I don’t know how long I stayed like that before I was able to make myself rise, slow and in stages, then stand up like someone drunk or stoned. I looked around, lost, then down at him. My cum was smeared into his chest hairs and his cheek and chin. Confusion and shock filled his eyes. His dick gleamed from his semen. His thighs were spread just enough to let his balls drop and his torso curved just a little and — and the whole image grabbed me so right I fumbled for my phone and took yet another photo of him. And another. And another. And another. From every angle I could think of.
Then finally I stopped, drunk on the images of him, and used my briefs to wipe myself off, my hands back to shaking.
I knelt beside him. He wouldn’t look at me. I rolled him onto his stomach. Pulled the hoody up and away to reveal the whole of his elegant back. There were three Japanese characters in a column down his spine. A perfect line that looked just right. I ran my hands down them then shifted the remains of his briefs away from his ass. Oh my God, it was so lovely. The skin so smooth and clean. So perfect even with the dimples of soft scars on his right one. I caressed it. Kissed it. Slipped my fingers along his crack, making him squirm. Lay my face against it. Heaven’s pillow. But did nothing more. Something within me refused to even consider violating this exquisite part of him, as if it would be a desecration of what we’d just experienced.
He finally twisted around to look at me, his eyes hurt and wary. I think he suspected I still meant to make use of his perfect ass so now he was waiting to see just how much of a father-fucker I’d be. And the truth was, up until now once I’d fucked the target of my inner-beast I’d just wiped myself off and left. So I couldn’t understand why I’d set out to own this man but wound up being owned by him. I felt — shit, I felt close to him. Felt tame and at rest. The beast was curled up and sleeping — and something in me said it wouldn’t reawake. My soul had shifted a little, which scared me.
And brought me nirvana.
I looked back at him, my cheek still against his butt, and stroked his smooth skin. My voice shook as I said, “I’m not gonna. I’m not. You were perfect. You were — all I needed and — and — ”
I began to weep. I couldn’t stop myself. Everything just exploded over me like this had been a religious experience and the only sacrifice that seemed appropriate for the moment was my tears. Through them I could see him frown at me, even more confused.
I didn’t blame him.
I made myself rise to get dressed ... but I had to make myself remember what comes after what. Pants, first — no, briefs. Wait, not the briefs; they go in your briefcase. Ha, briefs in my briefcase. And with his still wrapped around his right leg. His right hip. His. Already torn. He can’t use them, anymore. Did I want them?
Yes.
I knelt beside him, again, and tore his briefs completely away. He clenched and jolted but he couldn’t do more. I ran my hand over his exquisite ass one last time and kept weeping as I slipped both his and my underwear into the briefcase. I made myself pull on my socks then rose to button my shirt. Oh, and shoes. Good idea to wear your shoes. My tie and suit coat joined the briefs.
I didn’t look at him again till I was done and in better control of myself. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were focused on a dirty blank wall. I knelt down, rolled him onto his back, sat him up and tried to pull the hoodie back down over his shoulders, but it had also torn and was ruined. Damn, probably the only clothes he had to work in. Then his cell phone fell out of the hoodie’s pocket. It was smashed and turned off. I started to weep, again.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to do that. I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t respond. I looked at his face. He had a thousand yard stare going on. Probably in shock. That hurt me.
“What’s your name?” I gulped.
Still no response.
Of course. He was still gagged.
Idiot.
I dug his wallet from his pants. It had a UK Driving License in it with his photo. Reginald Brewster Thornton of Twickenham. Twenty-six years old. Born September third. There was also a photo of a pretty English girl and four young children, the oldest maybe six. The only other things in it were an Oyster card, an ATM card and some pound coins in the pocket. I pulled six fifty-pound notes from my wallet and stuffed them into his.
“I — I hope this will help replace everything.” I leaned him forward and used my nail clipper to cut a bit of the tape around his wrists. “Now you can get free. Once I’m gone.”
At least that made him look at me. His expression was so lost and childlike I straddled his lap and held him close, tender, like a lover. I nestled my face against the right side of his neck and drew in a deep breath of his scent. Nothing foul or unwashed but manly and human, and to add to my confusion I whispered to him, “I know you’re straight. And I’m sure this is freaking you out. But we don’t have as much control over our dicks as we think. A guy can get any man to have an erection and ejaculate, no matter how into girls he is. It’s a physiological reaction, that’s all. Don’t let yourself get lost in confusion. Please. I only needed one thing from you. And I took it. And I — I mean it. Don’t let it become anything more than that.”
He gave a vague sigh.
God, I did not want to leave. I wanted to keep him with me. My fingers ached to dance through the hair on his chest and belly down to his groin. My lips screamed to brush over that creamy skin. I wanted to remove the gag and kiss him, deep and with meaning and be with him like this, forever. But it wasn’t possible.
It was nuts to even think it. Hell, maybe I was fucking crazy.
I held him for a few more minutes, breathing him in, feeling the strength in him, loving that he had owned me for these few minutes, then made myself get to my feet, grab my briefcase and leave — letting the door remain open as I went.
I vaguely remember some kind of commotion on the streets. Blue lights flashing by. Sirens wailing. People watching and talking. I pretended to pay attention ... but in reality I ignored it all.
I’m not sure how I made it back to my hotel. I must have got back on the underground and got off at Hatton Cross and walked, it’s so close to the station, but I don’t remember doing it. My mind was lost in trying to figure out why I’d never felt this kind of connection with my previous conquests. Why I’d been so shattered by it. I looked at the photos on my phone. Okay, he was definitely good-looking but not what I would have called male model perfect or even godlike in any way before this. And yet ... he was beauty personified. I ached for him. And for the first time I was both happy with what I’d done and horrified by it, if that can make any sense. I mean it, the encounter had been exactly what I’d dreamed about and given me absolutely everything I’d wanted and I was overjoyed about it, but I was also deeply ashamed that I’d forced him to participate.
I didn’t undress. I just flopped on my bed and fought to keep his scent on me. I savored his sweat and the awareness that his cum was still in me. I draped his briefs over my lips. Held my phone over my heart. More than once I came close to returning to that house to see if he was still there. See if we could repeat what had happened. I don’t think I slept; just wandered in and out of a lonely dozing haze.
I was back in control by dawn — which was well past seven. The chaos gone in my head. Feeling more refreshed than I had any right to. Ready to face anything. Since my plane wasn’t till one, I set my photos to downloading into my laptop and took a long leisurely dump followed by just as leisurely a shower. And as I washed my crotch I smiled in remembrance of caressing him there. And when I washed my ass my heart jumped at the thought of him having been inside me.
Which still amazed me.
I wasn’t hungry till I remembered I’d skipped dinner, so I paid a ridiculous price for an English breakfast and two cups of coffee and checked out. Since I’d already turned in my rental car I had the hotel call a taxi; I didn’t have time to mess with making sure I got the right underground train to my terminal. A black car zoomed right up and I slung my bags in and followed it without a thought, saying, “Heathrow. Two.”
Then a pair of rough no-nonsense men in suits piled in with me, one on my left, one on my right.
“Wait, this cab’s — ” was all I got out before the chubby guy to my right held up a police ID.
“Robert Devlin Pope?” he asked, obviously knowing damn well who I was.
Before I had a chance to do or say anything a third man sat in the front passenger seat and looked back at me. It was my underground guy, dressed in crisp navy slacks, black Polo shirt and a fake black leather windbreaker, looking a thousand times better than I remembered. My heart exploded with joy ... until I realized his eyes were hard, cold and touched with hate as he said, “That’s ‘im.”
And my world froze.
