King Perry (13 page)

Perry chortles and then resumes.

God, his mouth feels warm. I do not fully comprehend why getting your cock sucked feels so amazing. Sure, sensitive nerve endings and all that biology. But the thrill of another man’s warmth, his throat engulfing your dick. I love the power exchange: you worship this part of me, and I will make myself hard and worthy of your loving attention. Fuck!

Don’t get too distracted.

“The Lost Kings united around common grievances, and their grievances were many. They raged about politics, injustices done to them in strip mall parking lots. They grieved about their pensions, their backyards, their sons, their husbands, their wives, their boyfriends, and late fees for movie rentals. One of their mightiest ongoing grievances was with their king brothers. They resented their so-called interference.”

Damn, he’s good at this. I gotta slow down here.

I pull my dick out of Perry’s mouth and turn his head to my face.

“‘We are not kings,’ the Lost Kings insisted. ‘If you consider us lost, then you must think yourselves better than us, oh high and mighty Found Kings.’”

“It’s a good story,” he says. “But how could the Found Kings be called ‘found’ if they hadn’t gotten lost at some point?”

“Yes, an excellent point,” I say with an academic tone. “By the way,
suck my dick
. Good. Give me that throat, buddy.”

He wolfs down my cock.

Wow. That’s good. I feel my cock head enveloped and squeezed. Concentrate, Vin.

“Had every king become lost and then later found? How did the tribe of Found Kings emerge if not from the Lost Ones? But these questions are not tonight’s story. Suffice it to say, the Lost Kings named the Found Kings in jeering disrespect, and the kings accepted this mantle, hoping to soften their brothers. Why don’t you repeat it back to me.”

He tries. Sometimes I interrupt him with my hard, wet dick, pushing into his mouth while he’s speaking, and then I complain that I don’t understand what he’s saying, insisting he back up and repeat details while I dangle my drooling cock before him. Perry laughs once or twice, and I snicker, thinking this hilarious.

“This is a disturbing fetish, Vin,” he says, coming up for air. “Why can’t you be into bondage like everyone else?”

“Oh, please. Story sex isn’t a fetish; it’s not even a thing.”

“Fetish,” Perry says.

I nod to his left. “Push over that rock.”

“More secret tools?”

“Yes. Under that rock are tools we need for tonight, and if you flip over that rock, our entire evening changes. Do you trust me?”

Perry glances over at the stereo-speaker-sized rock not far from us. He says, “That one?”

“Yes, and hurry up. My nuts are getting cold without you sucking my cock. Decide right now if you’re gonna stop being a punk and start doing exactly what I tell you to do. Decide fast.”

He inches forward to get more leverage. He says, “Boy, you’re crabby during sex.”

“You’ll know when I’m crabby.”

He tips the rock, toppling it easily.

Well,
toppling
isn’t the right word. It falls over with a boring thud, really.
Toppling
sounds like it jumped from a tall building and landed gracefully on its
g
.

“Am I seeing something besides condoms?”

“Lube. Under the condoms.”

“Oh, well, quite a letdown. You made it sound like some big thing.”

“It was. You trust me now. Pick a condom.”

He doesn’t have much reaction to my pronouncement, which is fine. I merely wanted to point out that his trust has shifted.

“How much sex are we having tonight, Vin? It’s like a pharmacy aisle under there,” he says.

“I wanted you to have options.”

Ribbed on the inside or out? Colored, glow-in-the-dark, clear, or micro thin? Years of negotiating safe sex has given us all too much to talk about.

I guide his jaw to my softening cock and fuck him with it a few times, strokes that make him sit up and suck down harder, because I think he likes sucking dick, this strong man. My hunch is he really likes to submit, but of course, one of the challenges with being a strong man is that it’s hard to submit.

“Suck it like that, Pear. Yeah,” I say in a voice with some gravel to it.

Fuck, that’s good!

I inhale that cold ocean air, and I love its raw power, so crushing and yet tender. I feel safe knowing elemental forces are demolishing nearby rocks, inspiring my primal energy. We re-enact this power relationship as he sucks my dick like the greedy land and I ready myself to flood him in waves.

But stop. Stop real quick. We can’t crash here. As I urge his throat off the base of my dick, I emerge wet and strong, a quivering board out of his mouth.

Fuck, yeah. I love that wet marbles feeling, my nut juice churning from another man’s skill.

The bottle is within reach, so I fill Perry’s flute and mine. “Pick one.”

He hands me a green square, organic lamb’s sheath. Almost like raw.

“Good choice.”

As I unwrap it, I squeeze into the sleeping bag behind him, pushing him to face San Francisco. I drag my wet cock down his back, across the flank of his thigh, reminding him how wet and sticky it felt a moment ago in his warm mouth.

“You’ve got a great dick, Vin.”

“Thanks.”

Lying behind him, I bring my arm around his chest, my cock pushing hard between his ass cheeks, which seem awfully defenseless right now, pillowy soft and warm. Perry squirms against me.

“Hand me the lube.”

His fingers find mine over his shoulder, and the transfer of this one-time packet is easily completed.

I kiss his neck and strum his stomach as I initiate an agonizingly slow rhythm, rubbing my dick against the crack of his ass. I squeeze out lube to make my strokes wetter. I knew he worked out in a gym… this ass is perfect. I could stay this way awhile, a delicious agony all its own.

“The Lost Kings kept their own census, tracked in spreadsheets with pie charts. They cared little for who lived among them but hated that some would suddenly depart, living the remainder of their lives as Found Kings. They did not want to ‘lose’ to the Found Kings, even if they didn’t realize what battle they were fighting.”

His thick chest is relaxed as I squeeze and release his pecs.

“Repeat it all back to me.”

He tries.

Actually, he performs much better than the last time, remembering more details, how the Lost Kings are grouped by grievances and not geography, how the Found Kings were named, and more.

“We’re not going to fuck until I get this right, are we?”

“Nope.”

“Fetish,” he says.

We sip champagne, and Perry works to pass this odd oral exam, slurring his words as if drunk, writhing as I slowly drag the base of my champagne flute across his skin. He may believe the champagne got him buzzed, but I’m not convinced; the bottle remains half-full. Perry hums and floats, responding to my every leisurely thrust up through his crevice, my breath down his spine. The chilly ocean breeze surprises us occasionally, bringing unidentifiable smells dressed in spectacular mist. You’d think it would revive us. Instead, we purr together in a delicious, slow dance, testing the seams of our sleeping bag, draining us with soft exertion.

After his latest effort, I say, “Pretty good. Now try again.”

He snarks out a sharp breath through his nose, a snort, and then I hear it: the resistance. “Vigilance!” cries Perry’s brain. “I must remain in charge.” I don’t care how much he memorizes. I just want to tease out the opposition, get it naked before us.

He says, “If you gave me all this in writing before the weekend, we could have sex without homework.”

I say, “If you had looked me up on AOL, as I hinted at twice in the art gallery, you could have read all this on my home page. Most guys I king already know the back story by the time I show up. Vacation guys are tougher that way.”

Perry snickers and says, “I knew this was a cult.”

“The Lost and Founds,” I say.

We are quiet together, letting those lingering words bind us.

“Repeat it back to me again, Perry, what you know so far.”

He begins anew.

I sometimes share how the Lost Kings come close to remembering through sex, and how sex is easily mistaken for the true intimacy of kingship. I don’t think sex is one of Perry’s big struggles, so I reaffirm my decision not to bring that up. I don’t usually pursue men who I suspect have big sexual issues because I’m afraid of messing them up worse. I suppose I could king a guy without sex, but I’m horny and on vacation, and my way involves fucking.

Nevertheless, I must stay cautious while I’m acting like an arrogant prick because I’ve never been trained to do this. Any licensed therapist could get jail time for the shit I’m attempting, but who would sue a vacationing mechanic for his kinky camping trip? I suppose therapy has its place. I tried it myself for a while, but not once did we ever wear ski masks. So, what’s the point?

Help me, kings. Remind me to stay humbly attentive to the man I’m bossing around all weekend.

“Nice,” I say as he speaks the tale’s latest stopping point.

I clink his champagne glass and take a generous gulp.

Perry groans, sweaty and panting, because for the last few minutes I have been pressing against him with quiet insistence, almost inside him.

According to his brain, he’s been tricked to sleep, locked up in the Hole, and sexually taunted. All while avoiding a gun-toting guard paid to hunt down trespassers on an allegedly haunted prison island.

If this weren’t enough excitement for the evening, he now must pass a multipart oral exam and might end up sexually manipulated until sunup, which could come soon or not, because I stole his watch and he has no concept of time.

His body collapses as I sip from my flute, watching him sink further into the sleeping bag, dragged closer and closer into an intoxicated slumber.

Time to slip on the royal robe and lube him up. The lube is slick in my fingers, slippery on my dick. The condom rolls over my head easily.

I’m proud of him. He submitted many times tonight, dozens of times, each one a slightly higher hurdle, trusting me further, then further.

“Where was I? Oh, right. The disgruntled Lost Kings.”

I nudge closer, and my cock head feels ready to breach him.

He gasps.

“The Lost Kings felt confused about the disappearances from their ranks, angry about those who defected to the Found Kings. They couldn’t stop it, though they tried. Men kept getting found. Who can say what makes a Lost King get found? Becoming a parent, overcoming addiction, or maybe forgiving himself. Even something as simple as hearing the right song on a certain day might cause a man to remember his higher self and then choose to become that king.”

Need another few seconds. Push in the lube, right around that sweaty crease.

Perry groans.

“Some theorize that when a man sits on the same marble bench as Death, the experience may help him remember the king within.”

Good. Fully covered and slathered.

“
Because every man has a king inside him.
”

I nudge forward, and with a sloppy, wet thrust, I’m in, inching forward, approaching balls deep inside Perry Mangin, investment banker, and his fleshy, warm butt pushes back to greet me.

Ohhhhh, fuuuck.

We lie still, quivering in silence, staring at the black ocean and the San Francisco skyline. He collapses further, sinks deeper. You cannot deny a moment like this, so we remain in perfect, pulsating silence, both of us aware of the incredible sensations happening to both of us.

I kiss him on the neck and say, “All men are kings.”

Perry surrenders; a wisp of sound emerges from his mouth, a firefly-sized gasp.

I move my hips, not full fucking but definitely slow rocking.

“Communication from the Lost Kings came as a discontented ramble often without any discernable meaning. If any message were sent directly, an anonymous voice rang out, and then fell back among his skulking brothers, nobody wanting to stand out.”

I shift gears so that my slow, measured strokes only partially fill him up. His butt keeps urging my passage deeper.

“But in their own sullen way, they issued a demand.”

According to the moon, it’s almost time to get quiet. Tomorrow’s a big day.

“They demanded that a Found King come to them, a prisoner of sorts, for ten years. Why that particular demand? Who knows? Men reach that brittle, demanding place all on their own, but it’s faster to travel in groups.”

I stop fucking, and Perry drifts for a moment before nudging back.

The bay wind is cold, but we are our own campfire.

“Hey.” His words slur as he speaks. “What about the demand?”

Good. He really was listening.

I reward him with a couple of slow sideways push-ups, letting him feel every inch of me inside him, and his entire body arches back.

I grip the back of his neck, squeezing and relaxing my fingers repeatedly. I time my fuck strokes to match this rhythm so that he feels the deep lovemaking up and down his entire spine.

“The Found Kings debated the request. They considered the question within their deepest chambers and in open markets, on garden benches, and in sunrise circles. Men discussed it over checkers. One found king baked his famous cherry crepes to draw men into conversation, because baking was his gift and he loved with all his love.”

“I like cherry crepes,” Perry says, more asleep than awake.

“Before they could reach a decision—”

I stop.

“No,” Perry says softly. “Talk.”

I say, “Do you hear the security guard?”

His body tenses, but I keep fucking him quietly. We hear only the ocean and each other. Who could possibly hear a guard’s footsteps thirty feet above us? Not me. I just want Perry to struggle on this plane a few minutes longer.

To his credit, the changes in his body are fairly subtle: he still pushes back to meet my thrusts and does so with some good attention. Yet his softness changes slightly, his muscles perhaps coursing with a dash of leftover adrenaline.

I say, “Sorry. I thought I heard boots.”