The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  "How the hell did you manage that?" I asked. "You must have some kind of rock crushing machinery up there in your ass."

  "Kegel exercises and muscle control," he answered. "Nothing you couldn't do if you put your mind, and your ass, to it. And speaking of asses, I have a sudden craving for yours again."

  And there he stood with my come leaking out of his asshole, and with a fully erect cock and a mischievous smile on his face. "Ready for some more action?" he asked.

  All my body wanted to do, really, was lie down and fall into a deep sleep, but a part of me -- my ass, maybe -- wanted him inside me. "I'm up for it if you are," I said.

  He had me lying on my back at the edge of the bed with my legs raised straight up. He held my ankles and braced his shoulders against the backs of my knees. I had to reach forward to guide him into me. The penetration felt deeper than before and, lo and behold, my dick began to rise as I felt him press against something, something that felt good, high up in my bowels.

  "It's the prostrate button I'm hitting," he said. "This position is especially good for that. Just ride with it and enjoy."

  I couldn't enjoy it for very long; the feeling was too intense. A minute later I was spurting over my belly and chest. He held steady at maximum penetration while I came, then continued with long, steady strokes until I felt in my gut the convulsions and wetness as he released his load.

  We did it twice more that night, alternating as top and bottom, and catching a snooze in between. My eyes opened as dawn was lighting up the windows. He was lying on his back asleep, breathing softly, and there was a bulge in the covers right about where his groin would be. Morning erection. I was tempted for a moment, but . . . I'd be late for work. My clothes were in a messy pile at the foot of the bed. I left him a hastily scribbled note that included my work phone number.

  Well, I had my story, all right, but how was I going to deal with my feelings? Was I still hetero, or had this crazy night tipped me all the way over into homo? What would I tell Maureen? What the hell would become of me?

  As it happened, the managing editor killed the story. Just a little too lurid for the readership, and it might offend some important advertisers. So, it was all for nothing. Well, maybe not nothing. I had found a new lover.

  Maureen and I broke up and I moved in with Jack. We had six hot months together. Not hot enough, though. Not hot enough to paper over how little we had in common outside of bed. I moved out and Jack found another boyfriend. And another after that. And a whole series of them after that, for all I knew . . . or cared.

  After long and hard thought, it became clear that the enchantment had worn off. Maybe I was straight after all. Not gay. Not even bi in any meaningful sense. Just hetero with a maniac ass fetish. I liked soft and cuddly women. I liked sucking their breasts and holding on to their round hips and bouncing off their plump asses. It just happened that I also liked a hard cock pounding into my own ass. But I liked women more.

  Well, I found my way back to Maureen. The lovemaking was okay and waking up next to her in the morning was comforting. We ended up getting married. And lived happily ever after. Mostly.

  Our oldest grandchild is in grade school now. My, how the years pass. I'm managing editor of the newspaper now. And, strangely enough, a promising young journalist has just submitted a very interesting story on the gay life style in the new century. Very detailed and very well written. Unfortunately, I'll have to kill it. Just a little too lurid for the readership, and it might offend important advertisers.

  OVER A BARREL

  "Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against them personally. It's just that . . ."

  This was right after he had left the latest of his victims bleeding and lying in a pool of vomit in an alley. Nice guy, Biff was. He'd go to one of the familiar haunts, plop down on a barstool, order a beer, and make like he was lonely and looking for a good time. It was only a matter of minutes before someone sat down next to him and made a move.

  "Hey, dude. You're new here, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Not much action tonight. Thursdays are usually slow. But, it can get interesting. Buy you a drink, stranger?"

  "Wouldn't mind."

  It didn't take long to get past the small talk, exchange smiles and maybe an "accidental" touch or two.

  "I'm Dana. And you're . . .?"

  "Biff. My place or yours?"

  A piece of meat, that's all his pickup was. Sure, Biff might accept a blow job if offered. But, that was the absolute limit, he insisted. Hey, it wasn't as if he actually . . . Once, though, in a late-night drunken confession, he had let on that what he was really after was getting up the the back passage. "Tighter'n a pussy, and not as sloppy."

  "Well, look," I said to him then, "if you're getting what you want, do you have to pound the shit out of your partner afterwards?"

  "You for real, Jimbo? I'm straight, dammit! A man! Not a fuckin' fairy. Sure, I grab what I gotta have, and, sure, get me a piece of that nice round brown. But, you know, it ain't a sex thing, really. When I'm deep inside, all the way up a queer's hole, it's like I'm on top of the world. Hey, if I can use a guy like he was a women, then what does that make me? Superman, right? I fuck him I own him. Right? Right?"

  "Right. You've got him over a barrel."

  "Over a barrel. Good way to put it . . . over a barrel. Yeah, man, it's all about power. Raw, naked power."

  You might wonder why anybody would hang out with a certified asshole like Biff. He isn't my kind of guy for certain: a scumbag and a thug, a lout who's as dumb as your average box of rocks, a closet gay in extreme denial, and a sadistic bully to boot. Well, he needs me. I protect him from the consequences of some of his more outrageous behavior, bail him out of jail when necessary, lend him a couple of bucks when he's broke, give him a temporary place to stay when he's been kicked out of his lodgings, and listen to his whining.

  Sure, it puts a dent in my social life. I've lost quite a number of friends on account of him and he's spoiled some perfectly good relationships with girlfriends of mine by his disgusting behavior. Still, I don't know that I have much choice. You see, he saved my butt a few years back. It was in one of those little brushfire wars in the Near East. I had taken a burst of shrapnel from a grenade, and he carried me on his back all the way to the evac helicopter. Sure, I may not care for Biff much, but, damn it, I owe him. Sometimes, I have to wonder, though.

  That did it! Biff had gone too far this time. He had to pick on Art. Art was one of my oldest friends. We went way back. Now, I hadn't known for sure that Artie was gay, but I'd suspected it for a long time. Not that it would have made any difference to our friendship. And, I was careful to keep him far, far away from Biff, of course, knowing what I did about Biffy's little hobby. But, as they say, the best laid plans . . .

  Artie came knocking on my door at four in the morning. He was in tears. And much the worse for wear. Bruised up. Clothes dirty and torn. He had been beaten up. And raped. Anally raped. And, the fine fellow who had done it was none other than . . . good old Biff.

  Damn it! I'd have to teach Biff a lesson. A lesson he'd never forget. But, short of castrating him, I couldn't think of anything appropriate. So, I asked Artie what he'd consider suitable payback. And, what he came up with was nothing short of inspired.

  Give Biff a taste of his own medicine, huh? Arrange to have his ass kicked, maybe? "No," Artie chuckled, "not kicked. Fucked."

  There was this club downtown. It catered to a certain segment of the gay community. It had a whimsical name -- Roll Out the Barrels -- and its specialties were bondage and anal sex. And, once a week they had a rather unusual ritual.

  "All right, Biff, tell me why you did it."

  "Fuck you, man. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. And, fuck your friend Artie, too. Fuck all your friends. Fuck the whole world!"

  "I'm glad you're willing to be civilized about this. Care for another drink?"

  "Yeah, Jimbo. Pour me some more of that rotgut. Yeah, the Scotc
h."

  "Scotch it is. Straight up." (But, that ain't all, Biffie.)

  His voice was starting to slur as he continued spewing his trademarked mixture of resentment, self-pity, and unfocused anger. Then, without warning, he slowly sagged, then fell off his chair onto the floor in a limp puddle. He was still conscious and his eyes were open, but there was no spark of awareness in them.

  "Let's take it again from the top, Biff. Why did you mess with Artie?"

  "Cause . . . cause . . . I wanned ta get into his ass. And, cause he's your friend, so if I fuck him, I be fuckin' you, too."

  Polypentamine is reputed to be the most powerful of the military interrogation drugs, but its effects are unpredictable.

  "And why are you trying to get back at me, Biff?"

  "Hate . . . hate yer fuckin' guts. Always hated. Since 'at time in Kirunastan. Thought you'd croaked. Just wanted to go through your pockets, take what you had, then bug out. But, there was this copter overhead. Landed, medics took you 'way. Made hero out of me. Me. Hero. Ha! Guy who carried you in, real hero, he was dead. Dead. Blew him away. Had to. He seen me running away. Deserting. Had to nail him to save my own ass. Court martial. Came out of it smelling like a rose. Superhero. Me."

  "Tell me more."

  "Hate you! Here I am, livin off you, borrowing money, stealing sometimes, fuckin' over your friends. And how d'ya think it makes me feel, huh? Like shit! An', it's all your fault. You're holdin' me back. Keepin' me down. If it wasn't for you, I'd be a big man. Own the world."

  So, that was how it was. Biff hadn't saved my life. That lying piece of shit has been parasitizing off me for years. Poisoning my existence. I owed him, all right. And, I always pay my debts.

  Barrel Night at Roll Out the Barrels was something special. Members and invited guests paid the $50 surcharge without a second thought. It was worth it. Hey, I could be one of the lucky ones who gets to sample the delights of the ass man. The guy strapped over the Barrel.

  I had planned to subject Biff to the normal routine on Barrel Night. He'd be strapped over the Barrel -- a large wooden wine cask lying on its side -- have his pants and underwear pulled down, then, immobile and with bare buttocks exposed and vulnerable, be awarded as a "prize" to the ten lucky ones.

  It was a strange ceremony. The hundreds of men crowding the floor under the exposed wooden beams of the club applauded the winners of the prize drawing. But, they reserved special cheers and applause for the "Bottom of the Barrel," the person who had volunteered to be strapped facedown over the Barrel. The bottom, who would get $1000 as a reward for his night's work. For being the centerpiece of the performance. For being ass-fucked by the Lucky Ten . . . in full view of the spectators.

  I had originally intended this for Biff. Being taken anally by ten strangers would be sufficient payment for messing with Artie. But, after what I had learned, that was no longer enough. Nowhere near enough.

  "I have an announcement to make." I had to shout to make myself heard. "Tonight is very special. It'll be a Barrel Night that will be remembered for years. A Barrel Night that will go down in history. A Barrel Night that will become part of the folklore, the stuff of legends. You see, my good people, our friend Biff here -- " I pointed toward Biff's gleaming naked ass stretched over the Barrel -- "Biff has volunteered to take on not only the lucky ten, but as many more of you who care to indulge in his magnificent flesh. 'Fuck you all,' he told me earlier tonight. And, that's exactly what he'll be doing -- he'll be fucking you all. So, let's have a round of applause for Biff!"

  They were cheering and stamping their feet. Biff was the star. He was the man. He was the ass man.

  I walked over to Biff, good-naturedly clapped him on the shoulder, and surreptitiously jabbed him with a hypodermic. The polypentamine antidote was fast-acting. Biff would be restored to full awareness in a matter of minutes. He'd feel in exquisite detail every single thrust into his rectum. He'd experience the friction and the stretching -- and the pain, if he resisted -- of being humped and rehumped, of having his rear passage forced open, of being violated and used as a receptacle. He'd have done to him what he had done to his victims. And, he'd have it done many, many times before the first light of morning. . . . But, at least the thousand bucks would pay for stitching up his torn-up anus.

  I had sponsored Biff, so it was my job to get him ready. Spread his legs apart and tighten the straps down there for easy access to the valley of his cheeks. Dip a couple of finger into the lube canister and liberally grease up his hole (nice and slick for the first one in!). Maybe wad up a rag and stuff it into his mouth, so he won't spoil the pleasure of his "lovers" with moaning and groaning. Bad scene, that would be. Wouldn't want anyone to think he wasn't enjoying it.

  Time to boogie. Have fun, Biff.

  THE NAKED TRUTH

  Howard Anderson had never seen his wife in her full naked glory. They had been married two years and had grown quite fond of each other.

  Many were the nights when Mrs. Anderson welcomed him into her embrace. His body rejoiced as he held her and entered into her warmth. He delighted in the feel of her lush curves beneath the flannel evening gown.

  Still, he had thoughts. Dreadful, sinful thoughts. What does she look like? What does she truly look like underneath? Underneath those fetching clothes she wears? Underneath the gown? I've been inside her, touched her as intimately as a man can touch a woman, possessed her . . . but I've never in actual fact seen her in the altogether. What do her bare breasts look like? Her deliciously rounded behind? Her . . . ?

  Howard considered himself an enlightened man, almost a Free Thinker in many respects. He read all the journals that came by post from back East. He enthusiastically supported free trade, industrialization, and Progress. He was against imperialism and foreign adventures. He opposed slavery, though he thought the more radical of the abolitionists went a bit too far. He had even considered joining the Whigs. Things were moving mighty fast in this modern year of 1840, and a person had to stay on his toes to keep from being left behind.

  He was a city boy, Howard was. Even so, he had found out about animals and their mating habits early on. At school he had traded naughty stories with his playmates. Once he had even purchased the services of a whore with money saved from his wage as an assistant clerk at the millinery shop on Main Street. It had been a sordid little affair -- over in a couple of minutes -- just a matter of sticking his organ into . . . And he had barely managed to catch a glimpse of her body. He still had only the vaguest notion of what a woman's body looked like, aside from her secret place.

  It had to happen. Late one evening he was on his way to attend to a call of nature. He pulled open the door of the outhouse . . . and there she was. Sitting there was his naked wife. He just stood and gawked, openmouthed.

  "Howard!"

  He turned and fled.

  It was ten after two by the pendulum clock in the parlor. He hadn't been up this late in years. Burning precious lamp oil, too. The words in the book on his lap were blurring. Were those blots on the pages from his tears?

  There were soft footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around.

  "Dear Howard. The bed is so cold . . . and I am so lonely. Please come."

  He arose and let her lead him by the hand up the wooden stairs to the bedchamber. The full moon was shining through the glass window that he had installed at such great expense not long after they were married. Amanda was standing beside the maple four-poster bed. She had let her gown drop to the floor. Her naked limbs gleamed in the light of the moon. She was stunning in her beauty.

  Later, as they lay side by side under the comforter, she nuzzled his face and kissed his nose. "My darling," she whispered, "I have wanted to show myself to you since the day we were wed. I was afraid. You might have thought me . . . indecent, even wanton."

  He took her hand and and kissed it. "Wanton you may be, darling wife, but you are mine, and mine only. And I am only now discovering just how deeply I love you, Mrs. Anderson."

  "
And I you, Mr. Anderson. With all my heart and all my soul."

  It was as if a dam had burst. In succeeding days, Amanda no longer felt shy about demonstrating her affections, and she even began hesitantly expressing carnal desires. Nightly they lay in each other's arms, flesh against naked flesh. And they partook of that flesh when the hunger overtook them, and it overtook them often.

  There came the time when Mr. Anderson took early leave of work in order to hasten home to slake his untimely desires. Mrs. Anderson received him in unfeigned delight, and opened to him her arms, then her charms. In full daylight they gazed upon one another, enraptured, entranced, in full and brazen nakedness.

  There came the time when Amanda shyly asked Howard to do unto her as the beasts of the field do, that is to say, to embrace her from behind. "In my rowdy youth, we boys would jokingly refer to it as 'doggy style,' my darling," Howard answered. "It has been my unfulfilled desire to accomplish such with the one I love if only once before I die."