Date: Sat, 16 Nov 2019 11:31:12 +0000
From: ^sharper <sharper.inorbit@protonmail.com>
Subject: Story : RICK HOWMAN - PART EIGHT

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RICK HOWMAN - PART EIGHT

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RICK HOWMAN - PART EIGHT

In the middle of a wide street, he stopped to kiss me; I held on to him,
letting his warmth seep slowly through my stretched-thin, skin-tight, black
Lycra shirt, pressing my fingers into him so that he would know I was horny
for him and I didn't care who else could see. He held my head, like he was
eating one of those strange humungous fruit you get in the East. When he
had finished he licked my lips and holding my hand resumed walking down the
street. I did not mind that I wanted the reassurance of my big Indian
friend (my big Indian Master) holding onto me, demonstrating his sexualised
protection. I felt ridiculous and special. Absurd. Exposed. On display like
a prize bull led by the nose. In fact I wondered if Janki would like to put
a ring through me, somewhere, to attach a lead to. Now I liked that idea
too. I liked the idea that he might. What was it about being publicly
humiliated that now turned me on? Because, straight guys stared at me too,
their looks of condescending amusement mixed with blatant contempt. They
stared at my fag clothes and would have attacked me, I felt certain, had
not Janki been there, built like a club bouncer and carrying himself with
the dignity of a maharajah, accompanied always by his cronie friends Jeet
and Tulwar. They could hold their own in a fight. They laughed as well, at
me, I think, because Janki clearly told them off, in their own language,
and they sniggered, but fell silent.

One abusive youth tried, and failed, to block our way. Janki, Jeet and
Tulwar simply barged past him, pulling me in tow. But the guy had shouted
that I was a poof and diseased.

"How did that make you feel?" asked Janki afterwards.

"Bad."

"Bad bad, or bad good?"

(It had made me feel good.) "I don't know," I said; "How do you feel?
You're out on the streets, holding hands with a muscle-mary, all dressed-up
gay, what have you!"

"I'm bringing you out," he said with a grin. "Literally."

That made me so hard.

Jeet and Tulwar were walking behind like, they might not have been with us
at all most of the time. They rarely spoke English and laughed unexpectedly
- obviously at some shared amusement. Sometimes Janki laughed
too. Sometimes he said something angry - which made them crack up. Since I
had been dressing this fag way Janki liked, they had changed the way they
behaved when I was around. They had been sullen, previously, like they
found me intimidating. Now they relaxed, like my opinion of them no longer
mattered. They clearly thought their style was both credible and sexy; I
suppose it was, if that is what you are into.

I thought, "Janki's going to make me wear a lead like I made Baby wear
one." He didn't, but he might as well have; I followed him around whenever
he wasn't physically holding me and he treated that like he expected me to
- not that I should or must, but just naturally that I would do so.

I thought, "This is temporary, or it's a permanent change in my brain
chemistry. I can't tell which. It feels natural and unnatural, like when
your voice breaks."

Jeet was talking to Tulwar. I turned and saw he was staring across the
road, and fondling his pec, like, "Look how large," tickling the nipple and
staring at a fixed point across the road as we walked. They were talking
conspiratorially, watching something. Suddenly he broke into English, "Yeah
but if he's not prepared to give it up he's worse than useless." And then
said something else.

Tulwar nodded, said something, then added, "You can tell."

I wheeled round to see the object of their attention, a fit punk slouching
along the long opposite side of the road. His torn clothes looked
mid-assault. Piercings and tattoos further sexualised his appearance. He
certainly looked up for it. Power bottom. But such guys, perhaps can be
choosy, aware, perhaps, that their sexual availability makes them prey to
all sorts of unwelcome, inadequate or unsatisfying advances. How he would
react to my two conventionally attired Indians ... I could tell: Tulwar and
Jeet didn't radiate sexually. He was looking at me.

I would have had him, in my previous life - so I knew what they meant; he
was the type of guy who promised all kinds of sluttish behaviour on his
gait and manner. I would have loved to have had him sticking like a wet cat
to the leather upholstery of my expensive car. He would give it up,
certainly, if I had decided to have his arse, and he would be so grateful
to lift his legs onto my shoulders, guiding me into his anus with his soft
hand, moaning like a girl, begging to be rammed, teasing himself with the
soft shell of my juices-oozing man rod.

He was looking at me. Even across the road I could see the colour of his
eyes. And in those eyes a kind of confusion, about what I was, this
dressed-up man with his Indian Master. Then he looked away. He glanced
down. Then back. He saw J&T staring at him and, it seemed to me,
immediately realised. He looked away. And didn't look back. J&T laughed and
carried on talking. I heard Jeet say, "Ha. White guys...", dismissively,
like all white guys were theirs to exploit, fair game, built to kneel and
be their fuck pussies. It was a power thing I understood completely from my
own experience. When I scored I had absolutely no hesitation in making them
serve my expectations, humiliating themselves in order to satisfy my
natural urge to domination. Oslo Rules.

Was I being exploited? Why did that make me feel safe? Partly it was the
fact that Janki was only exploiting the part of me that wanted it and
didn't try to take me beyond any ownership limits. He seemed to know
instinctively what I was ok with, and he was ok with it in his turn.

J&T shouted at Janki, again nothing I could understand. In my previous
life, I would have been dismissive of these two. They were physically
unimpressive, whatever gym-work they had done, and uninteresting (assuming
they were not discussing something amazing when they were not speaking
English). But now I felt luxuriously inferior to them and hoped they would
protect me, and had a strange desire to serve them as well. They treated me
with genial contempt, you might say, mindful that I was with Janki, but
also, you know, a white fag. When we all went back to Janki's place, they
sat on a sofa, Janki sat on his armchair, and I knelt down, as close as I
could to Janki's feet. J&T ignored me; I felt good about that. When Janki
phoned out I helped him put the food onto plates and poured out drinks for
them. They didn't look at me.

Janki told them off, I think, when they were particularly rude. I mean,
they stretched their feet out in my way when I tried to go to the kitchen
to get more drinks. I nearly tripped and they pretended not to have been
aware. Then they stared at me like I was at fault for accidentally kicking
their heels. I apologised, but Janki told me I didn't need to. I knew
that. It turned me on that they were almost flirting with me by being
rude. I began to wonder if they might come on to me and if Janki would let
them, perhaps, make greater demands. How far could they go? When they
withdrew their legs to let me pass, Jeet studiously ignored me, like he
really had not seen my cock stand up; Tulwar stared at it, spoke something,
clearly contemptuously, and laughed. Jeet sniggered, still staring
elsewhere. Janki started shouting at them. Had I got these three men, these
real men - real ordinary - arguing over how they should be treating little
old me? I hurried to the kitchen where I wrapped my palm round my hardon
and tried to rub it off quickly.

I did not succeed. From the room I had left, the three men were shouting
now, using far too little English for me to make anything out. I stayed in
the kitchen, listening. The sound of their voices excited me. I rubbed it
desperately. Suddenly Janki stormed out and saw me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded furiously. "Don't you never
stop?" Then more softly, "You're so sick."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry," I said, genuinely upset. "Are you ok?
What's the argument? Are they ok?" (I wanted to say, Bill and Ben!) "What's
the argument?"

"You're the fuckin' argument as you know very well," he said with a smile,
taking my hands away from myself and putting them onto his shoulders,
putting his arms round me.

We hugged.

"No one will ever know," I thought, "what I'm feeling right now."

He patted my bottom and said to go upstairs and wait for him there. I was
so excited by this. My cock sprang up harder than ever. He hit it with his
hand. I yelped. "Get upstairs you slut," he said, "before I slap it
harder." But he knew I'd like that. But I did what he said anyway.

The darkness of his room engulfed me like a tomb. I tried not to touch
myself but I was literally dripping with anticipation of being in bed with
him again. The longer I waited the more I thought I'd have to knock it out
before he arrived and the more I wanted him to come upstairs and get into
bed with me and help me to ejaculate.

Nevertheless, I fell asleep. But it could only have been seconds. The door
clicked and he climbed into the bed, dragging the covers back to his side
where I had appropriated them thoughtlessly. He didn't disturb me, though
he held me and put his hands down there to feel how my erection was doing
and to sample the moist sweat seeping between my balls and my groin,
resting his hand over my face so that I was breathing in my own acidic
fume.

Later (lying in his bed, in his sheets, skin to skin, his belly to my back,
suffocating almost in the heat of his body, held on to him like a child)
his breathing, deep and slow, seemed to be all that mattered as I closed my
eyes and almost woke again, almost fast asleep. Held tightly in Janki's
grip, he whispered, "Every man is a prince and deserves to be treated with
dignity and respect. Even if he doesn't ask for it. He doesn't need to ask
for it."

I did not know why he said that, but assumed it flowed from the days
events, somehow; Dreamily, I asked Janki again, what had J&T been saying?

"They ... ... Oh who cares?" Then he thought and said, "Do you think I look
gay?"

"Christ. No. Is that what they said?" - though he did sometimes have a
twinkle in his eye that was not quite in keeping with the rest of his
image, and the way he held a cup, for instance, had a camp flair that was
noticeable only if you watched carefully and he was relaxed.

"They think I'm camp. They call me 'Masi', auntie."

I laughed out loud, "Auntie! You're less like an aunt than anyone I've ever
met!" I laughed again.

"I wish I hadn't told you," he said.

One arm round my neck, his other big hand fondled my backside, then he
crossed them over my chest and held my arms so that I could not touch
myself. He gripped my wrists then let go, smoothing his hand across my
skin, stroking my erection, coddling my stomach and my balls. I could feel
his whole body expand and contract as he exhaled.

"Would you like to masturbate?" he said. He pressed against me from my
buttocks to the back of my neck, like a ginormous cuddly-bear. Our legs
were folded round each other in a twisted knot. "Go on then."

I grabbed myself and rubbed it out so quickly it hardly took two strokes,
messing the sheets with so much pent-up cum I was embarrassed.

"Get a towel, or we'll be stuck to it in the morning!"

I was panting heavily. But I knew I would sleep soundly. In the morning, I
would have to go back to work; there was a mountain of stuff requiring my
attention.

"I have to get back into my life and deal with my problems," I said, wiping
myself. I wiped the bed.

"If you say so," he said.

"Well, I've got responsibilities."

"I imagine so. As an adult male, I imagine, you are not a dependent,
simpering delinquent, but a driven successful businessman. I can see
that. But you'll come back."

"Of course I shall."

"When?"

I noticed in his eyes a genuine sadness. Perhaps he thought I would never
come back. But I would. I needed him. I clambered back into his arms,
facing him, taking the smell of his hot breath.

"Jeet thinks you fuck me," he said.

"Why? Did you tell him?"

"I don't tell them anything."

"You're always talking. What do you say?"

"Nothing you need to hear! Plus, we do have other subjects of
conversation!"

I smiled. "Do you think I should fuck you?"

"I like what we do."

I didn't want to spoil it. "Do you care what they think?"

"Do you?"

"I like what we do," I said. "I like what we do."

"So do I," he said, grabbing one of my nipples and twisting it until I
yelped. He smiled, "I like doing that."

I felt so comfortable like that. "I don't understand myself," I said, still
confused by my emotions. He stared for a while, at me, into me, through me,
inside, where I was hidden.

"Do you think you understand yourself, ever? No one understands their own
essence, and it is the essence that has the control. It's in the driving
seat." He looked at me like you watch the surface of water for the sight of
a fish. "I know," he said simply.

I waited for him to conclude his sentence.

He just stared at me, "I know."

"W-what ... do you know?" I asked.

"I know, you are using me." He smiled. "I know you are using me."

"I'm ... not ..." I said, "using you."

"That's ok."

He pushed his beard into my face. It was soft and fluffy.

"I don't mind. It was fun. I enjoyed it."

"I enjoyed it too."

"I know," he said. "I know."

In his eyes I could see the sadness of someone, it seemed for a moment, who
would tap into anyone's fantasy just to keep their company, and I wondered
if, had I had a different fantasy, say, something less polarised, would he
have had the time for me? I thought, Well, there's his fantasy too, of
being who he is, which I went along with. It isn't lies; it isn't true;
it's reality. It's human feelings. If he was someone different, if I was
someone different, if everything were different, well, it would all be
different. That's all. That's all. That's all. I know.

"This is mine," he said. He put a hand on my stomach and nursed it, like it
contained his baby. Christ, that excited me. "They know they can't have
you," he said.

"Who? Jeet and Tulwar?"

"Who else? They think they could have you if I backed away, but they
can't. So they pretend like they aren't interested. But they are
interested. They would like to fuck your brains out. They would like to
fuck you up good and proper. Wankers."

"Is that what they said? Sounds a bit deluded," I muttered sheepishly.

"A bit? They couldn't get it up. They like skinny white lads with a mental
problem. You don't fit the bill. But they dream of fucking a real man like
you. They think that's all there is to it. I mean don't get me wrong, I
like the guys. They're mates. But they're all fucked up when it comes to
sex. I wouldn't go there ... They think sex is all about scoring over
losers, taking what they want to make themselves feel macho; they expect
that to be what's on the other guy's mind as well." He licked me on the
neck. "Yeah I go out with them to drink, but when they score, they like to
hit it and move on. They help each other out. They play these complicated
games of chase, one pulls for the other. They make it into a sport. It's
just about hitting and moving out."

"Sounds abusive," I ventured, remembering my own and Tony's attitude to
trade in our long careers cruising together in the Oslo Club.

"Yeah. But they waste a lot of time. Truth is," he said, "things do not
just happen because two people want to exploit each other. They happen
because there is a connection. You might get angry when things do not work
out, which is understandable, but do not get angry. Try not to get
angry. Mastering your anger is what turns you back into a human being when
being hurt turns you into a monster. Remember that."

He put the light on, reaching over me to find the bedside switch.

"Stand up for me again," he said, releasing my chest and rolling back the
sheets wrapped around our bodies. I scrambled to my feet. The bed was low
and when I stood ... Janki seemed already so far away. Like a traveller in
a Chinese painting. He laughed.

"What?" I said, standing like a doll, a doll with my enormous semi-hardon.

"You're such an exhibitionist!"

"You told me to stand!"

"Yeah, but still, the way you do it, adopting this pose, like a model,
always like a show-off. The way you hold your hands out like that, like the
Fonz."

"Heyy!" I said, "Fonzarelli; at your ser-vice ..."I stuck up my thumbs to
my sides and then rotated my wrists so that my thumbs pointed at my crotch,
knowingly. We laughed. "Filmed before a live studio audience!"

"I like looking at you," said Janki. "Mr Muscle."

I got harder again.

"Play with yourself. Touch yourself."

I did. I put my hand between my legs. I tickled my balls. I wiped my hairy
armpits. I smelt my fingers and licked them. I pulled on the buttplug and
turned it round in my arse. Pretty soon I was moaning. I squatted down and
bounced on it, driving it in further, further stimulating my prostate. I
wanted to cum again!

"Can I cum on your face?"

"Cum in my face."

"In your beard."

"Cum in my beard. Cum in my hair. Cum on my face."

When I came it was in more amazing thick spurts that caught on his skin,
knotted in his beard and blocked his eyes. When he laughed I came in his
mouth, covering his tongue with white ropes. I knelt down and wiped it up,
wiping my hands into his head where the cum stayed like a paste or
glaze. He grabbed my palm and sucked on my fingers. He sucked each one and
cleaned his own hands into his mouth, offering them to me to finish
licking. I licked my own hands and then licked his face. I put my tongue in
his mouth. I licked his neck and then his chest and then dick, tasting our
salty emissions everywhere. We were still sticky when we hugged. He wanted
to hold me. I wanted him to.

"That's so cool," he said.

Afterwards he showered and I saw his hair released from its bun hang down,
a Rapunzel ponytail of winding black and grey, that flowed down the ravine
of his spine and into his black hairy arsecrack, like a river disappears
into the soft earth as it crashes, over ...

Yeah. I know.

---

I went into the office next morning, still hard. My secretary, Janoa,
looked at me like I was sick.

"G'morning Jan," I said, trying to pretend like everything was
normal. "Good weekend?"

"I don't know anymore," she replied, eyeing me like I might need an
ambulance. "Was it? I guess it was. You have a good time did you? You look
like you did ... Did you cycle in to work?"

"Er -"

She could see my erection through my Lycra.

"I can find you your spare suit, shall I?"

"Er. No need. Just now."

I hastened into my office, threw myself into my chair and grabbed my
hardon. Fuck this thing. Something Janki had forced up my rectum was
pressing against my prostate like a vibrator; I had no one knows what kinds
of stuff up there, with a plug that bore my weight by transferring it back
up into me. I'd need to jerk-off right now if I expected to get any work
done. I was trying to access my cock via the waistband when the intercom
bing-ed.

"Tony's secretary line one."

"Put her on."

My prick would have to wait.

"Him," Janoa corrected me.

I didn't even know Tony had a secretary. I mean, I assume he did, but I'd
never had to speak to her, I mean him, before.

The phone trilled and I picked it up. I felt peaceful. I thought of Janki,
playing with my body. Probably for the first time in my working life I
wished I didn't work. I wanted to lounge by a pool, with Janki in a sarong
and me in nothing at all, reading books and sipping tea. I wanted to help
him prepare meals, eat under starlight, touch feet, drink red wine.

"Rick Howman speaking."

"Hey Rick!" said Tony's secretary.

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END OF RICK HOWMAN - PART EIGHT