In the Hands of the Lord

He would laugh as he stroked my chest, not wooly as a monkey, but a hairy chest just the same. "I have no hair," he said, fascinated with mine. In fact, his body was almost devoid of body hair, with the exception of his pubic hair that was sparse, dark, gently curled and not excessively long. I always blew his penis with my eyes shut, I only saw his dark pubic hair as I approached. His head had the most attractive hair; the follicles were thick, the hair was long, black and straight. Some times he combed it high in the center in a distinctive manner, other times it was smooth. It never was quite the same. As he fucked me, my thighs around his neck, I would stoke his hair and run my fingers filled with my oozing cum through his thick black follicles.

When we showered together, on the occasions when I arrived early before opening, or late after closing, I was amazed to see how he washed himself, with the beauty and grace of a ballerina; it was an exceptional thing to witness, a graceful dance as he pirouetted under the shower, touching the soap to every part of his body, his toes, his chest, his arms, even his asses perfect firm ovals; it was as if I was at the Bulshoi.

I tried in vain to imitate the way he moved as he showered and washed, but I could not. I had to lift my legs up to my arms, I had always been an athlete, but compared to him I was stiff, cumbersome—he on the other hand was a grace and beauty in motion. They say love is blind? I wasn't blind when I first saw him. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

Although we were severely limited by language, little by little he made his story known. He had married young, had several children, one older who was 20 but looked 13, small and ageless, and there was younger children I never met, an obvious expression of vitality in the face of a disintegrating marriage. There was also one other child out of wedlock.

Earlier, in a troubled marriage, he had returned alone to Thailand after a terrible fight with his wife, there he became the consort of a childhood friend, an exceedingly beautiful woman. The result of this liaison was a fourteen-year-old child still in Thailand, tall and very beautiful, who had remained with her mother who had never married.

He also told me of his trouble. In the good days he had employed seven masseuses. Now he was down to one. But you are in two? Yes, but customers want young girls. He told me how a policeman had threatened him when his massage girl refused to have sex with the officer. "I will close you down," said the vice officer. "Go ahead, close me down." He was willing to loose everything and not be coerced,

But despite his courage, he was still in fear of reprisal and he dared not allow massage girls to service customers afterwards, he feared the police would come undercover, get the girl to have sex of some sort and then close him down. Not being able to at least offer some sexual pleasure doomed the business, but he did not care. He had always forbidden the girls from participating in sexual activity; despite the fact most parlors did provide such lucrative activities. Generally a girl would, if requested, jerk a customer off, or if she did not wish to do such things, a more experienced girl would replace her. With Lord's dictate of non-sexual massage, he had lost most of his clients. On many days I was the only customer he had.

"People think I am very strong," he said and he did appear so, "but I am very weak inside, he confided."

One day he told me that he was troubled by the animosity of his aged mother, sick of spirit as well as weariness of the heart. His mother lay dying and like the biblical Abel, he wished to have her blessing. He left Los Angeles for a week, journeyed all the way home, some 20 hours of flight, to try to heal this wound and attain his mother's blessing after years of distain. Why had she turned against him? Because he was gay, how can you be gay, with several children?

"What do you care what she thinks."

"But she is my mother, she gave me life, I must make peace with her before she dies." If one of us was gay it was not he. So he left to mend the festering wound and to seek his mother's blessing. His trip turned out to be successful.

But was he gay? I never really believed this. I eventually told him he was not gay but bisexual, he listened patiently. "But I don't want woman any more."

"A gay would find sex with a woman repugnant," I explained, "you are capable of sex with a woman even if you don't want it. You don't ask me to fuck you, you never suck me and rarely even touch me. A gay man would do all of these things."

"I never let anyone do that to me, but I like to fuck Honey," and he grinned, "only Honey, no one else." How could I resist. Just this statement left me erect, as did our rare brief phone conversations. What was there about him that so turned me on? I would call him and ask if I should come by, say on Thursday, and he would say, "No no, come now, I very horny."

"I can't come now," I'd respond.

"I don't want Honey once a week. I want Honey every day," he'd say.

I suspected that his bad marriage had soured him on females but I had no doubt he could carry on with a female if he so chose to do so. His ex had done everything to depreciate him, bringing other men to her apartment and making it obvious that she was having sex with them while her children were still in the apartment. In his presence, she even struck his children, to his dismay. On one such occasion he placed himself between her and the child and she continued to strike him. The ongoing divorce finalized at this time.

What more can I say about him? He was a person of multi talents and skills. He loved animals; the walls were filled with their pictures. He built an outdoor garden with a central Buddha, an antique bronze that he had paid dearly for, only to see it stolen.

But the personal details of his life paled in comparison to how he felt about me,

"Honey, I have no one else, you are all I have. I love you. I want you every night."

How could I not comply with his desire? How could I not make him happy? I knew that this arrangement was at best temporal, but I did not know when, if ever, it would ever stop.

In those heady days when our affair began, at my request, he'd once sent me a photo of his penis, but the snap shot was gilt and sepia from the lighting. It was in fact quite different from his skin tone, which I'd never paid any attention too, but in the daylight as we'd stood outside his shop, his skin color was a swarthy tan, as if he were a fisherman bronzed or gilt by the sun. His cock was a beautiful scarlet, as if one could see the blood coursing through the appendage, when flaccid, it was a tan color, much like his skin. I wrote him a sexual love poem:

His giant cock was scarlet red

As he placed it in my head

And lingered there pressing firmly on my epiglottis

A feeling I came to miss

Much like a lost kiss

When we were apart

but still of the same heart

So struck by love and fascination

I brooked no hesitation

To satisfy his needs

At every speed

To make him mine with clear seduction

With every fuck and suction

I performed with skill

Until on parting his eyes would fill with tears

Such were his fears

Of losing me...

And then one day it was over, as over as that day when the earth will be drawn into the sun, as over as sex after castration. As finished as the old films, "Fine'. As finished as JFK with his brains splashed all over Jacky's dress, finished with a bang, not even a whimper. Finished with silence, I'll explain:

If before I finish, I dissolve in tears, do not be upset; I have held back the tears since then.

As was my habit, I always waited for Lord to contact me to set up our next rendezvous. Three or four days later I would get a text,

"Honey, I very horny, please come, NOW." If I could, I would or if not, I would respond "soon, not today, "

He would respond,

"Not soon, today."

But the days had passed three- four- five- seven- with no word, no demand. That is when I knew it was over. I knew if I called or texted all would be as before, but something held me back, something told me "let it end" and "let Lord end it..."

I knew that if I showed up unannounced he would smile, put his arm around me, give some plausible excuse and then take me into his back room and fuck me, fuck me for a very long time, and I would dissolve with the pleasure and passion and tell him how I loved him and needed him, at that moment it would have all been true.

His cock was my undoing, he made me into a little girl when on our first encounter he let me touch and suck. I could not get enough of him. I don't believe it was his intention but the result was that he broke me like a bronco. When he was done fucking me I was speechless and compliant. And it was always bareback. I never argued, no, his cum was like a thick tsunami in my ass. I could not get enough—and I would suck it dry and swallow it if the opportunity presented itself, as it occasionally did when too exhausted to continue, he would lie next to me and masturbate.

His beautiful long swollen hard cock was the red magnet that drew me to him at all hours of the day and night. He always welcomed me with a firm hand on my shoulder as he walked me to the dark room in the back and fucked me literally for hours...

But deep down, when I was not in his presence, I felt I was still a man. I didn't want to be turned into a girl, used as a receptacle to rid him of his confusions and to placate his sexual energy, a force that was so welled up in him it was ready to explode. And yet I mused, his excessive thrusting often did not always result in an orgasmic ejaculation. On those occasions, to exhausted to continue fucking he or we would masturbate him to the point just prior to ejaculation and at that moment he would penetrate me.

I was done with him? Was I? Was this the moment that I had secretly hoped for, an excuse to severe the ties that bound me to him as if I were his sex slave? Be it his intent or accident, his failure to communicate had given me the excuse I wanted. Yes, I was done...

I thought to myself; let this affair end like a short story, like this story, like a brief novella, not like a novel or a never-ending TV soap opera. The sky was blue, the trees were rustling and there was a change in the wind, and I could be free. I reached down to touch my cock, it was firm. I was ready. I was a man. I was horny. Where would I go today? Oh yes, there is a massage parlor run by two pretty Chinese women I have never been to. Maybe that is where I should go. Maybe they can wring the erection out of my penis and leave me for a moment covered in sperm when they run off to get a warm towel and wash their hands.

And then at the very moment, as if to punctuate my resolve, my phone beeped, a call, on my, it was a call from him! He hasn't forgotten me at all.

"Yes my darling, yes my lover, I understand, the phone was broken, problems galore, language problems, but what, what did you say? You love Honey, oh Lord yes, I'll be there in an hour, I love you so!"

And I ran to him and he embraced me tightly for the longest time, saying more with his embrace then words could ever communicate, and then he laid me down and fucked me for what seemed like hours. When he finally came he made a facial expression somewhere between pain and ecstasy, holding me tight to his muscular chest. After a minute of silence he sighed, "I love you." I cried and whispered, "you've made me into a little girl" and he laughed.