King Perry (42 page)

I hold him, rocking him.

He says, “I don’t know why I’m crying anymore. I’m all broken. I swear I can’t stop.”

“Is it awful?”

“No.” He pulls away and wipes his face. “Unsettling, though. I feel drunk.”

“This may overwhelm you at first,” I say and kiss his neck, “but you’ll grow into it. You have to let king energy pour out of you, like yesterday on the bridge, or when we played in the ocean. I’ll give you a full debriefing on the way back to San Francisco. Short version, though, is that you should plan to get a few massages this week, drink lots of water. Take it easy. I set up a four o’clock appointment with my massage guy out here. It’s paid for, but you don’t have to show up. Totally optional. But he’s really good.”

“Okay,” he says.

Perry sniffs heavily, and his head rests on my shoulder. We rock more, growing calm together.

His hand reaches between my legs and cups my balls.

Wow, that’s nice. Warm.

It’s a nippy morning to cuddle naked on a mountaintop, but one must define cold differently in California than other parts of the world. East coast cold is unbearable. Midwest cold is worse but bearable somehow. Here in Northern California, you bitch about the cold because the weather so often approaches perfect, the chilliness is like a fly in the soup. Plus, cold means shrinkage.

He says, “I could channel it into other parts of life, huh? Like sex?”

“That’s a distinct possibly.”

I pull his head back and kiss his Adam’s apple, a wet, lingering kiss.

He moans, and his cock starts to harden against me.

“By the way, what happened to you last night?” Perry says, pulling back.

I smile and say, “I notice you’ve still got your hand around my nuts. Symbolically, pretty hilarious.”

Perry twists his mouth. “Last night, I could
swear
you said you were coming back. I could also
swear
I heard our van take off. You should have been here, Vin, because before I fell asleep, I was offering my body to just
anybody
.”

“Damn,” I say, grinding our cocks against one another. “Sounds like I missed out.”

He says, “I assume you had to run an errand for a king.”

“Well actually,” I say with dramatic hesitation while stroking his cock, “it’s your fault.”

Perry says, “Of course.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

He says, “I should have assumed I pissed you off because you were the
ideal
weekend boyfriend, Vin.”

“Oh no, you didn’t piss me off. But right at sunset, we talked about onion rings with cheese and sliced jalapenos. So when I got to the parking lot, I started thinking: here I am, standing next to a van, and I know a place with good onion rings. I figured you would
want
me to get some. I mean, last night before you fell asleep, you said that you
loved
me. So, if you
loved
me, you’d want me to get onion rings with melted cheese, right?”

He laughs. “You heard that, huh?”

We kiss more fiercely because we’re damn happy to see each other again.

“I think
jalapeno
sounds like a bunch of letters piling into a beat-up old word to go get tacos.”

Perry leans in and says, “Only to you.”

Fuck, does it feel good to kiss a Found King. Whoever dates him next is in for a surprise.

We break and breathe heavily against each other for a moment or two.

I nudge my knee between his legs and say, “Ready for cello sex?”

“Absolutely. Let’s do it.”

But our resolution takes a backseat to more kissing, more of my massaging his neck.

“You gonna come this time?” he asks during our next break. “I don’t think you’ve shot your load all weekend.”

I nod at my hard-pointing cock, a thick strand of precum drooling toward the earth below. “I believe I’ve blue-balled it long enough.”

“Agreed.”

He eyes my dick eagerly and strokes it a few times in appreciation. “You’ve got a great dick, Vin.”

“Why, thank you,” I say, dipping my head in deference and nodding toward the cello. “Why don’t you grab that and turn around.”

He says, “May I assume there are condoms and lube under a rock somewhere near here?”

“You may. That one.”

He bends over to the nearby rock I pointed out. I can’t believe I didn’t get to eat his ass all weekend. It’s so damn perfect.

“How many rocks in the United States have your condoms and lube under them?”

“Not many. I try to pick up after myself.”

“So how many?”

“Just the U.S., right?”

“Sure.”

“Under ten.”

“
Ten?
”

“I like to travel.”

He hands me the same condom brand from last night and kisses me while I struggle to rip it open.

“We’re really going to do this while I play the cello, huh?” Perry says, turning to wiggle his succulent ass. I love that he’s playing with me.

“We don’t have to.”

“No, I’m game. I had a boyfriend in college once who wanted to try it but we broke up before we got around to it. Trombone majors are the kinkiest fuckers,” he says in a playful tone.

“Turn around. If this goes well, I predict a new kink in your sex life.”

We kiss for a few minutes, front to back, while I stroke his slight treasure trail dipping down the underside of his stomach, and he leans back into me. My cock rubs his butt, the crack, and I feel no resistance in him now, not a jot. Our bodies sway slightly in this protected little enclave of rocks, so we’re not feeling the wind, merely the briskness of morning cold air. Each breath still tastes like crunchy autumn apples.

We discuss the cello sex and decide immediately that the only way this will work is with him sitting, cello between his legs and his ass hanging over his throne, giving me access.

“You lean forward, there. That’s it.”

He leans back, despite my instructions and we kiss, his head on my shoulder. The kiss feels odd, a goodbye kiss perhaps, acknowledging that today brings the last chapter of our weekend together.

He doesn’t have to suck me this morning for me to get hard; my condom-covered dick won’t stay soft in his presence.

I love him.

When we break from our latest and possibly best kiss, I ask in a puzzled voice, “Now, where did I leave off with King Aabee?”

He says, “His death, you dickwad. I can’t believe you killed him.”

“I didn’t kill him,” I say, bending him forward and leaning over him to rub my goatee on his shoulder. I encourage my cock to slip back and forth along his ass crack, teasing him, seeing how much further I can relax him. “The Lost Kings killed him.”

Perry moans.

He pulls the bow across the cello strings, and what crawls out is low and ominous, a wet screech dragging along the earth. He continues a few other low strokes, thunder and despair, sometimes matching my rocking motions, sometimes striking out on their own, a morbid roll call of the lost as we search for a position that will work. Our practice strokes require fine tuning as I figure out how to angle myself so that I can fuck him without knocking over the cello. He continues to play during our warm-up activities, including my caressing more lube right over, ah, there. Sometimes he switches to a high pitch, brittle and steely strings, another flavor of lost.

This music intoxicates both of us, and I drag my teeth over his neck while he strokes out the Lost Kings melody. I believe he invents this heartbreaking tune spontaneously. King energy inspires new life into existence.

I clear my throat and try speaking at a few different levels, a sound check so he hears me and we can both hear this music. Soon we discover that with my mouth right inside his ear, he can play louder than expected.

My cock is slick in his ass crack, and we are also old friends; he remembers me from Friday. As I wedge my dick inside, the music pauses only briefly and then flares into something rich and juicy.

Oh God, he’s so warm.

“A month after King Aabee’s death, a Russian king named Ivan lost his mother to the ravages of age. She died in peace, he at her bedside holding her hand. Ivan missed her terribly, because she loved his flaws before he could bear the weight of them.”

Perry slides the melody into something graceful and feminine, long and swooping, a sound that swivels through the instrument.

I push inside him with slow strokes and my balls confirm that this isn’t going to be a power fuck. Nope. The climax of this tune is long overdue. The heat of his butt around my dick is so beautiful, so perfect, I feel like it’s another flavor of him saying, “I love you.” I hear chords of growing intensity vibrate within each note, an extra urgency. Perry may not last long either.

“This Russian king begged her to come back and let him know that she found his infant sister, two other brothers, his father, and several others important to their family. His misery gripped him hard because he missed them all so eagerly, and he especially wanted to know his mother still smiled upon him.”

A smoky Russian flavor emerges as well, a thick maple sound, which musically, impresses the hell out of me.

“Then one day, Ivan was whistling and eating an apple when—”

I bark out a laugh because honest to God, it does sound like an apple.

“—when he was approached by King Charles the Diamond, a friend who worried about his mourning.”

Perry skips into a Renaissance-y kind of thing, which is oddly perfect.

“Charles said, ‘You look—’ Actually, wait… wait. Perry, scratch that.”

Perry continues playing some elongated notes, waiting for me in musical limbo.

“King Charles the Diamond rode up to the Russian king on his bicycle, quite vigorously. You remember,
The Vicar with Vigor
, my show for the BBC? You got any—?”

Perry strokes his cello as if he’s jacking it; his fingers skate with commanding authority across the taut strings.

Fuck, yeah.

I fuck Perry harder, because Perry is vigorous, the music brags vigorously, and I feel powerful having sex with a vigorous man. Wow, those notes are strong. I punch his ass with the strength of my cock, pushing him upward, and he pushes down.
Fuck.

We attempt kissing over his right shoulder, lips bouncing off one another while I try to distract his tune by tweaking his nipples. But he’s a pro, and the cello continues slicing out thick, rich, gingerbread notes. I grab his balls with one hand and press my other forearm into his upper chest, push him back into my mouth. I don’t understand why some think the top is “the man” during fucking, when most of the time, the bottom must demonstrate more strength, endures a greater physical challenge, and he bears it all for sheer, glorious pleasure. What could be more manly?

Finally, we break and we both huff a few appreciative laughs.

“Thank you, Perry, you scratched an itch I’ve had since Friday afternoon. Anyway, King Charles the Diamond said, ‘Ivan, you look great today.’”

“Holy crap,” Perry says. “How can you just… I can’t… breathe.”

It’s true. He’s huffing, and I’m ready to keep fucking the story forward.

“Practice, I guess. Anyway, King Ivan offered Charles a thick slice of apple and said, ‘Yes. Thank you. I feel much better. I had a good talk with Mother last night.’ ‘Your mother?’ said Charles. ‘How exactly did that happen?’”

I must whisper this next line into Perry’s ear. “Ivan explained, ‘King Aabee arranged it.’”

The music skips into something brighter, confidence underlying the tenor of this new song. He trusts he’s headed in the right direction. Perry pushes back to me and clenches his ass muscles, and I in turn thrust harder. I reach around to grab his cock and find it stiff and rubbing against the back of the polished wood.

I lean in and grip him tighter.

Perry moans in harmony with the cello.

“‘Aabee?’ asked King Charles with surprise. ‘Are you sure?’ Ivan was completely sure. After all, he heard Aabee’s flute.”

“Technically,” Perry says, “it wasn’t… exactly… a flute….”

This makes me laugh hard, and then Perry laughs, and while he laughs, the cello jerks and the strings bounce under his bow. My cock falls out, but it’s okay, because I hold a man I love, and he holds me and a cello, which he also loves.

Oh good lord, I’m in a three-way with a cello. Well, we’re fucking inside a surrealist scene painted roughly twenty-five years ago, so it’s probably de rigueur.

Do not start with
de rigueur
.

I push my cock back inside, and we’re instantly back in our rhythm. All three of us.

“King Aabee’s visit was confirmed two weeks later, by an older king, one in his eighties who missed his autistic son, many years deceased. He missed the smell of his son, the way his son rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, and those elusive half hours of perfect coherency, which used to nourish this old father for months at a time.”

Perry’s cello warbles out some silver notes, heavy with age and grief-won wisdom.

“The aged king showed up for work at the DMV with homemade blueberry tarts, giving them freely to all who came in to pay fines. The tarts celebrated an unexpected visit. ‘King Aabee arranged it,’ the old father told everyone, excitement in his voice. ‘I got to see my son.’”

The music booms with grace, strong old notes, regal and Victorian.

“You must understand. The Found Kings had frequently wondered if they could somehow access the great love from the next life to help recover Lost Kings. Many times, they discussed the possibility amongst themselves, making plans with dying men who promised to send a sign once they crossed over. But no king could figure out how to return from Death’s realm.”

My grip around his cock shifts gears, tightens. I make sure to graze his fat cock head with my index finger, the delicate spot where the pink knob touches the shaft. He moans and pushes back; I fuck him deeper and faster. Keep it together and keep your voice even, Vin.

Getting close.

“Everyone came to understand, after more sightings and the reports of strange music whenever such a visitation occurred, that King Aabee had found a way.”

Perry saws off a triumphant note.