Best Gay Romance 2013 (15 page)

Charley gestured toward the bed with his chin. “Now go and get some nipple clamps.”

I turned to the bed; laid out upon the gray sheet were implements I had only seen on porn sites: clamps, cock rings, a riding crop, items I didn't recognize. I picked up some clamps with jagged edges, like sharks' teeth.

“See that chain? Attach each of the clamps to the chain. Good. Now put them on me.” He inhaled and his nipples pressed at the thin cloth of the shirt; already he was aroused. His breathing sharpened when I fastened the mean-looking pincers onto his chest. “Now twist.” I gave each of the clamps a cautious turn.

“Harder!”

I hesitated, thinking of what Trey had done to Charley in school.

“Pull, you lazy bastard!”

His attitude raked at the scar tissue on my heart, angering me. I grabbed the chain and yanked hard, twisting his swollen nipples. I watched him squirm and arch his back; his body's reaction to the pain aroused me even more. I released the tension then pulled again and again. Charley groaned and panted, but said nothing.

Panting myself and frightened by my growing excitement, I let go of the chain. That obviously dissatisfied my old roommate.

“I love it,” he sneered, a cruel smile playing across his lips. “They send a boy to do a man's work.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You heard me.” Again our eyes met. The belligerent glare bore into me, picking at scabbed hurts. His aggression fanned my anger, really pissing me off. “Pussy.”

I backhanded him, snapping his head to the side. “Enough of this shit!”

Turning back to face me, he licked at a smear of blood on his lip. That sight quelled my anger, and I wanted to comfort him, to stroke and soothe his face. But Charley laughed at the taste; the sound was cruel and stoked my rage again. He glanced down between us. “Look at my crotch, bud.”

I followed his gaze. Beneath his khakis, his dick formed a ridge across his groin; a dime-sized circle of precome stained his right hip. He cocked his head, raising his reddening cheek toward me again.

“Come on, coward; do it! Hit me again!” Before he could repeat
coward
, he got it across the face. Twice I struck him—this time with my open palm. I'd hit him with such force, I knew that at least one side of his face would swell up soon. My palm smarted too. Charley continued to smile, leered at me even. “By the way—look at yourself.”

I knew without looking: my own cock threatened to push out of my uniform.

“Admit it, Jake. This turns you on as much as it does me.”

Shamed by my blatant arousal, I turned away. “God, you've become a bastard.”

“We're not kids anymore, playing doctor with the lights out.”

Growling my inarticulate humiliation and grief, I spun around and grabbed at his crotch. “You like fucking with people's minds, do you?” Grasping his balls, wanting to deflate the reproach of his erection, I yanked—hard. “Have you always liked screwing with their feelings?”

“Feelings?” he grunted. “Bullshit!”

I pulled harder. Charley gasped and didn't reply. Closing his eyes, he seemed to concentrate on the pain that must have throbbed through his gut and down his thighs.

“Was it just playing for you? Was it some sort of game?” I twisted his nuts and he moaned. “Was I just some dumb jock you manipulated into loving you?”

“I'm your prisoner,” he deadpanned, unmoved by my admission.

Hurt and despair welled in my chest, firing the fury that burned within me. Letting go of his balls, I grabbed him by his hair, pulling his head close. “You were my lover!” My voice rasped; surging emotions threatened to choke me.

“Lover, ha!” He scoffed, spitting the words at me. “I'm your prisoner and I have information you want—and will get—if you have to beat it out of me.”

Now I practically shook with rage. Reaching over to the bed, I picked up the biggest piece of leather I could lay my hand on. I raised it to his face.

“You're damn right I want information.” I stroked the leather along his cheek, tracing the livid print of my hand along his jaw. “And I want you to give it to me now.”

Charley panted, his shallow breaths wafting the smell of bourbon over me. “No.”

“Yes, you will.” My anger had mutated into a hard resolve. No longer did my hands shake when I caressed his neck with the piece of cowhide, following the rapid pulse of his jugular down to his chest. “I want you to tell me why you left.” I flicked the leather against the clips that still chewed on his nipples.

His nostrils flared, but he gave no other sign of discomfort. “No,” he whispered.

I moved the cowhide down his torso to press against his accusing hard-on. “Tell me why you deserted me without a single word. Not one word. Not one!” I smacked the leather against his khaki-covered thigh.

He gasped. “No.”

“Tell me!” I whacked him again.

Licking his lips, he pursed them and swallowed. “No.”

I beat the leather against his hips. He shook his head.

“Wasn't I worth at least a god…damned…good…bye?” Emphasizing each word with the leather, I struck him, swinging at his legs, his back and his butt.

Charley's body glistened, coated with his sweat. Mine poured from my forehead, running into my eyes, stinging them with salt. The longer he held out, the harder I hit him. A decade of pent-up frustration poured forth, became pure aggression against the man I had caressed and kissed in the dark. Now, under the bright, harsh light in this desolate, little room, I punished him for the pain he had caused me.

“Stop!” Charley cried out, breaking down at last. “I'll tell. Just wait.”

I stopped, gulping air as my heart raced. Dropping the piece of leather, I grabbed his hair, gently this time. “I'm waiting,” I panted.

To my surprise he leaned over and stuck his tongue in my mouth. We kissed deeply, our sweat mingling on our cheeks. Our lips and tongues entwined, each tasting the other as if for the first time. I ground my groin against his, wanting to fuck him.

He nuzzled my sweaty, beard-stubbled chin. “Forgive me… for holding out on you. I have a lot to tell.”

“Go ahead.” I nibbled on his earlobe.

“First, pull off my pants and grab a condom. I want you inside me.”

Still cuffed to the cross, he grabbed hold of the chains and levered up his legs. I entered him, gripping the underside of his thighs. He rode me with his legs locked behind my back and humped his butt on my aching erection. He resembled a country boy on an old tire swing.

“I'm so sorry.” He kissed my mouth. “I was so young. I was scared.” He pulled me in close, impaling himself on my cock. “I wanted to forget it all ever happened. Everything. Even you.”

“I loved you,” I whispered in his ear, reveling in his musky scent. Still he stroked his ass on my cock.

“I loved you too.” He licked my cheek. “But I was so hurt I couldn't even think about facing anybody or doing anything. Plus, I didn't want…how can I say this?”

I bit his neck. “Just say it.”

He licked around my ear. “I didn't want anyone at school to know about you. I wanted to protect you. After all, you weren't a fag like me.”

I pulled back and slowed the fucking. “Who do you think blew you at night?” My mouth found his again. “I was just as into it as you were.”

“And you were great! And good for me. But…” He sucked on my tongue until I thought he'd pull it from my throat. “But… you never paid for it…the way I did.”

I cradled him, carrying his weight the way I had that last night, a decade ago. “Did you ever talk about it? Get counseling or anything?”

He laughed a strained, taunting laugh. “Lots. You saw all that stuff!”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the piece you grabbed.” Charley kissed my forehead in a soft, feathery kiss.

Glancing down, I spotted the leather at my feet where I had discarded it. I had taken a razor strop from the bed. Probably identical to Trey's at the academy, the leather appeared alien and ugly to me. I felt weird—both repelled and turned on—and never closer to Charley.

“Don't stop fucking me,” he urged, as if he sensed my
withdrawal. He tenderly kissed my cheek. “It's you who's working me over now. You—the one I always loved.” He tightened his hole on my cock. I swelled inside him. “Love me, fucker. Love me hard the way I need you to.”

Our bodies entwined, our sweaty hips slapping together. Naturally, I obeyed him.

 

Later in the shower, Charley knelt before me and soaped up my legs, kissing my hips and drinking the water that ran in a thread off the head of my cock. The intimacy revived my hard-on.

I leaned against the wall, spent both physically and emotionally, yet never had I felt more alive. Charley picked up my left foot and lathered soap all over it. “I have one more thing to tell, but I'm scared you won't understand.”

“Tell me anyway.” I sighed, aware of nothing but the touch of Charley's fingers.

He kneaded and rubbed my toes, washing away my weariness with the suds. “About what happened with Trey. I was so ashamed because…because…”

I listened for an explanation. It was the least I could do.

“Because…I had sort of wanted him.”

He waited for a response. I weighed the admission against my memories and remained silent.

Charley continued. “I always hated him—always. But I hated myself more.” He moved to my right foot, lathering and caressing my toes. “I hated that I loved you and loved being with you, but, in spite of that, I was hot for him—all along.”

I drew him up to face me. Tears streaked his face, little hidden by the spray. “I know. I probably always knew, even then. But I wasn't sure until tonight.”

Charley rubbed his face; my handprint had begun to fade. “The humiliation drove me away. That night you were so caring,
so gentle, I couldn't bear to face you after that. I was sure that you'd see through me, see my ugly secret.”

Taking him in my arms, I kissed him long and hard. “Now will you let the shame go?”

He grinned. “Do you mean it?” His relief lit up his eyes, brightening his face so much that I laughed too.

“Absolutely!” I bit his ear and spoke loud enough so that he would hear every word and never forget. “I am claiming my captive, and I am never going to release him.”

He laughed, dousing our heads under the steamy spray. “Promise?”

“I promise. You're my prisoner.”

Jameson Currier

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I'm not convinced two men can have an honest relationship,” I said. I had not said anything at all during dinner, remaining quiet and listening to the mix of political and sexual banter bounce between the other guests and our hosts, as Eric delivered one elaborately prepared dish after another to the table. My neighbors Eric and his lover Sean, a gay couple in their midfifties, threw little soirees biweekly in their Chelsea apartment for a combination of their single and coupled gay friends, in order to be matchmakers or therapists as the necessity of their friendships required. I was twenty-four that summer and staying in my older brother's apartment down the hall; it was often impossible to escape Eric's attentions as I came and went from the building, and I once amusingly accused him of installing a spy cam because he was so knowledgeable of my comings and goings—or lack thereof—particularly my desire for hibernating for long stretches on the sofa watching movie after movie, the titles of which he also seemed to know.

But it was my comment on the inadequacies of gay relationships that immediately stirred up my host that evening.

“Of course they can!” Eric answered me. “You've just had a bad experience.” And then to his other guests: “Teddy is just talking nonsense. He's too young to really believe that.”

“Think about it,” I continued. “Two men. In a relationship. How much truth can there be?”

“As much as you can accept,” Eric answered. “Not every relationship is the same. And sometimes just because a man has secrets, doesn't mean that he is not an honest man and truthful to his partner. Sometimes it's a matter of compromise, not truth.”

“Maybe you just haven't met the right man,” Sam said to me. Sam was a friend of a friend of Eric's. He worked in a foreign service program and had returned to the States and New York because of “family business,” which none of us had asked him to elaborate on, respectfully considering it another off limit issue that evening. “Family business” could mean either a parent's illness or a sibling's marriage or divorce. Or it could be a deeper secret, a way to disguise one's own truth. Perhaps Sam had been in some kind of legal or financial trouble. Perhaps he was bisexual and married and had a child—or had fathered an illegitimate one. It was a mystery Sam was not ready to explain or reveal to anyone that evening.

But I was grateful that I didn't have to elaborate any further on my own disastrous personal experiences, and that the others around the dining table were now drawn into the conversation.

“Or perhaps you're too focused on sex being an equivalent of love,” Sean said to me, jokingly. Sean was a psychiatrist, so everyone always gave his words more weight than those of his stockier partner, though Eric, a respected commercial photographer, relished being the foolish and more socially frivolous of
the two. “I certainly had that problem when I was your age,” Sean added. “Of course, I'm wiser now because my sex drive is not what it once was. But I don't think that sex should be the sole basis of a long-term relationship with another man. Too much disappointment.”