THE INTERVIEW
I was driving to Brighton
alone. Angus, my husband, dedicated
British MP and rich hottie had been called back to Westminster for a critical
vote in support of his new environmental plan for Cardiff Bay. I was doing our other job – investigators for
MI-6’s Department of Alien Affairs. Our
fathers traveled the world for the secret services debunking (sorry, no loch
ness monster) and confirming (WE are the aliens!) the existence of
extraterrestrials. His father and mine
weren’t lovers – yes, I’m certain – but they were as close as any valet could
be to his lord (in that 19th century sorta way). How did Angus Reese, the 12th Earl of
Glamorgan get this deep inside of me? Ah
Mate, you’ll have to read that story on your own.
I got an eleven o’clock train. I love driving on the M4 but parking where I
was going was like walking a moose in a specialty boutique. I wasn’t expecting to be there more than a day
or two and the interview was at a gay restaurant/bar a block from my hotel, so
walking made sense all the way around.
The long ride was ideal for I had some reading to catch up on – summers
are short when you are in rabbinical school.
And I knew I’d get nothing done once Angus got home. He likes to make up for lost time.
About 2-hours in, I fell
asleep. The seats in the first-class
compartments recline easily and I already had the room temperature at a
comfortable setting. I should have
dreamed about my Comprehensive Biblical Hebrew class but dreams don’t lie. My dick ran an old movie where I star as the
cute thing in the middle. If Angus had
been in that luxury space on rails, I’d closed the window’s curtains, locked
the door, and let him tie me to the chair.
Yeah, ‘your grace’ has many meanings in my mansion.
The fantasy woke me up just as some
beefcake finished whispering the 25 different ways he was going to fuck
me. I thought of banging off but
reconsidered. That’s the problem with
love. You get used to the comfort of
someone who knows you, reads your body and executes moves in tune with your
breathing. An open marriage would be pointless
when you got a guaranteed orgasm at home.
Is it a problem if my husband is better at getting me off than my . . .
sorry, hand?
I went back to reading. Instead of graduate drab, I grabbed up a new
story from my favourite author, Todd Nelson.
He’s a Jewish Walter Mosely – painting a gritty, honest picture of the
New York elite. His pieces would never
make it as one of Andy Cohen’s Real Housewives.
Nelson tears down the glamour to show that despite all their money,
their lives sucked too, really, really sucked.
His latest, Maligned, was a barely veiled fictional retelling of
the Madoff Family – before, during, and after daddy went up the duff. I’m certain that in a couple of years,
psychology professors will be using it to teach about narcissism and dysfunctional
families. By the time the train pulled
into the station, I was halfway through and eager to find a café somewhere so I
could finish it.
Stone, our MI-6 handler, gave me a
dossier (yes, just like in the movies but now it’s on a USB drive) on my
interviewee. Gary Sheffield was a
27-year old accountant from a nearby small town. He worked for a mid-size insurance
company. Never married, a member of the
queer book club in town, with one child (likely from a dodgy shag at a time he
thought he should double-check his orientation). The photo was unflattering – dull eyes behind
a style of glasses that faded in the previous century, dirty blonde hair that
looked like it was once either a mop or wig, and a pot-marked face as if
puberty was hanging on out of spite. No
shade – maybe he had a good personality, or loved kittens and puppies, or
donated half his salary to the church.
But what was important to me was that Gary Sheffield didn’t look like
the typical nutter we’d encounter in the past.
I was staying at the Drakes Hotel. Angus and I had stayed here during Pride last
year. The outside could be mistaken for
a quaint London townhouse. The rooms had
a simple, elegant, rusty warmth that employed lots of muted yellows,
reddish-orange, and rich greens as part of the interior design. The seaside views looking off to the English
Channel, was a beautiful canvas for a romantic scene, especially with the
windows open so you can smell the humid air and hear the waves. I could have sat on the balcony chair all night,
but I was already running behind.
The Charles Street Tap was an area
staple. It was an old-style gay club –
part community centre, part cruising spot, and part high-end restaurant bar. The crowd was finally getting younger yet
more affluent. I shouldn’t complain – I
am one of those people now. Hubby once
brought me to the accountant to review the yearly audit of the family’s
finances. After 5 minutes of droll, I
stood up and told him, “Just let me know when we’re only really, really fucking
rich” before walking out.
I took a seat at the bar then
ordered a seltzer with lime. Alcohol and
I parted company years ago. I took an
edible from a package in my jean jacket pocket.
Listen, an addiction that keeps me from killing the next person who
irritates me is not a drug but a leash.
Just as I settled back on the stool, I scanned the crowd while doing
some mindfulness breathing. This was how
I quieted the hundreds of voices trampling through my head.
Ah, yeah, . . . I got these psychic
powers. It’s called clairescence – I
sense other people’s feelings, particularly those they leave on the objects
they touch. Bars were particularly
annoying with all the droplets of desperation that rested on everything, refreshed
with every new drink order. Then there
was my brand – shaped like a Celtic tree of life - on my back that lights up
like one of those neon tattoos. This is particularly
problematic while I’m shagging but then again, that’s apart of that other
story.
Then an olfactory apparition passed
me quickly and I couldn’t catch the face behind it. I became disoriented . . . I knew that
smell – sandalwood and something I couldn’t label. Then, a soft, effeminate voice startled me.
“Mr. Mac Innes?”
“It’s Mac Innes-Reese
actually.” I don’t know why his faux pau
bothered me. Angus was right, I needed
to get back to regular yoga sessions.
“Mr. Sheffield?”
He was more attractive in person
than the photo implied. He actually had
rather pretty eyes, though I couldn’t identify the colour. “Please,” he said while eagerly shaking my
hand, “call me Gary.” He realized that I
noted he was wearing gloves. He withdrew
quickly to remove them. “Sorry, I rode
my moped here.”
I shrugged. “Table?”
He nodded and I grabbed my drink and mobile then followed him to a
four-top near the back window. I sat
facing the door. Nope, Sam Spade isn’t
dead. “The Crown appreciates your
bringing this issue to our attention.” I
sounded like a stereotypical English bureaucrat. “How may I be of assistance?”
Again, he didn’t present like the
usual chav who thinks everything involves a secret plot by the government to
control our minds. Like they are that
smart – folks, do you remember that second rate burgherly at the Watergate Hotel?
Sometimes I want to tell folks the truth – the government is too inept to pull
that off and even if they were that adept, your life is boring and unimportant
outside of a data point on a marketing plan.
However, he didn’t whisper or look around to check for Russian
spies. He pulled a file folder from a
nondescript brown leather messenger bag.
“Here are the pictures, mathematical and bio-analysis, as well as
results from a separate, independent lab.”
I thumbed through the papers like
this shit made sense. “What are your
conclusions, Gary?”
“Someone is traveling in and out of
our local galaxy then bringing back cosmic bacteria and viruses that operate in
ways we don’t understand,” he said with some bit of rage. “I have been trying to get someone to pay
attention for months. I have to admit, I
was a bit off-put when they told me that I’d be talking to someone from the
Department of Alien Affairs. But you two
have a strong reputation in the community.” The waiter came over and switched his ass so
Gary here could get a good look at what could be his midnight snack but my
interviewee wasn’t having it. Did he
just sneer at that queen? “My friends
and I are amateurs, fooling around on the weekends and holidays – the kids with
qualification scores not quite good enough for parents to pay for anything
impractical like a degree in astrophysics.
When a local farmer started losing various livestock after seeing what
he described as a ‘falling star’, he asked us to examine the soil for ‘alien
bits’. Iron from space has a layer of
water crystals embedded in its internal layers.
This is how you distinguish it from iron created on Earth. Problem is this cosmic iron at 21 degrees Celsius
or higher, the crystals are released along with naturally occurring lithium. The combined, small amounts will give an
average sized man a bad stomach and headache – it’s often mistaken for the flu –
the shit is deadly to four-legged creatures.”
I closed the folder as if I’d seen
enough. “You know I’ll have to verify
this with my people,” I said nonchalantly.
“Of course!” he replied as the
waiter brought the menus and his martini.
“Have you eaten? The food here is
brilliant.” He took a sip but didn’t
seem to enjoy the beverage.
Shit, I was trapped. It would be rude to get up now. I settled in for dinner with this man. “What would you recommend?”
“The seafood is very good.” He waved the waiter back to us and placed the
order. It was such a butch move as to
teetered on rude. I found it kinda hot. “I’m
sorry I missed your husband. I would
love to meet him,” he said while taking another sip.
“Angus had a vote. Tomorrow I will join him in London.” Why did I just lie? Angus wasn’t coming home until next week.
“Politics, such a difficult field
when one has a family, I imagine,” Gary said while taking off his suit jacket
and losing his tie. “And you’re in a
seminary in America?”
“Yes, in a town outside of
Philadelphia.” A light lavender dress shirt
was barely hiding a very-well put together body. Was this really the guy from the photo? That aroma visited again like the wind as you
pass on a train. Where was this coming
from? Why was it feeling so
familiar? The waiter interrupted my
mental investigation with a plate of fried calamari. “What is life-like for an insurance company’s
accountant?” I said trying to act normal.
When I looked up from the
appetizer, Gary had his shirt unbuttoned low on his chest. If I leered further, I would have been able
to read the Japanese kanji on his pecks.
But s=omething strange was going on.
“The articles in the papers always make it seem like you two really love
each other. I hate to sound caddy but is
that real or just for the publicity?”
I should have been offended but his
tone was so kind and a bit sweet that I could help but answer honestly. “It’s real,” I blushed. “Angus is very special. He saved my life . . . breathed hope back in
me.”
Gary smiled then started to pull on
his skin, just below the jawline. Like
something out of a classic horror or spy movie, he pulled off the mask, hair
combination. The man under the mask was
Angus. He sussed his shoulder-length
hair like he'd just jumped off the cover of a romance novel. He was the sexiest fucking thing on the
planet.
“Surprise!” he shouted before
giving me a peck on the lips. “Did you
know it was me?”
“The gloves were a good trick, but
you’ve got a specific smell about you. I
just couldn’t put it together that you’d be here. I thought the vote was going down the
wire.” I took his hand, playing with the
tips of his fingers.
“Well, you just happen to be
married to a very clever MP who was top of Eton’s chess club. I out-maneuvered my opponent with my secret political
ninja moves.”
“I thought you were popular there
‘cuz you drew all the hot’s slappers on campus to the parties?”
He feigned hurt, “Rude!” He popped calamari in his mouth. “I got lucky and I couldn’t wait to see you.”
I wasn’t complaining. “What about
the real Gary Sheffield?”
“I took care of him earlier,” he
said with a full mouth. “That’s the
folder he gave me. Does it make sense to
you?”
“Fuck no! Whitfield can analyze it later.” Whitfield was one of our team – like the
science officer on Star Trek.
“You want to head home now on the
red-eye?”
“No,” I said stretching out the
O. “I have a brilliant room at the Drakes
– a great view of the sea. I plan to
ensure the Crown gets its money’s worth!”
I pulled him up by his shirt
collar. “Hey”, he said while nearly
dropping the last piece of fish, “I’m starving here.”
I took out my mobile and arranged
for Grubhub to pick up our order from here and drop it off at the hotel. The waiter looked quite disappointed. I hoped he wouldn’t spit in the take-out containers. “He was about to leap on your lap,” I
grumbled once we got on the hotel elevator.
When the 59-year-old businessman
got off at the 4th floor, Angus pinned me against the back wall, holding my
hands over my head. “You’re so cute when
you're jealous.” He kissed me, nibbling
on my bottom lip. I know, a strange
place for an erogenous zone. “Why would
I want that when I have something delicious wanting me. You do want me, don’t you?”
“Please.” I was doing my best to rub my dick against
him. But he was cleverly keeping a
distance. He drives me mad. “I dreamed of being with you.”
“Did you touch yourself?”
“No,” I admitted. “I wanted to have all my energy waiting for
you when you arrived home.”
“Good boy!” As the elevator doors opened on the 14th
floor, he released my hands. I got out
first so he could pat my ass as I went by.
“Let see how good you’ve been,” he teased as I opened the suite door.
Angus Reese is beefcake kidnapped
from a commercial for the Hamptons in New York or Hyde Park in London. His money makes him even more
attractive. He was listed on Europe’s
Top Ten Bachelors for three years in a row until I snagged him (or did he snag
me?). His auburn hair that cascaded like
a waterfall in a Thomas Kinkade print, striking grey-brown eyes that changed
colour like a mood ring, and a body made for all kinds of exercise along with a
stomach that ate everything but never added a pound. He was especially fond of my martini’s and
homemade pretzels – well, really pretzels of any kind. A passionate lover who could lick, suck and
man-handled my body through six orgasms while never taking his clothes
off. And he loved me. This must be what a well-cared-for teddy bear
feels like.
If Angus was model gorgeous, I was
Bruce Lee’s white brother from another mother with even less body hair. We were close to the same height, so when Angus
came into the sitting room directly behind me it was easy for him to grab and
kiss me. My fingertips caressed his
face, beard and moustache trimmed and soft.
His lips were plump making his kisses full and pliable. His tongue massaged mine with firm
strokes. He held my shoulders and
clearly was not going to release me until he drank me dry. That wouldn’t be a bad way to go.
Then we both became a bit
self-conscious and stepped back at the same time, blushing like we just snogged
for the first time at the school dance.
We are kinda like that, often overwhelmed by our feelings and in
wonderment at the love coming from the other person. “Ah, well, right . . . Let’s clean you up,” Angus finally said to
break the silence. A knock at the door
announced our packed food and his suitcase.
“Good timing!” He removed what we
called our ‘cleaning kit’ from his tote. If he bothered to pack it, he had intensions. A pre-sex cleanse and prep for several rounds
of deep fucking was a ritual of ours.
The casual banter while we washed one another shrunk the world into a
bubble of two. Sandalwood soap, a light
lotion, plenty of lube and it was, as my best friend Toni would say, “’On and
poppin’”.
Fresh and naked, we got in the
king-size bed, pulling the covers over ourselves as it was a bit chilly for a
June day. “I should have turned the heat
up,” I said.
“Nay,” he replied pulling me closer
to him, “we could do with a little cuddle anyway.”
I nuzzled up even further, drawn by
the tautness of his skin and his warmth.
“Why do you love me?” My inner
child was needy. “I know I’m a bit of a
pain and this school thing is more than annoying.”
He fussed my hair then twirled my
newly forming Jew curls with his fingers.
“Are you going to let this grow out?”
He tugged slightly at the top mop then said, “Right. . . ‘cuz it feels
good in my hand.”
“Maybe,” I sighed thinking he
wasn’t going to answer my question.
But he was dragging it out, making
me wait. After a therapeutic pause, he
kissed the top of my head. “You bring
out the best in me, don’t let me get away with my shit.” He sighed then continued, “I am focused, have
a purpose. Before, I’d just buy and sell
companies like gamblers at a Vegas poker table – drink and whore in much the
same way. Now I’m in parliament, sponsor
agricultural summits to help local farmers plant more effective crops, and
fully support a foundation for people who lose limbs and cannot afford
prostheses and physiotherapy.” He’d
developed this latter project as part of his own therapy when he lost his hand
during an early MI-6 mission – another long story from a previous book. “Yeah, you’re a selfish cow lots of the time
but when I’ve needed you, you’ve been there, you’ve always been there. Knowing that gives me a sense of freedom like
as long as you’re near, I can do anything.”
“Like how you trusted your dad?”
“Now that sounded creepy!” he
chuckled. “But kinda. I think that’s the most important thing a
parent gives a child, an emotional safety net as the child moves further and
further into the larger world.”
“I wouldn’t know, not having had
parents that gave a fuck,” I grumbled.
“True,” he took his other hand and
tickled my chin to get me to look up, “and I can’t change that as much as I
would like to. What I can do though is
adore you the way you deserve.”
We exchanged doughy-eyed looks for
a few moments, then smiled broadly before kissing. It was one of those reassuring pecks initially
but it didn’t take long for them to become sensual, a bit aggressive on his
part. We’d been playing around the edges
of BDSM, mostly with Japanese rope binding. I like the security it gives me and
it satisfies an inner OCD with him. I’ve
called him ‘sir’ when we are alone before we were married, and he enjoyed my
wearing a butt plug while we attended some dismal but mandatory dinner with
colleagues. Most times we are just as
vanilla as some of our straight friends but tonight, I could tell he was
feeling something more intentional than missionary. “How can I be of service, sir?”
He thought for a moment and my
brand lit up like menorah candles on the eighth night of Chanukah. He sat up abruptly. “Turn over on your stomach,” he ordered. I did as he commanded. For some reason, the pot edible suddenly hit
me with a delayed dual double punch - Sativa psychedelic trippiness with an
Indica muscle relaxer. He reached over
for more lube and as he applied it to my asshole, he said, “I plan on immersing
myself in you until my dick can read your soul.
Do you need a safe word?”
“No, sir.” Did I really just give him that much
power? “I trust you completely.”
He applied the lube, moving a hefty
glob in a circle around my hole, stopping occasionally to massage it inside me
up to his second knuckle. Then he
unexpectedly slapped my ass cheek before I could sense it coming. I flinched but let the sting ripple and
become tantalizing waves throughout my body.
“You may regret that,” he groaned.
Oh yeah, . . .
“Thank you, sir,” I replied
submissively.
I thought that would get me another
good slap but instead, in his usual unpredictable fashion, Angus yanked the
covers off of me. The cold air was
startling but I didn’t have enough time to think about it as very quickly he
pulled me onto my side, facing away from him.
“Let’s see how grateful you are when I’m done.” He caressed my exposed side and left wet
kisses all over my shoulder. I shivered
and he chuckled again. “Oh yeah,
Mate. You should be afraid.” He pulled away for a moment to apply lube to
his cock. I could tell by the sound of
moisture slapping up against something ridged.
He laid on his side behind me. He
wrapped his right arm about my upper chest and secured his hand on my left
shoulder allowing him to elevate his upper body. “I want to watch you cum,” he said before
biting the back of my neck. He put the
head of his dick at my entrance. “Breathe
and let me in.”
It wasn’t a request as much as a statement. Angus isn’t so much long as he is thick it
took a minute to get my sphincter to relax enough to get all of his head inside. He rocked on then off the entrance until he
was just barely in. Once his knob pushed
through, he exhaled and unceremoniously pushed all the way in – a helluva way
to make an entrance. I should have
anticipated this but would that have been any fun?
I yelped a bit which put a devilish
smile on his face. He lifted my left
leg. He secured me in that position by
sliding the leg to his crease of his elbow behind my kneecap and locking his
hands together. “You’re not going
anywhere until I’m done until I’ve gotten what I want from you.”
He started thrusting in and out of
my ass slow and steady. But that wasn’t
getting the reaction from me he wanted.
He alternated between increased speed and depth until the initial
stinging sensation of my asshole being stretched and the weed made me
delirious. He took this one step further
and started whispering in my ear. Angus is
an amateur linguist – picks languages up easily and speaks seven fluidly.
He once told me he dreams
multilingually and didn’t realize that he “spoke in tongues” when he fucked me
(he also said he never did this with other lovers because it never felt this
good – I don’t care if he’s lying). This
time it was German. Leather boys and
fetish doms should have taken notes.
“Wirst du es mir geben oder soll
ich es einfach nehmen (Are you going to give it to me or should I just take
it)?” Another definitive, firm thrust
and I yelped louder. His smirk grew like
Wile E. Coyote before Road Runner dashed his hopes. “Wessen Arsch ist das (Whose ass is
this)?”
“Yours!” I slurred.
“Wer ist (Who’s)?”
“Yours, sir!”
Angus stretched my left leg up
further so his hand could grab my face while pulling it toward his lips. He squeezed my cheeks with his fingertips and
kissed me harshly. At first, his tongue
licked mine until he pulled back a bit then sucked on my bottom lip again. He did this for a minute until he returned to
kissing.
Proof positive that erroneous zones
are found throughout the body as mouth-play was always a favorite of Angus. He started playing with my gooch, the space
between my asshole and my balls, stroking the area like a chef folding flavoured
whipped cream. Ah, so many choices – do
I let my dick come first?
It was just a tease. He wasn’t going to let me choose and
increased his depth, grinding inside of me in a semi-circular motion. My husband’s ample features massaged all my
internal spots until my lower body was on fire.
I don’t like the term “breeding”.
It’s crass and sexist. I’m a man
who likes to be fucked silly by men who like anal and, last I checked, that’s
not how you get pregnant. Although in
this situation, it was an apt adjective.
I felt his dick quiver like a twig
in a tornado. A strange guttural sound
came from him before he switched from German to French. “Ce trou est le mien; Je le réclame pour
la Couronne (This hole is mine; I claim it for the Crown)”! Ah, he is such a monarchist! However, who’s caring when your falling into
a mind frizzing explosion. Pink
elephants and LSD would have to smoke a cigarette after a shag from this
man. As always, he waited until I came
before he did, not always easy but something a good dom does. And he didn’t plough harder as he came but
let the shaking cock do the talking.
He let go of my leg, but my slight shivering
meant it took a minute to put it all the way down. He pulled me onto his chest. He smelled like sweat and burnt wood, likely
embers from my brand. The brand never
burnt him for some reason whereas I had to protect other lovers from it by
limiting my positions or wearing a heavy shirt.
He clenched me tight then kissed the top of my head. “I guess I missed you,” he murmured shyly.
“I’m glad,” I replied before
licking his nipple, feeling content and appreciated, as all subs should.
I yawned and he looked down at me
to say, “I need to check on a few things.”
Angus sat up and reached for his mobile.
“You look knackered. Get some
sleep, Mate. You’ve been away too long
and I need to properly continue my welcome home.” Sounds good to me!
I turned onto my stomach, my hands
under my pillow. I fell asleep quickly
and immediately started dreaming. I was
on a warm island beach, walking along a sandy coastline. The water was crystal blue, clear enough that
I could see small fish swimming at the surface.
But I didn’t dally, seemingly eager to get somewhere. There was a large cabin in the distance, the home
of some old, curmudgeonly writer whose success had died long ago. It was a large space, with a wind-worn
wraparound wooden porch and chickens pecking around an unkempt front yard. When I got to the steps, with cracks across
the boards, I looked around and found a half finished fifth of bourbon. In my drinking days, Jack Daniels was my
go-to coping strategy that made dangerous, anonymous fetish sex easier. In the dream – and the reason I was certain
it was a dream – I gulped half the bottle before entering the house. Opening the door helped apply light to an otherwise
shuttered environment. Furnishing was
clean but sparse. The strong aromatic scent
of Ogiri okpei, an African food flavouring produced from fermented oil
seeds, gripped my nostrils and hinted at a smell memory I couldn’t quite
place.
I walked through the house looking
for something; no, needing to find something.
The longing was palpable. I began
fondling myself aggressively through my khaki trousers as I arrived at my
designation – a slightly ajar door to a back room. I paused before touching the handle, reading
the emotions left on the knob – anticipation, worry, and hopefulness. I opened the door and saw a naked woman in
the bed. The sunlight through the open
blinds formed streaked shadows across her coco-coloured breasts.
Is it bad to be fantasizing about
your best friend after getting ploughed by your husband? Shit, I hate being a stereotype.
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