So I was on my own, with a serious need to be secretive. And I had to do it before Vance could figure out I was humoring him. Keep him off-center. So what’s the best way to do that?
Have a party.
Invite him. The boys, to see if they’re still pissed at me. And Nicky, through his agent. See if he’ll join us. Get to know him. And work my way into his circle to figure out the best path to his ass.
But I needed a good reason for the party, so I made it in celebration of Stevie’s show. Not a launch party; just...a show of support and joy. And also get to know him, better. Even if he brings his wife. Especially if he brings his wife. See how she feels about his extra-marital shenanigans. I’ve done a few revenge fucks against husbands and boy-friends, on behalf of women I know.
My first being Ryan Orriagio.
He was the brother-in-law of a friend of mine from high school. Tanya Delamar. The only cis-gender student on campus who not only didn’t give a shit about my being queer...or anyone else, for that matter...but actually backed me up whenever some jock or mean girl thought they could use me as a punch line to their fucked up jokes. I mean, she didn’t suffer any fool gladly or politely, so while my freshman year was nasty, by the end word was out...leave Garrett alone unless you want hell to rain down on you.
We maintained contact, even though the rest of her family was not exactly me-friendly. I was a groomsman at her wedding to Martin Armstrong (the epitome of a kilt-wearing Scotsman in the Ewan MacGregor mold), godfather to both her daughters and son, and trusted her without hesitation to manage my investment portfolio from an office in her house.
Her younger sister, Teresa, got married the moment she finished college to charming and devastatingly handsome Ryan. Her words, not mine, which even at the time I thought were on the overblown side. I wasn’t invited to the wedding but got told all about it by Tanya.
“Half an hour for the ceremony,” she said, “ten minutes of which were spent with her kneeling before the Virgin Mary’s statue. Probably trying to talk herself out of making a mistake. An hour for full mass and communion. Six hours of wine and pasta. Two fistfights between groomsmen. A lovely argument between the mothers-in-law. And to top it off...fucking Ryan smashed cake in her face. Five hundred bucks of hair and makeup, gone in a flash.”
“Grounds for annulment,” I’d said.
“No argument. Fortunately, the wedding photos had already been taken.”
She showed them to me and damn, he was good-looking in what I’d gotten to calling a Chicago-boy kind of way. Mid-twenties. Intense mixture of Irish and Italian blended into features that looked good from any angle. Body by workout; nothing natural about that form, though in a tux that did not matter...
Tanya’s sister was pretty but not a gym bunny, like him. Just nice and normal-looking in an elegant satin gown, with dark hair and sharp eyes accentuated by the excellent makeup job. Which he deliberately ruined with the cake. If I’d been her, I’d have cut his throat with the knife. Especially since I got the feeling he thought he was out of her league.
Two years later, Tanya found out he was fucking around on Teresa, who by that time and gotten over her charming and devastatingly handsome husband.
That’s where I came in. As Tanya so sweetly put it, “If that little fuck wants to fuck around on his wife, I think we should show him what fucking around is all about.”
Seems she had become friends with a feminist writer who’d posited that any man who cheats on his wife is really too scared to acknowledge that he’s really craving to be butt-fucked. As already noted, I think all men are gay, deep down, so no argument from me on that. Meaning, when they asked me to show Ryan what he really wanted, I agreed without hesitation.
So Teresa kicked Ryan out and he did not want to move in with his parents. They not only lived on the opposite coast, they were so disappointed. Though I think his father was more upset that he got caught than anything else. Which his mommy realized and, according to Tanya, damn near kicked daddy out, too.
Ryan wound up in a hotel on Century, by the Airport. Then Tanya told me the day Teresa and he would be in the hotel’s bar to discuss the situation, about eight. I got a room, there, then made sure to stroll in fifteen minutes after them.
They were in a corner booth, more shadows than light, with him in a cotton shirt and suit pants while she wore a light, flowery garden dress. They were already into one of those low-key bitch-fests that was getting nastier and nastier, because she wasn’t swallowing a damned thing he said.
I moved to the other end of the bar in hopes of not hearing them, because I still had memories of my folks’ snarling, low-key arguments. Dad blaming mom for ruining his life, over and over. Mom spitting back he was an idiot...and few other choice names. I’d stayed out with friends as much as possible and crashed on their couches more times than I can count. Which was why I’d felt strongly about Ben having issues at home.
But I could still hear Ryan’s words of excuse, and I caught on pretty quick he was just another one of those fuck-around guys who thinks his wife ought to be glad she’s his cum-dump, once in a while. Man, he was trying every straight-boy-bullshit trick in the book to get her to get over it...She meant nothing. I was drunk and lost control. If you’d taken better care of me right I wouldn’t have to. Yeah, right, like it’s her fault he can’t keep his dick in his pants around other women.
Total bullshit.
It started to grow vicious so the bartender stormed over to snap, “Hey, calm it down or I’m callin’ hotel security!”
Teresa just yanked herself away from Ryan and stormed off, casting a lovely snarl of, “Get all your things out by Friday or they’re going in the lake.”
He sat there for five minutes, scowling into his drink...some kind of whiskey on the rocks...before moving to the bar. I noticed he’d bulked up a bit from his wedding photos, his brown hair was cut to style, and his skin was tanned to gold. His shirt tail was tucked in, no belt, and his well-crafted legs filled his pants and very fine ass perfectly, while his hands had never seen manual labor, they were so cared-for.
That’s when I started things rolling with, “Wow. Women.”
“Yeah,” was all he said.
“I know how wives are. No matter what you do, it’s wrong.”
“No shit,” he whispered, then finished his drink. But he didn’t move to ask for another one or leave the bar; he just stood there, staring at the ice in his glass.
“You stayin’ here?” I asked.
He nodded. “I thought a couple days away would calm her down. No such luck. She got to talking. Her friends got to talking. Her sister...”
“Oh, shit. That’s the end of it.”
“Yeah.”
I quietly shifted one seat closer to him. “That’s what killed my first marriage. Her friends; she only had brothers.” I pointed to his drink. “What’re you havin’? On me. Looks like you could use it.”
He looked at me, a little surprised. “No, that’s okay.”
I raised my own glass and smiled. “Expense account.”
He almost smiled. “Never hurts. You staying here?”
I nodded. “Missed my flight.”
He nodded. “Okay. Bourbon and Coke. Thanks.”
We made more chit-chat. Nothing of real importance except that he was a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He was doing well, from the cut of his pants, and when she’d threatened to sling his clothes in the lake, she meant Silver Lake reservoir. Not high-tone, but not cheap, either.
We commiserated about wives and women and the horrors of life, insofar as self-involved assholes like to see it, then he said he’d had enough and said his good-byes. But Ryan was pretty unsteady as he started for the door, so I politely told him I’d see him to his room.
You see, I’d slipped a roofie into his last drink when he went to take a leak. Not a full one; I wanted him to participate and it not be too obvious that he’d been drugged.
As we left, I caught the bartender casting me a smirk. I winked at him...and he just grinned and turned to another patron. He wasn’t bad-looking in that bear-cub sort of way. I’d have invited him to join us, but I got the feeling he was happy that Ryan was being...oh, let’s just say, tended to, and I wasn’t big on three-ways, at the time. Especially not with a drunk who didn’t know what he was about to get into with a guy who was about to make sure he got into it.
Ryan was on eight, in a corner room with two double beds and a great view of LAX. I’d had to get a suite on an upper floor because nothing else was available and it was last minute and yap-yap-yap. But the fact is, everything was going to happen in his room. Because I’d brought a roll of packing tape with, so for sure he wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop me.
So he got his door open, muttering the whole time, “I can’t believe I’m this wasted.” But when he turned to say goodnight, I set my phone to record, pushed against him, kissed him and we spun inside.
It took him a moment to realize what was happening, which gave me a chance to get a good feel of his nice round ass. He tried to push me away, gulping, “No, I...I’m not. I don’t.”
I just shoved him onto the bed, his eyes half closed, his pretty lips gently parted. He shook his head and tried to get up, but I fell onto him, wrapped my left arm around the back of his head then gripped his chin to hold him in place as I kissed him, and used my right hand to grope him.
He was a boxers kind of guy. I could tell by how everything rolled around under the mauling by my fingers. I hoped he was a grow-er, not a show-er, because his dick wasn’t all that big. But his balls were fat and full.
He squirmed and tried to push me away, so I grabbed his wrists, flipped him onto his belly, pulled out my tape and bound his hands behind him, using the sleeves of his shirt to buffer it.
He started to grunt and was close to yelling, so I rammed his face into a pillow to give me time to pull out my bandana. Then I shoved it between his lips before whipping tape around his mouth. He could still grunt and sort of yell, but at least he was a lot quieter.
That's when I molded myself onto him. Crushed my solid dick against his bubble-butt and nibbled his left ear.
He was still slow on processing what was happening, so he only sort-of twisted and grunted out, “What you doin’? I’m not...I don’t...”
I rolled him back over and yanked his shirt up over his chest to hold it across his neck, jolting him into silence. He had a nice belly, flat and solid with hair fanning across it. And his pecs were so nicely formed, with perky tan nips caught in swirls of hair, they were begging to be sucked. So I dove in and shifted from one to the other, still recording.
He started gasping and his voice grew louder despite the gag. “No, no, no, what you doin’? No. Stop it!”
I grabbed that pillow and shoved it over his face. It muffled his voice enough for me to say, “Shut up or next time I won’t take it away.” I lifted the pillow and he looked at me with horrified eyes.
That made the beast in me howl for joy.
I slipped my hand down his treasure trail to tickle his pubes and feel the base of his dick. He tried to kick me off, but he was too drunk and doped up to work out the logistics. So I rose up, straddled his legs, yanked open his pants and pulled them to his knees then whipped the tape around them to secure them.
He wore tight plaid boxers and they looked glorious on him, having shifted down just enough to show a salon-made tan-line. His golden brown thighs had a good shape to them, more light hair whispering across the skin. I loved how it tickled my fingers as I caressed them up to his crotch, then I felt him up through the thin plaid cotton, rolling his dick and that pair of ready balls softly as I dove in for some more tit-nibbling. I got a lot of it all on my phone, including as his grunts became involuntary groans.
Straight guys are so stupid about sex. They think they’re always the ones in control, and they have to be in the mood or want it for someone to get it from them, when sometimes all it takes is some focused encouragement and a reminder that a mouth’s a mouth and fingers are fingers and sometimes a guy knows how to use them better than a girl does.
I proved it by drifting my fingers along his sides and over his hips and across his crotch, tickling and caressing his pubes through the boxers’ opening and dipping my tongue in to add to the sensations and even using my breath until he was so hard, when I pulled the brief boxers down his hips, his dick sprang up as if to say, Ready when you are, buddy.
Yeah, he hadn’t gotten much longer but he had gotten fatter, and his head was crisp and at attention. The shaft curled up, a little, with its veins elegant around it and circumcision scar a near perfect circle a third of the way down.
The video of it was lovely, as were the stills.
I licked him then kept my fingers busy tickling his pubes and balls and shaft as I shifted up to whisper into his ear, “I just want to suck you off. That’s it. You cum; I’m done. Okay?”
He didn’t nod or shake his head or anything, but his dick was definitely in agreement. I kissed my way down his neck to his tits to his belly button to his pubes then surrounded his head with my lips and he jolted and tensed and almost twisted away from me, but a few quick licks and strokes and a bit of milking the balls and he started staying stock still.
I didn’t keep at him steady; I’d take moments to sit back and admire the look of him as his dick fell back into a forest of hair that spread out from his dick and up over his groin. His balls hung low and peeked through the fly of the boxers, adding to the perfection of the picture.
I used every trick in the book to bring him up to the edge...then I’d stop, just before he was ready to explode. I’d play with his nips some more, and run my hands over his thighs and hips and body, making him squirm from the sensations.
Edging can be lovely torture at a moment like this, so I kept it up for an hour, kissing and licking and sucking and fondling and milking and caressing and tickling and holding and stroking and doing it all, again, before I went long and hard on him and let him grunt and buck and push hard against my tongue and fire a stream of cum into my mouth that was so sharp and sudden and massive, I nearly choked.
I backed off and manipulated him into firing straight into the air, a good foot. Twice. Falling back on his belly and chest. Man, he was loaded.
And looked even better when I slo-mo’d it on my phone, later. Wow...
I kept stroking him with my right hand and flicking his tits with my left as he grunted and whined and almost wept from the overwhelming sensations. He didn’t notice I was doing this to keep him from seeing I had undone my pants and maneuvered a condom onto my own dick.
Then before he could regain his senses, I yanked him to the edge of the bed, rolled him onto his belly so he was kneeling over it, yanked his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, slathered some lotion onto the condom, slid some lotion into him with my middle finger, making him both gasp and groan and...
I pushed myself deep into his ass.
Sharp and sudden and fast.
Shit, he was tight but oh how perfect he felt...and that’s before he realized what I was doing. He started to twist and scream that he was hurting, but I whipped my right arm around his throat and my left arm around his chest to pinch his right tit, hard, and snarled, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll break your fucking neck.”
He shut.
And I fucked him long and deep and slow and steady and with complete joy, until he was weeping.
Shit, the feel of his ass against my own pubes...it was heaven. Every push in was electric, and every pull back was exquisite. I was in no rush. Took my time, even as he began whispering, “Please, soon; soon, please,” over and over.
I kept it up for probably thirty minutes before I pumped faster and faster and finally let myself go and filled the condom with everything I had.
And nearly passed out from the overwhelming beauty of it. Glorious rivers crashing through me. Exquisite and all-encompassing and filled so completely with the meaning of life.
I collapsed on top of him, still inside of him for another five minutes. He whimpered steadily, not making any sense in his mutterings, not even trying to fight me, anymore. I owned him, completely, and the beast in me had been fed to satisfaction.
Finally, I slipped my hands around to pinch at his tits, and I snarled, “That’s what happens when you fuck around on your wife, punk.” Then I pulled out and stood up to take a long look at his glorious ass before finally put myself back together.
Last thing I did was cut off the tape and head back to my room.
I didn’t stay the night. Dropped my key in the box, had valet bring my HRV around and went back to my apartment, then uploaded the video I’d recorded onto my laptop. It was so great watching it, again, I jacked off. Twice.
Nothing ever came back on me, pun not intended. No cops. No telling anyone. Nothing.
I gave Tanya a copy of the recording, but I got the impression she never showed it to Teresa. Didn’t need to, really. She and Ryan got divorced, and he moved back to New York, then no more word of him
But I got a couple of referrals from Teresa and her feminist group, only one of which I turned down because the second I saw him I knew he’d been part of the queer brigade and she was just pissed that he was returning to it.
I thought about turning my experiences into a script, but Vance laughed the idea.
“No one’d believe it,” he laughed, ”because shit like that doesn’t really happen.”
I’d only mentioned it in a vague, roundabout way. I didn’t bother to fill him in on what I’d done, in reality. My guess is, if I told him now, he’d cut me off...or start managing me.
And I’ve come to realize the latter option would have been the worst.
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