by A. M. Riley
“I’ll get dinner started.”
“Thanks, buddy. When is Scott due back?”
“Tonight. Thank God.”
“We should plan something for Sunday, then.”
“Super Bowl Sunday,” said Jim, rolling his eyes. “It’s a high holy day, apparently.”
* * * *
Brian dreamed of pirates. He always had, since he was a boy. Though the dream had evolved and his reactions to it had changed as he’d grown older. In the beginning, the dreams had been frightening, perhaps from having spent too many evenings watching old movies with gap-toothed buccaneers blowing holes in the sides of ships. Or maybe from the Treasure Island that his father loved and read over and over to him until Brian had reached that age when his father had stopped reading to him, had stopped even coming in to say good night.
Those pirates had been predators. Looming, foul, and frightening, and Brian had woken screaming from the nightmares, running to find sanctuary in his parents’ bed until his father had started sending him back to his own room.
“Too old for this nonsense. Go back to sleep.”
Then, the pirates had evolved. They became dark-haired, mysterious men, leaping onto railings with swords that wove through the air. Or eager men with bright laughing eyes, who climbed, always out of reach, above Brian into the sails and rigging as the ships leaned and swayed and the ocean licked at his ankles.
He’d wake wet and hot and confused and filled with an indescribable longing.
For a long time, Brian hadn’t dreamed of any pirates whatsoever. But tonight he dreamed, and the dream was a combination of the nightmares of his childhood and the wet dreams of his adolescence.
He was in the hold of a ship. He knew that from the sound: that unmistakable creaking of long beams tasked to their utmost as they strained against the combined forces of wind and water. And the rocking and lift and drop of the floor and walls around him was familiar, and yet not.
Brian had never been to sea, but he knew he was a prisoner on a ship, a ship sailing into rough seas and bound for he knew not where. The heavy hemp ropes tied his arms and legs securely. His hands were held up to bracelets of steel fastened securely to the planks. Chinks of light came through the walls of his room, and he could see men moving about out there. Their legs flashed as they ran before the blue sky and scudding clouds. The occasional shout and whistle sounded.
He heard thudding feet on the floor, and the door opened.
The man who came in was a giant. His hair fell to his waist, and his eyes flashed dangerously at Brian. He wore a billowing white shirt that opened to the waist, revealing skull-and-crossbones tattoos. His hips were narrow, clad in black with a long sword buckled low across his pelvis. In his one hand he held a long black whip. Brian moaned and fought his ropes as the giant raised his whip arm, but instead of the horrible lash, Brian felt the man’s embrace around his body, his mouth at Brian’s ears. “Don’t worry. I have you…”
Still Brian fought his bindings, now aware that he was naked and too vulnerable. Too exposed.
“I have you…”
“No,” said Brian. “Let me go.” And he struggled. Those arms only held him tighter. Tighter than the ropes even.
“I have you, Brian. I won’t let you go.” Paul’s kiss in his hair. Arms around him.
Brian gasped like a man coming up from under water and struggled mindlessly to free himself.
“I can’t move,” he said. “I can’t move.”
“Yes, you can,” said Paul. “See. You can move anytime you need to.”
Panting and gradually coming to his senses, Brian realized that his arms weren’t pinned to his side as he had imagined. Actually, he was holding on to Paul. He breathed hard, trying to calm the beating of his heart, and stared into Paul’s concerned face. “I had a nightmare.”
“I know you did, honey. You were screaming.”
“I was? I’m sorry.” Still panting, Brian looked around the room in concern. Nothing looked different, yet nothing looked quite right either.
Paul stroked his hair, his face, the look of concern unabated. “What did you dream?”
“I was a prisoner,” said Brian.
Paul’s brow wrinkled. “How did that feel?”
“I felt trapped.” He had to get loose for some reason, and he extracted himself from Paul’s arms. He sat up. “Trapped and not.”
Paul just lay there waiting.
Brian looked down at him. “I was a prisoner in a pirate’s ship. I didn’t know where I was or where we were going. The pirate said he wouldn’t hurt me, but how could I be sure of that?”
“I see,” said Paul. He sat up and then rolled up and out of bed. “Stay there,” he said. He left, and Brian heard him in the bathroom, then padding around to the side of the bed, and turning on a light there before coming back to sit next to Brian.
“Are you comfortable, honey?”
Brian worked his arms and legs a little. The dildo was still inside him, held snug by the harness, but it wasn’t uncomfortable yet. Just very there. “Yes.”
“Good.” Paul nodded and sat down next to Brian. He brought out the bondage magazine and laid it, unopened, between them. Brian felt every muscle in his body go rigid, his heart slamming into action, and he couldn’t raise his eyes to look at Paul.
Casually, slowly, Paul began turning the pages. On occasion, he’d stop at one. When he reached the end of the magazine, he closed it, then sat with his hand on top of it and said, “Brian, I’m going to open this again. I’m going to go through it a page at a time. You say no, yes, or maybe to each page, okay? And Brian? If you say maybe or no to each and every page, that’s fine. Do you understand?”
Brian swallowed. His throat was so dry he had to work the saliva in his mouth to be able to do so. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“Okay.” Paul opened the magazine and did exactly as he said he would. To most of the images, Brian immediately said no. On one, he hesitated. Paul didn’t speak; he didn’t move. He waited.
“Maybe,” whispered Brian, so quietly he wasn’t even sure Paul had heard him. But Paul nodded, a dip of his head, and turned the page.
The next page was the sort of image that Brian imagined he and his friends had made jokes about in high school. A man was bent over a horse, his ankles bound, his arms bound behind him. Brian couldn’t breathe properly. Air rushed in and out of his lungs faster than he could control it. “Yes,” he managed to get out, and then he put his hand over the page. “That’s all. The rest are no, I’m sure.”
Paul closed the magazine and put it in a drawer. The sound of the drawer closing was a very definitive sound.
“Good boy,” he said.
Brian felt like he’d just been though a pop quiz in macroeconomics or something. He was sweaty and a little light-headed.
“Lie down, Brian. I’m going to give you a massage,” said Paul.
* * * *
Brian wondered what time it was. There was no sound of birds. No leaf blowers or garbage trucks, but he felt he must have been lying there for hours. Paul’s fingers worked their way around every muscle in his body, kneading him into a lump of doughy mindless goo until Paul rolled him over and worked down his chest, over his abdomen, and began working Brian’s now fully rigid cock.
“Ahhhhh…” An orgasm rippled through his body, and a stream of come sprayed Brian’s chest with heat.
It wasn’t until Paul leaned over, pushing the sweaty hair from Brian’s face and kissing his cheek, that Brian realized that a steady stream of tears had been falling from his eyes.
“How long have you been thinking about this magazine, Brian?” asked Paul softly.
“Found it a couple months ago,” said Brian. “And I started thinking…”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Brian shook his head, tearful.
“Sweetheart,” sighed Paul. “You know we have to do something about this, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tomorrow
, you are grounded and silent. Understood? Scott will be home next evening, and your punishment will be over then.”
Brian nodded.
“I’ll have an assignment for you in the morning.”
“Yes, Sir.” Even though he was being punished, Brian still felt more rested and relaxed than he had in some time.
“I have you, Brian. Do you understand? You’re safe.”
Fresh tears threatened Brian, and he swallowed hard. “Yes, Daddy.”
Chapter Four
When Jim came into the kitchen in the morning, he found a pale, weary tattooed man vainly trying to fry an egg.
“Get away from that.” Jim shooed Paul away from the stove and the pan before he did something really dangerous to himself.
Paul threw himself into a kitchen chair and laid his head on the table.
Jim went to the coffeemaker and scooped grounds into the espresso maker. “Rough night?”
“I am a pirate, sailing into dangerous waters, holding a frightened young man in the belly of my ship.”
“Wow,” said Jim. “And I thought being an aged hippie in a white van was living dangerously.”
“We discussed the magazine.”
Jim’s eyebrows rose.
“I don’t know what I expected.”
Jim cracked two more eggs into the pan and brought several oranges out of the refrigerator.
Paul watched him. “This is me asking you for help,” he said.
“I know.” Jim squeezed the oranges methodically and thoroughly over an electric squeezer. Then he rinsed the thing, poured a glass of orange juice for himself and one for Paul, and took the coffeepot with him to the table. He sat. “That was me stalling for time,” he said.
Paul half smiled.
Jim sighed. “I have been a little further down that road than you, I admit. I can show you the mechanics. I can’t guide you past that.”
“Thank you,” said Paul. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“He’s never…”
“I trust Brian,” said Paul.
Jim studied him, stirring cream into his coffee. “You worried about Scott?”
“That is a concern,” Paul admitted.
“He and I will talk. He’ll want to quiz you. Extensively.”
Paul chuckled. “I relish the challenge.”
Jim grinned then. “Man, I miss that little monster. I have been counting down the hours.”
“When is he supposed to get here?”
“Oh, not until late, but I’m going to be ready for him.” Jim’s furry eyebrows did a suggestive little dance.
There was the quietest little mouse noise, and Brian came padding into the room. He wore his blue robe. Generally, when Paul was around, Brian wore boxers indoors. Paul figured he was still shy about wearing the harness publicly, so he’d donned the robe.
Jim jumped up and pulled out a chair for him, laying a cushion on it without comment. “Eggs and juice and bacon?” he asked Paul and Brian.
Brian looked for permission from Paul and then nodded at Jim, smiling.
Jim tousled Brian’s curls. “Coming right up, Goldilocks.”
* * * *
Brian sat at the desk in his and Paul’s bedroom. It had been Paul’s desk, once upon a time. When Brian had moved in and started college, Paul had expanded the filing system and bought him a new computer. Whenever Brian sat at it, he had that same feeling he’d had the day Paul had unveiled it for him. This was a place where he was wanted. A place set aside for him.
Today it was where he sat, laboriously writing out over and over. “There is nothing I can’t tell Paul.” One hundred lines. The repetition was oddly as comforting as the affirmation.
There was nothing he couldn’t tell Paul. When he’d first seen that magazine at the back of a store where he usually stopped to look at the latest Sports Illustrated and Newsweek, some weird chill had enclosed him. As if he was trapped in his own little world of fear. It was a familiar place. It was the place he’d gone when he was fourteen and first really knew that he was gay but didn’t yet understand what that meant. That sweaty scared feeling, as if he were always hiding.
He’d bought the magazine and stuffed it into the bottom of his book bag, bringing it out, like he had the Blue Boy he’d hidden during his adolescence, paging through it.
This was what he was? These…men who seemed to have no feeling for each other? Nothing but the pain in their faces?
So far from Paul, and he couldn’t ask him over the phone. The fear was something he couldn’t even name. Was this what they were?
“Brian, baby.” Paul’s hand landed on his shoulder as Brian wrote the lines. He looked up into warm eyes full of love.
“I was afraid to tell you,” he blurted, even though he wasn’t supposed to speak today.
Paul nodded. “We’ll talk about it later. I promise.”
Then Paul hugged him. Just leaned over and enclosed Brian in his warmth and scent.
“You should take the harness off and shower before dinner. Your body isn’t used to this.”
Brian stood, and Paul helped him slip out of his robe and the harness, gently sliding the dildo free. Brian shivered as the pressure left his body. And Paul was almost immediately there, arms around him, mouth at his ear, his neck.
“Baby, I want you. Are you okay?”
Nodding, urgent, Brian leaned over, spreading his legs and grasping the desk with both hands. Paul slid in, and the first thrust almost lifted Brian from his feet. Big hands on his hips held him steady.
“Oh, babe, oh, God.” Paul moaned, sliding in and out, his crotch slapping into Brian’s butt again and again as his cock just kept hitting that spot over and over.
Brian’s knees were shaking, his arms losing their strength. He wailed, and Paul’s arms were around him, holding him up while his hand stroked Brian’s cock fast and hard, and Brian was snug against Paul. Paul’s voice was in Brian’s ear, shock and shiver going all through him as he came.
Paul chuckled. “Can’t get enough of you, baby.”
Brian shook his head grinning, and then he led Paul by the hand so they could shower together.
* * * *
Jim looked from one man to the other at the dinner table, shaking his head. They both had wet hair and big grins.
“Surprised either one of you can walk,” he said.
Brian giggled.
Smile stretching from ear to ear, Paul said, “When’s Scott due?”
Jim sighed. “Four more hours or thereabouts.”
“Have you talked to him since the other day?” asked Paul. Jim had been calling Scott off and on and hadn’t gotten him to pick up yet.
“Nah, but he doesn’t like to talk and drive. He thinks it’s a hazard. And I want him to be safe above all else, so I don’t mind if he keeps driving.”
Paul nodded. “Brian, your speech restriction is lifted after you clear the table.”
Brian did so immediately. Placing the last dish in the sink, he said, “I love you guys.”
Jim and Paul exchanged looks. “Isn’t he the cutest thing,” said Jim.
* * * *
Brian was actually too tired for sex that night and went straight to sleep, petting Paul and talking to the individual snakes on his chest like a child might to her dolls. He’d named each one and had once told Paul a long complex tale about them.
When Brian was breathing deeply, a little whistle on every fifth exhale, Paul slid out of bed and went out to the living room to sit with Jim.
They each nursed a bottle of beer and chatted about business. Paul shared a few of his ideas with Jim and, around midnight, called it a night.
“Make as much noise as you want, buddy,” he said as he stood at his bedroom door. “I understand.”
Jim laughed.
Around three, there was a tentative knock at Paul and Brian’s bedroom door. Paul slid out of bed again and went out to see a worried Jim pacing. He had the cell phone to his ear and was leaving an urgent message.
He disconnected and said to Paul, “He won’t pick up.”
Paul dialed Scott’s number on his cell phone with the same result. “Is there weather maybe?” he asked.
Jim shook his head. “I’ve been watching the Weather Channel. And I went online. No storms reported that would cause traffic problems. No red zones on the known freeways.” Red zones were areas with reported severe congestion. During rush hour, red zones were simply due to excessive traffic; in the middle of the night, they were generally due to accidents.
“Unless he’s somewhere it wouldn’t cause congestion. Somewhere without a lot of…”
“Scott’s not been in an accident,” said Paul immediately. “You’re the first person he’d call. And if he couldn’t call, the police would have.”
Jim and Paul were the emergency names in the little envelope with the registration and insurance above Scott’s visor.
Jim did another circuit on the floor. “I’m going to start calling the hospitals,” he declared.
* * * *
Paul sat and tried to think what he could do to help, and Brian came out into the room, rubbing his eyes. “Paul?”
“It’s okay, Brian. You should go back to bed.”
“But…” Brian came over to him, holding out his cell phone. “Scott’s on the phone.”
Jim snatched the phone out of Brian’s hand. “Scott? Are you all right?”
“Goddammit,” said Scott. “I told that little brat to keep this on the QT.”
“Where are you?”
“Fucking hoosegow.”
“You’re in jail?” yelled Jim. “You—”
Paul snatched the phone away from Jim before he could say something he’d regret. “Where are you, Scott?
“No, I will not put Brian back on the line… He’s half-awake, and this isn’t his problem is why… Do you really want me to give the phone back to Jim? I didn’t think so. Okay. Where are you, and what do we have to do?” Paul lifted a pen from the nearby table and started scribbling on a pad. “Right. Good. We’ll wire it right now. Can you drive? You sure as hell better be sober, buddy, before you get back into that truck.”
Paul glanced at Jim, who was literally tearing out hair. His fingers were in his beard, and he was tugging at it in a state of high agitation. “What time do you think…? Okay. We’ll expect you then.” Paul hung up.