by Roxy Harte
“Is it okay that I touch you?” I ask.
“A little late to be asking,” he replies. “Do you have any idea what you’ve started?”
I giggle a little selfconsciously. “I hope so.”
“Have you thought this through?” he asks, sounding to my ears very dark and foreboding, making my breath catch and hold. I look up into his eyes and he traps me there, holding my gaze with his, becoming my conscience. “Have you considered Garrett? Did the two of you discuss where three months with me could lead?”
“I assumed…”
“I assure you, he wouldn’t assume.”
“So, we shouldn’t?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’m confused.”
“Exactly. The forty-eight hours after an extreme scene, especially the kind of extreme scene I put you through, can be emotionally unbalancing. I don’t want you to do this if you are going to regret taking our relationship to a more intimate level, and I’ll be very clear here, if you want me to fuck you, you will ask me to fuck you. What you experienced with Garrett wasn’t fucking, was it?”
I swallow hard, thinking too hard.
“Did Garrett fuck you, or make love to you?”
I start to tremble and release my hold on his swollen cock, but his hand still holds my wrist, so my hand is left hovering over his erection, I am left nervous, disconcerted.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“Touch me again,” he commands, relaxing his grip on my wrist enough that my hand drops, touching by accident before closing around his length on purpose.
“Good girl,” he praises. “While you decide what you want, fucking, or not fucking, give me what I want.”
My lips part to speak, to deny knowing what he wants, but my hand moves, holding him, stroking him, and to deny that I understood would only sound childish.
I hold his gaze, slowly moving my hand up and down his length, my fingers gripped around him so that his flesh moves separate from his hard shaft. His cock is baby smooth in my hand, rock hard but smooth, and I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. I keep the movement slow, my hand tight. It seems such an intimate thing, touching him while I look into his eyes. By watching his changing expressions, I can tell if I’m doing it right. I want to do it right. I want to please him.
“Harder,” he commands.
I squeeze harder, nice slow strokes up and down his shaft. His eyelids droop a little, though he still watches me and I still watch him.
“Faster,” he whispers.
I move my hand faster, twisting as I pump, causing him to moan, the sound of his pleasure rippling through me, making me feel pride. I pump him harder and faster, wanting him to feel it, feel me, wanting him to ache with need for me. Wanting him to need the pleasure that I’m giving him as much as I needed the pain he gave to me.
Harder…faster…up…down…twist…twist.
“God, Sophia,” he sighs and the name he calls me cuts through me, brings me pain, not like the comfort he brought me last night, but acute pain, making me miss her, making me think of her knowing I’m here, knowing I’m doing this. I don’t want to know what she would think of me now and I’m embarrassed, thinking the worst. I squeeze tighter, wanting suddenly to hurt him back, needing him to scream my name in pain the way I’ve screamed his and I succeed, my name a roar from his mouth. But it’s not pain I’m bringing him and I watch, satisfied as his come shoots free. When our eyes meet, a jolt of awareness quickens my heart. Need. His? Mine? I reach out to stroke his face, but he pushes my hand away, shutting all emotion visible in his gorgeous brown eyes away as if what I saw hidden in their depths hadn’t been there at all. But it was. I saw it. I felt it.
“Taste me,” he says, pushing my face down. “Taste what you’ve done to me.”
I close my eyes, feeling unsettled, really unsettled, and snuggle my face deeper into the pillow, hiding, crying, but not sobbing, slow hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Tears of confusion. I’ve never done that before, not for someone else—though once, Lion shoved his dick into my mouth, but it was after everything else, after he’d raped me, sodomized me, had already come himself, and his dick was shriveling as he shoved, a last-ditch attempt to humiliate me more.
When Lord Fyre said, “Taste me,” I wanted to. I enjoyed taking him into my mouth after I’d stroked him to orgasm. He was still coming when I lowered my mouth over his still-erupting shaft, his warm, salty jism coating my tongue. I didn’t swallow, at least not at first, so it flowed into and out of my mouth, covering his cock. I enjoyed doing that to him, feeling powerful when his come crested and flowed over the tip of his penis, thinking, “I did that! I brought him!”
I was proud, giddy.
Now I just feel dirty, used, and I don’t know what the difference is.
He came in my hand, in my mouth. So much cream that I couldn’t possibly swallow it all, and so it flowed out of my mouth and onto my chin in a large splatter.
I made him feel good. Why do I feel so shitty? I’m ashamed of what I did.
He left me in bed alone while he went in to shower. I look at the mess we’ve made, his come a wet puddle of darkness on his turquoise-colored sheets, other splatters and streaks tell a sordid story. I roll them into a ball, hiding the evidence of what we’ve done, a tear hitting the sheets to form one more dark spot among so many.
I will not cry over this. Not when I wanted to touch him.
I pull the sheets completely from the bed, leaving them wadded on the floor, not knowing where to put them. I want the bed changed, all evidence of what happened gone, but as I rummage through drawers and closets, I find nothing more than clothing, his, no women’s clothing, and of his, it is a sparse closet, some summer shirts, slacks, a few pairs of dress shoes. I wonder where he hides his endless supply of leather, thinking that perhaps he has an underground lair, like Batman, the place where he keeps his kink clothing.
“Find what you’re looking for?” he asks as I come out from the walk-in closet, scaring the shit out of me, so that I jump and “eek”, hiding my nakedness behind a shield of arms. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, steam rolling from the warmer bathroom into the cooler bedroom. The heavy scent of cloying incense flows into the room not burnt but damp, warm, the fragrance of his shower gel perhaps. I don’t recognize the scent.
“Sh-sheets,” I stammer, pointing at the pile on the floor.
“For future reference, hallway closet,” he says sternly. “Right now, you shower.”
I hurry to cross the room, thinking to lock myself and my embarrassment behind a closed door. Lord Fyre has other ideas and follows me into the bathroom. Taking me by the elbow, he helps me step into the shower. He’d left the water running and the temperature, though a little warm for my taste, is nice hitting my body. I reach for a bar of soap.
“No. I’ll bathe you.”
I freeze, my hand still outstretched to reach the bar of soap. Had I thought he was there to just watch?
I don’t know, but the thought of him bathing me teeters me on the edge of freaking out.
“I can…” I start to tell him I can do it myself, but am silenced by a small sea sponge shoved between my open lips. I know better than to spit it out.
He rubs the small bar between his hands, creating lather, releasing the heavy fragrance I don’t recognize. It is exotic. The bath he gives me is erotic, rubbing my arms, my breasts, circling my small breasts and pinching the nipples into tight buds. “I like your breasts.”
I grunt, hoping my disagreement comes through. Why do men keep telling me they like my breasts—first Garrett, now Lord Fyre. I know my breasts haven’t grown any, and they are almost non-breasts, they are so small. Lion always made fun of my breasts; even my father argued that it was a waste of money for bras. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice one way or another, after all.
His soapy hands travel lower, rubbing, sliding, fitting between my legs, one hand in front, one hand behind, washing, massaging everything between them, but
he doesn’t linger, at least not long enough for me to really enjoy myself, just enough to tease, moving on to lather my thighs, my calves, my feet, even between my toes.
Standing, he pulls the sponge from between my lips. I look up at him and am astonished again by the raw, intense beauty of this man. His long damp hair clings against his solid-muscled shoulders and I force myself not to reach a hand up to brush a stray, damp lock of hair from his cheek. I don’t understand myself. I was mad at him for making me suck him but I wanted to do so. I wanted to taste him. I enjoyed tasting him. And now…I want to touch him again and I’m not so mad anymore.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine?” I squeak, sounding like I’m asking him if I really am.
“You were crying while I was in the shower,” he accuses.
“How did you know?” I bite my bottom lip.
“Are you all right now?” he asks, not answering my question. “Are you ready to continue?”
“Continue?” My voice makes me sound more confused than I am. I know what he means, am I ready for him to Master me and the answer is, I really don’t know. I thought I could do this, I really did. Well, maybe I had doubts, but they were physical doubts. Could I withstand the pain? Not, could I survive the man?
Holding him in my hand, pumping him, making him come, made him seem so much more human. Not so God-like. I don’t know what I was thinking, but his emotions never came into the picture. I worried about hurting Garrett’s feelings, but the raw emotion I just saw…can I survive if he ever reveals that part of himself?
“Sophia?”
I look at him, water sluicing over his shoulders, making him seem once again stone, God-like, all Master. No, I’m not ready to continue. I need a time out. I need time to think. I want you to call me Kitten so that I won’t forget who I really belong to. Calling me Sophia has given you an unfair advantage over my heart and that isn’t playing fair. That isn’t playing fair at all.
“Yes, Lord Fyre, I’m ready to continue.”
Chapter 5
“Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.”
-William Shakespeare, Strange Bedfellows
Garrett
I lie in bed, naked, alone, very hung over and, because of my ringing cell phone and a nonstop banging at my front door, awake. I do not answer the phone. I do not answer the door. I do, however, manage to climb out of bed and throw open the heavy foam-backed drapes that trick me into thinking it is the dead of night. From my perch high above San Francisco, it is not at once obvious that it is a big-time party day in the hood—but yes, it is the last Sunday of September, the sun is shining and, even as I rub the sleep out of my eyes, vanilla tourists are arriving in droves to join the downtown leather party.
Really, I suppose there are worse things than waking up to four-hundred-thousand people in your backyard, but at the moment I can’t thing of any and the last thing I want to do is face the day. Folsom Street Fair is a party and I am in no mood to laugh, play, or check out the local and tourist eye-candy, though there promises to be eye-candy in mass quantity dressed in leather, chains, and brightly colored outrageous costumes. My heart just isn’t up to it. I miss Kitten. I hadn’t really thought what it would be like to share Folsom with her, but then I remembered how much fun I’d had with Tony our last Fair together and it dawned on me fast and cold that I didn’t have anyone to share the fun with…pounding at the door, screaming through the walls at me friends aside.
For a moment, I wonder where Enrique is and then belatedly realize that, in my drunken stupor, I gave him permission to do Folsom with his boyfriend-of-the-week. My cell phone clangs again and I wonder why on earth I thought I needed to switch it from vibrate for the alarm to wake me. I ignore the ringing phone, ignore the pounding at my door, and head for the shower, making a list in my head of everything that needs doing this morning that didn’t get done last night to ready the Lewd Larry’s Fetish Fantasy booth for the Folsom Street Fair throng.
It is an annual big deal that we wait all year for and then can’t wait to be over so that we can have our privacy back…or maybe it’s just me.
With the streets roped off, our booth will be one of many lining the roads—ours offering Lewd Larry’s merchandise, Tshirts, coffee cups, shot glasses, postcards, even members-only membership packages. Of course, we will have gilded cages flanking our booth and a nice whipping post for those who wish to be flogged. The majority of the booths will offer kinky toys, kinky food, and everything else the alternative lifestyle community can showcase. Brochures will be handed out by gay-friendly churches and stages will offer music, comic relief, and entertainment found few other places on the globe.
Last night, already drunk, I promised I’d go. The company booth would be run by paid employees. I would enjoy the day as part of Jackie’s entourage. God, I regret last night.
My shower muffles the noise, an escape from phone and door until my bathroom door is flung open. The closed glass door of my stall reveals Jackie, looking very smug.
“How in the hell did you get in here?”
“I told Gerard I was worried. He agreed you’ve been very distant, very depressed. Together we summarized you may have done something tragic.”
“He let you in?” I turn off the shower and grab a towel.
“You are a very rude man but I love you anyway.” Jackie bats her two-inch-long rainbow eyelashes at me. Her face is painted in a psychedelic wave. Bernard is her twin, though shorter, the top of his painted bald head even with her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re still naked. I brought clothes.”
With a wave of her hand, she calls Bernard forward. He lifts the costume. I tilt my head and frown. “Where’s the rest?”
“You are going to look fabulous!”
“I am going to look ridiculous.”
She hands me the leather jockstrap, black lace-up boots, and leather biker cap.
“Chaps?” I ask, hopeful, as I step from the shower.
“You did that last year.” She pushes two leather armbands high on my biceps. “This year is your year to be seen…buff, awesome tan,” She glides her hand down my still damp abs then jerks the towel from my waist with a flourish. “God, you are a walking wet dream.”
Bernard leers.
“Out!” I push them both from the bathroom, close the door, and pull on my clothes, if you can call my jockstrap clothing. I’m not a prude, but I like my privacy. Clothing is a good thing and my usual attire even at the club is a T-shirt and leather pants, poet’s shirt and leather pants, or my standard tux. It’s not that I’m selfconscious of my body, I know my body is good even by San Francisco standards, which is above the national norm, but the problem is others noticing how good my body is. Which is to say, the average local leather-man checking me out is okay, the tourist who is someone’s housewife in Idaho wanting her picture taken with me, not okay.
I step from the bathroom and grab a studded leather chest harness from a hook inside the closet as an afterthought and pull it across my chest so that it crisscrosses between my pecs as I walk down the hallway. I know it’s a good effect when Jackie is turned speechless and Bernard’s mouth drops.
I guess I’m ready for the fair.
We arrive early enough to check my booth, make some last-minute decisions and cage up the boys and girls who want to be the gilded attractions for the day. Nude and painted gold, they are spectacular. By the time I’m ready to walk away, assured the booth will survive without me, the streets are filling quickly. The people buzz around us. It is so far a perfect mix of scantily clad leather-folk, strutting bare chests, pierced nipples, bare asses clad in chaps, and fetishists, no doubt hot and sweaty beneath their spandex, but smiling happily, and thousands of others who just fall under the category of beautiful. Couples stand out to me, whether male/male, female/female, or female/male. I sigh, longing for Kitten.
At one of the corner booths, I spot Frankie Perez, a friend who owns one of the leather bars south of Market. Walking over for a
quick hello, I am surprised when he spins me around to check me out. “Well, hel-l-o, Garrett Lawrence. Look at you.”
I blush and smile wide. “I know, I’m naked. I’ve never worn so few clothes in front of so many people.”
“Do so often from now on—please.”
Frankie is my height and not a bad-looking man himself, although in one word, rugged would do it. Clad in tight jeans and leather chaps, three-day growth on his cheeks and slicked back blue-black hair, he is slightly irresistible, even though I’d never really looked at him as partner material.
What is wrong with me that every guy and girl within ten feet is suddenly turning my head? I wish Celia was here to take my mind off the man standing in front of me and my raging hard cock.
“So Garrett, are you in a mood to flog or be flogged today?”
Glancing at his hand, I see him playing with the thongs of a suede flogger hung from his belt. He looks down at the solid line beneath my jock strap and chuckles. When our eyes meet, we both share that yeah we should moment, but my thoughts go straight to the gutter, not an in-broad-daylight glimmer of what I’d like to have happen.
“Gaa-rrrrrr-ett! O-v-ver he-re!”
I turn to see Jackie, waving at me and holding tight to Bernard’s leash.
I smile and wave, almost disappointed that I have an out if I want one. I turn back to Frankie. “Another time.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Walking away, I wink.
“Just what was that?” Jackie demands.
“Look, you can’t dress me up for the whole world to notice and then get mad when someone notices.”
“He has a point, Jacksy,” Bernard coos.
I cringe at the pet name and laugh my ass off when she smacks the back of his head and tugs his leash hard to follow her. Huffing, she commands me to, “Stay close.”
I leave Jackie pouting at the Fair, but she has more than enough friends to keep her company, a major concert post-Fair she plans to attend and her annual post-Fair play party to host, beginning at her house around midnight or right after the concert. I assured her she wasn’t going to have time to miss me. The club is empty now. It’s early, too early for guests, and we expect a light crowd, at least until the Fair closes for the night. By midnight, we’ll be packed. I want to be ready for it.