Date: Mon, 12 Nov 2018 07:32:49 +0100
From: s <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: Story : RICK HOWMAN - PART TWO

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RICK HOWMAN - PART TWO

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RICK HOWMAN - PART TWO

His back was long, athletic. His buttocks tightened as he ran. He
disappeared indoors with a shout and glanced back through the glass with a
cheeky grin as I heaved out from the pool. I gave hot fast pursuit,
impatient and breathless, furious with lust, the hair on my body, sodden
like a dog, dripping great dark shapes of wet that obliterated his on the
patio surface. As I raced, my big balls were hitting my thighs, and my
erection slapped from side to side, hurting and uncomfortable.

I almost slipped. So did he, as he ran past the first sofa; so he seemed to
realise the game might get a little dangerous and allowed my arms to catch
him; my hands grabbed his slippery smooth skin; I heaved him onto the
second sofa where I straddled his chest and triumphantly teased his face
with the sight of my balls and the triumphant tower of my prick. He looked
past it at me, laughing and out of breath. His eyes were alight and
beautiful. I felt him raise his knees behind me, so I leaned back and
rested my buttocks against them. We let our fingers intertwine
playfully. Our flattened soft bellies went up and down as we caught our
breath. When we were both calm he laughed and said, "So what now?"

I was about to raise his legs round my neck, noticing now how his abs, the
lines on his stomach, were as regular as a map of New York. I just loved
that. I watched the tiny convoluted navel for just a moment too long.

"Got any music?" he said.

"Music?"

"Yeah. Some nice music. Where's your music player?"

He struggled to get up. I had to allow it. I stood and stepped off,
pointing at my hi-fi - a screen console embedded in bookshelves. He went
over and stood in front of it, naked bummed - tight skinny cleavage
lickably smooth, tan line where his shorts had been; strong legs, slightly
bandy. Cyclist legs. Narrow chest - I could see now: A cyclist
physique. Very nice. Tight as you like! Strong spine. Strong neck. Lots to
admire as he stood, leaning a hip, stroking his abs, scrolling the
playlists.

"Here's one."

'God, he's going to start dancing,' I thought. The sight of his naked body
was killing me.

He selected gentle choral music. Palestrina. That surprised me.

He turned and smiled. "Relaxing?"

I knodded, leaning back into the cushions, letting my rock hard cock do all
the talking.

He didn't move from the console, continuing to scroll for ... I don't know
what for. Was he frightened?

I sighed, rolled out of the cushions, stood, and walked towards him, his
naked back. "I'm surprised," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders,
poking him hard between the cheeks. He turned once more back to face me. He
had lost his hardon, a bit. It banged against mine.

"What?" he said.

I hugged him, I hoped reassuringly. "Your choice of music. It's relaxing."

"It IS relaxing, innit?!"

"Yeah ... but, how old are you? 25? 26?"

"I look younger than my age."

"I look older," I said

"So we're about the same then!" he concluded, and scratched my chest hair
affectionately.

"Gee thanks for the compliment!" I said.

"No ... you know what I mean. I ..." He smirked.

"Time to stop talking," I said, and kissed him, as he tried to speak. I
forced my mouth on his. He looked surprised. I turned him round, gripping
his hard smooth body under my palms. I knelt, pushed his buttocks apart and
drove my tongue in - resisting the urge to play with myself. He moaned,
Supporting himself with one hand against the bookshelf, reaching behind
with the other to touch my head. The crack of his arse tasted of clean pool
water and smelt of fresh chlorine. The bud opened. He moaned. I tasted his
insides. Sweet chocolatey - 'Christ. What does he eat?' I thought.

He knew I was readying him. "Please don't hurt me," he pleaded, but I knew
he wanted it too much to hold back. He wanted it no matter how much it
forced him.

"Time to stop talking," I said.

When - and this where I lose my self-control - that's when I dragged him
down to the floor and lay him on his back on the Indian rug and pushed his
legs apart and fell between his thighs and fucked him til he was completely
broken.

I fucking swear the fucking sweat was fucking pouring off me. And I
realised I was trying to please him; with my fat prong jabbing his cunt I
was trying to see that need awaken in his eyes - the need for me that would
make him mine. I could feel him tightening and yielding. I could see on his
face, and the way he abandoned his own hardon so that he could grab his
knees and lever them apart, making my access easier and deeper. I was
forcing myself on him but he wanted even more than that.

When I knew I was deep within him I asked, "Can you feel it?" but when he
did not reply but shut his eyes and bit his lip I knew he could, and I
drove it harder and more urgently til he moaned and seemed to be begging it
more. "Can you feel it?"

He cried out and dug his fingers into my shoulders, opening his mouth to
kiss me. His eyes were shut tight all the time but when he opened them they
were completely empty, like he wasn't seeing.

That's what made my use of him such pleasure - punching his anus with my
prick. It frightened me and excited me that he didn't scream or try to
fight me off, but lay on his back, spread open, supple stomach folded up,
absorbing my assault, moaning, before folding his arms round my neck and
releasing me to fuck him harder still.

-I --&& --hhh

When I'd cum, I lay on top of him while still inside, pumping. He didn't
move. His heart was racing. So was mine. As we calmed down he started to
shift. I had to tighten my grip, remind him.

"Not yet," I whispered, "I'm still ... Usually by now it's gone, but it's
still flowing. Can you feel it?"

He didn't respond but lay motionless. Still my cum draining into him,
filling him like a fuel tank, eventually, I felt it soften. I let it fall
out dripping between his legs.

When I knelt up and prised his legs apart to look I saw the gloopy dribble
of my white stuff filling the skin crack. I Put my lips in there and licked
the soft hot crevice. Drinking my own cum from his anus excited me
enormously. He moaned with pleasure and laughed when I'd finished.

"Some people have such depraved lives," he said, "living like animals."

"Don't they just?" I smiled, tugging on my foreskin and licking my lips.

He loved it, writhing his body beneath my face.

Nevertheless what excited me was his masculinity. His big thighs and
calves. His strong back. His arms like tree boughs and his strong smell
that was conspicuously sour and slightly foul. All of this made his
manliness real and his compliance more impressive, palpable, exciting: He
wasn't giving in to me out of weakness but surrendering to me his real
strength.

"You keep doing things I'll never forget," he said. "You were
incredible. How do you seduce people?".

"You tell me," I countered. "You seduced me!"

"As if! I'm the victim here!"

'Or are we both the victims?' I thought.

"Yeah," he continued, "it's just. It's just that ... I feel like. As
if. You're curing me. That's what it feels like."

"You're not a disease!"

"No. Like, you're into me and ..."

"What?"

"Like you're into me. Like you're into me. That's all."

"Oh right. I get it."

"Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah I do know what you mean. I feel the same."

"You do?"

"Yeh," I said.

He looked away, sadly.

"Hey, do you want me to make breakfast?" I said to get away from the
subject.

"It's a bit early for that," he laughed.

"So, stay the night. I make a mean omelette."

"You like breaking eggs."

"I like breaking eggs," I said. "I do like. Breaking. Eggs."

"I like you," he said.

"I like you too."

'Faggot', I thought, like, when I was, driving it into his head - gagging
him and forcing him to struggle for his life - I started to see how useful
he could be as an acquisition, though getting control presented several
challenges. I would have to plan this one very carefully and play the bid
with determination and accuracy.

He was resistant to control - playful - but at the same time, in time, he
would make an impressively determined servant. He might not always seek to
do what I required of him, when I asked, but, crucially, never once
question my right to demand. I could build on that; gradually replacing his
self-interest with a helpless dependency on mine, I would turn him into my
man-bitch. And I would start by spoiling him. Silk underwear. Fancy
food. Trips to restaurants and theatre. The lot. I'd treat him like a
princess until he was ready for the next stage: Increasing levels of
dominance; increasing levels of subservience. Gradually building and
asserting my control until one day - not too long I hoped - I'd be able to
activate him, realising my gains by complete mastery of him as my willing
man-servant and sex slave. It's no exaggeration to say, that I could not
contain my excitement.

After that weekend we met a few times before he moved in.

Was he feeding off my wealth? I was keeping him certainly, but he was
keeping me because I needed to fuck him. With him my erection very rarely
went down.

He always brought me tea in bed first thing in the morning, unwinding
himself from my arms without waking me, and some toast to eat before
fucking him and commencing another day.

I am not a melancholic person; nevertheless, having him in my life gave me
purpose and excitement and an optimism I realise my life had lacked
previously. Even when I was out and about I was constantly thinking about
him, my hardon rubbing against my trousers, making a lump I was half proud
of, half embarrassed by. This was more than just a regular fuck. This was
someone who needed that something more. I was surprised that, by now, he
hadn't already found it.

"Have you had many boyfriends?" I asked, knowing that of course he had.

"Yeah I suppose several. Depends what you mean by 'boyfriend'."

"Well, a relationship that lasts say over a few months."

"Yeah, well, yes, I suppose, several."

"Can't remember?"

He laughed. "Not offhand." (I knew he was lying) "How 'bout you?"

"Not that many. Don't like to be tied down."

"Boys come and go," he said. "The scene can get competitive and people are
shallow. They just want one thing. Then ... ... they up and leave you ..."

"So what are you looking for ... in a relationship?"

"I just want to feel safe," he said. "Someone I can rely on. Someone I can
trust."

"Good in bed?"

"Well ..." he grinned, "obviously there's that. Otherwise what's the
point?"

"You're so shallow," I sniggered.

"And you're not! Everyone is, but everyone wants something better and
ultimately we're all looking for, I suppose, love. Whatever that is."

He looked sad.

I touched his hair.

"You have beautiful hair," I said.

He laughed, kissed me and rolled over on top of me, pinning my arms to the
pillow above my head and opening his legs to sit astride me.

"Are you going to fuck me?" he said.

So I fucked him - or rather, he fucked himself on my hardon until he came
in a squirt on my chest at which I pushed him onto his stomach and fucked
my bucketload into his sore anus. Afterwards he was walking like an
invalid, but held me so tight. And thanked me over and over again.

"You make me so horney. I don't think I've ever been so horney - not since
I was a teenager," he laughed, "but that was different."

"How were you as a teenager?"

"Oh Christ, I was wanking all the time. It was out of control. I'd be
sitting on the bus and rubbing one off! If I saw anything even vaguely
man-like I was off!"

"Hehe. Me too. That's what it's like!"

"Yeah."

We made a terrific mess - constantly having to change the sheets. But it
never occurred to us to make love elsewhere - though we did make love
elsewhere as well: in the kitchen, on the stairs, outside on the patio,
fucking in the pool, or even on the front lawn where rare passing cars
could see us but not in time to register what I was doing to him or he was
doing.

So, I don't know why I said we only made love in the bed ... but, kissing
him gently on the neck, if I woke in the night, stilled me back to
sleep. He moaned angelically if I disturbed him yet murmured "nn'nuth'n,"
if I asked him what was wrong. Once when I woke up he was staring at me,
his wide eyes registering every detail. Immediately I threw him on his back
and fucked him stupid. I don't know who needed it more.

But some guys, some guys never find out; some guys never find it, that
truth. But he didn't need to know, or understand himself. All that mattered
was that I could tell, and I could use it. If I was taking advantage, I was
also doing him a service by taking his burden. For some guys, that burden
is liberty and they are relieved to be free from it. And 'making love' is a
stupid expression for the use I was going to get out of him.

"Here, let me, help you with that," he said, when I was dressing for work
the next day. He handed me my clothes one by one, smiled as I tucked my
hardon into my pants, directing it across and to the right. He looked at it
wistfully and rubbed it with the back of his hand.

"We don't have time," I ached. I buttoned my shirt - he commented that it
was tight on my chest - and he straightened my tie after I had tied
it. Always he was watching, admiring. He helped me on with my jacket. I
didn't need help, but I let him, because that's how I was; I liked the
constant attention, the reinforcement that I was simply more important than
him. I found that fulfilling. And owning him.

Then one day he said, "Tops are stupid," he said, fondling me, "and you're
really stupid," he said, "I know your type; you like to think you're in
charge but you're not."

He stroked his hand all over his hard body, and I noticed that, and desired
it, but, I think for a moment, I was seeing red, because I don't think I
was fully in charge, of my emotions. I was angry with him for trying
insubordination. And angry with him for thinking he could get away with
it. I was angry with him. But it would be funny if I wasn't also angry with
myself. I'd been going gentle with him, breaking him in, letting him do
what he wanted, but that wasn't doing anyone any favours, not in the long
run.

After I'd finished, I mean, once I'd stopped because I had used up all my
anger, I said, "Look," I said, "I really like you but ..."

"Yeh well I know something about you," he interrupted, crying, outraged.

"What's that?"

"I know I make your balls ache. I know how much they ache when you, you
know, want to, you know, shoot all that pent up ballspunk inside of me."

So was I the supplicant? Was I the one in need of him? Was he the one in
charge?

"Don't do this," I warned.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't try to do this. It'll backfire, again!"

He laughed. "Nothing'll backfire. We'll just carry on only now, you know,
you'll know that I know that you're not the real one in charge."

It was a challenge. I mean, I didn't really want to hurt him but you know I
realised then, at that moment, I would have to if I was going to keep
control of what I owned, and him, and, finally (you have to realise) make
us both happy.

Frankly I'm sick of these queens who know the score, who understand the
games and think they can play me.

"Do you think we're going to do this when we're old and grey?" he asked,
angrily.

"Honey, we're not going to last that long. I don't keep my boys for that
long. I get bored."

He looked shocked. "So is that what I am? One of your boys? Should I take
that as a complement?"

"You should take it as a favour," I said, "bitch."

His tears dissolved in laughter.

I looked in his eyes attempting to gain. Mastery. But he just didn't get
it. I struck him, hard, a bitch-slap in the face.

He was angry, and flushed red in the face, his eyes watering and his lip
soft.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but you don't let me ... I can't control ... it. I
can't stop myself from ... doing it. I can't stop myself. I can't
stop. Something is making ... overpowering me. I have to do it. I have
to. I can't stop myself. Do you understand?"

"No. I don't understand. You are in control of this."

"No I'm not. You don't understand. I'm sorry. But this is how it is. It's
going to be like this from now on. You're going to have to ... "

"I'm going to have to what?" he countered, moodily.

"You attempt to gain control of a situation with your cute arse, but you
can't see that you need it so much you're completely ..."

"Completely what?" he murmured.

"You know what you are. You're a faggot. You want it so much, it consumes
you. You're as much a slave to your own cunt as you are to my prick."

He looked down at my cock sullenly. "What's it feel like?" he said.

"What's what feel like?"

"To have that between your legs?"

"What's it feel like? You tell me what it feels like to need it so much you
lose all self-respect and you humiliate yourself to feel it deep up and
you'll do what you do to get it! You'll never know what it feels like to be
what this is. All you'll ever feel is the hunger for it you feel right
now." I patted his buttocks, hot, red; closed my hand on his vent, and
stroked it gently, letting him absorb the truth of what I was saying - like
it was anything he didn't already know. "So, don't ask like it was anything
you could ever possibly understand."

I felt his arse-cheeks clench hungrily onto my hand.

"But you need it too, don't you?" He smiled, like he'd scored a point.

"I can get it anywhere."

"Like Visa!"

"Like MasterCard," I said. He laughed. So did I. That was funny. But I
wasn't being funny.


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END OF RICK HOWMAN - PART TWO