Beach Boys (5 page)

I followed him down to the cellar. The stone-walled room was cool and dimly lit. If PJ had asked, I would have supplied him with a higher-wattage lightbulb, but it obviously suited him the way it was. In the middle of the floor stood an X-shaped wooden cross, painted black. It looked as though it would be more at home in the dungeon room of a fetish club, and I wondered exactly what kind of magic act PJ was performing.

“Right, Neil,” he said. “What I want you to do is stand with your back to the cross.” I positioned myself as he asked, and he went to fetch a couple of lengths of rope from a box on the workbench.

“Now what?” I asked.

“I’m going to try out a couple of knots on you.” As he spoke, I felt him looping the ropes around one of my wrists, then the other, fastening me to the cross. “I need to know which one is best when I have a volunteer on this thing. You see, some look very secure, but they’re really easy to escape from. Just give that a little tug for me, will you?”

I did as he asked, and realized that with almost no effort at all, I had managed to loose myself from my bindings. PJ pressed my wrists back to the cross and started tying them in place once more.

“Now,” he said, a smile spreading slowly across his face, “only an extra hitch makes so much difference. Try it again for me.”

Again I tugged at the ropes, quickly realizing that whatever he’d done this time was holding firm. If anything, the knots were being pulled tighter by my attempts to get free.

“Don’t try to struggle,” he told me. “You’re not going anywhere until I decide. Not that I think you’ll want to. Just relax. Close your eyes...”

His voice was soft, hypnotic, and I did as he asked. When I opened them again, something was different. I looked down and realized my clothes had vanished. I had no idea how he’d managed to strip me so completely while I was tied to the cross, and I told myself it was some kind of illusion, the product of a skillful magician. But it certainly felt real enough, and my body was reacting powerfully to the knowledge that I was naked and helpless. My cock was beginning to rise, and PJ couldn’t fail to see how excited I was becoming.

“Is this all part of the act?” I asked.

PJ shook his head. “Oh, someone will get tied up, all right. But the rest...” He came so close to me that I could smell the musk of his sweat, mixed in with the woody aftershave he always wore, and he traced a finger over the tip of my rapidly swelling cock. “Let’s just say this is just a special variation I use on cute men who can’t admit how badly they want to be fucked.”

“So how does the trick end?” My voice was in danger of breaking, I was so turned on at the merest touch of PJ’s fingers.

“It depends. Sometimes in my hand...” He increased his grip on my cock, wanking it slowly and sensually as his other hand cupped my balls and rolled them gently. I bit my lip, sweat breaking out across my naked body. “And sometimes in my mouth...”

He dropped to his knees, and for the merest moment his lips engulfed the tip of my cock. I registered the warmth, the wetness of his mouth, then he pulled away. I almost whimpered, and thrust my pelvis towards his face, desperate for more. After a long, frustrating moment, he took
me in again, a little deeper this time. His tongue swirled over my cockhead, lapping up the salty droplets beginning to drip from it; then, just as I was fully relaxing into the sensation of being sucked, he spat me out once more.

“But I can come up with a better ending than that,” PJ murmured, rising to his feet. “How does my cock in your ass sound?”

All I could do was moan. PJ reached for the knots which held me so securely in place, untying them without effort, or so it seemed. He guided me over to the workbench, and I leaned against it as he peeled out of his clothes. He wore no underwear, and when he pulled his jeans down, I saw that he, too, was more than a little turned on by the game we had been playing. His cock sprung free, thick and enticing. I wanted to taste it, as he had tasted mine, but he’d already made his intentions clear.

Why had I waited so long for this?
I asked myself as he reached into his box of tricks and took out a tube of hand cream. Why had I denied myself this pleasure, simply because I was afraid of having a short-lived summer fling? Bending me over the bench, he slathered the cream along his shaft, then rubbed a generous amount into my asshole, using a couple of fingers to gradually open me up. I was unable to resist stroking my cock as he played with me, until PJ, as dominant as he had been in my fantasies, whispered, “Any more of that and I’ll tie your hands again.”

Obediently, I stopped what I was doing. I felt the head of PJ’s cock pushing at my entrance and then he was inside me. I clung on to the edge of the bench as he began to fuck me, easing in and out with long, slow strokes. Gradually, he speeded up the pace until our bodies were slapping together, the cellar beginning to smell powerfully of sweat and our joint arousal. As his own pleasure reached his peak, PJ grasped hold of my dick and began to pump it in his
fist. Then his body was jerking, filling me with his seed as my own come shot out over his busily wanking fingers.

We slumped together on the workbench, slowly coming down from our mutual high.

“So how did you like that?” PJ asked, hugging my body to his.

“It was magic,” I sighed. “But I think you might have to work on those knots again. Just to make sure there really is no getting out of them.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

by Manlius Latham

Maria had steeled herself for the moment when she’d accidentally walk in on her employer having sex with one of his young beach studs, but she hadn’t expected this.

She nestled herself into a darkened corner of his art studio, back between one of the huge plaster statues—the one of a young Greek athlete, stark naked, preparing to hurl a discus—and a large ceramic vase filled with peacock feathers, and observed as Stefan went through the motions of seducing the young man who had been posing nude for one of his paintings. She’d seen the young man before, down on the beach with his friends, soaking up the summer sunshine amidst the volleyball games and swimming in the cold blue Atlantic. Right now the young man was kneeling, his legs folded neatly underneath him on a spray of crimson velvet carpeting. She could see his bare chest exposed, perfectly tanned and arched out forward, with his hands on the floor behind him to prop him upright. Stefan stepped around the canvas and approached the model. He had a clean brush in his right hand, and with his left hand he was gesturing, as if his hand was doing the talking for him.

It may as well have been, for she couldn’t hear a thing the two men were talking about.

Seeing the two men together, Maria got a sense of just how much older Stefan was. He could have been the model’s father, although you wouldn’t have known it without such a sharp contrast. Stefan’s features were smooth, elegant, refined. He had a thin layer of beard stubble across his face and chin, neatly trimmed to a tapered point just above his Adam’s apple. He wore a beret that tilted to one side, allowing his long, curly hair to tumble down the sides of his face, and a long smock that draped around his tall, slender frame.

The young man was rugged, muscular. She could see the definition in his chest and the abs on his stomach, neatly chiseled (just like the statue she was hiding behind), and smooth all the way down past his belly to where his treasure trail began above his pubic mound. Seeing him sitting there like that, so bare and vulnerable, was intoxicating.

Maria thought of her first interview with Stefan, back when she applied for the maid position at his summer home. Stefan was an artist and a local celebrity. He owned a condo somewhere in Manhattan, a piece of property in Aspen (where he wintered), and this beach cabana up here in Ogunquit (where he summered). She thought of the way he stared at her from behind the teakwood desk in his office.

“You do understand who I am, Ms. LaCombe? My lifestyle, I mean.”

Very direct, with no trace of snobbish condescension, no trace of queer-flamboyance like the other gay men in the area. Rather, he came across with the air of British nobility. Concise pronunciation. No lisp. And he really was attractive. She sat across the desk from him, shocked that in her mind she was convincing herself that she could turn him straight. One night with her tight, wet pussy and he’d forget about sucking cocks forever, and…

“Yes, Mr. Lynch,” she said, noticing how her panties were beginning to go damp.

He smiled, folded his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. When he did, a lock of his long auburn hair fluttered in front of his eyes. He ignored it.

“Call me Stefan,” he said. “What I need for you to understand is that there may be times when you accidentally walk in on me while I’m having sex. I won’t pretend to be discreet. This is my home and I’ll do as I please in it. I trust this won’t be a problem for you.”

“Not at all,” she replied, thinking silently how her boyfriend Alex had hated the idea of her working for “that rich fucking homo” out in his beach home. She thought of how their
friends—his friends—would shun both of them if they were to find out how she was changing come-stained sheets there in his Palace of Phallus. Petty and homophobic. What would he have said to learn how she was secretly fantasizing already about how to seduce him?

“I can’t stop you from watching,” Stefan continued. “I’m sure you’ll be curious if and when it happens. What I ask is for you to respect my privacy. I ask you not to run out and tell the whole world how you watched your employer taking a cock in his ass.”

Again with that cutting frankness. It was no wonder he was as successful as he was. He owned several art galleries between Maine and San Francisco. He was a renowned painter and sculptor in the art world, selling his pieces to celebrities and collectors worldwide. All of this, with the additional subsidized income from the teaching gig he held at the university down in New York City, meant this guy was rolling in dough. Which, for Maria, made him all the more desirable.

Stefan’s free hand stretched out and stroked the model’s copper-tanned chest. The model quivered to his touch at first, then Maria noticed how his penis jerked and began to grow erect. It was like watching a balloon begin to fill with air until it stood out, erect and throbbing.

Stefan smiled and said something. She couldn’t hear what, but as he did she watched the way his Adam’s apple began to quiver, and was surprised to discover just how strangely arousing that was. Her pussy was definitely wet now, and she slipped her hand beneath her apron-clad skirt until her fingers dipped beneath her panties. She sighed, rolling her clit around with her fingers and hoping the two men hadn’t heard her.

They hadn’t.

Stefan had taken his unused paint brush and began running the bristles up and down the model’s chest, causing a wave of goose pimples to rise over the model’s bare skin. Stefan glided
the brush downward slowly, allowing the bristles to tickle over his nipples. The model smiled, but was trying very hard to maintain his pose. Stefan moved his hand down again so the bristles brushed down the model’s torso and treasure trail. The motion was smooth and graceful, and didn’t reach its conclusion until the bristles traced over the model’s shaft. The man began to giggle, lost his balance, and tumbled backward to the floor. Stefan laughed as well. He reached out a hand and helped the model back up to his knees, and then they were kissing. Slow, passionate kisses, as if they were cautiously exploring each other.

Maria thrust her fingers deep inside her sopping-wet pussy and began to tremble. She placed her free hand over her mouth to keep from groaning out loud.

She’d seen a gay porn video once at her friend Tricia’s place. The guys in it weren’t taking their time like this. They were hot and heavy all over each other, two writhing animals of testosterone and lust. Tricia was definitely a fag hag, and had all kinds of gay porn in her possession. It was her fetish of choice. When she watched the video, Maria had been a little turned off by it. She had watched it more out of curiosity rather than a need to open her sexual horizons. But now, up close, she couldn’t believe just how horny it was making her.

It made her wish Alex was there, just so she could pounce on him and grind her wet pussy into his thick, meaty cock. Alex’s cock was incredible. Long and thick, and curved ever so slightly to the right. It looked funny to see the way his wiener curled when he stood there naked, but when he fucked her from behind, it brushed her g-spot so perfectly that she came every time. His cock always gave her big, convulsive climaxes that made her scream and gasp for breath. She tried to curve her fingers deep inside her pussy to find the exact spot, and was disappointed to discover she couldn’t.

Maybe she could sneak out and grab one of Stefan’s sex toys.

They weren’t just sex toys, actually. Early on in his career, Stefan had discovered the joys of plaster casting. He’d have his young studs dip their engorged penises into a bucket of quick-dry plaster and make a mold of their wangs. When the mold dried and hardened, he would warm some kind of gelatinous rubber substance until it turned to liquid, and fill in the mold. When the substance cooled, he had a perfect replica of their cocks, to be used whenever and however he pleased. Maria thought of escaping to his bedroom and grabbing one, use it just long enough to bring herself to climax, then clean it and put it back. Only she wasn’t ready quite yet. Stefan was moving on to the main course.