tagGay MaleDesignated Driver Ch. 02

Designated Driver Ch. 02


Very special thanks to rgraham666 for his helpful info on mind-altering substances. And my most profound gratitude to Snoopdog for his invaluable translations. Danke, gentlemen!


What Happened--Arthur

I like twinks. I mean I really like them. I'm fatally attracted to boyish good looks and sleek physiques. And yeah, I enjoy feeling protective and dominant over some little guy. Not that I want him to swoon over my muscles and keep house for me. I just want him to enjoy being lifted into my arms and coddled.

Unfortunately, my track record with twinks isn't so good. They flirt with me, all coy and shy at first and completely at my service in bed. A date or two down the line, however, and they drop the pretence. "Why are you looking at that guy? You should be looking at me," they pout. And "I don't want to go out tonight," or "I hate this place. Take me somewhere better." Once it starts, there's no stopping it: "I didn't order this," "I'm bored," "I've changed my mind...."

The ones that are constantly fishing for stokes are the worst: "I know I'm not very sexy..." or "Sometimes I think people stare at me because they hate me..." Gah! They say things like that and I know I'm going to be spending the rest of the night reassuring them of their beauty and desirability and wonderful personality.

I suppose it has less to do with twinkness than with the fact that I always go for the beauty queens. Self-centered brats who think their desirability entitles them to use and abuse others...and to be a general pain-in-the-ass. Which was why, at the time this all started, I was searching for Mr. Low-Maintenance. Not zero-maintenance. I didn't want a boy who had no opinions or needs. But I was sick to death of the spoilt princes who kept asking if our relationship was "there" yet. Couldn't they just enjoy the ride?

Enter Eric.

The answer to my prayers, though I didn't know it. When I first met him, I hardly gave him a second look. Even after he started hanging out with us, I barely realized he was there. One minute I'd be sure there was four of us at the table, then, with a blink, I'd realize we were five. I'd forgotten to include Eric.

That's how quiet, how self-effacing he was. Finally, I got curious and put an effort into seeing him. He was a smallish, fragile-thin, skater- twink, which was certainly my type, but average in looks. I didn't date average. My competitive streak wouldn't let me. I always went for the prize: the boy with the sultry eyes or a dimple in the chin, the teasing heart-breaker every stud was hoping to fuck.

Eric was...well, nothing special. Still, the more I actually saw of him, the more interested I got. His big, guileless eyes were so honest, and I liked his shy smile, the way he turned his head to hide it. What struck me most, however, was the way he listened. I've never met anyone who hung on words as much as he did. He never entered the conversation, but he took it in, laughing quietly at the jokes.

He was also a darn good driver, able to slip effortlessly in and out of traffic, and parallel park in the tightest of spaces. Maybe that shouldn't have meant anything, but it became symbolic to me. Especially given that he never hotdogged or raced. He was always careful as well as competent, so much so that the rest of us could sit back and enjoy the ride.

I was really glad when he turned this talent for driving into a business. And seeing him at work is what finally opened my eyes to him. I remember this one rainy night in particular: I'd been doing some late-night shopping, and was about to cross the street when it started to really pour. So I took refuge under department store awning and that's when I saw Eric's van. It was parked before a supper club. Eric, an umbrella in hand, was trying to help out a trio of middle-aged women. They were dressed to the nines and anxiously eying the water rushing up over the curb.

"Hang on a minute, Ms. Anders," Eric said to the bleached blond woman in front. "Hold the umbrella and allow me." He passed the handle to her, and then he put an arm about her and swung her over the rush of gutter water onto the wet sidewalk. Taking back the umbrella, he escorted her to the entrance with its overhang, then went back and did the same with the other two ladies. All of the women were larger and heavier than him, but he put all of his upper body strength into it, and got them down smoothly. Of course, he ended up half-soaked, but that only made the act more gallant.

"I haven't had a man cop a feel like that since my ex carried me over the threshold." The blond laughed as he brought up the last of the trio.

"Uh-oh, I've been found out," Eric said.

"Isn't it time you stopped trying to pass for gay? Be my houseboy, Eric, I swear, I'll spoil you rotten."

I'd caught glimpses of Eric's shy smiles, but never anything like the genuine grin he beamed at that woman. "That wouldn't be fair to you, Ms. Anders. You deserve a really robust houseboy. Not a wimp like me."

The women chuckled and Eric opened the door for them. "I'll be back to pick you up, ladies. Have a great evening."

I won't say it was a whole different Eric, but it certainly wasn't the same, silent boy who hung out with me and my friends. This one had natural charm, and a vibe that was almost custodial, as if his passengers were his sacred charge. It intrigued me.

So, I started to really watch Eric, and I began to notice a few things. Like he was always the one who took on the nasty job of looking after the drunk.

"Hey, there fella, easy does it," he'd say when a guy in our group had one-too-many. And he'd assist the poor bastard to the toilet. I remember seeing him once, holding John's head as he upchucked. Eric had even gotten some paper towels and set them down on the floor so John wouldn't dirty his pants as he knelt before the porcelain altar.

Ditto when he drove us home. "Let me help ya—" he'd say, when one of us couldn't quite manage to walk straight. And then he'd put his shoulder under the arm of a bruiser like Bob, who was twice his size, and assist him up two flights of stairs.

And why the fuck were we putting that on Eric? He was the smallest guy in our group. He shouldn't be the one to haul us to our doors.

He fetched us our drinks if there wasn't a waiter, or extra chairs if more were needed. He shifted tables, and even got our coats for us. He called ahead to make reservations at the pizza parlor or to check and see when a band was playing. Yet he never helped himself to a slice of that pizza, never got himself a ticket to the concert.

And the worst thing was: no one noticed. It wasn't as if the guys expected Eric to open the door for them, but they didn't thank him when he did. I don't think they even saw him. It gave me a weird feeling to watch it. Like he was trying to impress us and couldn't. Or like....

...like he knew he was replaceable. Like if he ever did less than his best, we'd finally notice and give him the boot.

I considered pointing this out to the guys, but I was hardly in a position to cast stones. Time and again, Eric had driven me and some beauty queen home, and each and every time I'd shamelessly made out with my new boy in the backseat. I mean, how brutal was that? Hey, Eric, take a look at this hottie; let me give you a preview of the amazing sex we're going to have. Too bad you can't even get a mercy fuck.

Okay. So mistakes had been made; time to fix them. I started by trying to engage Eric in conversation. This turned out to be harder than I thought. He was pathetically eager to listen to what I had to say, but he never had much to say in return. Not, that is, until I finally asked him for driving tips.

"People think you can't get on the freeways after three o'clock," he explained, quite seriously, "But that's not really true. There's this break in the traffic that comes at around four-thirty if you're heading west. East is murder, but west is smooth sailing for about an hour. Then it clogs up again."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

"The three o'clock traffic sends commuters running for the side streets. Which, then loosens up the freeway. Funny, huh?"

There was that confidence again. I wondered what it might be like to travel with him across country. Or better yet, to take him to Germany with me and introduce him to the Autobahn. God, wouldn't he love that? I found myself watching his nimble hands, so sure on the wheel. What would they'd feel like cupping my ass?

"Check this out," Eric said another night, one of the few times he actually spoke first. We were heading down Newberry Blvd., the hellish part that ran through the commercial district. It had recently been repaved and given islands of concrete and trees, which had significantly improved the traffic.

"Look at the way the islands change the flow. They're still connected to the main thoroughfare, but they create private lanes for those wanting the stores. So there's no interference with the main drag." His eyes glowed with admiration. "Such a simple solution. I love it."

A guy who found beauty in traffic flow. How could I not be charmed? Even my initial impression of his attractiveness shifted, going all the way from indifferent to obsessed. What did he look like naked? And would he jump or moan if his nipples were tweaked? Night after night, I'd lie in bed, stroking my stiff cock and dreaming of his bubble butt exposed. I'd imagine myself impaling him, envision the wiry muscles of his back rippling as he undulated.

From the looks Eric gave me, I knew he'd be willing and interested. But his natural reticence made me hesitate. Was it shyness or something more?

"So, what's your type?" I finally asked with false casualness. I was alone with him in the front seat. We were picking up the guys for Bob's birthday celebration and I was the first stop.

He shrugged and kept his eyes on the road. "I'm not picky."

"Come on, Eric. What are you into? Hairy bears? Sculpted jocks?"

He went silent on me, as if he thought I was poking fun at him.

"How about this," I tried, "tell me about the last guy you were with. What was he like?"

I saw his hands tighten on the wheel. "That was a while ago. A one night thing."

A one night thing? I didn't like the sound of that. I wanted Eric for several nights, maybe longer.

"What was he like?"

"Sexy. Rough," he said, and that was pretty much all I got out of him.

We picked up the rest of the gang and drove to a Latin club. Bob had arranged for an intimate bash with an exclusive, curtained booth. There were flights of tequila waiting, four shots for each of us in little flared glasses. They ranged from light to dark gold in color. As we threw back the first of these, my mind wandered back to what Eric had said. I kept replaying it as the waiter brought over small plates of Oaxaca cuisine.

Sexy I could do. And rough if that's what he was into. It wasn't my usual thing, but why not? I watched Eric sipping at his club soda while the rest of us did our second and third shots and nibbled on the food. The servings of petite empanadas and tamales with mole sauce were barely large enough to give each of us a bite, but Eric never asked for his share. He was playing the invisible man again, and doing it all too well. Which, for some reason, angered me.

Down went the last and darkest tequila shot. Damn. That was a good one. We decided it was time to get in some dancing and left the booth. There was a Salsa beat pounding away and we all took our turns partnering with Bob. I bumped up behind him and he laughingly wiggled his ass into me until John stole him away.

I tangoed with a few other guys and a couple of girls, enjoying that wonderful mix of endorphins, tequila and the throb of the music. I was about partner up with Bob again when I saw Eric standing on the sidelines. He had a wistful smile on his face, as if he were imagining himself out there with us.

I swung on over and nabbed him. His eyes widened. "Oh, no, Arthur, I can't—"

"You're going to have to," I said, spinning him into the middle of that writhing crowd. I got my arm around his waist and pulled him close. He was wearing a thin, designer tee and I could feel the tension in his back, his ribs expanding and contracting with panicked breath. His hands held to my shoulders for balance. I could feel the heat of his palms through my sleeves.

"There you see," I murmured, as he started to match my steps. "You can dance." Actually, he could. Not brilliantly, but he was keeping up and he wasn't stepping on my toes. I could smell his clean sweat, see it trickling down from his temples. My shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and I could feel his breath on my skin. I willed him to lean in, to kiss my chest. But he didn't. His head was turned away, as if he were trying to avoid touching his nose to my collarbone.

I ground my hips into his, and was rewarded with the cubby I felt growing there, right down the left thigh. I was reaching to cup and squeeze his butt when the music ended. There was applause, and I heard Eric swallowing hard. His trembling hands fled from my shoulders and I reluctantly let him go.

"Th-the guys are going back to the booth," he pointed out.

Fuck them, I wanted to say. I had a dozen ideas in my head, from dragging Eric to a men's room stall to taking him out into the alley, all of them ending with him on his knees and my cock in his mouth. His expression, diffident and afraid, made me check those notions. I wanted to make love to Eric, not be serviced by him.

There was a second flight of shots waiting at the table, four tastes of a different tequila. Us drinkers gave each shot it's due: a lick of salt before we tossed it down, and then a bite of lime to finish it. My aggressive, lustful attitude notched up with each belt.

As we finished up, the waiter brought over a flan with a candle in it. We all sang "Happy Birthday." Bob blew out the flame and got his cheers. He passed around the dessert and Eric got slighted, of course. I saw his gaze shift away. Shit, he didn't even expect to be given a bite!

"Here," I said, spooning some up. I held it out to him, insistent. I couldn't read the look in those gray eyes, disbelief maybe, but Eric took what was offered. The way he licked his lips had me wanting to suck on his mouth and tongue.

"Gentlemen," Bob got our attention by tapping a knife on his plate. "In honor of me, we are all going to have one last shot. A shot of something very special." The bottle he produced was small. It had an odd label, hand drawn and haphazardly glued on: a winged serpent that looked like it came from an Aztec temple. Inside was a clear, pale, yellowy brew.

"That better not be urine," John quipped and we all laughed. It's what we were all thinking.

"It's mescal."

"Where's the warm?" Yoshi asked, peering at the bottom of the bottle. "I mean, worm. Where's the worm?"

"Technically, mescal does not contain a worm. It contains a caterpillar. And the guy who makes this stuff strains out the worms and sells them separately, the greedy bastard."

"Oh." Yoshi was disappointed.

"My uncle gave it to me a few years ago," Bob went on, "He got it in this village that can only be reached by burro. Rumor goes this place makes the most potent mescal on earth. I don't even know if it's legal."

"So it's liquid peyote?" I asked.

"Do not insult my magical mescal!" Bob haughtily retorted. "This is not just peyote. If it's as advertised, then there are rare, rainforest herbs and medicines in it."

"Dude," Yoshi was skeptical. "I do not want to puke up my guts while having sweat lodge visions of leopards and shit."

Bob snorted. "You wish." He started to pour it out. "I've been saving this for years, so don't even try to get out of it. Eric," he added, "you'll make sure we don't jump off a building or cut out people's hearts?"

"I'll do my best," he said with a smile.

Yeah, like scrawny Eric could stop us if we decided to go on a rampage. But I doubted Bob's mescal was going to be all that astonishing. And what the hell? It was only a shot.

A shot, I should have remembered, that was going to cap the series of tequila shots we'd been swallowing down all evening.

"To my friends," Bob said, lifting his glass. "Thanks for sharing this with me."

"To Bob for taking us tripping," John joked. "Thanks a lot, friend!" We laughed, clinked glasses, and down went the mescal. It tasted pretty much like tequila, though there must have been some truth to Bob's claims. The flavor hinted of herbs, and something earthy like mushroom.

"I'm not seeing dog yet." Yoshi put down his empty glass. "I mean God. I'm not seeing God."

"Give it time," Bob said, and we went back to shooting the shit. Yoshi was slurring his words and John was swaying in his seat, which after nine belts of hard liquor, was to be expected. Still, we all knew who we were, where we were and what we were. No one stripped off his clothing and ran out in search of the mothership.

The mescal, alas, had just made us drunker. Nothing more. Or so I thought.

And then I got the telescoping effect. It appeared quite suddenly. One minute I didn't have it, then I did. As if I'd gotten taller and more remote. I was quite pleased with this new ability, and I quickly made use of it...on Eric. It was like having an eye doctor click lenses into place. I saw how thick his eyelashes were, the hint of shadow on his chin. I could even see flashes of the future: Eric under me, squirming and moaning, Eric swallowing down every inch of my powerful cock.

The languid lust I'd been feeling turned into a sexual blaze.

John was half asleep by now, and Yoshi was barely able to talk sense. Time to head home. The bill was paid and Eric took care of the valet parking. All we had to do was pile in. To my annoyance, Eric tried to drop me off first.

"I'm not ready to go in," I announced. How could he be so stupid! He knew what I had in mind. He knew I had to be last. I crossed my arms, making it clear I wasn't about to budge.

Eric frowned, shook his head, then dutifully took the others home.

"I know your flavor," I murmured to him on the way. He gave me an anxious look, as if worried that anyone should know him so intimately. He helped John and Yoshi to their doors, and separated out the right key for Bob. Then he drove me back home.

"Here we are," he said, pulling up to the curve.

I smirked to myself. Eric thought he was getting out of this. He was wrong. I deliberately stumbled, making like I couldn't walk. As expected, Eric's expression went from anxious to concerned. He hurried around and came up under my arm. Then he hauled me up the stairs to my studio apartment. I leaned on him heavily, and passed him my keys.

"T-there—" he got the door opened.

That's when I shoved him in. HA! I shut and locked the door behind us.

To my delight, Eric was already on his hands and knees! How thoughtful of him! I unbuckled and unzipped, letting my trousers drop.

"Damn it, Arthur," Eric said, scrambled up, "I know you're drunk but—"

That's when he saw my hard on. It was so stiff it nearly ripped apart my shorts. The expression on Eric's face was gratifyingly awed.

"You're going to beg for this, little puppy," I told him with a leer and tugged at his jacket.

"Okay. Okay." The jacket came off and he backed away. "I-I-I'm going to get some caffeine into you. You should take a shower..."

He fled into the kitchen. I laughed, then kicked off my shoes and the trousers, got out of my socks and shorts. Then, as a finale, I tore open the shirt. It was absolutely great to do that. Just pull it apart. Like Superman. Buttons flew and clattered across the floor.

I glanced down at my naked self. My solid pecs and rock-hard abs. My glorious cock, which was stiff as a pistol.

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