by James Lear
There followed the usual stuff about times, locations, and photos. Luckily I still had a couple of photos by the talented Pete, from which I’d cropped my head. I wrote back with a picture attached:
Hi, I’m new to this, but I’d like to explore my sub side. Fit, 42. Let me know what kind of thing you’d like to do to me.
I was already hard. As an afterthought, I added a couple of words:
Hi, I’m new to this, but I’d like to explore my sub side. Fit, straight, married, 42. Let me know what kind of thing you’d like to do to me. Jack.
My instinct was right. An answer came within a minute.
Go to the front of the queue, Jack! Really sexy photo. If this is new to you, we can take it easy to start with: a bit of basic obedience, light spanking/discipline, maybe bondage and arse-play if you want it. Beyond that, it’s up to you. Tell me what turns you on, and we’ll take it from there. Cheers, Bill.
Had he read my mind?
All sounds good. I’m open to suggestions but not interested in pain. Would def like you to work on my arse. Will you be clothed or naked?
The answer came.
Up to you.
There was a photograph attached of a good-looking man in swimming trunks on a beach, his skin shiny and beaded with water, his muscles firm and tight. We set a date, time, and location—another address, this time in West London, and after work rather than at lunchtime. There was nothing in my calendar. Angie wouldn’t ask questions.
The day arrived, and I was less nervous this time. Bill was my third— or fourth, if you counted Adrian’s massage, which wasn’t meant to be a sexual encounter but certainly set the ball rolling. So far, all of them had turned out to be nice guys. Email correspondence with Bill suggested that he was friendly, sane, and genuinely interested in me. I won’t say I was getting blasé, but it was starting to feel like something I could accommodate in my life without disaster. I’d lost that horrible raw fear that made my hands shake and sweat, my stomach churn. I was getting more comfortable with what I am. But what was that? Was I gay, or bisexual, as so many of the men on Craigslist claimed to be? Was I straight, as I had told Bill? That certainly seemed to get a reaction: a straight, married man who wanted to do things with other guys on the down-low. I thought I’d hit on a winning formula.
Bill lived in a red-brick terrace on a quiet residential street with pollarded trees and neatly lined-up recycling bins, not the kind of place you’d associate with a sex fiend who lures married men to their doom. My heart was beating fast when I found the address, and for a second or two, I thought about walking round the block and back to the tube, but instead I rang the bell and waited. A dog barked, and I heard a man’s voice saying, ‘Shut up, Buster!’ and then a shape appeared through the frosted glass panes of the front door, a large, dark shape.
‘Hey, Jack.’
He was taller than me by a good couple of inches, and he looked as if he spent even more time than me in the gym. His hair was cropped close to the side of the head and maybe half-an-inch longer on top. Massive shoulders bulged from the armholes of a skin-tight grey vest. He wore baggy knee-length shorts and fancy trainers with fluorescent stripes. He looked like a personal trainer, which was appropriate, given what we were planning.
‘Bill.’ We shook hands; his grip was mighty strong. ‘Good to meet you, mate.’ He pulled me in and shut the door behind him. ‘Get on your knees.’
I don’t know what I was expecting—some pleasantries, a cup of coffee perhaps—but Bill wasted no time in getting down to business.
‘Don’t stand there gaping like an idiot. On your knees.’ He clicked his fingers and pointed at the carpet. I did as I was told, not even removing my suit jacket or tie. My face was level with the front of his shorts. ‘Kiss it.’
I must have looked even more idiotic, because Bill laughed. ‘I said fucking kiss it!’ He put his hands on the back of my head and shoved my face into his crotch. It felt warm, the fabric smooth and slippery. I could feel something big in there pressing against my nose and cheek. I did as I was told and started kissing, cautiously at first, with little dry pecks, but as my own dick began to grow, I got more enthusiastic. Wet shiny trails of saliva appeared on Bill’s shorts as I worked up and down the length of his concealed cock, which was getting as hard as mine.
‘Good boy. This the first time you’ve done this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
I’m a quick learner. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Better. How much do you want my cock, straight boy?’
‘I want it, sir.’
‘You’ll get it when I’m ready. But first of all, we’re going to put you through your paces. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Follow me.’ He moved down the hallway. ‘On your knees, boy. Like a fucking dog.’
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Still, Bill seemed to know what he was doing, and my job was to take orders, so I crawled after him on all fours, noticing his powerful leg muscles and broad back.
The living room looked conventional enough—light brown carpet, grey walls, a TV in one corner, a black leather sofa and armchair, a coffee table with a couple of magazines on it, Times Weekend and Men’s Health. No equipment. No chains hanging from the ceiling, no slings or ropes.
Bill sat on the sofa, arms along the back, his legs wide apart. He was clearly very hard.
‘OK. Strip.’ He clicked his fingers again. ‘Stand here.’ The spot right in front of him. ‘Take it nice and slow. Get me turned on.’
He didn’t need much help in that department by the look of things, but I did as I was told. I took off my jacket and threw it over a chair, then loosened my tie. Bill’s hand rested on his cock, lightly pressing it with his thumb. I pulled the tie slowly through my collar, then started unbuttoning my shirt. I was so horny by now that I wanted to throw myself on top of Bill, let him do whatever he wanted to me, but I knew better than that.
‘Take it off. That’s it. Nice body, boy. You work hard for that body?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. You like other guys looking at it?’
I was about to say something like ‘I don’t know,’ but instead the truth came out. ‘Yes.’
‘You like knowing that other guys want you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He reached up and grabbed my left pec between his thumb and forefinger, pinching the nipple. It hurt a little—just enough to make my cock leap in my pants. I gasped. He took hold of the other one, pulling and tweaking. ‘Oh fuck,’ I said.
‘Like that?’
‘Yeah.’
One hand grabbed my balls. ‘You hard?’
‘Very hard, sir.’
‘Good. Now carry on. The shoes and socks.’
Barefooted, I stood up. Bill lifted his foot and pressed the sole of his trainer into my crotch. I grabbed his foot and started grinding into it. He smiled. ‘Take my shoe off.’
I pulled it off.
‘And the sock.’
I obeyed.
‘Now kiss my foot. Make love to it.’
I cradled the heel in my hand, and after a brief spasm of anxiety— feet are dirty! Kissing feet is wrong!—I started to run my lips along a thick vein that ran from his toes to his ankle. His skin was warm, clean, and slightly damp.
‘Lick it.’
I did as I was told, losing my inhibitions, determined to show him how much I wanted to be possessed.
‘Get your cock out.’
I unzipped my fly and pulled my hard dick out of my pants. Bill looked pleased at the size and shape.
‘Rub it on my foot. Come on. Wank with my foot.’
I pressed the underside of my cock against the sole of his foot, pumping my hips so the head of my cock came in and out of the foreskin right next to his toes. Much more of this and I was going to come. My knees buckled, and I felt the blood going to my head.
‘Enough. Now get the rest of your fucking c
lothes off, boy. I want you naked right now.’
I stripped quickly, as if I was running late for gym class. Naked, with my cock sticking out and pulsating, a drop of clear liquid hanging off the end like a diamond on a thread, I felt vulnerable and anxious.
‘Now come here. Sit on my knee.’
Bill positioned me so that my arse was over his hard cock, my legs stretched out along the sofa, my back resting against one of his strong arms. He took hold of my shaft and started slowly wanking me.
‘You’re doing well, Jack. This really your first time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Think you can handle a bit of spanking?’
All I really wanted was to get my hands on the hard cock that was pressing into my buttocks, but it would all be over very quickly if I did that. Besides, I wanted Bill to take control.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to mark you. Your arse might be a bit red for a while, but that’s all. Roll over.’
I went into a kind of press-up position over his lap, with my cock pressed against his thigh. He reached between my legs and gave it a gentle tug.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good boy.’ One hand stroked the back of my head—the other came down hard on my left buttock. Jesus, it hurt—more than I was expecting, a sharp sting—but not too much. I wanted more.
He struck me again on the other buttock. Again, again, four times, six times, ten times. I was writhing, almost trying to escape but wanting the punishment to continue. He pushed my head down to keep me where I was.
‘Can you take more?’
I wanted to say no, but I heard myself say, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good boy.’ Another ten strokes. My buttocks were burning, but my cock was still rock-hard, oozing pre-come against his leg and the black leather of the sofa. He reached around again, took me in his hand, and wanked me. ‘Nice. We’ll make a proper sub of you yet. That’s enough punishment for one day. Is your arse nice and warm?’
‘Yeah.’ I touched my buttocks; they were on fire. I’d have to make sure Angie didn’t see them like this—not that she’d looked at my arse in years.
His finger was rubbing gently against my hole. ‘Want me to go inside you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You ever had anything up there before? Toys or whatever?’
‘Just my finger.’
‘Show me. Hang on.’ He reached over to the table and got a bottle of lubricant from the lower shelf. ‘Here. Turn over and lie back. Let’s get you lubed up.’ He rubbed the clear, cool jelly around my hole; it felt so good I gasped. If he’d said he wanted to fuck me right then and there, the answer would have been ‘yes, please.’
‘Go on then. Finger yourself. Let me watch.’
I shuffled up to the end of the couch, rested one foot on his shoulders and the other on the floor, and pressed my arse forward for him to have a good look. My finger circled my hole and then went in up to the first knuckle.
‘Fuck, that looks good. A straight guy feeling his own arse.’ Bill was rubbing his cock through his shorts. ‘Tell me how it feels.’
‘Great.’
‘Go further.’
I pushed in up to the second knuckle. It did feel good, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted Bill inside me. I didn’t really know how to ask, so I carried on fingering myself as he played with his cock. What should I say? ‘It’s your turn?’ I silently cursed my lack of experience and confidence.
Our eyes met, and he read me right. His finger joined mine, at first circling my hole and then penetrating it. Two fingers inside me, one mine, one his. The thought alone, let alone the feeling, almost made me come. Pre-come was plastering my stomach. Bill grabbed my cock and ran his thumb over the head, making it wet and shiny.
‘Please . . . not yet.’
It was too soon—there was so much more I wanted to do. I wanted to stay there forever, never to return to reality.
‘Let me inside you then.’
I removed my finger, and his slid in to take its place, all the way, fucking me gently but firmly. I groaned. Yes, this is what I want. This is me, giving myself to a man, taking it, surrendering my hole, my manhood, being possessed, fucked, owned.
I opened my eyes, and Bill’s dick was out. He was wanking slowly as he fucked me with his finger.
‘You want it, Jack?’
I nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘I want it.’
‘What do you want, straight boy?’
‘I want your cock.’ My face was burning, my arse was on fire, my cock so hard I thought I was going to start shooting.
‘Then come here and get it. On your knees.’
He withdrew his finger, leaving an empty feeling inside me, and pushed his shorts down to his ankles. His balls were huge, heavy, hanging low.
I knelt before him. Here I was at last, about to take a hard cock in my mouth. Would I be any good? What would it be like? Would it taste weird? Would I choke or gag? I reached out and took a tentative grip. This was it then. The final step. I was no longer a straight man who let gay guys play with me. I was the one who wanted it, and for the very first time, I was going to get it.
I squeezed his cock—it was smooth, hard, and warm. I lowered my head toward it. Here goes, Joe, Jack, whoever you are. The first time.
And then, suddenly, as I watched his foreskin sliding over his shiny pink helmet, a memory pounced on me so unexpectedly I flinched. I saw Bill’s beautiful hard cock in my hand, waiting for the first touch of my lips, my tongue—and I saw another image, a double exposure, another hard cock in front of me, and my hand on it, my lips parting to take it . . .
Time stood still—I never really believed in that concept before, but there, on my knees in front of Bill’s cock, I relived something in what—half a second?—that had been buried in my brain for decades.
I had been here before, on my knees, with a cock in my hand and my mouth open, and I had spent all these years forgetting it, obliterating the memory of something for which there was no place in my life, no future. But here it was claiming me.
I must have been twenty or so—no, wait, of course, I was twenty-three, how could I forget? I even remembered the date. The fourteenth of May. I wasn’t likely to forget that, was I? It was the day I got married, or possibly the day before, the thirteenth, the date of my stag night. It all depends on whether it happened before or after midnight. It was all a blur—we were drunk—hey, I don’t remember a thing about last night, how did we even get back to the hotel? And that’s how it stayed, a blur, barely a memory, fading away until now, when it returned in sharp focus.
My best man, Stuart. My first man.
We’d been friends since school. I don’t know how it started— sports, I suppose. He was a year younger than me, and at school that means you’re on different planets, but we were both good at football and athletics, so by the time I was in the sixth form and he was doing GCSEs, we were both playing in the First XI and doing the same after-school activities. We started hanging out together after training, going to the same parties, visiting each other’s houses, listening to music. We both dated girls and shared information about how far we’d got with them, in the way boys do, exaggerating a little, concealing emotions behind sexual bravado. I was more successful with the girls than he was—I had the confidence, the swagger, and I always had more opportunities than I could cope with. Stuart, younger and quieter, watched and learned and occasionally picked up my leftovers. He was like the little brother I never had. He came on holiday with my family; we shared bedrooms and even beds. And it was all perfectly, absolutely innocent.
We lost touch when I went to college, and my life was taken up with Angie and then, in short order, the kids, but when it came to getting married, I had no doubt who was going to be best man. My parents expected it, my friends expected it, even Angie knew there was only one candidate. She and Stuart got on well enough when they met
; I didn’t expect them to be best mates. As far as I was concerned, we were all one big happy family, the future was bathed in golden sunshine, a never-ending summer of love.
And then came the stag night.
It wasn’t the kind of elaborate, expensive affair that people go for these days—no flights to be booked, no entertainment— just a group of us, the groom, the best man, the ushers, and a handful of guests going out to a bar and then a club on the night before the wedding. We were up in Northampton, where Angie’s folks are from, and billeted in various hotels and B&Bs around the area. Stuart and I shared a room at the Premier Inn, and it was his job to ensure that I didn’t get so smashed that I couldn’t make it to the church the next morning. ‘Deliver him in one piece,’ Angie said as we left her at her parents’ house, ‘and capable of standing.’
Stuart took his duties seriously. He made sure I had soft drinks in between pints, and when the shots started flowing, he reminded me that I was getting married in the morning. When we got to the club, he stuck by my side and monitored my drinking and flirting. ‘Like a jealous girlfriend!’ said one of the ushers, who got a big booming laugh from the rest of the guys. Was Stuart drinking? Of course he was, we all were, we always did; we got pissed and had a laugh and bounced back the next morning without a hangover.
Stuart was shorter than me, with short sandy hair and pale skin with a few freckles; he burned badly in the sun, especially out on sports fields. He was always rubbing sunblock onto his pink shoulders. He was fast and light; he could outrun me for short distances, but I was stronger and had stamina and six inches of extra height. Girls thought he was cute, and I guess he was. I never thought about it. He was fit, certainly. He trained hard, never had an ounce of fat on him, and got muscle definition far more easily than me. I’d seen him in the shower a million times, of course. I was as familiar with his smooth white body and his cock and his arse as he was with mine. I never gave them a second thought.
He was wearing a white shirt that night, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, khaki chinos, expensive trainers that we’d been out together to buy especially for the stag night, wanting to look sharp for my last night of freedom.