He likes my legs and underarms and chest shaved, and there was a time when he would do it himself. He'd put some Coltrane on the stereo, light a couple of squat, f at candles in the bathroom and the soft light would flicker while I lay in the hot bath among the bubbles, my hands cuffed together and hung on a hook above my head in the tile wall. He would have a snifter of brandy and he'd give me a sip and I would close my eyes and savor the warmth it brought and he would reach into the suds and pull my leg out and cock it gently over the rim of the tub while I lay there, all languid helplessness.
He would get the safety razor from a drawer and the tube of baby lotion and squeeze fat drops all the way up my leg and rub them in, him still fully clothed, gentle and sensuous enough to almost make me swoon. Long soft strokes up the length of my legs against the hairs, and then he would dip the blade in the bath water to clean it; I watched him concentrate on his work, and soon my cock was peeking up through the suds too. He noticed it, like a little submarine periscope, and looked down and smiled at me. I went all moony on him, sighing like a little girl. But the truth is, I had never felt safer or more pampered or, in fact, sexier and sleeker and more alluring than in those baths.
He would help me out of the tub, my hands still tied, all pink and smooth and glistening like a shrimp, and rub me dry with a big, thick towel and take me down the hall and throw me on the big bed, where he would hook my cuffed hands over a hook in the headboard. He would reach into a drawer and come out with a quirt, which he used on my thighs and stomach and breasts.
"Do you like it?" he would ask.
"No, master. Not really," I would say. "But if you want it, I want it."
And so it went. At the bank I was an executive in a suit; at home I was his hot little bitch, horny as a rabbit and ready to jump in bed with him anytime he wanted me.
He was still shaving my legs himself when he met Darren. Darren was younger than both of us, a little sullen Goth boy with black fingernail polish and lank hair and a scraggly Van Dyke and a row of small metal earrings around his left ear. He was skinny and his body was pale and hairless and he looked almost delicate, with his scrawny chest and bony shanks, and I actually felt sorry for him when Ernesto brought him home one night, because Ernesto liked to hurt boys, and this one seemed especially vulnerable. He never came harder than when he was squeezing your balls so hard it brought tears to your eyes or when he hadn't used quite enough lube to fuck you.
Ernesto often brought strange men home, doms who beat and fucked me while I blew him and subs with whom he humiliated me by making me suck them off while he watched.
But Darren was different. First, he was sexy, for all his skinniness. You could tell right away. He might be wearing nothing but stretched out, graying underpants, just brushing his teeth or eating a bowl of cereal, but you couldn't take your eyes off him. He reeked of sex, but seemed at the same time unconscious of the heat he gave off when he, say, licked his milky lips after finishing the cereal. You wanted to take his little cock right into your mouth and love it and make him feel so good. You wanted to kiss his pale little nipples and play with the sparse curly hair under his arms and around his little penis. Or just sit there and adore him. And he could kiss. He could kiss for days.
Ernesto did the drama thing with Darren the first time he brought him home, flipping on the harsh basement lights and leading the boy down the stairs to show me tied, naked, to a rack and squinting furiously at the bright light. He made the boy strip in his stern voice, and then had him suck me. The boy was good, experienced, but without passion. Then Ernesto made him stand up and tied his hands and put the rope in a pulley and cranked the boy's arms over his head.
The boy didn't move, didn't writhe or stretch, but he didn't have to. Damn he was sexy. His dick started to get a little hard. Ernesto untied me from the rack, led me over and tied me, hands over my head, face to face with the boy. Then he tied a rope tight around our waists. I looked in the boy's eyes, so near my own, but he revealed nothing. I wet my dry lips with my tongue. I didn't care if he was another submissive – humiliatingly, I wanted him in my pussy.
Ernesto took a riding crop from the wall and swung it, hard, against the concrete wall. It cracked. The boy flinched only slightly. I think it frightened me more than him. I knew what Ernesto was capable of. Ernesto walked around behind the boy and hit him hard on the ass with the crop and the boy moaned. Ernesto hit him again, harder, and the boy moaned again. But he didn't try to dance away.
His pain turned me on. I began to writhe against him, my hard cock against his. As the blows fell and I felt him jerk, I whispered in his ear "It's okay, baby. It's okay. I'm right here. You can do it. You can do it. Do it for me, little slave."
Then he seemed to smolder. He started to respond, nuzzling my neck, little kisses between the blows. I rubbed against him like a cheap whore. Helping him transcend the pain, feeling every blow through him every time he jerked, I couldn't remember when I had felt so close to someone other than my master.
"Stick your ass out," Ernesto said. The boy did. Ernesto hit him again, and again, ten more whacks in all. By the end the boy was crying a little, silently, his shoulders shaking, but he hadn't screamed. Ernesto hadn't hit me once. I felt a little slighted. I would of course never have dared to actually express that sentiment. I kissed the boy on the mouth and cheeks and nose and tasted salty tears.
Ernesto untied us both and took us to bed with him.
In the morning, the boy stayed. And the next morning. And the next. I would make breakfast naked – or in nothing more than a frilly apron when I was cooking – for Ernesto every morning and wait on him before he went to the construction site, pouring him more juice and trying to stand still while he groped and squeezed my balls, and he had me make the boy breakfast, too. I got a little jealous. His ass and cock and mouth were too delicious, it's true, but what was he still doing here? When Ernesto had gone to work every morning, I put my suit on and went to the office. The boy stayed, naked but untied, all day, and I have no idea what he did. The television or radio were not on when Ernesto came home, and there was no sign the boy had picked up a book or a magazine.
Days became months, and the three of us settled into a rhythm. We both slept in the big bed with him each night, each tied hand and foot, one of the last things Ernesto did every night. Sometimes we would lie in the dark beside him and listen to him talk about his day, me hanging on every word, anxious to hear what clever thing the master had said to his construction crew today, while the boy sometimes began to snore softly.
After a few weeks, they started disappearing at night. It didn't take me long to figure out Ernesto had turned the boy out. (A boy who was 19, and obviously fairly precocious. I had been a slut and a submissive as long as I could remember, but I had never sold myself.) Ernesto had always advertised his own services as a dom on Craig's List and the local alternative paper, and he would get a client maybe once a week. After all, why would someone pay for what he could get at any leather bar in the city?
But there were men, middle-aged, well-off men like me, who loved the boy's picture and the thought of tying him up and violating the innocence that even in the blurry Web site photo shone through the black nail polish and Goth attitude. And they did tie him up and they did fuck him. And he learned like me to do what Ernesto told him to do.
They never came to the house, these men. These johns. Ernesto sometimes took me with him and Darren to meet these men in cheap motel rooms. I found the idea of the degradation, of being sold to some stranger for an hour of rough, anonymous sex was incredibly hot. But, alas, I was far too middle-aged to be attractive to most of the clients, except for the occasional threesome with Darren, but for Ernesto's own amusement he made me strip and tied my hands behind my back and made me watch some paunchy, hairy man crouch on Darren's face and use a little quirt on the boy's thighs while I sat on Ernesto's lap and tried to interest him in fucking me by squirming like a little eel and grinding my bare ass into the crotch of his pants. Instead he would usually whisper to me something like "Look at that, you stupid pig. Look at that kid eat ass. Holy Christ. He's driving that guy nuts, he eats ass so good And the twat on him? Sweet, like butter. Nice and tight. Best fuck I've ever had. Look, that guy's gonna turn him over now and fuck it. Look at the guy. He's getting the best lay he's ever gotten. He's got a hot tight juicy pussy to fuck. You used to be that good. I used to get hard just thinking about what I was going to do to you when I got home. Now you're just a fucking cow. You disgust me."
He would keep talking until he could see I was starting to cry, then he would laugh at me while I sobbed. Meanwhile some rich guy was tying Darren's hands together and turning the boy on his stomach and oiling him up and fucking him. When it was over, and the man had counted the two hundred-dollar bills into Ernesto's hands, Ernesto would trundle his little harem out to the car. He would be moody after these sessions, and he would often slap Darren for seemingly no reason, just lean across the stick shift and hit him. Like me, Darren had learned not to protest or ask why. He was just another prized possession, like the Tag Heuer watch I had bought Ernesto and the Porsche in our driveway (that Ernesto mostly drove) and the huge television in the den. Like he was about everything else that touched his life, Darren could take it or leave being a thing, something that was owned, something that spent much of its time naked, bound and waiting to be fucked.
More and more, as we all lived together, Darren and Ernesto mostly ignored me. Often I lay on the floor, hands and feet tied, trussed like a turkey and trying to fall asleep while he fucked Darren right above me in the bed. Darren grunted theatrically – I suspect mostly for my benefit – and I grew even more miserable. I felt like one of the middle-aged women my colleagues had all been married to before finding the second, younger, more beautiful trophy wife. I was pathetic. When I watched them make love, Darren would look over at me and smirk. And I would pout and get miserable and sniffle and hate myself and Darren and even Ernesto, the man whose collar I wore and whose tattoo was on my ass: "Property of Ernesto." (When he made me get the rings in my penis and scrotum and navel was when I finally had to stop showering at my club. I bought a Stairmaster instead and put it in the basement and Ernesto made me work out every night naked on the thing.) The rings fascinated him for weeks; he loved tugging on them and making me wince.
I shouldn't have put up with it, the neglect and especially the beatings as they got more ferocious, but I loved him and, more important, I was still his slave. I had made a pact with him, taken an oath that I took as seriously as paying taxes or getting married. He owned me, for as long as he wanted me. I no longer had a say; I had given that up, knowingly and gladly, when I signed the contract.
I worried that he would leave me (he, of course, was free to break our contract any time), or that somebody I knew from the office would see me, Darren and him in a restaurant, the two of them giggling and feeding each other the olives in their martinis and groping each other and flirting with the waiter outrageously. I sat there, alternately seething and mortified, while the manager and waiters looked at our table with contempt (except at La Forchet, where Ernesto made Darren and I blow the entire wait staff in a little storage room off the kitchen to pay for the meal while he and the owner watched and made jokes about the waiters' penises.) Ernesto didn't care about the contempt or being barred from restaurants. He would just as soon have eaten at McDonald's, as far as food went; his tastes weren't complicated. What he liked about good restaurants was that it mattered very much that he dressed for them. He liked to dress up very much. And I had bought him a lot of nice suits so he could indulge this habit.
I stayed with him because I wanted to, then. And because I felt obligated. But I was also more than a little afraid of Ernesto. He had always hit me, almost from the beginning. Our first night together was unforgettable, but pretty conventional love-making; he was one of the best lovers I had ever had, and I cried out in pleasure in the dim light as he entered me for the very first time and I hoped and prayed and vowed to myself it would not be the last time. The second night he wanted to blindfold me and tie my hands with a silk scarf. The third night he was a little rough, and at one point he tipped me over his knee and spanked me with his hand and then a hairbrush. The fourth night he tied me face down on the bed and hit my ass and thighs and the soles of my feet hard with a shoe. The fifth night he tied me up and beat me with a riding crop and when, angry, I refused him, he raped me.
I surprised the hell out of myself by throwing myself at him and covering him with kisses the moment he untied me the next morning, and then by letting him back into my house the next night, and the next. I was perplexed, but it was really simple. He kissed me and I melted. It became common, as I mentioned, for him to slap me or even punch me, and occasionally I had to go to work and explain a bruise on my face. This was not a game. He hurt me. And yet the worse he was to me, the more I felt owned and reassured. I gave all of myself to him. I willingly became his slave
And then came Darren and set our little world spinning. And Ernesto became even more frightening. You would think having not one but two boys around the house all the time to serve his every wish would have made him happy. A blow job? Merely point to a boy and command and the boy would drop to his knees in front of you; or leap up to fix you a drink, or scrub the bathroom floor because it doesn't gleam. But it didn't.
After a couple of months he didn't waste much time on me anymore, even to beat me, although when he did, it was one of the few remaining things concerning me about which he had still not grown indifferent. He laid into me hard and furious, as if he was somehow angry at me, even though I was careful to give him no cause for offense as I did the household chores; but he would hit me so hard he had to gag me so I didn't frighten the neighbors with my screams and to tie me tight to one of his machines in the basement to keep me from dancing away from his whip.
Once when I tried to talk to him about Darren, he knocked me down and kicked me. My hands flew to my naked balls while his construction boot tried to find its way past my hands and stomp my balls. Finally, I looked in his eyes and realized I would pay for this, and it was probably better to get it over now then wait, frightened, for the lightning to strike. I relaxed and opened up and sprawled on the floor for him and threw my arms back over my head, utterly defenseless. He ground his heel into my balls. I screamed (my big house was fairly well sound-proofed, thank god, but I was pretty loud.) My squeals only made him press down harder.
"Don't," he said softly as he pushed down with his boot, "ever deny yourself to me again. I will fucking beat you senseless, you little cunt. And then I'll do what I want anyway."
Even Darren, across the room and, like me, naked, looked frightened. I didn't know about him, but I started to feel like one of those battered wives you read about it, who stay because they can't imagine life without the man who is beating them, or because they simply crave any kind of attention, even violence. Like them, I should leave, I thought, but I couldn't find a way to break free. The intensity of his rage instead drew me to him. I thought about his cock all the time, whether it was nestled snugly in his jeans or whether it was in some young tart's mouth while he crouched in some dirty men's room stall with his hands all over Ernesto's balls; I imagined how they would sound and what Ernesto would say to him; or I thought about the way he laughed, and how tender he could be, and how he had once liked shaving my legs.
&&&
How did I get here? In the long watches of the night, listening to them both breathe in their sleep, I have had a lot of time to think about it.
I had been sexual as long as I could remember, even as a very little boy. At puberty I was sexually precocious, seducing older boys, making out with them in my dark basement and letting them take off my pants and underwear and fondle me while we were supposed to be listening to records. I got a reputation as a boy who would put out for anyone. I let them get to Third Base, but nobody even knew where home plate was until Stephen. He came to the basement with a tube of lube, pulled my pants down roughly and bent me over a wooden table and had me. Until then I had thought there was only one way two boys could make love.
I thought I was in love, until he brought three friends the next day. I didn't refuse them, but I was sad. He was beautiful and 17 and all dewy, a scrumptious piece, someone I would always remember for taking my cherry. And I was learning rapidly how to please boys like him.
When my mother divorced my father and married Doug, I was already a shameless vamp, a lewd little thing, just sixteen years old and wanton as a whore, all tongue wetting parted lips, legs spread wide so you could easily ogle or fondle my penis and the little trimmed triangle of pubic hair above it, kneeling and looking up at you with eyes that were all invitation. One boy even took an instant photo, me naked from the waist up, looking up at him with an obvious come-hither look. I still have it.
By now, to put it crudely, more boys had been inside me than the gym. And some men, too. I had got very good at what I did. Now, though, I wanted something different. Something crazy. It had been building in me for months, and I hadn't even realized what it was until a month or so ago. I wanted my stepfather. I wanted to kneel at his feet and unbuckle his belt and let his pants fall and he would put a hand on my head to steady himself while he stepped out of the pants and slipped his cock and my mouth and I started to suck. I wanted to get on all fours like an animal and have him fuck me.
It was possible, I thought. He had a dissatisfied air about him, like something – my mother, his job, life, me – had let him down. He wasn't mean or whiney about whatever it was, just sort of...distracted. He seemed like someone who would shut down as he had and then someday do something so totally unexpected, so radically different, something that had been secretly building inside, so that the right person or thing could turn it into an unstoppable flood. There had to be something that could push him off-balance, I thought. Maybe it would be me. It was that thought that made me want him, that and the fact that at 42 he was still hard and lean and handsome.
My mom was gone for two weeks that summer, visiting her sister. Doug and I batched it. He worked all day, I mostly lounged around the pool, seeing if the cute postman would nail me (no, despite my flashing him every other day) and cooking for Doug when he got home. He'd have a glass of wine and while my mother was gone he let me have one too, and one night, after a couple more, he as much as admitted that my mother did not satisfy him. Each night he would watch the news and then turn in – except for his twice-monthly poker game on Monday nights. That would be my opening. If it didn't work, it could be horribly embarrassing. But, little slut that I was, I had come to the point where I didn't care.
Monday night I heard the car stop, the door open and shut, and then the kitchen door open as he returned from the poker game. I lay on my bed naked and started to masturbate slowly in the low light, a little towel underneath my ass.
I heard him come upstairs, and I moaned loudly. I closed my eyes.
"Bobby?" he called. He came down the hall. The footsteps stopped.
"Holy Christ," he said. Me eyes and mouth flew open theatrically and there he was at the door, watching, astonished, as I pumped my penis with one hand and worked the middle finger of my other into my ass. "What the hell?"
"Doug!" I shouted in mock exasperation. "Don't you ever knock?"
"Your door was open. And didn't you hear me come in?"
"No, I was busy, as you can see," I said, sitting and propped up on my hands now, looking up at him indignantly, legs still wide open.
"Well, get some pajamas on and get into bed."
"No, Doug," I said, leaping up and going after him down the hall, just as I had planned it. "Let me explain."
"There's nothing to explain," he said over his shoulder as he retreated. "It's fairly clear what's going on."
"Please," I said. "Just listen."
"Okay," he said. He turned to face me in the hall, studiously avoiding looking at my penis, which was getting hard as I stood there showing off for him. "Look, there's no harm in it," he said. "It's just embarrassing the hell out of me that I walked in on you."
"I know, and I'm embarrassed, too," I said. "It's just, sometimes I start thinking about things..."
"Well, that's only natural at 16," he said as my coy little pause lingered in the air. "Look, really it's not a problem." He started to turn away, anxious to be anywhere but here.
"Well, it is kind of a problem," I said. "Because the thing I think about, I can't stop thinking about it. It makes me want to do this all the time. You know what it is?"
"No," he said in a thick voice, like he very much didn't want to know the answer.
"It's you," I said.
He seemed stunned.
"Don't you want me?" I pouted. I ran my hands up over my chest and held them over my head and turned around slowly so that he could see my ass, as if I was being sold at auction like some dancing girl. With my back to him, I could almost feel him looking at it. I took a step back into him. I reached up above and behind my head with both arms and circled his neck.
"Hey," he said, alarmed, as he tried to remove my arms.
"It's true," I said, and I writhed against him like some vamp. "I think about you all the time. I want to do things with you. Sex things."
"Jesus," he yelped. There was real panic in his voice. Sweet little me. I had frightened him. "Kid, you've gotta cut this out."
Instead I pushed my naked bottom against him and was rewarded with his sudden hardness. He started to sputter, but he wasn't trying to break away anymore. This would be even easier than I had thought. I hadn't misread those looks I thought I had caught him giving me, after all. I turned slowly so that my chest was against his and put my arms around his neck. He looked astonished. I put my head against his chest. "It's alright," I crooned in a small voice. "It's okay. It's alright. Daddy."
He moaned and threw his arms around me and held me tight. I could feel the hardness now in front. "Oh, Daddy," I said again. "You feel so good, Daddy. I like it that your peenie's hard." He thrust now, one strong one that left the hard tip of him resting against my groin, meaning business. I wriggled against him, shameless thing that I was.
"I, uh, I shouldn't be doing this," he said, his arms still around me. "This isn't right."
"No," I said, "this is very right." I looked him in the eye. "This is very right."
He seemed to consider this for a moment. And then he astonished me. He leaned down and kissed me, a long kiss, first on the lips and then as my tongue darted out and traced his closed lips, he pushed back and entered my mouth. I kissed him harder, smashing my lips against his, mewling like a kitten. He groaned. I wriggled. I wanted every part of our bodies to touch the other everywhere. I wanted to taste him, all of him, down there and under his arms and his toes and everywhere, and solve the mystery I had pondered for a month.
"Fuck me," I whispered to him, my arms still around his neck. "Please, do it. Fuck me. Fuck me now."
He hesitated a minute. Just a minute. Then one arm went under my thighs and he was carrying me down the hall to the bedroom he shared with my mother. He let me down gently on the chenille comforter. Because it felt so good and cool on my naked ass, and because I didn't want to give him even a second to think about what he was doing, I wriggled like a fish, unbelievably wanton, so abandoned, so inviting, and I stretched languidly and even put a hand on my hip, like a cheesecake photo, and when I reached up for him he came into my arms and climbed on top of me without hesitation. Something felt so right about being naked while he was clothed. His nubbly wool turtleneck scratched my breasts and nipples. I didn't care. I kissed him again. A long time.
"Holy shit," he said, coming up for breath, his breathing a little ragged. "I mean, Christ, you're hot. I mean, for a teenaged boy and all. Do you do this a lot?"
I paused coyly. "No," I lied.
"Nobody can know about what we're doing. Especially not your mother," he said. A picture of her, naked, with her legs thrown in the air for him, came to me suddenly.
"I would never tell her," I whispered into his neck. "Because then I couldn't have you and I couldn't have your big cock in my mouth."
He groaned and hugged me tighter.
"Have you ever had a boy before?" I asked.
"No," he said, a little breathless. "Honestly, Never. I never even thought about it. You do something...strange to me. I don't know. When you walked up to me naked just now, showing off your cock, flaunting yourself, it -- oh, man, I'm lost for good now – I just suddenly knew I had to touch you, as sure as my name is Douglas. And as you can see, I didn't worry about anything else."
"I want you to put your cock in my ass and fuck me," I said – now, strangely, in control of things. "I know you keep the lube for mom in this drawer," I nodded at a bedside table with a single drawer. "You have to put it way up it in my asshole." It felt strange saying these words to him. "Use a lot, please. Can I take your clothes off? Can I see you? I want to see your cock and your ass and I want to lick them."
"Yes, of course," he said, and he climbed off me and stood by the bed and looked down at me, sprawled naked, the little slut in Daddy's bed. He reached down and peeled off the scratchy sweater. The undershirt. He kicked off the loafers. The belt. The corduroy pants unbuckled and sliding down. Finally the tight white underpants, the long sleek curve of his penis taut against the cotton. And then there he was, naked and no longer nervous. He looked down at his erection, as if surprised, and glad, to see it. It sprung out from a thicket of hair that – strange things you notice when you're looking at a cock – was already starting to go gray.
"You lube it," he said, standing over me. I rolled over and reached for the lube in the drawer. Then I reached for his cock, short and uncut and thick as a Coke bottle in one place. "But first," he said, "blow me, you little cocksucker."
We were lovers for the next two years. He would sneak down the hall to my room, and in the moonlight I would watch him quietly close my door and turn and step out of his underpants and tee shirt and slip under the blankets next to me and I would reach for him and cover him in kisses and we'd make love slowly and quietly and him moving inside me and his long slow thrusts and even time seemed to slow in the wee hours of the morning and his low animal grunts as he filled me up with himself me whispering in his ear "Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me nice and slow, Daddy" and that would make him buck and thrust and I wrapped my legs around his waist and pushed against him and he would tell me in a low voice "I'm coming, you little slut. I'm going to fill your little cunt with me. I'm going to leave my cum all up inside you" and I would whisper Daddy Daddy Daddy faster and faster and held him so tight.
One last thrust, and each time he seemed to go in a little further than he had before, and then he collapsed on my chest. We held each other, listened to the sound of our breathing in the dark. I wouldn't want him to, but eventually he'd make me unlock my legs and let him up and he would stand over me so I could lick the taste of the inside of me off his penis and he would put his underwear back on and lean over and kiss me one last time and pad down the hall and I would lie in my bed wishing he were still holding me. I fantasized about falling asleep every night with his cock in my mouth, like a baby's pacifier. I began to wish he would divorce my mother and keep me instead.
And so it went. I didn't let another boy fuck me while I was with him, quite an accomplishment for me. He never tied me up, but he liked to show his mastery in other ways, and even then I was only too happy to let him, to bow to his will. I thought at the time it was because he was older, but now I know the real reason.
One time he took me to an all-night truck stop on the Interstate and had me pick up a trucker in the men's room and the three of us climbed into the back of the cab and my stepfather jacked off while he watched me unzip and fellate this stranger, my face buried in his lap and the stranger moaning and no doubt marveling at his good luck.
Another time he took me to Chicago on a business trip and picked up a handsome boy not much older than me in a gay bar and brought him back to the room and he and I both had our first real threesome. My stepfather fucked the handsome boy while the boy, on all fours, blew me. Then I danced slowly with the boy for my stepfather, who sat on the bed naked and watched us kiss and undulate against each other in the dim light from a single lamp and my hands slipped up and down his back and then down to his cock and I teased it into hardness. I slid to my knees and blew the boy, and by then my stepfather was ready again and he put me on the hotel bed and fucked me while I tongued the boy's ass and played with myself. We finally stopped, all three of us in a pile of limbs and bodies all entwined, a few hours before dawn and fell asleep in the big bed just like that. I know I woke up at one point and somebody's balls were in my face. I leaned in and gently kissed them and went back to sleep.
I thought I was in love with Douglas, too, and maybe I was.
But I went off to college and only saw him on the holidays when I went home, and somehow the lust didn't burn nearly as hot for either of us. I was dating a professor at school, a young German professor who took very tasteful nude black-and-white photos of me (I wish I still had those!) and liked eating vanilla frosting from between my legs. And the rumor on Douglas was that he was having a secret affair with a teacher, too, a young driving instructor who apparently adored him and let my stepfather fuck him in the back seat of the driver's ed car. My mother began to suspect he was having an affair, but never caught him, probably because she never suspected he was having the fling with a man. I miss Douglas. He was my first real love.
&&
One night I overcooked Ernesto's salmon and he hit me hard across the face. I tasted blood on my lips. Darren, sitting naked at the table, looked up, interested.
"You little cunt," Ernesto said in a quiet voice. "I don't know why I keep you around. Your cooking tastes like linoleum. The place isn't clean. And I can't think who in their right mind would want to fuck you. Maybe some old blind guy. Or a homeless. Maybe that's what I'll do, take you down under the tracks tonight and give you to some of the guys living in boxes down there. Make you blow em. Bet they smell really good. You better not pick up the fucking crabs, though, or I really will beat the shit out of you. Let you get out of the car and stand there naked and see what those guys do to you. Bet they throw you across the hood of the Porsche and fuck you good, one in your mouth and one in your ass and a couple in your hands. Maybe they'll give you a taste of cheap wine, pour it over you while they're fucking you. Maybe they'll piss on you. Or maybe they'll turn you down; say bring us back something good, mister, not this dried-up old pussy, this old fucking maid."
He got the nearest thing he could find – some duct tape from a kitchen drawer – and yanked my arms behind my back and taped my hands together tightly with a big wad of tape. Then he grabbed a rolling pin and hit me in the balls with it. I collapsed. He pushed me face down on the floor and began hitting my ass with the pin. I curled into a ball, so he hit me wherever I was open. I grew hysterical; he was screaming at me. Even Darren looked like the passivity had been shocked out of him.
He left me there on the floor crying while he rustled around the kitchen, got a box of crackers from a cupboard, sat at the table and began eating them, feeding one occasionally to Darren, whose hands were tied. They both watched me while they ate.
Finally he untied me. I didn't say a word. I got to my feet. I was frightened to death. I had to get out of here. He watched me as I went upstairs to the bedroom and did something I hadn't done for months: Put clothes on at night. I found the keys to the Porsche and walked downstairs and screwing up all my courage walked by him to the back door.
"Where are you going, you little cunt?" Ernesto asked. I didn't say anything. He followed me to the door and watched me get in the Porsche and drive to the police station. Walked in to find a desk sergeant. Pulled up my shirt and showed him some of the bruises. He tried not to look disgusted at first and then he actually seemed interested as I finished explaining what had happened. He picked up a phone, spoke in a low voice to someone, and told me to sit down in one of the hard wooden chairs.
Twenty minutes later a detective came not from upstairs, where uniforms and plainclothes were trooping up and down. This guy came in from the street. He was over six feet, big – most of it muscle – and dressed in an expensive-looking suit and gleaming shoes. He was black, and his shaved head glistened in the florescent lights and his Van Dyke was trimmed neatly. He showed me a badge.
"The officer tells me you got beat up," he said.
I nodded, suddenly shy.
"Come with me," he said. We went outside and got into an unmarked car.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked nervously.
"Don't worry," he said nonchalantly. "I got something I want to show you."
I put my head back and closed my eyes, bone-tired. But as he drove my mind drifted back and tried to tell me something. I opened my eyes to see a familiar street under the streetlamps. We pulled into my driveway.
"No," I murmured.
"Yeah," he said. "And if you make a fuss in front of the neighbors, and get everyone out here on their front porches, I'm gonna take out my gun and give you a pistol whipping like you never had before and tell everybody it's for fucking a kid."
"What? No!"
"Then get the fuck inside."
I went in. Ernesto, who had been watching from a window, came at me with a thick, rolled-up magazine. I put my hands over my head to protect myself.
"Get the fuck out of those clothes," Ernesto sputtered as he smacked me with the magazine over and over. I hastened to obey while he continued to hit me. The detective watched, a gleam in his eyes. Soon I was standing naked in the middle of the kitchen, my crumpled clothes around my feet. Darren snickered, and without looking at him Ernesto said "Shut the fuck up or you'll be next."
He reached into his pocket and gave the policeman a hundred-dollar bill.
"Thanks, Ray," he said.
"Look," Ray said, "you better control your little faggot here. I don't need you getting busted. It's lucky for you the desk guy is a friend. In fact, it's about time to give him your other little bitch there for a night, let him put the lipstick and garter belt on the little cunt and do whatever he does."
"You want a blowjob?" Ernesto asked him, as if he was proffering a drink.
"Sure, why not?"
Ernesto motioned to Darren.
"No," the detective said. "I want the bitch you been beating on. I never had an executive before."
Ernesto nodded to me and I hesitated just a minute and his look told me I would regret this very much later. Finally I went to the policeman and sank to my knees and unzipped him and pulled an enormous cock from inside the gabardine trousers and took it in my mouth. After a few minutes he was hard, and he pulled me off his mouth and stood me up. He shoved me to the kitchen table and bent me over. He reached across the table to a butter dish, took the soft stick in his hand and rubbed it, dripping, on my asshole. Threw what was left on the floor. Then he was inside me, a big, butter-greasy hand around each of my hips. Despite myself – god help me – I was soon pushing back at him.
When he is done, gets off me and lets me up, I am quiet. I look at him hard. "That's rape," I said.
"That was consensual," he said. "I didn't put a finger on you. You liked it. What was that opera you were singing there at the end?"
"Besides," Ernesto jumped in, "if you put him in jail, he takes me with him. And then where would you be? Your paychecks already get deposited into my bank account; I closed yours. The house, the car; they're all in my name. I'm the master, right? You signed all that good shit over between sucking my cock. And yeah, in addition to bringing charges on Detective Delson here, you can sue me for all this stuff back. And you'd probably get it. But what a stink that would be. Whatever would they think of it down at the bank, while you're trying to run your division and the secretaries are giggling behind your back and imagining you all tied up with a cock in your mouth while the men won't even look at you? The newspapers would love it, too."
All my calm courage fled. I slumped to the kitchen floor. I curled up in a ball, my eyes closed.
"Alright, everything under control?" the detective asked Ernesto.
"Very much so," Ernesto said. "Very much so indeed."
He prodded my ass with his steel-toed construction boot. He took out his cock and started peeing on me, right there on the kitchen floor, knowing he would make me clean it up later, probably with my mouth. The detective and Darren watched.
After a minute, the piss splattering on my face, I opened my mouth without being asked, accepting him.