Twelve minutes ago, I woke up staring at the glowing red numbers of the clock: 5:23. Now it's 5:34, and he's gone, and I can smell the sweat he left on my sheets, and the thought that I may never see him again puts a knot in my gut so hard I curl into a ball to wrap myself around the pain.
It isn't often you meet someone who fulfills every fantasy you have and then vanishes.
His skin was perfect. It was this shade--not like a color, like it was made of something unearthly, some sort of glowing, ethereal matter formed like polymer clay over the ridges of his facial muscles and skeleton. His zygomatic arches, his mastoid process, his occipital lobes--this man was not born, this man was sculpted. Not in a chiseled Michelangelo manner, but with a yielding and supple Rodin method. His hair was black and long on top, cropped close in the back. It just barely fell into his eyes, his dark eyes, dark pools of fuck me, you have to fuck me, I need you to fuck me, if you don't fuck me I'm won't be able to get through the rest of this day. It wasn't that he had a desperate aura about him; he didn't. Standing there in his white shirt with his maroon tie, leaning back against his car, his hand on the nozzle filling his gas tank, one thing he didn't project was desperation. His face was a nearly unreadable mask as I filled my tank from the opposite side of the same pump. Except for his eyes. I just happened to glance up, just happened to catch his eyes, just happened to forget to breathe. I could see it in his face. Someone had to fuck him, soon, or he'd feel the lack in a way most of us have never felt the absence of something we need.
The amount of sentiment communicable without words struck me after we'd managed to convey to one another with our eyes alone that he was going to follow me home and I was going to fuck him. As his hand dangled over the gas pump, the whooshing, clicking sound of his tank filling and the pungent tang of fumes filled the air between us. He held my gaze when I first looked at him, told me with his eyes in no uncertain terms what was up with him, then dropped his gaze and let me look him over. The skin, the hair, the build--would it do? He waited, then glanced back up at me. I gave him the slightest nod to show that I understood and agreed. Doable. This was doable. He was doable. The relief that flitted over his features was as real as it was brief. The pump clicked and switched off, he turned and pulled the nozzle out of his tank, replaced it on its hook. He stood waiting for his receipt, keeping his gaze down, a faint flush on his porcelain skin. He took his receipt and quietly got back into his car, pulled the door shut, waited.
I realized my gas was finished pumping as well. I removed the nozzle, screwed the cap back on, took my receipt. I started my car and pulled out of the gas station. He followed.
I lived close. Every time I looked in the rear view to make sure he was still there, he glanced down, as though unworthy of meeting my eyes. It was becoming absurd how aroused I was by this. When I arrived at the house, I pulled into the driveway. He parked on the street. I took my briefcase out of my car; he took a bag out of his car and locked it into his trunk, stood waiting with his eyes downcast, until I said "come on," and he crossed the street and walked up the driveway. I couldn't help just looking at him, at how perfect he was, how perfect this was. He stopped five feet from me, his eyes down. I turned and walked to the door, let us in the house. I walked through to the kitchen and put my briefcase on the table and turned to look at him. He stood in the doorway, in all his godly glory: I'd never seen someone so perfect. I walked over to him and raised my hand to touch him. He still wouldn't look at me, but I could see his breath rising and falling silently, could see the pulse of his heart in a faint motion on the side of his neck, just above his starched collar. Gently, I worked my fingers into his hair, then grabbed and twisted and shoved him to his knees. I heard the faintest moan of pleasure come from him and I slapped him--not hard, just enough to show I meant it. With my other hand, I raised a finger to my lips. "Shh," I said to him. He nodded, kept his eyes down, waiting.
God, it was pain not to drag him into the bedroom immediately and bury my cock in what promised beneath his khakis to be a perfect ass, but the game couldn't be over that quickly. "Tell me your name," I said down to his face.
"Mark."
"Mark," I repeated, tasting it leave my mouth, the guttural k at the end of his name like the k at the end of the word fuck. "All right, Mark, are you ready to play?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"I need to know how much you can handle, so you're going to take a little test, Mark," I said. "Follow me." I turned my back on him, letting him know that I knew without needing to look that when I stopped, he'd be right there. I took him to a spare bedroom, one where I kept some spare clothes, a few old things from college, and a white nightstand. The lighting in the room was dusky, as it was drawing toward sunset and the only light source was the window, which had the blinds drawn. It was chilly in the room; I kept the vent closed. "All right," I told him once we were inside, "strip." I folded my arms over my chest and waited.
He hesitated for the briefest moment. "Now," I said, "or you can leave. Your choice."
He began to undo his tie. I desperately needed to loosen my pants and adjust, as just watching this simple maneuver was sending enough blood to my cock to swell it beyond all rationality, but I'd wait. The tie came off, and he dropped it to the floor. The faintest flicker of a smile moved across my face, and I didn't try to hide it. If he didn't pick up on these cues, he'd just have more coming to him. Which suited us both fine.
He undid his top button, his breath coming harder now. Mine was as well, but I hid it. Two buttons. Three. He was wearing a white t-shirt beneath his white dress shirt. Four buttons. Five. One more, and he'd untucked both shirts from his pants, pulled off the top one and dropped it to the floor with the tie. His arms were gorgeous--muscled but not bulky, more a swimmer than a football player. Perfect. His fingers dangled at the hem of his t-shirt before he pulled it up over his head in one swift motion, exposing a lovely, hairless torso, darkish nipples against the luminescence of his incredible skin. His chest moved up and down as he breathed, and in the dimness, I could see that the chill of the room had made goosebumps rise on his skin. "Stop," I told him as he reached for his belt buckle. "Walk over here."
He did. When he stood in front of me with his eyes down, I told him to turn slowly in front of me. I wanted to look at all of him. This was just amazing. I'd seen perfect bodies before, touched them, been with them, but suddenly all of them seemed so plastic compared to this. When his back was to me, I reached up and ran my hand down his spine, feeling him shiver under my touch. He turned to face me and I ran my hand up his washboard abs, latched onto a nipple and pinched and twisted until I saw his features twist in response. He held his breath, not daring to make a sound after I'd slapped him for his moan. He kept his eyes closed and his face averted. When his lips parted to let out a gasp, I gave one extra-hard twist and shoved him back. "Pants now," I said.
No hesitation this time. His hands fumbled at his belt buckle and I could see the redness on his chest where I'd squeezed and twisted. His belt buckle opened, his top button, his khakis unzipped. His thumbs hooked the sides of his pants and he pushed them down along with his boxers, so that he was completely exposed. I looked lazily at his cock, appraising it. Medium-sized, maybe six inches, a good thickness, hard as a rock and hugging his body as it pointed straight up. He stepped out of his pants and stood facing me, eyes still down. "Get out of those ridiculous socks," I said, and he hurriedly removed them. Now he was completely naked, and I told him to turn slowly so I could look at everything. His discomfort at being naked as birth in front of my fully clothed body was obvious, and as he turned slowly, I undid my buckle and reached into my pants and freed my angry, throbbing cock. The relief that coursed through me as the restrictive fabric was removed made my knees weak. He looked at me, questioningly, begging me with his eyes. I shook my head. "You've left your clothes in a heap on the floor," I said. "I took you for someone who'd know better." He bent down quickly to pick them up. "It's too late now, Mark," I said. "The damage is done. Bring me your belt."
I saw him freeze for a split second, and in it, I strode over to him and took his chin in my hand, delivered a more powerful slap than the first I'd given him. "Mark," I said, "you're going to have to learn to respond more quickly. Do you understand?"
He kept his eyes closed as he nodded, opening them only to pick up his pants and pull the belt out from them. He turned to hand it to me.
"Put it on top of the nightstand," I said. He did. "Now open the closet door and shove those shirts on hangars off to the right. Good. Now wrap your hands around the bar and lean forward. Don't be shy, I want a good view of that ass of yours."
He was following directions beautifully. He grasped the bar with both hands, his head down and facing the floor, his ass in the air. I began to knead it, to feel its pliancy under my palms, to dig into his upper thighs with my fingertips. I gently put my cock in the crack of his ass, rubbed up and down as I grasped his hips, then abruptly stepped back, picked up the belt, and began to whip him. He made only the slightest whimper when the first crack of it stung his flesh, and I began to hit him harder, harder and harder until that perfect marble ass was cherry red, lashed throughout with crossed lines, his thighs doubtlessly burning, his knees beginning to shake. When my arm tired, I stopped. The silence in the room after the sounds of leather on flesh rang in my ears, punctuated only by Mark's gasping breath. "Now," I said, "pick up your clothes and fold them neatly. You can leave them in a stack by the door."
He obliged immediately. I could see his hands shaking as he folded first the socks together, then the t-shirt, then the dress shirt and pants and finally the tie. When he was finished, he tentatively reached for the bar in the closet again. "Mark," I said. "Come here. Look at me."
He did. When he turned those eyes on me, pools of fuck-me lust, of I want you so bad I can hardly stand up straight, of I need your cock in my ass now, I nearly reeled away from the power of the sentiments burning in his brain, but I kept my eyes on his. Somehow. "You did well with the belt," I told him. "Now this is important, I want to be sure you understand. I'm going to hurt you more before I fuck you. And I'm going to hurt you while I fuck you. And then when I'm finished fucking you, I may hurt you some more. Are you with me?"
He nodded. I could see light in the darkness of his eyes, could see that this was exactly what he wanted, what he needed. It was exactly what I wanted and needed as well, and this thrilled me so much that I wrapped my hand around my cock as I spoke to him. "I'm going to give you three words to say to me so that I can tell how you're handling it. Stoplight words. With me?" He nodded again. "I'm going to ask how you are from time to time. That's how bad I'm going to hurt you, Mark--so bad that I'll have to check that you're handling it. Can I trust you to tell me the truth?" A nod. "Good. If everything is fine, if what I'm doing to you is fine with you, and I ask how you are, you'll say green,' because it's a go. If something is starting to move into territory you're uncomfortable with, or if one of the restraints I'm going to put you in is causing any part of you to go numb, you'll say yellow,' which is my caution. And if you can't handle something at all, it's moved beyond your comfort level completely and you need me to stop, you'll say `red,' and I'll stop immediately and free you and we'll walk you back into green. Understand?" He nodded again. "Good. Tell me where you are now."
"Green," he whispered, looking into my eyes. "Green like your gorgeous eyes." He dropped his eyes immediately, as if expecting a slap. To keep him on his toes, I didn't give it to him. I just stared him down, secretly reveling in the complement while I kept my face a mask.
"On your knees," I said. "Facing away from me. Hands in your lap."
He turned immediately and sat as I instructed. I opened the top nightstand drawer and gazed inside. Blindfold or ball gag? Both? No, not both. If he were going to be gagged, I wanted to see his eyes react to what I indicated was going to be done to him. If he were to be blindfolded, I wanted to hear the sweet whimpers coming from his lips as I attacked his flesh. The ball gag would negate the whole process I just went through of explaining the safe words. I opted for the blindfold. Those eyes were so expressive I hated to cover them up, but the delicious anticipation I'd get from knowing that he didn't know what was coming would make the sacrifice worth it. I stood behind him and put it over his eyes. After I'd secured it, I stood over him for a moment, waiting. His lips were parted slightly and I traced my fingertips over them. His hand moved in his lap and I saw his fingers wrap around his cock. I grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm around behind his back until he cried out in pain. "Looks like we're going to have to do something about this," I said. "Can't have you coming before I'm ready for you to." I rummaged around in the nightstand, found the wrist restraints. When I turned back to him he had his hand on his cock again. So he wanted more pain. I could give him that. Positioning myself carefully so that I knew exactly where he'd go, I slapped him across his sweet mouth so hard that he fell onto his side, sprawling naked across the carpet. "Naughty, naughty," I said. I caught up a wrist behind his back, fastened the restraint around it. He struggled against it, going so far as to try to wrap his gorgeous, agonizingly supple body around me. I couldn't understand how he was managing it with the blindfold; this was even better than I thought. He managed to hook one leg over me and almost straddle me before I employed a wrist lock on him and twisted him back to the floor, a moan escaping his throat. Oh, sweet Jesus, the feel of his body beneath me as I straddled his back and pressed him to the floor^ÅI snatched up the free wrist, clasped it in the restraint, hooked the two together behind his back so that he was lying naked, bound and blindfolded, belly-down, on the scratchy carpet. I stood up, looking down at him. Incredible. Perfect.
He lay there quietly as I stared at his body, so I went back to the nightstand and retrieved a collar for him. I heard him moving while my back was turned, and when I looked at him, collar in hand, he was rubbing himself on the carpet, grinding his cock into it. The little fucker was incorrigible. I put my foot on his shoulder and shoved him over onto his back. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Mark?" I asked him sweetly as I fastened the collar on his neck. He moaned, his hips still grinding. I could see a faint bead of wetness at the tip of his cock, and I reached down and put my fingertip on it. He shuddered, a shudder that went through his whole body, and I saw his balls tighten up. A spasm of pleasure went through me. I brought the wetness up to his lips, smeared them with his own pre-cum. He licked at the salt and then strained his face upwards, as though reaching for more. "Please," I heard him whisper.
"Please what, Mark?" I asked him, rolling him onto his side by yanking the collar.
"Oh, God, please touch me again," he moaned.
"Mark, Mark," I said. "Surely you don't expect something for nothing." I latched my fingers under his collar and pulled him into a sitting position. It was quite dark in the room by now and I decided it was time we went somewhere a little more comfortable. I put him back into his kneeling position, his hands now clasped behind his back. I reached into the nightstand for a few more things and turned back to him. He was straining to free his arms, but I knew the restraints would hold. I hooked a leash into his collar, pulled him up to a standing position, led him out of the spare room and to my bedroom. His steps were bold, even though he was blindfolded: He was choosing to trust me, to trust that I wouldn't lead him into a wall, a doorframe, anything but open space. I shivered with delight.
Comments? Suggestions? Please email me at stake_a_claim@yahoo.com. All text copyright i_wonder, 2005.