Manhandled (8 page)

“Please,” he rasped as he fingered himself.

“What do you want?” I teased, sitting back on my haunches. “You have to tell me.”

“Stick your cock in me. Fuck me.”

“How much fucking do you need, Jason?”

“Lots,” he said with a whimper. “I need cock; I have to have it. There is never enough.”

I lubed my swollen meat and got up behind him, prodded his hole, and he cried out, “Christ almighty, do it!”

I hesitated, savoring the final moment, the ultimate control, then shoved my prick into him in one stroke. In response he
let out a yell that sounded like a mix of pain and pleasure, just what he wanted. As I thrust steadily into his eager rectum,
I thought how we were perfect for each other, he doing his penance with his ass, me exacting revenge with my cock. We may
have been on opposite sides of the literary equation, but in bed we were the ideal couple. He the insatiable critic, me the
inexhaustible writer—the ideal critic’s choice.

David Wayne

P
eople are always asking me how I met Travis, and I always tell them that we met here at The Pub, which is true enough. If
they want more details… well, I generally make ’em up fresh every time. That’s why there are so many conflicting stories about
Travis and me. I always loved a mystery. I’ve discovered that I love
being
a mystery even more.

But you say that Jamie told you to ask me. Well, that’s something else entirely. That means I’m going to tell you the true
story of Travis and me and the night we met, and I swear, Scout’s Honor, that it’s the real true story.

And maybe, by the time I’m done, you’ll understand why I’m telling it to you.

I first met Travis right here, on the very spot where you and I are standing now. It was a Thursday night—The Pub is always
cruisiest on Thursdays for God-knows-what reason. The place was packed from bar to back room with men, but Travis caught my
attention the instant he pushed through the door. He just didn’t fit in. Hell, he didn’t even make the effort to fit in. If
anything, Travis’s appearance was a concerted effort to hide just how handsome he was. In a room full of stretch Lycra, he
was dressed in a pair of work-stained Levi’s and a worn leather jacket. Beneath the stubble on his face, though, his jaw was
hard and square; his T-shirt, timeworn and damp with sweat, clung to a torso that was finely muscled. I remember all of these
details in retrospect, but at the time, they were eclipsed by one thing: his eyes. Piercing, playful, and squinted just slightly,
Travis’s eyes surveyed the room; I was acutely embarrassed when his gaze locked onto mine as if he had sensed my stare. I
became even more embarrassed when he began to wade toward me. He walked through the crowd like he was haunting the place.
People shivered and stepped away as he passed, but no one turned to see what had disturbed them.

At last he reached me. His eyes scanned me up and down, then he turned and pressed his firm belly against the bar railing.

Jamie was the bartender that night, like he is every Thursday night. I knew Jamie in the usual ways that gay guys get to know
each other. He was the ex of an ex, for one thing. Furthermore, I’d sucked him off once in the sauna of one of the local bathhouses.
I was pretty sure, though, that Jamie didn’t remember that little incident. The point is that the bar was a din of chattering
voices and drumbeats, and Jamie was having trouble keeping up with the orders. He appraised Travis’s threadbare appearance
and filed him in the “light tipper” category before turning his attention to the other clamoring customers.

I found myself shouting, “Jamie, two beers.”

Jamie looked at me, looked at Travis, then raised a disapproving eyebrow; but he dropped a pair of wet, brown bottles in front
of us and scooped up the bills I’d laid out.

“One of these for me?” Travis gave me a half smile.

“If you want,” I answered.

Travis stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.

“Yeah, I want.” He took a swig from the beer I’d bought. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and I felt something
kindle in my groin. Those flames were fanned when Travis shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a broad chest and beautifully
muscled arms.

“My name’s Jack,” I said, sticking out a hand in greeting.

Travis took it, his hand warm and firm in my grasp.

“I’m Travis. It’s a pleasure.” He released my hand, letting his fingertips graze my palm. He looked me in the eye as he did
this, his eyes kindling with thinly veiled amusement.

I was at a loss. I hate that awkward moment when you meet someone in a bar and it’s not clear whether or not you’re going
to fuck, so you have to find something to talk about.

“So, what do you do?” I hazarded lamely.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, your job.”

He snorted into his beer. “Am I going to have to fill out a credit report, too?” His lips curled in a smile, signaling that
he was enjoying my disorientation.

“Just curious I guess,” I finally managed.

He was silent for a moment as he stared out into the crowd. “I hate pissing contests. No offense, but you don’t care about
my work. Fact is …” He turned to look at my face. “Fact is, I’d be disappointed if that was all you wanted.”

His left hand slid down his side, his thumb catching in the belt loop, leaving his fingers curled next to the none-too-subtle
bulge in his jeans. He watched me staring at his crotch, and then I felt his eyes slide down my body, giving me a similar
appraisal. He gave a friendly laugh.

“Look,” he said, ”I know what you want. You know what you want. Why don’t you just ask?”

His face was blank, his expression very matter-of-fact. I felt my stomach churn. I felt something twitch a bit farther south,
too. He stretched casually, his T-shirt slithering up his torso to reveal his abdomen and the recess of his navel.

Maybe you’ll find it difficult to believe how hard it was to say what I wanted. In my mind, I could see him naked. I could
hear the rumble of his throat as passion lowered his voice to a growl. I could smell the musk of him. I could taste the sweat
of him. The desire burgeoned within me, but the words couldn’t get past the watchdog of my tongue.

He downed the last swallow of his beer and waggled the empty bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”

He started to slip on his jacket, and I knew with absolute certainty that he would leave—and that he wasn’t going to make
this any easier.

“Last chance,” he said. “Just ask. What do you really want to do?”

“I…I want to sleep with you.”

He smiled, a look of victory in his eyes.

“Well, I’m hoping that ‘sleep’ is a euphemism…but close enough. Come on.” He took my hand and guided me through the dancing
throng. As we stepped through the door, his hand slipped from my grip and moved to the small of my back, shepherding me through
the densely packed vehicles—a Gordian knot of steel and fiberglass that wouldn’t be untangled until closing time.

“There’s no way you’re going to get your car out of here,” I said uselessly.

He gave me a wolfish grin. “Who says I have a car?”

And with that, he pulled me into the darkness of the alley behind the club. Moonlight spilled into the narrow space between
the buildings like a waterfall into a grotto. The light glinted off the cases of empty bottles, and I could smell the stink
of stale beer. As we slipped into the shadows, my hands trailed along the wall, and it pulsed beneath my fingers to the occult
rhythm of the drum and bass seeping through the mortar.

The alley dead-ended, and we found ourselves in the darkened alcove of a disused back door. Travis leaned against the wall
and pulled me into his grip. In the darkness, our lips met. Travis’s arms encircled me, and I succumbed to his embrace as
our tongues danced. The kiss seemed eternal, but eventually—painfully—it came to an end. I opened my eyes to meet Travis’s
stare.

“There’s one condition,” he said.

“A condition for what?”

“Sleeping with me.”

I was no longer thinking about sleep, but I played along. “What’s the condition?”

“You can sleep with me tonight, but first you have to fuck me as hard as you can.”

“What, right here?” I said incredulously.

“Why wait?”

His hands were already pulling at my belt. It cinched tighter about my waist, then went loose. As his hands unfastened the
top button of my jeans, he leaned into me, pushing me against the wall. One hand crept into my jeans and tugged playfully
at the hair growing from my groin.

“No underwear?” he teased. “Naughty, naughty boy.” I heard my zipper descend as his hand slipped deeper into my pants. Like
a curious dog, my cock rose up to sniff the stranger’s hand. He grasped it firmly, noting its heft, then pulled it out through
the open V of my fly. He squeezed and I swelled in his palm. With my stiffening cock as a leash, he pulled me toward him.
Our lips met and his free hand grasped the back of my head, pulling our faces tighter. Our kiss was frenzied, and all the
while he jerked roughly at my exposed prick until it stood out from my body like an embedded knife. I clutched his hips and
thrust my groin against his, feeling something stiffen in reply within the denim enclosure of his jeans. I sucked his tongue
into my mouth, chewing on it and bathing it with my saliva. Without breaking the coupling of our lips, I slid my hands around
his waist to the top button of his jeans. He wasn’t wearing a belt, and his fly seemed to burst open of its own accord. I
pushed his jeans down his flanks, and was amused to hear the clatter of change as his pants pooled around his ankles. My fingers
traced across his abdomen, dipping downward to find the root of his cock. I pushed at the base and found it as stiff and firm
as my own. Our fingers brushed as we brought our cocks together within the confines of our two palms.

I broke our kiss, moving along his jawline to the tender flesh beneath and behind his ears. I bit gently and he moaned, crushing
against me. He spread his legs, and I nudged my cock between his thighs. I drove forward, my prick forging through the forest
of coarse hair behind his balls. The sensation of his rough hair against my cock’s tender head was excruciating and exhilarating.
The fingers of both my hands worked their way into his crack, and my right index finger found what I was searching for. His
hole gaped open, and, slick with just the sweat of our bodies, the tip of my finger slipped inside him. He gasped, and I pushed
deeper in reply. I strained forward with my hips, hoping to let my cock join my fingertip in the warmth of his asshole, but
my dick’s reach stopped agonizingly short. Travis’s knees buckled slightly, but even that wasn’t enough. There was a whisper
in my ear, and it took a moment’s concentration to recognize it as Travis’s guttural chant of “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me….”

I pushed him away with my free hand, keeping my finger tucked into the opening of his chute. Wordlessly, I pushed on his shoulder,
signaling him to turn around. He pivoted on his heel, but the tangle of his pants snared him. He tripped forward, catching
himself with his hands on the wall opposite me, and let out a startled yelp. I drove my finger deeper inside him, and he yelped
again, his muscles tightening. I pulled back slightly and he relaxed, then eased himself down onto my finger. I hunched my
hips forward and let my cock burrow between his cheeks to crowd my busy finger. He sensed the pressure and pushed backward
against me. I thrust my hips, nosing my dick in deeper and deeper into his crack. I was leaking lube, and with a few strokes
he was wet.

He turned his face, and in the moonlight he was unmasked. The guarded irony had slipped away, and all that remained was desire.
I didn’t have to ask if he was ready. Pulling my finger out, I positioned the head of my prick at his opening. I thrust forward,
and his knees buckled as I stabbed into him. There was a moment of eerie calm as we adjusted to each other’s bodies. We were
frozen at the brink of ecstasy. And then, clutching one another, we fell into it.

I won’t say that that first time with Travis was indescribable—just that description doesn’t do it justice. I’m sure you know
what it’s like to fuck a man, and I’m sure you know that even though the mechanics are roughly the same every time, every
time it’s different.

God was this different.

I didn’t fuck Travis so much as ride him. He moved as if electrified. I grasped his writhing hips and plunged into him again
and again, slamming against him as if he stood between me and ecstasy; my cock was a battering ram and his body the unyielding
door. The alcove was cramped and the sounds we made were echoed and amplified. My ears were filled with the moist slapping
of our bodies and the guttural sounds that had supplanted language. I felt something exploding behind my balls, and I pressed
my face into his back, wishing that I’d gotten his jacket and shirt off so that I could taste his flesh. All sensation was
eclipsed as I felt myself ejaculating inside him. I accented each spurt with a savage twist of my hips, and found that I was
still thrusting long after I was spent, as if I’d forgotten how to do anything but fuck. At last my body stilled, and I slipped
out of him, my cock deliciously raw. As I took in gulps of air, my spent passion turned to tenderness. My hands circled his
waist and I kissed his neck.