Manhandled (9 page)

“I kept my end of the deal,” I whispered.

“Mm-hmm …” was his only reply.

I backed away, breathless, and leaned against the opposite wall of the doorway. Travis was still spread-eagle against the
wall, his back heaving. In the monochrome moonlight, posed against the decaying brickwork, he looked for all the world like
a Bill Costa photograph.

As I reached to pull up my trousers, he turned toward me. The first thing that caught the moonlight was the rigid shaft of
his cock, so engorged it actually jerked with each beat of his heart. The second thing that caught the light was his face…
and that wicked, wicked smile.

Travis is fast; everybody knows that. You can tell by his feline, feral bearing. But unless you’ve actually seen him move,
you just can’t appreciate it.

He was on me before I could let out even a squeak of surprise, and we fell in a tumble into the open air of the alley. I tried
to say something—
anything,
but his lips silenced mine. His body was heavy on top of me, and I could feel the heat and insistent pressure of his cock
between our bodies. At first all I could think was,
This jacket is CALFSKIN
—and then I just didn’t care anymore.

My eyes closed, and I just let go.

Just as suddenly as he had leaped on me, he was gone. I opened my eyes in bewilderment, lifting myself onto my elbows. Something
yanked my pants down around my ankles, then pushed my knees up to my chest. Instantly Travis was on top of me again, backlit
by the moonlight, which was dim compared with the demonic light flashing in his eyes. I kicked feebly, my legs trapped by
both his weight and the tangle of my pants. Something poked at the opening to my ass. I thought it was a finger until the
sheer girth of it became apparent. I panicked, tightening against it. Travis’s face dropped down to mine, and something in
his kiss said, “Trust me.”

Again, I let go.

Travis’s hands were braced on my shoulders as his cock slowly worked its way into me. I was hungry to have him inside me.
I writhed to accommodate him, but pinned as I was there was nothing I could do to speed the process. His cock crept into me
with the stealth of an assassin and I was powerless beneath its advance. At last I gave up movement and lay still. It seemed
like an eternity, but at last I felt the solid brace of his pelvis against my backside and knew that he had reached his limit.
I felt his cock flex inside me, and I reveled in the fullness of it.

Just as slowly as it had entered, Travis’s cock began to retreat, leaving a void as it withdrew. I would have begged him to
fill me, but I’d forgotten language as such. I simply moaned in distress. When he actually popped out of me, I gave a cry.
Travis laughed low in his throat, then kissed me. His tongue drove itself into my mouth, and just as suddenly, his cock drove
itself back into my body. Soon he had worked out a rhythm, his tongue and cock collaborating to fuck me at both ends. I felt
an uncomfortable pinch in my groin and realized that my stiffening prick was trapped pointing downward. I reached between
us and pulled it free. Still wet with semen, it slipped easily between our bodies. I managed to get in a few strokes before
Travis raised my arms over my head.

I think Travis could have continued until dawn at that excruciating pace, but as if cued from some external source, he began
to increase the tempo of his thrusts. Unable to move my limbs, I focused my movements on my tongue and lips. I was intoxicated
by the slide of his tongue in my mouth as it mirrored the slide of his cock in my ass. With each thrust, the rough texture
of his belly sent a thrill through my cock. Travis broke the kiss, gasping for breath, but the intensity of his thrusting
into my body didn’t abate. My mouth uncovered, I began to cry, to howl. Travis was almost silent, but I could feel the rumble
of a barely audible growl in his chest.

I looked up, and the stars were eyes, looking down on us, and I knew that Travis and I, at that moment, were the center of
the universe—that everything was watching us. The epiphany pushed me over the edge and the orgasm hit me like a tidal wave.
Travis cried out, and he thrust deeper than he’d been before. I felt my bowels fill with the warmth and wetness of him. He
hovered above me, trembling, and didn’t move or speak until his softening cock was expelled from my body.

I opened my eyes to look at him, and found myself frozen in fear instead. Above us, there were no stars—only eyes and leering
faces. Five, ten, fifteen men encircled us. Travis sensed my tension and looked around. He said nothing, simply extracted
himself from my embrace and stood up. He offered me his hand, still keeping a wary eye on the onlookers. I accepted his help
and pulled myself to my feet, feeling foolish with my pants around my ankles, and thinking that I didn’t want to die like
that.

One of the faces stepped forward, and there was a familiarity to him that I didn’t immediately recognize. He looked different
in the night air, away from the strobe lights and smoke machines. It wasn’t until he spoke that I recognized him.

“Um…,” he said. “Can I be next?”

My God,
I thought.
It’s Jamie.

So that’s how I met Travis, and that’s how our little organization got started. Weekly meetings are held every Thursday behind
The Pub. No trouble with the cops because we’ve got two cops in the club. No trouble with the bar because… well, because we’ve
got Jamie.

Jamie liked you enough to tell you to talk to me. I can see Jamie made a good choice, and I can see by the look in your eye
what your answer is going to be, but I have to ask you the question anyway, because it’s club rules. Yeah, I can tell what
you want just by looking at you, but it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t say it yourself.

So here’s your chance. Just ask. What do you really want to do?

Dale Chase and Austin Foxxe

T
he last thing I do Friday night at the magazine is send Darren Davis a copy of the latest issue, which features one of his
stories. As I write his address on the label—22 Alvarado Street—I realize I’ve memorized it, and feel a twinge of pleasure.
I like Darren a lot—even though we’ve never met. Our relationship is conducted purely via e-mail: him the writer, myself the
editor. We’ve known each other for over a year, and in that time a kind of friendship has grown along with our working relationship.
There are lots of writers in our stable, but none portray man sex quite like Darren. Nor do they give it that touch of romance
that, for me, brings it full circle. He’s got a distinctive style, with highly charged scenes full of raw emotion. I always
look forward to his stories, always read them first. Now, I glance at the address and wonder what he looks like, what he’s
up to at the moment.

It’s late when I leave the office. The parking garage is nearly empty and, as I head toward my car, movement in the shadows
catches my eye. I detour from my path and slow my pace, cautiously approaching a blow job in progress. A dark-haired guy in
jeans is on his knees, head bobbing at the crotch of a blond who watches his partner intently. My own dick stirs at the sight,
but then, I’m already primed from reading several of Darren’s latest stories. What Darren started, I suddenly long to finish,
and I move in and let myself be seen. The blond looks at me and, when I put a hand to my package, he nods. My approach remains
cautious, but it’s more to avoid startling the guy with the dick in his mouth than any real apprehension. I pull my cock out
when I reach them and the blond takes hold and starts stroking it while I lean in and kiss him.

We keep at it for a few minutes, a hot little threesome. Then the guy in jeans rises and I’m handed off to him. His grasp
is firm, his hand callused. My meat is dripping now and when he slides his other hand down onto my ass, I let out a welcoming
moan. He prods a bit, then goes down to his knees where my dick waits. He takes it into his mouth and begins to suck, and
I am conscious of little more than my overwhelming need. He works me steadily, and when I withdraw and begin to shoot my load
I see stars—literally—as I feel a sudden impact and sharp pain at the back of my head. My final seconds of consciousness are
spent holding my dick, as if doing so might somehow keep me upright.

I awaken to daylight and concrete against my cheek. I’m cold, and a throbbing pain radiates from the back of my head. The
light that works its way into my eyes is painful. I close them and think of where I am, but have no idea beyond on a cold
floor.

When I sit up my head reels and I think I might vomit. My pants are unzipped, but otherwise I seem intact. I stand slowly,
shakily, and have to steady myself against a wall. It’s when I’ve finally gained a bit of balance that I realize I have no
idea where I am. A few cars are parked nearby. Is one mine? I check my pockets for keys and find none. No wallet, either.
Just me. What on earth has happened?

I find the stairs and end up on Hollywood Boulevard, but know this only from the sign at the corner. Nothing is familiar.
As I watch the light change, I search for where it is that I belong and discover that I don’t know. Threads of panic begin
to tighten around me, even as I tell myself to stay calm, that it will all come back. I reach up to the sore spot on my head
and feel a crusty lump. Have I fallen and hit my head, momentarily jarring my memory?

I sit on a bus bench and try to recollect my life, but all I find is an empty slate. The more I try to remember, the less
there seems to be, as if my efforts are pushing things away. And then I get to the most basic question of all, the one we
never ask: Who am I? It has to be there. You don’t lose your name. I look down at my palms as if the lines might give me a
clue. Nothing. Pure panic sets in then, a chilling wave that makes my stomach churn. I am truly adrift. There are signs everywhere,
plenty of places to go, but none hold reason for me.

I draw my legs up and circle my arms around them, closing into what I have of myself—a body, nothing more. I’m real, I tell
myself. I’m here. Misplaced for the moment, but someone nevertheless.

I have no idea how long I sit there. Buses come and go, people sit next to me, then depart. When I look at my wrist to check
the time, I take comfort because the gesture is automatic, something of the life that has escaped me. The pale stripe of skin
at the wrist makes me realize my watch has been taken, and to finally confront the fact that I’ve been mugged. Hit on the
head, everything stolen, left in a parking garage. There was undoubtedly a car with my name on it, and I watch traffic for
a bit as if I might see myself drive by, but nothing triggers a memory.

The sun is high overhead when I make myself get up and start walking. But to where? I concentrate on that, on finding where
I belong. As blocks pass, a number comes to mind: 22. I look at a building address: 5460. My number is too small, but still,
it has to mean something. I cling to it, repeat it over and over as I wander into a gas station. In the office I note a wall
map of Hollywood. An X marks “You are here.” I look at crisscrossing streets, but their numbers elude me. I go to the bathroom,
pee, then look into the mirror. It’s frightening to confront yourself for the first time, to see yourself as new when you
know you’re not. It’s beyond comprehension. I look away, panic seizing me, then force myself to go back and search the face:
young, dark hair, brown eyes, nice-looking. Maybe 22 is my age.

I finally have to look away, because the mirror can’t give me what I want. I go back outside and sit on a curb, reciting my
number like a mantra. And then, as if I’ve finally gotten past the overture, the rest of it comes to me: Alvarado. Alvarado
Street. I spring to my feet and hurry inside to the map, so anxious that the clerk has to help me. “There it is,” he says
after a search. “About a mile away.”

“Which direction?”

He points me out the door and up the street. “Turn right, then go up six or seven blocks.”

“Thanks. You’ve just saved a life.”