Date: Thu, 17 Oct 2019 15:24:55 +0000
From: ^sharper <sharper.inorbit@protonmail.com>
Subject: Story : RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX (Revised)

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RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX

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RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX

Had it only been a week? Business moves so slowly, until it moves, and then
it moves fast! Contract negotiations had been sluggish until Tony got
onboard and gave it his backing. His people were slick, but so were mine;
the difference lay in Tony's clout - a mixture of experience, network
contacts, trust, financial muscle ... but mainly it comes down to his style
upon entering a room - something indefinable, he exudes, like he knows:
He's the big guy.

If he taught me one thing, it was that I had a lot to learn. When we
originally met, it was at the Oslo Club, a membership joint known for its
rich clients and hospitality - which means, to get inside you either have
to be very rich, or very hospitable. I was rich. Tony was richer. When we
got talking one evening we realised we shared an interest in the same kinds
of men - needy, cash-focused guys with an insatiable cock-lust. We compared
notes. Tony's observation that some guys got turned on by having their
assets valued and their limits stretched by rich, well hung and demanding
dominant tops, excited me.

"They want it both ways," he said with a grin. "The trick is to use it to
your advantage. Treat them like you already own them. Oslo Rules." I didn't
know what that meant. He smirked, "You make use of your assets, don't you?
So treat the things you want as assets, like you already own them. Get them
to do the hard work, that way they stay grateful even when they are, in
reality, only doing what you want them to do." Made sense. Pretty soon I
was convinced he was a man who could help me get what I wanted in life. I
remembered that phrase, "use it to your advantage" - it summed up Tony's
whole attitude to life and I adopted it. I adopted Tony's whole approach to
money, deals, wealth, and men. I learned from him how to be myself and live
my life, no matter what.

Just watching him or listening to him turned me on. Like, being that close
when he was on form. The times I have seen him down at the Oslo Club,
muscle-boy on each arm, strolling around like he owned everyone in the
joint; I would catch his eye and he would mouth the words, "Oslo Rules",
ironic grin, gripping their muscle waists like over-large purchases from a
department store. Oslo Rules. It started as a joke, Oslo Rules, meaning, "I
always get what I want and on my own terms," but I realised it informed his
whole way of life, like a personal philosophy, and when he said, "Oslo
Rules" I knew immediately exactly what he meant; "So, when you enter a room
you got to realise that you are now the most important person in that
room. No one else matters."

"If I am happy, you are happy," he would say to his pickups - but he would
insist on being happy, never-mind the cost, so he was not ungenerous to
people he liked, or people he wanted. He knew things had to be paid for.

I mean, just say you are a top (I assume you are or why are you reading
this?) You are probably reading this and thinking, Yeah I know that, I know
what that feeling of power feels like when some sub or bottom gives it up,
or you take it forcefully. Letting him experience your power and will is
like, wow, it is unbelievable. After all, what is this? Some guy looks at
you and like all he wants is your cock. He might be some perfectly ordinary
looking bloke, with a friendly manner, nothing poofy or, if there is,
nonetheless a perfectly decent bloke who just starts flirting, say, or
lingering just more than is necessary when he looks at your fly; a bloke -
but then he starts kissing you and lets you put your tongue in his mouth
and lets you grope him like he is merely some "thing" you are sizing up;
then he is on his back, legs in the air begging for your cock and begging
to be fucked and no longer caring that he is no longer just a regular guy,
he is a panting desperate queer and you are totally controlling his
experience and using him like shop-bought pre-packed oven-ready
chicken. You already know what that feels like - to be the one in control,
to be the one providing. It feels good. It is what is called, being a man,
being the Alpha. You know that. But what Tony was was different. He was
super cool. Super sharp. Incredibly self-indulgent. But also absurdly acute
in his judgements of others. He knew exactly what and how much he had to
give to get exactly what he wanted to get. He never overpaid - and yet he
always left them thinking they had come out of it with more than they had
expected to get, and grateful to him for what he had given to them, like it
was some kind of free gift - which it never was.

Watching him was like a masterclass in getting it right every time, and I
learned massively from him. He was generous with me. I thought he liked
me. I thought I owed him something - loyalty, gifts, money; he never wanted
anything back, so I always thought I had got much more from him than I had
any right to expect. So I would always be grateful to him for what he had
given to me, like it was like some kind of free gift ... oops ... Oh yeah,
du'uh! Penny drops! Oslo Rules. It was only now I began to realise how he
had ultimately screwed me when he wanted what was, for me, the one thing I
had got, the one thing I had got and the one thing he had decided he
wanted, and once having decided, took: My Baby. Yeah. Because, Tony always
got what he wanted. Never-mind the cost.

If that sounds horny to you, you are a sub, a bottom, and you should not be
reading this. Not because it is trade secrets, but because I have not given
you permission. Go away. Do the dishes. Lick the floor. Anything. Fuck
off. Men talking. You like the idea of being humiliated? I do not even like
even the idea, even, the idea even of being humiliated, let alone it
actually happening and it being a close what-I-thought friend doing it to
me.

I used to feel like Tony taught me everything I had ever needed to know
about how to succeed, make a ton of money, and fuck. But perhaps he had now
taught me the biggest lesson of all, and I had failed to see it coming. He
had once said to me, "I want the best so I get the best." Well now he had
certainly got the best of me. He had stolen Baby, and how he thought the
price he had paid even halfway covered it?! I was determined I would make
sure he coughed up in full for what he had taken, and, basically, not only
that, but for humiliating me into the bargain; he had made me look like a
complete prat, like I was his, like he owned me and everything I
owned. Fellow Alpha treating me like a cuck ... like his pussy-boy. Yeah, I
wanted it, of course I wanted it: Revenge. Restitution. Recompense.

Nevertheless, when the evening came - the one he had invited me to finalise
and celebrate our little joint enterprise - I was not in the mood to go
round to his gaff and get the Tony treatment. He had played by Oslo Rules
and won, yet again, and I had lost. I needed something more than a meal and
a signature to make this feel right. Despite the urgency to get the deal
sealed and start the wheels turning, I cried off. I persuaded him to video
conference-call the last few agreements and then bike the paperwork. So I
dodged that one - though I did catch a glimpse on the screen of my laptop,
of a naked body pass behind Tony's head, fleetingly. At one point in the
conversation I knew it was Baby's naked body, and when a hand placed a tall
glass of iced minted water down for Tony, on the tooled leather desktop in
front of him, I knew it was Baby's hand. It was difficult to concentrate
knowing that Baby was around, listening in; I could not help picturing him,
running in his skin, bare balls, bare feet, running around ... my house,
handing me my drinks.

"So let's meet up, when you're less busy," said Tony at last, reaching out
to touch the screen to hang up.

"Yeah. Let's."

"Oslo Rules!" said Tony with a snigger.

"Yeah Oslo R-" but he had gone. The screen captured a last frozen moment of
Tony's face, looking up at someone, a kiss forming on his lips.

---

I remember Jason, this super-thin scalp-cut guy Tony had got from
somewhere, who invariably went out in a big soft golden-brown ankle-length
fur coat, nothing under, so you get the picture (must have cost a bomb -
the coat I mean). Tony used to slip his hand inside, inside the coat
letting anyone who looked catch a glimpse of Jason's super-slim smooth body
- a body so smooth and featureless that his nipples and navel looked like
the eyes and nose marks on the face of a stupid skinny snowman. He was so
skinny, like he really really liked food and the best thing he liked about
food was not eating it. I had seen him naked on many occasions because that
is how he went about the house, naked like Baby, assuming no one would mind
- and I did not mind. Angular eye-candy; his arms and legs seemed to
dangle, or float, like they were superfluous. But what he did have, he did
have great buttocks, hefty round gently dimpled mounds of creamy flesh that
seemed to follow you round the room when you looked at them. I did not ever
hear him say much, but he did laugh a lot, a laugh like a cough, though
mainly at jokes no one else could understand; it was like he had another
friend perpetually at his side who incessantly said insanely amusing
things. Tony liked him. Jason, in return, was feline in devotion, always
brushing up against Tony, sliding his body like a snake under Tony's arm,
letting Tony stroke his back, his neck, his perineum, breathing audibly
with a kind of constantly restrained passion that sometimes got Tony so
aroused he had to take him elsewhere to cum in him. They would return after
about half an hour, Jason adjusting himself like a dishevelled bouquet,
Tony In a state of sartorial perfection as before. It made me laugh to
remember such evenings, once. Then Jason simply left. Tony never explained
but I felt, for the first time, that his armour had been pierced. He simply
said that Jason was no longer there and that he was relieved to be rid of
him at last. The whole affair had lasted about a year. Afterwards Tony was
slow to bounce back, but gradually, nights at the Oslo returned to the same
old pattern. Guys came and guys went - only now Tony said that now the men
he met were, "so absurdly affordable". He wanted something that would
stretch his resources and I sensed that this was ultimately the only thing
that turned him on. Is that what he saw in Baby? Is that what Baby saw in
him?

Then I remembered my piss on Baby's face, splashing and filling his throat,
my piss round his ankles, Baby standing in it like he had wet himself,
looking happily at it and at me, his hot flesh warmed by my wet heat. What
I liked was using Baby's own basic urges to please myself - basic urges
being used right now, probably, by Tony. Was Tony pissing on Baby now, the
way I had, drenching that hard soft body in his male scent? Had Tony been
pissing on Jason? I pictured Jason lying on a urine-soaked floor in his fur
coat, sodden, laughing, wanking himself, Tony standing astride him pulling
the last drops from his foreskin. I wondered if Jason had eventually tired
of being Tony's amusement? And if so ... I wondered if Baby would? After
all, why, had, Jason disappeared? What was Tony's weakest link, his
Achilles heel? How could I hurt him? I made a mental note to go back to the
Oslo Club and ask about Jason. I thought of picking Jason up - why not?
Paying him, if necessary (it would be necessary) and taking him along to
Tony's, like my plus-one. That would be a joke. Tony's face, worth seeing.

Ok, stupid idea, but it would get me out of the house. I was lonely. I
realised I had failed to make the fresh start I should have. This must be
how Tony felt when Jason disappeared, though he did not say it, alone in
his gigantic luxurious house.

That night, I dressed-up to pull and went down Oslo's in a cab thinking I
might either see Jason himself, or someone who knew his number. Or
something. I would play it by ear. Turns out, I asked around, but turns out
it was like I was describing some stupid dream; no one had any idea who
Jason was, reacted like I was a junkie asking for loose change, eyed me up
and down judgementally, deciding I was on the pull and only asking them
stupid questions as an opening. Some of them, I could have. Some of them,
no way. My choice, as usual. I should have. I should have given them what
they wanted, had my ego stroked, taken what I needed - except that, what I
needed, no one was putting on offer. They were, as usual, looking for a
fantasy or a situation, some kind of payoff, the price of a good time; some
of them, I saw in their eyes, simply wanted the smell of a real man's hot
breath and to be taken, whatever the cost to themselves personally, into a
place where their pain could be driven from its emotional recess into the
open light of vital physical reality. Hurting the pain and the loneliness
away.

Some hope; I so was not in the mood to play their hot masterful daddy that
night. So not in that frame.

So, after drawing a blank down at Oslo, I strolled over to a less
well-heeled quarter, just out of curiosity, not for picking up. I just
didn't want to go home yet to face my emptiness, despite the absence of
horniness I felt. I headed for the gay street, and one particular pub where
I knew the guys would be ordinary drinkers, ordinary normal guys, gentle,
safe, unassuming, having a laugh or a quiet pint, no rent, no weirdness,
nothing kinky, just guys out for the evening, gay guys like me, the bedrock
of our community, just living their lives ... pain free. Vanilla. There,
I've said it. No, honestly, I fully intended to have a safe quiet drink and
then cab home, wank, sleep, sleep, wake up, wank, sleep.

I got my pint. I found a table. The joint was nearly empty - it was
late. Most people had either gone home already or gone on to a club, or
they were swaying to the music because they were too drunk to do anything
else. I checked out the view. Three conventional-looking Indian bear-types
stood by the games machine holding pints and making occasional conversation
whilst also eyeing the remaining talent without much interest. There was an
empty stage for drag acts where another group in tight clothes and
eye-liner stepped to the music and laughed at jokes no one else could hear,
over-camping it self-consciously. The stage lights caught the glitter in
their hair and the sequins in their clothes. I watched, idly wondering if
there was one of these queens I could be bothered to strip and bend over,
spank, cock. Narrow and tight, I could have any one of them gagging over my
meat, protesting pointlessly when I entered them, grateful, screaming, then
quiet, then begging for my number. They are all the same.

They must have been thinking along those lines because I caught their eyes
looking at me, catching glimpses, exchanging looks with each other and
giggling, sucking on the necks of their lagers, looking butch-up, shoulders
straight, stomachs drawn in, legs crossed, bottoms out, waists tight, chest
out, heads back laughing then, suddenly, down, shy, looking at the floor,
glancing, pretending not.

Yeah. I know. Utterly boring. When I looked again they had stopped, none of
them glancing, as though they had not noticed me sitting, like I did not
exist, like I'd imagined the whole thing, like I was deranged, delusional,
sitting in my dark space like Major Tom, unable to hear anything except for
my own dark deranged delusions battering against the bone walls of my head.

I shifted my attention, scanning the bodies for something of interest,
scanning the faces for signs of interest. Everything looked so bland. Those
Indian boys, a bit lost, cuddling their pints to their comfortable chests,
taking occasional sips, exchanging the odd dregs of conversation with one
another, like they had hoped to score but having failed to do so were
waiting for their beers to dry-up and then go home, separately and alone,
to their respective mortgages in suburbia. It was pathetic really - but
also ... it was comforting, because, I felt, I was like that, I felt - I
was just marking time until I could face my own empty bed.

Only one of them wore a turban, a large white wrap that contrasted his
richly dark Punjabi complexion. Large proud curly-bracket moustache. Barrel
chested. He folded his arms and kept them folded whilst he leaned his head
forward to hear someone speak, smiling broadly, then leaned it back to
laugh, revealing fine creases in his neck and a sculpted voice-box. His
friends, waving pints, laughing, were marginally slimmer than him. One on
his right clearly worked out and wanted the world to know it judging by the
way his sleeves clung to his biceps and his shirt leapt the gap between his
tits. They had a similar taste in trainers and smart-casual: tight polos
and slacks. Turban-guy's shirt was faded red with white or grey detail
lines around the sleeves and collar; stretched over a generous and cuddly
stomach. I watched that stomach, its firm round pillow-like softness - then
caught his eyes staring straight at mine like a lighthouse beacon. I looked
away, embarrassed.

I imagine you work out. We all do. But do you find, like me, that however
much you bulk or firm or tighten your abs or arms or glutes or pecs, or
lose some flab or hit some other target, it is never quite enough? You
probably have nights when you are the best looking body in the room, but
then you check out some porn or whatever on the internet and you realise,
you are nowhere near. It is frustrating. Isn't it? Every day is like a
fresh start. And you get used to seeing other guys merely as examples of
development, either more so or less so than you, better or worse legs, for
example, or whatever, and you think, "Yeah that's out of my league," or,
"that one's going to worship me! So easy!"

I try to be the muscle in the room, but he ... But he did not. That stomach
kind of fascinated me, yeah? Well, I was also repeatedly glancing away, in
every direction, but he was not like that. He clocked me watching him. He
caught me staring and stared back, held it for a moment ... then looked
away again with a gentle smile. I was embarrassed to find myself
blushing. I lifted my pint to hide; caught him looking at me through the
foamy glass - or rather he caught me. I put it down and made a decision: If
I truly meant to leave alone tonight, it had to be now. I eased myself up,
pushing my wooden chair across the wooden floor, feeling suddenly exposed,
as if trouser-less. Strange sensation. I felt that his eyes - though I
didn't look at his face to see - they were observing my move, like a
mongoose tracks its prey snake, waiting for some balance of strength to tip
to his advantage. Do not ask me why I thought it was, or why I needed it,
but, he didn't move as I slid towards the toilets and their presumed
safety.

What do you think? Are the toilets in a gay bar places of safety? Moot
point, as I stood at the urinal splishing, for no one entered. I flipped it
back in and did up, turning to the door where ... there he was! We
collided, Turban pushing his large size into me. His hand slid round to
avoid closer contact, round my waist, so that I was guided to one half of
the door frame, he took the other, but that hand glided over me like a
shadow grazing my side and felt like a shockingly intimate contact. I
squeezed across his stomach, saw the hairs of his beard and moustache
moving, and past, out into the corridor leading to the bar, along its bendy
curve, leaving him behind. We had been face to face at one point, closely
pressed like lovers. I had felt his breath and seen the deep dark black
behind his eyes. He had been guiding me, but it was like he was holding me,
fast, embracing me into him, like lovers do.

As I returned to my pint, intending to down the dregs and go, I noticed the
other two Indian guys had closed ranks, on the gap where Turban had gone
missing, and were standing mute, like off-duty soldiers, not looking
anywhere in particular - but he had followed me, Turban, like a ghost, and
was standing behind me, which I didn't know and they didn't disclose by
their expressionless, drunk faces. I grabbed my glass and folded myself
down once more into my seat at which point I saw him, at last, as he pushed
on the desk, pinning me into my place. I was taken aback. Naturally. Forced
myself back against the edge to resist entrapment, and gave him a look of
surprised displeasure. Which he ignored totally, leaning in to place a hand
on my shoulder, like its weight would add a further restraint. He leaned
further in and did something, "You're too cute, to be straight!" he said in
a London accent. Unbelievably cheesy.

That hand in my back had released a layer of sexual availability I had
forgotten I had - forgotten since years before. Decades. An entire sexual
lifetime. Now it shot through me like a delayed action rifle sound reports
from across the athletics stadium, apparently after the runners have
started to run. Inside my heart, inside my head, and most spectacularly
inside my trousers, my blood raced competitively through the flaccid
recesses expanding and exciting on the go, opening into the most deflated
regions driving an erotic piston into my soul. I looked into his eyes and
saw something I had not seen for longer than I could remember, and yet I
could remember, a simple sweet attraction and affection beyond the
functional erection and it's use. It was an electrical connection, a thrill
that, like a shudder, weakened my will with an unnameable and unexpected
swamp of desire.

Christ. Listen to me! But I'm not kidding.

He grinned. "Mind if I join you?"

He pulled up a stool and sat astride it, reaching out to grasp my
hand. "What's your name?"

"Rick."

"Janki. Pleased to meet you."

"Junkie?"

"Yeah that's right. Janki, pleased to meet you, Rick. You're cute. You come
here often?"

He was that cheesy.

I laughed. "No ..."

"No. I've never seen you here before. And I would have remembered. Sure of
that."

"You come here often then?" I replied, matching his chat-up line.

"No!" He grinned so that I was none the wiser.

The feel of his hand on my hand, gripping and releasing, stroking the palm
and the back, gently, not letting go of it, felt nice.

"You going anywhere after?"

"Home," I said.

"Home?"

"Hehe yearhh."

"Home. Where's home?" He asked with a toothy smile, placing his other hand
on my hand and pressing it and stroking it between the two. There was a
deep line between his eyebrows. I sipped at my empty glass. He never
stopped looking at me, like I was a book he was learning.

"Need a drink?" he said.

I shook my head. I was leaving.

"Let me get you one," he said.

I wondered what his hair looked like. Was it long? Did it hang down, a
Rapunzel ponytail of winding black and grey, that would flow down the
ravine of his spine and into his black hairy arsecrack, like a river
disappears into the soft earth as it crashes over the ...

Christ. Listen to me. I've completely lost it. Lost it. Completely.

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END OF RICK HOWMAN - PART SIX