Fissure

He popped a ball gag into my mouth. Standing over me—he was a magnificent figure naked—he flicked my body all over with a riding crop as I jerked and writhed as best I was able and screamed ineffectually through the ball gag until he got overly excited. Then he fell on me between my legs, thrust inside me, and fucked the shit out of me.

We were swinging on the chandeliers. I was climbing on the clouds. He was fucking the hell out of me and it was everything I ever could want. I just regretted that my mouth was gagged so I couldn't tell him how glorious it was while he was doing it.

When he pulled the gag out of my mouth, he leaned over me, his dick still inside me, and said, "So do you still want to come to me on Tuesday? We'll be using this room."

"You didn't tell me what time," I responded. "Tell me a time and I'll be here."

He laughed. "You are sweet prey and you take it like you really want it. We're going to have a great time, you and I, until I've used up every ounce of you. But this is your chance to pull away from what I have to give you. Do you wish me to let you be now?"

"No," I answered. "I'll be here Tuesday if you give me a time."

It all lasted for less than an hour between when I'd walked into the garden behind him and when we reentered the living room, he from upstairs and me from the garden. If anyone noticed we'd been gone, they didn't say anything about it. I found Collin and stood very close to him for the rest of the evening. He was glowing, talking with people he knew through business but only now was mingling with in a social setting, one of the most exclusive houses on the island open to him. He obviously felt that he had arrived—and he also probably felt that the invitation had been all about him.

From the beginning, when we walked into the foyer of the house and reached the top of the reception line, I had known, from the looks Irwin gave me, that we got the invitation because of me, not Collin. I wouldn't have told him that in a million years, though. I wouldn't have burst that bubble.

The host, the doctor David Irwin, cut a magnificent, charismatic figure. His very presence lit up the room. He was quite tall and broad across the shoulders. He was in his late forties or early fifties, but he still had a wavy mane of reddish-gold hair. His ruddy complexion shrieked of robust health, vitality, and outdoor sports. I had known that he was a champion tennis player in his age category in the Caymans, but further research after we'd received the invitation revealed he had been a professional rugby player and was a horseman. He certainly knew how to ride me.

He was Australian. His wife, Gail, who obviously was some ten years older than he was but still well preserved, was from an old Cayman banking family. She probably had most of the money and nearly all of the social standing when he'd come onto the scene. His smile was broad, and when you talked with him, his concentration on you made you feel like he was fully invested in who you were and what you thought.

He spent enough time shaking Collin's hand that I'm sure Collin thought the man would call him in the morning to transfer all of his bank accounts to Collin's personal business even though his wife's family owned a bank. But quickly enough, he'd turned Collin over to Gail Irwin, and he had my hand in his. Collin, knowing where the family's money originated from, was happy to go off with Gail Irwin. The way David Irwin folded his thumb inside my palm and rubbed when we shook hands made me shudder, and I realized that this, coupled with the looks he'd sent my way, meant he understood that to be a homosexual top signal to a submissive. I left my hand there, wrapping a finger around his thumb, signaling I would be submissive to him, exhibiting that I would willing sheath him.

"So, you are Sean Walker," he said. "Haven't I just read in Publisher's Weekly that you sold a novel—something about the city—to Putnam's."

"Yes, sir, Home from the City," I said, not being able to stop beaming at him because he knew that about me. "We came here from New York City. I wrote about struggling to make it there." In just a mention of the novel, he'd shown more enthusiasm that I'd sold it than Collin had. Collin hadn't told me to send the $30,000 advance I got for it back, though.

"I've also read a short story of yours recently in the Chicago Literary Journal. I'd like to talk with you about that later . . . if there ever is an end to this tedious reception line."

It was only then that he let my hand go. I could still feel the tingling sensation of his thumb rubbing on my palm. I floated a few inches off the floor on my way to the drinks table.

In less than a half hour, he was at my side again. Collin had deserted me, choosing to take advantage of his evening at the top of the heap to try to make some connections that would help him in business. I was standing off to the side in the dining room, watching others graze at the groaning board, and nursing my drink. I obviously was too young for this crowd and possibly many of them knew my relationship with Collin and were politely shunning me.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he said, sidling up beside me.

Before I fully realized who had spoken to me, I said, "Not really. A bit highbrow and much too British colonial for me, I'm afraid."

"That's right; you're an American, aren't you? But all of this is good for character research for novels, don't you think?"

I looked at him, realizing it was the host, David Irwin. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Irwin. I didn't realize it was you. I'm sure you have more important guests to talk with. But, yes, you're right. Observing your party is good research for characters in future novels."

"There's no one more important to me here tonight than you," he said. He placed a hand on the small of my back.

"That's flattering even if not true," I answered.

"Oh, it's true and I hope to help make your evening here more exciting." And then, before I could respond to that, he went on. "About that short story in the Chicago Literary Journal. Very interesting, but I don't think you were being fully honest in it."

"Oh, how so?"

"Your character, Joshua. He was so frustrated. I know that provided the tension for the story, but I don't think you revealed his true frustration—although I think you knew what it was. And I think Joshua represented you yourself."

"Oh?" I said. I, in fact, hadn't been fully satisfied with that story and I didn't know why. Maybe the man was on to something. "That's intriguing—that a story I managed to sell was dishonest."

"It was well written, I do think. And it works on one level. But on a deeper level, not on the level you were at when you wrote it—about yourself, your own emotions."

I didn't say anything, so he went on. "The story is about Joshua's unsatisfying relationship with the woman Maria."

"Yes, maybe so," I said, wanting him to go on. His hand had slipped to palming my buttocks. I suddenly had an inkling where this was going, and the plot of that short story was racing through my brain, forcing doors of understanding open that had been closed when I'd written it and sent it off.

"I think the protagonist of your story wanted to go with men, not the woman Maria—and he wanted to be tested and manhandled by men. I know you are sleeping in Collin Destry's bed," he whispered in my ear. And then, off topic, he sniffed and said, "You smell nice. I know that Destry is fucking you. This story you have in the Chicago Literary Journal, though, tells me he isn't fucking you well, using you fully. I think you want to be used cruelly. I think you want to be fucked to exhaustion. Knocked around a bit."

I was too much in shock to respond. I also was struggling with arousal. The hand on my butt cheek was squeezing it.

"Raped. I think you have fantasies taking submission that far. I think you are a very passionate young man, Sean. It comes across in your writing. Your Joshua was unsatisfied with Maria because he wanted a man fucking him. That's what you want too. And you want to feel it when a man fucks you. You want it to be dangerous and taxing and to take you to the edge."

"Swinging on the chandeliers," I murmured.

"What was that you said?"

"Swinging on the chandeliers is what I call it. All-out sex."

"Yes, that's it. I think you want to swing on the chandeliers with a man."

"Yes, with a man. You've already said that you knew Collin fucked me. Did you invite Collin and me here so that you could fuck me?"

"Not entirely. I read your short story and then about your novel sale and that you lived here in George Town. Then I researched you and found that you were a beautiful, enticing young man. Only then did I invite you to this party—and, truth be known the whole reason I'm having this party is to get you here. I could give you what Destry isn't giving you, Sean. I could swing you on the chandeliers. If you like big cocks, I can give you a big cock. If you want it wrenched from you, I can do that. If you want to be raped, I'm your man. Rumor has it that you liked your Jamaican servant's big cock. I want to fuck you like Destry hasn't fucked you. I want to fuck you like even your Jamaican black bull didn't fuck you. I can make you feel it—suffer for it. You'll write best-selling novels full of tension and challenge and satiation when I've done with you."

He had a finger pressing into my crack from behind, finding where my anus opened.

"Sir. We're at a party—your party. This isn't really—"

"You're not saying no."

"No."

He laughed. "That's ambiguous even if it sounds direct. What are you saying no to?"

"No, I'm not saying no. I want you to fuck me. I wanted that before I came to this party." God knows that when Bobby asked who I fantasized fucking me, David Irwin's name had popped out. And, no, Collin wasn't swinging me on the chandeliers. He did that back in New York when we had nothing, but he didn't do that here in the Caymans when we seemingly had everything. "But we would have to set something up. I came with Collin. He'll be keeping track of you."

Irwin snorted. "Collin has forgotten you're here. I invited enough business prospects for him that he'll be focused on them for the rest of the evening. I could fuck you on the refreshments table and your Collin wouldn't notice. I am going out onto the patio and into the garden," he said. "Follow me."

And I had followed him.

So, truth be known, I knew exactly what would happen when I followed David Irwin into the garden and what it would lead to if he wanted me. I just didn't fully understand that the man was as bold in action as he was in talk.

* * * *

Every Tuesday for weeks I was David's sex slave. He even called me that, took me to his secret sex nest, yoked my neck with a collar and chain when I was with him, and treated me as his slave. He took me in every sexual position he could think of, starting with him sitting on the side of the bed and me streaming down to the floor, my buttocks on his lap, he deep inside me, my ankles crossed behind the small of his back, my wrists bound above my head, my head bouncing off the floor, and him grasping my waist and pulling me on and off his cock.

I found out that the four restraints on the wall were for him to bind me there, either facing the wall or not, either my ankles also restrained or not, and lightly whipping me and then fucking me. The restraints on the pillars of the bed were to spread-eagle me for the attention of the lash and his cock. He took me out on his yacht and, when out in the Caribbean, down into his cabin. He bent me over a railing, bound my wrists to my ankles, and caned me with a stalk of thin bamboo until I begged for the cock—and he gave it to me.

I was his for whatever he wanted.

And he wanted to share me and did so with a black colleague and even with Collin. By the time he shared me with Collin, I knew the doctor was fucking my partner as well. Collin and David had a regular tennis date, but Collin wasn't that good of a tennis player. I saw his car parked at David's house and confronted him, and he didn't deny it. He told me it was just business—that he was cultivating the Irwins' money—but I knew that Collin was as much a sex slave to David Irwin as I was. What I resented was that, when Irwin called us to his house and said he wanted us both, together, Collin didn't bat an eye before agreeing to it.

I, of course, was given no option.

The next Tuesday, when I was getting ready to leave for David's house, David appeared at our house. Collin was there too. He showed no surprise or rancor that I was there—that Irwin was fucking me too. I wondered how long he had known.

They tied my wrists over my head to the headboard and Collin went under me and speared me from below. He entwined his legs in mine and spread and lifted my legs, and David just came in between them, worked his cock inside me above David's, and they both stroked inside me, making love—no, sex, not love—with me and sex with each other. They kissed over my shoulder.

I was determined to leave them both then, but I lost David before I left Collin.

Before the next Tuesday, David was dead, shot by his wife, Gail. Officially, there was little given out and this being the Cayman Islands and Gail's family being as prominent as it was here, it was written up as a gun-cleaning accident, with David, not Gail, holding the gun. The rumor mill, though, mentioned David's secret room and Gail finding it and finding David there with one of the family's young Jamaican serving men.

Within days, Collin had left for a meeting in London. I don't know if he really had a meeting scheduled there or not. And, frankly, I didn't care. I started packing the day his plane took off for the UK.

There was one last thing I wanted to do.

I walked into the Wharf Club when I knew Bobby was at the gym. Gordo was standing behind the bar.

"I hear that you want to do me," I said. "Just make it interesting, please. And if you aren't at least eight thick inches, don't bother."

He was more than eight thick inches. He stripped us and I knelt in front of him and took his cock in my mouth. He made it more interesting, though. He picked me up and twirled me around in front of him, so that I was off the ground and my feet pointed to the ceiling. My mouth was at the level of his cock. My anus was at the level of his mouth. We both licked and sucked until he couldn't take it anymore. He flipped me around, slammed me down on the top of a table, with my legs in the splits on the edge of the table top, and, as I yowled at the size of him, he worked his cock inside me, held my chest down on the table top with fists pressed into my back under the shoulder blades, and pounded me and pounded me and pounded me. My arms were raised over my head, grasping the far edge of the table.

After several minutes of this, he flipped me over, and as I panted hard, he sucked, squeezed, and stroked my dick and balls to my release. All the time he had a fat finger up my ass stroking my prostate. He crouched over me when I'd come, thrust inside me and missionary fucked me to his own ejaculation.

He was an ugly son of a gun, but he had the most divine black bull cock.

He wasn't finished with me. Hardening quickly, he hauled me off the table, hung me in front of him, my knees hooked on his hips and my fists locked behind his neck. He pushed my passage down on his cock again and strutted around the barroom bouncing me up and down on the shaft. I looked up at the ceiling not long before he and I came again, and I saw that the heaviness of his tread on the weak wooden floor was causing the chandeliers in the ceiling to bounce and swing back and forth.

Now this was a fuck.

And, yes, he was bigger than Thomas was.

* * * *

Months later I was in my apartment in Manhattan—one that was slightly larger than the one Collin and I had lived in, its small bedroom accommodating a double bed rather than a twin—when my bell was rung from the door down at the street. I'd been working on my latest—and I think, my greatest work. I'd sold another book, and my agent had written suggesting that I move back to New York to be accessible to publishers. She'd asked right at the time I'd been resolved to leave Collin and the Caymans. It had made my decision easier.

"Yes, who is it?" I spoke into the intercom.

"It's Collin. Please let me come up."

I guess I should have guessed he'd show up. He'd sent letters. My agent was an acquaintance of his and didn't know Collin and I ever were a couple let alone that we were estranged.

"Just a minute, please," I answered, looking around the apartment for any tell-tale signs for Collin to see, not being sure what they even would be. I spied my new manuscript, the one I was working on, the one I planned to call Fissure. It was the best one yet, although it wasn't for the mainstream. I'd have to publish it in some other distribution and under a pen name. I'd changed the main character's names also. They no longer would be who they really were. I had settled on name changes for the Collin, Thomas, David, Gordo, Bobby, and Sean characters. The problem, of course, is that there really were no likable characters in the book. The protagonist was needy, submissive, easy . . . flighty even. Certainly not noble. The rest were grasping. Well, the protagonist was grasping too. But the characters were honest in their dishonesty. I knew David would have given me that concession. I tucked it away behind some books on the bookshelf and then rang Collin in.

"Hi," he said at the door.

"Hi," I said back. It was no use asking him how he'd found me—or why he'd tried to.

"You're looking good," he said.

"Thanks," I answered. I know he wanted me to say that he looked great, which he did, but I wasn't going to give him that.

"I brought you this. I've read it and made a lot of notes, just like old times," he said. He was handing forth the manuscript I had given him to read all that time ago in the Caymans. I'd put that one aside. I flipped it open, and, good to his word, he'd covered it in notes. I'd have to take that back out and work on it—when the hurt stopped, if ever. Collin wouldn't have seen it, of course, but that manuscript was an early cut at our deteriorating relationship when we were in the Caymans. I, of course, hadn't set the book in the Caribbean. What I'd surely have to rewrite was that that book had a reconciliation ending. That wasn't how my new cut at the issue was ending.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"For a few minutes, I suppose." I stepped aside. "Do you want a beer or something?"

"What I want is that I want you back. I want us to start out at go again," he said. He was eying the room, looking for doors. His eyes stopped upon seeing the bedroom door. It was open and he could see the double bed beyond.

"That would be hard. I'm here now and you're in the Caymans," I said. "Despite what you thought, I have a career now. I make good money, here in New York." I'm sure that stung. I wanted it to.

"But you've missed me, haven't you?" he said. He was unbuttoning his shirt. He knew me too well.

"Yes, I've missed you."

"You're not going to turn me down, are you?" There was more than a hint of the commanding voice of my dominating former lover in his voice. The shirt was off. God, he looked good. He started unbuckling his belt. At the base I was still aroused by submission to command.

"No, I'm not going to turn you down," I answered, lowering my eyes in submission and the reawakening of want.

He fucked me on the bed—gently, almost tenderly, until we both lost control and then frantically, passionately. I lay on my back, thighs spread, legs bent, feet flat on the mattress, and he lay between them, on top of me. He kissed all the way down my body and took my cock in his mouth and then my balls and then he grasped my thighs, pushed them up onto my chest, rolling my pelvis up, and ate my anus out. I gasped and sighed for him, giving him the moans and groans he wanted to hear.