Richard Hennebert:
Richard Hennebert enjoys being married to his wonderful husband in London. When he is not working, cooking, fighting for LGBT rights or running, he likes writing sad or naughty stories. The Bearable Lightness of Being Alex can be read online in the magazine Slashstroke, issue 1
(http://www.slashstrokemagazine.com/issue_001/story_26.php)
and Dying to love, that won first prize a few years ago, can be found on the official Laura Hird website
(http://www.laurahird.com/gayreadcomp1stprize.html)
His third story I wish (the other naughty one) was published in the 2010 Best Gay Erotica by Richard Labonté. Richard wishes his potential readers a happy reading.
The Lone Officer
I nodded and discreetly lifted my glass. Rob stopped talking and whispered in my ear: “You dirty bitch, it’s not even ten yet!” “Watch me; I’m off to the toilets. When I’m back, I’ll be reeking of spunk.” I whispered back. Rob was roaring with laughter while I made for the gents down in the basement. I checked behind me. The middle-aged hunk was making his way to the gents with his pint. He was definitely taller than most men, a pillar of masculinity.
I could not pee because I was getting a hard-on. I stood at the urinals, waiting for him to come up to me. A random guy came up instead and checked my penis. I told him to fuck off. Two men were fucking in one of the cubicles while the door was kept ajar for others to have a peek. They were masturbating in the semi-darkness. I could smell poppers, sweat, beer and piss all mixed up in one sexy scent. I didn’t turn round but I felt the magnetic presence of the man I wanted close by. I heard the sound of shoes stepping on broken glass and felt his minty breath on my neck. He shifted beside me. Wafts of his peppery perfume tickled my nose. My heart started to thump faster as if this type of encounter were new to me. I heard his zip go down. I glanced down to see a solid uncut dick resting in his hand; it was so large that its tip was pointing down, almost touching the edge of the urinal. The skin looked thick and riddled with blood-vessels. He had a piss. I watched the steamy golden liquid spurt out of his foreskin and run past me at the bottom of the aluminium trough. He gave it a good shake, zipped up and said: “I want to fuck you hard. My place. Leave it or take it.” I replied without hesitation: “Ok, your place.”
I knew I had made a mistake by accepting his offer without checking with Rob because I was leaving so suddenly and letting him down. Rob had phoned earlier on in the day to invite me out and check the new bar in Soho called Wet on Old Compton street. I had planned to stay in my studio flat with a few bottles of beer, watching the complete third season of TrueBlood on DVD. I was broke too but Rob had insisted, promising me he would pay for the drinks, the drugs and the entry fees that would get us into a club in Vauxhall later on in the evening. He was pleading on the phone and I gave in. Going out on a Friday night in London is a temptation I can never resist for too long, especially with the promise of free booze and sex in dark rooms. I pulled on an old pair of jeans, unwashed for weeks, a grubby tee-shirt and trainers that were stained with God knows what: poppers, spunk, piss. I looked a bit rough, the sort of guy you want to shag in a train station cubicle. That was certainly a look that never went amiss amongst horny guys.
Rob was a bit upset when I told him I was leaving but since he had already dropped a pill, he was relaxed and was chatting to some Asian guys. He was sorted for the evening. He had enough cash and testosterone to convince any guys to follow him to XXL and then to his beautiful flat in Earls Court for an all night-long sex romp with champagne and Viagra on the menu. We hugged, wished each other a steamy night and promised we would get in touch the following afternoon to share all the juicy details.
My new bloke was waiting outside by the main entrance door, turning his back to the bouncer. His white shirt was stuck to his back revealing a trickle of sweat. It was clammy. A storm was brewing in the distance. The smokers outside Wet were staring at him, in awe of this straight-acting guy who ignored them. With his thumbs nonchalantly hooked inside the loops on the side his chinos, he watched a group of noisy teenagers who were hanging outside the stage door of the theatre opposite in the hope to see Daniel Radcliffe who was in the play Equus. I walked beside him, could not help but grin at the impressed smokers and turned to him saying “hi again” because of any lack of wit. “Let’s get a cab.” he said and moved on. I followed him down Long Acre road like a pet his master. He hailed a black cab and we both jumped in at the back.
The taxi driver looked at us in the rear view mirror with a smirk on his portly face.
“Where you going, mates?” His cockney accent broke the silence that had settled in the car. I heard the direct reply as if rehearsed many times.
“Dartmore Gardens in Chelsea. I’ll direct you once there.” The commanding tone warned the driver to shut up all the way to the address. He nodded and drove off.
Chelsea is an upper class neighbourhood away from my bohemian beloved Soho. Rob has a few friends living in Chelsea. They’re all wealthy, living off inheritance money or City salaries. As a social worker, I had no choice but live on a rough estate in south London. I considered myself lucky because I didn’t have to share a lapidated flat with some strangers. My studio was my sanctuary, near a tube station and an art cinema. I never feel envious of Rob’s and his friend’s wealth, only their spare time. I wished I had more of that to travel once in a while, to read and to shag; to get out of the daily grind that makes you numb and apathetic.
As the taxi drove past lit-up theatres, busy Starbucks coffee shops, noisy crowd of hen-night parties, I rolled down the window to breathe the smell of the capital: Chinese take-away, Doner kebabs, sweet Ben and Jerry ice-creams and the permanent stench of beer and cheap wine thrown up on the side of the road. This is where I belong, amongst these people outside; I belong to the happy rats that scurry along the streets of London, hiding in a hole, mine being in Brixton. Yet I took pleasure observing life unfolding on the footpaths behind the window and enjoyed my ride at the back of the black cab through the city on my way to the unknown with a man picked up in a gay bar, wearing a Rolex watch and Gucci belt. I was out place with this rich guy but that is the beauty of being gay: you explore all the possibilities through sex; nationalities and social classes come literally together. I was pulled out of my thoughts when I heard the driver swear at drunken youths with their shirts off, chanting and staggering along Shaftsbury Avenue, slowing down the traffic. I looked at the man beside me with a smile; he kept his eyes focused on an invisible spot behind the taxi driver’s head.
After a good thirty minutes, the cab came to a final stop outside a mansion in the residential part of Chelsea. I took out my wallet from behind my jeans but the man told me to put it away. He handed out a fifty pound note, opened the door and walked out without waiting for his change. The driver said “Cheers, mate!” with a big grin, turned his light back on and drove off.
The Victorian house was spectacular. The hall was large with the tiles and mouldings on the ceiling from the same period; there were an antique sideboard with modern art pieces and lots of pictures on the walls. I didn’t comment on anything because I guessed he would dismiss any forms of trivial conversation. He took his shoes off and told me to do the same. There was a hole in my sock and my trainers looked so ragged beside his polished leather shoes. He walked up the stairs and I followed him. There was a soft runner all the way up. I didn’t touch the banister. I could smell beeswax mixed with his peppery perfume, which was quite heady now that it was away from the pissy smell of the Soho bar’s urinals.
On the landing he showed me the bathroom, the size of my studio flat. It was sparkling white and right in the middle stood a rainfall shower in a glass round enclosure. “Have a wash and scrub well.” he said before closing the door behind him. I took a leak first and then undressed before stepping into the shower. His request didn’t surprise me too much. Not that I was filthy but my clothes suggested that I could have been. I tuned on the tap; the water felt soft and lukewarm on my skin, letting off steam on the panels. I let it run down my back and the crack of my ass. I grabbed the bottle of Jo Malone, a lime and basil soap, and leathered myself up. It felt strange to shower in the middle of the room; I felt so exposed. There was a folded white towel waiting for me. I ran my fingers through my air in front of the large mirror. I saw his bottle of perfume, Encre Noire by Lalique, a black bottle against the white. I also cleaned my teeth with a finger and some toothpaste found in the steel cabinet above the wash basin. There was one toothbrush for a lone man. I felt I didn’t have to put my dirty clothes back on, only my yellow Diesel underwear. I walked out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed, and saw a light at the end of the corridor, I guessed, the bedroom.
It was not. There was no traditional king-size bed with pillows and quilt. No bedside tables with antique lights, a book and an alarm clock. What struck me - and I could not take my eyes off it- was the operating table with an acrylic black cover on a sleek stainless steel base and a stand-by control panel. On impulse, I covered my cock with both hands to protect myself. My instinct told me I should run away from this American Psycho freak. I suddenly felt trapped, vulnerable and frightened. Like most of my friends, I enjoy soft sadomasochism but not torture and this looked more like it. I looked around the room to see what instruments I could find out. I could not see any scalpels, scissors or forceps. Instead there were wall-to-wall shelves filled with books, magazines, porn DVDs, old VHS tapes by Cadinot and sex toys of all kinds, some still in their original boxes or wrapped up in cellophane, all meticulously arranged by sizes and types. It reminded me of a more clinical and sterilized version of a very well-stocked sex shop, like the one I went to in Amsterdam. He even had a wall with harnesses, latex hoods, body suits, gags, muzzles and leather shorts with read, yellow and white stripes on the front. Now whiffs of leather, rubber, latex mixed with the antiseptic aroma coming from the clean utensils, the polished floor and the whole house filled my head with the anticipation of rough experimental sex. I looked at the enigmatic man standing in a corner of the room by a metallic fridge. I didn’t know his name, his job, in fact, I didn’t know anything about him and that is what excited me the most. He looked me up and down, assessing his new toy, his lips slightly twitching with anticipation. He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of champagne. He approves, I was thinking, he approves of me, of my shyness but also of my curious desire to explore. I felt less intimidated by in his charisma and slightly less nervous by the sight of the operating table. Seeing the stuff all around, it made sense to be let inside his sex world, in his special room. And the man was cut out for the Falcon studios. He was a single bloke with money and a high libido, eager to satisfy all his fantasies in a clinical environment. Why not? It was clear and simple. “Amazing stuff you’ve got here,” I finally said. “I noticed you’ve got all the Cadinot tapes, I love French porn from the seventies…” I pointed at the tapes. They occupied a whole shelf. I heard him say: “Put these on.” I turned towards him and he threw onto the table a pair of latex gloves. I was startled by his lack of interaction with me. He obviously didn’t want to engage at all. I took the gloves, another sign of his eccentricity. I must have looked amused because he actually gave a laugh. “You mind?” was less a question than a command. I said “no, they’re just hand condoms, aren’t they?” Without looking at his reaction, I put on the gloves. The plastic was cold, translucent and soft inside. I heard the champagne bottle pop. He poured it into two glasses and handed me one. “Your name?” he asked while lifting his glass. “Thomas,” I replied then I ventured after a few seconds, “Yours?” He carried on sipping his champagne. It was Cristal. Unlike him, I took my first gulp of that exclusive beverage. It was champagne to me, just fucking expensive.
Despite the heat, there was a chill in the room. The air conditioning must be on. The dim light was coming from the top of the shelves. The parquet floor was shiny and cold to my bare feet. He finished his drink poured himself another one and topped up mine. “Lay down on the table,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” My head was spinning. I wanted a cigarette and above all I wanted to phone my friend Rob. He didn’t know where I was. I could be murdered and he would not know where to start. Yet I didn’t clear off. A big part of me wanted to stay and go all the way with this man. I finished my drink, set it on the shelf beside the bottle and walked back to the table where I laid down flat. Its acrylic cover felt cold and sticky on my skin. I suddenly relaxed, telling myself that tonight would be some experience, a story to tell my friends many times over a few drinks. I let my eyes rest on the white ceiling.
I couldn’t hear the traffic on the road. Apart from the distant thunder, it was almost total silence. In my studio, when I bring back a guy, the first thing I do is to put the music on, a classic Ministry of Sound track, to cover the sound of the police sirens or worse the ambulance. All I could hear in this house was the faint buzz of the air con and the rustle of his changing clothes in a room next door. Unlike me, he didn’t take a shower, a relief since I hate soap on a man. The thought of nuzzling my head between his sweaty balls and acrid armpits excited me.
When he walked back in, I turned my head away from the table. I lifted myself but he told me to remain in the same position. The build-up to this moment had unleashed my arousal. He stepped in fully clothed in a Royal Navy suit. Rob’s best friend, whom I met a couple of times, is in the Royal Navy. I had seen his uniform. It was the same. My bloke was a lieutenant-commander. He had on a pair of navy blue trousers and matching jacket with the yellow and white insignia on the sleeves, a crisp white shirt, a Gold Crown blue tie, highly polished black George boots, a frame cap with one row of gold oak leaf on a black cloth peak with a white cotton cover and the Royal Navy gold wire badge and a pair of latex gloves. He was stunning, powerful and so sexy. If I still had any doubts at being here, they all vanished the instant he appeared in his uniform. He marched towards me. I felt my dick swelling in my underwear. I remained motionless.
He bent over me and let his fingers run on my body, over my dick and my legs. I shivered with pleasure. He walked around the table exploring my body with his hands and grabbed my head to shove it brutally between his legs. He was as hard as a Brighton rock. I could smell the musk through the cloth. I licked his trousers and the zip, trying to unfasten it with my teeth. He pulled back and unzipped it himself without hurry. He took out his firm large cock, fully erect pointing like a sword. His veins were pulsating. He pulled back his foreskin to reveal a rosy head covered with pre-cum. “Lick it”. I craned my neck to reach it; I was desperate to feed the sexual beast I was becoming. I opened my mouth as wide as I could to gulp down the tip of his dick. He slapped me. “Don’t suck it, lick it!” he ordered. I stuck out my tongue and executed what I was told. The skin was soft and the liquid sour. He grabbed my head again and fucked my mouth with his penis. I gagged but he forced me to keep it in. The latex gloves pulled my hair, it hurt but I felt in his complete power and control. I devoured his dick, reaching down to his balls, feeling it inside my throat, retching to keep it there as if it was part of me. He moaned, telling me to carry on. I gagged but he pressed harder on my head. My saliva slid down my chin and my chest. My body was twisted like a plastic doll. I rested on one arm and with the other, I grabbed his ass, feeling it clenching and pushing towards my face. I felt the sweat tricking down into my eyes. It was all fuzzy. He released me. I breathed in some air and asked for more. I was the beast he wanted to fuck on his operating table. “Fuck me again!” I said, “Please, don’t stop.” I pulled off my underwear to reveal how hard my dick was. It was almost bursting with envy. I started wanking and fingering my arse. With his cock teasing me, he walked away towards a shelf where he got a metallic box. He took out a brush and a tin of black polish.
“Get down and lick these boots clean.” he said.
I slid down the table and knelt down. I grabbed the cloth he dropped on the floor.
“ Spit on them!”
My mouth was dry but I managed to produce enough saliva to spatter on his boots.
“ Enough! Now use the cloth and dry them off!”
With the precision of a professional I applied myself.
“Lick them!”
With one foot he pushed me down right to the leather. I licked them with hunger. I felt totally enthralled by this. I grabbed my dick but he said no. “Just do what you’re told.” With both hands I grabbed his calves, hard as rocks and applied myself to his wishes. Then he gave me the brush and the polish. I had a waxy chemical taste in my mouth.
He poured me a glass and I drunk it all. “Another one?” I felt heady, his voice booming in my head like an echo in a cave. He sounded deep and distant. I said no. His dick was as hard. I aroused him. I took hold of the brush, bent down over his boots and started polishing them vigorously.
He stopped me. He looked at his shining boots. “Good job, boy.” He grabbed my head again and fed me with his cock. I dropped the brush and grabbed his arse, feeling his back, his thighs and his buttocks, all firm and solid. I stroked his arse but it was so clenched there was no room for me to insert a finger. He was made of bricks. I said it was good. “Shut up!” He pushed harder down my throat. I touched my own dick which was burning hot and sensitive. “Don’t touch.”
His dick slid out, leaving a trail of saliva between my raw lips and the tip of his cock. He wiped it off against my face and took a clean handkerchief out of his jacket pocket to finish the job. He walked over to the shelf and grabbed a bottle. He sprayed his dick with it and asked me to clean my mouth too. It tasted awful. It was a disinfectant. He took it back and handed me some poppers. “Keep it, it’s yours.”
I unscrewed the top and sniffed the fresh alkyl nitrite. After the spray scenario I needed to keep the momentum. The rush of warm sensations and light-headedness threw me back to a place where sex was an easy game done in a dark recess of a club, at the back of a car or in my own bed with regular guys roughly my age.
I lowered my head to the floor and pushed my open arse up in the air as a call. It was time to show him what I wanted too. I could tell by his breathing that he wanted me. “Go back on the table and lie on your back.” he said quickly. I could feel the urge. I staggered on my shaky legs and sat on the table keeping the bottle of poppers under my nose.
He chose a coloured-flesh dildo larger than his cock. Watching him with the rubber dick in his hands excited me further. I laid down and started moistening my arsehole with a wet finger. He squirted some lubricant on his latex gloves and covered the dildo with it. His face was hard and impassive, his blue eyes fixed on the glistening dick, his suit still immaculate. The sight of him was sordid, yet so sexy. To how many guys had he performed this ritual? On a ship? Was he a real Royal Navy officer? His suit looked too real to be a decoy. He was so in character to be a fake. What could be his name? Did it matter? I was living an exciting fantasy. “Come,” I said. “I’m ready.” I handed him my poppers; he took one long sniff. “Open wide.” he said before leaning over and inserting the dildo in one go. I screamed. “Fuck, man!” He stopped me by crushing my mouth with his hand, shutting my jaw like a vice. I could breathe through my nose and took more poppers to ease the sharp pain. “I want some too.” he said. He looked at me with lustful eyes and I instantly knew he wanted me to enjoy this too. “Go easy.” I said in his hand. He nodded. I placed the bottle under his nose. The veins on his neck were thumping, his eyes blood-shot. He licked the sweat off his upper lip and placed his hand on my neck. “Kiss me,” I pleaded. “Kiss me rough.” With his other hand he gently withdrew the dildo to push it straight back in. I kept my eyes locked to his and moaned with pleasure. It felt good. He looked at my arse swallowing the rubber dick, in and out. I pushed and lifted my pelvis. His hand moved from my neck to my chest, his fingers twisting my nipples. I felt my pre-cum on my stomach and all I could hear was the sucking noise of my anus.
He removed the dildo as quickly as he had inserted it, dropped it on a towel and gently pushed fours fingers inside me. I gasped. His thumb was rubbing my sphincter, sending waves of anal pleasure through my body. I writhed on the table like a hypnotised reptile. Then he removed his hand. My eyes were wide open, my legs shaking. I was in need for more.
He changed his gloves and took some shiny metallic nipple clamps. He stood beside my face and stroked my cheeks with his gloved hand. “Don’t stop,” I said “Fuck me, fist me again. Do whatever you want to me, I’m yours.” I was possessed with lust. . While he inserted his thumb in my mouth, pressing my tongue, rubbing my teeth and my palate, he placed the clamps on my nipples. I shuddered. The sharp pain revived my desire for him. I had tears in my eyes. His face was unreadable. I so wanted to kiss his ruby lips and rub my face against his stubble. He took his hand off my face and unbuttoned his jacket. His dick was still hard; he was so close I could smell his sweat. He set the jacket on a hook. His bulky arms and torso almost ripped his white shirt and his hardened nipples showed beneath the cotton. He undid his tie and the top button of the collar, releasing his neck and a tuft of black hair. He draped the tie over the jacket and took off his shirt. “Do you like it?” he said. His voice resonated in the room. “I want it.” I replied. The shirt landed on the floor.
His chest was covered with smooth dark hair which narrowed down into a stream above his navel. His stomach was ripped and there was no inch of fat around the waist. I saw a tattoo on his shoulder, a crest with a dragon. He sniffed more poppers. I did too. I was ready for the duel. I writhed on the table and asked him to fuck me raw. My legs were so open that my anus was poking out of my ass. I inserted a finger and it was so wide open that I could have put in my whole fist without flinching. He unbuckled his belt, unfastened his trousers and bent down to take it off. He had no underwear. His legs were thick and muscular. His hairy buttocks were as tanned as the rest of his body. I moaned with pure pleasure, just looking at him. He was the epitome of all the sexy men I fancied in the leather clubs and saunas I ever visited.
Once the trousers were neatly folded and set on a shelf, he turned round with his fully erect dick teasing me. He came back near my face, his hands resting on his hips and told me to lubricate his dick with my mouth. I licked and spat and dribbled over his penis inside his foreskin. He withdrew, grabbed my legs and spinned me with force. He spat on his gloved hand and moistened my arse. I spread my arms on the table. “Yeah, come on, mate, fuck the hell out of me!” Looking straight at me, he inserted his hot dick inside me. It felt thicker than the dildo and ripped the inside of my body. I felt complete. He started to pound me like a punching ball. I grabbed the edge of the table to give him more force to reach the very inside of my inner world. I refrained from talking and moaning. I kept my eyes open, locked with his. Again he was impassive. I opened my legs even more, pushing towards him, offering myself to the sex god that was fucking me. I wanted to be his offering. His muscles were swelling, his chest heaving deeply, I was hoping for him to moan and tell me how great it felt but nothing. He remained silent. All I could hear was the sound of his thighs and balls slamming against my arse, the table slightly banging the floor. He slowed down only to resume his fucking with more force.
My bottle of poppers was almost finished when he withdrew. He grabbed his dick with both hands. I could see the veins on his hands through the gloves. He jerked himself between my legs, took off the condom and came all over me, my chest, my navel, my arse and legs. I could hear him breathe fast and furious. A flow of white spunk, hot and steamy, trickled down my shaking pale body. “Wipe it clean.” I sat up and licked it. It tasted sour but I passed my tongue inside his prepuce, sucked out the juice, cleaned his balls, and the shaft. I touched his stomach and chest, running my fingers through his hair. He pushed me away and asked me to lie down again. “Have another drink.” he said and walked out of the room.
I rested on my back, panting. I was desperate to ejaculate and get out. He was not the type of guy to hold me in his arms. But I needed to ejaculate hard. I stretched my legs and looked around. The metallic blinds of the windows were down. There was a hi-Tec IPod player in a corner. The shelves were made of steel. No pictures, no mirrors, nothing tacky. No sling, just this surgical table. The room was like a museum to perform sex as a raw sport. I checked for a camera but I couldn’t see any. My dick was still hard and I wondered if Rob was having his sucked off at this very moment. My head was still spinning but I was clear of mind despite the alcohol and the poppers. I wanted him again though. I was willing to go through this once more but I also wanted to kiss him bad. I wanted a raw fuck with no lube, no condom and no fucking glove. I wanted to taste the worst and the best of him. I could have tasted his shit if he’d asked me to. Then he was back.
In a day-to-day military gear. Combat trousers, rangers, combat shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a beret. He had sun glasses on. The shirt was open down to below his chest revealing his hair and a chain with a cross. He looked sexier than ever. “You haven’t had a drink.” He said. “No.” I simply answered. He poured me a glass. He had a sip and gave me the rest. The drink was soothing. He still had his latex gloves on. He sat on the bed and stroked my body, my nipples, my navel, my dick, my balls and my scrotum. I shivered with desire. I couldn’t see his eyes but I could see the scene reflected on the lenses of his sunglasses. His hands were large. My body looked younger, almost juvenile compared to his. He seemed kinder, more fatherly. I wanted to ask him about his latex gloves, the spray, the room, his job and the toys. Anal beads, butt plugs, rubber arms, rubber fists, vibrators, masks. Why use only a dildo and the clamps on me? I wanted it all, all night, till I passed out with an orgasm. Did he shag women? Did he organise orgies? These questions popped in my head while his fingers ran on my tingling skin. I was in a trance again. My dick started to soften. I could feel it resting hot on my pelvis. He must have noticed it because he grabbed it and spat on it. That was the trick. It hardened again. He pulled on it and with one hand he pushed me down by the throat. I could barely breathe. With the other he jerked me off. Furiously. He kept spitting to lubricate my dick. I could feel his spit on my stomach and my legs. He had some on his chin, which I so wanted to lick off. He kept his head turned to my dick. I tried to look at his crotch but his grip was so firm that I had to keep my head back not to choke. The lack of air made me feel really light-headed. I managed to keep my eyes wide open to stare at the man I would never forget in my wet dreams. His ears were perfect too, tanned and proportioned; I wished I could lick them too. His neck was tense and solid, his jaw was chiselled, and his whole body was a dildo I wished inside me. He kept spitting on my dick; he closed his grip around it, it felt good, so good, he ran a finger on the tip of my penis, playing with it, stroking it, pressing on it, pushing the skin back, stretching the foreskin. I writhed like a trapped animal wanting to escape, yet enjoying the pleasurable torture. He kept putting more pressure on my neck, releasing it when necessary. I could feel the blood rushing to my brain, swirling around, crashing against my skull; I could feel my veins being squashed under his fingers. I opened my mouth to let more air in, I moaned. He said “Yes, come on.” I moaned louder, as much as I could. I lifted my pelvis but the effort put more strain on my neck. I could barely breathe. I remembered echoes of his voice: shut up. Lick it. Take this. Sniff this. His deep tone was fucking my brain too; I felt his dick inside me, exploring me, searching for pleasure. I saw his spunk on my stomach, the whiteness of it; I could still taste his dick, his balls, his sweat.
I came in a loud, long, painful, pleasurable, ecstatic orgasm, writhing, breathing hard, and banging the table, reaching for him. I jumped, bounced off the table, collapsed and grabbed his legs, his arms; he didn’t move away. He remained where he was and stroked my head with his fucking latex gloves but I didn’t care. He was stroking me. He comforted me. That was the most enjoyable fuck of my life. I was glad to be able to meet guys like him. I was so glad to be able to reach such a climax, so unexpected, so rare. I was glad to be gay. I rested my head on his lap.
“Ok boy?” he said.
“Yes, I’m ok. It was so good.” I said.
I felt stupid to say that but I was taken aback and glad at the same time to hear him say in his deep voice: ok, boy? He stood up and wiped me with a white handkerchief. I could still feel the grip of his fingers on my neck. My dick hurt too but I felt so alive.
My time was up. He stood up, crossed his arms and stood still. I slid off the table and walked out of the room, down the corridor towards the bathroom where I had left my clothes. I took off my latex gloves and dropped them on the floor. I didn’t look into the other cabinets which, I guessed, were rammed with more boxes of latex gloves, disinfectant sprays, white handkerchiefs and condoms. The whiteness of the bathroom said it all. I got dressed and left the room. As I was making my way out, I heard him shout from the room:
“A cab is waiting for you. It is paid for. Go wherever you want, boy.”
I slammed the front door. I looked at the taxi driver and walked away. He drove off. I crossed the street to have a better look at the windows of the first floor. I could see a gap between the blinds. I didn’t wave. I just turned away and walked towards the tube station. It started to rain.