Manhandled (7 page)

Then, I was back. I cried out in rhythm to the pounding I was getting. Cherry juice spilled freely from my aching fuck slit
as the handyman’s cock dipped repeatedly into the pool my pucker had become. The built-up pressure in my fuck cavern was steadily
relieved as he screwed the juice out of me. Juice that refused to be forced farther into me and leaked out from all sides
of his jackhammering cock. My pucker was slobbering all over itself. The handyman was hell-bent on torturing my swollen ass.
He would tickle it ever so gently with his fingers as he rammed deep inside me, and then follow that with unmerciful open-handed
slaps. My fist wanted so badly to grab my cock and beat the jizz out of it.

The coffee table I was tied to and stuck under seemed ready to collapse as it was shaken by the handyman’s weight. It creaked
and groaned as loudly as I did as he came down on it with his stomach, pumping into my upraised ass. His bulging thighs ricocheted
repeatedly off my butt, driving me into the ground while a mess of gooey liquid attempted to paste our flesh together.

And then the handyman vacated me, ripped off my blindfold, and was standing in front of me. He yanked off his condom and tossed
it across the room, then leaned over and undid one of my wrists. Without hesitation, my hand went for my cock. I began tugging
furiously on it while the handyman did the same to his cock… which was poised before my upraised face. I did my best to lap
at his dick and balls as he reached over the table and dug two, three, and then, unbelievably, four fingers of his other hand
up my ass. His fists seemed unable to distinguish which was doing what job, so both worked briskly. He slapped away at his
cock while nearly his entire hand gave my asshole—and particularly my prostate—an agonizingly deep tissue massage.

I thought I was going to bust a gut as I came. His cock was smacking me inadvertently across the face as I let loose with
a stream that had my asshole clamping down on his fingers. I thought this finally reminded him that this was a
person’s
asshole he was tearing away at, because his hand stopped, but actually he had merely gotten distracted.

My eye got the first gusher. Then his hot cum streaked across my face, covering my lips, clogging one of my nostrils. He screamed
out a bunch of expletives in sync with his expulsion.

When at last we both finished, each of us panting, me with my throat sore and hoarse from so much guttural expression, he
dropped onto his back on the sofa bed and blindly reached for my other bound wrist and undid it. I crawled out stiffly from
under the table and used a nearby leftover from my jeans to swipe most of the cum from my eyes, nose, mouth, and cheeks.

I dropped face-first onto his chest, completely spent, and breathed in his now-pungent sweat. His chest heaved up and down
and carried me with it. At last, I found the energy to look up at him. He looked down wordlessly at me.

“You’re a fucking bastard!” I griped.

And there was that charming, slight smile at the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t felt nothing yet.”

He brought his face toward mine and began sucking some remnants of cum and cherry juice off my bottom lip and chin.

Karl Taggart

I
didn’t tell him I was a writer until after I’d fucked him and even then wasn’t totally honest about it. He was a well-known
literary critic; I was a pornographer. Match made in hell.

At first I didn’t realize who he was. He’d turned from the bar to survey the room and caught my eye. Slim, elegant, dressed
in dark slacks and white turtleneck jersey. Graying hair, high forehead, cerebral look. He was incredibly handsome. He had
an aristocratic face, the kind you’d expect to see in some English country manor or maybe the House of Lords: high cheekbones,
sharp chin, everything sculpted, perfect, but still the hint of softness that age brings. Not always unwelcome, I’d found,
especially in guys like this. I knew instantly what he wanted and moved in. He bought me a drink and got his hand onto my
crotch, groping until I was hard, tracing the length of my cock, rubbing it along my thigh.

We took a cab to his condo in that burgeoning area of San Francisco called South Beach. It was there that I found out who
he was.
Holy shit
, I thought. He’d said he was Jason but a glance at his bookshelf told me he was Jason Falk. Recognition hit full force. My
cock went limp—along with the rest of me.

He offered a drink and I took it, downed it quickly while he undid my jeans, got his mouth on me. As he licked and pulled,
I savored the feel but found there was something between us—that reputation of his: literary predator. He had destroyed more
than one up-and-coming writer.

I’d had no idea he was gay. I knew him only by his penetrating essays and scathing reviews, watching as he deconstructed everyone
and everything he encountered. Sexual orientation, even now, seemed a minor point, but here he was sucking dick like the rest
of us. Suddenly human.

Who he was soon mattered little. When he had me hard, he rose and stripped. He had to be a good forty-five, but it was a well-maintained
middle age. Only the slightest thickening at the waist, a smattering of gray in his pubes. His chest was smooth, nipples dark.
Not a particularly muscular build, but trim. His foreskin was ample, cockhead concealed, his balls riding low in the sac.
The sight of him made my cock twitch.

“Fuck me,” he said when he stood naked. No kissing, no prelims, just an overpowering need. He led me to his bedroom, pointed
to a bowl of condoms and a jar of lube, then crawled onto the bed, got on all fours, stuck his rump up at me. He reached back
and pulled open his cheeks. His hole pulsed at me.

His hips were narrow, the kind I liked; his crack nearly hairless. I stripped, then ran a gob of grease into him and he moaned,
squirmed, started riding my fingers. When I pulled out he began chanting “Fuck me,” and I did it, shoved my prick into him
and just kept going, thrusting full out from the very first. He started a kind of keening sound and I could tell he was absolutely
gone, that life for him was a dick up the ass, fuck literature.

I made things last. Every time I felt the rise, I eased up, which caused him to squirm and moan and beg. It was apparent that
he liked to be ridden hard. When I’d pick up the pace he’d squeeze his muscle with approval, let out a groan.

Twice I added lube, enjoying the sight of his gaping hole. He got a hand on his dick now and then but didn’t do any stroking.
Everything was about me doing him, him taking all I could give and still wanting more. When I finally let go, I made it known,
pounding him until his butt cheeks were red and liquefied lube ran down onto his balls. I let out a verbal stream as well,
him still doing his fuck-me chant, me doing a fuck-you back at him, louder with each squirt until I could have been screaming,
who the hell knew at that point.

When I pulled out, he rolled onto his back and pulled his legs high, the ultimate presentation: stiff cock dripping precum,
asshole dripping as well. He was breathing hard and I knew he was ready for the grand finale. I shoved two fingers into him
and with my other hand grabbed his dick and started pumping and it was at this point that I again thought about who he was.
The world saw him as inviolate, the almighty critic, judge, jury, and executioner, but I knew the reality. He let out a cry
as he came, eyes closed, head pushed back into the pillow. His cock—substantial, uncut—shot big gobs of jizz up onto his chest
as his entire body shuddered through the climax. Afterward he lay inert, silent. I simply watched.

“Karl, wasn’t it?” he said finally, eyes still closed.

“Yes.”

“What do you do for a living, Karl?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I like to know something about the men who fuck me.”

“I’m a writer.”

The pause was significant, and I wondered if he thought I’d orchestrated this to get into his good graces, manuscript concealed
somewhere in the heap of clothes on the floor.

“Indeed,” he said. “What do you write?”

I’ve never been ashamed of what I do, am quite proud actually, but at that moment, with that man, it wasn’t the disclosure
I wanted to make. “Novels, short stories.”

“And are you published?”

“Yes. The stories, not the novels.”

“Any I might have seen?”

“I doubt it. Small magazines.”

“But you persevere.”

“Yes, I persevere.”

“Good.”

Suddenly I couldn’t resist telling him, “I didn’t know who you were at first.”

“And you do now?”

“I caught a look at your books when we came in.”

“Ah, the essays, yes. Bit of a giveaway. Not a problem, is it, fucking the critic? Every writer’s dream, I’d imagine.”

He rolled over onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and studied me, hand tracing my nipples, stomach, then getting down
to my cock. “Magnificent,” he said as he petted it.

When I began to harden, he crawled down and got me into his mouth again, sucking fiercely, as if we’d just begun. He got a
hand onto my balls and worked everything until his face was flushed and sweat beaded across his forehead. He pulled back and
said, “I need so much more. Can you stay?” He licked the tip of my dick for emphasis.

“Sure,” I told him, and I pushed him down onto my cock, made him take it until I was ready, then got him onto his back, got
his legs up, and made him wait while I pulled on another rubber, lubed my dick. The sight of him like that intoxicated me
and I knew I’d stay as long as he wanted, maybe longer. The best thing about a writer’s life is there are no hours. The only
thing I get up for is a good lay.

“Fuck me,” Jason murmured, more to himself, I thought, than to me. I’d enjoyed a few pig bottoms, but this guy’s energy was
a different kind of relentless. I got the idea this was all part of who he was, that maybe after destroying people on paper
he needed to do penance in bed—get reamed over and over after he’d undoubtedly spent the day doing the equivalent to someone’s
life work. I found myself aroused by the opportunity to issue punishment. After all, how many writers get to fuck a critic?
I let my dick hover at his hole, poking around like some anteater looking for a meal. “Fuck me,” Jason said, louder this time.
He held on to his cock, which remained soft, and kept his legs high. I could tell he loved the position— abject, submissive;
stark contrast to the man on paper. Literary top, sexual bottom. I smiled as this ran through my mind and, in acknowledgment,
pushed my cock into him.

We kept it up for hours, drinking and fucking until dawn came, then falling into a heavy sleep. When I awoke I had no idea
the time and was alone in the bed. I got up, washed my face, wrapped a towel around my waist, and went to find Jason.

He was at his desk, clad in a green silk robe. He typed steadily, even when I came up behind him. “Have a good sleep?” he
asked, fingers still hitting the keys. I knew how that was, how you can get words lined up in your head and carry on a conversation
while still typing, nothing able to derail you.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“A review of the new Fleming book. I started it yesterday, then went out instead and met you. I must get back to it.”

“Is the book any good?” I’d read all of Tony Fleming’s novels, thought them wonderful, looked forward to the new one.

Jason sighed, stopped typing, and sat back. “He’s done better.”

“You liked his other work?”

“Not particularly, but at least it was coherent. This new one is an exhibitionistic jumble, the kind of peacock display that
gives literature a bad name.”

I put my hands on his shoulders, dug my fingers in. He squirmed with discomfort. “You must let me finish,” he said, and put
his hands back on the keyboard. I let him type a couple lines, but the thought of what he was doing stirred me. My cock was
filling, and as he pounded the keys I slid my hands down inside his robe and pulled it open.

“Karl.”

“That’s enough criticism for a while.”

“But I have to—”

I pulled the chair from under him, which sent him to the floor. There I held him down, stripped away the robe, rolled him
onto his stomach, and stuck a finger up his ass. “You don’t have to do a goddamned thing,” I growled. As I lubed him with
spit, I thought about fucking him until he expired, obliterating that anger he vented on us, venom fueled by his own inadequacy,
because critics were usually failed writers who’d turned.

“Karl, please,” he said, as if there were a struggle taking place when in reality he lay waiting, pucker twitching in anticipation
of his punishment. I pulled open his cheeks, stared at the eager hole, and he said it again, “Please,” but this time the plea
was there, he wanted his penance. He had to be taken.

“You want me to fuck you,” I said, and he uttered a long, high-pitched moan, then turned around and stuck his ass up at me.
When I made no move, he pulled apart his cheeks, worked his muscle so his hole opened and closed like a fish mouth. Still
I waited, and he worked his own finger over to his rim, played around, then went in. “You need a dick up there, don’t you,
Jason. You need fucking in the worst way.”