Manhandled (13 page)

Greg stood gasping for a few minutes and then, slowly recapturing his breath, patted Pete impassively on the cheek, as though
he were petting a favorite dog. He rubbed his hand across his belly and stretched his massive arms into the air. Speechless,
Pete watched as Greg nonchalantly stuffed his cock back into his jeans and climbed back into the cab of the pickup, as though
nothing as intimate as man-to-man cocksucking had taken place. Nor did he or Greg ever speak of it.

Now, here he was again, uncertain if anything was going to happen; fooling himself into thinking that he didn’t care. He had
come to the gradual realization that with Greg, man-to-man sex happened spontaneously; no gushing or wooing or prolonged foreplay,
just fortuitous and circuitous events that led to the eventual satisfaction of Greg’s sexual appetence. He had become a willing
pawn and an ardent player in his own search for sexual fulfillment. He now lusted after Greg West in the same manner he had
first lusted after Julie Palmer. But this was different, more hard-edged and desperate, unquestionably masculine.

Greg turned to Pete, his fingertips deep in the dense hair at the center of his chest; he scratched his left nipple abstractedly.
“Hey, buddy, I’m going to jump into the shower. How about you?”

Pete nodded casually, camouflaging his vehement lust for another masculine male. “Sounds good,” he replied, agonizing briefly
over the slight, almost perceptible tremor in his voice.

In the bathroom, Pete stripped off his clothes and watched Greg’s naked body out of the corner of his eye, struggling to keep
his semierect cock from becoming fully erect. When the water was just the right temperature, Greg glanced over his shoulder,
his eyes gravitating briefly to the dark triangle of pubic hair above the pendulous prominence of Pete’s exposed dick; he
smiled condescendingly, scratched the full sac of his drooping nuts, and climbed into the shower, arrogant and positive that
Pete would follow.

“Hey, get my back for me, man,” Greg said nonchalantly, handing Pete a bar of soap. Then, with that same unnerving, patronizing
smirk, he added: “And keep your cock away from my ass, understand?”

For a brief millisecond the expression on Pete’s face resembled that of a panicked animal’s, trapped in the ominous sight
of a hunter’s loaded gun. He hated himself for the boyish, love-struck way he sought the approval of such a glaringly masculine
man.

After Pete had soaped Greg’s muscular V-shaped back, Greg rinsed off and grabbed the soap from his hand. “Turn around and
I’ll do you.”

Pete swallowed hard and leaned into the shower, bracing his extended arms and hands against the tiled shower wall, his back
to Greg. He closed his eyes and felt his dick stiffen. He winced as Greg’s soapy hands roamed freely over the corded muscle
of his exposed back; water collected in his pubic hair and dripped from the smooth curve of his cockhead to his toes.

Then, abruptly, Pete gasped; Greg’s hand had moved from his back to the white, marblelike cheeks of his ass. He closed his
eyes and swallowed hard as Greg’s hand moved between his thighs, under his dangling cock and balls. A sudsy hand slipped between
his cheeks and, with a slight pressure, rubbed slowly, provocatively, against his sphincter.

Under the splashing water Pete could hear Greg’s breathing growing heavier, like his own, fraught with tension and undeclared
desire. His cock grew so hard that it hurt. From behind, Greg soaped up his cock and probed Pete’s ass with a soapy finger,
first one, then another, stretching and lubricating the tight sphincter muscle until it accepted a third finger.
“You’re pretty tight,”
Greg said in a deep, feverish tone, more to himself than to the man he was about to fuck.

Pete gasped aloud and arched his back. He wanted it; wanted whatever Greg was about to give him. He was so flushed and unnerved,
burning with such an intense prurient desire, that he didn’t hear himself moan, or realize that he had pushed the cheeks of
his white ass back against Greg’s body.

Greg gripped Pete’s shoulder firmly with one hand and poised his swollen cockhead at Pete’s puckered sphincter.
“Oh, yeah,”
he moaned, and thrust his hips forward; Pete’s virgin ass was tight, like a fist, gripping his cock.

Pete groaned and gasped for breath, air coming in short bursts to his lungs. He flinched hard at the sudden intrusion of being
penetrated by his leatherneck friend. His ass had swallowed Greg’s cock whole; the pain was excruciatingly intense, but he
didn’t cry out, just accepted it as Greg began to thrust roughly into him. After a few minutes the pain gave way to pleasure
such as he had never before experienced. He forced his ass back, into the moist, wiry nest of Greg’s pubic hair, taking as
much of Greg into him as he could. He could feel Greg’s muscular body press against his bare, wet back, and Greg’s hot, steamy
breath against his ear.

Greg brought his hand down hard across Pete’s wet ass, leaving a bright red impression. He thrust his cock forward with the
full force of his body weight and watched the distended, heavily veined shaft of his dick disappear into the tight grip of
Pete’s moist insides. He bludgeoned him hard, ramming his dick so fiercely against him that the thick vein in Pete’s neck
stood out as he bucked and groaned. He wanted to ride Pete, give him a good, long Marine fucking like he had never had before,
but the tightness of Pete’s ass muscles condensed around his swollen cockhead with such a smooth sucking sensation that he
could barely control his climax. He slammed his naked body into Pete’s backside with ferocious abandon, plowing him again
and again, straining to get every inch of his hard cock inside him.

Pete reached behind himself and clasped a hand around the back of Greg’s thick neck, bucking and gasping each time Greg’s
cock slammed into the firm white cheeks of his aching ass. Finally, when Pete was unable to take another inch, Greg withdrew
his cock.

Without preamble he stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and began drying off, leaving Pete embarrassingly erect and
unsatisfied. He threw Pete a towel and told him to finish him off in the bedroom.

Pete watched in awe as Greg’s naked body turned and left the bathroom. There was something stimulating about watching this
man’s exposed body: the curves of hard muscle, the elongated tube of flesh bouncing lightly beneath the dark bush of pubic
hair. He studied him so intently that it was as if he had never seen a man walk upright before.

“I want to watch you finish me off,” Greg said in that casual manner he had as Pete entered the bedroom. He was sitting on
the edge of the bed, his hand buried in the pubic hair at his groin, his cock dangling provocatively over his suspended balls.

Pete lowered his naked body between Greg’s thighs. He could feel the heat of Greg’s intense stare upon him, watching, waiting.
He closed his fist around Greg’s pendulous cock and felt its girth. Greg reached down and brushed his fingers lightly against
the stubble of Pete’s cheek. Then he grabbed Pete’s head and pulled him in close, whispering: “You want it, don’t you, buddy?
I mean, this is what you want. You’ve wanted it all along?”

Pete nodded, aroused by the tacit understanding that had developed between them. He knew what he was doing now. He took Greg’s
engorged cockhead into his mouth and, from a kneeling position, looked directly into Greg’s eyes. Greg winced from the pleasure;
his eyes locked on Pete’s. He reached down and brushed a finger against one of Pete’s nipples, then leaned in close to his
ear. “You’re
my
cocksucker, huh?”

Pete nodded, steadily milking Greg’s cock. He worked his mouth down to the wild pubic hair around Greg’s dick, feeling it
brush against his nostrils. He cupped Greg’s dangling nuts in his palm and squeezed until Greg winced and moaned, from deep
in his throat,
“Oh, baby,”
so intimately that a shiver ran up Pete’s spine.

Pete slid his hand up and over Greg’s swollen cock-head, milking the Marine’s engorged sex until he felt Greg’s muscles tense
and the familiar, pleasing sensation of warm semen filling his mouth. He swallowed hard, sucking every last pearl of cum from
his partner’s cock. Greg writhed and moaned at the intensity of his ejaculation, at the violent sensitivity centered in the
tender flesh of his swollen cockhead.

Pete stood, his cock hard and distended, oozing with precum. He stepped forward into Greg’s chest and guided his cock to Greg’s
mouth for the first time. Clasping Greg’s head in his hands, he pumped his cock down Greg’s throat. Greg clutched the cheeks
of Pete’s firm white ass in his palms and squeezed hard, forcing Pete’s substantial cock deep into his mouth. Pete was so
aroused, it took him all of a minute to cum, and he suddenly found his voice. “Swallow it, Greg,” he muttered, his eyes fluttering,
then clamping shut as he felt the rise of cum surge from his cock into Greg’s masculine mouth. Greg reached up and clutched
at Pete’s supple brown nipples, pinching and twisting them hard between his fingers.

Pete withdrew his cock and slapped it across Greg’s face. He leaned down and lightly punched the hairy ripples of Greg’s stomach
muscles. “Love pats,” he would come to call them.

Cuauhtémoc Q. Kish

T
he ceiling fan buzzed frantically above the bed, pushing the stale smells of the room’s previous occupants down on my pink,
slightly burnt flesh, assaulting my remaining sensitivities. I was uncomfortable. It was sticky-humid, and my pants felt like
they were glued to the hairy, sweaty crack of my perfect white ass. Practically suffocating inside my pink-stuccoed motel
room, I sought relief. I felt the need to escape into the night’s tropical breeze.

I made a beeline for the strip—a row of tightly clustered restaurants, shops, and discos that, when open, bow down and cater
obsequiously and exclusively to the moneyed tourist. Neon attracted me tonight like a bored moth drawn to the promise of an
evangelical, pure white light.

Brightly lit signs beckoned me, their intensity juxtaposed against the dark, black-opal night sky. The constant pounding of
the ocean’s waters proved a stark contrast to the dead quiet of the stores, already locked up tight for the night. I slowly
moved along the boulevard in a methodical, forced attempt to tire out this body that was still
up.
It was almost four in the morning, and few people were about—just a few holdouts from the late-night discos, most stumbling
unevenly in an effort to rediscover their prepaid lodgings.

Up-tempo tangos were dancing inside my head when this intoxicating, sensual head-beat was suddenly interrupted. I had just
passed a vintage pizza joint on the strip—old, seedy, established. My eyes focused on a shadowy, gray figure dancing in the
window. Or was it just my imagination? Quite possibly it might have been simply the mix of man-made neon and natural darkness
that had created this vision in my mind.

But the figure in the window continued to play a game of shadowboxing with me as I slowed my pace; it wouldn’t be dismissed.
I turned and noticed the billowing, off-white clouds of the early early-morning intimating an arabesque movement toward their
half-moon dancing partner in the sky.

Ignore the shadows,
a voice inside me said. I walked on, but was involuntarily pulled back to the dancing shadows in the window. The pair of
summer blue-cotton pants I was wearing tightened without any apparent reason. My excitement grew as though sexual conquest
was imminent.

The fluttering inside my groin intensified as I approached the entrance: CLOSED—WILL REOPEN AT 11, the sign read.

I peered inside the restaurant, the smell of Italian cookery still wafting from within. My bloodshot eyes focused on a human
form within the restaurant, his hands flapping like a pair of moths on fire. His hands continued their circular movement behind
the glass-walled entrance, and I acknowledged and finally accepted their blatant invitation.

My approach was cautious. Aside from the fluttering of fingers, I could distinguish little, except a vague form of anatomy.
The door to the entrance was slightly ajar, and I followed the inviting fingers that held the door open from within.

As I walked toward the entrance I noticed a pair of eyes, and froze in mid-step. I was immediately mesmerized by the almond-colored
visual confrontation in the dark. I paused, then walked through the entrance into the restaurant.

The lock on the door clicked shut. I looked back just as his meaty hand grabbed my own and urgently pulled me closer, taking
me farther inside. As I allowed myself to be led past dark booths padded with red leather, I discovered the brown face that
housed the almond eyes, still partly hidden in the shadows of the restaurant.

“What do you want?” I whispered, my desire making itself known.

“Come this way,” urged the voice, as white teeth beamed through the darkness.

My gaze was lost, not so much in his smile of ocean pearls, nor on his butterfly hands, but on a pale, off-white stick he
clung to; its purpose I had yet to discover.