Bait and Switch

All characters are over 18.

This story isn't a wham-bam-thank-you-sir story; however, it is a story of triumph and growth. And unlike my other stories, this actually happened to me. Some aspects have been embellished for entertainment purposes.

*

We met in Houston's Mining Company, a neutral enough place; an alternative to preppy affluence, Millennial pretense, or leather convention.

"You don't look like a bottom," Steve said and leaned back to get a better look at my ass. "On second thought, you certainly have a bottom's ass."

"Why, thank you—Hey!" I said without much conviction.

He smiled.

I melted.

(My name is Stanley Kubrick, no relation to the famous director. At the time of this meeting, I was twenty-two, slim-bodied, and a gay virgin. Now back to the story.)

"I'm just pointing out that you're using the wrong honey for the bees you wanna catch."

I blinked.

"Is this on?" Steve asked while motioning to my crotch.

"Very funny," I said and laughed along; then I thought of my own volley, "So, I should dress like you?"

"Hey!" Steve shouted.

We both laughed and Steve bought another round. From there we backed to neutral corners and moved on to more beer. After round number three, I started to reach a comfort level with Steve where I felt free to touch his leg or rub his arm. To which, he mirrored my gestures in reassurance.

At some point the jokes and laughter trailed to longing glances from Steve that made me hope. I so wanted him to fuck me, then make love to me. I wanted him to show me what men did in lustful savagery, what they did on impulse.

"Come home with me. You need a good fuckin'," Steve said with a confidence that pulsed along the length of my cock. The words, however, did much more. They tugged at my heart, and for a man of twenty-two, that was monumental.

It was his eyes: so clear, so steely gray. It was his eyes: so purposeful, so masculine. I would have done anything, anything, any--

"Anything," I said.

He pulled me to his car and we traveled in silence, but he held my hand and calmed my beating heart.

His home stood alone, shrouded by trees and shrubs that were positioned with strategy. An unusually high wall enclosed a small garden with a swing and a coy pond. Following Steve in the fading light, I noticed the large bulge of his greasy jock; the sight of it concerned and excited me. His broad back and powerful legs set off his six-four frame perfectly, and his swagger made it obvious that he was in charge. He was strapped in leather like a bandolier, in a full-body harness, and in boots reminiscent of bikers. I was going to have fun when climbing him like a eucalyptus and wrapping my legs around him like a koala. The thoughts made me smile.

My cock continued to thicken as I entered the warmth of his home. Throughout, light hid under ficus and glowed in opaque lamps. A large brown sofa and chairs hosted an old-style, big screen, tied together with the rest of the furniture by a zebra-skin rug.

An open floor plan, the furnishings hinted to the master of the house: severe yet stylish. The entire home looked like a homage to the African savannah: heads on ever wall, a taxidermist's dream. This was interspersed with Mexican art depicting priests fucking a deity into dubiously willing sacrifices. Contemporary art hung conspicuously, and at the center of the foyer, an alabaster cherub pissed a constant trickle into the ambience.

"Go on upstairs," Steve said on his way to the kitchen, "and touch-up, if you need to."

My cock grew to straining as I headed up the stairs.

He came up the stairs with a tray of drinks and a large bowl of pot.

"Do you?" he asked, pointing to the bowl.

I nodded to keep the drool from spilling to the floor.

He had shed his clothes to display mouth-watering virility. Straight blonde hair raged about his chest and trailed to a ginger thicket that almost hid his cock and balls. And what a cock it was—eight inches of swollen pink, choke along with his balls by a chrome cock ring.

His fair skin was the perfect backdrop for the copious hair that moved up his shoulders, under his arms, and down his back, ass, and legs. And despite such a beautifully hairy body, I could still see his muscles in relief.

"I'll be right out," he said and headed for the shower.

Hearing the water broke the spell. Stark realization pushed through and caused me to catch my breath. Maybe I was wrong. Who exactly was going put their heels to heaven?

The momentary silence gave me time to shake clear my doubts.

"Roll a joint," he said from the shower. "I want you nice and relaxed."

I smiled and exhaled. I felt silly for my momentary concern.

"Whew, that's better," he said and plopped on the bed. "Passed that baby to me," he said in a higher octave.

My concerned returned.

"You know," he began with hand gestures I hadn't seen at the bar, "I had my eye on you as soon as you walked in." He lay on his back to recall and blow a plume. "I said to myself, 'If anybody can give me the fuck I need, it's that guy'."

I hesitantly took the joint; I was more concerned by his words and the change in his affect.

He must have seen my concern, because he unconvincingly added, "Don't worry, we'll get around to you, later."

Anger froze my head like too much cold. Indeed, cold anger increased with every word and it moved to every corner of my body.

"What's wrong," he asked showing exaggerated concern. "Okay, okay, I'll fuck you first. Okay?"

His concession sounded more than insulting; it sounded ridiculously selfish.

I quietly dressed.

"Come on—you can't be serious?"

I said nothing but I looked at him with controlled contempt and chilly disappointment. He continued to plead his case as I looked around for anything I might have missed.

"You expected to be the center of attention all night? You thought I was going to make it a night to remember? Oh, grow up!" he shouted.

Before closing the door, and with the same control, I said, "I just did."