If you've read Michael Ampersant's GREEN EYES, you've been wondering how the story will continue, how John and Alex will cope with the HEA (happy ever after) of John's dreams coming true. "Michael" we wrote to our author, "how about the long-announced sequel to your Lambda-Literary-Award book?" There were some hiccups, Michael writes by return mail, but here's a chapter that LUSTSPIEL readers might appreciate. John's trolling of course, while the vampire festival is still in full swing, and the troll is Taylor, a youth of barely legal age (it's his 18th birthday). Other complications? Many of course. This is the second part;Taylor has just asked: "And you, you don't want to come?"
By Michael Ampersant
"And you, you don't want to come?"
“Sure,” I say.
“How often can you come per day?” I ask.
“Not more?” I ask.
“You’re still hard.”
“Right,” he says.
|"How often can you come per day?"|
We extinguish the cigarettes. “And?” he says.
“Wanna try again?” I ask.
“Remember the green room?”
“That was a downer.”
“Lie down,” I say, “head against the pillow, supine.”
“Okay,” he says. He folds himself into position.
“No, I say, “Help me.” I point at my dick.
“Spit,” I say, “we need your spit.”
We spit. He’s quite an animal when it comes to spittle.
“No blow job?” he asks. “How about a blow job.”
“No,” I say, “let’s get down to business.”
He reclines again, spreads, and raises, his legs. I’ll get on top, my haunches between his thighs, one hand on the bed, the other on his pecs, my crown already probing his hole. “OOHH,” he moans peremptorily.
“You’re not play-acting?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Your rimming. The sensation, it’s coming back.”
“It’s about feelings, isn’t it?” he asks.
Let me see whether we can get this done without manual assistance. Is my crown in the right spot?
“My crown, is it in the right spot?” I ask. He adjusts his butt. Yes, he believes it is.
A little more pressure, probing pressure. There’s this onset of elation down there, my dick sensing its happy purpose—the purpose of all happy dicks and of all happy endings—giving the finger to eter-nity.
A little more pressure. Nah, nah. “A little more pressure,” I say. “OOHH,” he moans (we haven’t achieved nothing yet). “OOHH.”
“We’re not going to use didoes and stuff, now,” I say (that we don’t have at hand anyhow). Perhaps I could send room service for a cucumber. Nah. A little more pressure. Ooops.
A cry of sheer, unmitigated pain. We’re somehow in, a tiny bit. “AAAGGHH.” Again, his cry, even louder, his eyes wide open, the lips contorted. Real pain. The room—sounding naked like every-thing else in this building—feels the pain, too. “AAAGGHH.” We’re in an inch, or so. “AAAGGHH.”
“Stay with me,” I say. He closes his eyes, has them open again. He’s still alive. He’s beautiful. “AAAGGHH.”
“The pain will subside,” I say. “AAAGGHH.” He’s dead-pale, drool on his lips, beads of cold sweat on his forhead. “I’ll stay with you, okay.” His next AAAGGHH is a bit milder, but there’s a tremor in his pecs now, he’s trembling. He can’t breathe, looks like. Yes, he can: “OOOHHH.” “OOOHHH.” The tremor subsides. “OOOHHH.”
“Stay with me,” I say again.
“Stay…with…me,” he moans. He can still speak. “AAAGGHH.”
“I haven’t done anything,” I say.
“I…know,” he moans. “OOOHHH.” This is quite a fuck. People should try.
“Think of the rimming,” I say, “It’ll be like this, squared.”
“Yeah,” he moans.
“Better?” I ask
“Better,” he moans.
“I’ll stay with you until the pain is gone, then I pull out, okay.”
“No, don’t,” he moans. “Ooohhh.”
Topping isn’t quite as easy as outsiders may think, you’re basically in a push-up position, and if you have to hold the push for some time, like I do now, you kinda feel it. I will have to pull out and regroup. “Ooohhh.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The hurt must be gone first,” I say.
Save for the tremor, Taylor had been petrified for the last few minutes. Now I feel some flexing down there. Some semblance of color returns to his face.
“Don’t pull out,” he says. I pull out. “Nooo,” he moans.
“We need more spit,” I say and lie down next to him. I need a minute of rest. He may needs some rest, too.
“I’m burstin’,” he says, touching his dick. The dick looks the part, veined shaft, gleaming cock lips mercilessly pressed against his abs, the mysterious case of a perfect erection revealed.
“No-no,” I say. “Hands off. We’ve done one inch already, five more to go.”
(I’ve never talked about this, but my dick is actually quite sizable, definitely more than six inches, almost seven. Perhaps that’s why Alex used to like me.)
“Your dick is too large,” he says.
“You should see Alex’s,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
“I need your spit,” I say.
He bends over, gets down on me. “Just your spittle,” I say.
“Lube would be better,” he says.
There’s a lot of saliva and perhaps other, more secretive substances. The net result is very satisfying, however, my glans resurfacing in a coat of gleaming bodily fluids, enhanced by an errant ray of sunlight streaking through the window.
(The ray of sun, I made that up; the window points east.)
He rearranges himself against the bed head.
“Legs still work?” I ask. He raises his legs. I’m back in position. No hesitation this time. The necessary cruelties are best discharged early on. Who said that? I grab his shoulder blades, and—using the leverage of my torso—ram it in.
We’re in twice as deep, perhaps, two inches, and the room shakes. Taylor’s face reddens, then pales again. The sweaty beads on his forehead solidify into drops. Another thrust, one more time.
Three inches now. “AAAGGHH.”
“This is not fucking fucking,” I say, “we need a new word.”
“The necessary cruelties are best discharged early on.”
“Who said that?”
“Somebody said that.”
“Machiavelli,” he moans.
There’s a whiff of BDSM in the air. Perhaps Machiavelli didn’t say it. Perhaps it was de Sade.
“Stay with me,” I say.
“You’re repeating yourself.” I say.
“So do you,” he sighs.
I cup his wet forehead with one hand, run my hand through his thick hair. “I love you,” I say.
“Liar,” he says. The whole thing works.
“Machiavelli,” I say, “you’re right. I forgot.”
“Nice, isn’t it.”
“Say ‘ho’.” I say.
“The pain subsiding?”
“Say ‘ho’ when it’s gone.”
And now we’re being treated to an ordered sequence of sighs, starting with another ‘Aaaggh’ and ending with something along the lines of ‘Aaaaaah.’
“Where are you?” I ask.
“It just feels so good when the pain subsides.”
“Okay, Taylor, we have to change tack.”
“You do this all the time?” he asks.
“I wish I would.”
“Feels like, feels like.”
“You chose the wrong guy for your defloration,” I say.
“Your dick is too large,” he answers.
“You should have asked Alex,” I say.
“Ten inches,” I say, cruelly.
“Ouhouhou,” he moans.
In the meantime I had practically withdrawn, just making sure that the tip of the iceberg was still inside so we wouldn’t have to bother the rim of his precious sphincter again. And there we go. A gentle thrust. One inch. I retract. I go. One inch. I retract. I go. Feels quite easy. “Feels quite easy,” I say. “Aaah,” he moans.
“Count the thrusts,” I say.
“Aaah,” he answers.
“This is sort of proto-fucking,” I say.
“Fucking proto-fucking,” he answers. “Aaah.”
|"Okay, Taylor, we have to change tack."|
We’re busy now, making progress. I’m four inches deep, and Taylor is getting into to the rhythm of my thrusts, his butt anticipating and answering each jolt (“Ooooh,” “Aaaah,”). His moans segue from sights to murmurs to hums, his voice deepens.
“Thirty-five,” he says.
“Counting sheep?” I ask.
“Ooohh, John,” he sighs, “Ooohh, John.”
This youth is quite encouraging; Kerouac’s dick is apparently doing its job. You will know how this feels, reader, if you’ve fucked a willing nice young man before (or girl, for that matter). The whole idea of topping, when it works out, it’s like riding a race, unleashing your inner Ferrari with no apparent limits to its acceleration. You need not go faster to feel better with each thrust. And it feels so good already, the penis under power, they joy you’re bringing to this youth, five inches now, and we’re not yet done, no need to steer this any longer, your dick has taken over and talks the straight talk of pure lust, explains how it is, one on one, to Taylor, and his ass understands every word of it, handles every shade of meaning sex ever had.
Okay, let’s interrupt this briefly:
“Taylor,” I ask, myself now deep up his ass. “Taylor?”
“Hundred-forty-eight,” he says.
“Stop counting,” I say.
“Ooohh, John,” he sighs.
“How does it feel?”
(I like the ‘John.’)
“You love me?”
“I love you.”
I withdraw. “You know the ancient definition of ‘sublime’?” I ask, as if I would teach a class at SGC.
“Pain turning into pleasure.”
“One million,” he says.
And there we go again. I’m accelerating. He’s accelerating. “Fuck,” he yells, “fuck.” He’s getting louder and louder with each thrust, and more articulate if you will (“Fuck, fuck me, fuck me, John”). John is all penis now. Taylor is all John, and John is the entire planet. Tom of Finland’s picture comes to mind: fucking the entire planet. A last, vicious onslaught. Star Wars.
“Star wars,” I say.
Taylor ejaculates one last, planet-shaking, hotel-shaking yell, and bursts forth, spurt for spurt for spurt of ropes of jizz spiraling in all directions. And I’m pumping on my side, my own goo seeping past my shaft and dripping from his ass. This is sheer pornography. Lovely.
“Count the spurts,” I say.
“Noooh,” he says. I count twenty-one.
“Twenty-six,” he says.
“The earthquake is over,” I say and withdraw. We’re lying side by side now, reeking of salty cum, unable to lift a limb, silent. Everybody is silent. The children have stopped squeaking, the couples have made up, the bedheads are at rest. You could hear a pin drop. No pin drops.
|You could hear a pin drop.|
“You think they were listening?” he asks.
“So to hear,” I say. He laughs.
We’ve discussed this before. Up here, in our heads, us males get back to normal very quickly.
“One more time?” Taylor asks.
“I’d take this as a compliment,” I say.
“Let’s cherish the memory.”
“This was the best sex in my life,” Taylor says.
“I thought it was your first time?”
“So, I’m right by definition.”
“You sound like Alex,” I says.
“Alex,” he muses. “Come to think of it. Alex. Ten inches.”
He rises, steps into drawers, shorts, T-shirt, sneakers, horn-rimmed spectacles, collects his Marlboroughs, and says: “I think I’ll go now. Spread the good news. The girls will be jealous.” He points at something above my head, above the headrest, apparently. There hangs a picture, depicting a large ocean liner. It’s frame severely aslant, she looks like the sinking Titanic. “See you later,” Taylor adds.