Fugue

by Rick R. Reed

  Without hesitation, Leatherman leans forward and takes first one ball in his mouth and then the other, rolling them around gently, coating them with spit, exerting the most careful pressure. As much as he might enjoy a slap to his face and the stinging shock of it, he understands the boy's admonition was a warning and not an invitation, so he reins in his passion and takes great care as he gathers the boy's entire ball sac in his mouth, and then looks up at him for approval. He has his hands firmly clasped behind his back. He knows how he must look: completely submissive. It gives him pleasure, a secret delight that he does not share with the boy and barely allows himself to feel.

  "Good. Very good."

  Leatherman begins to suck gently at first and then harder, knowing the boy's silence is his encouragement, his mute permission. He knows the boy is too far gone in the moment to make him wait, to restrain him in any way. He throws his head back and moans softly as Leatherman again takes his whole ball sac into his mouth, swirling his spit and sucking each ball in turn as he strokes the boy's dick, wet and shiny, up and down, pulling it close to his face, where he knows the grizzle of his beard will make a delirious contrast with the wet motions of his mouth on the boy's balls.

  "Fuck," the boy groans, his voice a presence in the tiny space. The pulsing of the boy's dick lets him know his ministrations are having the desired effect and wonders again if he should just go ahead and allow the boy to release, coating the back of his throat with his seed. But then, that would put him in charge, and he knows that's against the rules of this little game.

  Leatherman squeezes hard on the base of the boy's dick, feeling the steady pulse of the blood within. He bites the balls gently. He waits for the climactic moment to ebb, to pass, so they can start the build-up all over again.

  The boy shivers and grips the walls for support. Leatherman can feel the blood pulsing in the boy's cock against his face.

  Leatherman takes the cock into his throat once more, squeezing it with the muscles within. The dick pounds out its own beat in response. The boy begins to thrust hard into his mouth, his hips bucking. His breath is quickening, punctuated every now and then with a low moan, torn from someplace deep in the boy's gut. Leatherman can barely keep up with the ferocity of the boy's thrusts, their merciless force.

  Suddenly, the boy gasps and withdraws his dick from Leatherman's mouth. He holds it, impossibly big, in front of his face, squeezing hard on the base as a line of precum drools downward to puddle on the floor. Leatherman thinks this image, this reddened piece of sculpture, is something he wants burned in his brain, to keep with him forever. Is there anything, he wonders, as beautiful as a man's cock close to erupting?

  "Close." The boy sighs and grips Leatherman under the arms, lifting him up. The movement by the boy is almost a caress and Leatherman longs to grasp the boy, to pull him toward him, but resists and waits for his next command, which comes in an instant. "Turn around."

  But just as Leatherman is about to do as he's told, he hears the announcement of another stop approaching. A hot rush of anxiety surges through him. How can they stop now? In spite of the anxiety, he turns, gripping the wall in front of him, staring out the window as the south end of the next station comes into view. Please, please, please, he thinks, don't let anyone else get on. I don't know if either of us can stop.

  The gongs sound. The brakes squeal. The doors slide open with a pneumatic rush.

  And no one boards the train.

  The frozen moment shatters and the lust rises once more to engulf and enflame both men. The relief in the little compartment is palpable, and both pause, waiting for someone to rush to their car, yanking the doors apart so they can board. But no one does.

  Places...everyone!

  Leatherman does as he's told, turning around so that he's facing away from the boy and splaying his large, rough fingers against the glass. Outside, the oily darkness of late summer presses against the window, almost palpable. The backs of apartment buildings, three flats and two flats, whiz by, their windows dark. Here and there, a warm yellow emerges from a solitary window and Leatherman wonders if this is any indication that others are engaged in the same type of behavior, albeit more private. He likes to imagine lots of people fucking; he wants to be part of an orchestra of sex, a great swelling rush of human coupling. Bending over, Leatherman reaches down to undo the buckle of the chaps, the buttons of his jeans. In one frantic movement, hands shaking with need, he shoves both chaps and jeans to his ankles, where they pool on the filthy floor in a confusion of denim and leather. The want in him is so intense he pants like a dog. He bends over farther and farther until his face is level with his knees, blood pounding in his temples, making his face hot. Beads of sweat pop up on his brow, trickle through the thick growth of his beard. He reaches back and pulls apart his ass cheeks, moving toward the boy closer, closer, almost as if his ass has a will of its own. He imagines the boy's view of his hole: the hairy rosebud with its winking invitation. He hopes it ignites a fever within the boy. He hopes the boy will be ruthless. He wants the boy inside him so bad he is on the verge of tears. He wants to beg, "hurry, hurry." But Leatherman knows his place. He is a vessel, waiting to be filled. So while he wants to push back against the boy, gobbling his cock up with his ass, he does nothing more than maintain his pose: an open invitation. Take me. I'm yours.

  "Maybe we should wait until we clear the next stop before we take this any further," the boy says, his voice coming out deeper and more manly than Leatherman would have imagined. "Just to be sure the coast is clear."

  In an act of boldness, but compelled by a force so irresistible, he cannot will the words to remain in his throat, Leatherman whimpers, "No. Please, sir..."

  The boy leans back, body pressed against the smooth walls of the cubicle, bracing his palms against cool, graffiti-smeared sides. His huge cock just out in front of him, like a lance, pointing slightly upward and dripping. The head is angry red, engorged. Leatherman's ass is white, sprinkled with a dusting of coarse black hair. The black hair presents a sharp counterpoint to the ring of pink muscle facing the boy, welcoming and inviting. The boy thinks that nothing has ever looked more tantalizing. He grips his cock in his hand, stroking it so it's smeared with pre-cum. He bends his head to allow a big glob of spit to land on the head of it; this too, he works all the way down the length of the shaft. The cock glistens in the dim light. The boy is proud of it.

  There will be no tender ministrations, the boy thinks, as he strokes himself. The ass will yield to him in complete surrender because it's the way he wants it and he will take nothing less. He is in charge here. He will do the taking. But in that taking, he wonders, really, if the roles will be reversed. Who really will be taking? And who will be giving? Whose pleasure will be ultimate?

  And does any of this really matter?

  * * * *

  Gently, with almost a loving caress, my master undoes the shackles and the bonds that meld my arms to the ceiling's pipes. The release is a moment of pure transformation. I breathe out, a great whoosh of air, almost involuntarily, as I lower my arms. They tingle with the pinprick of a thousand needles. It's a pain that I welcome because it's evidence, once again, of my master's devotion. But with the tingle, there is numbness and I wonder if I can move my arms the way I did before they were bound to the ceiling pipes. Sensing this, my master rubs my arms up and down with his own strong and calloused hands.

  "On your knees," he commands. His voice is deep, rough, scarred with smoke.

  Grateful, I drop to my knees, sensing him in front of me, his animal heat close enough to sear me. I can see, in my mind's eye, the leather he wears, the hard muscles beneath the animal hide. I want to reach out and touch him, but do not dare. Yet, I can imagine how those muscles feel, rippling beneath the shock and silk of cold leather and skin.

  "I said you deserved a reward. Are you ready for it?"

  "Yes, sir." I wait for a beat, on my haunches. The air is charged with expectancy. When a minute or two passes in silenc
e, I am dismayed to hear my master hiss with impatience. I have forgotten, in my excitement, that it is my duty to anticipate his wants.

  "On your hands and knees, boy. Don't make me mad."

  Quickly, I comply, assuming the position: my ass poised in the air, waiting. I listen as my master fumbles with a foil packet, knowing he is sheathing his sex in latex. Just this act makes me feel almost queasy with desire and anticipation. I am open to him. I belong to him. I feel empty without him inside me. It's corny, but I know that once he stakes his claim in my hidden territory, I will be completed.

  I listen to the quality of his breathing, how, ever so slightly, the breaths he takes are now coming more quickly. He's excited by me! Only me!

  I feel him pressing near, the coarseness of the hair on his thighs rubs against the smooth skin of my ass, abrasive. I feel the turgid proof of his love pressing at my opening. He pulls away for a moment and slowly works his pointing finger inside, gently, listening, I'm sure for my breathing to ease, then a little farther, a little farther. He moves the finger around, pulling slightly at my sphincter, making it welcome him. Then, he slips another finger inside and waits again for my body and my breath to signal I am ready for more. Finally, he allows himself to work a third finger in. Then, one by one, he pulls his fingers out of me. The air is charged. I close my eyes, sucking in some air as I feel him begin to penetrate me, slowly at first, just the head, then burying the shaft deeper and deeper within me. I shut my eyes tightly as a tremor of white pain rushes through me, wanting to reach back and place a hand on his thighs to slow him down. But I don't dare. I breathe through the pain and slowly it eases, then disappears, transforming itself into a delirious gift. The transformation would not have happened as quickly if my master had not taken the time to so lovingly prepare me.

  He begins to thrust, pulling himself nearly all the way out, then plunging back in. He cannot hurt me now, no matter how hard he pounds me, and for this, I am a little sorrowful. But this road is well-traveled and almost immune to pain.

  But just knowing I am giving my master this pleasure is enough for me and I push back against him, urging him toward a final moment, a moment that will be all for him.

  My pleasure must come later.

  Finally, with a hoarse groan and a shout, my master tenses and fills me with his seed, gripping my hips, bucking and writhing, pounding into me so much that there, at the very end, it does hurt...just a little bit.

  "Thank you, sir," I whisper.

  He rests his sweat slicked body atop mine, his breath coming out ragged, spent. He pushes me down to the grimy floor, his body stretched out over mine like a hot, hairy, and heavy blanket. We lay like this for several minutes, as my master comes back, as his breathing and heart rate return to normal.

  Finally, he gets up from me and the cool air that rushes in to fill the absence of his body feels good. I hear the strike of a match, smell sulfur and a burning cigarette.

  "Time to get you chained back up, boy. The lashes have only begun to be wielded."

  "Yesss..." I hiss. And quickly remember to add: "sir."

  * * * *

  Grabbing the leatherman's hips, the boy positions himself, huge head of his dick pressed against the ring of muscle. With a grunt, he shoves himself savagely inside, breaking through the sphincter, pushing, pushing, until his matte of light brown pubic hair nestles against Leatherman's cheeks. They have become like one: conjoined.

  Leatherman cries out with the entry; he cannot help it. Even with the spit and the pre-cum, this entry is not an easy one. His head is pressed against the window glass and now he sweats profusely; it drips down from his armpits, tickling, covering his face, now gone pale, in a shimmering sheen. The pain is so intense it causes a wave of nausea to ride through him, an alien presence with a will of its own, filling him with white heat and sickness. He thinks briefly that a sensible person would flee from this pain, would want it to end, but he doesn't...not yet. He wants to experience the daggers of white heat the boy gives him--only him.

  Leatherman wants nothing less. The boy's cock pulses within him and, after the initial thrust, the pain lessens. It doesn't go away, but goes down a notch to a piercing hurt that causes Leatherman to bite his lips and the inside of his mouth until he tastes the copper of his own blood. By the third thrust, the pain has dwindled to a sharp, hot memory, not enough to prevent Leatherman from pushing back against the boy, to urge him farther inside. By the fourth thrust, Leatherman has forgotten his place and is so hungry for the boy to be buried inside him that he reaches back with both hands and grabs the boy's thighs to pull him in even more. "Fuck me, please. Deeper. Harder," he whimpers into the grimy glass where he presses his cheek. It seems like he cannot get the boy deeply enough inside him. He wants the boy to fill him up.

  Leatherman's head bangs against the window as the boy pounds into him, over and over again, dick tearing his ass up so good. His neck feels strained, and he wonders if he will have a bruise on his forehead in the morning. If he does, he will treasure it: a badge of honor.

  As quickly as he entered, the boy withdraws. With a gasp, he shoots. Leatherman arches his back as the cum splatters across it in waves of wet heat. The warmth and volume of his cum is startling. The crawly flood immediately begins a course down his back. It's all he can do not to reach back and scoop it up with his fingers. He wants to taste the boy so badly.

  "God," he whimpers, looking down at his own cock, surprised to find himself half-limp and already spent. His own seed pools on the floor between his legs. The shiny white cream is a sharp contrast to the grime of the floor.

  When had he come?

  The pleasure had been so intense it transformed itself into one big, roaring rush, making it impossible to identify the exact moment when his own climax had begun or ended...if it even had. He still feels tiny tremors, pulsing throughout his body.

  And now the boy is licking, leaning close over Leatherman's back, caressing him and eating the cum off his back, catching with his tongue the long rivers of it as it liquefies and rolls off. "Mmm..." the boy says and finally, kindly, he scoops some of his own seed off Leatherman's back and offers it to him.

  Leatherman sucks it off his fingers greedily, a pig.

  "Excellent," the boy whispers, his breath hot in Leatherman's ear. "You know your place. You're mine now, pig."

  Neither of them even noticed that the train had stopped at two stations, so engrossed were they in their passion. Lucky for them, no one had boarded. But when the train slows for the next stop, getting very close to the end of the line, someone does get on the train. Both men are too immersed in post coital bliss to even be remotely prepared to cover up what they have been doing. Their naked, nasty tableau is on display, a lewd work of art for anyone to view.

  Both look up to see a tall--at least six four--man has boarded the train. He stands only a few feet away from the couple, his large frame imposing in the train car. He is a sharp contrast to the boy's deceptively wholesome clean, blond good looks. This man is dark, in many senses, his hair is black, falling in curls to his shoulders. The heavy beard on his face matches it. And his eyes, which stare at the pair in frank astonishment, are so dark brown that the pupils are lost in the irises, indistinguishable. His skin speaks of a Latino or maybe Mediterranean heritage. His body is heavy, but not fat, roped with sinew and muscle, the shoulders broad, tapering down to a narrow waist bisected by a flat stomach. His thighs are like tree trunks, encased in tight, worn denim ripped at both knees. He wears a plain white wife beater T-shirt, and scuffed and dusty workman's boots. Neither Leatherman nor the boy can tear themselves away from the bulge in his faded jeans, a heavy snake hanging halfway down one thigh. Both his muscled arms wear sleeves of tattoos: bright green, blue, and red; stars, daggers, hearts, and tribal symbols all working together to orchestrate a concerto of machismo.

  But there is the sharp tang of fear and danger in the air. Enticing and "rough trade" as this man looks, he could also be a threat, a lethal th
reat. The lateness of the hour and their being completely alone (save for a conductor somewhere safe in his cab several cars ahead) has placed both men in peril, making them vulnerable. If this man had a gun or a knife or even a rock hard, tensed fist and a hatred for the pair, he could turn this scene into one of violence, bloodshed, and tragedy in just a few instants.

  The boy stares at this new passenger wide-eyed, trying to stuff his fast-drooping dick back in his pants, and spilling his own seed down the front of himself. Leatherman can do little but look up at the man, mute. There's no hiding that he's just been fucked. His back is smeared with cum, his pants are around his ankles, he's bent over a seat, and his face is flushed with post-coital bliss and now, fear and embarrassment.

  But the danger and the embarrassment rush quickly away, like some kind of night spirits, banished by one thing: the smile of the new passenger. It is broad and knowing, almost like a wink. It's not a smile of derision, but one of complicity. He is not repulsed, or angered, or even embarrassed himself by the obvious act of public sex he has just come across.

  He is titillated. That much is obvious. Even beneath the dusky skin, both men can witness the blush rising to the new passenger's face. They can both see how he can't restrain himself from letting his hand wander to his crotch to shift himself and to perhaps stroke the piece of meat hidden within his jeans.

  The hour is late and maybe providence has provided something the man had been looking for all night, in the bars and alleys of Chicago's north side. Maybe he had given up and was boarding the train to go home to Rogers Park, where his own hand would have to do the work he had hoped someone else would handle for him.

  At least that's what the boy is thinking...along with several other filthy ideas beginning to spring up in his brain. He grins back at the man and then casts his eyes downward to Leatherman. He takes a chance. "You want some of that? I got him opened up for you...real nice. And he is awesome...and ready."