“He really got off on my dick,” Joey boasted. “Hey, do you want a drink?” he asked as he picked up a bottle of rum and a glass. “I’m going to have one more, and then I’d better lay off this stuff for the night.”
“Probably a good idea,” Corey advised. “Sure, I’ll join you.”
“Let me get you a clean glass.” Joey went into the kitchenette. “Why don’t you take your clothes off?”
“You are in a hurry, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. Don’t mean to rush you. I just like seeing you naked.”
Corey began to strip. “You’re going to have to take your pants off, then. Fair play.”
“Okay.” Joey handed Corey the clean glass, and Corey poured a cautious two fingers of rum into it as he watched Joey clumsily shed his jeans. He wore no underwear, and, nude, he retrieved his own drink and sipped it while he observed Corey’s own undressing.
“Tell me about this buddy of yours,” Corey said. “Let me guess. He’s about your age, he belongs to your gym, and he works out with the weights? I bet he’s got a really hot body?”
“Correct on all counts. He’s also got a nice ass and a big fat dick. I’ve seen him in the showers. He likes to show himself off. He’s a goddamn prick teaser.”
“So many straight guys are.”
“I was hoping to get him good and drunk so I could entice him back here and have my way with him. I wouldn’t even have minded if he’d played me for trade. I’d have been happy just to suck his dick.”
“Well, this rum is going right to my head,” Corey confessed as he downed it. “Here I am, and you didn’t have to entice me, and I sure as hell have no intention of playing you for trade. So feel free to do with me what you will.” As he spoke, Corey looked around for some place to set down his empty glass, and he finally deposited it on a small side table next to a battered armchair.
“Want another?” Joey asked, indicating the bottle of rum.
“No thanks. Come on. Let’s take care of that emergency of yours, shall we?”
“Yeah!”
The area around the bed was messy, with clothes strewn across the floor and stacks of books and magazines beside the bed. Corey threaded his way around the obstacle course on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. The bed wasn’t made, and the rumpled sheets smelled of Joey’s sweat and his strong, natural masculine odors. Corey liked the scent.
Joey, however, seemed embarrassed as he joined him. “Sorry,” he muttered. “If I’d known we were going to do it here, I’d have put clean sheets on the bed. And straightened things up a little.”
“Stop apologizing. I don’t mind. I’m not the tidiest housekeeper, myself. Do I come across as some sort of a fussy queen?”
“No, you sure don’t.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.”
“You come across as a man. You’re really hot.”
“Even better to hear. Come on, get over here.”
Joey stretched his husky body out on the bed and took his hard-on in his fist. “I’m so horny,” he announced—rather redundantly, considering that the proof of his arousal was right there in his hand. “Some guys can’t stay hard when they tie one on, but that’s never been a problem for me.” He began to pump on the big piece of meat, grunting softly with self-induced pleasure. “Shit, that feels good,” he gasped as he milked his cock.
“I know something that’ll feel even better,” Corey said as he kept his eyes locked on Joey’s masturbatory display.
“What?”
“My mouth on that motherfucker.”
“You want to suck it?”
“Yeah. I sure do.”
Corey rolled over on top of Joey and kissed him, tasting the booze on his breath, which excited him even more than he already was. Their beard-stubbled faces rubbed together. Joey grunted again, ran his hands up Corey’s bare thighs, slipped beneath his shirt tails, and peeled the underpants down. Corey wriggled to facilitate the removal of his underwear as the cool air of the air-conditioning flowed over his bare butt. He felt his cock and balls rub against Joey’s body, felt the other man’s big hands spread his ass cheeks and gently insert the tip of one blunt finger into his hole. Corey slipped his unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders and tossed it aside so that they were both naked, clasped in each other’s strong male arms.
“Suck my dick while I play with your ass,” Joey whispered.
Joey’s lovemaking, Corey was discovering, tended to be utterly masculine, very direct and even a bit clumsy, unlike the sinuous, languid approach characteristic of some other men. Realizing that subtlety wasn’t necessary here, and neither was extended foreplay, Corey scrambled onto his hands and knees and thrust his face into Joey’s musky, sweaty crotch. At the same time he offered his ass to the other man, pushing his butt up and letting Joey’s finger continue to explore his hole.
Grasping Joey’s cock firmly in his left fist, Corey lowered his mouth down to it and seized the velvety, moist flesh of the rounded head between his lips, rolling the foreskin back with his other hand until his mouth was filled with the bared bulb. Joey jerked his legs and groaned as Corey wriggled his nude body into a more comfortable position and began to blow him, passionately, drilling the tip of his tongue into Joey’s oozing slot, licking the base of the twitching cockhead, and sucking in his cheeks as he tugged at the outer layers of penile flesh with his lips, massaging the entire length of Joey’s fuck rod.
Securing a tight grip on Joey’s hairy thighs, Corey pushed his saliva-filled mouth down around the thick cock as far as he could without choking on it, his tongue and teeth teasing the slick, damp skin, working the foreskin around, doing everything in his power to get Joey hotter and hotter. Corey sucked in a deep, slurpy gulp of breath and held the warm air in his lungs as he took Joey’s cockhead down into his throat and settled into a steady, stroking, lip-smacking suction action along the shaft that now filled his mouth completely.
And, all the while, Joey’s finger plunged in and out of Corey’s ass.
“Oh, you’ve got a hot mouth and ass,” Joey babbled happily, as Corey’s insatiable mouth worked on him. “Suck that cock. Goddamn, you give good head!”
Corey’s own cock was stiff and swollen, painfully erect and throbbing, as he continued to suck on Joey’s, neglecting, for the time being, his own frantic sexual needs. The finger in his ass was a constant source of tantalizing stimulation. Corey already felt dangerously close to coming—he didn’t dare touch his own prick, because he feared that a fast wrench or two on it with his fist would bring him off. He tried to calm down and concentrate on the cock in his mouth, because he wanted to please Joey first, to bring the other man, too, to the edge of orgasmic fulfillment and then, perhaps, tip the balance.
But he’d underestimated Joey’s degree of arousal. The alcohol Joey had consumed had failed to retard his ejaculation, as Corey had assumed it would. Before Corey knew it, Joey was coming in his mouth, the taste of his semen suddenly strong against Corey’s swabbing tongue, cutting through the lingering taste of the rum Corey had drunk. When he felt that first hot liquid spurt of jism splash into his throat, Corey tried to gasp for breath, but his airway was cut off by the mouthful of cock and the sudden flood tide of gushing cum.
Joey gasped, slammed his butt up and down on the bed, driving his piston in and out of the cylinder of Corey’s hollowed mouth and throat.
“Christ! I’m coming!” he yelled, digging his fingers into Corey’s blond hair and pushing his head down on his prick. “Take it all, stud. Suck down all my hot cum! Take it all!”
Corey spread his hands on Joey’s washboard stomach and leaned on him, using his weight to hold the younger man’s threshing torso still, and he pressed his wide-parted lips around the very base of Joey’s cock and held them locked there. Corey thought Joey would never stop ejaculating! And then he felt Joey’s hand grope for his own balls, seize his hard-on, and pump it, sending Corey’s own teeming sperm shooting out all over the sheets and Joey’s masturbating fi
st. Corey swallowed again and again to contain the flow of creamy jism that Joey had unleashed into his gullet, and finally he collapsed on top of the other guy’s shuddering body, after he was sure he had drunk the last of the nectar.
Slowly, reluctantly, Corey took his mouth off the wet cock and slithered up in Joey’s cum-lubricated embrace, mashing their bellies, their chests, and their thighs together in sticky contact until they could kiss and cuddle. Joey’s hand stroked Corey’s disheveled hair, brushing a speck of cum out of it.
“That was pretty intense,” Joey said.
“Did you like it?”
“Hell, yes. I really got off on it—and you sure came a lot, too.”
“We messed up your bed.”
“It was already messed up. Don’t worry about it.” Joey sat up in the bed, a little uncertainly, and ran his fingers through his disheveled dark hair. “Damn. I must’ve been even drunker than I thought I was. I didn’t think I’d come that fast.”
“It’s okay.”
“I wanted us to fuck. You know, maybe take turns.”
“Maybe we still can.” Corey gave his cock an exploratory caress. It was still fully hard and ready for action. He didn’t anticipate any difficulty in meeting Joey’s expectations.
“You don’t have to rush off, do you?” Joey asked.
“No.” Corey was in fact too much enamored of Joey’s company to have any desire to rush off.
“Do you want to watch some porn? I was about to, when you called,” Joey reminded him. “That might get me started again, and then we can go for another round.”
“Sounds like a plan.” As Joey reached for the TV’s remote control, Corey took the pillows and positioned them one on top of the other at the head of the bed, so he and Joey could sit up on the bed side by side while they watched. “And what have you got loaded in the player, for our viewing pleasure?”
“I’ve got Pierce Taser’s latest DVD. I haven’t watched it all the way through yet. Every time I try to, I keep having to jack off.”
“Pierce Taser? What a coincidence. That stud sure seems to get around.”
“Let me jump right to this scene where he pounds the other guy’s ass until he screams. It might give us a few ideas.”
Chapter Four:
The Man from Madurai
On Sunday, Corey prepared for his appointment with his potential new client by changing into one of his work suits. And, because it paid to advertise, he made sure that his cuff links, tie clasp, and the bracelet he put on his right wrist were all pieces he had made himself.
He stowed his laptop and a portfolio in the back of the car and drove into Hollywood and along the Strip, then turned off Sunset Boulevard and wound his way up into the hills that were honeycombed with the luxurious homes of the rich and, in some cases, the famous—including those whose fame edged closer to notoriety. Kaustav Thevar’s property was perched on one of these hillsides, with a breathtaking view of the canyon spread out below. A no-nonsense security gate barred the foot of the long, winding driveway.
Corey pressed the button of the intercom, mounted on a post at car-window level. He noticed that a security camera on a tall pole was aimed directly at him.
“Good afternoon,” a male voice with the faintest hint of a clipped British accent addressed him.
“Hello,” Corey responded. “I’m Corey Oliver. I have an appointment with Mr. Thevar.”
“Yes, Mr. Oliver, you are expected. Please drive right up.”
The gate slid to one side. After Corey had driven through the opening, he saw, in his rearview mirror, the gate slide shut again.
Negotiating the turns of the driveway, he finally got a clear view of the house. It was a low, expansive two-storied structure, stone and brick, very Modernistic in style, with cantilevered terraces and vast expanses of glass windows. Some very professional and very expensive-looking landscaping blurred the transition between the grounds of the house and the surrounding, densely wooded hillside.
Corey parked in front of the house, near a black BMW sedan. There was a two-car garage, a separate building matching the main house in its architectural style, which, Corey speculated, probably contained at least one other vehicle. The front door of the house was flanked by rows of large Italian terracotta pots, three on either side. Four of the pots contained agapanthus plants, with bright blue flowers, but the two pots closest to the doorway held red rosebushes.
As he got out of his car, the front door opened and a young man stepped out. He was wearing white cargo shorts, a powder blue T-shirt, and sneakers, none of which looked particularly expensive, although everything, including the sneakers, was immaculately clean. This guy was unmistakably Indian, with a dark brown skin tone and hair and eyes to match. He had a nice smile, and the shorts displayed to advantage a pair of well-developed calf muscles, which was something Corey always found attractive in a man.
Elinor had said Thevar was about Corey’s own age. This number was a beauty all right, but he seemed too young, probably in his early twenties. Still, you could never be sure about such things. Maybe Indian men tended to look boyish and didn’t show their age.
“Are you Mr. Thevar?” Corey asked.
“No. I am Renesh, Mr. Thevar’s houseboy. Please come inside. And may I carry those for you?” The young man was already reaching for Corey’s laptop and portfolio.
“If you want to.” As Renesh took the items, Corey noticed that, as informally as he was attired, he was wearing some good-quality jewelry. He had a silver bracelet, heavy weight and intricately engraved, on one wrist, a silver ring on a finger of the same hand, and both of his ears were pierced, with tiny, bright yellow gemstones set in the silver studs screwed through the holes. Seeing the way the stones glittered in the sunlight, Corey wouldn’t have minded getting a closer look at them, but he thought it would be impolite to stare.
Corey wasn’t particularly surprised that Kaustav Thevar had a houseboy. What did surprise him was that the young employee identified himself as such. A lot of the affluent people Corey dealt with seemed to think the term houseboy was somehow politically incorrect. They preferred a euphemism such as “personal assistant” or “household manager.” On the other hand, Corey recalled one society matron who had casually introduced him to her strapping young Hispanic employee with the words, “This is Cesar, my domestic.” Corey, struggling to keep a straight face, had winced internally, but Cesar had merely smiled at him.
As he followed Renesh inside the house, Corey found a further surprise in store for him. He sometimes joked with his friends that he must have been born without what he called “the gay interior-decorating gene.” He’d furnished his own apartment with an eye for comfort rather than for style. Still, he knew good taste when he saw it. The interior of Kaustav Thevar’s house was luxurious, but not quite in the way one might have anticipated, judging by its exterior.
There were all sorts of ways one might furnish such a modernistic house. Kaustav Thevar, however, seemed to have opted for the purest English country style. Once he accepted the incongruity, the way the inside of the house seemed to contradict its outside, Corey decided that he rather liked the overall effect.
He glanced about in vain for any hint of anything specifically Indian looking. The beautiful, intricately patterned Oriental rugs that covered most of the floor spaces might be exceptions. Otherwise, Corey saw overstuffed sofas and armchairs and ottomans, upholstered in flowered chintz, with heavy, vibrantly patterned window drapes to match. Porcelain table lamps, vases, and cachepots, the latter containing houseplants, were everywhere, as were nonfunctional, purely decorative display pieces and bric-a-brac of every conceivable sort. The tables and cabinets tended to be in a variety of dark woods.
The houseboy ushered Corey into what was presumably the living room.
“If you will wait here for a moment,” Renesh said as he set Corey’s things down on a coffee table, “I’ll tell Mr. Thevar you are here.”
“Thanks.”
W
hen he was alone, Corey didn’t sit down but wandered around the room, taking a closer look at its furnishings. There was a working fireplace, with a pair of startled-looking Staffordshire ceramic dogs, King Charles spaniels, perched on the mantel. Hung above the fireplace was a very English-looking painting of cows grazing in a meadow, with a farmhouse and haystacks in the background.
A paneled mahogany door in one wall slid open, and a man entered the room.
“Ah, Mr. Oliver. How nice to meet you in person. I’m Kaustav Thevar. But you must call me Kaustav. And may I call you Corey?”
“Please do.” The two men had already shaken hands.
“Please sit down. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes. Do you drink tea?”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”
“Or would you prefer coffee or a cold drink—or a real drink?”
“It’s a little early in the day for me to risk a real drink,” Corey said. “Especially if I’m going to be discussing business. Tea would be nice, though.”
“I’ve already told Renesh to start it.”
During this conversation, Corey had ample time to check Kaustav Thevar out and assess him. The initial impression was highly favorable.
Elinor, who was prone to exaggeration, hadn’t exaggerated at all in this case. Kaustav Thevar was an exceptionally beautiful man. Corey couldn’t help thinking that, if the man hadn’t become a successful businessman, he might have pursued an equally successive career playing the romantic male leads in Bollywood movies back home.
He was indeed about Corey’s age, and tall for an Indian, with an athletic build. He was dark-skinned but lighter than his houseboy, a clear caramel color. His thick hair was as black as coal, as were his luminous eyes. He had a full, well-shaped mouth and sported a neatly trimmed mustache and beard.
Corey decided he liked the other man’s clothes. He wore loose-fitting, indeed slightly baggy, trousers made from a soft brown linen. His torso was draped in the traditional Indian upper garment called a kurta, essentially a loose-fitting tunic with long sleeves. The kurta was plain apple-green cotton, but it had contrasting bands of elaborate multicolored embroidery at its collar and cuffs.
Jewels for Vishnu (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove) Page 8