“You can use the printer in my office,” he offered.
His office, it turned out, was in a building just two doors down on the third floor. I waited as he rummaged through his pockets for the keys. He unlocked the door and ushered me inside. We were alone. His partner, clearly the one with a greater sense of the concept of work/life balance, had already gone home. The office had that distinct buzz that offices always seem to have.
I followed Elliot to his computer station and handed him my disc. As he fiddled with the computer, I surveyed his workspace. There was a snapshot of him and Kara on the desk amidst some papers. It looked like it had been taken at an office party or similar function. Little bitch looks like she just swallowed a lemon, I thought.
“How’s Kara?” I asked.
“Fine,” he said.
He bent over the desk to turn on the printer. His gray wool pants stretched tight over his ass. I could tell there was a nickel in his back pocket, and something that looked like it could be a gum wrapper. I traced the curves of his butt with my eyes. It was all I could do to prevent myself from reaching out and swatting those cheeks.
“What is it?” he asked, catching me looking at him and straightening up.
“I’m just looking at your ass,” I told him.
He stared at me, expressionless.
“It’s nice,” I said.
This time he looked amused.
“So is that,” I added, looking pointedly at his crotch.
Now he was more than amused. “It’s pitching a tent,” I told him.
“That it is,” he said. We both admired his hard-on.
“Bend over the desk again,” I told him.
“Why?”
“So I can see your ass.”
He bent over as I asked, playing along.
“I’m going to spank you,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m going to spank you.”
He didn’t object. I took this to be an assent. I smacked his butt. He didn’t flinch. I slapped his ass again, harder. And again.
“Take off your pants.” I wanted to feel his bare skin, to see my handprint vividly branded across his fine expanse of ass, but he took my order to mean punishment was over.
He turned around and embraced me. His dick was as hard as a board. We fucked right there on the desk. I left a sweaty butt print on the cheap veneer finish.
I didn’t see Elliot around the next couple of days. He didn’t call either. I don’t know why I expected him to. I didn’t even know if he still had my telephone number. Still, it bothered me a little.
Feeling restless late one night, I did an Internet search, typing in “spanking.” All I found were a bunch of sites containing photos of barely legal women dressed ridiculously as Catholic schoolgirls, sprawled over the laps of some pervy looking older men, tears running down their faces as their fannies got slapped silly. Not what I was looking for.
On Friday of that same week I went to Chez Arlene to hear my friend Scott’s band play. I was chatting with Scott on the smoking patio between sets when Elliot came in with Kara. He didn’t acknowledge me. Kara had on a pink halter top and stretch jeans and looked like she hadn’t eaten for months. She was chattering on about something – I couldn’t decipher what – and Elliot placed his hand patronizingly on the small of her back as if to encourage her along inside, away from my vicinity.
We didn’t speak to each other throughout the course of the evening. I drank a beer and left after Scott’s last set, furious. I thought about the stripes I would leave on Elliot’s ass the next time I saw him. I contemplated making him count after each stroke.
Over the weekend I scheduled a meeting with another e-date. I thought I might as well since it didn’t look like things between me and Elliot would go any further. Mitch was a lawyer, mid-thirties, new in town, never married, no kids. We agreed to meet at 2 p.m. on Sunday at The Local Mocha.
My date looked pleased to see me, but his strait-laced hunter green polo shirt and white shorts made me cringe. After exchanging pleasantries we ordered two coffees and sat down at a table near the window. “So you went to Georgetown?” I asked Mitch, making conversation. “What was living in D.C. like?”
Elliot came in and ordered a double espresso. I saw him do a double-take at me and my date. Mitch was answering my question, but I wasn’t paying attention. Elliot got his coffee to go and left. Through the window I watched his ass as he walked across the street. He was wearing corduroys, and the fabric was worn a little on the seat.
Mitch and I continued with the small talk. Over refills, the subject of S&M came up.
“My ex-fiancée liked to get spanked,” my date said, lowering his voice and leaning forward, preparing to evaluate my reaction. “Do you?”
“I like to do the spanking,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, surprised, disappointed. “But quite frankly what you really want is some dashing gentleman to take you over his knee and—”
“No,” I said, “not really.”
Mitch cleared his throat and fiddled with his coffee stirrer. Our date ended shortly after that.
At home later that night I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I felt bored and lonely. I checked my e-mail and I had some responses from interested e-dates, but the experience with Mitch had left me feeling drained. I didn’t have the energy for more “getting to know you” chitchat.
I was preparing for bed when the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. It was Elliot.
I opened the door and he stood there looking at me with a coy smile on his face. “I’ve been bad,” he said.
I closed the door and followed him into the bedroom. He was already in position, bent over the bed. I lowered his trousers and boxers, exposing his ripe peach ass. Removing the belt from his pants, I set it aside for later. Elliot waited in anticipation.
I smacked his bare butt with my palm open and fingers spread, not too hard at first. I was just warming up. He braced himself, wanting more. I reached for the belt, holding the buckle away at a safe distance and gripping the strap in the middle for tighter control.
It came down across his bottom with a satisfying snap. I admonished him as the leather tongue licked his behind.
“You’ve—” snap! “been—” snap! “a really—” snap! “bad—” snap! “boyfriend!” Snap!
Elliot clenched his stinging buttocks, pressing himself against the mattress in an attempt to alleviate the agony of his stiff cock.
His ass was glowing red. I let him cool off for a minute before searing his butt with another succession of lashes.
I lay the belt down. Gently I ran my fingertips over his tingling skin. He quivered.
I picked up a hairbrush and softly rubbed the smooth wooden side over his bottom in a circular motion. Elliot sighed and relaxed a bit. Swiftly, I dealt two sound whacks to the center of each rosy cheek. Elliot yelped. He clutched at the bedsheets as I paddled away. His ass was now scarlet. Just looking at it made my own cheeks flush in empathy. I stopped to finger myself. My pussy was hot to the touch.
I caught Elliot looking at me expectantly so I went for the belt again, crisscrossing his backside with the leather strap. I could tell it stung, but he took it like a man.
I leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, rubbing the leather belt tip underneath my panties, against my clit. I came almost immediately, like warm butter melting down my thighs. I opened my eyes. Elliot hadn’t strayed from position.
The spanking had left marks. Not severe, but marks nonetheless. I went to the kitchen for ice. I returned and Elliot was still face down on the bed. I could practically see his ass throbbing. He raised his head up and watched me as I went over to him, cup in hand. I put an ice cube in my mouth and ran my chilled tongue over his hot tender skin. He murmured. Gently spreading his cheeks, I lapped leisurely around the circumference of his asshole.
I turned him over, cushioning his sore bottom with a pillow. His dick bobbed in the air. Transferring the
melting ice to the inside of my cheek, I took the head of his penis into my mouth and sucked. Elliot moaned. Soon he pulled out of my mouth and came, splattering my chest and throat.
“Thanks for the pearls,” I told him, and he laughed.
He didn’t stay long. It wasn’t even half past ten when he got up and reached for his clothes.
“I gotta go,” he said. “Early meeting.”
I watched him dress, his back to me. Across his butt was belted out a constellation of little red stars.
I was at The Local Mocha the next morning when Elliot came in with Kara. His walk seemed a bit stiffer than usual. Some friends invited them to sit down at their table, but Elliot said he preferred to stand. “I have a meeting at the office in ten minutes,” he explained.
Elliot stood in line waiting for his double espresso. While Kara was in the ladies room, I walked up to him to say hello. I knew she’d be in there for at least twenty minutes, checking her make-up.
I pinched his butt and he winced. “Nice ass,” I told him.
He smiled. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
Amsterdam
Simon Sheppard
Late afternoon, when things change.
Tall, maybe six-five. Thin, almost skinny. Not bad looking, but short of handsome. Just his type. The thin man looked at him and stroked his crotch.
At this time of day, the Web wasn’t crowded. Maybe two dozen men, most stopping by on their way home from work. For a drink, a quick fuck, shelter from the raw February wind. All sorts: older guys still in good shape, younger guys with hungry eyes, tired men significantly past their prime. A chubby guy with a North English accent joking with the bar boy. A Japanese tourist still gripping his indecipherable guidebook.
Everyone in the bar’s rear room was staring up at the video monitor, where a blond hunk shoved his latex-gloved hands up the butts of two kneeling men with wide-open assholes. Everyone except the thin man, who was staring not at the monitor, but straight at him. He felt his crotch swelling against his winter camouflage pants. Staring straight back, he grabbed at his thickening dick.
The thin man walked to the stairs and went up toward the darkroom, never looking back.
He gulped down the rest of his Dommelsch and headed for the stairs. Just above his head, the blond hunk was still punch-fucking a stretched-out hole.
Up the stairs, opposite the direction of the “Exit” arrow, white diagonal against black wall. Out one door, then back inside through another. At first the darkroom was impenetrably black, but in seconds his eyes had adjusted. The dim shape of the thin man was leaning against a wall directly in front of him, waiting. For a few long seconds, nobody moved.
The thin man turned, walked down a dark hallway. He followed. At the end of the hallway, a room with a toilet on the left, a still darker room on the right. The thin man leaned against an invisible wall. They were inches apart. They could feel each other’s hot breath. The thin man reached down with both hands, grabbed both dicks, squeezed.
He put his hand around the thin man’s narrow waist. Slid his hands beneath his shirt. Scabbed-over nipples. Amsterdam, he thought, must be the tit-work capital of the world. The thin man let go of his cock and raised his hands behind his head. He slid his hands to the thin man’s belt buckle, started to undo it. The thin man pushed his hips forward and moaned.
Freed of jeans and briefs, the thin man’s average-sized, uncut dick stood stiffly out. From somewhere down below, the muffled beat of neo-disco. He grabbed the thin man’s cock with his left hand and stroked, sliding foreskin over dickhead. His right hand found the guy’s ass and gave it an exploratory slap. The thin man groaned for more. He grabbed the thin man’s hips and turned him around so he was facing the wall, hands still behind his head. He started slapping the guy around in earnest now, each whack of hand against flesh echoing through the darkroom. The thin guy writhed appreciatively, pushing his butt out for more. When he reached around for the thin man’s cock, it was dripping wet.
He shoved the man over to a bench and forced him down onto his knees. Not “forced,” really, since the thin man quickly lowered his head to the bench and hungrily shoved his butt in the air. Even in the room’s near-darkness, the white flesh of his ass glowed softly. A dark crack down the middle. The smell, rich, slightly revolting, rose to his nostrils like an aphrodisiac.
The action had gathered a small crowd: a couple of the older guys, the Japanese tourist. He’d built a rhythm, whacking one butt-cheek, then the other, then a slap right down the moist, hot crack. Somebody’s hand reached out to the bottom boy’s ass. Rude motherfucker. He pushed the hand away, reached between the skinny thighs and grabbed hold of hard dick. WHACK! The thin guy pulled away. He pulled him back by the dick. Slapped him again, hard.
“Pull your pants up and follow me to a hokje.” He headed down the hall to one of the small, dark cubicles with locking doors. The thin man followed him in. He closed the door and clicked the lock shut.
A few minutes later, the lock clicked open. The thin man walked out alone. The Japanese tourist, still hungry, hesitated for a minute, then walked in. Tripped over something on the floor. Something heavy and soft. Bent down, peered into the darkness. Opened his mouth and screamed.
But by then the thin man was gone, fading into the grey drizzle shrouding the Sint Jacobsstraat.
Late afternoon. I’m walking down the Sint Jacobsstraat, across the Damrak to the Warmoesstraat, past Mister B and the Argos, over to where the tourists feed the pigeons on Dam Square. I stop for a paper cone of frites. I’m not hungry, of course, but the hot fried potatoes with mayonnaise get the taste of blood out of my mouth.
Amsterdam is a brown city. A brown, old city. And I was old when these buildings were new. A tired, cold city. As I am tired and cold.
I’ve been careless. Leaving that boy in the bar back there. Unforgivably careless. In all my years, my centuries, I’ve never done such a thing. They’re going to get me. Now they’re going to get me. And I don’t care.
He walked into the Argos. Past the chains hanging from the ceiling, the Satanic animal head hanging by the bar. Just past midnight, not yet crowded. Down the steep, familiar stairs to the darkroom in the basement. Plenty of guys hanging around already. That one, the one illuminated by the light from the stairway, he looked interesting. Faintly familiar. Tall, maybe six-five, and thin, almost skinny. Sharp cheekbones, eyes hidden in shadows; he would do.
He walked over to the thin man, looked up at his face. The thin man’s expression gave nothing away. He reached up, stroked the man’s hair. The thin man put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the wall. As though he was waiting to get blown. Or slapped. He reached down, undid the guy’s zipper. Already hard. “Come to a cabin,” he said, in English, to be safe. The leaning man didn’t move. He repeated it, in Dutch, but there still was no response. He slapped the guy’s hard dick. The tall, thin man writhed in pleasure, and he did it again, harder. “Yes,” the man said. “Ja.”
He grabbed the thin man’s dick and pulled him into one of the wooden cubicles, locking the door behind them. He unbuckled the man’s belt, pulled his jeans down to his knees, then ran his hand up a thin, solid inner thigh till he felt the soft, warm ball sac against his fingers. He flicked a forefinger at the man’s balls. The man moaned and shoved his crotch forward. He slapped the man’s balls with the palm of his hand. “Good?” he asked. The man nodded. “Poppers?” Another nod. He shoved a small brown bottle under the man’s nose, then took a hit himself.
Within seconds, they were tearing at one another, kissing so hard that he could taste blood in his mouth. He unbuttoned his fly, pulled out his dick, grabbed a cock in each hand, and stroked. The thin man grabbed him by the throat, tracing his veins with cold fingertips.
My hands are on his throat. My lips are on his neck. I want to strike, I’m ready to bite down. I can taste him. I can taste him already. And then he moves his hand from my cock to the back of my head, presses my face int
o the hot hollow of his neck. In a husky voice he whispers, “That’s it. That’s right, fucking kill me, man,” And I’m overcome, not by feelings of lust, but of sudden, irrational tenderness. It’s so unexpected. Unasked-for. I don’t want to leave him there. I don’t want to leave him at all. I run my tongue from his neck, along the hard ridge of his jaw line, over his stubbly chin, back into the warm, sweet cave of his waiting mouth.
The thin man, Theo, hurried from the bar. “HEY, WAIT UP.” The boy who said he wanted to die. Theo hesitated, then turned around. In the dim light of the cold, windy street, the boy seemed fragile. “Where’re you off to?” The boy spoke Dutch with a Slavic accent.
“Home.”
“Mind if I come along?”
“What’s wrong with your home?”
“Okay, okay, sorry.” The boy turned to go. The seat of the boy’s jeans was thoroughly ripped-up. The flesh of his ass looked tender and pale.
“You really want me to kill you?” Theo’s voice was tender, too. Tender and pale.
“I want you to take me home with you.”
“My bike’s over there.”
“Mine, too.”
They unchained their bicycles.
“I live over by the old docks.” Suddenly, despite his hunger, all Theo wanted to do was sleep, sleep with this boy in his arms.
“Let’s go, then.”
And they pedaled off into the black, raw, welcoming night.
It’s morning now. The boy is curled up, asleep beside me. How did this happen, this compromise, this need? How could I have let him get this far, come into my apartment, into my life?
Christ, I’m starving.
Milos woke, stretched like a cat, smiled at Theo. “Coffee?”
“None made.”
“I’ll do it. You just stay there.” Milos’s skin was translucently pale, revealing blue veins coursing with blood.
Milos climbed out of bed and walked off to the kitchen. Theo couldn’t take his eyes off the boy’s ass, the way skin and muscles shifted as he moved. The boy was fleshy, not plump exactly, but fleshy, as though he were happy with his body, at home in his body. Milos’s dick was still hard as he switched on the coffee maker.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4 Page 18