TO THE READER;
THIS IS A FANTASY WHICH TELLS OF SEXUAL ACTIVITY BETWEEN ADULT MALES. IF YOU ARE TOO YOUNG OR PROHIBITED BY THE LAWS OF WHERE YOU LIVE, PLEASE LEAVE NOW.
IN LATER CHAPTERS, SOME OF THE CHARACTERS MAY NOT USE SEXUAL PROTECTION. YOU SHOULD. THE RISKS OF DEVELOPING SOME OF THE LITTLE-KNOWN SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES ARE TOO GREAT.
Searching for Love
Chapter 1
"Why does it always happen to me?" Owen thought. I pick out a man who looks friendly, I get beside him, talk a bit to him, rub against him, go home with him, and come home looking like this."
By "this" he meant his present physical condition: a black eye, raw, red wrists where he had been tied up, and a very sore ass where he had been fucked bare back while tied into a sling. Sometimes he came home in worse shape.
As he slowly walked in the front door of his apartment house, he hoped he wouldn't meet anyone he knew, and, at this hour of 3 a.m., he might not. No such luck. As he walked through the open front door, he heard the voice of John, his neighbor across the hall. "Hold on there, Owen, I'm coming." Owen wished he wasn't coming, and hoping he could get to his apartment before John was able to look him over. No such luck.
"What happened to you, Owen? You look pretty rough, and you don't seem to be walking comfortably. Another bad night with a bad man?"
"Yeah," Owen replied. "He liked some things I don't like, and he was pretty rough. He was much bigger than I thought he was, and stronger."
"C'mon to my place. We'll see what we can do to the evidence of his abuse." John walked ahead of Owen, who had been walking slowly and painfully, opened the door to his apartment, and held it as Owen slowly entered.
John led Owen to his bedroom, stripped him, and took him to the bathroom, then slowly examined him. "Shit, Owen. You sure got the wrong one this time. Let's see those wrists." John cleaned the abrasions, applied an antibiotic cream, and wrapped them gently.
"Bend over and let's see what he did to your ass." Owen bent over the basin while John spread the cheeks to look for damage. "Well, he certainly fucked you raw, but I don't see any tears to the skin. There seems to be no cum on the outside. Here, let me take some lube and find out about the inside." John searched inside with his finger, and removed it to find no lube or cum.
"Let me put some salve on your poor asshole, then I think I'll take care of the shiner." A few ice cubes in a Ziplok bag held to the eye, and John led Owen back to the bedroom. "Climb in here and get some rest. I'll be here if you need me." John spooned behind his battered friend, holding him in his arms until Owen fell asleep.
TO THE READER;
NIFTY IS A FREE SITE, FREE TO THE READER. THE WEBMASTER HAS TO PAY TO MAINTAIN IT. CONTRIBUTIONS WILL CERTAINLY BE APPRECIATED.
AUTHORS APPRECIATE COMMENTS AND SUGGESTIONS FROM READERS. WE MAY TRY TO REPLY WHEN WE ARE ABLE. SARCASM AND SPITE DO NOT EARN A REPLY.
dastardlyd3@aol.com
______________________________________________________________________________________ Searching for Love
Chapter 2
When Owen awoke the next morning, he was alone in the bed. He recognized John's bedroom, a sanctuary after many a rough night.
"Here's your coffee, Owen. I gave you an extra spoonful of sugar to start you off. When you're ready, I have some OJ and whatever breakfast you'd like."
"Thanks, John. I don't know what I'd do without you. It seems every time I make a bad choice for a sex partner, you take me in, attend to my wounds, and listen to my story. Yes, there will be a story today. Just give me a couple of minutes to drink some coffee and get my thoughts together."
A few minutes later Owen followed John to the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. "This coffee sure hit the spot. May I have some more?"
"Sure, help yourself. Now, would you like OJ, toast and jam, or do you want bacon and eggs?"
"Just some OJ now, John, and thanks. You're my best friend, and all I seem to be is a mess, showing up at your door every weekend in need of help. I'll just sit here and drink some more coffe, enjoy the OJ, and relax to get my thoughts together."
Owen sipped some more coffe, then some OJ, and looked up to see John looking at him. "He was a big guy, mustache, some chin whiskers carefully trimmed, blue eyes, graying hair cut very short, dressed all in leather. His boots looked like troopers wear. His cap was black leather with some emblem above the bill. It was at his home that I read the words Slave Masters. He had stripped me and his own leather clothes and boots before I saw the words.
"I told him I wasn't in to rough stuff. He told me I had come this far, and he wasn't letting me away until I knew who was master and who was slave. Hehit me in the eye, tossed me into his sling, a nice leather one. Before I knew it, he had my wrists chained to the chain supports at the head, and my legs chained to the supports at the foot of the sling.
"He didn't say anything amorous, kiss or caress me. He just shoved his big cock into my ass. Fortunately, he did put on a rubber. I guess he didn't trust me. No lube on the rubber. He just shoved his cock into me as fast as he could, all the way. I remember having asked him to take it slowly cause I hadn't been fucked in quite a while. He just laughed and said You're my slave, and you'll take it as I give it to you, no whining.'
"I tried not to scream, but it hurt a lot. I didn't need to have two black eyes. He was sure horny! He came pretty fast, left his cock in me, waited a little while, then began to fuck me again, but slower. It hurt, but my cock got hard, and he laughed and said You're my slave, and you'll only cum when I tell you you can cum. He slapped my face, so I tried to keep my cock under control. I think his slap, and his command, sort of took the starch out of my cock.
"He moved his hips around, so his cock could explore my ass. He found my prostate and rubbed it about every other stroke. Of course, my cock grew as hard as a rock, and soon I came all over my chin, my chest, and my stomach. This time he slapped the other cheek, much harder. `Slave, you heard me tell you to wait until I said you could cum. One more time and you'll have two black eyes.' Thank God he came and pulled out of me after he came the second time.
"He left the room, leaving me tied up. I guess it was another half hour before he came back in the room, all dressed up again, untied me and told me to get dressed and leave. `Take your sorry ass and get out of here, you worthless piece of shit. You'll never be a decent slave.'
"I got dressed as fast as I could, hobbled out the door to his apartment and walked home. It wasn't very far, but it sure hurt to walk. So there I am beat up again, looking like shit, and thanking you again for patching me up and keeping me overnight. I guess I'd better go home now."
"Yes," John said, "go home and get cleaned up. I'll be at your apartment in half an hour to take you to church. You can sit in the choir loft while we practice, and maybe I can talk some sense into you."
Owen walked slowly to his apartment, greeted his cat with a few gentle strokes and said, "Did you miss me, kitty? I'll get you something to eat, then I've got to get cleaned up." Some dry food and some canned food placed in his dishes, then clean water in the bowl, and the cat was satisfied. Owen hobbled into his bedroom stripped and avoided looking at himself in the mirror on his way into the bathroom, where he shaved and showered as rapidly as he could. He was just filling his pants pockets with keys and money when the door bell rang. He grabbed a jacket which matched his slacks on the way to the front door.
John greeted Owen, saying, "You don't look bad, but that eye is going to take a day or two to heal. How does your ass feel?"
"It's sore, but I don't walk all hunched over now. Thanks for rubbing that salve into my ass. It doesn't hurt like it did last night. I guess I'll just have to live with the shiner for a couple of days."
John led Owen to the choir loft in the church, pointed to a chair in a corner and said, "Just stay there while we're rehearsing. Nobody will expect you to sing." The rest of the choir members slowly assembled, greeting one another in a friendly fashion. The choir director entered the loft, and everyone quieted down when he announced the first hymn to be practiced. The organist played the introduction, and the voices all joined in pure harmony. Owen was favorably impressed. He had sung in the school choir, but was no church goer. This visit was probably the first time he had been in church since he left home, besides weddings and funerals.
There was a spare folder of the anthem and hymns for the day's service near where Owen sat. Nobody was using it, so he picked it up and leafed through the music. The anthem was one he had sung in choir. His memory of the tenor part returned, so he sang softly with the choir. His was a rich voice, even though he hadn't sung in a choir in over 20 years. The choir director's sharp ear caught Owen's voice, and asked him to sing the second stanza alone, with the organ. Owen was a bit embarrased, but he did, and it went well.
The choir director, aware that Owen was not a pretty sight with his black eye, invited Owen to sit with the tenor section now, and stay there while they vested, then processed in at the beginning of the service. Owen agreed, and began to feel better about himself. He was beginning to feel like the chorister of old, before he seemed to lose his place in the world.
The anthem went well, as the service was ending, the choir processed out with the priest and acolytes. Owen stayed in the choir loft as he had been asked to do. John came up to the loft, put his arms around Owen and hugged him gently. "You have a beautiful voice. It's a shame not to let others hear it. Come down to the nave. I want you to talk to the choir director about joining us. Would you mind?"
"Gee, I am flattered. I haven't sung in at least 20 years, but I enjoyed it. I look pretty awful now. Do you think I ought to be seen?"
"C'mon. The choir saw you and heard you. They want you to join the choir, and they want to get to know you. Most of the men know what you have gone through, and may have had it happen to them. Look out. Some of the women will want to take you home. I heard them say you're cute."
John led Owen to the choir's vesting room. On the way the Rector, the priest in charge, greeted Owen and asked if his was the fine voice he heard in the choir that morning. Owen blushed and said he sang, but his was only one of the voices. The Rector invited Owen to return, to sing whenever he could. Owen promised he would.
John steered Owen into the Coffee Hour, where several women made a beeline for him, offering to help him, and, obviously, hoping he was an available single man. John had to rescue him, explaining that Owen needed to meet the choir members. In the latter group he was again a target sought out by some of the ladies, but some of the choir men rescued him, got him some coffee, and sat him down at a table for eight, surrounded by all men.
Owen noticed the male choir members seemed to be various ages, from a young man who looked to be a junior or senior in high school, to a senior who looked to be in his 70s. Beside him was a man about his own age, probably as tall as he, no heavier, with reddish brown hair and the greenest eyes he had ever seen.
"My name's Lambert Crossthwaite," he said with a smile. "As you probably guessed, my grandparents came from England, and my grandmother must have insisted I be named after my grandfather. So here I am, Lambert to some, but Bert to my friends. May I ask your name?"
"Sure," Owen said, "I'm Owen Jones, and yes, my ancestors came from the British Isles, from Wales. I can't speak a word of Welsh, have never been to the country, and think of myself as a typical American. Do you live here, Bert?"
"I do now. I used to live in a little farming community about 200 miles west of here, but after high school, I vowed to get out of there and move to somewhere that had a college and paved streets. So, here I am. How about you?"
"I grew up here. I still have family here, but I never see them. I don't miss them either! They are all a bunch of self-proclaimed Christians who wouldn't know Christ if they saw him. They spend all their time putting other people down, saying they're all going to Hell. I read a Southern Baptist pastor wrote a book where he said the only Hell there is is what we make it during our lifetime. I'm sure they'd like to hurt him."
"It sounds like we grew up with the same phony religion, Owen. That's why I left. I didn't dare come out to any of my family. They would have `hung, drawn and quartered' me. How about your family?"
"Same thing, Bert. I've known I was gay since I was 12 years old. I never did anything about it. If I had, I'm sure I would have been tossed out of the house immediately. When I graduated from high school, I got a job and moved out. I am "dead" to my family, and free of them at last."
"Hey, you two, are you coming to lunch with us at Denny's?" an older man asked. Bert said to Owen, "Let's go. You can get to know some of the men in the choir, and you look like you could use a decent meal."
Owen looked at John, wondering if John would be going to the restaurant. John nodded his head, yes, so Owen said, "Sure. I'll go along, too. I haven't had any solid food today, and I'm hungry."
Owen enjoyed the lunch at the restaurant, getting to know more of the men of the choir, and, of course, trying to learn more about Bert. When everyone had finished his meal, and his second or third cup of coffee, they stood up and told Owen they expected to see him Thursday night at choir rehearsal. He told them he would be there, and walked home with John. Owen thanked John for taking him to church, letting him sing in the choir, and the chance to meet some nice gay men.
Owen went to his apartment, petted the cat, and stripped for a nap. Of course, the cat climbed up on Owen's chest, got petted, and started to purr. The last memory Owen had of feeling good for a change, then he slept.
TO THE READER:
NIFTY IS A FREE SITE, FREE TO THE READER. THE WEBMASTER HAS TO PAY TO MAINTAIN IT. YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS ARE NECESSARY TO KEEP THE SITE AVAILABLE.
AUTHORS APPRECIATE YOUR COMMENTS AND SUGGESTIONS.
dastardlyd3@aol.com