Manhandled (29 page)

I smiled knowingly and settled comfortably into my end of the sofa. He was certainly straightforward enough. “I suspect I
can guess, sir,” I told him.

He blushed. “Well, there is that, of course. But what I wanted to do was get to know you a bit. The real Max Molloy, as it
were.” I noticed his accent now that we were alone and I wasn’t suffering one shock after another. There was no burr to his
speech at all. It was pure Oxfordian— something one would expect from Buck House or the highest levels of the civil service.

“Get to know me, sir?”

“Iain please, Max.”

“In what way do you want to get to know me… Iain?” I asked, sitting back up and placing my drink on the end table. King’s
Cross was far behind me—four years and a million miles away. I’d even forced myself to learn to speak English so a bloke didn’t
have to listen hard to understand me. Max Molloy was not one to take strolls down memory lane—especially his own.

His Lordship took a long draught of his whisky and set it down before facing me fully. He took a deep breath and tried to
smile. He didn’t succeed; the tension that had sprung up between us was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“First off, I became infatuated with you my first year at uni. Your first video, I think.” He blushed. “Your body, Max.” He
chuckled to himself. “I was a horny young lad then. It kept me buying each new video you made. I bought the foreign-made ones
in Holland or France during school holidays.”

He pushed himself off the sofa and began to pace slowly. “After Father died, something changed. I became obsessed with you
then,” he mumbled barely loud enough for me to hear him. “You were the new constant in my life once he was gone.” He stopped
his pacing and faced me, a guilty smile on his lips. “It had become more than just a sexual attraction for me. I wanted you
as a friend, as someone I could turn to, someone I could hold and be held by. I wanted you as a lover.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about what this young nobleman was saying. I liked his being such a fan, of course— my contract had
called for a percentage of sales the last two years. But I wasn’t naive: I’d made two movies in America, and I knew all about
stalkers. Earl Inverness had resumed his pacing, and I wasn’t watching him as he circled behind his desk and stopped.

That Hinckley bloke had stalked that actress before he shot Ronald Reagan. And some madman had killed another actress outside
her flat. Another had killed John Lennon. My countrymen had a tendency to take on the worst American habits, as well. And
here I was in the wilds of Scotland—alone with a bloke who admitted to being obsessed with me. Part of me was beginning to
wonder if I would be alive when the time came to return to London.

“You want me to be your lover, Your Lordship?” I asked slowly, unable to completely believe the possible mess my agent and
I had got me into. I looked up then and saw him standing behind the desk, studying me.

His hand darted into an open drawer, and I was quickly staring down the barrel of a pistol, pointed at me. My eyes crossed.

Iain Campbell smiled angelically. “I’m going to have you as my lover, Max. You’re never going to leave me.” His smile widened
as he rounded the desk and approached me, becoming beatific. “On your knees, lad. We’re going to seal our love forever with
your swallowing my cum.”

“Don’t do this, My Lord,” I mumbled, even as I was slipping my arse off the sofa and getting to my knees before him.

“Open my kilt. Take it out. I want you to get to know my prick well.”

My fingers fumbled nervously at the front of his kilt, but I could feel what was under it. It was hard and demanding. And
long and thick. I almost forgot that Earl Inverness was holding a pistol to my head.

Shagging with a beautiful man the likes of Iain Campbell would be a real pleasure—he was as lovely as any lad I’d invited
into my bed in the past three years—as long as I wasn’t seeing that pistol aimed at me. I unbuckled his belt and quickly pulled
the tartan down. Anticipating what they would find, my fingers made short work of that job.

I sat back on my haunches, and as the wool slid down over his buttocks, my gaze was momentarily glued to the thick tube that
jutted out from his pubes.

My fingers touched the smooth translucent skin of the flanks, pushing his loose shirt up onto his chest as my tongue found
his deep-set belly button and began to rim it properly. My hands moved slowly onto his back and followed his spine down to
his arse as he pulled his shirt over his head. My lips followed his treasure trail down the front. They traced the width and
length of the piece of Scotland that now thrust past my cheek so proudly. My hands still gripped his ass cheeks.

His ginger pubes tickled my nose, but I couldn’t get enough of the smell of him. My tongue guided his cock-head past my lips.
“Take it, Max. Show me you want it. Swallow it!” he whispered from above me.

Wide and thick, his helmet pushed deep into my mouth, entering my throat. My hands gripped his ass cheeks as I pulled him
into me. I wanted all of him. I wanted to taste him. He moaned above me and began to pump my throat with his knob. I took
him past my tonsils, letting him possess me as I fumbled to loosen my jeans.

Iain Campbell was beautiful. He was a work of the finest Celtic art. His cock was more manly than most men could hope theirs
to be, and at this moment it was mine. My lips finally reached his pubes; all of him was inside me. My lips retreated until
I could wash his cockhead with my tongue, then went down again until my nose pressed against his smooth belly. His ball sac
began to tighten, his bollocks closing in on his rod, threatening to ride it.

He pulled away, his hand holding my head so my lips couldn’t follow him. “I want your arse, Max,” he said hoarsely as his
dick left my mouth with a plop. “Get naked.” I looked up, following his smooth, wide chest to his eyes and hoping mine showed
my longing for more of him. “I want to see this bum of yours.” He chuckled. “I’ve paid enough for it.”

I stood up and pulled off my shirt as my jeans hung open at my hips. Iain stepped behind his desk and opened a drawer. I sat
down and shoved my jeans and white briefs to my knees; my prick was drooling precum. It was now so hard, the loose skin had
pulled back and was snuggled hopefully behind the flare of its helmet. I lay back on the floor. “Take them off, Iain,” I told
him as I lifted both legs toward him and reached for my dick.

He smiled down at me and pulled off one of my shoes, then the other. A moment later he had my jeans and underpants puddled
on the floor behind him. He tore open the condom packet he’d brought over from the desk. I watched him unfurl the latex across
his bell-end and roll it down the shaft, pushing his foreskin before it. We were both filled with lust. Nothing else mattered
now. I wanted him inside me. I wanted to feel him making love to me. I smiled wantonly and spread my legs wide in invitation.
I began to wank slowly and cupped my bollocks as he got to his knees beneath me. I was a bitch in heat and Iain Campbell had
the goods to raise me out of my need.

I felt the cold metal of the pistol in his hand as he lifted my left leg onto his shoulder and turned my head so I wouldn’t
see it. “Put it away,” I groaned up at him. “You don’t need it. I’m yours,” I told him, and emphasized my words by putting
my free leg on his other shoulder.

He started to lean into me, his hands on each of my thighs and his wide helmet beginning to press at my back entrance. I smiled
at my little victory.

I gasped as his cockhead entered me, and my eyes flew open. I watched him watching me as his hips pushed his dick ever deeper
into my bowel. I reached between us and found my prick pressed against his belly. I began to pull on it as his face moved
slowly down toward mine. I allowed myself a smile; Max Molloy was learning about Iain Campbell. He was the best lover a man
could have.

I raised my head off the floor and our lips met just as his pubes began to scratch the underside of my ball sac. His tongue
slid between my parted lips and dueled mine as I ground my bottom against his crotch and felt his dick touch all those spots
deep inside me that make me whimper and want to melt.

“You’re a good one, Max Molloy,” he whispered as he pulled away from the kiss, his lips tracing my jaw back to my ear.

“Shag me good,” I growled. “I want to feel you in me. All of you. Make me yours, My Lord.”

I felt his pole begin to retreat through my bowel, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness. The nerves at my entrance longed to
hold him in me. Instinctively, my sphincter tightened around his latex-covered width. I grunted and began to wank in earnest.

He began to slide in and out of me, tickling my sphincter and massaging my prostate. I began to fly. Mindless pleasure coursed
through me in waves. I thrust up to meet each new stroke, and I groaned my pleasure up to him. Iain chewed at my earlobes
and nibbled at my lips. His tongue slithered down my neck onto my shoulders. His hips flexed as he moved in me. I moaned,
floating on the sea of pleasure building throughout my body, and bucked up to meet his red-thatched crotch each time it neared.

He bit one nipple hard, sending me over the edge. Orgasm erupted within me, cum splashing onto his chest and neck as he teased
my nipples, and still his prick moved steadily in and out of my arse.

Pressure began to build inside me, whipping up the pleasure and excitement and need that was sex into a storm. I grabbed his
flexing hips between my legs, forcing him even closer as I surrendered to the eruption from my bollocks. My cock stayed hard
as it bounded across my cum-coated belly. His lips found mine and we kissed with my pole caught between us, riding our bellies
as he continued to fuck me. He pummeled my arse, and I knew I would never get enough of this.

His tempo changed and he pulled away from our kiss, his breathing labored. His thrusts quickly became short and fast. He was
pounding himself into me. I could feel my bollocks again riding the shaft of my prick. I smiled as he moved against me, his
body covering mine; we were going to cum together.

He pulled out of me hurriedly, sitting up on his haunches even as he pulled the condom off. My cock erupted as I watched him
wank once… twice….His muscles tightened, his mouth opened in a soundless scream. A rope of jizz hit my shoulder, another the
center of my chest.

He took a breath, then another, then collapsed on me. My arms went around his shoulders and I held him close as our breathing
began to return to normal and the hottest sex scene I’d ever done came to an end.

Jordan Baker

I
suppose this should begin with something like “It was a dark and stormy night”—but it wasn’t.

It was a glaringly bright New Orleans afternoon. The heat index was somewhere above 110 degrees, and the humidity was so high
I felt as if I were breathing steam. My briefs were soaked in sweat, and I could feel them clenching my balls tighter with
each step.

That’s the problem with New Orleans in the summer: Everyone has terminal jock itch and a bad attitude. You can find yourself
punched in the jaw because your facial expression slipped at a crucial moment in a discussion.

I was in no mood to be around people, so instead of sitting quietly in my air-conditioned office, I was out wandering amid
the masses on Decatur Street.

The hustler I was shadowing was mildly amusing. He was too young and inexperienced to realize I was following him. To be honest,
I don’t think he’d have noticed a marching band trailing along behind him over the din from his Walkman. Twice he almost stepped
into traffic before his peripheral vision kicked in and he pulled back.

He was, as my old mentor might have pointed out, a type: young, blond, pretty in a feminine way, and totally self-absorbed.
Slithering in and out of the crowd with practiced grace, he never seemed to notice the people he jostled his way by.

When I first spotted him, the kid was dancing at an intersection. He wasn’t performing for tips. He wasn’t doing street theater.
He quite simply wasn’t aware that he was on a public street and began moving to the music.

If someone were to tell him there are people in the world, the kid would be amazed.

He made me when we walked into the pet shop. The fact that I’d followed him into four different stores finally got through
the mist of his consciousness.

Grinning, I tipped a friendly salute and scooped a large studded dog collar and chain leash from a Peg-Board by the register.

“What kind of animal do you have?” the clerk asked.

“A chicken,” I said, allowing my voice to carry the proper distance.

“Sir?” she asked.

“It’s a rather large chicken,” I said, leering openly at my mark. “About a hundred fifty pounds, I’d say. I fancy chicken
from time to time.”

The towhead pulled a face and slipped by me as I pocketed my change. He wasn’t sure yet whether he should be worried or complimented
by my interest.

Frankly, neither was I.

He was walking faster now, no longer window-shopping or pausing to dance at intersections. In fact, he’d lost the Walkman
altogether by the first intersection. Instead of dancing, he was bouncing from one foot to the next, mentally willing the
“Don’t Walk” sign to fade.

The adrenaline would be flowing now. There was no doubt I was following him; all that was unclear was my motive. I was big
enough and scary enough that he didn’t want to risk finding out. I knew what I looked like to him: 220 pounds on a 6-3 frame,
nearing forty, enough of a beard to look older. I had the potential to be dangerous.

To give him a nudge, I smiled warmly and reached out my hand as I caught up to him on the corner. He recoiled from the handshake
as if I’d offered him a cobra, then turned on his heels to race down the street.

I caught up with him a few moments later in a blind alley. In a way, he was almost cute, pressing his back to the wall, shifting
his eyes about frantically in a pantomime of the trapped animal.