Caught looking, p.14
Caught Looking, page 14
Solid as a single-winged butterfly
that nobody sees, like death: the Buddha’s
practical koan-joke.
Dillon, without prompting, had grabbed the base of Kev’s cock and was licking the tip. Considine reached down and started rubbing his crotch through his baggy old-man’s pants.
“Does that feel good, Kev?”
“Yes, sir.” Sir. What a well-brought-up young man! Unless he meant the “sir” as a mere intensifier, as in “Yes, sir, that’s my baby.”
They were both Considine’s babies. For now. As long as the cash held out.
“And what would feel better, Kev? Anything you can think of?”
“My whole dick. In his mouth.”
“You heard, him, Dillon.” At that, the pretty boy expertly slid his full lips all the way down to Kev’s copious bush. It was, obviously, quite a piece of meat to deep-throat, and Considine admired the boy’s skill. He had a not-very-great viewing angle, though.
“Here, swivel yourselves around so I can better see the cock sliding in and out. And get closer. Please.” Just because he was paying, that was no reason not to be polite.
They moved in, Dillon scooting on his knees. Now the blow job was only about a foot and a half away from Considine’s failing eyes.
And I would like to make it clear
to you…
Damn, I forgot.
Something, maybe, about butterflies?
Jesus…
He had bought the sight of these two boys, this sucking-off, but it was nonetheless exciting. In reality—and he had to admit it, however guiltily—the very fact that this apparent lust was purchased, that it was, at base, just a for-cash construct, was exciting to him in and of itself. But then, he’d always thought too much; that was, he’d often consoled himself (no matter how inaccurately), a major reason he’d never in his long life managed to hold on to a boyfriend for long.
“Okay, Dillon. Spit out the dick and stand up.” His former college students, all full of respect for his putative genius, would no doubt be shocked to hear him speak that way. Fuck it.
Young Dillon was on his feet now. Yes, yes, he reminded Considine of someone, somebody from a long time ago. What was his name? Gone.
“Clothes off.”
Unlike Kev’s artless artistry, Dillon’s disrobing was utterly nonlyrical, a mere shedding of clothes in order to expose The Good Stuff. But then, Considine mused, I suppose when Nature has so graced you, you can just slack off on the details.
Dillon’s cock was smaller than Kev’s and, disappointingly, only half-hard. But Considine, whatever else he might have been, was no size queen, and at least the kid hadn’t shaved his bush, the way so many of those porn-boys he’d seen on the Internet did.
Maybe it was about us. Or maybe moths
or something. These rivers,
this eternal day…
“Hands above your head.”
Considine was crazy about the sight of underarm hair, always had been. Dillon’s, he saw, was unfortunately on the light side. Considine hoped at least he wasn’t wearing deodorant.
“Now turn around, Dillon. That’s it. Now bend over.”
He was beginning to thoroughly enjoy this, this show he was arranging on the fly. And speaking of fly… Oh god, should a poet of his renown be thinking of bad puns?
“Spread your cheeks.”
A perfect hole, pink and as fuckable as the rest of him. And it was surrounded by whorls of dark-blond hair, a sight that Considine always enjoyed; more than once, he’d mused that ass-hair was shamefully underappreciated. But then, he’d always been drawn to buttholes; the porn websites that held his interest featured ass as well as dick. He was especially fond of close-ups of Eastern European boys’ holes, nail-bitten fingers spreading cheeks apart, revealing—if he was in luck—sacramental pink membrane.
“Kev, there’s a rubber on the table over there. Put it on.”
“Does he have to?” Dillon asked, still upside down. “Condoms irritate me.”
For a moment, Considine, rather taken by surprise, hesitated. No, he wouldn’t be party to anything dangerous. He knew about illness, entirely too much. Dillon, apparently, did not. At least, not yet. “Yes, he does.”
Kev, with a bit of difficulty, unrolled the latex over his bulky cock. Aside from everything else, rubbers—even those as thin and transparent as the one the poet had provided—made dicks look so damn unattractive. Considine sighed. Homos, true, no longer had to hide, but some things had changed for the worse.
“How you want us?” Kev asked.
“Dillon on all fours.” Like the pretty little bitch he is. “You fuck him from behind.”
Antony Considine’s penis was fully hard now, a little miracle, even if the miracle had been pharmaceutically facilitated. At his age, you took what you could get. He opened his trousers and fished out his erection.
Beautiful Dillon got down on his hands and knees, Kev kneeling behind him. A slight hitch: if they were positioned so Considine could watch the penetration, Dillon’s incredible face wouldn’t be fully visible. So at their client’s direction, the boys fetched a mirror from the bedroom and propped it up in a corner of the cluttered room. Kev’s cock had remained gratifyingly erect throughout. Dillon was soft now, apparently unexcited by the thought of husky Kev and his hefty dick.
Now Considine, stroking himself, could see it all. Dillon’s tightly knit body gleaming slightly with sweat. Kev lubing up his cock and sliding it, with some difficulty, up Dillon’s ass. Kev grabbing Dillon’s hips, careful to let Considine witness the details of the fucking, and pounding into the increasingly sweat-soaked Dillon. Too bad the sense of smell declined with age; Considine could only imagine the full impact of the heady blend of body odor and ass. Kev’s somewhat pendulous belly and tits trembled, and his face took on what Considine chose to take as an expression of bliss. When the strokes went especially deep, the otherwise impassive surface of Dillon’s handsomeness was broken by rippling winces. Seeing that—perfection undone by the putative Act of Love—made Considine very happy. Very happy indeed. If I could, he thought, I would see him destroyed. Followed by Oh, you melodramatic old queen! And, dick in hand, Considine smiled, smiled again. He looked down at himself. His cock was, he thought, even after all these years, in its own way quite magnificent.
Magnificent.
As though nothing, not all the anthologies, the academic honors, could measure up to simple flesh.
“You boys…” Considine began. He could not, though, think of what to say next.
Suddenly, unbidden, unruly Kev scrunched up his face and thrust all the way into Dillon. Coming. Dillon’s lovely hustler-boy face looked surprisingly nonplused. And Considine…Considine himself, somewhat startlingly, felt his body—a body that had lately seemed nothing but his enemy—overpowered by spasms of lust. No! He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not yet. Not…
…this
moth-eaten,
eternal day.
You.
Perhaps in pleasure, perhaps something else, the great poet closed his eyes.
COMMAND PERFORMANCE
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Kneeling in the dim, sticky space, Michelle fingered her collar. Her nervous sweat beaded clammily on her skin. She didn’t know what strings her master had pulled, what dubious connections he had called upon, to place her in a peep show, waiting to exhibit herself for strangers.
Someday she might find out, but she hadn’t asked. All that really mattered was that Master wanted her to display herself in this way, safe from strangers’ touches, but at the mercy of their eyes.
(Master. Always Master. His name was Jonathan, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had used it to his face. And what Master called her, more often than not, was Girl or Little One or Sweet Thing or simply Slave. He hadn’t taken away her name, but the possibility remained out there on the horizon, terrifying and tantalizing.)
She’d only seen one peep show before. Master had brought her, held her against him as the woman in the booth strutted and mugged and showed her lithe, leggy body for them. She’d ended up kneeling before them, her knees open, then slowly leaning back until her body was on the floor, leaving them a view of her cunt. Her breasts, which had seemed suspiciously large and firm, hadn’t moved as she lay back, proving they were fake. Master put in another quarter to keep the girl exposed like that and opened his fly, pushing Michelle to her knees on a floor soiled with strangers’ spunk to suck him off.
If the girl in the booth had noticed, she hadn’t reacted. She’d seemed rather bored with the whole thing, her only real spark showing in the first few seconds when she made eye contact with Michelle. The woman had smiled then, recognizing another slut, another draftee into the army of depravity.
But this slut-in-a-booth was not bored, not at all. Frightened and aroused in equal parts, Michelle couldn’t be sure exactly why she was trembling: fear of a stranger’s impersonal desire or need to experience it for her master’s gratification. Her pussy was slick and the smell of her heat was starting to hide the ancient funkiness of the space, but her mind had other ideas. She remembered her master’s hands on her body the night before, more gentle than usual until she’d tried to balk at this game, saying she wasn’t an exhibitionist. Then he’d closed his hands around her throat, not to choke, but to remind her of his power, his strength, and whispered, “You will do this because I want you to.”
The hands on her throat weren’t what convinced her. She knew he wouldn’t tighten them, wouldn’t harm her. It was his eyes, gone an intense ice blue in that moment, boring into her and making her admit that she did want to do it. Not because she wanted to show her body to strangers—that was something she dreaded, exposing her imperfect body with its wide hips, its too-small breasts, its too-round belly—but because she wanted to please this man. Because she could not say no to anything he demanded of her. Always she had had some doubt what she would do if he wanted her to do something she found terrifying, something she truly wished to resist.
Now she knew. She might fight it for a bit, but ultimately she would take a deep breath and say, “Yes, Master.”
And then she would get wet enough that you could sail a cruise ship into her cunt and berth it.
It didn’t matter that she was queasy from nerves, that every centimeter of cellulite in her body felt magnified, that she wasn’t sure she could move at all from the relative comfort of kneeling, let alone go through the simple routine that she and her master had worked out. She was want personified—not want for this particular act, which still frightened her if she let herself think too much about it—but for her master, and for the pleasure she knew he’d take in this. She might not be an exhibitionist, but he was definitely a voyeur. An exhibitionist as well, in his own way: he didn’t like to show himself off, but rather to show her off, show off the result of all his training and effort. And knowing how much he enjoyed it made her fear worthwhile.
In the fleeting quiet that remained to her, she pictured him: blue eyes that could be cold and stern, but never hard, and as often as not radiated impish humor; broad shoulders; solid legs; a height that towered over her. A man who was both gentle and dangerous. A man who had ordered her to strut her stuff before strangers.
She clung to the mental image of him. She knew he was out there, in one of the booths, but that she was to focus on the other customers, the ones not intimate with her body and her heart, the ones whose gaze was not a familiar comfort.
The ones who had not had OWNED tattooed on their asses in kanji.
The music blared, startling her. Def Leppard, she thought, but she wasn’t sure. Not the sort of music she usually listened to, but she let it take her, its pumping rhythm, its sheer brazen volume. The first window opened and she crawled toward it.
Crawling she had down to an art, a catlike slink that made her feel both sensual and subservient. She made eye contact as she had been directed, then licked her lips and forced herself to smile at the two guys in the booth.
She didn’t know what she’d expected the customers to look like—the proverbial dirty old men, she supposed. These were boys, maybe eighteen, wearing hoodies emblazoned with the logo of a nearby college, and for a second her confidence flagged. Wouldn’t they be disappointed to look at a less-than-slim woman in her thirties when the world was full of pretty, slender girls their own age?
The answer came to her in her master’s voice: They didn’t come here to see a pretty girl. They came here to see a slut, a depraved little slut exhibiting herself. Someone just like you.
They didn’t want pretty. They wanted hot. And one thing Master had taught was that she could be hot.
Michelle rose to her knees, then rocked back onto her heels, flashed her legs open too quickly to be anything but a tease. Back down onto the floor, she rolled and stretched, then stood up in a way that gave a good shot of ass, and turned to make eye contact with the next window that had opened.
Master.
She missed a beat. He smiled, winked and made a shooing gesture, telling her to keep going. She winked back, turned to give him a shot of kanji-emblazoned ass and strutted forward, cupping her breasts like an offering for the youngsters in the other booth.
Their window began to close, but they pumped more quarters in.
Another window opened. She angled herself, stuck her butt out at that window and looked over her shoulder to leer at the new customer, this one the stereotypical old guy in a shabby raincoat.
Michelle stood, turned, repeated the pose looking back at the boys, and then, daring greatly, toward her master.
Heat bored through her. I’m doing this for him. For that man, right there. Because he told me to. Because he owns me. Because he likes showing me off. Because I love him. She swore she could smell him, leather and cinnamon soap, over the pervasive, shabby odor of the peep show, even over her own rising musk. She wondered if he could detect the flush of her arousal, see the glint of moisture on her thighs. She wondered if the others could. At the thought she felt herself getting more wet.
Maybe she was a little bit of an exhibitionist after all, under Master’s direction.
She glanced down dubiously at the dirty floor, remembering the blatant, nasty way that Master had ordered her to end the performance.
They weren’t here to see Michelle. They weren’t here to see the pretty, refined woman she could be under other circumstances. They were here to see a slut. To see Master’s slut.
Deep breath. She was going to do this—for her master, who had made her into this slut, turned on by displaying herself on his orders.
She sat down on the floor, then spread her legs wide, showing her dripping pussy to the audience. She ran two fingers down her slit, then raised them and made a V for Victory sign, showing to each window in turn the glistening strands of moisture between them.
The old man had his fly open, his cock hanging out. The boys weren’t so bold, but she could see from their eyes they wanted to do the same. She glanced toward her master, but he was smiling calmly behind the façade of control he never lost until he chose to.
With one hand, Michelle opened her pussy lips, exposing the wet, gaping hole to hungry eyes. She had never felt so open before, so vulnerable. On the one hand, she wanted to close her legs, slink away, hide herself in shame. On the other hand, her body ached. Master was what she needed, Master’s cock, Master’s whip, anything he would be willing to use to get her off.
What she had was Master’s order to get herself off in a very specific way.
And although she couldn’t have imagined doing such a thing before others on her own whim, it was his order, and because it was his order, she suspected she’d be able to come from it. That was the real thrill for her, not one particular act or another, but knowing that, even if she were touching herself, she was doing so under his command.
One by one, she put her fingers into her mouth, sucking and licking lasciviously, making a great show of it, maintaining eye contact first with the boys, then with the old man, who was beating off magnificently. Once her fingers were slicked, she held them up for the onlookers to see, then plunged all four at once into her pussy.
Just as Master had ordered.
“But what if I can’t get them in all at once, Master?” she’d asked. “Can I do it one at a time?”
He’d chuckled, said, “Oh, you’ll be able to, my little slut. I know you,” and pushed four of his much larger fingers into her.
Then, she’d come almost instantly, aroused beyond reason already by his terrifying yet exciting plan.
This time, she wasn’t allowed to, not yet, but that gave her time to really feel how stretched she was, how full. Tight, but not painfully tight. She was able to move them in and out gently as she stroked her clit with her other hand. Lovely.
She’d been mentally prepared to put on a good show, complete with porn-worthy over-the-top writhing and moaning, in case she couldn’t actually bring herself to orgasm. It didn’t seem like her acting skills, such as they were, would be needed.
She looked at her master and her cunt began to flutter, contracting hard and fast against her invading fingers. He raised his thumb, in part a thumbs-up gesture, in part a reminder that she wasn’t done yet.
She worked in the thumb as well. She couldn’t fist herself, but all five fingers were in her cunt and she knew that to the men so avidly watching it looked as though she might. They were waiting for it, hoping for it. The old guy was grimacing, his hand moving blurringly fast on his dick. One of the young guys was stroking himself through his jeans. As she met his eyes she licked her lips, and saw him unzip in response, pull out a stiff young cock.
She looked again to her master, saw him mouth the word, “Come.”
Flicked her clit one last time and obeyed him.
As always.
As she did, she lost herself in his eyes. Crying out, writhing, impaled on her own hand, Michelle came for her master in complete privacy, not noticing as strangers’ spunk splashed on the peep show floor in tribute to her command performance.
