A Master of His Mind and Body by Marty Abell instagram: marty_abeller
This is my first gay romantic novel. Please stay tuned for updates every few weeks.
Disclaimer: All people described in this story are fictitious. Le Prince Albert bar does not really exist in the Montréal area, but most other locations mentioned here do. I'd advise all bators to visit Montréal. We're a bator-friendly city.
Chapter 1: Brett October ----- *** An old, experienced Army officer walks into a barracks building on base. He has a rainbow flag pattern on his hat and a coat completely covered with medals. "I'm here to see Private Steve Smith! I'm Sergeant Major Dick!" he barks at the receptionist, who ushers him down the hall to the barracks of the young enlisted lad. "Sir, welcome, sir," sighs Private Smith. "I've been desperate for some... company lately. I called and I heard you could help?" "You've called on the right man, Private!" says the Sergeant Major. He immediately disrobes and is standing with his hands on his hips, looking down at Smith on the bed. "I'm Sergeant Major Dick. I've been in the Army thirty years, and I'm a master of my mind and body. DICK, ATTEN-TION!" Bam - in an instant, he pitches the biggest, thickest, most raging hard-on Smith has ever seen. The veins are throbbing. It's dripping. He stares at it in lustful amazement. "Can you make it go down, too?" "You bet. As I said, I'm a master of my mind and body. DICK, AT EASE!" But his boner is still raging. The Sergeant Major clears his throat and says again: "DICK, AT EASE!" No luck this time either. He's still hard as a rock. The Sergeant Major frowns intently, sits on Smith's bed, and suddenly he grabs his chop and begins masturbating vigorously. "Sir!" Smith exclaims, startled. "What are you doing, sir?" Dick responds, "Well, he isn't obeying! I'm giving him a dishonourable discharge!" *** Brett Patterson glumly shifted his chin in his hand, minimized the "funnygayjokes.txt" webpage on his phone, and put it down, barely hearing the voices of the happy men chattering and The Monster Mash pumping around him. A master of his mind and body? That would never be him. At this rate he'd be a master if he could merely pay for his groceries. The hairy bartender approached him, wearing a spider web on his back, pompomed spidery horns, and seemingly not in a mood that was any better. "Want something else to drink?" "'Nother Coors," Brett replied. "Eight bucks." He withdrew his wallet onto the table, held out his card and heard the sharp beep. Coors was going to be the only thing he could afford for a while. If even that. Brett looked up from the table and around the oak-panelled space, but soon lowered his head again. Everywhere he looked he saw the same brilliant happiness: two guys arm in arm, two guys making out, three screamin' queens fresh from a costumed rave in Saint-Henri. The same happiness that was what his ex-boyfriend was doing right now. Karl. Probably crowd-surfing through a Toronto drag club, no less. He shook his brown-haired, buzzcut head, and remembered everything. Karl was to blame for all of this. His loyal work teammate. The man he'd thought he loved since they were both studying at Concordia together. The man who had moved with him into Westmount Square, into idyllic Montréal high-rise nest life, just thirty days before. And Andy. Karl's hot piece of beef from Toronto, Andy. The guy Karl said he had known in high school. Visiting for what he said were business trips. Everything had changed so much, so fast. Brett had gone home from a weekend shift early because of the flu - in fact, he was still sniffling today, there at the table - and seen it. Karl and Andy on his bed, nude, slathered with oil, kissing, and beating each other's meats with wild abandon. "All guys do this," Karl had commented to Brett once Andy was kicked out. "We're just dudes being dudes." "All guys? All goddamn guys? You weren't just jacking. You were sucking face on my bed like you were David Rose and fucking Patrick on their wedding night." "Brett, if you break up with me," Karl had replied, "I can make your life very unpleasant." Would his life partner really blackmail him? Was he really that much of a monster? No one would be that cruel. No one. At least that's what Brett had thought until the previous Wednesday. His boss had roped him into a meeting at 4pm, a meeting in her office festooned with pumpkins and skeletons. He was expecting a party. Or maybe a bag of candy. "When Karl left today, he told me some... interesting information about your work history," she had said. "Please close the door and have a seat." Ten minutes later, Brett was cleaning out his desk, with a nightsticked guard looming above him and telling him his final paycheque was on the way. He wasn't going to afford his second month in Westmount Square. Karl was already on the one-way train through Eastern Ontario by the time Brett even tried to text him. The bartender swerved around to him with a glass. "Here you go, dude. I think I'll have to cut you off after this one." "Yeahhhh. Thanks." Brett swigged it back, barely stopping to put it down once in between. Within minutes, his bladder was what finally lifted him from his seat. He hustled into the bar's single bathroom, unzipped and let loose, glancing around and trying to get side-on glimpses of the other guys, glimpses that were quickly returned by weirded-out looks. It was over. His night was done, and he was done. Brett's six-foot-three frame bumped across the crowds of people beside the bar's dartboard. He grabbed his raincoat, slipped it on, then frisked his pocket to grab his bus pass. It was empty. And his table was vacant. Even his beer glass was gone. Outraged, Brett shrugged into the centre of the floor, toward the witch hats, pumpkins, and beer taps. "Where's my wallet?" slurred Brett to the barmen. "I don't know." "My beer glass. You took it too. Wh-where's my fuckin' wallet, guys? It was, it was right at my table." "You left it unattended on your table? I'm very sorry. You should lock your credit cards immediately. Do you want us to call the police? You can file a complaint, or we can--" "Foggeddit!" Brett staggered between the milling crowds of men and out the door onto Sherbrooke Street. He glared back at the windows, LE PRINCE ALBERT emblazoned on them in shiny black Broadway font. Then he stared down at the wet yellow leaves littering the pavement. Victoria Village was dark grey and desolate all around. He couldn't even remember how to get into his online banking account to lock his cards. He couldn't remember anything, to be honest. He was just done. The Route 24 bus pulled up. He clinked his spare change into the meter, almost hitting his head on the ceiling, and the bus rattled on, past the library and the park, towards Greene Avenue, bearing him, for one of the very first and very last times, home to the beautiful apartment that he had just lost. The basement shopping concourse was deserted, a liminal space with synth-pop playing just too quietly. Brett signalled for the elevator, made a loopy beeline to his apartment's bedroom, and fell, sprawling face-first, all the lights still on. Brett's mind was fully shut down. He was within a hair's breadth of passing out. But he rolled over on his side on the covers, and he felt something stronger. That familiar, wooden pressure. He hesitated briefly, then tossed his damp jeans beside the bed and stared down at his briefs, at the pitched pole that was blooming inside them, straining them into a tight pyramid. Brett positioned the crease in his briefs forward and spread it open, and the pole sprang free, nine inches of smooth, hard, uncut beef capped off by a fiery purple-red head, like a big moist mushroom. His fingers curled around its base, probing amid his thick, curly beard of black pubes. He began to stroke upward on the shaft, soon wrapping his hand around the head as well. Brett grinned to himself as his breathiness and exhilaration grew as he stroked and stroked, going up and down, away and toward, yanking the skin rhythmically across the moist flesh and nerve endings within. Precum dribbled abundantly from the end of Brett's fat mushroom, providing ample lubrication, keeping his strokes smooth, flowing, painless. He still had this. This. He had lost his job, his relationship and possibly all of his identification. But he had this. He was proud of his big, beautiful penis, and the sublime ability to bring pleasure to it, to himself. If anyone deserved a dishonourable discharge tonight, it was him, and he knew how. His stroke speed intensified, his hand closing in around the tight bottom rim of the head, and he vibrated his cock fiercely. The jog toward pleasure accelerated inside him. Brett grunted and groaned as he blasted his load, not with high intensity - some streaming out, the rest leaping slightly and splatting on his bedsheets - but still giving him all the ultimate pleasure he craved. Brett hauled off his remaining clothes and flicked the lights into darkness, tucking himself in on the side of the bed opposite his fresh wad and stretching out on his back under the feather-filled sheets. As long as he had this, he was not done. And he fell asleep.