I watched his car fishtail behind mine as we negotiated the hill that led back up to the house from downtown. The ten-minute drive took twenty, and we both ended up stuck in the driveway halfway from the street to the porte-cochere Jim had lovingly stripped and repainted as the campy Belle Epoque extravagance it was. The crappy driving hadn’t dampened my lust. My erection tented the pleat in my trousers as I climbed out of the driver’s seat.
Behind me his car
door swung open, and he just sat there staring at the drift we’d plowed into. I
plodded towards him and ended with my boots between his feet, the crotch of my
jeans thrust into his face. “Looks like I’m one immobilized fag,” he said
grinning. “Option One: you unzip and I blow you right here. Option Two: we see
just how adept I am at pole vaulting through a snow drift with the braces.
Option Three: you tell me if it’s an option.”
“I’m all ears,” I
said.
He stared at the
front of my chinos. “Not from what I can see. Option Three,” he repeated,
reached out, took my hand, and sucked my index finger into his mouth. “You
carry me in.”
I wanted to do it.
Wanted to do it for tenderness’ sake, but wanted to possess him, too. But had
no idea if I could even lift him, let alone manage his weight and still plod
through the wet snow. Then he reached up to put his arms around my neck, and I
bent down, hauled him to his feet, shifted his weight, and without thinking
twice about it had one arm slung beneath his knees and supported his shoulders
with the other as I paced carefully to the side door. He hung on to my neck while
I fished out my keys. “You’ll need to go back for the braces,” he said, “unless
you want to haul me around inside the house too.”
Retrieving them, I
plodded back to where he was waiting to be let in. He leaned with one hand
against the doorframe. With the other he cupped the swell at the front of his
jeans. Inside, I was all over him as soon as I’d shut the door again. I had the
advantage: I could undress him with both hands, while he steadied himself. He
watched impassively, arms rigid in the braces, as I unzipped his jacket,
unbuttoned his shirt, opened his fly, pulled out his thick cock, then chucked
his pants down entirely over his shoes, so he stood naked from his shirt tail
to his socks. His thighs were slight, and the heft of his sausage was all the
more dramatic for the thinness of his legs. It flopped half-erect over my cheek
as I knelt down and licked at the pendulous curve of his scrotum. “Go ahead and
taste it,” he rasped.
I sucked him
greedily into my mouth. His cock swelled a little but kept the same rubbery
pliancy it had when I’d first pulled it from the fly of his boxers. After a few
minutes, he said, “Let’s find someplace with more horizontal options. This
isn’t the most romantic bit in the evening, but if you give me a beer, I can
take you through the logistics you need to know,” he said. His wistfulness took
me by surprise.
Settled still bareassed
onto the couch with a bottle, his free hand inside my shirt, he took a long
slug. “The deal is, I took a fall out of a tree when I was twelve, right onto
my tailbone. I’ve got really bad stenosis of nerves coming off my lower spine.
I can’t keep my balance or stand for any length of time, and it affects the
sensitivity in my cock, too. It feels great having you touch me, but to get off
I more or less have to do it myself. You OK with that?”
I just kind of
stammered, trying to think of the right thing to say, and he went on. “The
upside is, I can go for hours. After a few hours without cumming, I get a
little crazy and really inventive.” His hand slid over the curve of my pec.
Finding my nipple, he dug his middle finger into it, inverting it into the
surrounding muscle as he talked. The buzz of it shot straight from my chest to the
root of my dick. The blur across my eyes must have registered; he leered and
pushed harder with the flat of his palm. “A dick’s a whole continent that needs
exploring. Slowly. Twenty minutes licking this part, for instance,” he went on,
setting his beer down and brushing his thumb over the ridge around his
cockhead, which still lay flopped onto his thigh “and you probably still
wouldn’t squirt. But you’d probably feel heat rushing through you like we’d
cranked up a sauna. Most guys I’ve tried it on can only cope with the intensity
of it by screaming.” His voice thickened. “Some guys start leaking like crazy.
I love the taste when they do.”
“I don’t believe a
word of it,” I said, setting my own bottle down on the floor and undoing my
belt buckle, “unless you prove it.”
“Not so fast,” he
smirked. “We’ll only do that if you’re a very good boy. First you help me up
the stairs. Then we find something to tie you up with.”
My lust fought it
out with panic as his words sank in. He leaned forward, slid his hand from my
chest to the back of my neck, and pulled my ear to his mouth. “Don’t freak,
just your ankles, to the bedlegs,” he whispered. “I like a level playing field.
I’m gonna want your hands free. You’re just not walking off without my
permission till I’m done with you, is all.”
Something inside me
gave way. I found myself down the basement stairs looking for a leftover length
of last summer’s new clothesline before the wave of mistrust overtook me.
Somehow, my hands still rooted through the box where I knew it was buried,
while from the neck up I scrabbled through the five least awkward ways to tell
him this wasn’t going to work out, and I’d be glad to see him home safely
through the weather. By the time I pulled the thin cotton rope out from under
the spare extension cords, I’d pretty much settled on how to call it off.
Funny, then, that as
I sprinted up the steps again, I was still gripping the rope.
He was nowhere in
sight as I came back into the living room. Then I heard the scrape of his
braces and the creak of the loose board two thirds of the way up the stairs. As
I stood on the landing, he looked back down at me, grinning, and said, “I
figured I could use the head start.” He caught sight of the cord clutched in my
hand. “And look what you found.”
I looked down at it
myself. A rope in somebody else’s hand on the end of my arm. All I felt was
confusion. And the raging pressure of my hard dick straining against my
underwear.
His grin turned
soft. “It’s not what you expected, right?”
“I guess not.”
“OK Here’s what
we’re gonna do. You cooperate with me tying you up. Then we pitch my braces out
of reach across the room. That help?”
That was the moment
I started to fall in love with him.
At the top of the
stairs I pointed him towards the bedroom, wanting to lead him to it by the hand
and nonplussed that I couldn’t while he was balancing himself on the supports.
At the door, the sight of the bed brought me up short. I’d jacked off my preppy
admirer that first night on the couch in his apartment; I’d made out with a guy
in the living room; with another on the floor of the kitchen; soaped the belly
and cock of a willowy boy in the bath as he sat on the edge of the tub.
Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t asked any of these men into the bed Jim and I
shared. It wasn’t against any rule we’d agreed on. It just felt weird.
By then, Paul was
sitting on the edge of the bed, shucking his jeans down once again and skinning
the shirt up over his head.
His meat sloped out
from between his skinny legs. Startlingly, above his wasted thighs, a lean,
ripped six-pack rolled from the hair that dusted up from his crotch toward his
navel. Broad, sculpted pecs flared out from his solar plexus, their flatness
accentuated by the soft fleshiness of brownish-pink nipples that blossomed from
their surface. His upper arms were as thick as his thighs.
He looked at me
looking at him. “Strip,” he said. “I don’t put on one-way shows.”
When I put the rope
in his hands and started undoing the buttons of my shirt, he added, “Just pull
it over your head.. I want you naked now.” As my arms stretched up, he
reached out to undo my belt and more pulled the fly of my trousers apart than
unzipping it. Gently palming my rod through the fabric of my briefs, he reached
his other arm around my waist and drew me into a clench. “Oh, yes,” he sighed,
pressing his cheek into my belly just above the waistband. “This is what I
want, right in here.”
The loops went
around my ankles practically before I realized he’d formed them. I’d helped him
wrap the rope around the feet the bed, the mechanics of surrender themselves
bringing me close to the edge. He went down on me for a few seconds after every
turn of the cord. Encouragement and reward and gesture of thanks all at once,
it made the easy pressure of the rope itself wildly erotic. He measured the slack with a practiced eye,
leaving me enough to thrash around the mattress but not enough to stand. When
he’d finished, he lay back on his elbows at my side, his triceps flexing into
massive knots, then leaned forward to trace the shell of my ear with the tip of
his tongue. “I told you what I’d do if you were a good boy,” he said. “Trust me
now?”
“Fuck, yeah,” I
muttered, ever articulate.
“Fair’s fair, and
I’m keeping my part of the bargain too.” His braces leaned against the mattress
on the side of the bed nearest him. Picking them up, he tossed them onto the
braided rug in front of the dresser on the opposite wall. “Welcome to the world
of differently abled cocksuckers.” Sitting up, leaning forward, and grabbing
his own cock with one hand, he deep-throated my hard-on to the root.
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