Authorial Accountability and Ass

Authorial accountability and ass

Daniel ‘D.R.’ Restin’s best, if somber, friend found the single-story house’s front door ajar. He put away his key and entered. Looked around. Once in the living room which doubled as a study, sounds were heard overhead. Rather than venture to the attic, Jonas Quail settled his bony body into a well-leathered armchair to wait.

As he sat, Jonas pondered the thumping from above, jumped at an abrupt crash, sighed heavily as the thumps returned, and continued his wait. Given his friend’s proclivities, he ruminated on the priority at least one had been given that took precedence over a scheduled meal together.

There were footsteps. The front door closed behind someone.

D.R. strolled in naked, drenched, carrying a towel. A nod in Jonas’ direction, he appeared – Jonas thought – molten. He rubbed himself with thick, white Egyptian cotton material. Muscles, still tensed from the action upstairs, dissolved under his sweat-streaked skin. Once toweled, his body returned to its normal, strapping, nuanced definition. He sat opposite his old friend. Relaxed, he felt expansive.

“Looking back,” he began, “I now see that what you believe counts less than what you do.”

“You mean, the you is you,” longtime friend Jonas Quail corrected. “Is this about what you and some lad were doing in the attic a while ago that made so much noise?”

“He was willing enough, at first. I tongued his balls, went down on him, gave him fits. Showed him that a minor package such as his is as true to its purpose as a major one such as mine.”

“If I weren’t looking at it, I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Jonas, you’ve seen my heavenly endowment plenty at the gym.”

“I have, and sweaty, too, being dried by one of your towels – but those times it was less tumid.” Humorlessly succinct, that was Jonas, always. D.R. was the loquacious one.

He could be brief, as his next remark showed: “I always have a slight erection.”

To these men, intimate disclosure was nothing new, although it had to be pried from Jonas by D.R., for he tended to keep to himself the astonishing intensity of his orgasms with partners, his newest in particular. The good fellows had known one another for nearly two decades. Both wrote.

Jonas, a novel to his credit and a new one in the works, specialized in plots of derring-do. They involved ‘real men’ (sometimes spies, counter-terrorists, assassins) in distant, sexually-stimulating settings such as the pampas of Patagonia, New Zealand’s rain forests, treacherous chasms in the Himalayas, bamboo huts on stilts offshore remote islands in the Philippines.

In his quiet way, he had been to those places and others and, through discrete contacts, had polished his sexual skills with compliant native men, mature and hopeful. Displays of his prowess occurred in shrouded privacy and were kept to himself.

Unlike many of D.R.’s get-togethers with younger men and teens.

D.R. was reputed as an author of articles on culture – visual arts, music, and literature. Away from public attention, he throve via his belief that every attractive male’s orientation contained desire for personal intimacy with him. Confidence marked his self-presentation, his intergenerational seductions, resulting conquests, and their consequences.

“So, what caused all the noise?” Jonas steered D.R. back. “I presume not your blow-job.” He hoped to get on with the evening planned for their favorite steakhouse, the one with delicious dark bread and limitless sweet butter, steaming baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and apple pie à la mode or multi-layered chocolate cake.

“Sucking’s a base for that other well-known, rather more ascendant behavior, fucking.” D.R. continued in professorial style, “Fucking leads to other behaviors as anyone knows who ought to be past his virginity.”

“Wasn’t he?”

After a slow headshake, D.R. said, “No. The unimaginative twit thought his parts in my mouth were a prize for me.” He spat on the damp towel which then covered his lap. “Where’d that ego come from!”

More an exclamation than a question, the remark cued, “My finger penetrated him so easily that it had to have had but one meaning – he’d was to be fucked. Yet, because he blasted my tonsils in no time at all, he – said his name was Randy, which he wasn’t – he tried to shunt me. Me! Why, his anxiety, like all manifestations of that disorder, had no rhyme or reason to it. He wasn’t being hurt.”

Noticing his friend’s doubtful expression, D.R. said, “Not then, anyway. Nor really when my second finger found refuge in the narrow diameter of his little stewpot.”

“When, then?” Other metaphorical descriptions, exaggerations were soon to come, Jonas expected.

“After a few ragged attempts to fend off my advances, he – Randy – began to thrash around. I had to subdue him, simple as that. Think of a wildly naïve, young dragon confronting for the first time a knight in shining armor. He coiled and writhed, eyes wide, mouth open and ready to spew his first sparks.”

“And you hoisted your knightly spear and ran him through,” deadpanned Jonas, who had known where the story was going. He had heard its like before.

“Not down his throat like Ucello’s or Dürer’s – there’s an idea for next time! – but straight up his butt. God, that was wonderful. Squealed like a stuck pig. Really stoked my furnace. Damn, there’re so many ways to think about it.”

Undaunted by his old buddy’s stoic silence and stone-statue face, D.R. careened again through the alleys of metaphor and simile. “All my storehouse of slag began to come together in my red-hot crucible – to coalesce, you know – as I sundered Randy-boy’s soon-to-be-paradisiacal gate. Forced it wide to welcome my force and, despite the yells of pain, the protests of arms and legs, the assertions of straightness (!), excavated his puny path to highway status before letting him have my Vesuvian lava flow.”

From across the way, a jaundiced eyebrow lifted at the exaggerations.

“The big racket wasn’t us. That came when the bed up there collapsed to the floor, causing my rod (or staff) to jam his innards further than before. Then, I grant, he wailed something awful. Got him in a lung, maybe. OK, so then he needed some comfort. Couldn’t just abandon what I’d fought for so hard – and I mean hard. I rolled him around and over on his weepy face. Slow, long strokes seemed eventually to comfort him. At least he calmed down and learned…”

“Learned what?”

“His place, his lesson. Knows both now.”

“And you know that how?”

“He came twice and promised to come again in two days when,” D.R. cheshired, “I’ll see that he cums again.”

“Was skipping a day because he could get over your brutality?”

“You don’t get it. Randy’s incredibly complicated – and must to be for his sex to work. What I did with him simplified his life – for the moment. A day or so allows him to become complex enough again for me to render my services to him for further simplification. De-horns the hell out of me. That’s why I’m so at ease now.”

With a self-pleased look, D.R. announced his intention to take a shower. “When I’m dressed, we’ll go to dinner. Sorry about the delay. Feel free to use the computer. My password’s ‘starchamp1.’”

Jonas had cribbed the password during an earlier visit, so merely said, “Thanks. Take your time.”

He knew that once in the computer, he could go to D.R.’s security system and view the video of what transpired upstairs. Took the same password followed by ‘abc’ = ‘starchamp123abc.’ He hit the ‘replay recent’ button and leaned forward, touching the side of his nose as if on the verge of learning more reliable information.

Clear black and white, no audio. Absorbing nonetheless.

First up the stairs, Randy looked tallish, quite handsome for an alleged 18-year-old with a baby face. His figure, lightweight, trim. Jonas liked what he saw.

D.R. embraced the boy from behind. A smile began on Randy’s lips, one which showed no uneasiness. While neck kisses were delivered, D.R.’s hands traced his trick’s stomach and slid beneath his belt. Whatever surprise registered on D.R.’s face could not be seen but, from his rummaging, it appeared that little had been discovered.

There was fluster. Was Randy ticklish? Words were exchanged before their wearer removed his clothes, apparently under direction as D.R. pointed. A shy stance was adopted, hands in front. More words.

D.R. knelt, took hold of the boy’s slim hips and, tongue first, engulfed retracted ballsac and extended penis – and seemed to knead them in his mouth. The boy’s head at first stared in wonder, then flew back, hands fruitlessly pushing at his attacker’s head. He shook as if shocked, then fixed in position. D.R.’s rear penetration had found its depth.

A second finger’s entry went unseen.

The tossing head became shaking shoulders – silently intense – before Randy’s knees gave. The sag of his body met the rise of D.R.’s. With a scoop, the fallen one was lifted and flopped to the bed, his rescuer in haste to strip. The reason was obvious.

‘Two plump plums and a long, bulgy cucumber’ came to Jonas’ mind as things not to be contained by a man’s trousers. True to memory, D.R. let fall a mouthful of spit directly to his cudgel’s tip and moved to lift dazed Randy’s limber legs across his forearms. Once skewered, the boy went amok, mouth obviously screaming.

A smart slap to his cheek and another, harder, quelled that outburst as D.R. pressed forward. Realization that escape was impossible effected a simpering flow of tears which his conqueror’s tongue licked away, savoring the salty taste.

A lull – for the comfort D.R. mentioned? Accustomization seemed more like it. Kisses seemed to help, for subtle grindings of D.R.’s pelvic region evoked only wide-open eyes. Arms found their way to his broad-muscled back where they began to knead. Anon, with the motion’s increase in range, the young man undertook to support his own legs, it appeared, to give D.R. more room for movement.

Jonas thought of an old-fashioned steam locomotive slowly leaving its terminal. Wheels driven by connecting crankshafts pumping back and forth ever faster. Gathering momentum and plunging ahead, desire propelling D.R.’s driving piston. The energetic fuck most certainly caused the bed’s collapse, cause of the boy’s painful facial grimace, eyes squeezed shut.

With some shuffling, D.R. could be observed doing what he said – exchanging more words with him. Assuaging doubts about sexual orientation? He maneuvered the boy face down and lay into him with less drive. To restart. Then: Smooth and fluid yielded to an indulgent build-up of passion expressed into the flattened teen with what looked increasingly like anger if not rage. Or was it renewed desire that ‘stoked’ D.R.’s ‘furnace.’ Soon, furious fucking had the boy’s body beanbag-loose in conformity with his treatment.

An object to receive. When his fit hit D.R., it seemed to hit the boy Randy. Tremors – of orgasm? Jonas watched, incredulous.

Equally stunning was the slap the boy received after putting on his clothes and before being shooed out of the attic – because it was followed by a bob of the boy’s head. An agreement of some sort.

D.R. returned as Jonas was switching from the security-camera view to another file. It showed Randy Caine’s photo and a statement of inexperience but of desire “to know what bottoming is like.”

“Ah, nosy as usual, I see.” D.R. was smug, “I figured you’d be curious. He answered my ad. Simple as that. I’m hungry now. Your car or mine?”

Jonas and D.R. drove separately the distance to a franchised place they liked, where people they knew were unlikely to eat. Menu by memory, D.R. surprised by ordering truffle-honey fried chicken (“I’ve had too much beef lately”) and a baked potato, Jonas his alternate favorite, spinach and mushroom flatbread pizza. “Café con leche for both of us,” D.R. told the waitress. “If we stick with it, it’ll go well with our dessert.”

The prospect of delicious dessert brought a smile of Jonas’ serious face. “So,” he looked at his friend’s still-ruddy face, “you’re advertising these days?”

“Yes, even before I embarked on reviewing the new book on Giovanni Antonio Bazzi known, as you doubtless know, as Il Sodoma.  I recall a grand sentence from the text: ‘Surrounded by boys and beardless youths whom he loved more than was decent, he took great pride in his nickname.’ Sorry, I waft into the past rather easily when mellowed out as I am. Anyway, my initial respondents – two only – proved to be dull. Never wanted to fuck them again. Randy’s just right. I had a wonderful time with him. A boy that malleable – ah, what a luxury!”

“Your ad – what did it seek?”

“Here, I’ll show you.” With that, D.R. brought up a screen on his cell phone:

NEED TO FEEL SUBSERVIENT but haven’t dared? Are you a male 18-20 with the ambition to fulfill your fantasy? Have a session tailored to your needs by a no-nonsense sexual master. Call 555-0169 for an interview. Photos may be required.

Jonas’ curiosity rose, “How does all this relate to your pseudo-philosophical observation of earlier this evening, that what one believes counts less than what one does?”

J.D. smirked, “The first two who reached my bed claimed to be what I sought but turned out to be plain ol’ passives with plenty of experience as bottoms. Utterly uninspiring, totally insipid once here, they had lied about their fantasies. Both..were..damn..shams! Not even my best belt got a rise of resistance from either.”

Complimentary dark bread and butter staved appetites until the arrival of chicken and pizza. Between lip-smacking mastication and exclamations of delight, they drifted into reminiscences.

“Remember when Bill what’s-his-name told us about Gene Noble’s whorehouse in Costa Rica, and the fun we had there?” Jonas asked.

“Oh god, yes – in that dump, Puntarenas.”

“You had smooth-skinned Victor and I had hairy Harry.”

“Not before you’d sucked a few aspirants at poolside,” D.R. taunted.

Jonas looked around to make sure no one heard that. “Keep your voice down. Yes, that’s how I discovered Harry was amenable to a screw or two.”

“Me, I just asked Gene which of his boys could take a dick like mine – and got sweet Victor. My, I was romantic back then. Fucked him off and on all night to the sound of waves breaking on that black sand beach just down from us. He loved it when I matched the rhythms of the sea.”

“You weren’t kinky in those days,” needled Jonas.

Assumed modesty caused his dinner companion’s coy, “I was a work-in-progress.” Putting down a de-fleshed drumstick and licking his lips, he said, “Tell me about your current companion.”

Jonas’ turn to be modest, only for real. Braggartry was not natural for him. He took pride in fidelity shared with his younger partner. “David’s nature is kind. He’s both domestic and a good student. For the almost four months we’ve been together, he’s attentive and cooperative. I’m teaching him his way around the kitchen.”

A pretend yawn from D.R. and a droop sideways of his head told Jonas to get to the sex.

“Brought up in the myths of the Catholic Church, he initially feared the sin of sodomy. A single experience in his senior year of high school – with a boy his age, who didn’t use even spit for lube – hurt him. Made him more than suspicious. In fact, fearful. I cajoled David into trusting me. To many hugs, light kisses, touches to his light brown hair, traces of his ears – I thumbed his backmost tissues with my anesthetizing gel.”

“I forgot you use that numbing stuff,” D.R. huffed. “Didn’t you want him to feel anything?”

Jonas sighed, “I’m relating the start I gave him four months ago. It was as if he had an anal stricture. He had to be coaxed to relax and let me in. With persuasion, he knelt at the foot of my bed, torso down, face to the coverlet, arms relaxed and let me nudge into him. The sight was marvelous because of his Minoan-tiny waist and perfectly-formed gluteal flare.”

“Tell me more,” D.R. said in his most honey-toned voice. The reference to Cretan frescos pleased him. The way Jonas had lightened up amused him.

“Finally interested are you? Well, when at last he was mine for the taking, I encouraged him to apply KY to me. He handled my shape with both hands. I pointed to the narrowness of the head, telling him how ready he was for it, and to how it broadened a bit, then tapered – so that, once fully inserted, he’d enclose it comfortably and would finally understand what it was to be loved. Loved the way Nature intended him to be. Enough sweet talk later, he was mine – and has been ever since.”

“How often do you fuc…I mean, make your sort of ‘love’ to him?” D.R. treaded lightly.

“Most nights, before we go to sleep. Weekends, when there’s more leisure, he’s up to sessions of twenty, even thirty minutes now – douching himself beforehand without being reminded. And, so you don’t have to ask, he prefers to be on his tummy only touching himself when I tell him to cum with me. Then he hikes up enough to reach under and masturbate while I drill straight down, evidently knocking hell out of his prostate.”

Jonas’ use of the vernacular, ‘knocking hell out,’ made D.R. notice the burgeoning self-esteem on his friend’s usually impassive face. He signaled their waitress, “Our desserts now, please. Warm apple pie à la mode for me and your double-chocolate cake for my guest.”

As she scurried to the kitchen, Jonas wondered, “Are you treating?”

“You’ve never been so forthcoming, Jonas, so yes, I’m feeling celebratory. Your story has given me a hard-on. When can I meet this David?”

“Never. But I can recommend my former student Bob Critzer, now that I think about it. He likes rougher treatment than suits me to provide. Teaches humanities at Broadripple High, seeks truck drivers on weekends, I’ve heard.”

“Tell.”

 “Bob was with me one Summer. There was no romance. We slept together. I fucked him every night, always with him prone. Eventually, he told me how he was sixteen when his parents agreed to let his cousin, Hank, on leave from the Navy, stay with them. Given his own key, Hank usually went out evenings and came back to the other twin bed in Bob’s bedroom after Bob had fallen asleep. One night, Hank returned early, in a foul mood. He stripped, plopped down, and lit a cigarette. The smoke smell woke innocent Bob, who asked if something were wrong. Hank was frustrated, the girl he’d been priming for a fuck rejected him. As he talked about how he needed a fuck, he was smoking with one hand and jerking off with the other. ‘I gotta fuck,’ he told Bob, ‘or I’ll go crazy. How ’bout it? Will you roll over for me?’ Bob did, unknowing. Hank straddled him, dropped a wad of spit, and drove in, a hand on his young cousin’s mouth so the family wouldn’t hear. He always fucked Bob that way, Bob always cumming as a result. By association, you see, he responds always to being objectified. And he wanted more than he could get from me. When he started going out on weekends and bringing home nameless truck drivers to my guest room, I threw him out.” Then, “Want his phone number? I’ve got it.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-five or -six. Has his Master’s in Liberal Arts Education. You two’d have plenty in common. Say, this cake’s delicious.” Thus unburdened, Jonas made a show of his enjoyment by using a finger to convey from his plate to his tongue a blob of chocolate icing.

Cell phone in hand, D.R. asked for Bob Critzer’s number. Jonas complied, curious. He watched as the number was punched in.

“Have I reached Bob Critzer?...This is Daniel Restin. I take it that you’ve heard of me from Jonas Quail, because I’ve heard of you from him….Yes, that one. I’m vigorous and virile, more man than you’ve ever known. I know how to possess someone of your type and, between my legs, have the means to take your ass from pain-pleasure to pleasure-pain….Don’t worry about that. Show up at my house in one hour – ready. Here’s the address….”

His complexion florid with embarrassment at D.R.’s impulsiveness, Jonas sought something to say. He came out with, “Bob has nicely turned out nipples,” then shut up.

D.R. paid the tab in cash, leaving a tip for the waitress she would remember. The two shook hands and went their separate ways.

Secretly, Jonas counted on being able later on to view the attic camera’s video. A bit of a voyeur, he channeled his thoughts toward how he would take David when he got home. He drove, envisioning himself adjusting the depths and rhythms of his long slides as the smitten student groaned and moaned. He would take David further, by subtle attention to his acceptance, until the 19-year-old pled for more of this, even more of that.

Once their tension drained, he would re-engorge and ‘love’ him again.

As for Daniel ‘D.R.’ Restin, he looked forward to the immediacy of Bob Critzer’s mature ass and to tomorrow’s fight with Randy Caine and to spearing his young ass. He vowed, driving in traffic’s smooth flow, to play St. George to the kid one more time – at least.

Authors, you have seen, explain themselves about and most certainly are accountable for the asses they relish and ravish.

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