tagGay MaleSoul Bait

Soul Bait


The young man sat at the sidewalk café in Fairfax City near George Mason University in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C., sipping coffee and shyly looking around him. Several tables away from him and behind him sat a somewhat older man, perhaps in his forties, but very good looking in a dark, foxy sort of way. This man also was drinking coffee and looking around. But he was more assured in his demeanor and spent much of his time watching the younger man.

The younger man was a strikingly good-looking blond—one who many other patrons of the café, which specialized in gay college students from the nearby university, would call twinky, cute, almost beautiful, his features combined, pale blue eyes; long, dark eyelashes; a shy smile; and sensuous lips. The overall impression was soft, almost feminine. He didn't have feminine mannerisms, though. It was more that he was shy and unsure of himself in this environment.

In this venue, though, he was a man magnet. Some professor types and a few more athletic types from the university and even some cruising businessmen from across northern Virginia were circling around the table where he sat—a two-seat table—like bees shopping for pollen. Several of them asked if the other seat at his table was taken in the time that the man sitting behind him observed his actions—this despite there being more than enough tables available in mid afternoon. But each time the young man hesitated and eventually said that he was sorry but that he was expecting someone.

After an hour's observation, the dark presence behind him, Darien, decided that the one the young man was waiting for was someone named courage. He concluded that the young man knew what he sought but didn't have the courage to accept what was offered. This even though the men asking if he wanted company universally were very well put together.

At length the young man pulled something from the leather portfolio that had been sitting on the table top, rose, and walked over to a notice board that the café kept near the entrance to the indoor section of the café. He posted a notice on the board, looked around, and then left the café. On his way out, a college jock type black guy reached out with a beefy hand and arrested the young man's progress by touching his forearm. They talked briefly. Darien watched closely, thinking that, at last, a hookup had been made and that the two young men would leave together. But the young blond, blushing, pulled away and hurriedly left the café.

When the young man was gone, Darien rose from his table and walked over to the notice board. He had watched carefully to see what the young man had posted there and quickly located it. It was one of those "service's offered" notices, made on a computer, and had separated strips of paper along the bottom that gave a telephone number. There was an address on the notice. Darien took the notice off the board, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

He wouldn't keep it, he thought. He was just borrowing it for a couple of days—so that his would be the first response.

Darien left the café and got into his black Porsche Boxster convertible in time to see the young man, in a light blue Corolla sedan, pull out of a parking space and head east on Old Lee Highway, Route 29, toward the Capitol Beltway that circled the nation's capital.

Darien followed the Corolla at a distance. He had the address printed on the notice, but he wanted to see what kind of place it was. The young man stopped, once, at a small grocery store inside the beltway. Darien was heartened at the evidence that the one plastic bag the young man came out of the store with indicated the young man was cooking for just one.

Darien pulled up to the curb on a shaded, tree-lined, long-established residential street of Falls Church, a Revolutionary War-era town that had been swallowed up by the near suburbs of Washington, D.C. The houses now in this area mostly weren't large and were built in the styles of the late 1950s and early 1960s, when the federal bureaucracy at the center was burgeoning and the need for expansion in Washington's bedroom communities in Virginia and Maryland was pressing. The houses were mostly of mellow red brick, and most of them were enclosed in billowing azalea bushes and were well maintained—in keeping with their current value of more than half a million dollars each because of location, location, location.

The house that the young man stopped at was a split foyer. The portico porch was set half way between the first and second floor and the first floor was buried up to the bottom of its windows in the ground. The lots along the street slopped to the rear so that even the basements of the one-story ramblers were "walk-out" at the rear.

The young man pulled into a parking apron wide enough for two cars that was set off in front of the split foyer and walked up to the front door of the house. He used keys in two locks to enter the house and, Darien could tell, went down to the lower level, because twilight was setting in and lights were turned on on that level.

Darien gave a tight little smile and drove off slowly. Chances were very good, he thought, that he had found his bait. The young guy had shown in the café that he was a man magnet.

* * * *

"How old did you say you were?"

Andrew Temple hadn't said how old he was, but he was polite by nature and more than a bit nervous, so he answered. "I'm twenty-two."

Darien wasn't blessed with politeness, but the young man had something he wanted, so he, in turn, didn't say what he was thinking—that Andrew Temple didn't look nearly as old as twenty-two. This too, though, fell in with Darien's intentions. "It's just that this is a very nice house in a very nice neighborhood. It seems strange that one so young owned it. You do own it, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, it's mine. I inherited it. We moved here my third year in high school. My mother and me. My father had died. My mother wasn't well, though. My parents had me late in life. Soon after we moved in, my mother became an invalid and spent much of her time upstairs. There's a full layout upstairs. Three bedrooms and two baths. A nice living room, dining room, kitchen and family room made out of a screened porch on the back of the house. I wouldn't rent to more than two, so each could have a bath of his own and there'd be a guest room the two could split the use of. Would you like to see it now?"

"Later," Darien answered. "I'd like to listen to you now. So it's the upstairs you want to rent rooms in?"

He was leaning over the coffee table, giving the young man his full attention. This both gratified and rattled Andrew. He was used to people trying to get close to him—naturally drawn to him—but he usually avoided being alone with anyone else because he was so self-conscious and torn by what he wanted—and afraid of how easily he was aroused by handsome, fit, self-confident men. And Darien was all of that, in a dark, mysterious, dangerous sort of way. Darien was everything that aroused Andrew in his isolated little world. This was the stuff of his dreams, but now that the man was here, in his living room—on the ground floor of the house—Andrew was trembling with nerves.

"Yes . . . yes, the upstairs. I have a complete apartment down here."

"Complete with your own bedroom?"

"Yes," Andrew answered. It came out with almost a hiccup, though, and a shudder. The man had his arms in front of him, his long, sensuous fingers making little patterns on top of the coffee table, mere inches from Andrew's knees, which, through no will of Andrew's own, were moving even closer to his side of the coffee table. His legs involuntarily spread in reaction to the tightening feeling in his groin. He needed more room in the basket of his briefs.

"I, uh . . . need to rent out a couple of rooms, because, although I own the house, there are larger expenses than I can manage on my own. The utilities and the property taxes are high. And maintenance on a house this old . . . but I'm being a bad host. I haven't even offered you anything to drink. Would you like coffee, water, or tea . . . or beer?" He struggled to his feet. Trembling more when he realized that the tenting of his trousers clearly showed that he was hard—and Darien was making no effort to show he was looking anywhere but at Andrew's basket.

"Anything is fine with me. Water is good. You can't hack the expenses of this house on your own? Are you still a student?"

"Yes. I'm going to George Mason. But only part time. I'm working as an editor for a publisher too. Children's books."

Darien laughed. It wasn't really a pleasant laugh, and it made Andrew blush. He couldn't see anything wrong in editing children's books and wondered what Darien had against that. But the fox-like man dispelled the notion that he disapproved.

"Perfect. Children's books. That's just perfect. So, I found your notice at a café near George Mason. Is that who you wanted to answer the ad—just more young men college students? I'm too old?"

"No, of course you're not too old, if you are interested in a room. You're the only one to contact me as yet," Andrew answered, flustered at the challenge. He knew that Darien had gotten his number from the notice put up at the gay café in Fairfax City. It's the only place Andrew had posted the notice. He kept fighting with himself about posting elsewhere, but his need—coming out of him despite all of his trepidation and reticence—had been to have someone come live here, with him—someone who could become more than just a tenant.

Andrew wasn't a virgin to men—well, to one man. One of his professors at George Mason his first year had seduced him and they'd been together whenever they could without Andrew's mother knowing about it. They even had made love here in the house but had to be very quiet about it. Andrew had had plans for after his mother died. He didn't really want her to die. He very much was a momma's boy. But her dying was inevitable. The irony had been that the professor had died first.

There had been no replacement, although Andrew pined to have a man between his legs. He had been the one seduced, though, and the professor had done all of the controlling. Andrew didn't have the courage to make the moves himself—even though men gravitated to him wherever he went. He could have hooked up at the café the other day when he put the notice up. Several men tried to sit with him. The black jock, when he was leaving, had been very explicit about what he wanted. Andrew wanted it too. He just had trouble going over that edge.

"I'll be right back with the drinks," he said, flustered, as he came around the coffee table and headed toward his small kitchenette. He half hoped that the man, Darien, would reach out for him with those hands with the long, sensuous fingers as he passed by, but Darien just gave him a hooded, sexy look with his eyes.

When Andrew came back with two glasses of ice water in hand, he found that Darien had moved over to the sofa. Andrew put the two glasses down on the coffee table. He was jostling both and water was spilling out. He reached over the table for a paper napkin to use to wipe up the spill as he prepared to sit in the chair across the table from the sofa Darien had vacated. But Darien reached out with a hand and took Andrew's wrist.

"You're trembling. Don't be afraid. Here, leave that and sit next to me." The fingers of Darien's hand were searing hot on Andrew's wrist, and he had the sensation that he needed to break away now and go to the stairs up to the foyer and escape the house. Now. But he didn't. He also realized that ever since the black jock had touched his arm at the café, he wanted to be led away and fucked by a man. He docilely walked around the side of the coffee table and sat down close beside Darien.

Andrew both knew what was coming next and rejected in his mind that it could possibly happen.

Darien put one arm around Andrew's shoulders, pulling him in, and moved the other hand to his lap, covering Andrew's erection.

"Please. What are you—?"

"Just relax, Andrew, I'm going to fuck you." Darien's voice was smooth, almost sing song, the calmness and naturalness of the tone belying the message he voiced. He made it sound so reasonable. "I know it's what you want. You put that notice up in a gay café. I know what sort of man you wanted to answer the ad. And I'm the one who came. You've wanted me to fuck you since you let me in the house."

Andrew began to mew his objections, but Darien had a grip on the hair at the back of his head, pulled his head back, and came down from on top with his face to possess Andrew's mouth with his. Even the kiss was reassuring and made it all seem so natural. If someone's saliva could be said to be a sedative drug, Darien's was. While they kissed, Darien unzipped Andrew's trousers, pulled out his hard cock, and began to stroke him. As he stroked and held Andrew in the kiss, the young man began to relax into soft moans and "whatever you want" responses.

This was the groove Andrew was used to—that his old professor had dominated him with. All of the decisions and actions were shouldered by the other man.

This indeed was what he'd dreamed about—and thought about at night all the time he was developing a plan to bring men into his home. But this was so much more of a fulfillment of what he'd hoped or that he'd had any idea he could get. He knew it was too much and happening too fast, but a great lethargy was cloaking him, and he just gave Darien anything he wanted.

Darien wanted it all. And Darien wanted it now.

Andrew lay back into the sofa as Darien undressed him and then, standing in front of Andrew, undressed himself. Throughout Darien managed to keep and hand—or even just fingers—touching Andrew, and this was all it took to hold the young man in thrall.

Darien was both lithe and well-muscled. A perfect male body. His cock and balls, though, hung so low that the promise of them made Andrew whimper in fear—and there was a thick silver ring in the head of the cock. An intricate tattoo of some sort of mythical creature—a dragon for something, in shades of red, was inked to appear to be draped on Darien's left shoulder, with a paw with sharp claws coming around his neck, the other forepaw appearing under his left arm pit at his side, and the two lower legs hooked on his waist on either side just above where Darien's hip bone flared out. The head of the dragon, with flicking tongue and piercing eyes came down from Darien's left shoulder. The creature was staring menacingly at Andrew, ready to pounce at any instant.

Andrew didn't even realize that Darien was standing on the sofa, with his feet on either side of Darien's thighs and feeding his cock into Andrew's mouth, until Andrew experienced the feel of the cock ring clicking against his teeth as Darien held his head on both sides and guided it in a face fuck.

The next thing Andrew knew was that he was draped along the sofa, with his chest on an arm, and his head and arms dangling over the side down to the floor. Darien ate his ass out and then mounted him and fucked him slowly, deeply, interminably. It wasn't a rough fuck. It was a sensuous, moaning total exploration of Andrew's ass canal with the rubbing of the cock ring. It was only when Darien ejaculated in four long flows that Andrew discovered he wasn't wearing a condom. And Andrew was so mellow that he didn't care.

The cum had a sedative effect on Andrew, and he gave himself up completely to whatever Darien wanted to do with him.

As much cum as Darien had produced, though, he wasn't finished, He lifted Andrew in his arms—Andrew being of slight stature and Darien having surprising strength for a slender figure—and carried the cute young blond into one of the two bedrooms—obviously the master bedroom—that were on this level. There he fucked Andrew again, in the missionary position, on the bed. Andrew loved every stroke of it, which continued beyond both of their ejaculations and put Andrew into a mellow doze.

He woke to Darien coming out of the adjoining bathroom, toweling himself off after a shower.

"My luggage is in the car. You can bring it in."

"But I haven't shown you the upstairs yet," Andrew answered, his voice sounding far away even to himself.

"I will be sleeping down here. In the other bedroom down here—when I'm not fucking you. You'll still have two rooms to rent upstairs then. After you've brought my luggage in, you should fix us some supper. I'm quite hungry."

All of this sounded quite reasonable to Andrew. He did Darien's bidding without question. After dinner, he sat curled up in the chair on the other side of the sofa and watched Darien working in his laptop computer. It wasn't Darien's laptop; it was Andrew's. And none of this now seemed strange to Andrew. He hadn't even given it a thought when he lifted the two untouched glasses of water from the coffee table top and saw that the rings the glasses left overlapped. That was scientifically impossible, but Andrew was able to accept anything involving Darien now.

That was a good thing, because Darien—or what Darien became—fucked Andrew throughout the night on Andrew's bed.

They started out in a lotus position, facing each other, Andrew's thighs over Darien's, Darien's cock buried inside Andrew's passage, and Darien gripping Andrew's waist. Andrew moaned and sighed and murmured of his complete taking, as Darien's already long and thick cock lengthened and thickened cock progressive grew as it slid up, through Andrew's intestines toward his stomach.

Andrew arched back in Darien's grip and swayed side to side and forward and back as he watched the lighting in the room go blood red, Darien's own body reddened as well, small horns budded out at Darien's temples, the dragon started to undulate on Darien's back, and the tail of something—the dragon? Darien?—thumped on the surface of the bed behind Darien as he mined Andrew's intestines ever deeper, releasing cum periodically. Each release of cum reassured Andrew even more that everything was right with the world and that this was exactly what he wanted.

Andrew arched all the way back, arms thrown over his head, forearms dangling toward the floor, as Darien, knees pressed in under Andrew's buttocks, wishboned Andrew's legs straight out from his hips, and dug deeper with the snake of his cock. Andrew reasoned that it was just an illusion that the bulb of Darien's cock was pressing at the back of his tonsils—even when Darien's body jerked and cum burbled out of Andrew's month and dribbled down his chin.

* * * *

The next morning, Darien made Andrew rewrite his ad for the bedrooms upstairs. Taking what Andrew wrote earlier and that had been taken off the board at the gay café by Darien right after Andrew had posted it, Darien had him add some detail. Now Andrew was looking for a male graduate student working part time, who had Christian values, and his own laptop—which had to be shown to Andrew upon interviewing for the room. The price was set ridiculously low and Darien had Andrew append a photo of himself in gym clothes to the ad. The only thing Andrew asked about was the laptop requirement, to which Darien said that surely he didn't want someone who would be always asking someone else to lend him their computer.

This made sense to Andrew. Just about everything Darien said to him or asked him to do made sense to Andrew. And anything that didn't Andrew would stifle just for a total fuck by Darien like he'd had the night before.

After giving Andrew a nice little fuck and leaving him on the bed moaning and not being able to close his legs, Darien drove back to the gay café in Fairfax City and posted the new version of the ad. Once again, it had separated tabs at the bottom with Andrew's phone number on it.

And, as before, the gay café was the only place the ad was posted.

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