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Dustin and the Psychiatrist,
by Skorpio
Part Four
"Bump this shit," grumbled Jordan Simmers, reaching for his last Newport with one hand while waving the remote control wildly with the other until the DVD ejected from the player.
He was buck naked. His long, dark brown body stretched out on the large, unmade bed. His long, soft dick flopped as he sat up. His low-hanging nuts dangled over the edge. He took a long, slow drag from the cigarette and put it out before snapping the DVD into its plastic case.
The salacious title almost made him smile: "Cracker Cum Guzzlers IV." A series of stills proffered a myriad of cute whiteboys with their pretty mouths stuffed with black dick. It was hot, just not hot enough. Jordan could not love a porn star on a screen. More to the point, the porn star could not love him back. It was like trying to quench his thirst by looking at the picture of a beverage or satisfying his hunger with a menu.
Jordan was hornier than ever, but jerking off was not working out. It never had. Not since his first blowjob at thirteen from the boy next door. Once Jordan's dick got spoiled by mouth, ass, and pussy, he was never able to take matters into his own hands again. What Jordan needed was a connection with another human being. One-night stands with strangers left him feeling lonelier and emptier than ever. He needed to be needed. It needed to be real.
Young men who fall in love too fast often become cynics after their hearts have been broken repeatedly. That was Jordan's tragic flaw. He gave his heart freely and learned that it came with a price. Three love affairs in three years took their toll, souring him on romance altogether.
Tobias was a freckled country boy leaning against a wooden fence with a stalk of wheat dangling from his mouth when first Jordan laid eyes upon him. Tobias was into verbal abuse which Jordan found amusing but not a deal breaker. He could talk some nasty shit if he put his mind to it, and it did spice up their otherwise unexceptional sex life. Like sprinkling adobo seasoning on something bland. Jordan was in love. A month later, Jordan walked in on Tobias unexpectedly and caught him with something else between his lips. It was a dick the size of a cucumber belonging to Jordan's best friend. A best can be forgiven, a lover cannot.
Logan was a white-shoe lawyer who snared Jordan on the rebound by lavishing him with generous gifts and being a generous bottom in the bedroom. Before Jordan could catch his breath, wedding plans were formulated. Honeymoon in Hawaii. Logan was going to pay Jordan's tuition so he could become a commercial artist. It might actually have come to pass that Jordan could have overlooked Logan's compulsive generosity toward a number of other black men across town. He chose not to, but he kept the gifts.
The last straw was Austin, so affectionate, so understanding, and so convincing when he claimed to be looking for a man he could trust. It seemed their broken hearts came together and were fused as one in the heat of passion. They fucked like savages in every position of the Kama Sutra, and whenever Austin spent the night or weekend with him, he treated Jordan like a king. It was perfect bliss until one day at the laundromat a total stranger came up to Jordan and described the butterfly tattoo on Austin's left butt cheek in exact detail. That night, Jordan shadowed Austin to a notorious park downtown where the relic of an old bridge over the creek served as a meeting place for nocturnal assignations.
"Cracker Cum Guzzlers!" exclaimed Jordan in the squeaky, nasal voice he assumed when pretending to sound white for comic effect. "Four," he added, with a sardonic touch, but did not crack a smile. His predicament was grim. He could not make himself laugh. He was incapable of relieving his own sexual tension. He was afraid to put his heart at risk.
In a fit of rage, Jordan impulsively flung the plastic DVD case through the open third-floor window. It sailed through the air like a square Frisbee between the half-lowered Venetian blinds and window box of red geraniums out into the pitiless, cruel world. Jordan never wanted to look at porn ever again. He was never even going to think about sex again. He would suffer as an artist and maybe abstinence would enhance his other senses.
A moment later, it occurred to Jordan that tossing a sex movie out of the window on a Friday afternoon was not a very good idea. Trying his best not to be seen, Jordan peered down at the busy boulevard. The sun was shining directly overhead. Purple petals fluttering down from flowering trees carpeted the broad sidewalk. There was the usual traffic of students, shoppers, and vagrants. Jordan's brownstone was only a few blocks from the center of town.
He was about to turn away from the window when his peripheral vision caught a figure not moving in any lateral direction in the flow of pedestrians. A few feet from the front stone steps, a white guy crouched to pick up the cracked DVD case at his feet. From Jordan's bird's-eye view, he seemed ordinary enough. Late teens or early twenties, dressed preppy casual with the ubiquitous backpack, probably a college student.
As the whiteboy straightened up, he edged closer to the curb to avoid being jostled by other pedestrians. This afforded Jordan a better perspective. The whiteboy had a small upturned nose, dimples, and very kissable pink lips. Dark blond locks hung in his eyes. It was impossible to read the expression on his face as he scrutinized the DVD.
Jordan pulled away from the window just as the whiteboy glanced up and looked around as if wondering where the DVD came from. Jordan leaned against the wall hoping he was not seen. Hoping his was not the only open window on the block. He held his breath as he pondered what to do next. He had to take a chance. He had to look.
Peering around the edge of the window, Jordan saw the dude putting the DVD in his knapsack and walking away toward the center of town. Something about the movement of his shapely, khaki-clad buttocks ignited Jordan's pilot light. That clean-cut, wholesome-as-fuck, white-as-Wonder-Bread, cute-as-nobody's-business twink was getting away with his DVD!
If Jordan had not been stark naked, he would have raced to the street at once. He needed to find that white guy and talk to him. That was it. They needed to talk. Nothing else. "This is crazy," Jordan told himself as he hastily dressed. Boxers under light blue denim trousers, wifebeater under a black tee-shirt under a long, off-white linen jacket, and burnt umber Timberlands. It was crazy-ass stupid shit, that's what it was.
By the time Jordan stepped outside, the white guy was long gone. Yet hope was not lost. If he was downtown, which only covered a few central blocks, there was a chance of spotting him. Jordan always had a knack for meeting people at the right place and time. He often knew when his phone was about to ring and who was calling. He was going to find that whiteboy, and they were going to talk.
As for Dustin, it was a complete and total mystery why a DVD labeled "Cracker Cum Guzzlers" fell out of the clear blue sky and landed at his feet. Had it come from an open window, a passing car, someone nearby, an airplane even? Of all things, a porn flick about black cock blowjobs. It could not be a coincidence. Things like this don't just happen.
Did somebody know his secret, Dustin wondered, that he was afflicted with an inordinate craving for black cock? Could there be someone following him? Was this supposed to be a practical joke or something more ominous? He would have to bring this up with Dr. Ezinwa at the next session tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Dustin had an errand to perform, and then he planned on going home to watch Cracker Cum Guzzlers and put the black dildo to use.
The urban campus bordered the section of downtown closed off to vehicular traffic. The registrar's office was on the fifth floor of a newly built administration building of glass and steel with a sprawling food court and student center on the first floor. It was a beehive of activity.
Dustin was given papers to complete to cancel his enrollment. This did not take long since he checked "not interested" or "does not apply" to most of the questions. He was not looking for a refund or to freeze his grades in a state of "incomplete." He had no outstanding debts on his student account, including library fees and cafeteria plan. He did not have to provide an explanation for his decision to drop out. The paperwork did not require it and no one in the registrar's office cared.
If anyone had asked, he would have blithely told them it was for personal reasons. What would people think if he told them the truth? That he absolutely had to see a psychiatrist every day in order to learn how to live with an insatiable craving for black cock? People would laugh in his face and behind his back, but it was no laughing matter. Dustin suffered from an addiction for which there was no cure. But Dr. Ezinwa was helping. Dr. Ezinwa was his savior.
With one last signature, it was finished. Dustin started to rise from the desk-chair to submit the paperwork when a familiar vibration tingled inside his ass. It was the remote controlled butt plug Dr. Ezinwa gave him at the end of that morning's session. This was the third time the Nigerian psychiatrist had activated the device. Dustin sat back down as the softly buzzing vibrator tickled his fancy.
There were three settings. This was the lowest. Only Dustin could hear it. He could probably get through a casual conversation with letting on what was happening if he made the effort, but he did not want to try. It felt good. Little ripples radiating such a pleasant sensation.
The first time it was deployed, the Doctor chose the highest setting. That came immediately after Dustin had been told to get dressed in the waiting room outside the office. The vibrating plug not only buzzed so loud the receptionist heard it from a few feet away, it nearly caused Dustin to have a spontaneous orgasm. He clumsily dropped his clothes and let out a moan. Vanessa laughed as Dustin turned red with shame. It was the most humiliating experience of his entire life.
The second time the butt plug made him quiver was when he found the DVD on the sidewalk. Just as he squatted down, the plug in his ass began to vibrate on medium. It only lasted for a teasing minute. Maybe others could hear it. He was not sure. He could always say it was his phone and quickly walk away.
Dustin wished the second time had lasted longer. The spasms in his tender hole felt exquisite. Knowing the handsome, virile doctor was actually thinking of him at that very moment, playing with Dustin's pussy-hole from afar, gave the whiteboy a sense of belonging greater than he ever thought was possible.
On this third occasion, sitting at a chair with a hinged desktop in the registrar's office, the vibrations persisted for several long minutes, edging on the brink of a spasm teasing an orgasmic eruption that never came. Dustin could not wait to see Dr. Ezinwa the next morning to express how good it felt knowing his body, heart, and soul were under the African's control, at the mercy of his whims and wisdom.
When at last the plug stopped humming, Dustin turned in the paperwork and the deed was done. He was free. Determined to head for home, as he passed the crowded, noisy food court on the first floor, the medley of aromas gave him hunger pangs. This necessitated a quick detour for a gyro and diet Pepsi. The swarthy short-order cook behind the counter acknowledged Dustin's polite request for extra cucumber sauce with a sly, knowing smirk. The naïve whiteboy did not understand the look. Didn't everybody want more Tzatziki Sauce?
The Greek's eyes followed Dustin to an empty table by the window before another customer claimed his attention. The daily tabloid was on the table. Dustin pushed it aside to set down his paper plate and beverage. He had no interest in current events. The latest White House scandal, another crisis in the Mid-east, a tragic fire on the west side of town, a tragic shooting on the east side, none of that meant anything to Dustin. Maybe when he was done eating, he would look at the photos on the sports pages. Basketball players were really hot.
A second pair of eyes also took notice of Dustin as he dipped the flatbread into the sauce and nibbled a bite. Sitting only a few tables away was a dark-complected brother around the same age as Dustin. There were, of course, more than a few men of color breaking for lunch at the food court or passing through, from suit-and-tie professionals to casually dressed students to the usual suspects down with hip-hop gear. The cat who was checking out Dustin sported a blue 76ers' jersey obviously to show off his bulging guns. They were like balloons about to pop.
Dustin was intently aware of the black men in his immediate vicinity. He could overhear them talking, albeit never quite sure what they were talking about. He tried his best not to look directly at them lest their eyes meet and he crumble to pieces, but he could not resist stealing a glance at their baskets if the opportunity arose. It was such an autonomic reflex that Dustin could not have fought back if he tried. He could accurately envision the shape and size of a man's genitals if he dared to stare longer and harder. Dr. Ezinwa taught him that, how to focus his faggot attention like an X-ray.
Dustin wanted to eat his gyro like a normal person and not think about black cock for a few minutes. That's all. He would be okay. Everything was going to be all right. Dr. Ezinwa was there for him. The sweet cucumber sauce triggered a phantom memory of the doctor's enormous black cock spurting its own sauce in Dustin's mouth. When was that, Wednesday morning, the first session? Why did it seem more recent? Very recent. It was one of those confusing mysteries best not to dwell on.
It was impossible to banish black cock from his thoughts. "I'm such a weak, common hole," Dustin reflected in shame and consolation. "I've got to get home. Too much temptation. The dildo will get me through the night. I know Dr. Ezinwa will let me suck his cock tomorrow. If I ask. I will plead if I have to. I can convince him. I know that I can. I can, I can!"
At that moment, Dustin was enlightened by a startling and inexplicable epiphany. It came to him suddenly although he could not explain how or why. An awareness of another amazing ability, a latent power for seduction. Dustin knew that if he made the effort, he could actually talk a man into getting a blowjob. He could do it. Although it seemed fantastical, Dustin knew this to be true the way a songbird knows its own song, the way salmon know to spawn upstream.
Dustin did not dare test his newfound convictions on Dr. Ezinwa. No matter how badly he wanted to wrap his mouth around that magnificent, Nigerian "bura," that would be wrong. Besides, his faggot wiles would probably have no effect on a paragon like Dr. Ezinwa. There were not many men like the erudite and virile psychiatrist. Dustin wondered if Ezinwa knew of this ability to cajole men into answering his craving for cock. Did he not know or did he not want Dustin to know?
"I can't think about that now," Dustin told himself. "It's too confusing. I'll ask the doctor tomorrow." Questioning Ezinwa's authority was unthinkable. All Dustin had to do was trust the doctor implicitly and be a good little faggot hole. Long ago, it seemed, he wanted to be more. He was going to be a teacher and marry Prince Charming and write books for children and maybe adopt a few. He was going to have a life. That was before he contracted this virulent fever which changed his life forever. He was the hole between a woman's legs. He was good for one thing only, being used by black cock, and only total acceptance of that brutal truth would keep him from going mad.
After finishing the gyro and gulping down the Pepsi, there was one more thing Dustin urgently needed to do before heading all the way back to his apartment. He had to pee like a race horse. The men's restroom was at the remote end of the food court in an unmarked corridor. It seemed as if Dustin always knew where the men's room was located in any random building. Possibly that was yet another of his remarkable talents. Maybe Dustin was not a common hole? Maybe he was a super faggot? It was a scary thought. Something else he could not wait to tell the doctor.
Fortunately for Duncan, the men's room was unoccupied. It had a stale smell. There was a single porcelain sink, a paper towel dispenser, hot air blower, two urinals side by side, and a stall painted gun-metal gray. Although the stall was Dustin's destination, first he had to take a closer look at the bold graffiti above the urinals. He could not decipher the stylized, urban hieroglyphics. He never could. But they always intrigued him.
The graffiti inside the stall left nothing to the imagination: crude drawings of cunts and cocks, racist epithets, scurrilous rumors deprecating certain food vendors, phone numbers, and the usual bawdy limericks. Places like this, where the worst in man came out to play, were repellant and alluring at once. That was one of Dustin's issues: torn between life's perfume and its ordure. His comely face rivaled the innocence of an angel, but the soul behind that visage thrived on sin, secrets, and shame.
Dustin closed the door to the stall, turned the latch, noticed there was no toilet tissue, dropped his pants, and squatted over the toilet bowl. It was an awkward position to assume, straining the muscles in his thighs, but he had to sit down to piss and he could not touch the seat. For as long as he could remember, Dustin preferred to urinate sitting down. He did not know why. The stainless steel cage was designed with a tube to enable micturition, but did not make it easy. It was simpler at home where there was no fear of germs from a stranger.
On the gray door at Dustin's eye-level was a carefully written message in block letters amid the scattershot graffiti. An icy chill ran down Dustin's spine. He did not know why. There was more to the words than ironic hate speech, something more ominous that frightened him.
THIS SHITHOUSE IS FULL OF FAGGOTS -- WHY ARE THERE SO MANY FAGGOTS -- ANYONE ELSE NOTICE -- CAME HERE TO GET MY DICK SUCKED -- TOLD 3 COCKSUCKERS TO TAKE A HIKE -- LIKE FUCKING ZOMBIES -- EVERYWHERE - CRAZY SHIT -- I'M STARTING TO BELIEVE THE FAGGOT APOCALYPSE IS REAL
Beneath the message was scrawled by another hand: "The Apocalypse is real, brother! Watch your back!" Another wrote: "The faggot horde is coming!!!" Yet another: "I hate fucking faggots."
Dustin smiled at that last comment. Did its author hate having to fuck faggots or did he really just hate faggots altogether? Dustin was tempted to join the discussion when the men's room door opened with a creak and someone entered. A fly was unzipped, piss splashed against porcelain, and a deep, sexy voice muttered with relief, "Sweet Jesus!" There had to be a black man standing at the urinal. A black man with a beautiful black cock. Dustin licked his lips.
The urinal was flushed twice. Water ran from the faucet at the sink. The hand dryer was punched and hot air roared. Dustin could picture a chocolate, thugalicious hunk of Nubian manhood drying his hands. Whoever it was, Duncan was convinced he could talk him into a blowjob. He knew that he could do it. He needed to do it. He had to make a move.
Before Dustin could pull up his trousers, the plug inserted in his rectum began to vibrate. It started softly, at first, at the lowest setting. The buzzing grew louder and the vibrations increased until the device was at its most intense. Without a layer of fabric to muffle the sound, the stall became an echo chamber amplifying the reverberations.
An involuntary moan of sensual gratification escaped Dustin's parted lips. Once again Dr. Ezinwa was pleasuring him from afar, but the timing could not have been worse. The hand dryer was still running. Maybe it drowned out the buzz of the vibrator and maybe the black man drying his hands would not notice.
Being found out in a public place like this with his pants around his ankles exposing the padlocked cock cage and vibrating rubber plug would be more than humiliating. Dr. Ezinwa would scold Dustin for being so self-conscious. "What has a hole to be ashamed of? You are what you are." Dustin did not know what to do. What could he do?
Rubbing his palms together in the rush of hot air, Jordan's ears caught the strange buzzing coming from the stall. He had been aware the stall was occupied, but gave it no mind until now. The sound continued. Probably a cell phone, Jordan mused, but then, why wasn't it being answered or turned off? And was that a moan he heard? An almost sexy moan? It was hard to tell.
Jordan looked suspiciously at the stall. Maybe the cat was sick or on drugs? Maybe he should say something? No, he decided, he did not want to get involved. He had problems of his own. Like finding the whiteboy who had his DVD, which was becoming less and less likely as time ticked by. The hot air blower and buzzing from the stall stopped together at the same time.
The guy inside the stall hastily pulled up his pants, readying to come out, but by the time he emerged, Jordan was nowhere to be seen. With his business in the men's room done, he was not going to stick around to see what the freak's damage was. Borrowing trouble went against every fiber of Jordan's being.
That was why it made no sense pursuing some will-o-the-wisp of a twink simply because he was adorably cute. No sense at all. Nothing good could possibly come of this fool's errand. They were not going to fuck. They were not going to fall in love. No way was Jordan getting his heart broken yet again by a lying, cheating whiteboy with a sweet ass and pretty face. He just wanted to have a talk. That was all.
"I need that DVD back," the brother rationalized. "I'm going to have to get used to jacking off. That's all there is to it. I'm never gonna hook up with anyone again. That game is played out. It's not worth the aggravation. There's no shame in being single. It just means I have standards. Fuck. Whoever said, `Hell is other people,' knew what they were talking about."
Jordan strolled around the perimeter of food court on the qui vive. Tall as he was, he had a commanding view of the entire panorama. There were whiteboys who resembled the twink, but they were dressed differently or lacked backpacks or were flirting with chicks. "I'll know him when I see him. If I see him." Doubt began to undermine Jordan's confidence. Where was his knack for running into people when he needed it? He had already looked into most of the small stores he thought might interest a young whiteboy who was probably a student and most likely gay. The cell phone and electronics shop, jewelers, men's shoes, haberdashery, pawn shop, dollar store, Starbucks. It seemed hopeless.
Jordan bought Popeye's fried chicken and took a seat facing the window to keep an eye on people passing by. Someone had left behind a newspaper. Jordan glanced at the headlines, shook his head with dismay, and then noticed the date. Friday the thirteenth. Like most people, Jordan was mildly superstitious. Maybe today's date explained his run of bad luck. Maybe he should have stayed home.
With his back turned to the food court, Jordan missed Dustin as he left the building through the revolving door.
Dustin was determined now to get home, but it was a lovely, vernal day after such a long, difficult winter, and the sun felt good on his face, the air was salubrious, the trees were flowering. A part of him, always some impulse tugging in the opposite direction, want to linger. He slowed down to look in store windows. He thought about buying Dr. Ezinwa a gift. Or would that be wrong? He did not think the doctor would mind.
The only problem with shopping was the presence of so many men of color, each with his own erotic appeal, so many flavors of chocolate. "True Men," Ezinwa would say. Effort was required not to stare, not to fantasize, not to follow. Dustin was deeply afraid if he yielded to these cravings, the slippery slope could lead to a bender from which there might be no return. That incident in the men's room came too close for comfort. The truth had a way of flying away from Dustin at times, only to smack him in the head from behind like a boomerang. He was a hole for black cock and that was never going to change.
The marquee above the old and seedy Bijou Arts Theater, which ran vintage movies and cult classics, advertised a double feature: "Lady Sings the Blues" and "Mahogany." This appealed to Dustin as a pleasant escape. He was probably the last gay man on earth who had never seen a Diana Ross movie. Billy Dee Williams he knew from Star Wars. Only ten at the time, Han Solo mattered more to young Dustin than Lando Calrissian. That was then.
For nearly five hours with barely a brief intermission, Dustin sat in the darkened theater lost in the tumultuous lives of two fabulous black women played by the Diva Supreme of Mo-town. It was not hard for him to identify with Billie Holliday's heroin addiction. Dustin could picture himself at a sanitarium in a padded cell wearing a straitjacket, gibbering mad from too much black cock or not enough.
When tears were not streaming down Dustin's face as he suffered along with Miss Ross, he was swooning over Billy Dee. "Now that's what I call a man," Dustin muttered under his breath. The actor's stunning good looks, rich deep voice, and smoldering virility reminded Dustin so much of Dr. Ezinwa. Dustin wondered if his super-faggot X-ray vision could pierce the trousers of a character in a movie. A minute later, Dustin had his answer. He knew exactly was Billy Dee was packing. He could see it in his mind's eye, and it looked delicious.
Dustin sat at the edge of his seat when Billy Dee struggled over a pistol with Anthony Perkins, a romantic rival who was impotent and jealous of the black man's alpha masculinity. Their wrestling match became even more explicitly homoerotic when it seemed like Billy Dee was forcing Perkins (or was Perkins forcing himself?) to fellate the long, black, phallic gun-barrel. The unambiguous subtext was that Anthony Perkins wanted to suck Billy Dee William's B.B.C., and Dustin did not blame him one iota.
That heart-wrenching song, the theme from "Mahogany," crooned by Diana Ross over the scrolling credits, was going to be Dustin's song from now on. "Do you know where you are going to / Do like the things that life is showing you?" The melancholy lyrics summed up his life perfectly. He did not know where he was destined. He did not like what he was seeing.
It was raining cats and dogs when Dustin left the theater. Lacking an umbrella because the weatherman had predicted clear skies, he managed to keep dry under the overhanging marquee along with a dozen other movie goers. Sooner or later a taxi would come by. If he was lucky, he might get to it before one of them.
The small crowd dwindled as individuals summoned rides with their phones or braved the wall of water on foot until Dustin stood alone. The steady, vertical deluge did not look like it would slow down any time soon. Before Dustin walked into the theater, there had not been a cloud in the sky. It did not make sense.
Very little made sense to Dustin anymore. Anything could happen at any time. Life was random. Nothing really mattered. One day a person could be happy living an ordinary, normal life with normal hopes, goals, and dreams, and the very next day all that might be obliterated by a virulent pathogen. Not only was life not fair, it had a nasty, cruel streak.
A spectacular bolt of lightning illuminated the torrential city street at the same time as a yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, splashing a puddle. Darting into the rain, Dustin lunged for the car door when a tall figure lurched out of nowhere with the same objective. Dustin's pale, slender fingers reached the door handle first, only to have the intrusive stranger's large, brown hand clamp down. At that moment the heavens rumbled with thunderous applause.
As the drenching rain crashed around them, Dustin found himself looking into the radiant, brown face of a total stranger and saw for the first time the most beautiful man in the world. His eyes were shaped like large almonds with lustrous, centerless pupils. His temples were faded with impeccable precision but his regal crown was a wild and nappy afro. Full, sensuous lips parted to disclose dazzling teeth, but not with a smile, not in a friendly way.
"I want my DVD!" Jordan snarled. His voice was drowned out by the clamorous precipitation.
"Your what?" Dustin hollered back. Their hands remained in contact, one atop the other.
"My DVD! You have my DVD!!!"
"I don't have your DVD."
"The one in your backpack!"
"That's your DVD?"
"That's my DVD!!!"
They looked at one another strangely, uncertainly. Lightning scored the sky and explosive, ear-shattering thunder followed. Dustin gasped. Jordan lifted his hand and held it softly against Dustin's pale, oval face. Long, wet, tangled locks hung in the whiteboy's green eyes. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of his belly. As Jordan leaned forward, Dustin's long lashes closed over his apprehensive eyes. Dustin held his breath. Soft, lush lips met his open mouth. Dustin kissed Jordan back.
For an eternity they kissed in the rain until the cabdriver rolled down a window and shouted, "Do you ladies need a ride or not?"
"Get in," said Jordan, opening the door to a back seat in desperate need of reupholstery.
He slid in beside Dustin, stunned speechless, and informed the driver of the address. The brownstone was close enough to walk in decent weather, but a bitch on a night like this. Taxi cabs were like flying carpets, taking him anywhere in the city he wished and back again, although there was less and less to interest Jordan outside the comfort of his own home.
The two men sat side by side, looking straight ahead, neither saying a word. Whatever spark they had seemed to have sputtered out. It was awkward as hell. "I'm such a hole," thought Dustin. "What am I doing?" wondered Jordan. While their minds spun in place like wheels in the mud, absently their adjacent hands reached out and met with fingers entwined. The combustion was back. Or was never lost to begin with. Whatever it was.
The spell of silence had to be broken. Questions needed asking and answers needed giving. Jordan had to know what to call this cute whiteboy with the most kissable mouth in the world.
"What's your name?" the brother blurted out, coming off more demanding than he intended. "I'm Jordan," he added to mitigate possible offense.
"Dustin," said the twink.
"Yes," thought Jordan, "of course you are. You're Dustin. I should have known. You could be no one else." It made no sense and yet the name explained everything. All of his life, Jordan had been waiting to meet Dustin. Only he did not realize it until now. "Dustin" sounded almost like "destiny," and the way Dustin moved his pretty lips when he spoke made Jordan hard.
Their clasped fingers tightened. The vehicle lurched to a stop. Jordan dug into his pocket for the fare, but Dustin intervened. "I've got this," he said, very quickly producing a wallet from his backpack. "And I've got you, baby," Jordan purred, causing Dustin to blush.
No man had ever spoken to Dustin with any affection. Men used him because he was cute, or especially of late because he wanted to be used. Never a word of tenderness. Some men had treated Dustin very well, but there was no feeling attached.
Now that Dr. Ezinwa had reconciled Dustin to being synonymous with an orifice for black cock, undeserving of affection, the bemused whiteboy did not know what to think or feel. Could Dr. Ezinwa be wrong? Was it possible for a True Man to love a hole like himself? No, no, he reprimanded himself, second-guessing the doctor was wrong.
And yet, gripping Jordan's warm hand, feeling tethered to his strength, restored some of the clarity to Dustin's mind missing for what seemed like days. The warm, intimate caress of Jordan's voice made Dustin hot and moist between his legs. He could feel the dilation of his hole. He needed to be taken and loved and pleasured and used.
They dashed through the rain from the cab. The front door was open but the door beyond that to vestibule had to be unlocked with a key.
"Upstairs," said Jordan, leading the way. "But you can make all the noise you want. I own the entire building, but I only use the top two floors. I inherited it a few months ago from a great-aunt I never knew existed. Can you believe that?"
"Fool stop chattering!" Jordan told himself, always voluble when nervous or excited.
Soaked to the skin, both men quickly trotted up the carpeted steps. Jordan unlocked the door on the second floor and invited Dustin in, but when he went to flick the light switch on the wall, nothing happened. None of the lamps were working either. The power was out.
"Come with me," said Jordan, taking Dustin's hand, guiding him carefully through the darkened hall to his bedroom. Lightning bolts flashed at the windows. Rain and thunder rattled the panes.
Jordan sat his guest on the edge of a large, unmade bed and lit a candle on the nightstand. In the wavering light, Jordan kneeled to unlace Dustin's sneakers. Off they came, along with his soggy socks.
"Have to get you out of these wet clothes," said Jordan, tugging off the Polo shirt.
Dustin's smooth, white chest had just enough meat and his small, pink nipples were perfect, waiting to be ravished, where no man had gone before. Jordan held Dustin's chin and kissed him. They fell back upon the blankets. Jordan's roving hands found the pink nipples and fondled them roughly.
Off came Jordan's wet linen jacket, black shirt, and wifebeater. His warm, lean, muscular, brown torso rubbed against Dustin's chest and stomach, covering him entirely. He could feel the whiteboy's rapid heartbeat or was his own pounding in syncopation? Dustin closed his eyes to fight back tears,
It was all happening so fast that Dustin thought nothing at all of his cold, wet trousers being pulled off. He wanted to be naked for this man. He wanted them to be naked together. It was like a dream until he opened his eyes and saw Jordan looking down with a querulous expression at the stainless steel cage.
"I can explain," said Dustin.
"Hush," said Jordan. "Don't say another word."
Jordan snuffed the candle and joined Dustin on the bed where the yearning to collide and fuse was mutual. Mouths met and tongues passed to and fro. Tiny bites, kisses everywhere, hands ascertaining every contour. Dustin was speechless, but Jordan could not mute his amorous passion."Baby, you are so fucking beautiful," he whisper-growled in Dustin's ear, "So beautiful. I have to get inside you."
The urgency in Jordan's voice sent the whiteboy into spasmodic contractions even as his thighs were nudged open and the rubber plug discovered. "Your pussy won't be needing this," said Jordan, unfazed. The strange metal contraption incarcerating Dustin's dick and this interesting accessory raised a lot of questions that could be dealt with later.
Twisting the plug around made Dustin bleat like a sheep in estrus before it was replaced by something much larger, much thicker, and feverishly hot. Jordan pried the whiteboy's soft, round, white cheeks apart, pressing the head of his cock against the pink, puckered hole. With a gentle thrust, Jordan was inside. A few more thrusts took him balls-deep. Dustin longed to cry out, "Fuck me! Fuck me, daddy!" but all he could manage were inarticulate grunts and spiraling moans.
Every sound of Dustin's helpless pleasure spurred Jordan to call upon everything he knew about delivering the goods. He had one goal, and that was to make this last as long as possible. Being inside this whiteboy was not only bliss, Jordan knew that he was born to fuck this boy's ass, this pussy, this sweet white mangina cunt. "Give it to me, baby," he pleaded in the very act of taking what he wanted, which was everything.
Dustin's strong legs wrapped around Jordan's body, clinging to him, the better to keep that black shaft fast inside where it belonged. He was a hole. He needed to be fucked. He wanted to give all of himself to one man who wanted everything. Everything he had to give. His heart and soul. His life. He wanted to drown in Jordan's masculine beauty. He wanted to be consumed by Jordan's passionate rhythm. He was prepared to die and ascend to paradise to be fucked by his love-god in eternity.
Now, Jordan was on his back with Dustin riding atop, impaled. Now, Dustin was on his hands and knees being taken from behind. Now, Jordan was deep in Dustin's throat with one hand on his head. Now, Dustin's tongue was licking Jordan's scrotum and taint. Now, they screwed standing up with Dustin bent over. Now, they returned to the missionary position.
Again and again throughout the night, Jordan flooded mouth and hole with molten sperm. It seemed like there was no limit how often he could ejaculate and experience over and over again the same orgasmic zenith. It was much the same for Dustin, reeling from one relentless paroxysm, only for him, sheer pleasure had nothing to do with his hidden, inert cock. It was the sensual joy that only a hole fucked with love could understand.
When at last both men collapsed with exhaustion and slept in one another's arms, neither could say. Jordan woke once before the sun was up and pulled Dustin closer. Before drifting back off, he thought about how close he came to not running into Justin at the movie theater. He had fallen asleep during "Mahogany," having seen it more often than he could remember. When he awoke, the theater was deserted. He barely noticed Dustin when he saw the cab arrive. If he had awakened a few seconds later...
But that did not happen. Against all odds, Jordan found his Dustin. They were together again for the first time. Everything was going to be all right. The storm continued to rage. The wind roared. Raindrops pelted the windows. There was no more lightning, yet the thunder persisted, rumbling at a distance. It could not harm them. They were together, they were safe.
Dustin's slender body trembled and his shallow, slumberous breaths became agitated, troubled by disturbing dreams. He was with Dr. Ezinwa's, intoning, "I'm the hole between a woman's legs." Another man was present, looming in the dark shadows, a large, heavy-set figure with a syringe in his hand. A juicy coal-black cock hung in Dustin's face. He kissed it. Dr. Ezinwa drilled Dustin's throat and told him, "No man is ever going to love a hole. You're nothing. That's what a hole is. It's empty space. It's nothing. You're nothing. Nothing except what a man puts inside you. Then, you're almost something. Then, you're a hole with a dick in it. No man wants to embrace thin air. No man can give his heart to a whore." A red mist colored Dustin's vision in the dream, clotting into a thick, murky darkness from which issued a reassuring voice, "It's just a nightmare. It isn't real."
A raucous aubade from a horny robin on a telephone wire outside the bedroom window roused Dustin from the best sleep he had known in ages. His blond lashes fluttered open. Sunlight poured into the room. The storm had passed. He smelled coffee.
Jordan stood beside the bed, nonchalantly naked, carrying a tray laden with mugs and buttered toast. Dustin scrunched up. Jordan placed the tray carefully on the bed and sat bare shoulder to bare shoulder with Dustin. They drank coffee and chewed the toast in silence. It was an easy, comfortable silence. As if they had awakened together many, many times before. An old married couple for whom speech was unnecessary.
Dustin's tender ass was wonderfully sore from the savage, amorous pounding it received. Jordan's chafed dick did not regret running out of lube. Both men were ready to go again. If nourishment was not critical, it would have happened. The coffee was hot. The bread was multi-grained and the butter was genuine. The perfect communion.
Jordan's eyes were drawn to Dustin's bare chest, so well-formed with such tasty, pink nipples so small and sweet. He wanted to tell Dustin, "I love your tits." He wondered about the male chastity device, how did his Dustin come to wear such a thing? And why? It was interesting, to say the least. Jordan did not care about Dustin's dick, and obviously someone did not want Dustin to care about his own dick either. He could not wait to find out, but if Dustin never removed that cage, it would not be a bad thing. It was kind of sexy.
Dustin looked around the wallpapered room, taking in everything, looking for clues to Jordan's life and personality. The furniture was old and looked expensive. A tall armoire, doors flung open, draped with shirts and slacks. A bureau cluttered with toiletries, magazines and art supplies, odds and ends. Tall windows were hung with old Venetian blinds and red drapes. Geraniums flourished extraordinarily in terra-cotta pots on the sills.
On one wall hung a large, flat-screened TV. There was a crooked, framed poster of young black men in a pool hall captioned with a poem Dustin remembered from high school English. The one by Gwendolyn Brooks about real cool players lurking late, striking straight, singing sin, thinning gin. One thing Dustin learned about Jordan was he needed a housekeeper.
Another thing Jordan was curious about was the plug he found in Dustin's ass. It appeared to be the vibrating kind, not that Jordan had any experience with such things. He had been unable to find the switch. Otherwise he would have turned it on to get the whiteboy's pussy warmed up. What was all this about, the locked chastity belt and vibrating butt plug? Dustin did not seem like the type needing toys to enhance his love life. In fact, a boy as cute as Dustin had to belong to someone, that much seemed certain. A cute thing like Dustin is never single. Not for long. And not that it mattered to Jordan. "Dustin is mine now. He's always been mine." An irrational conviction, to be sure, but when the heart stakes its claim, reason need not apply.
Jordan needed a smoke, but the pack of Newports was empty. He remembered smoking the last cigarette yesterday morning before tossing the DVD out of his front window. That seemed so long ago. Now he was in bed with a boy about whom he knew everything and nothing. What possessed him? What possessed them both?
Dustin wanted to speak up, but last night Jordan told him to hush. He could speak if he wanted to, but without permission that just seemed disrespectful. Dustin wanted to bask in this perfect moment. He never wanted to leave Jordan's side. Maybe Jordan would tell him to leave, but that did not seem very likely. Not the way Jordan looked at him. Not after they made love.
Jordan slipped out of a bed and walked to the bureau. From the top drawer, he took out a long, brown blunt and sparked it with a match. Pacing the bedroom as he smoked, his long, brown, rubbery cock swung to and fro like an elephant's trunk. Dustin could not look away or keep from licking his lips. Jordan caught that, and it made him smile. He sat down beside Dustin, careful not to upset the breakfast tray, and offered the blunt.
Dustin inhaled and coughed. This was some strong shit. He cleared his throat and took another hit before handing it back. Jordan blew a smoke ring and sent a long stream of smoke through its center.
They sat in silence getting stoned, the last two men in the world. There was no one else in the world but them, a brother named Jordan and a whiteboy named Dustin. They were alone and they were together.
When the blunt was consumed down to the last half inch, Jordan put it out, and said, "I guess we need to talk."
At that moment, the rubber butt plug lost somewhere between the blankets and sheets began to vibrate.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5....