Bath, Bed, and Beyond
(No Relation to The Famous Chain of Stores)
Siktici Copyright 2004
Bath, Part I
Walking through the purple labyrinth, Bernie heard groans behind Door #25, heard leather burning into quivering flesh behind Door #12, and heard some lucky bastard getting the fucking of his life. And, Bernie, addicted to the purple coolness of anonymity, he craved every action that he heard.
But this wasn't another night in the baths. From an un-strobed corner, a paired of flickering eyes followed Bernie. A tongue moved over curled dry lips that disappeared as quickly as they appeared. The figure shifted his stance and pulled at the only non-piece of leather on his body.
Gary always had trouble finding a jock that didn't bind when he got hard, and looking at Bernie made it impossible to keep his dirty, grease-stained jock in place. It was his lucky jock when he hunted, because stain marked a memorable encounter. When he caught sight of Gary, he drew switchblade hard. So, with a slight squat to free the jock, Gary followed Bernie into the purple bowels of the bath.
Murmurs, groans, and cries of ecstasy filled Bernie's ears and further hardened his cock. The combination always gave him a chill, despite the tropical air. Going to the baths was more than a challenge for Bernie; it was a quest. From hundreds of porn movies, Bernie had gotten into his head that men with porn-size cocks waited in the baths to make his dreams come true.
Because Bernie had been in a relationship before the word was italicized, he hadn't realized that trying to find Mr. Right in the baths was like trying to find diamonds in a septic tank. As he moved along the twists and turns of the BLOWJOB room, he felt someone watching him, but in the baths someone was always watching. The shadows held eyes with cocks attached to them. The thought pushed his ass out into an itchy "O".
The itchy "O" moved Bernie to the glory holes. What about the glory holes appealed to him? Was it the anonymity, the freedom, and the dark silence? Or was it a certain amount of control? Actually once he got into the cubicles and hinged the door it didn't fucking matter. Silence, saved for guttural expressions of pleasure, ruled this area, and those unfamiliar with the rules, needn't worry. Someone would teach them.
The Maze, crazily designed rows of cubicles, had large holes at dick height, convenient for the sucked, but the suckers had to crouch for their pleasure. As soon as Bernie entered one of the cubicles, three holes etched into view. Men spoke in faint whispers behind one wall, while a tongue flicked from another.
Noticing Bernie's hard cock had moved aside his towel, the owner desperately flicked his intentions. Bernie backed to a corner near the door and waited in silence.
Lusty breathing expanded Bernie's chest, furry with waves of silky black curls that washed down into his tightly wrapped towel and that crowded his cock and balls. His abs--the gay business card--tapered neatly to a thin waist, where two meaty globes of ass rounded over muscular legs. Frequently Bernie gave thirty-two as his age, and most suitors bought it, but in another two months Bernie would be sitting on the shadowy side of forty.
The watcher, a man approaching the sunny side of forty-five, showed his approval of Bernie with an aching hard-on and audible sighs. Gary didn't get into young guys. He didn't want to pretend to be interested in the culture of a generation (or two) that he simply wasn't a part of.
Give me a guy who dug Zeppelin and The Stones, who didn't mind an occasional joint, and who didn't take the world too seriously. And I'll show you a man fit for marryin'. The thought came in the voice of Walter Brenan. Gary smiled.
Whether the guy he followed held such an outlook didn't really concern Gary. The way he saw it: if a man comes to the baths looking for an enduring relationship, he's a fool. Gary watched the handsome guy go into a cubicle, and hoping the guy wasn't a fool, he stepped into the next one.
Bernie continued to ignore the darting tongue of the silent owner and turned just as a cock, more resembling the horn of a bull, gored its way into the darkness. Its size and hardness mesmerized Bernie, and in a trance he lowered to it.
With cold trembling hands, he grabbed the horn and moved the generous foreskin up and down the shaft, slowly, adoringly in a state of adulation. His mind told him that the horn was just too big; he would never take it down his throat. But his cock, and the intermittent pucker of his ass, insisted he try.As he lowered to his knees, his eyes still on the pulsing horn, Bernie heard "Suck my COCK. Suck IT" come from the horn's owner.
The words, insistent, almost hissed, swooned Bernie into lust--smoky, heady lust. He closed his eyes, himself and closed his mouth over the bullish head.
The connection--mouth to cock--ignited in Bernie a need to express his desire, a need to please, and a need to satisfy. He never quite understood the process, and as much as he thought it over after such encounters, he could never arrive at a conclusion.
For Bernie, everything had to make sense. He had ideals untested and had principles unchallenged. Unfortunately at an early gay age, Bernie had been reject by a man he saw as his alpha and omega, and for Bernie such a rejection of first love caused an unscheduled exit from life that last almost two years.
Although he sought counseling, he never really regained the naïve view of the world he once had. Yet, it was that naiveté combined with hazel eyes, thick black hair, and the deep dimples around deliciously pink lips that made him attractive.
But in the baths, no analysis was necessary, and making sense of lust was as productive as making shoes for cows. Bernie worked earnestly over the pulsing horn and listened while its owner urged him to go farther down. "Take it all, man," the owner said. "Take my big fuckin' cock down to the balls. Yeah, suck that mothafuckin' pole. Hmmm, yeah, man..."
Bernie listened and pulled on his own cock, while winking and pulsing his ass through the excitement. The itch became demanding and shivers from his cock and balls helped further expand his hole. He had to do something.
The owner of the horn quickened his pace, causing his horn to spear farther and farther into Bernie's mouth. A few times Bernie was forced off the horn to catch is breath.
The next time Bernie stopped for a breath, he took out a brown bottle and snorted instant relaxation. He managed to time his gasps for air with the stranger's retreats, but as impossible as it seemed, the horn grew bigger and harder. And the more Bernie relaxed his jaw and throat, the more the stranger fed him. Finally, Bernie began moving to that place reachable only with amyl. Sound moved behind him, breathing seemed to take care of itself, and the horn dissolved to nudging. There remained only movement, pressure, and of course, desire.
Then everything stopped. The horn retreated through its hole and Bernie breathed back to reality. With the intrusion of sounds and his desire rudely halted, Bernie fell back on his haunches and stared at the empty hole. What happened? And as he rose to standing, the question still in his mind, a solid wrap at the cubicle's door startled him. His mind cautioned against opening the door but his lust unhinged it.
Interested in reading Bath Part II? Let me know at siktici@sbcglobal.net