Porn War

"The Men's Paradise bar is just a couple of blocks west on Western Sahara. Kind of a dive, but there's a play area in back, if that's what you're interested in. A little early, though. They just opened at 4:00."

"Sounds fine, thanks," I said. I was just looking for a drink or two away from here, but I wasn't bothered if it was the kind of place that had action in the back. If it was on the rough side, it was close to where I had been in my early days.

* * * *

I saw him as soon as I entered the dimly lit, nearly deserted bar—my sweeter-than-wine blond hunk from the previous night of sex in Marty's room.

I saddled up to the bar beside him, ordered a beer, and turned to him. He was looking down into the bar top rather than at me, although I had seen him glance up when I entered and then look away quickly.

"Hi, my name is Tim," I said. "I think we've already had a bit of sex. Maybe more than a bit."

He looked up at me, his expression a mix of embarrassment, interest, and amusement. His smile was much too glorious to have been partially hidden behind a face mask. He didn't deny we'd had sex.

"For real? Your real name is Tim?"

"Yep. That I cannot deny."

"In that case, I'm Julian. I admit that I've been looking for you today, but didn't see you at the conclave. Both of those sessions were insufferable, though, and not finding what I was looking for, I came out of that gaseous balloon to soak up my disappointment."

"Anyone tell you your kisses are sweeter than wine?" I asked. "Not to mention that you have a terrific body and a great cock."

"So that would make us twins?" he asked, with a laugh. "Gotta admit I was thoroughly enjoying you before that leather guy pulled you away. Nothing half that good again before Marty shooed us all out of there to have you alone to himself. You weren't looking all that conscious when I left. I was a little worried for you, especially when I couldn't pick you out in the crowd today."

"No, I slept through most of Marty," I answered. "Sure would like to take up where you and I left off, though. I'm told they have accommodation for that beyond that doorway over there covered with a beaded curtain."

The room was small and pretty grungy, but it had a quite adequate six-foot-square vinyl ottoman in the center of it that the bartender who took Julian's money wiped down when he'd shown us to the room. It was Julian's money, because he insisted on being dominant and calling the shots, which was just peachy with me.

When we'd been left alone, Julian got right to business, and I let him work, as I had enjoyed letting him take the lead the previous night. We did the sweeter-than-wine kiss thing, rocking against each other, as we stood beside the ottoman, stripped off each other's shirts, and unbuckled and unzipped each other. Julian retrieved both of our dicks and worked them against each other, while he slowly arched me back, bending me over the ottoman. I let him do as he wanted, holding his head between my hands, keeping him in the honeyed kiss.

When he'd bent me to where my shoulder blades felt vinyl, he pushed me up onto the ottoman until my head flopped over the end. He moved around to the head of the ottoman, and I found myself opening my throat to the slow stroke of his cock while he leaned over me and ran his hands over my torso as far down as running his fingers into my pubes and tantalizing the root of my cock. I went right hard for him, which was a good sign to me that he was what I wanted and would scratch my itch. He eventually returned his hands to cover my pecs and worry my nipples.

When he felt the time was right, he pulled out of my mouth, turned me onto my belly, my head still flopping over the end of the ottoman and my arms dangling off the sides, and lay full on top of me, moving his body slowly on top of mine, listening to me moaning softly. He took his time. I spread my thighs a bit and his cock fell into the crack and I felt his cock slide down along my entrance. He lifted his hips, sliding back up to my entrance. Then down and then up and repeating until he felt me shudder in his embrace. If I could have trained my rim to catch his bulb as it passed and suck it into me, he'd already be fucking me.

"Yes, yes, fuck me," I murmured, as I raised my hips to him, presenting for him. But he was taking his time. After a bit of pressure work on my rim with the bulb, he started moving down my body, kissing me on the back as he moved. He had an arm around my waist and he pulled my rump up even more into the air than I had raised it, wanting him to enter me.

His tongue and mouth went to my hole, and I groaned my pleasure and need. He pulled my cock and balls through my legs, having nudged my thighs to spread their stance further. He sucked the cock and balls, giving equal time to those and my hole, as I writhed under his attention and whispered the mantra of "fuck me, fuck me, stick it in, please fuck me, now, please."

And then he did just that, going into a crouch over my hips and folding his body over mine, and slowly, but relentlessly, entering and entering and entering me. I shuddered and trembled as I felt him throbbing and moving inside me, fully possessing me. Not terribly thick, but terribly, terribly long—reaching for my tonsils. Fucking deep. Then shallow; then deep again.

His arms were wrapped around my chest and he rose up on his knees, bringing me with him. One of his arms lay diagonally up my chest. The hand of the other one was stroking my cock in rhythm to his stroking inside me, a stroke that paused and then picked up in a different rhythm and speed whenever I felt I had the measure of it, making me gasp and gulp and beg for more, deeper, faster, harder.

He cupped my chin with a hand and turned my face to his for a sweeter-than-wine kiss that went on almost forever . . . until, with a lurch and a muffled cry, I shot out over the vinyl. I felt his encasing arm pull back from me then and I fell forward on my chest on the cum-slickened vinyl. He crouched closer over my hips, grabbed my waist with his hands, and pumped me harder, faster, deeper to his own ejaculation.

We returned to the Blue Moon separately, after paying extra to use the bar's shower, Julian showering before me, me still lying in a pool of cum and moaning when he was finished. The supper had already started before I reached the resort hotel. Marty's table was fully seated—thank god, I thought. But it was somewhat disconcerting to see that Julian was seated there, and looking fresh and somewhat disinterested. Who would have guess that just a half hour earlier he had his long cock up my ass? Also seated at the table was the pudgy Niles James. A bevy of old maidish women were fawning over him. Understandable, I thought. He did write that insipid Romance. But then I admonished myself. I rather enjoyed his Romances, I'd have to admit, especially the ones of recent years. I never admitted to Brent that I read them, of course.

I didn't realize before I sat down at one of the few empty seats at another table, though, that it put me right next to who quite evidently had been the leatherman who DP'd me the previous night. I wouldn't have known him from Adam—at least until I zeroed in on the studded wrist bands he was wearing and got a peek at the leather harness under his half-open shirt—but he certainly remembered me. I spent half the meal removing his hand from my thigh and even my basket and listening to him whisper in my ear what he wanted to do to my body. Some of that sounded rather enticing, though, and I didn't have much to say when he pointed out that the last time he groped my crotch, I was hard.

Sometime during the meal I discovered that he wrote leather and biker books, which came as no surprise, but also that he read my—or, more correctly, Brent's—BDSM and rough sex books and was dying to take me for a solo ride, test out positions and tie ups Jasper wrote about, and compare research notes. He even told me, in hushed tones, that he had a whip he'd named Jasper.

He followed me back to my room after dinner, which I didn't realize until I already was trapped in a dead-end hall. The only thing that saved me from a research session, which I'll have to admit I was half tempted by, was that I found my pass card wouldn't work on my hotel room door. I turned and breezed by him, with the explanation that the key didn't work, and he was so nonplused by that, only half believing me, I'm sure, that he didn't impede my passage.

"You are no longer in that room," the hotel desk clerk cheerily told me. "You've been moved to Room 103, and your luggage has already been transferred. Just a minute and I'll prepare you a new pass key."

"Marty Doans again," I exclaimed. I said it loud enough that the leather guy, who had followed me in disbelief out to the reception desk, overheard and immediately vanished. I smiled at the thought that he probably was one of Marty's authors too and knew better than to mess with someone Marty was being possessive with.

I seethed through the two evening sessions, paying little attention to what was being said and looking over at the leatherman occasionally and frowning my "I'm not in the mood anymore" warning. Although he continued to eye me, all it took was for me to look annoyed at him, and he turned his eyes elsewhere.

That night I was reminded that the Blue Moon was a full-service gay male resort. When I entered Room 103, I immediately noticed the sling suspended in the middle of the room from four chains attached to a strong hook screwed securely into a ceiling beam. The sling hadn't been there the previous night and the room had been too dimly lit and filled with teeming naked bodies for me to have noticed special amenities like strong ceiling hooks.

I was contemplating the why of the plastic cover—more of a kid's swimming pool effect because of the lip around the sides—that was under the sling, when a naked Marty emerged from the bathroom and had me undressed and in the sling, with my arms and legs running up and bound to the four corner chains, before I could think of a reason why he shouldn't do it. My attention was riveted on the impossible thickness of his cock. Brent's cock had been impossibly thick. I actually liked impossibly thick cocks.

I told him something of this after I'd finished screaming at the tit clamps he applied to my nipples.

"We don't have to do it this way, Marty. You've got a thick cock. That's enough for me to give you a good time in a fuck."

"I'm startin' to get complaints on your writing, Jasper," he said. He always used my pen name. To him, I was Jasper. "Buyers are beginning to notice that Jasper doesn't have the BDSM zing he used to have—rough sex, yes, but you need a refresher in some of the finer techniques and toys, I think."

Refresher? I thought. Heavy BDSM was Brent's bag, not mine. There was a reason I wasn't writing heavy BDSM. But then, as Marty, already inside me and pounding to beat the band, started jerking on the leads to the tit clamps and I resumed some minor screaming again. I recognized that I certainly was getting experience in what he wanted me to write. I wouldn't have trouble writing how pinched and pulled nipples felt like from now on—or how, mysteriously enough, they were, in fact, connected to the arousal of my cock and to my enjoyment of a thick dick working my channel.

I spouted for him. And it wasn't long before I learned what the plastic cloth with the rim under the sling was all about either—when he came inside me, pulled out of me, fisted his cock, and lifted it over my belly.

I'd never actually included water sports in anything I'd written before. But I guess the point was that Brent, as Jasper, had. And that Marty wanted this sort of stuff to be included in Jaspers books again.

I got the message.

* * * *

Peter Knoles, Marty Doans's flighty assistant, was hopping from one foot to the other in front of me the next morning as he handed me the final schedule for the day's sessions, the last day of the conclave. As he got me to accept it, he skipped back a few extra paces from me and almost went into a fetal position, as if I was going to swat him like a fly.

After I looked at the schedule, I certainly felt like doing so—but only because Marty wasn't there himself. Just as I feared, the last session was now titled "Porn War," and Jasper and Niles James were the sole listed panelists.

I could have spit bricks and was building up the effort to do so, when I heard a surprised exclamation of "Shit!"

I looked up and into the wide-open eyes of Julian, who had just appeared in front of me. He was staring at the nametag on my shirt.

"You. You're Jasper!?" he both exclaimed and quizzed.

I looked at the nametag on his shirt. It said "Niles James."

"Shit!" I said.

"But . . . but . . . you aren't old enough," he said, being the first to recover.

"Neither are you . . . to be Niles James," I retorted.

"The original Niles died. Marty wanted to keep the franchise going and he liked my Romance writing, so I took over as Niles James."

"And the original Brent died and Marty had me take over Jasper," I said. I didn't reveal that Brent had been my lover as well. When you're shopping for a new lover, you don't necessarily tell the prospects about the earlier ones—beyond telling them enough to know what you could do. Julian definitely already knew what I could do—and what I would do for him, which was anything he wanted me to do.

"Well, you do Romance just as well as you write it," I said, maneuvering from the sticky situation to more amenable ground.

"You know we're supposed to be sworn enemies," Julian said.

"Yeah, I know. That's pretty much what the schedule of this afternoon's session says. So, what do we do? Cut out again? Leave 'em hanging?"

"I can't afford to do that," Julian said. "I need this gig."

"Me too," I answered.

"Then let's give them what Marty wants. Let's tear into each other in the conclave session and then go off and hide and fuck while they think we're in mortal combat somewhere."

"Sounds good to me," I was quick to agree. "But it'll have to be your room. Marty had me moved in with him."

"He's giving a press interview now. Switch your luggage to my room while he's tied up with that. He'll never find you there. Tomorrow we'll duck out when no one's looking and figure out how we can be together more. I live in New York."

"So do I."

"Sweet."

I smiled, thinking of wine and his kisses.

When I got to Marty's room and opened the door, I shuddered at what I found. The sling was gone, but chains with wrist restraints now hung from the hook in the ceiling. And on the bed was a flogging whip. I gave brief thought to whether Marty had named the whip. I loaded my suitcase and got out of there as soon as possible.

But I had to admit that Marty was right. If I was going to continue to be Jasper, I was gonna need more experience in what Jasper wrote about. Marty lived in New York too. Guess I just wouldn't avoid him and his research sessions. It could only make my writing better.

And he did have a very thick cock.