

  A while after, I gave him some wine, serving it to his mouth as though to a minor goddess. He gazed into me, seeming to search out the meaning of my actions. I followed the wine with a kiss—very gentle. It was the first time I’d touched his lips with mine.

  There was no reluctance on his part; he accepted my tongue almost greedily. I’d stripped to take him the last time and I ground our nakedness together, aware of the strain on his sturdy wrists as the pressure of my body bore down on his. He dared to escape my lips.

  “Let me go, Ant. I’ll be your boy. You can hurt me.”

  He was driving me mad with this stuff. Missing the point completely. I knew I had to break him, convince him of my intentions, that night. I don’t want him like that, you see. And to resist him and to disappoint him—and myself at the same time—is a challenge and an ultimate pleasure. I could even kid myself that lying on him naked like that, kissing him softly, was just another way to offer him false hope that I’d give in and make love to him.

  I pulled back, strapped him up, feeling his feeble attempts to use his weakened limbs to push his point. I didn’t need to say, “I don’t want you to be my boy, I don’t need your permission to hurt you.” It was hanging in the air as I switched off the light and left him to stare at his own exquisite form in the reflected moonlight.

  Sometimes I ponder whether what I do is actually a crime. It’s this doubt, on reflection, that makes me stop short of murder; murder is a crime, without question… but what I do? If the “victim” never takes you to the police—when, in fact, they tend to leave your house almost as serene as they’d been when they’d entered it—are they a victim at all? Rather like Schrodinger’s Cat, it’s not a crime unless it’s witnessed as such. Surely. But then that would equally mean that Casey’s stepfather was entitled to rape his boy-charge—so long as Casey never complained. And as far as Casey’s stepfather is concerned, Casey never complained. He saved it until now, until the likes of me came along to offer comfort and sympathy, a father figure. History repeating….

  As I hang him up again, the gentle fuck over, he doesn’t bother to so much as wriggle; I’ve broken him, finally. He’s mentally and physically sick of the challenge to be anything more than an object for me. He can’t imagine how much more than that he is, which is perfect beyond words. His head hangs forward, the golden ringlets aspiring to the floor like a waterfall shielding its almost paradoxically calm inner sanctum. There’s a barely perceptible shudder running around the muscles of his entire body—first his right thigh, sending a current through the down, then up the contour of his waist; a twitch of the fingers; a slight, involuntary shake of the mane. He shakes it for me even more as I reach through and fondle his soft balls, whisper his name….

  It’s fully dark as I settle down on the sofa again, tapping future memories into my laptop. I stop to turn the heating up a little. The lack of nourishment over several days has left him cold as well as weak; I can almost h
ear his teeth chattering.

  I was in a band when I was in my late teens and early twenties. We got some attention and it was only fifteen or so years ago; it’s not as though I have no clue about the lifestyle. I was the lyricist and singer, just like Casey, but I soon became bored; I never found my musical soulmates, I suppose—people who’d wait for me to write something I loved and love it too. It’s not a problem, because so many artists ask for me in a guest capacity that I still feel connected to the music world without the pressures. And I still enjoy the perks of celebrity status, including the few peculiar ones of my own making. I never liked performing anyway; as a poet, you don’t have to do too much of that.

  Casey, on the other hand, loves to be on stage. He must have mentioned it at least once in every mail he sent me. Not that I needed to be told, in the first place; you can see it from any live footage. He’s not a cock rocker—just a plain old-fashioned singer with a big voice and leather jeans, belting it out and making love to his audience between every song. I watched him much more attentively after he wrote to me the first time, intrigued but not sure why. I even saved a few videos. Maybe I tasted a little bit of that mystery charisma that’s made him one of the highest-earning, most adored singers of his generation? Or maybe I just knew he’d be easy and enticing?

  It’s simplistic, in any case, to talk purely in terms of what he is now—which is, after all, only a product of what he was aged five, ten, fifteen, and twenty. That’s exactly what makes him easy, but not for just anyone. No, he chose to sacrifice himself to me. We’ve never spoken about his man-on-man experience as an adult, but I’ve a feeling it doesn’t amount to much, if anything. I may even be the first man to have had him since his last client, ten years or more ago. What a thrill.

  I look at the document in front of me and focus, just as I hear a groan and glance around to see Casey’s head thrown back, the muscles in his arms tensing visibly, if frailly. What happens next shocks even me; he starts up a kind of primal howl, as though he’s given up on all words. I knew I was pushing him beyond the usual, but I never expected that kind of sound to come from anyone as a result of something I’d done. For long minutes, I sit, head craned around, watching his strong fingers curling and clenching, his eyelids screwed up, his lips stretched to their widest capacity…and listening to the noise of pure despair, completely within my control. It’s as though he’s oblivious to my presence in the room, maybe delirious through lack of food and proper rest. His cries echo in my head like something from my very distant past; it’s the most exquisite pleasure and pain to hear them.

  I wonder, fleetingly, if he might just be finally desperate to perform some natural function other than the liquid kind. But that’s clearly not the case; the sound subsides as a spasm ripples down the muscles from his shoulders to his hips. His head’s still hanging back, the throat and strong profile silhouetted beautifully against the soft light from the stairway. He looks dead.

  I put my laptop carefully aside, as though a noise might alter the outcome of my next move. As I approach him from behind, I can see he’s still perfectly alive; the breaths pump shallow, like those of a sleeping animal, visible only when squinting at the peripheries of the body. I touch the roots of his hair, trail my fingers through the length, spreading the small amount of accumulating oil to the silken ends close to the small of his back. He remains silent, unflinching. I’m not sure what makes me decide; usually I’ve done this much sooner—drained them and extracted a promise before letting them down. Usually they’re not this far gone. I wouldn’t dream of taking it so far. And now I wonder where I’ve taken it exactly. But I know it’s time to take him down….

  I carry him, surprisingly easily, to the only bedroom other than mine that has clean linen. He’s barely a contour against the clinical white as I lay him down, and he refuses to open his eyes. His body’s beautiful, so broken, the cheekbones prominent in his full face, the blues and greens around his wrists melding into deep red welts just below the palms, the bruising visible between his thighs even as he lies on his back. I find myself gently soothing the salty traces from beneath his eyes and still he doesn’t stir. A slight shiver sets in from his lips to his chest. I pull the duvet over him hastily. He’s a strong boy physically but is he giving up? Dimming the lights, getting a fresh bottle of wine and some snacks, I settle in for the vigil.

  The thing is, I’m not sure where to go from here. If I make the effort to wake him—assuming I can—what am I going to feel if he breaks the spell? Storms out, or worse, does what most of them do and feigns nonchalance? To have him die on me, in that respect, would be ideal. But the thought of disposing of a body and successfully fooling a police enquiry…considering that his wife and friends know he came here, I wouldn’t stand much of a chance. I’m not good at withstanding interrogation, as my father told the head of the school to which he transferred me after my “transgression” with Richard at the previous one. “He won’t go wrong,” he said; “just bring him in here once a month and ask him. If he’s guilty, he’ll start to stutter.” I never found out what happened to Richard—no doubt relegated to some state school; he was on a scholarship. When I bumped into him, ten years later, he was working in a newsagent’s shop; he looked glassy-eyed and through me. I’ll always regret not having opened my mouth and sparked his memory, if only to have quieted the questions that assail me in my dreams.

  I shake Casey’s shoulder lightly and he murmurs a kind of protest, wincing a little. I’m now sure he’s all right. Physically, at least. I whisper his name and fondle his neck and he finally responds to an extent, touching his chin against my hand. The light from the amber lamp lends a healthy, golden tint to his face and disguises the subtle lines of stress that I know have appeared, albeit temporarily, over the past few days. I bend in to kiss him tenderly on the lips and he lets out a slight sob before extending a weak arm to keep me there. I lie transfixed. I’ve never felt anything as intimate. With that simple action, he’s owning me in a way he’d never imagine. I’d like to tell him but I’ve too much to lose.

  I concentrate on the sensation of his broad fingertips barely touching the nape of my neck. As I draw back and reenter his mouth, the fingers move to caress the stubble that’s now covering my head thanks to several days’ negligence. There’s a certain vacuum of emotion in both of us, I sense. There’s a purity in this kiss that’s all new—well, maybe not entirely—but I haven’t felt it for a very long time. There’s no pretense at last. He knows why now and, beyond not caring, he actually understands. It’s trivial…and, yet, everything. The warmth that sneaks out from his cold body via his tongue eases open certain dark recesses of my psyche. I’m lost for words.

  I feel the cold cut of the hot leather treating the flesh of my back, slicing a neat line across and between my shoulder blades for the seventh time in succession. Yes, I’m counting. And I can testify that Casey has got the strength back in his chunky biceps. My face pressed against the very mirror I watched him in over days, I can see the liberty in his entire demeanor as he builds up for each strike. He didn’t have to force me into the restraints…but I let him think he did.

  “Did I rape you, Casey?”

  He pauses, golden eyelashes flashing briefly down and up over clear blue. “Yes….”

  I wait. “But did I beat you, Ant?”

  “You did.”

  And he smiles hugely, throwing his head back to reflect, perfectly, the lazy evening sun. He looks like a timeless godhead at that moment. But after a gleaming beam, eye to eye, he turns to leave. There’s a twinge of regret in my heart. He’s a symbol—a talisman. He’s put a geography and a scale to things, and for that alone he’s special.

  The cab sweeps almost silently away, leaving all but his essence in his place.

  Get on Your Bikes and Ride!

  D. Travers Scott

  I’m fat, and I work at a gym. Yeah, the irony doesn’t escape me. It doesn’t escape some of the snickering queens who priss through this place, either—
but I just remind myself they’re the ones paying me.

  It’s a small chain of gyms called Ripe Fitness. (“The fastest growing chain in Western Washington!”) The owners want to be the next 24-Hour Fitness and mimic their business strategy of hard-core salesmanship. Think Glengarry Glen Nautilus. I sign up any and every little birdie with a checking account: teenagers, parents, grandparents, paraplegics, octogenarians, multiple amputees, terminal cancer patients. (“Everyone has a right to fitness!”) We ain’t Studio 54.

  Our dues are low (“Honest rates for real people!”), and lots of people drop off after a few visits. We also make some nice coin selling protein powders and low-carb bars. (“It’s not just getting rid of calories, it’s bringing in better calories!”)

  It’s a used car lot, sure, but I kick ass. I may be shy as fuck in person, but at work something takes over. I can convince anyone that they need to join a gym (“Don’t you deserve to treat yourself to the quality care of a facility like this?”), that it’s nothing to be scared of (“There’s a place for everyone at Ripe Fitness!”), that we’re the best in town (“We’re a gym that cares about you inside and out, not some body beautiful meat rack”), and that we’re perfectly suited to them (“Seriously, I can really see you achieving your goals here at Ripe Fitness”).