STEVE'S MONKEY'S PAW by Neale Sourna

by Neale Sourna

  Unless, of course, he had a big thing, for his boss.

  “Come here.”

  The sahib indicated I may now approach, and buff his lap, which I did thoroughly. The song ended. Shadow piled on the Poor Richards.

  “Again.” Greedy bastard.

  He peeled off his long, stylish jacket. A little warm, I guess. Y’know, others want lots of dances, too, but they don’t have the cash or credit, or they’re afraid they’ll cum their slacks. Dark seemed to be holding his cream but his trousers were becoming less slack the more I rode his very expensive imported, custom tailored fabric.

  Then, he touched me.

  “No touching!”

  I’d dismounted so fast, I don’t think he’d expected it. The look on his face said touching me was no overinfatuated mistake. As they always say.

  Tiny Natalie’d had some queer lick her ass just yesterday.

  Totally creepzoid.

  We do a lot. But, it’s a service, a special service, and it has its limits. Let’s face it; we’re vulnerable­—naked, outweighed, unarmed, with help far enough away that we could get seriously damaged or dead before the bouncers get to us.

  So, touching me . . . us is very much breaking the law. And, my law.

  Most people still like to think we’re wearing pasties or nude plastic or Sally Rand feathers, “if these kinds of places must exist,” they say. But, no, the law says nude’s­—fine, opening my legs­—fine, touching myself or another performer’s anything is­—fine, but . . . customers touching us . . . me is forbidden. As I rub my body against theirs.

  I’m on . . . I am that thin, fragile line between voyeurism and participation, stripping (Since I’m naked, I strip your mind, not my clothes.­—Good, huhn?) and prostitution.

  “Dez, it was just your waist I touched.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Dark. You touch nothing.”

  “All right. I’ll behave. Finish. Please?”

  I didn’t like the look in his eyes, I couldn’t read it, and, the pit of my stomach churned. Never a good sign.

  “If you want more, Dez . . . . A penalty fee?”

  Where was Shadow pulling those bills from?!

  He never put his hand in a pocket, no bill fold or wad seemed to be in his huge hand, and then Blam! He put down ten of them this time, for his master; fanned so I could count.

  “You’re not stupid, Dez, you know I like you. I just momentarily forgot proper decorum.”

  “Bullshit.” He smiled at my anger, which pissed me good.

  “Okay. One last dance. You get paid, and I’ll go. I’ll never come back here to Max’, unless you give me permission.”

  I had to think about that one.

  The money was better than great, and there’d be more, he always pays, even if he only watches for thirty seconds. And, then his royal pain in my ass would leave . . . he could dry hump himself.

  I wished he’d stop looking like he knew exactly what I was thinking, which, of course, I knew he did.

  So, I Salome’d again, and he asked me to straddle him, which is not unusual, especially from a high-paying client. I mounted him and his eyes held mine for a long time, his prodigious bulge between my legs, throbbing deliciously, making my bare pussy dampen it’s tongueless mouth. I tried to move off the expensive fabric . . . before I—.

  “Wet it, Dez, I don’t care.”

  How’d he know I was getting so wet? I thought to disobey; but, I liked the constant throb his cock was singing to my cunt. I wanted more. He could tell.

  “Put your hands on my shoulders, and lean into me.”

  I hesitated, but finally did it, and it felt wonderful; but, I was loosing control, and the position put his hot lips too close to my breasts. If I’d been flatterchested we would have stayed within the law, but my tit brushed his hot mouth and he grabbed me and sucked. Lighting a flash fire from my cunt to my brain.

  Pulling away made him suck harder, biting just a bit, and his pants got wetter, at least from my side.

  He smiled, mouth full of me, knowing he had me, knowing he was getting my body, that’s controlled by me, that serves me, to betray me.

  I pulled away to dismount, and his teeth let go but he held me on his hard bulge, pushing it up into me. I wanted it; but, I wasn’t having it, as I shoved to get away. He grabbed a handful of hair on the back of my head.

  Piss me! Tryin’ to control me.

  I backhanded him, and, suddenly, he had a switchblade at my ribs.

  “She’s thinking whether or not I want her enough not to slice her beautiful body, or if I’m afraid someone might hear her call out, and come for her.” He pulled my head to his. “Delectable Dez, who’s going to run through that door and into him? And, if they got past him, who’d run up on me? Even for you.”

  “What d’you want?”

  “Control of you.”

  Thought so.

  I elbowed him in the neck.

  He let go.

  I screamed and made a break to pass the huge guy, who moved faster than a guy his size usually does. I think he’s made out of granite, too. And, by the way, I didn’t hear any help coming.

  Goddamn that mouthbreathing Max.

  I knew it was stupid from the start; but, I kept going anyway, and turned around. Dark was able to inhale and swallow again. Scarily, he’d let me go, but the knife’d never left his fingers, which it did now, as he threw the blade point into the floor.

  At least he really didn’t want to cut me.

  I ran past him to the other door, a sometime dressing room/stage exit. I never made the exit, as he pinned me with his hard body, titside, to the cold wall.

  “Let’s talk, Dez, or rather you listen. Your buddy Ginger’s working a very private party. I’m throwing that party, so I can have this one, with you, without her overprotective and intrusive interference. Which all means, that I know you, that you’d probably let me hurt you, just to not obey me, therefore, you will obey me or it’ll be one call, one word from me, and she’ll discover the unspeakable joys of a gang bang.”

  Damn. I couldn’t even hit him with an elbow or knee.

  “You’re insane.”

  He ran his hand down my bare curves and behind, then slipped his long fingers deep inside me. My gasp wasn’t because it hurt.

  “No. I just get what I want. And, you know exactly what I want from you.”

  He removed his probe to smell and taste me off his fingers, let me go, and sat down. He pulled the blade out of the floor and put it away.

  “You’re taking too long, Dez. Unzip me and mount up. Now.”

  He smiled in that too annoying, owns - the - whole - fucking - world . . . and - you - too way of his, knowing I took direct orders very badly, but, because of G, that I was taking this one.

  I went to him . . . . [more]

  Tenure [M/M/M]

  (from Libidinous 1)

  by Neale Sourna

  I was about a month deep into my first Tenured Semester, my mind going as lukewarm and flat as the stale champagne in my glass, while the University President and his usual asskissers continued to mutually stroke one anothers’ swollen egos about . . . I have no idea. I’d tuned out long ago after their profusely embarrassing thank you’s to me for the mega income I’d generated for the school with my last award winning publishing and was steadily edging my way to the back, as I picked up a scotch rocks on my way out.

  I’d leave altogether, but it might seem a little obvious, so I decided wandering around the Presidential Mansion would kill time, fewer brain cells, and give me a tenable cover should any of the Faculty or one of the especially invited Freshmen blurt, “Hey, where’d you go, Professor?”

  I saw the seeable sights of donated artworks and furniture in this wing and decided crossing over to the far side wing had merit. I had the entire place to myself and took my time scrutinizing the antiques that hadn’t been taken out for storage yet.

  Then, I heard him.

  It’s a pretty unmistakable sound—moani
ng gasps like that, underlined by a rhythmically repeated squishy slap sound that called my curiousity. Another deeper male voice randomly counterpointed, and the antebellum floorboards squeakily accented everything.

  The songs of Sirens calling me . . . from around the next open double doorway.

  His face was locked in concentration, feral eyes half-closed, as he moaned and “panted prettily”; got that from an old Linguistics roommate, who was, of course, fascinated with words and phrases. Never had a use for it, until now.

  Recognized him. A Freshman of beautifully blended, slightly exotic, indeterminate ethnicity. The kind male and female professors lose their jobs over and other Students get pitched out on their ear for. Zil was on his knees—elegant palms on the wine red carpet covered wood floor, elbows bent, shoulders down, ass up, totally naked, his young, slim golden body rocking, forward and back—getting his bunghole thoroughly whacked, which was something I’d academically, continuously wet dreamed about since the first time I’d seen him.

  The lucky whacker had his long, dark, curlyhaired head down, fully concentrating on Zil’s tail, as the antique floor creaked under the weight of their indulgences.

  Zil looked up at me, clearly he saw me and just as clearly didn’t care. Both of them were beautiful; Zil disturbingly prettily; but, his lover was harder cut and perfect at every angle. His dark caramel tanned body was a Classic Greek’s wet dream of a god, although I still couldn’t see anything of his face. That was probably classic and perfect, too. I’m not, so, I really notice good lines, and true beauty. I’ve got decent height, but I’m body and face by Mack™ truck, more Bob Hoskins than Keanu Reeves.

  The old mansion music parlor had only one piece of furniture left in it; a tufted piano stool. Fascinated, I commandeered it into the perfect line of sight of his . . . perfect arrow shaft pounding in and out of Zil’s oil slicked, golden valentine. By the way, that is where the heart shape for St. Valentine’s Day comes from. It doesn’t look like anyone’s actual chest pump so much as a man’s favorite view of his lover’s sweetest erotic angle. Trust me on this fact, I teach Culture and Mores.

  Don’t laugh, or I won’t finish my tale.

  I sipped my scotch watching young Zil’s rigid dick beating time to the music of his incredible ass banging back against the other, who leaned into Zil, furiously walloped in return. The godling’s face was up, thrown back at an angle that still hid it from view, and I had to shift to take the pressure off my own distending nads.

  Then both pretty darlings before me blew, hard, as their crotches arched strongly together, their young balls shaking severely. Zil had his head down, his entire body quaking, dickhead pinched tight in his hand, darkened to the color of ripe, fresh fruit before bursting. I again shifted on my perch, as he wiggled and got a yelp out of the one behind him, who quavered and spurted the last of his cum into Zil’s sweet, receptive anus, as Zil bore down and recklessly gushed his milk onto the red, antique carpet.

  David—I decided to name my young godling for that great Italian statue—leaned forward and slipped his arm around Zil’s slim waist, face still hidden, and spoke in his lover’s ear. Oddly, watching Zil stretch and rub his body against David’s like a lithe bronze cat, for some reason, almost made me blow my wad in my shorts. Then, David kissed Zil’s neck, shoulder, and slapped him, hard, on his superb ass.

  I was right about David’s face. Every line and tight pore was perfect.

  They completely ignored me as they dressed, as only the young can; even while naked, so I snapped my fingers. It’s a trick I stumbled across with my own kids. The loud snap always got their attention, and annoyance once they realized I snapped for the dog as well.

  Both deigned looked my way, plainly finding me amusing; Zil also found the gaze I gave him a challenge, and headed my way. Damn. A breathtakingly beautiful man-child, and still mostly naked; the only thing he’d put on was a tee top. Young David laughed at me; but, this was my break and I don’t blow chances as special as this.

  Zil, smelling like sex, came close enough for me to touch him, so I did, starting at the inside of his firm, smooth thigh, and up and deep, feeling his lax cock on the back of my hand, as I ignored it to caress his nads, before following the ridge there back, as I rubbed my finger near his still oiled joy hole. He let me touch whatever I wanted. I took my sweet time touching everything. I have large, strong, gentle fingers. I’ve been told that more than once.

  You make beauty when you don’t have it.

  Young Zil wasn’t complaining, as I coaxed him closer, with my finger pressuring his nuts and his shithole simultaneously, my hot palm pressuring and warming his p-spot; but, he’d just had his sweet bum blasted thoroughly by Young David over there, so I had to make my point.

  Kids don’t listen.

  You have to show them your authority. Then they’ll listen.

  I removed my fingers, smelled, then poured some of my iced scotch on Zil’s young cock, making him gasp with the chill, before I smartly stroked the length of him, and lightly flicked my fingertip across his sensitive glans. David was already forgetting I existed; however, I now had Zil’s full attention.

  Zil said, “More.”

  Pretty and a pig. Perfect. He turned so my grip on him would be better, as I kept stroking him and the youth went steel hard in my hands, as I poured the last of my drink, anointing him, chilling him, then rewarming him with my hot palm.

  I unzipped.

  I saw David past Zil’s ass, watching us, completely dressed except for long stroking his flawless peter. A Kentucky Derby thoroughbred. However, when mine tumbled out into my large mitt, in its eagerness and enlarged to its full thickness and length, that caught his full attention. Clydesdale. “In the house,” as my annoyingly young Students say. I have in fact been told, even by men in sports showers, that my cock is my beauty.

  Wonderful, the one part of me not exactly available for perpetual, open display.

  I saw lust in David’s eyes and one particular thought flew into my brain . . . a very distracting thought. Having them both . . . ?

  End of Excerpt

  www.Neale-Sourna.com

  or www.libidinous.neale-sourna.com

  Libidinous@neale-sourna.com

  Novel excerpt, work in progress [projected for Fall 2004 publishing]:

  Aegis

  [ē’jĭs]

  A Fable of Sexual Control, Compulsion, and Release

  by Neale Sourna

  . . . I left alone for Gina Torres’ place, where torrid, gracefully energetic men can dance or at least try to, and it’s at a heart ‑ thumping speed and decadence, so a girl can shake all her horny shit. Then, Guy [pronounced gē, in the French manner] was there, too. Looking like he fucking owned the place and everyone in it.

  Gina dearest would beg to differ.

  He didn’t seem at all out of place; but, then again, Gina’s is a pretty upscale place.

  Guy’s whole relaxed, still bearing stated, “I can do something for you no other man here can.”

  He’d danced quite a bit earlier, at the Chief’s birthday party, once with me and most notably without, until the haughty wives’ and girlfriends’ fawning over his gorgeous fine ass—let’s face it, he’s a fair identical twin for handsome and talented actor/­martial artist Russell Wong of “Romeo Must Die”—had got in the way of his clearly keeping tabs of me.

  Then, the Arabella disappearance.

  He wasn’t dancing here at all. When a man’s body moves as expertly as his, it’s okay if he conserves vital, potent energy for bagging his prey and I was very tired of being pawed by talentless amateurs.

  I worked my way to the club’s rooftop, knowing my favorite Cerberus, Che, would stop him on the stairs.

  The roof is off limits.

  Che is Gina’s cousin and likes me.

  I like him, too; he’s a darling teddy bear, who takes good care of his mother, his grandmothers, and helps with his sister’s boy. He’s a real sweetie . . . too much so in fact, whi
ch translates to too good for me.

  No, really. He’d let me destroy him.

  And, I would, because I could.

  Dearest Che deserves . . . better than . . . me.

  A few minutes later, Guy was on the roof. Sounds like that joke about breaking the news of a death in the family, with the brother’s dead cat and then his mama being on the roof.

  If you’re not a very hot chica, who makes Che’s job interesting, the only way to get on the roof during business hours is to pay him beyond handsomely. Nice to know Guy’s not cheap with the folding Gouda.

  Guy found me, in the chilled night, walking, dancing actually, to the pounding beats from downstairs of Lenny Kravitz’ “Fly Away”. I was walking along the roof wall’s edge. Guy spoke. He’s got a very pleasantly mellowy clear voice.

  “I’d heard, among many things, that you were fearless . . . and crazy.”

  He asked me to come down to him. Chivalrously—Or was it just an excuse to touch me?—he handed me down, then slipped his expensive suit jacket on me. Then, I jumped back up on the ledge. I’m a bit perverse in that way. I don’t like orders from people, who haven’t proved their authority, particularly an LT [lieutenant].

  I asked if he were . . . “in love” with me already, or couldn’t wait to spill out his “yearning desire” and “sweet tenderness” all over me. I’d been hearing that kind of crap all night. No. Really.

  And, some of it . . . a LOT more nauseatingly florid.

  He scrutinized me a long time with his so root beer brown?, laughing brights—judging what I wanted for an answer, most likely.

  “No. Little Girl, I just want to fuck you.”

  Good answer. A very good answer. But, no “pass go”, yet, Buddy.

  “I thought, maybe, you wanted to fuck Arabella.” He smiled, almost sheepishly . . . almost. His eyes puff and crinkle in a neat way at the outer corners.