Something Different (4 page)

"You... you didn't... like it," Michael gasped, still shaking with his own climax, barely able to speak. His eyes were open and focused on James's cock, red and limp and gleaming with spit.

James didn't know what to say. Kevin and Cunt-Boyfriend were back together. He owed his landlady two months' rent. His telly was on the fritz and it seemed like no matter how many men he fucked, there was never enough money to get ahead and put a little by. James wouldn't be pretty enough to do this forever. Where would he be in ten years? In twenty? For a second he felt like he would cry.

"Earlier. You put your fingers over my lips. Why?"

"Because you were lying." Michael tucked himself back into his shorts, zipping up his trousers and fastening his belt. "I don't need that."

"Most people love it."

"I don't. It's distracting." Michael nodded toward James's limp cock. "Why didn't you enjoy the fellatio? What did I do wrong?" He didn't sound angry.

James felt close to tears again. If he said the wrong thing, his bi-curious suburban family man would bugger off and find a nice cheery rent boy without any issues. And James was sure to say the wrong thing, because everything he touched turned to shit these days.

"You didn't do anything wrong. It felt good. Maybe go a little faster next time, but otherwise—good. I just..." James drew a deep breath. "It's hard for me to come with men I don't know. I have to get used to a client first."

"So last time. I thought you climaxed. You pretended?"

James sighed again. "Men pay me to make them feel good. And not just physically. If they realize I don't like it as much as they do, I'll get knocked about. Put in hospital or worse."

"But it makes no sense." Michael seemed to be speaking to himself as much as James. Rising from the floor, he shifted to the bed. "I mean, I can pay you to take your clothes off. To touch me. To let me touch you. But I can't expect you to have an orgasm on command, no matter how much money I give you. And the fact that you won't, even though it would be easier, even though it would be safer..."

Michael lifted his head. He looked James in the eye, as if forcing himself to admit something ugly, something difficult. "I think it means you won't sell out. Not all the way. There's a part of you no one can buy. Not with money. Not even with violence."

James had no idea what Michael was talking about. Sitting down beside him, he placed a hand on the other man's arm. They made an odd pair in the room's framed mirror, Michael fully dressed and James completely nude.

"Believe me, I sold out all the way a long time ago," James said. "But the fact that you get why I can't just..." he snapped his fingers, jealous of the ease with which other males shot off. "It means a lot. I like you, Michael."

Michael's eyes locked with his, light green and acute.

James didn't flinch. "Do you like me?"

"Too much."

"No such thing," James said with a saucy little wiggle. Inside he thought,
give it three weeks and he'll never want to see me again.

***

The next week they met at the Nautilus again. Not wanting to scare Michael, James had phoned to outline his plan in advance. As expected, Michael had reacted uncertainly.

"What if I... suppose I... get an erection?"

James fought back a laugh. There was something endearing about the way Michael used the correct terminology for everything. "Deepak is a professional. A licensed masseur. He doesn't pay any attention to male blood flow below the waist," James said, leaving out the fact Deepak earned far more cash as a rent boy than as an itinerant masseur. "He'll bring over his massage table, loosen you up, and then we'll fuck till you collapse."

"Will you have a massage, too?" Michael asked.

James was startled. Twice a week he popped in to see his mum. Once a month he saw his dad. His best friend Marla was busy ever since she'd squeezed out twins, but they met up whenever they could. But out of all the people James supposedly held near and dear, his client Michael was the only one who seemed to truly care if James was properly taken care of.

"Let me get you breakfast," Michael had said the morning after their last meet-up. Considering the fact James hadn't managed to get off and Michael had been forced to service himself, James should have been nursing two black eyes and a bruised ass. Instead he was being invited to breakfast by a man so polite, he wouldn't even use the phrase "let me buy you." And now upon hearing that he, Michael Maguire, the world's tensest human being, was going to receive a professional-quality massage, Michael's first thought was to wonder if James would receive one, too.

"Deepak will massage me if I want," James assured Michael. "But I like watching the action unfold. If he does a good job and you enjoy it, that's enough for me."

Michael paced like a caged lion while Deepak put on his music, lit his aromatherapy candles and set up the massage table. Then Michael undressed with jerky mechanical movements, taking refuge beneath the white sheet and lying on his belly. James found the whole run-up amusing in ways he couldn't explain. Michael shuddered when Deepak's big, strong hands dug into the knotted muscles around his neck and shoulders. But he gradually relaxed, eyes closing, no longer trembling with resistance. Smiling, James began to undress.

He wasn't shy of Deepak. They'd fucked once or twice, enough to know they weren't into each other. James wasn't stripping to entice Deepak, young and handsome though the other man might be. James was stripping because he knew Michael loved to look at him. So he wanted to be bare at the right moment, pale skin, pink nipples, red lips and red cock, to add to Michael's pleasure however he could.

"Why don't you ever moan?" James murmured in Michael's ear as Deepak kneaded his shoulders.

"Kids'll hear," Michael muttered.

"Your kids know what you and wifey are up to. But why don't you moan here? When you're with me?" James persisted.

Michael didn't answer.

"You can moan when you're with me," James whispered, kissing Michael's ear.

"Turn over," Deepak said, lifting the sheet.

Slowly, reluctantly, Michael did. His cock was fully engorged. Deepak dropped the sheet below it and began to stroke Michael's hard belly with both hands. Michael's cock trembled, balls stiffening. Deepak's stroking wasn't quite massage-school technique, James knew. This particular caress came from the rent boy playbook.

"I wish you'd let Deepak get you off," James said, lips brushing Michael's ear.

"I want you. I trust you," Michael gasped, looking at him. It was true. Something in the other man was afraid of being jerked off by a stranger, though James couldn't imagine why.

"He won't touch you if you don't want it," James said, shooting Deepak a glance to make sure they were on the same page. "I thought this would be fun for you. Something different. And I'd enjoy watching you lose control."

"You would?" Michael came out of himself for an instant, focusing completely on James. And James felt his cock dribble in response, aching for the release he found so difficult to accept.

"I want to see you spurt. Hear you moan," James said. Fastening his mouth on Michael's ear, he began kissing and tugging with his teeth even as his right hand seized his own cock. Deepak had Michael in both hands, working him brutally, pulling mercilessly. Michael's breath came faster, turning into gasps, and when he tried to stifle himself with a hand he couldn't bear it. Fascinated by the sight, James's own hand pulled frantically, squeezing, hurting, feeling too good for words. Michael's eyes opened suddenly, locking on James's, and it made all the difference for both of them.

"Next time you'll fuck me," James said. "You'll fuck me so hard, I'll shit myself because I can't hold it in. Because you're too much for me..."

"Oh God," Michael cried, pumping like a volcano.

"Michael," James whispered, squirting onto the carpet. Making the other man come with dirty talk was easy. More problematic was how much James wanted everything he imagined to be true, at least in this moment.

***

Deceiving Frannie was unexpectedly simple. Since embarking on her romance with Ambien, she never noticed if Michael got in late on Friday nights. But after his third "adventure," as he thought of each occasion, Michael decided it was too hard, rushing back to the suburb lightheaded—not to mention sore-cocked—just to please a snoring wife. There had to be a better way. A way that wouldn't cause Frannie or the kids undue anxiety while allowing Michael more time with James.

James didn't think much of the Nautilus, so for their fourth encounter Michael booked a room at the Hilton in Green Park. He rang up James to deliver the news. To Michael's great satisfaction, James let out a happy squeak. Reeling off the amenities in a deadpan voice, Michael imagined James's expression.

"Twenty-four hour room service... state-of-the-art climate control in all rooms... bathrobe and slippers..."

"Where have you been all my life?" James sounded incredulous.

Michael tried not to take James's delight too personally. God only knew where the young man lived or how he kept things together from day to day. Half of Michael insisted James's personal life wasn't his problem. Theirs was a simple transaction, old as the human tribe. But Michael's other half, the researcher and author of textbooks, saw no harm in learning more about James. Knowledge, like truth, could never be a bad thing. Michael believed that completely, even when his belief led to pain. And knowing more about his employee might even make their adventures more satisfying, if he could get up the courage to ask.

"So what do you want tonight?" James asked.

They still had their clothes on. Michael was in an armchair. James was on his lap, arms around Michael's neck, jeans-encased buttocks rubbing along a strengthening erection.

"Intercourse."

James made a show of pretending to misunderstand. "Right-o. Me inside you," he said, even as he pressed harder with his rear—up, down, and up again.

"Me penetrating you." Michael kissed James slowly, tracing his bottom lip. He had grown more comfortable with kissing. Apparently it wasn't about technical perfection, like an Olympic gymnast's parallel bar routine. It was about warmth, wetness, closeness.

"Fine." James pushed down his jeans. Tonight he was commando beneath them, all erect penis and bare buttocks. He started unfastening Michael's belt.

"Not here."

"What do you mean?"

"Not in this position. Woman on top. I don't like it."

"Pardon me, mate, I'm no woman." Gripping his penis, James waggled it at Michael.

"Sorry. Partner on top," Michael said hastily, embarrassed by his slip. "Can we move to the bed?"

"Oh, we can do whatever you like, love." James flashed his high-wattage smile. Michael hated when James quoted from the Book of Rent Boy, but he did adore that smile. Even when it was patently false, inspired by free cable and a breakfast buffet, something inside Michael lit up in response.

Tonight Michael had brought his own condoms, an American brand that would actually fit him, not go on like a tourniquet. He'd purchased extra lubricant, too, which he spread atop the condom. Stomach clenching excitedly, he straightened when he was ready, on his knees with his penis in hand. James shifted onto his elbows, buttocks raised.

"Go on," James encouraged over his shoulder. "Don't make me beg."

Slipping two fingers between the other man's buttocks, Michael found James's anus and began stroking it gently. As Michael imagined, it was exactly the same color as James's penis. Somehow that confirmation was so erotic, Michael felt his own member jerk, pre-ejaculate forming on the head. For the last few days all he'd fantasized about was penetrating James, holding him from behind and thrusting for hours, for days. Trying to slow his breathing, Michael did his best to enter the other man's rectum with great restraint, going extra slow as James shook with suppressed pain. But when Michael looked down and saw his penis half-buried—when he heard James gasp, saw those white buttocks clench—he couldn't hold back.

"I'm sorry," Michael panted as the semen shot out in a humiliating rush. "Sorry. Sorry."

He stripped off the condom. Crossing the room to the bathroom—
en suite
, this was a Hilton after all—he flushed the prophylactic away. Then he soaked a flannel in warm water, added soap and brought it back to James, along with a dry towel.

"What are you—oh." Catching his breath, James smiled as Michael slipped the moist flannel between his buttocks.

"I know it only took me thirty seconds," Michael said stiffly, still embarrassed, "but I made a bit of a mess." As he spoke he shifted to the dry towel, kissing James on one round, firm cheek. Then Michael returned to the sink, washed his penis, scrubbed his hands, and dried himself thoroughly. When he returned to the bed, he found James nude and lighting a cigarette.

"Take off the rest of your clothes," James said, pulling back the covers. "Get in with me."

Michael obeyed. He got under the soft white sheets. It felt good when James slid his arms around him.

"You liked fucking my ass."

Michael nodded.

"The more you like something, the harder it hits you. You'll last longer next time."

"But I don't want this to just be about me." Michael knew the statement was absurd but he couldn't keep it in. "I want you to feel something, too. Even if you can't have an orgasm, I want to please you."

"I know, love. You're generous. It's one of the things I like about you." James's fingers moved lightly through Michael's hair. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"The hair around your cock is ginger. Your roots are ginger. Why do you dye your hair and moustache brown?"

"Because ginger hair on a man isn't masculine."

James snorted. "Says who?"

"Everyone. I was teased from my first day in school till I graduated. It was like walking around with a bullseye painted on my back."

"Excuse me. Ron fucking Weasley is a ginger."

"Who's that?"

"Oi!" James's eyes narrowed. "Pull the other one, mate!"