A Master of His Mind and Body by Marty Abell instagram: marty_abeller
This is my first gay romantic novel. Please stay tuned for updates every few weeks.
Disclaimer: All people described in this story are fictitious. Le Prince Albert bar does not really exist in the Montréal area, but most other locations mentioned here do. I'd advise all bators to visit Montréal. We're a bator-friendly city.
Chapter 2: Rémi November ----- The overcast sky brightened slowly over the Décarie Expressway, highlighting the mist as the sun came up behind the autumn cloud banks. Eleven highway lanes were already filling with morning commuters, angling toward Downtown Montréal in their pickups and sedans from the shores far beyond. Rémi Chapelle stretched and yawned in bed, waking up typically to the traffic rumble and the lightening greyness. He rose to his feet and drew the curtains open. As he did so, a brief sunbeam hit his building, illuminating its many windows. Some of the windows were clearly stuffed with hoarder trash. Others' curtains were ripped carelessly off their rods. Bedbugs, he'd heard, had plagued the ground floor for months. But his window, the window of Unit 404, was immaculately neat. It would never be judged. Anyone looking into Unit 404 from outside at night would see a palace. The sunbeam passed across Rémi's nude body, illuminating his pale, shaved face, chest, arms, legs, and thick blond hair mussed into a high pile, and giving a gleam to the sharp pink spots of his lips, nipples, and cock tip, visible only scarcely through a tight sleeve of foreskin. Rémi also had a carpet matching his drapes, a trimmed golden pubic fur that many men had praised before. He leaned back on his shifted sheets and pondered his to-do list for the workday ahead. But he was distracted. Almost always, he woke up with raging morning wood, and today was no exception. Rémi deeply appreciated the art of masturbation. It had hurt him so much in the past. He had been born with phimosis. And even after the operation that made him able to retract his skin, it still remained tight, causing chafing and abrasions. But then he had found the Albolene, and it had worked miracles. He opened his dresser, withdrew the container, and with two eager fingers, spread a little on his tip, and more around and around the tight side walls of his cock head. Then he laid his hand on his gleaming foreskin and began his familiar, rhythmic strokes. The tight, lubed shell of skin passed seamlessly over Rémi's hog, shifting forward and back. He teased at his piss slit and fraenulum with his left hand. The layer of lube heated up from the friction as the shifting continued, and Rémi paused to adjust himself, flopping onto his back and giving him easy access with both arms. He imagined all the men he'd met recently and visualized the memories he had made with them through this hobby, these acts of beautiful masculine lust and self-exploration. He had brought a Hampstead millionaire to climax. He had been sprawled in the basement of a leather bar, tied and bound until his hands had drained all his captors' balls. He had played a spin-the-bottle game at a bator friend's birthday party and had it devolve into a naked whirlwind of stroking and moaning. Each of these thoughts activated Rémi's cock and hand more. He soon passed into the almighty rush to the finish, giving his cock head walls the final rub that put him over the brink. Rémi scooted over to his laundry hamper, aimed his dick into a towel, and let loose, pumping shot after shot of Albo-laced semen into the absorbent fabric. He sighed with pleasure and repletion as he stood up again. He'd get food at work. Rémi popped a breath mint into his mouth, then got dressed rapidly, throwing on briefs, black jeans, and a hipsterish-looking wool sweater. Lastly, he again reached into his dresser for the final touch he always added: a white paisley bandana, barely protruding from the back left pocket of his jeans. Then, without another word, he washed his hands, climbed downstairs, hopped into his Chevy Volt, and cruised onto the expressway, fading out among the morning mist and the hundreds of fellow commuters around. ----- The taxi pulled off of Décarie Boulevard onto its narrow shoulder, braking into the parking spot labelled "Z 999" and giving its windows a clear view of the brick flophouse behind. Brett scrounged in his pocket and found the bills. "Cash? Ok, thanks," said the cab driver. "Hey, isn't this the place where Luka Magnotta lived? You know, the dude who sent a bunch of hands and feet to the Prime Minister?... Oh, wait, no, never mind. That's a couple doors further down. But geez, this place sure looks like it." "Keep the change," said Brett, and stepped up to the sidewalk. Lights were already flicking on in the flophouse's apartment windows as the afternoon dimmed. He scanned them, studying the contents, noting the many torn sets of curtains. So this place was going to be home now. Forever. No. Not forever; he had to stop that constant gloom and doom thinking. He could swing two months here easily, maybe three with odd jobs. And he'd find a new office to work for and he'd be back in Westmount luxury, pleased as punch again. So many other people had achieved it. And he wasn't going to let that bastard Karl win. Head still held high, Brett walked into the lobby. Where, almost immediately, his spirits dissolved again. There was no security guard. There was no intercom system. There wasn't even an inner door. Brett saw only two dust-scuffed velvet couches in the lobby, a hat-wearing couple chattering on one of them and clearly strung out on some unspeakable substance. He stepped into the elevator, where he was met with a peeling green carpet and a sign. Quickly, he read: "Please IMMEDIATELY call (514) XXX-XXXX to report any BEDBUGS!! Thanks. Mgmt." The elevator doors clattered behind him, and Brett reached out to the control panel, preparing to plunge ever deeper into these layers of misery. Then the doors were driven open again. And the blond man in a sweater strode briskly in. "Hey..." said Brett tonelessly. "Which floor?" "Four," replied the blond. "That's great," Brett muttered. Of course. He was going to have to keep interacting with this guy right up to his room. The blond saw him staring at the sign. "It's lucky that we're so high up," he said in a thick French accent. "Only floor one ever has the bedbugs." "Yay," replied Brett, still sarcastic at his core. "Do you live here?" "Yeah, I'm new. Unit 410, but I probably won't be here long," said Brett. "You'd be surprised, I got used to it! All it takes is a little dedication and I've made my apartment clean and beautiful." How - how - could anyone be this happy about a place like this? The elevator dinged. They'd be heading opposite ways, the blond noticed. He spoke again. "Well, we'll probably see each other around sometimes. I'm Rémi, by the way." "Brett. Take care." Reaching room 410, Brett inserted and rotated the old brass key he'd got from the landlady's office, flipped the light switch on, and glanced around at the furnishings of the studio apartment he'd be shacked up in. It was a clean room. It smelled bleachy. The hardwood floors were cold. And it was very sparsely furnished. A sink, fridge, stove, microwave; a shower with no tub; a table and two chairs apparently made of unfinished wood; and a bed with a minuscule dresser, little more than a nightstand. But it was clean. Not quite as bad as he had imagined. He could at least get on his feet here. And Rémi was captivating him now. He thought he might have heard a little hiss in the blond man's voice, that tell-tale hiss that all the queeny types had and that straight people always called a lisp. He was a French guy, which made it hard to know. But the way he had walked in so rapidly and boasted about his interior design? Brett knew the stereotypes well. Those were classic green flags - rainbow flags. And the man had been very handsome. He'd always loved blond twinks; they complemented his brown-haired, brown-eyed complexion so perfectly. Against his will, Brett was now picturing Rémi shirtless, imagining how their bodies would feel pressed against each other, imagining the softness of those bright pink lips.... Brett still wasn't in a mood to shoot tonight. But his mind was now already reacting, and with it, his body too. He moved onto his freshly made bedspread and dropped his pants and briefs to his ankles, exposing his long, pulsating semi surrounded by curly pubes. Images of Rémi circulated around his brain as he extended his hand and stroked, nursing the semi into a full-blown boner. Brett rubbed himself to visions of them mutually pleasuring each other, bouncing from plateau, to near-climax, to plateau, and back again, for 45 minutes, maybe an hour. Then he ceased. He admired the tip of his mushroom, swollen past its normal maximum size by his edge session, and felt his balls, bouncing them in his hand and perceiving that just maybe they were a little bigger. Brett still had lots to do to get set up in his unit that night and the next day, and he yanked his pants back on and zipped up, then searched for a grocery store to break in his new kitchen set. When he found it, he walked out of the flophouse building, smiling just slightly. Maybe there was more to his new life than bedbugs. -----