Fissure

Coming out of the kiss, he growled, "Step out of the shorts," and I kicked them away.

"Unzip me," he commanded. I went beyond that, taking his cock out. He was hard. So was I.

"Climb mi hips wid yuh knees—Climb my hips with your knees." Sinking back into the world of "us," where Thomas was master and I was slave.

With a whimper, I did so.

"Put it inna yuhself—Put it in yourself." When I had, he thrust up into me and started to stroke immediately. Snuffling and panting I moved with him. After that I didn't try to deny him ever again.

The day came, though, that Thomas was suddenly gone and Rondy was there—an older Jamaican, muscular, yes, but not like Thomas was. Not in a sexy, confident, overstepping way.

When I asked, Collin simply said that something had gone wrong in Thomas's family back in Jamaica, and he had to leave immediately. Collin said we were lucky that the family that had Rondy had shipped back to the UK and we were able to hire him on without a gap in help. That was certainly true. We had a cook and a cleaning woman, but we were still lost without a majordomo.

But the problem wasn't that we might have been without a majordomo—it was that we were without Thomas. I think that if Collin knew Thomas had been fucking me he either wouldn't care or he'd let me know he knew. There must have been some falling out between Collin and Thomas that had nothing to do with me.

Whatever it was, Collin must have felt a little bit guilty about it, because he paid me more attention from then and our life seemed to get back on track. He still was wrapped up in his own work, though, and didn't show that much interest in mine.

Rondy accepted both Collin and me as masters of the house and gave me every deference. Thomas had shown some deference to me when Collin was present but when he wasn't Thomas had treated me not only as Collin's sex toy—his property to be used as he wished—but as his, Thomas's slave, as well.

I missed Thomas—and swinging on the chandeliers.

* * * *

"They are all pigs, of course. Your Collin is a pig too, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't say so, no," I answered Bobby. We were sitting on the front porch of the Wharf Club, overlooking the George Town waterfront near the end of the city wharf. It was a gay club, not that anyone would admit to that. Sodomy was illegal in the Caymans, although, like most laws here, it was ignored unless it became too obvious. It just was used socially in self-selection separating one strata of "us" from another of "them." Collin and I were somewhere in limbo socially. We were known to be a gay couple—in whispers and raising of eyebrows—but Collin had an important position in banking and I had an interesting background, as a novelist—a more successful one now that I'd sold one of my novels to G.P. Putnam. Being some form of "artist" gave me leave to be queer and even flighty, if I wished. The English had a tradition of celebrating, in a low-key way, the unconventional artist, and the Caymans were distinctly English in flavor.

Thus far I hadn't wished to exhibit as flighty, though. More quietly interesting and mysterious. More than one ruling-class married English ex-patriot male I met at clubs and concerts here had suggested what I could do for him in private. Still, we weren't being invited into the homes of the super wealthy or highbrow here. At the upper level male-on-male passion only was brought up in whispers. The Wharf Club was refreshing because it definitely wasn't highbrow, although some of my high-class admirers slummed here occasionally, and queerdom could be spoken here at normal volume.

"Oh, come on," Bobby persisted. "You've said that Collin hasn't given you the attention you needed."

I knew that was a mistake—telling Bobby that—as soon as I'd done it. But that was before I sold the novel and before Thomas left our services. Collin was a bit better now. A bit. I liked Bobby. I found him easy to talk to, both of us being young, in the arts, and essentially kept men on the island. His keeper was the owner of the club, Gordo Williams, a Jamaican much like Thomas had been—a big, strapping black bull. But where Thomas had been handsome, Gordo was ugly as sin. But he certainly had a magnificent body on him. He bulged and glistened. Gordo owned this club. And he owned Bobby, who had been a dancer off Broadway, had signed on to a Royal Caribbean cruise line dance troupe, and had jumped ship here in the Caymans and was shacking up with Gordo. He danced for his supper now at the club. I also gravitated to Bobby because he was a sunny, funny, saucy, good-looking young man who I was studying to include as a character in a novel still in conception. Also because, like me, he was a submissive bottom and thus not a source of speculation or worry.

"He's better now," I said. We were here because Collin and Gordo had business—Collin was Gordo's banker—and I'd been invited along for a drink. I didn't get out much and was at a frustration point with my writing—what some called writer's block, although I didn't want to acknowledge it was that serious, so here I was. I convinced myself that I was just trolling for plot and character ideas. The writer's block would be gone by the time I got back to our house on Beach Drive. I had just needed to get out of the house and circulate a bit. Seeing Bobby again would get those juices going—and Gordo. I admit that, after Thomas had fucked me—my first black bull—and after Collin had become distant, I had gotten curious about Gordo. Before, I hadn't given him a second thought. Now I wondered if he was hung like Thomas had been. I wondered, as ugly as he was, if he would get a bit physical and manhandle me, letting me know I'd been captured, covered, and cruelly capped.

"Well, Gordo is a pig. They are all," Bobby was saying, as if he'd read my thoughts. "But he has a redeeming quality."

"What's that?" I unwisely asked.

"He's got a dick to beat all dicks—I wonder if all the black men down here do—and he knows how to use it. What do you think, Sean? Do you think all of the black men down here are hung like bulls?"

"I doubt it," I said, with a laugh. "I haven't thought much about that." But I, of course was thinking that—I'd just been thinking it about Gordo. I was thinking maybe so, and ever since Thomas I most certainly had thought about it.

"Gordo's hung like a champion bull," Bobby continued. "I'll say that for him. Not much between the ears or much to look at in the daylight, but a regular baseball bat between the thighs. And that makes all of the difference. In the dark nothing is better than Gordo's cock—and dancing here at the club, I can tell you that I get a variety of cock. I know that for a fact. You purred for that manservant of yours, Thomas. Well, let me tell you. He had nothing on Gordo."

"And you know that because . . ." I asked.

"How do you think I know that? Thomas got around."

"Lucky you," I said. And I meant that.

"Have you ever thought of another man while Collin was laying you—thought about someone else other than Collin being on top of you when Collin has his dick inside you and is pumping away? I mean other than Thomas? There any of these refined English lords you'd like to lie under and be taken by with finesse rather than brutal power?"

"No, of course not." I laughed, I hope not too nervously. Of course I'd thought about it—especially during the period Collin and I were in the darkest patch, the period in which Thomas was fucking me too. I thought about Thomas doing it when Collin was on top of me. And some other guys too, including Gordo. Not Bobby, of course. We were too much alike—and both submissives.

"If you did, who would it be? Would you like to stay with black bulls or go for the highbrow? There's a Jamaican fisherman who comes out there on that dock every morning to take his boat out. I try to be here every morning to sip my coffee and watch him prepare the boat. He's big, like Gordo. And although Gordo is about as much as I can handle—even when he fucks around, which is OK with me—I think of that fisherman. Gordo us oversexed. But sometimes when Gordo is on top of me, I think of it being that fisherman. And I wonder if he's as hung as Gordo. I bet he is. I think they are all black bulls down here. Who would it be for you, Sean?"

Gordo, of course. But, not my first pick. A black bull dick isn't everything I wanted in a man who was covering me. That would be David Irwin, the society doctor, the champion tennis player who lived in the big mansion at the top of the hill, with his wife, Gail. A handsome devil in his forties, all smiles and robustness. An Aussie, I understood. Rich as hell. He and his wife were patrons of everything here. And they threw the most exclusive parties. Always in the society pages of the paper. I'd thought of him being on top of me when Collin was, although I didn't think of that until Bobby had mentioned it. And Thomas, of course. I always was thinking of Thomas being on top of me when Collin was—the two of us swinging from the chandeliers.

"No, I can't think of anyone," I said to Bobby.

"You know Gordo fancies you," Bobby said, laying his hand on my forearm. "He's told me more than once that he'd like to do you. If you're interested, I want you to know that I don't mind. Gordo needs variety. So, do I, and we have an understanding. He does me best when he's doing someone else too. I told him that you and Collin were having some difficulty—that Collin wasn't satisfying you. That's one thing Gordo does really, really well. He satisfies. And I know Thomas knocked you around a bit and you found you liked a bit of that. Gordo conquers. So, if—"

"Thanks, Bobby, but Collin and I are doing just fine lately." Oh, shit, I thought. Another thing to worry about and to try not to give in to. Sure, I'd like to try Gordo out. "Is this why I was invited to come along today for a drink? You wanted to let me know that Gordo wants to fuck me?"

"Well, yes . . . except you know I'm always happy when you come along. You're the only one on this godforsaken pile of sand I can let my hair down with. I wouldn't care if Gordo was doing us both, truly. I wouldn't mind if we did a threesome with him. Are you mad at me for telling you, though?"

I could see that he was unsure of himself now. That wasn't the way I liked to think of the character I was weaving from him. "No," I laughed, "I don't care. It's flattering to know that. The next time I need a big black cock, I'll be showing up here." We both laughed at that, but I couldn't help thinking that I could use a big black cock.

At that moment, Collin came out onto the porch and Gordo bellowed for Bobby to come inside. Collin, whose drink was only half finished, eased down into a rocking chair and Bobby stood and went inside. I had a line of sight into the barroom. Collin and I sat there, not saying anything, looking out at the activity in the small harbor at George Town, and pretending that we didn't hear the sound of sex from inside the club.

From where I sat, when I turned my gaze away from the sunshine brutalizing the harbor and into the dimness of the barroom, I could see that Gordo was fucking Bobby on top of one of the tables. All I could see was the muscular back of the black stud, his trousers and briefs off, standing, facing the table. Bobby's creamy, dancer's legs, were spread and raised, held up by big black hands gripping the young man's ankles. Gordo's plump buttocks were contracting and relaxing in a rhythm that harmonized with Bobby's grunts and groans.

My hand was shaking as I raised my glass to my lips. I hoped Collin didn't notice. He seemed to be trying not to notice that Bobby was getting fucked royally just forty feet from us. I couldn't help but wonder just how hung Gordo was. Bobby was a relatively small-bodied young man. So was I. How thick a cock could his passage take? How thick could mine take? Thomas had been thick and I, surprisingly, had been reamed to his needs—with difficulty, certainly, but with glorious difficulty. I wondered if Gordo was as big as Thomas was. Or bigger. Bobby said Gordo was bigger—that he'd been fucked by Thomas as well. That was news.

The fucking obviously hadn't escaped Collin. As soon as we got back to the house, he wanted me in the bedroom, on our bed. He covered me in a missionary, crouching above me, on his knees, between my spread thighs. He was hovering over me, his forehead touching mine, his eyes blazing as they stared into mine. I clutched him to me, drawing him inside me, my palms squeezing his butt cheeks in the rhythm of his thrusts. He was good. It was a good fuck. He was hitting all of the familiar spots. It was the best fuck we'd had for some time, fed, I'm sure, by the sounds of Gordo taking Bobby at the club. He pulled the cum out of me and he came as well. It was a good, competent fuck.

But while he was fucking me, the images of Thomas and David Irwin . . . and Gordo were flipping up between his eyes and mine.

Afterward, as we sat by the pool, sipping drinks, mellow from the best fuck we'd managed in some time, Rondy padded out with a silver tray, with an envelope on it.

"Well, at last," Collin said, with a smile, when he'd read the note.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's an invitation. From the Irwins. For a buffet dinner up at their house. We've arrived at last," Collin said. I could tell from the tone of his voice that this was the best thing that had happened to him all day—including the fuck we'd just had in our bedroom.

"That's great," I said, my mind going to wondering if David Irwin was hung. He certainly had a robust, strapping body. He looked like he had a bulging basket in those newspaper photos of his tennis matches. And how strong was his backswing; his ball delivery? And he was an older man—at least compared with me. I'd always gone with older men for my longer affairs. I didn't consider what I'd had with Thomas an affair. It was more of a disease.

"Collin," I said. "You were unusually randy just now. Back there at the club . . . being able to hear and glimpse Gordo fucking Bobby . . ."

"You're wondering if I'd like to fuck Bobby too, like that, given the opportunity—and you not caring?"

"Well . . ."

"Sure, it makes me horny to think about fucking a cute little piece like that. It never hurts to think about the possibilities of variety."

"Oh, well."

"Are you asking me if I've fucked Bobby? It would be best if you didn't ask that."

So, he had. "No, I won't ask that."

OK, so I felt fine going back to thinking about Thomas and wondering about Gordo and David Irwin.

* * * *

David Irwin indeed was hung—and strong and charismatic. He fucked me in the garden of his house while fifty or more people, including Collin, were enjoying cocktails and a buffet in the Irwin house within our hearing. When he was seducing me, he told me that the danger of that would be all the more arousing for me, and he was right. He had a hand over my mouth to keep me from crying out and alerting the other guests. The other hand was on my lower belly, holding my buttocks into his groin, as he leaned me over a railing behind a gazebo and fucked me from behind. He was long and thick and he knew how to work a passage. The muscles of my passage walls loved what he was doing and rippled over his pistoning cock in appreciation.

He hadn't asked me if I was willing at the moment he just grabbed me and put me under him. He had just taken me, as if by right. I found it exhilarating. He, of course, knew I took cock. He just had no reason to know I would take his—not consulted or cajoled. Just fucked. He was a lion, the king of the island. He took what he wanted.

Still, I hadn't been totally a slut about it. I had struggled, surprised when he'd grabbed me and dragged me behind the gazebo. He'd told me in the house that he wanted to fuck me—that we'd been invited to his party because he wanted to fuck me—and I went into the garden with him alone. But I couldn't know he was serious and wanted to do it there and then when he was hosting a dinner party in the house. I acted like he was just bantering with me, being amusing, while letting me know he knew I was gay and that was OK with him. So, I went into the garden with him.

When he dragged me behind the gazebo, I struggled against him, but to no avail. He was a strong, determined man, and he knew what he was doing. He had his hand over my mouth but his fingers were pinching my nose, controlling my breathing. He was efficient at stripping my trousers and briefs and unzipping and freeing himself. Once inside me, he took me strongly, having me panting at how thick he was. Once he was saddled, I surrendered to him—aided by my having wanted him to begin with.

I wouldn't have said this was consensual, but it was overwhelming and embarrassingly arousing. And then it obviously turned consensual, as I relaxed—he laughed when he felt me surrender to him—and I set myself and banged him back, pushing back with my hips as he thrust forward. Both of us concentrated on the fuck, both of us fully invested in it.

He released my mouth and nose then, putting his mouth next to my ear and whispering, "I knew you wanted it from me." He was cocky. There were people nearby. I could have called out for help then.

"Yes, I wanted it from you," I whimpered.

"And when I want it from you again, you'll give it to me," he hissed.

"Yes," I answered.

When he was done, he eased his grip on me, ran his tongue around in one of my ear cavities to check on whether I would moan for him, which I did, and whispered, "I'm going to let you go now. You can go into the house and announce that I've raped you in the garden or you can arrange your schedule to visit me here again Tuesday afternoon and I'll rape you again. I know your type. You love to be raped."

"What time Tuesday?" I murmured.

He laughed. I turned my face to him and we kissed passionately.

"Yeah, I was told that you were Collin's little whore and could be had."

I chose to ignore that. "So, do we go back in now? Separately, I assume," I said.

"No, unless you decide to start screaming 'rape,' I'm taking you upstairs and banging the hell out of you to give you another chance not to show up on Tuesday."

"Is that what you want me to think you did just now—rape me?" I asked.

"It's the feeling I like to have when I do it with a beautiful young man like you. And I suspect it gives you added arousal when you can feel that's being done to you, yes."

"Then take me upstairs and rape me again," I said.

That's what he did. He guided me upstairs by a back staircase to a bedroom that obvious was a servant's room, not the master bedroom or even a guest room. It had double locks on it like he didn't want anyone but himself to go in there. Once in the room, I knew why that was. There was a twin bed and nothing much else in the room, which had a dormer window on one wall. The rest of the room had various restraints in view. There were four on the opposite wall, two above and two below. There were restraints on all four corners of the bed.

"Is this where you bring young men to rape them?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered, with a smirk. "Take your clothes off."

"Just like that?" I asked.

He slapped me across the face, sending me reeling back onto the bed. "Yes, just like that. Do it."

I did it.

He didn't use any of the restraints attached to the bed. He used connected double restraints to trap my wrists to my ankles on either side, trussing me up on my back, with my legs bent and spread and my genitals exposed. I didn't fight him. I didn't help him, either, I just sat or lay there, at his direction, docilely letting him truss me up, listening to the faraway music and hubbub of the party going on somewhere in the large house. He did tell me to let him know if I was resisting, but I remained mute, thinking only that I wanted his cock moving inside me again and not caring that we might be missed from the party or that someone would come looking for us. This was his time with me to control. He could do anything to me that he wanted to.