The silence between them lasted for a minute or so. Powell carefully reached for the wineglass on the table beside his chair, and just as carefully brought it to his lips. Drinking in his nearly horizontal position was difficult, and a few drops of wine spilled from the corner of his mouth. Instinctively he sought them with his tongue, and it was the sight of that tongue, and those wet, parted lips, that drove Brian over the edge—drove him right out of his chair and onto the recliner in one desperate leap.
The chair was sturdy enough to bear both of them, and roomy enough for Brian to straddle his victim without crowding. He went for the ribs first, learning in a fraction of a second the answer to the question he’d spent so many hours pondering. Yes, Powell was ticklish, extremely so—oh, dyingly so! At the first touch of his ribs he shouted, bringing his arms down so fast that his elbow clipped Brian in the nose. Unfazed, Brian moved to those abs that were just begging to be prodded. Powell wasn’t about to stay still for any of this; he began flailing, knees and elbows pumping, hands pushing against any part of Brian he could reach.
Brian had known all along that, if Powell proved to be as ticklish as Brian dreamed he’d be, there would be a fight, a prolonged one. He’d get beaten, scratched, bitten and bruised. But the fight was worth whatever it took to bring this sexy man down; any pain that he felt would make it that much sweeter when his powerful opponent finally fell! Summoning all of his own muscle power, Brian moved in, dodging the panicky flailing of arms and legs, keeping his eyes on that tender ticklish midsection. Finally he managed to pin Powell’s right arm with his knee, and Powell’s left arm over his head. Thus Powell’s naked left side was exposed, and Brian took full advantage, his free hand darting from Powell’s waist to his side to his ribs to his armpit. Powell lost all self-control, dissolving into helpless, full-throated laughter that was the most beautiful sound Brian had ever heard. Holding Powell’s arm at bay was like trying to keep a bear trap open, but Brian kept tickling, never tiring of grabbing at meaty, responsive flesh. His persistence paid off as Powell’s great shivering strength began to bleed away. He was just too ticklish to resist, especially with his own howling laughter weakening him too. “That’s it,” Brian said. “Give in, baby, let it happen, ’cause it’s going to happen anyway.” As Powell turned his head to the side and howled, Brian brought his mouth close to his ear and said, “I’m gonna tickle you for a long, long time!”
It couldn’t last forever, though, on the recliner, with so much of their combined weight pressing against its back. When it finally tipped over Powell did a near-somersault, his feet flying, while Brian managed to land on his hands and knees. The chair was probably broken, the table smashed, and the wineglass had spiraled its contents all over the carpet. But Brian didn’t give a fuck, because one of Powell’s feet was right there, in front of his face, and before Powell could even try to collect himself Brian was clutching that naked foot close, finding its silken sole to be as addictive as it looked. He wanted to tickle it forever, thoroughly, maddeningly, teaching his fingers and nails and tongue to move in a million new ways. Powell lay flat on his back and howled, unable to even try to sit up. Brian’s hard-on pressed painfully against the carpet, and that was all right because he knew he was going to come, and come and come…. Powell would, too. One look back gave Brian a good view of the tent pole rising in Powell’s shorts.
Time got away from Brian, as it tended to do when he was tickling. When his fingers began to cramp he let his mouth take over, licking, sucking and nibbling that squirming foot, deliriously wedging his tongue-tip between the toes as sweat poured down his face. Powell had all but stopped struggling, his laughter weakening. Good, good! He was almost ready for the bed.
Brian got to his knees and pinned his victim’s ankles between them, which gave him both soles to work on at once. If one of those soles was heaven, then the sight, smell and feel of both of them together nearly made Brian faint. His fingers sped like mad across that flesh, as Powell’s roars grew almost pathetic, hoarse and straining. He’d reached that wonderful stage where it took all of his energy to try to draw enough breath to keep his insane laughter going. If Brian was a tickling machine then Powell was a tickled machine, unable to do anything but express his ticklishness and then, finally, surrender to it….
That time was coming. Exhausted and trembling, Brian released Powell’s feet only when his knees began to ache from his crouched position. Turning, he saw the nearly naked length of Powell sprawled, delirious, on the carpet: a vision too lush, too sensual, and too fucking hot to be true. But if this was a dream, then he was going to live out every precious second of it. He crawled toward Powell’s upper body and, lying on his side, pressed his fingertips into Powell’s armpits and let them play. Powell responded with a grin of pure agony, and laughter so shrill, so hysterical, that Brian felt a mighty heaving in his midsection, his cock pulsing in his shorts, shooting out cum.
When he recovered, he brought his voice close to Powell’s ear. “Can you hear me?”
Powell’s crazy grin kept coming and going. He was panting like a dog now, and seemed unaware that, for the moment anyway, he wasn’t being tickled. “Listen to me,” Brian said. “Are you listening? Listen, or I’ll tickle you to death right now!”
Powell’s eyes opened wide. He seemed unsure of where to look, as if Brian’s voice could be entering his confused mind from anywhere. When he turned his head and found Brian’s face right there, his eyes opened even wider and he began trembling. “Don’t worry,” Brian said, wishing he hadn’t made that tickle-to-death remark: Powell was in too fragile a state for that. Yes, this strong and capable man, who managed the estate practically all by himself—the Powell who had brazenly displayed his body while washing the car, who had propped his bare feet so confidently in Brian’s face—was now reduced to a panic-stricken mass of lethally ticklish flesh. “Don’t worry,” Brian said again. “You’ll be all right, but you have to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?” Powell nodded, but his eyelids drooped as if he might succumb to exhaustion now that his tickling torment had ceased. “We need to get to the bedroom,” Brian said. “You’re too heavy for me to carry, you have to get there under your own steam. It’s not that far, so start crawling.”
Powell just looked at him, an overwhelming question in his eyes: Are you gonna tickle me to death?
“I said, start crawling.” Brian returned to those ribs he now knew so well. There were two spots, one on either side of the rib cage, that could make Powell do anything. He’d fucking fly to keep those spots from being touched. All he had to do now, though, was crawl, and so he managed, under the threat of rib-torture, to haul himself up onto his hands and knees. “That’s good, now get moving,” Brian said. Powell stayed stuck in position. “Or else,” Brian added. With an agonized grunt Powell began to move forward. They made an enjoyably strange procession, one man on his hands and knees, the other beside him on his knees, his fingers floating just above the other man’s ribs. Then the sight of Powell’s rump in the air was too tempting for Brian to resist; he slid his hand under the waistband of Powell’s shorts—not an easy feat, those shorts being tightly stretched as they were by the big man’s boner—and let his finger play with Powell’s asscrack. Powell halted, arched his back—in terror or pleasure? “Has a man ever touched you there before?” Brian whispered. “Tell me you like it, please tell me you like it.” Powell lifted his rear, making it easier for Brian to find his asshole. Brian’s finger slid deep. He lowered his head to kiss the base of Powell’s spine.
“We’ve got a lot more to do,” he said.
Powell was flat on his back in Brian’s bed, his mouth open, staring at the ceiling. Using his soft restraints, Brian had fastened his victim’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts—after removing his shorts and micro briefs—and now stood and stared, his mouth watering. “You’ve got the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen.” That fully erect staff strained halfway up Powell’s belly toward his chest. A hard rain spattered the w
indow, reminding him of Powell’s earlier remark about relief. “You’ll get your relief, and soon,” Brian promised. “But first…you guessed it….” Naked, Brian crawled onto the bed. He would have to get to those feet soon, but now there was this glorious midsection, made more accessible with the shorts gone. He tested the slick, smooth area under Powell’s navel. “You shave here, don’t you?” Reaching for his handy bottle of oil, Brian anointed his fingers and let them play all over that groin, not forgetting to tease and torment his navel also. Powell, unable to talk, could still release that weak, shrill, hysterical giggling that was like an aphrodisiac. Brian closed his eyes, reveling in it, moving his hands up to Powell’s sides, then toward his ribs, then back down again, to his powerful but ultraticklish thighs. When it was time to pay attention to that gorgeous dick and heavy hanging balls, Brian oiled up both hands and went to it. Powell, reduced to panting again, tossed his head wildly on the pillow. The tension gathering in his loins gained force, until at last he shot great streams of cum that nearly hit the ceiling. Brian’s arm, face, chest, and shoulders were soaked, as were Powell’s belly and chest. Using a hand towel, Brian mopped up as best he could. “That was quite a load, my friend. But I don’t know if you’re aware of this: ticklish guys tend to be even more ticklish after they shoot.”
Powell’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed. Had he passed out? More likely he just hadn’t recovered yet from what might have been the most powerful orgasm of his life. Brian settled down at the end of the bed, next to an enormous, ticklish right foot. “I have to get out my tool kit,” he said, “very soon.” He was considering getting it now when the noise of the storm distracted him. Rain was striking the window with disturbing force. “What…?” Brian rose and approached the window. Was it his imagination, or did something bounce off the sill?
Hail. It was hail.
The greenhouse.
A wave of panic washed over him, even as he told himself not to worry. The greenhouse was old, with glass panes that weren’t as hail-resistant as the newer plastics; but it would take tennis-ball-sized hail to inflict any damage, and nothing like that was happening here. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off the windowsill. Even the word hail was enough to jangle his nerves when he thought of the plants. “I have to go,” he whispered. “I’ve got to check.”
Powell, exhausted from hours of overstimulation, had fallen into a kind of toe-twitching sleep—as if he were still being tickled, but at a low enough intensity to allow for a much-needed escape from consciousness. Brian looked at the magnificent man with tears in his eyes: would he have to let him go? He couldn’t leave him here, restrained, while he checked on the greenhouse…or could he? “I’ll be right back,” he whispered. “I promise.”
The storm had already passed by the time he’d pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, but still he had to go, to check for damage. The thought of smashed panes and damaged plants made him sick. As he ran through the grass the hail crunched under his bare feet, confirming that he hadn’t just imagined it. At the greenhouse it took him several tries to fit the key in the lock. He’d never been here in this state, his face and chest sticky with cum, his half-erect cock pressing against his jeans. At last the lock opened, and he stepped inside and touched the dimmer switch. He had hosed down the floor before leaving for the day to help keep the humidity high; that water had vaporized and there were no fresh puddles on the floor. Good. A quick look around showed nothing amiss, but he had to be sure. He took a flashlight from the utility closet, to get a more detailed look at the corners. Only after scanning the whitewashed glass again and again was he certain no breaks had occurred. He allowed himself to relax, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders as he leaned against a potting bench. Now he looked at the plants that had been silently observing him all this time. They often reminded him of the Roethke poem that described orchids with their “loose ghostly mouths.” That image reminded him of Powell, too, in his tickling-crazed state. Brian had to get back, he’d been gone too long.
Running through the grass that was already losing its odd texture now that the hail was melting, he cursed himself for leaving the cottage in the first place, but what else could he have done? He burst through the front door, didn’t bother to close it behind him as he crossed the living room in four leaping strides to the bedroom. What he saw there put a lump in his throat. He staggered against the straight chair by the window and sat down hard.
Powell was gone. He’d managed to work free from the restraints, which now hung from the bedposts like silent rebukes.
Brian’s life was over—his life at the estate, anyway. He’d never be able to face Powell after this. With a sob he launched himself across the room to land flat on the bed, burying his face in the pillow, drinking in Powell’s scent. He grabbed handfuls of sheet, still damp with sweat, and squeezed the fabric till his hands hurt, as if he could wring from it the very essence that was Powell.
When a knock came from the front door, Brian’s heart nearly stopped. He saw how bad things could be: Powell had not only left, he’d called the police. “Come in!” Brian shouted. Go ahead, take me away.
Like so much of what had happened during the night, this didn’t seem real: it was Powell standing in the bedroom doorway. He wore only his shorts, and his skin still glistened from exertion. And he looked younger, somehow—as if, in this cottage, he had been taken back to his first experience of how powerful sex could be; as if he had found in his tormentor an unexpected source of wonder. Almost shyly, he pushed a leather tote bag across the threshold with his bare foot.
“I had to get some things,” he said, “if I’m going to stay here awhile.”
DONUTS TO DEMONS
horehound stillpoint
Cruising craigslist, I’ve got my dick in hand, more than half hard, playing with my balls, tickling, working, getting that feeling going, you know, the urge mixed with the tingle, just loving the fact that I’ve got a cock, that it works, it gets hard; it’s lickable, fleshy, thick enough and sturdy enough to get the salivary glands going for all the boys, men, studs, geniuses, and lovable losers I end up kissing, licking, sniffing, sucking, et cetera, et cetera.
Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve seen every single cocksucker’s picture on here a hundred thousand times already. Fuck this shit. There’s nobody here for me. At least a third of these guys are just looking for pics, more than half will only reply to a specific, professional, porno-worthy image, and another third don’t have a firm grip on reality.
Bad math. No solution.
Still, my cock swells heavy with hope. My balls don’t rule my life, but when they’re this full, this heavy, this alive, they run the show for a few hours, I guess. My butt has needs, too. And my nipples. My tongue. My mouth. My big ol’ bicycle-built thighs. Hell, even my toes want to rub up against some guy’s calves. My whole body feels like a sex organ sometimes.
I want some bruiser licking my armpits.
A meaty, musty ass on my face…on my chest, while I blow him…then his ass sitting down on my dick, riding my pole while I push up to heaven…wraparound legs…nips to suck on and play with…shoulders that can pick up and carry the world…a chest to rest on afterward.
I want…
Great. Another fifty-four-year-old advertising for somebody under twenty-five. And another UB2-spouting manbot. More breed-my-hole, BB, anonymous-pounding, door-open, no-talking, greedy, mindless assholes. No fucking thanks.
Excuse me, but I want a guy with a mind, ’cause it’s sexy when a man can talk about real things. It’s sexy when he can laugh at himself, at conditions on Spaceship Earth. To me, it’s a turn-on when a man can talk about his spirituality and not come off as a loser-idiot. It’s hot when he doesn’t have to get drunk, or fucked up, to get on his knees and show what he can do, with no hesitation and completely shameless. Hairy or smooth, muscular or wiry, geeky or cool, young and tight or mature and comfortable with imperfections: I want—not to coin a phrase or anything—a man.
Wait a minute: what have we here?
The Fortress. San Francisco’s finest dungeon is having a Dark Night, as in lights out, allowing our inner monsters to come out and play?
Fan-fucking-tastic!
Ah shit, shit, goddammit. It’s not tonight; it’s February 16, four nights from now. Fuck.
Crap.
Screw it.
Breathe.
Okay, it’s okay, but craigslist, you and I are done. For now.
Bye-bye, Internet. Funkadelic on the stereo. Chair into reclining position. It’s beatin’ off time.
Which folder tonight: Creamrising, or Dreamangels, or…
Picsajerks, let’s go.
You, college wrestler, with your semihard cock showing in your singlet. You’re up. You, trucker, standing there in your underwear, getting a blow job in the shadows, with your buns looking tight and your back as broad as all outdoors. Yep. You too, drunken frat boy with your floppy balls and fat snake cock falling out of your boxers, with that smirky grin on your face, knowing goddamn well what we want. Mechanic, yeah, you too, with your hard-on in one hand and a monkey wrench in the other, major tools. Phone repairman, in someone’s backyard, talking to a supervisor or something while getting sloppily sucked off by a customer who doesn’t give a shit about his reputation or his neighbors. Swimmer, squeezing the boner in your swim trunks. Locker room guy, adjusting your jockstrap. Other locker room guy, bending over and giving everyone your ass. You guys make me feel like the whole world is hot, horny and ready to blast off. You convince me the wave that’s coming to bury us all is not Armageddon, not Global Warming, not war and racism and voracious corporations and jingoistic nation/religions; no, the wave that’s coming is Come, a Kingdom of Come, an ocean, a cosmic sea, an eternal moment of supremely satisfying joy. I don’t have to come right now because I will drink it all in and swallow and swim and drown and die of Come and be reborn in Come and reside in the source, the original waters, where there is nothing to desire and everything is one.
Best Gay Erotica 2008 Page 4